Five Women Page 12

  Her mother glared at her as if she had done something unkind. “You know I don’t wear silver,” she snapped.

  “It’s white gold.”

  May did not respond, and she still didn’t wear the pin. Gara wondered why she even bothered to try to make her mother happy.

  The wedding went flawlessly, and on their honeymoon they went (at last!) to Paris and the south of France, where every morning Gara woke up thinking her life had turned into a miracle. Her husband complimented her all the time, he constantly said he loved her, he told her she was wonderful. She had always worried about her imperfections, about not looking right, and now she felt beautiful. She knew it was not a good idea to give someone else so much power, that beauty should come from your own sense of self, but she knew that was sometimes unrealistic. When she was dressed to go out with Carl she admired herself, and whenever she looked into the mirror, at the naked body he was so aroused by, she admired it, too.

  “I want to grow old with you,” he told her.

  She could not imagine ever growing old.

  Chapter Ten

  FROM TIME TO TIME Gara had a fantasy. In it she had not been born yet and was waiting to begin her life on earth. God showed her the long, happy years of her marriage and its devastating ending. You can make the choice now, God told her. You can spare yourself all that pain and despair, but you won’t ever meet Carl, you won’t have the good years with him. Or you can go into it and play the whole story out. When you’ve made your decision you will forget we have ever had this conversation. You will not be able to protect yourself from the events of your destiny, you will only know the present as it unfolds, and you won’t know the end until it happens. You choose. You decide if it was worth it.

  And every time she had this fantasy Gara decided she would keep the good years with Carl, just as they were, despite what came later. She thought that was either the greatest tribute to love or the grossest stupidity, but given the choice she would have done it anyway.

  So here she was, on Valentine’s Day, 1995, facing another holiday that emphasized love and togetherness, and feeling as if the whole city were full of romantic couples and she was all alone and always would be from now on. Her husband was now her ex-husband, and she never heard from his sons anymore. For a while after the divorce Cary and Eric had tried to keep in touch with her. They had seemed rather ashamed of their father’s behavior. But they were adults with lives of their own, they didn’t live in New York and seldom came there, and they had drifted away, as often happened with stepchildren, so she had finally lost the whole family.

  As much as Gara told herself most holidays had been created for commercial reasons—buy more greeting cards, give more presents!—she remembered how sentimental she and Carl had been about every one of them. He had always given her a present for Valentine’s Day, usually jewelry, always some kind of heart, with a loving card.

  “I’m so angry at him,” Gara had told her friend Jane when Carl had disappeared forever from her life, “that I’ve stopped wearing any of the jewelry he’s given me.”

  “That’ll show him,” Jane said, and Gara had realized how ridiculous she was being.

  She missed her longtime best friend Jane, who had been with her through all her crises. She missed Jane’s sympathy and her quick tongue. Jane’s plastic surgeon husband had walked out on her ten years ago, leaving her with two children, several million dollars, thin thighs, and the breasts and face of a woman twenty years younger. She had quickly found another husband, a successful television producer, and now they were living in Singapore, where he had a hit television series. Who knew when they would ever be back?

  So who should she see this Valentine’s Day, where should she go? Should she hide and ignore it? No, it had to be faced . . . but she couldn’t do it all by herself. Felicity was unavailable; she was celebrating with her husband. Kathryn had gone to Canyon Ranch in Arizona for a week with two of her women friends, since she said she was her own best Valentine this year. Gara didn’t really want to go out with Eve, wherever she might be, and anyway, Eve probably had a date. Eve’s men never lasted very long, but she always had a new one.

  There was only one man Gara felt comfortable enough to be close to: her gay friend Brad Kinsella, who had named himself Brad the Consoler. She hoped he was home. Brad was a bright, sensitive, funny comedy writer she had met after her divorce. He looked like everybody’s nice younger brother. His function in her life was determined by his nickname, and she often recruited him as an extra man and date. Brad the Consoler never minded being put on hold if there was a party or function Gara might need him for, keeping himself free while she hunted for straight prospects she could invite first. They knew each other’s friends, each other’s lives, each other’s secrets, and their friends’ secrets.

  Like Gara, Brad hadn’t had a relationship in a long time and despaired of ever having one. Like her, he was afraid to be open, afraid to be made vulnerable and get hurt. “Men are scum,” he told her frequently. Even though she kept telling herself her new breasts actually looked better than her old ones had, her long-dead mother’s voice kept interceding: They won’t want you if there’s something wrong with you. Gara felt different and ugly, and kept men who might be interested in her at a distance because she was afraid they would discover her secret and reject her. Brad kept men who were interested in him at a distance because he was afraid of the darker part of his psyche, the hidden rage he repressed under his mask of agreeable sweetness. He was in therapy, she was a therapist, and they were both so messed up.

  She called him. He sounded wary, waiting for disaster.

  “So what are you doing for Valentine’s Day?” Gara asked him.

  “Don’t say the V word!” he said. “I’m suicidal.”

  “We should go out then. Let’s go to Yellowbird.”

  “I think I’m too upset. I haven’t smoked a cigarette for a week. I’ve been on the patch again. But tonight I’m going to rip it off and smoke myself to death.”

  “Not in front of me. I had cancer.”

  “Did you get any valentines?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Did you?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t even send one to myself.”

  “But that would be even more depressing,” Gara said.

  “When you were in school,” he said, “did you have to make valentines for your friends in the class and make an extra one in case some of the other kids didn’t get any?”

  “Oh, my God,” Gara said, remembering. “And then if you actually got one of the spares for the unloved, and people knew?”

  “We always knew. We would look at each other and give those looks.”

  “Childhood is so painful I would never wish it on anyone,” Gara said.

  “Your patients shouldn’t hear you say that.”

  “Who did you think I learned it from?”

  “So are your patients miserable about Valentine’s Day?”

  “The ones who are single are.”

  “You should have had them make anonymous valentines for each other, like school. ‘To someone else who can’t commit.’”

  “How about, ‘Better luck next year’?”

  “‘To someone I’d like to tie up,’” Brad said, and they both laughed. “I bet Eve has a date.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’d like to tie someone up,” he said. “Just gently. Soft scarves, no real knots, gently . . . wouldn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s sensual,” Brad said.

  “Did you ever do it?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “You did,” Gara said.

  “Maybe.”

  “You did.”

  “It was very nice,” Brad said. “It can be nice.”

  She wasn’t sure if she was shocked or just surprised. It seemed so out of character
to think of Brad dominating anybody. “You mean you’re a top?” she said.

  “Of course I’m a top,” Brad said, insulted. “Did you think I was a bottom?”

  “One can’t go by looks.”

  “All these years you’ve known me, you thought I was a sissy?”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “It’s the real macho ones who ask me to tie their hands,” Brad said.

  “I’m sure. The ones with the wives and kids.”

  “You got it.”

  “Don’t you want to go to Yellowbird?” she said. “I’m feeling very lonely and unwanted tonight.”

  “What if it’s full of happy couples? I’ll want to kill myself.”

  “We’ll pretend we’re one of them.”

  “Remember Father’s Day?” Brad said, his voice suddenly delighted. “We went to dinner at the Four Seasons with all those families and when we left the waiter said, ‘Happy Father’s Day,’ and your voice dropped about three octaves and you said: ‘I’m the father here.’”

  Gara smiled. “I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “It just came out of my mouth.”

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll go to Yellowbird and shop for love.”

  * * *

  Yellowbird was packed when they got there, but Gara had never seen any of the people before. As Brad had feared, they were Valentine couples feeding each other, drinking champagne, looking into each other’s eyes. Many of the women were wearing corsages. Gara and Brad were given one of the good tables Billie kept for her regulars, even though they hadn’t made a reservation. They looked at the room full of lovers and immediately ordered martinis.

  On the sound system Janis was singing “Tell Mama.” Billie was wearing a sexy red dress with a heart embroidered on the bodice, and cowboy boots. She liked to get into the spirit of holidays. “Where’s Little Billie?” Gara asked her.

  “My housekeeper took him to a Valentine’s Day party,” Billie said. “A kid from his class. Can you imagine, at his age? He doesn’t even like girls yet. But he wanted to go. They sure start them early.”

  “We were just talking about that,” Gara said. “Our hideous childhood memories of Valentine’s Day.”

  “I like it better now,” Billie said. She went over to the bar where a tall, good-looking man with long, clean dark hair and an expensive suit was sitting alone on the barstool next to the catbird seat. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. She sat down in her place of honor and bought him a drink.

  “Well, she doesn’t have to shop for love,” Brad said. “She has an inventory.”

  Gara sighed. “We should open a restaurant.”

  They were eating their fried chicken and collard greens when she saw Eve’s millionaire poet/farmer, Eben Mars, come in alone. He declined a table, walked around the room slowly and deliberately, and left again. Gara couldn’t tell if he was looking for someone in particular or just looking for anyone he knew. He either hadn’t seen her or didn’t recognize her. They had met only once. “What was that?” she said when he had left.

  “Nice-looking guy,” Brad said. “He’s probably straight.”

  “I met him. He had a thing with Eve. Maybe still is. What is he doing all alone on Valentine’s Day?”

  “Better than being with her.”

  “I’m sure he must know a lot of women,” Gara said.

  “But maybe no one he likes.”

  “It was just kind of odd,” she said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I do,” she said. “But I don’t know why.”

  Brad ordered a second martini and raised his glass in a toast. “Next year you and I will each have a loved one on Valentine’s Day,” he said.

  Next year sounded far away and therefore easier to deal with than Kathryn’s promise that they would find love by spring. Next year was a safe fantasy for both herself and Brad, and Gara had a feeling Brad knew it.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Gara said.

  * * *

  Despite their marital problems, Valentine’s Day was one of the occasions that Felicity’s husband Russell always tried to make festive and romantic. So today at the office there had been roses on her desk with a loving card from him, and when she came home there was a bottle of champagne open in a cooler by the lighted fireplace, a delicate diamond necklace in a velvet gift box, and reservations for dinner at Arcadia. On Valentine’s Day he did everything for her, as if he were making love—better, actually, than the way he made love, when she had to do most of the work.

  Her lover Jason hadn’t even sent her an anonymous card. He devoted Valentine’s Day to his own wife. Felicity was used to that, but it still hurt. She wondered if she should try harder to improve her marriage. On a night like this, when Russell was so kind to her, she remembered how much they had loved each other during the good times, and what dear old friends they were. Wouldn’t it be easier to forget the grudges and the harsh words and just try to be happy?

  She knew she wasn’t the sort of person who could trick him into becoming a father. She could lie to him in other ways, but she was afraid to get pregnant “accidentally.” Russell might never forgive her or the baby for changing his life. Besides, she would have to stop seeing Jason if she were going to get pregnant, or else she would never be sure who the real father was. She was certain Jason would leave her some day, but she couldn’t imagine having the courage to leave him now. She loved him too much. How was it that a sadomasochistic emotional relationship like theirs turned her on, while her husband’s emotional abuse turned her away from him? Russell reminded her of her mother, or perhaps her father . . . she wasn’t sure, but all she knew was that something felt incestuous about their relationship, that he had become her parent, not her husband, and she dreaded having sex with him.

  She knew him too well; was that it? She didn’t know what he would do next; was that it? Why would you want to have sex with a man who was mean to you? But then why did she yearn for Jason? There had been a time, years ago, when she would have done anything to make her husband want to make love to her, and she had, wooing him, almost begging. Now he was the one who had to woo and beg. She had been in therapy for a year and she still felt as if she hadn’t learned anything. Maybe Russell should be going too, but he always refused.

  Therapy was one subject she certainly wouldn’t bring up tonight. It always made him angry. He was sure she was talking about him with the doctor, telling his secrets, and worse, her own—and of course she was.

  Arcadia looked like a jewel box. The long, narrow room was lit with a romantic glow, and tiny, perfect flowers were on the tables. Felicity and Russell sat next to each other at a corner table in the back and he held her hand. She was wearing a simple black dress, very expensive, which she had paid for herself, as she did all of her clothes, and the new necklace, which cost more than all of her clothes for the entire year.

  “You look beautiful,” he said gently. His eyes held love and admiration.

  “Thank you.”

  He was a nice-looking man, even if he was short and so much older than she was. He was tough in a strong, no-nonsense masculine way, he had presence, he was impeccably dressed. Other women looked at him with interest. They thought she was lucky to have him, and some of them wanted him anyway. Felicity was sure Russell had cheated on her from time to time. There were unexplained gaps in their relationship, mysterious abstinences, convenient business trips away from her. She had known about cheating all her life thanks to her mother, and considered it unusual if someone didn’t stray, not if they did. If she left him he would be married again in six months.

  “All the men in the room are looking at you, Baby,” Russell said. Was he still being admiring, or jealous? It was hard to tell which way Russell would go until he was already on his way there.

  “I doubt that,” Felicity said.

  “They al
ways do.” Was it a compliment or a reproach? Perhaps both. There was nothing uncomplicated about her husband.

  “Maybe they’re looking at you.”

  “Me?” he said. “Why me?”

  “Maybe they saw your picture in the paper,” Felicity said. “Your new building. You’re kind of famous, you know. I’m thrilled to be seen with you myself.”

  He smiled with genuine pleasure. “You are?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “Well, if they’re looking at me it’s because I’m fortunate enough to be with you,” he said.

  She smiled back at him. She was safe. They would have a good evening. The tension left her shoulders and she stroked his hand fondly, with gratitude for his generosity and thoughtfulness and for not making her miserable tonight.

  During dinner they discussed their plans for their spring trip and for their summer vacation. Russell thought commuting was a waste of time so they neither owned nor rented a second house. This way they could go wherever they wanted and leave whenever they chose. Felicity thought his disinterest in having a place they could go for weekends was eccentric for a man with his wealth, but since all he did on weekends was watch wall-to-wall sports events on television, she realized he didn’t care where he was. On those weekends with him, alone in their townhouse, she was usually so depressed and lonely that when she didn’t take work home she slept around the clock. He resented the sleeping but was unwilling to offer anything to keep her awake. She realized he didn’t know she was sad, but she didn’t know how to tell him or how to explain it. She was looking forward to their vacation, was glad to be going away anywhere, just to get a break.

  “I made our reservations at the Beachcomber Park Royal,” Russell said. “I got us one of the over-the-water grass huts on stilts, like we had the last time.”

  “Oh, good,” Felicity said, pretending to be delighted. The Beachcomber Park Royal hotel was in Tahiti, on the beautiful, sensual island of Moorea, and the huts were romantic. You were supposed to feel as if you were the only couple there, cozy and horny in paradise. She had only unhappy and humiliating memories of their last time there, several years ago, when he had refused to touch her even once, but she knew Russell had no idea.