The Men I Didn't Marry Read online

  “He’s in the city,” I say as brightly as I can muster, four words that I’m hoping will get me through the night.

  “Oh, working late,” clucks Steff. There’s that judgmental cluck, and she doesn’t even know the real news. “You can’t let him do that. When the children are gone, hubbies and wives have to stay closer to each other.” She tucks her arm smugly through her husband’s, a woman who’s clearly spent too many afternoons watching Dr. Phil. Her Richard takes a gulp of his vodka tonic.

  “That’s right,” whispers Jennifer. “We don’t want our men straying.”

  The vodka tonic must have gone down the wrong pipe because Richard starts coughing.

  A tiny smile crosses Amanda’s face, but she puts her arm around me. “So everything’s good with you and Bill?” she asks solicitously. “You aren’t missing Emily and Adam too much?”

  “We’re perfect,” I lie.

  Just then, redheaded Darlie rushes over, decked out in four-inch-high Jimmy Choo sandals and a Gucci miniskirt so tiny there’s probably barely room for the designer label. Her half-dozen gold bracelets clang loudly at her wrist and, in its own way, her diamond necklace is no less quiet. But, then again, nothing about Darlie, the third wife of import-export king Carl Borden, is subtle.

  Including her reason for joining us.

  “Hallie, I heard about you and Bill,” she hollers so shrilly that Rosalie’s golden retriever, lying in the corner, yaps in pain.

  Is it my imagination, or does the whole room stop to find out what daring Darlie has to say?

  “Dumped, dumped, dumped,” she exclaims, clamping her hand on me so firmly that her crimson-colored talons dig into the flesh of my upper arm. “I can’t believe Bill left you like this.”

  Now the parents who had been grouped together by their children’s activities have a more common interest. Me. They all drift closer to get the scoop.

  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about? Bill’s just in the city tonight,” says Steff. I can’t decide if she’s rushing to my defense or egging Darlie on.

  “Am I the first to know?” asks Darlie proudly, scanning the room. She shakes her head. “Bill leaving and moving in with that Ashlee. Ashlee with two Es. I myself was horrified when I heard. She’s twenty-eight. Barely older than your children.”

  “Emily’s only eighteen. Ashlee’s fifty percent older than she is,” I say defensively, though why am I trying to defend Bill?

  “Whatever,” says Darlie, who’s not here to discuss mathematical equations. Though she seems to enjoy geometry—she wants to keep talking about triangles. “Anyway, you have nothing to be embarrassed about—Bill chose well. Ashlee’s gorgeous with those big brown eyes and that perfect body of hers. God, those abs. I’d die for those abs.”

  I wish Darlie really would die for those abs. In fact, right now would be a convenient moment for it. I should just keep my mouth shut and walk away, but I can’t help myself. “Stick-straight blonde hair?” I ask, trying to confirm the image I’ve obsessed over for the last two weeks.

  “No, nothing so ordinary. Short bouncy layers. Such shiny, glossy hair, Ashlee could be doing an Herbal Essence commercial.”

  Ah, yes, the shampoo commercial where the model washes her hair and has an orgasm. Couldn’t Ashlee look like the woman in the estrogen-replacement commercial? The one who’s not taking the drug?

  “How do you know all this?” I ask meekly.

  “Ashlee’s my personal trainer at Equinox. She mentioned having a little something going on with one of her clients a while ago. She kept the details hush-hush, but she finally told me all about it last week. Really, Hallie, I felt so torn. You know I adore you, but Ashlee’s just the nicest. I’ve been wanting her to find a man of her own for the longest time.”

  I wish she’d find a man of her own, too, instead of a man who has a family, two children, a ficus plant, three tropical fish—and happens to be married to me.

  Then it clicks. My birthday present to Bill last year, to make him feel young again, was ten sessions with a personal trainer at Equinox. Apparently, a personal trainer with shiny, bouncy, orgasmic hair. Talk about planting the seeds of your own destruction. Why didn’t I just buy him a tie at Lord & Taylor?

  The crowd around us hasn’t uttered a word since Darlie started her riveting story. But now Steff blurts out, “I can’t believe this!”

  “Yes, it’s shocking,” says Amanda. “Imagine that kind of behavior from Bill.”

  “Forget Bill,” says Steff. “Richard just signed a year contract with Equinox. I’m canceling tomorrow. If he wants exercise, he can walk.”

  The other women in the group nod solemnly. I have a feeling the local sports store will sell out of treadmills tomorrow. Every wife in town is going to be installing a home gym.

  The next morning, I find myself standing outside the Equinox gym at Forty-third Street, just a couple of blocks from Bill’s office. I don’t really know how I got here. If something awful happens to Ashlee when I go inside, I’ll blame it on my dazed mental state. People get out of murder charges for eating Twinkies or popping Zoloft, so after the information I got last night from Darlie, I can certainly claim post-traumatic stress disorder. Not that I’ll need a complicated defense. Get any three married women on the jury and I’m home free.

  I can already visualize the bloody murder that I’ll commit. The moment I’m face-to-face with Ashlee, I’ll pull a sleek silver handgun out of my bag. No, wait, I forgot that I’m nonviolent. I’ve never held a gun in my life. I wouldn’t know the difference between a Beretta and a barrette, and I’d never carry either of them. (Call me a hypocrite—I believe in gun control but not hair control). I poke around my purse. No scissors, no tweezers, no metal nail file. I could get on any airplane in the country. The best I can do is attack Ashlee with my emery board. Fine, I’ll ruin her manicure.

  Inside, I glance at the buff crew-cut guy behind the registration desk who’s waiting for me to show my membership card.

  “Hi, I’m here to kill Ashlee. Could you tell me where she is?”

  Mercifully, I just think that. I don’t actually say it.

  “May I help you?” he asks, casually flexing his biceps when I continue to stand there silently.

  Come to think of it, I don’t really want to kill Ashlee myself, do I?

  “Yes, yes, you could. Would you like to make a little extra money? I need to hire a hit man.”

  I’m pretty sure I don’t really say that out loud, either.

  “I’d like to check out . . . the gym,” I say, stopping myself before I mention that I’m here to check out a certain bouncy-haired husband-stealing personal trainer.

  “Great,” he says brightly, flashing his laser-whitened perfect smile. “You’re in luck. If you sign up today, I can offer an incredible package— twenty percent off the initiation fee, eighteen percent off the monthly fee the first year, and twelve percent off the second year. Plus two free smoothies.”

  “Not right now,” I say. Even if I wanted to join, I’d need the chairman of Citibank to evaluate that deal—or at least Suze Orman.

  “But it’s a really good promotion,” says buff boy, shaking his head. “It expires at noon. I don’t want you to miss out. You just seem like such a nice woman.” He puts his hand meaningfully over mine.

  So Ashlee isn’t the only one around here who seduces clients. I guess with all the competition for clients, gyms have to do more than offer a George Foreman grill to sign you up.

  “Actually, I was hoping to start with a free trial day,” I say, thinking this gym has already cost me dearly.

  “No problem,” he says, quickly filling out a pass and handing it to me.

  I start to ask where I might find Ashlee, but somehow I don’t. Either I can’t bear to summon her up or I’m trying to cover my tracks. If she’s going to end up dead today, I don’t want the trail leading back to me.

  I wander into the locker room to change into my workout clothes. I can practically he
ar the district attorney making hay out of that slipup. Since I’d thought to bring along gym wear, he’ll up the murder charge to premeditated.

  I pull on a white cotton T and shake out my hair. No, I’m not really going to attack her. I’m a lawyer; my weapon is reason. I’ll stay rational and calm and explain why this is a bad deal for everybody. Lose-lose. Even if Ashlee’s not worried about destroying my family, I can make the case that this is a terrible mistake from her point of view. Does she honestly want a man whose idea of a gourmet treat involves Orville Redenbacher’s popcorn? Is she ready for a lifetime of anniversary presents from Home Depot? She’s a young woman with her whole future in front of her. She doesn’t need an old married guy who snores, pops Lipitor, and wrenches his back taking out the garbage. What a list. Come to think of it, maybe I don’t need him either.

  Suddenly full of courage, I walk over to a young Equinox staff member who’s putting her gear in a locker.

  “Do you happen to know where I could find a personal trainer named Ashlee?” I ask.

  “Sure, she’s right in there,” she says, pointing to a curtained changing alcove.

  I throw back my shoulders, lift my chin, and stride over with my best courtroom confidence. If ever I’ve needed to win a decision, it’s this one.

  “Ashlee?” I call out, my voice firm and friendly.

  “It’s me. Just a second.”

  “No rush,” I say trying to control my breathing, which is suddenly too fast. Really no rush. Do I want to have this confrontation? What was I thinking?

  Suddenly, the curtain pulls back and I see bouncy, glossy hair. It’s Ashlee, in the flesh. Definitely in the flesh. She’s upbeat, all smiles, and perfectly naked. And I mean perfect. Her skin is smooth, her breasts are perky, and—not that I’m looking—she has a teeny bikini wax.

  “Looking for me?” she asks cheerfully. “I was just going to dash into the shower.”

  I try to answer but I’m speechless. So much for my being wise, mature, and telling her how to run her life. Right now I want to turn and run for mine. But the least I can do is make the situation real for Ashlee. I reach into my bag and, with a flourish, grab for the family picture I carry around in my wallet. Not the posed portrait, but the one of all of us frolicking on the beach in Nantucket, just last summer. Staring straight at Ashlee, I pull it out and hand it over.

  “Here,” I say. “This is what you should think about when you’re with a married man.”

  Ashlee takes a long look at what I’ve given her. She looks puzzled, then she hands it back.

  “Listen, I don’t know who you are, but I really need to shower.

  Thanks for showing me that. See ya.” She saunters away unfazed, her hair bouncing, her hips bouncing and, dammit, her cellulite-free thighs not bouncing.

  I’m surprised at her composure. No reaction at all? She’s a cool character. I look down at what I’m holding, and instead of seeing our family frolicking, I’m face-to-face with a bright logo: SAM’S CLUB. MEMBER #4555683310967. I gulp. That’s what I handed her?

  Mortified, I tuck it back into my purse, right next to the picture I’d meant to show. Tonight at dinner, Ashlee will regale Bill with her story about some crazy lady in the gym who was flashing her Sam’s Club card.

  I pull myself up straight, trying to regain some authority. I wag my finger in the air after her retreating back.

  “Never forget, Ashlee,” I call out. “I’m a discount shopper.”

  Chapter THREE

  I RUSH OUT OF EQUINOX, feeling like a fool. I want to crawl into a hole and disappear. Or at least crawl into my bed and hide under my covers. But I’ve already spent too much time there, and all I have to show for it are a lot of cookie crumbs between the sheets.

  But what else can I do? Clearly, I’m not ready to be part of the civilized world. Not that this world, particularly the corner that Bill inhabits, seems very civilized at the moment. I can’t believe I told Eric I’d meet him. What makes me think I could make it through an evening with a man, any man? I acted like a blithering idiot with Ashlee, and I’ll do the same with Eric. I have to cancel.

  I walk for a while, then stand at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street, hesitating. Go home or go on?

  Bill found someone younger, prettier, and with a better bikini wax than me. (In fact, any bikini wax would be better since I’ve never gotten one at all.) The worst thing that could happen to a woman my age, right? But maybe there’s another way to look at it. What’s that expression about when a door closes, a window opens? Maybe I should start looking for open windows. And, goddamn it, if they’re all slammed shut, I’ll try to pry them open myself.

  I didn’t want to end this marriage. I was happy—or thought I was. But it’s gone and I can’t go back. All I can do is move forward. And what better place to start than with someone I already know?

  I march over to Saks to prepare for my date/my appointment/my evening—whatever it is I’m having—with my old boyfriend Eric. Maybe Ashlee looks good naked, but I’m determined to look good dressed.

  I head up to the fourth-floor designer department and pick out several pairs of shoes to try, each over three hundred dollars. Discount shopping be damned. If I finally have something to look forward to again, I’m going to do it right. Besides, buying shoes in bulk is never successful.

  “This pair definitely,” says the gay spike-haired salesman, after I’ve tried all of them on and am back to pair number two. He swivels his hip and drapes an arm over my shoulder. “They’re absolutely fantastic fuck-me shoes.”

  I pause in front of the mirror, contemplating the sexy open-toed Christian Louboutin sling backs that have wispy little feathers (sure to fall off) dusting the instep. Fuck-me shoes? I’m not sure what I’m expecting from the evening with Eric, but it’s definitely not that. On the other hand, they are fabulous. Fuck me, fuck me not. What the heck; I’m buying them.

  Am I trying to impress Eric? I never did that in the old days. Back then, I thought Eric was funny and smart and sexy and romantic—but I knew I was too. When he went off to business school at Stanford, I was still a senior in college and wouldn’t dream of transferring across the country to follow a man. Plus, the three thousand miles between us gave me a good excuse. Yes, I adored him, but deep down in my heart I wanted to have new experiences. How can you pick the first guy you ever loved to be with for the rest of your life?

  Eric did sneak back into my thoughts over the years. I heard he was a big success, and I sometimes imagined that if I’d married him, my life would be filled with nonstop parties and glamorous trips around the world. I envisioned staying at five-star hotels in Venice and ordering sumptuous champagne breakfasts from room service in Cannes, instead of (as per Bill) traipsing out to the coffee shop across the street to experience the local color. Local color, my eye. My husband is just cheap.

  Friday morning, shoes at the ready, I start thinking about what time I should get dressed. Eric said we’d get together for dinner but I don’t know when he eats. When my kids were little, supper was at five, but if Eric’s spent a lot of time in Europe, he might think dinner is at eleven. I’d better hedge my bets: eat a late lunch but get ready early.

  Around four o’clock, I hop into the shower and then start the rare (for me) process of putting on more than lipstick and blush. I almost never do my eyes, but tonight I might as well go for it. In my bathroom vanity, I unearth a crusted-over tube of $4.99 black Maybelline mascara, circa 2001. Doesn’t look promising. In Emily’s bathroom, I find an elegant container of Lancôme Définicils Long Lash Extra-Volume in navy blue that she’s left behind. Definitely newer and higher quality. So do I use my old cakey, clumpy Maybelline, or commit the ultimate women’s magazine no-no—sharing someone else’s mascara? Well, Emily’s my daughter, and everyone always says she has my eyes, so I might as well have her lashes.

  In an hour, I’ve put on every bit of makeup I can find, and I move on to the Getting Dressed part of the evening. I decide on blac
k pants, because they make me look thin and it won’t seem like I’m trying too hard. What to wear on top? My pale yellow cashmere sweater is pretty, but what if it’s warm in the restaurant? I reach for the sheer pink blouse, which is lovely—but too sheer? I put it back in the closet. Next to it is the black satin, which is very New York chic. And in black-and-black, I’ll be prepared for any SoHo party or last-minute funeral.

  I sigh. Eric hasn’t called, so I don’t have to decide this minute. I walk around the house in my black pants, three-hundred-dollar fuck me, fuck me not shoes, and my Lejaby nude lace bra. I glance at my watch: 6:15. I expected to hear from him by now. How silly of me not to have gotten his number so I could call him. Maybe the plane was late, although I don’t even know where he’s coming from. He could be kayaking across the Hudson for all I know.

  I sit down at my desk, figuring I’ll do some work. I glance over a law journal article, but the words blur in front of my eyes. Same with a memo from senior partner Arthur. I pay a couple of bills and answer some e-mails.

  It’s 7:30 P.M.

  This is ridiculous. I pick up the phone to call information, but Eric’s not listed and I don’t know the name of his company. I hang up and pace around the room. Am I really sitting by the phone, waiting for a man to call? I didn’t even do that when I was sixteen. I’m a successful, grown-up woman, and here I am, lolling around in a lacy bra, getting more anxious by the moment. What is it that reduces all women to teenagers when they’re about to go on a date? And I don’t even know if this is a date.

  I’m starved, so I go downstairs to eat a low-fat yogurt. Somehow, my spoon wanders into the gallon of mocha-chocolate fudge ice cream. So I won’t eat dessert at dinner. How good could the Japanese treats be at Masa anyway?

  Masa. Per Se. Eric must have made a reservation at one of them. Finally, a constructive idea hits me. I’ll phone them and find out what time we’re expected.

  But I strike out with both calls.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, our client lists are confidential,” says the cool maître d’ who answers at Masa. “I can’t reveal that information.” At Per Se, I’m transferred three times but get the same result. Who knew that restaurants were more secretive than the CIA? You’d think I were asking the Colonel for the classified ingredients in Kentucky Fried Chicken.