CHAPTER SIX

Will She or Won't She?

At noon on Sunday I got my first inkling that my article was going to change my life more than I realized. Emily waited until she has settled on my sofa with a bagel and a big Mochaberry Latte—and without Phil—before she started. “So? Are you going to take this article seriously? Or are you going to do a fluff piece?“

I was not ready for this conversation. Nick’s eyes were closed as he breathed in the steam from the open top of his over-sized mug of chai. No rescue there.

“Didn’t I already tell you that I made myself a willing victim? Why would I want to do a poor job of rehashing my love life for the readership of The Female Eye. Our readers are sharp. They can sense a phony five words into the first paragraph.” I added, “Besides, Tandy is waiting to snatch the idea away if I do anything that could be considered fluff.”

Emily smiled enthusiastically. “Diana, this is the opening you’ve dreamed of. This idea is hot enough to be a cover if you play it right. And it’s all yours.”

She was right. I had leverage. But did I want to use it? “Mine to screw up.”

“You? Never. You do everything according to plan.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Let me count the ways. Putting my love life on parade for the readers of a magazine devoted to women and their constant pursuit of goddess-hood? If they scent one whiff of a hidden secret…Olivia would assign a staff writer and I’d be byline-less once more.”

“Then don’t keep secrets. Let it all hang out. Maybe you’ll find out you need to burn that list once and for all.” Emily gestured with her bagel, threatening my gray leather upholstery with cream cheese. “Not to mention the fact that writing this article is cheaper than therapy and you might find out why no one ever lives up to your standards.”

Nick interjected over his mug of chai at last. “Personally, I’d rather take a close-up of myself after three days with the flu in than revisit my past loves.“

I agreed with him, but Emily looked at him with pity. “How many ideas has she floated past Olivia? How many great ideas has she handed over to Tandy? This one she controls. It’s all in her little book. Ergo, this is her chance to launch her trip to Pulitzer-land.”

I nodded. “The pitiful thing is that Emily is right. I can’t be a coward. I can’t turn my back on this chance just because I would rather sit naked in a graveyard at Halloween being visited by all the famous ghosts of fiction—including Marley with his rusty chains and rotting flesh—than see any of my exes again.”

I think of myself as very focused. Always have, ever since I was a little girl saving my nickels for a Barbie head to make up, style and curl to my heart’s content. Not that I wanted to be a hairdresser. No, I liked the idea of trying out “dos” and looks on Barbie. Somehow it was easier to see what worked better on her disembodied head rather than on my own. Maybe the article would give me a chance to look at my list from a little distance.

“Maybe this is your purpose? Your destiny? The reason you were born with the unnatural ability to make such comprehensive to-do lists.” A blob of cream cheese flew off Emily’s bagel onto the floor and she leaned down to scoop it up with her thumb.

Nick’s eyes opened at that outrageous claim. “Are you suggesting she might be the Ghandi of eligible women everywhere? She should give up her privacy? For what? To convince other women to scrap their standards and settle for the nearest approximation to a decent guy they find?”

“How many people do you know who have documentation on every person they ever even thought of dating? She was born to do this. Besides, it will be fun—and if she writes it, she can make herself sound as intelligent, witty, and attractive as she wants. She’ll have to beat the Mr. Rights off with a stick.“

“That sounds like fun to you? Beating men with a stick? Poor Phil.” Nick was no more convinced than I, so I let them fight my internal battle. Because ever since I’d pitched my idea to Olivia, all I could think was—what if I did let the right man slip away, just because he broke one of my commandments?

“Well, fun in a painful, self revelatory way. Not that it is any surprise you don’t understand. The three of you,”—she had unconsciously included the absent Phil I noted—“think you can’t get serious unless the other person is perfect. Love is never about perfection, just about getting as close as possible. Do you have any idea how hard it is to live with someone who chooses to believe you’re perfect in between the disappointing moments you reveal your imperfect nature? God, sometimes it feels like having your skirt permanently stuck in your pantyhose.“ Her voice trailed off.

“Well, I don’t think you’re perfect, but I love you anyway.” I knew it didn’t mean as much, me saying that instead of Phil. But knowing him, he’d be saying it before dinner. The two of them were the most disgustingly compatible couple I’d ever met. “And we all know I’m not perfect, now that we’ve seen that montage of my misbegotten youth.”

Nick groaned. “Your birthday. I forgot. I have something for you.”

“You already gave me my present. The pen necklace. Remember?”

“That wasn’t the real gift. I’ve been working on something else. Hang on.” Without further words, he got up and left the apartment.

Until he returned, I could always hope it was a tasteful photo of a snowy Maine landscape. He had been to Maine just last winter.

“What do you think he made this time?” Emily reached for a poppy seed bagel, heedless of the seeds she was scattering on my sofa.

“Anything would be better than that.” I don’t need to point to the small square of mattress ticking on the wall above her head, she had seen it often enough. The square of ticking had an upper denture plate glued to it—each tooth painted a bright neon color. “The Teeth of Life,” Nick called it when he presented it to me for Christmas two years ago.

When he returned, he carried an oblong, jewelry shaped box, wrapped in newsprint. And a toolbox. Unwrapped.

Emily and I exchanged glances, but neither of us dared say a word. A few years ago we might have expected a nice bracelet or necklace. After eight years of living next door to Nick, we both knew better.

“Here.” Nick always grew diffident when he gave his art as a present. I considered it my practice for when I become a mother and my child brings me some hideous drawing to praise. If I ever had children, at the rate The Plan timeline was crumbling.

It isn’t as if Nick isn’t a perfectly wonderful artist, because he is. At least, his photography is. And I have an oil painting of a blue glass bottle that he did when he was practicing with color depth in oil. I’ve told him he should do more of that. Nick says it would be easier for me to stop trying to change other people and work on myself. I know he’s only teasing, but I think sometimes he doesn’t appreciate the value of focus—unless he’s crouched for forty minutes under a bush waiting for the perfect raindrop to land and pearl on the underside of an early rosebud.

He’s got loads of talent—he could have a good job at any magazine, but he liked to work only when he needed the money. He could be good enough for a gallery show, too. But he wanted to wait until he was ready. I was beginning to believe that might be never, so I’ve asked him to will me his paintings. After all, someone should benefit from the beauty of his work besides the spiders and the dust bunnies in his apartment.

Unlike Emily, he does not like to give his gifts publicly. Probably because they reflect a very personal side of him. When I unwrapped the artfully painted newsprint wrapping paper, I found a necklace of…broken glass. “Thank you.”

I learned long ago to thank Nick for these gifts with a brilliant smile and very few words. Even an iron chain with amber, green, and clear beer bottle lips strung on it. I lifted it and held it in the vicinity of my neck, not daring to let the sharp edges brush against my skin.

Nick sighed and took it from my hands, ignoring the alarming clinking sounds his gift made when it moved. “It’s not a necklace, Diana. I made it to hang in front of your window and reflect light.” He held it up to demonstrate and suddenly I saw why he made it. The broken glass became jewel-like when the sun hit the colorful shards.

“I love it.” It felt good to know I wasn’t flat out lying. I repeated Nick’s favorite phrase. “After all, art is 1% intention and 99% interpretation.”

He must have been able to tell I wasn’t lying, because he grinned at me happily and pulled out the toolbox he had lugged along with him. “I’ll hang it.”

“Great.”

As he worked, the glass splashed spots of colored light around the room. He finished his handiwork, and like men everywhere, looked around for praise, just as a prismatic splash of light highlighted the bright turquoise book that sat on top of my bookshelf, next to my purse.

He picked it up and thumbed through it, almost casually. “Is it alphabetical?”

“Chronological.” I let him thumb through a little more before I said, “You’re not in there.” Emily shot me a look, but I pretended not to notice.

“I know. I was just wondering.” Liar. He continued to thumb. “How many men have you dated Diana?”

“The red stars are the serious ones, the rest I threw back after one or two dates.”

He was quiet for a moment, counting. “Seven.” He thumbed through more. “About fifty in all, but only seven serious.” He stopped on a page and began to read—to himself.

Time to stop this game, before he decided to do me a favor and burn the thing. “Nick, you can read every page, but you’re not going to find yourself.”

He closed the book, and held it up accusingly. “Some of these pages have been ripped out.”

“I beg to differ. They have been carefully cut out with a razor knife.”

“Why?”

“Because I made a mistake on the pages and needed to redo them.” I stuck close to the truth—I did spill coffee, and had the occasional tear on some of those pages. But Nick’s was not marred in any way.

He put the book down and stood looking at me, as the broken bottle mobile sent sparkles of color dancing over his rumpled white t-shirt. Then he shrugged, gathered his tools and headed out to return them to his apartment next door.

Emily barely waited until the door shut. “You have a page on Nick in that book, I—”

I bolted up and ran to the hall closet to rummage through my pocket for a moment. “Not any more. I cut it out.” I held it up. I should have burned it when I cut it out of the book. But I couldn’t make myself.

“Why?” Emily was charmingly naïve when it came to the forgiving nature of others.

“Paolo the narcissist didn’t like it, do you think Nick the best friend would?”

“Would what?” Nick had returned more quickly than either of us expected. He looked at me, with my coat still in my hands. “Where are you going?”

My late night research on how to appear to be candid while giving away less than the CIA gave to the FBI had slowed all functions, including my excuse-supplying facility, so I stalled him for a moment by putting on my coat. “I think I need more cream cheese. You and Emily both like lots with your bagels.”

Incredibly, he bought this excuse. “Wait. I think you have another one in your fridge.”

“Do I?”

Ever helpful, which made him somewhat easily diverted thank goodness, he rummaged through the fridge and held up the cream cheese I just bought yesterday. “Here it is.”

“So, why don’t I have a page?” he asked, as he returned with the cream cheese. Okay, maybe not so easily diverted.

Emily stood up to take a closer look at my gift. After poking it here and there a few times, she gently set the string of glass into circular tinkling motion, the light into the dance of a thousand flickers. “Is this made of broken beer bottles?”

Her diversion worked as mine had not. Nick liked to talk about his art. “I found them in the park. I figured, why just throw them away—why not turn them into something beautiful.”

“Nick, whatever is wrong with some nice glass beads from Niemann Marcus?”

“Emily, you are bourgeois.”

“And proud of it.”

They both glanced at me, as if I were some sort of art critic. “I like it.” The fewer words said around Nick the modern artist, the better.

Emily looked at it once more and laughed. “Well, at least if anyone breaks in, this will be deadly as well as pretty.”

Nick blew an air kiss at Emily. “Just like you, my love.” They dated once. Not seriously—at least not that I could pry out of them. And believe me, I tried. But whatever was between them turned into friendship rather quickly, thank goodness. We’ve been friends for years and I don’t think I’d want to go on without them.

Which is why, once the coffee had cleared the sleep fog from my mind, I tackled Emily head on. “Why isn’t Phil here? Really?”

She had explained his absence when she first arrived. Flu. And I had bought it, until I realized, as she stood in the window light, that her red eyes were not from drinking too much, but from crying.

Normally Phil, Emily, Nick and I have breakfast together. Sometimes Nick or I, or both of us, might add a significant other to the mix, but the four of us have been a constant since Phil first swept Emily off her feet at a Tupperware party.

Yes. A Tupperware party. They had both been roped into it by Phil’s sister—she wanted a pitcher, or a cake plate, or some such, and she quite shamelessly guilted them into coming. See, Emily is a New Jersey girl, and Tupperware parties are part of her shameful past. Secretly, she loves them. Apparently, so does Phil—he bought about $200 worth for his tiny apartment and his sister not only got her cake stand, or pitcher, but also some kind of salad spinner/storage device for her garden- (or greenhouse-, depending on the season)-grown Jersey lettuce.

Jersey lettuce that Emily and Phil usually bring to me, along with Jersey tomatoes. But today there is no Phil. And Emily has stuffed a big bite of bagel into her mouth to avoid answering me.

I waited until she finished chewing and swallowed. Before she could take another bite, I asked bluntly, “Did he leave you?”

Nick sighed. “Diana, the man has the flu. Why must you jump to the conclusion that they’re on the verge of divorce?”

“Emily?” It’s always my first thought. Even when my friends seem happily married. I hadn’t been able to tell my mother was unhappy until the summer right before my parents divorced. Sometimes the ones who care most are the ones who don’t know until it’s too late. I wouldn’t let that happen to Emily and Phil if I could help it.

“No.” She was as terrible a liar as she was a planner, so I was relieved to see that she spoke the truth. He had not left her. But something was wrong, I could tell that before she blurted out, “I’m thinking of leaving him.”

For a moment I couldn’t believe those words had come from her mouth. Emily was a firm believer in marriage and commitment. “Is he having an affair? Of course he was. The rat. I knew—“

“He’s not having an affair.” She sat down, at last prepared to confess. “He’s forbidden me to quit work when we have children.”

“Forbidden?” This is not a word one would associate with Phil. Tupperware party Phil, or Sunday morning breakfast Phil. He might lecture, reason, debate, but not forbid. Still, I knew the duty of a true best friend—sympathize with Emily. “How dare he?” And then the full impact of what she said hit me. Children. “Are you pregnant?”

“No.” She crossed her arms and declared militantly, “And with that attitude, he won’t be getting close enough to try.”

“He’s just scared, Em.” Nick’s deep voice held a reassuring note. “He’ll get it. Give him a little time. Going from two paychecks to one would scare any guy as careful as Phil.” Nick knows we keep him around for a glimpse into the depths of the male psyche—what depths there are, anyway. But sometimes he showed real promise.

“Listen to Nick, Em. After all, if a man who doesn’t consider where his next paycheck is coming from until the rent is due can understand Phil, we should too.” Even though I know Nick could be so much better than he is now, I still love him. Like a friend. Not like a lover. We’ve never gone down that road and thank goodness for that. I’m not good at relationships. I’m not sure why, because, as I said before, I am focused on the goal at all times. I just don’t seem to pick guys who appreciate that. My radar seems to seek out those men who are ambivalent at best about commitment, marriage, family, picking up their socks and putting them in the hamper at the end of the day, squeezing the toothpaste tube at the bottom rather than the middle…the kinds of things that mean a man won’t break my heart, or any of my commandments.

Emily wasn’t mollified by Nick’s words, however. “I’m scared, too. What if I quit work and stay home for ten years and then he leaves me? I’ll have to start all over again. And I don’t think a room full of five-year-olds gets easier after you’ve been out of the game for a while.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Considering the number of divorced people we all know, this was an out and out lie. Still, Nick was working in empathy mode. Man-empathy mode.

In good female-empathy mode I stepped in. “Don’t say that Nick. Remember, you’re an honorary Success Sister and our motto is that men will do anything. At least he isn’t having an affair.”

“What am I going to do?” Emily really wanted to know, and for a moment I didn’t have an answer. All I could see was Emily growing waddling-fat with child, while I couldn’t even find a husband.