The Men I Didn't Marry Read online

  The waiter comes back, straining under the weight of his tray, and puts down the largest rack of lamb I’ve ever seen. He glances at the still empty seat across from me.

  “You can serve us both,” I say airily.

  The waiter can’t decide if I’m crazy or have a boyfriend outside puffing his third cigarette and cursing Mayor Bloomberg’s no-smoking-indoors rules. But the waiter neatly fills both plates and scurries away.

  I tuck into the tasty lamb and when I polish it off, I’m still hungry. I cheerfully switch my plate for the full one opposite me and keep eating. Sometimes waiting for Godot has its advantages.

  Having a plan has its advantages, too—and under the influence of a good dinner and a bad bar scene, I think I’ve hatched one. I feel a shiver of excitement. If Eric found me, why can’t I find all my other old boyfriends? It wouldn’t be dating, exactly, just looking up people who once mattered to me—and could matter again. I fumble through my pocketbook and find a pen but no paper, so I pull the slightly soggy cocktail napkin out from under the wineglass. I write down Eric’s name, add two others, and doodle hearts around them. Then, biting the edge of the pen, I reluctantly write down one more name.

  Whatever did happen to those old boyfriends? All the men I didn’t marry? It just may be time to find out.

  Chapter FIVE

  IF ANYTHING CONVINCES ME of the sanity of my plan, it’s my Wednesday night at the opera.

  The minute we get out of the cab in front of Lincoln Center, Bellini begins pulling at the front of her dress and hiking up the sides of her strapless bra.

  “For goodness’ sakes, you’re acting like a thirteen-year-old girl at her first bar mitzvah,” I tell her.

  Bellini, who grew up in Cincinnati, has no idea what I’m talking about. She’s probably never seen a chopped-liver sculpture, either.

  “You’re here to be supportive,” she reminds me.

  “So’s the bra,” I tell her. “I guess both of us are letting you down.” Bellini rolls her eyes. When she first asked me to tag along to this event a while ago, she explained that I’d be the married friend at her side who made it easier for her to meet men. Someone to talk to at intermissions so she wouldn’t feel awkward at the Metropolitan Opera’s “Meet at the Met” night—an event where listening to Mozart plays second fiddle to finding your future mate.

  Little did either of us realize that by the time tonight arrived, I’d be single, too.

  “Remember, you don’t have to stand on the sidelines if you don’t want to,” says Bellini. “You look fabulous. You can join the hunt. In fact, you should.”

  “No way,” I say, for the twelfth time.

  “But you did great with Eric,” she reminds me. “I’m so proud of you that you’re bouncing back.”

  Bellini’s right. I’m feeling better. But this isn’t my scene. As we step into the lobby, I realize that the New York dating world is even tougher than I thought. For one thing, the place is teeming with beautifully dressed, perfectly lip-glossed women—and very few men. Could it be that the men in Manhattan would skip the opera to sit home, swill beer, and watch the third rerun of the World Series of Poker?

  “Ready?” asks Bellini, squeezing my arm as if the starting gun is about to go off.

  “I’d never be ready for this. But I can’t wait to watch you.”

  Bellini looks around the crowd, spots an attractive man standing by the bar, and with her Ohio insouciance, casually strolls over and leans her elbows on the highly polished wood counter. “Come here often?” she asks, gamely.

  Her target looks her over carefully and Bellini obviously passes the first hurdle, because he decides she’s worth a response. “Not for the last twenty-six months. This is kind of my coming out party.”

  He puts his foot up on the bar rail and, as the cuff of his elegantly cut suit pants pull up, I notice a piece of jewelry at his ankle. Ever since Martha Stewart wore one, the anklet’s become as recognizable as a Panther watch from Cartier. Except this little trinket probably comes from Sing Sing. Given the tracking band, it’s clear to me that the man’s under house arrest. I don’t know if he’s come to the opera to listen to music or to impress his parole officer.

  “So, I see you got a few hours out tonight,” I say, jumping into the conversation. “No opera for twenty-six months because you were too busy making license plates?”

  Bellini elbows me. I figure she doesn’t like my being rude to her potential New Year’s Eve date. But on the other hand, I need to warn her, because even though she’s an accessories maven, she might not have come across one of these little baubles in her buying for Bendel’s.

  “So, what’d they get you for? Insider trading or corporate stock fraud?” I ask.

  “Nothing so mundane. I’m not one of those sleazoids from Enron. I’m an art thief,” he says haughtily.

  Apparently there is honor among thieves—or at least a pride in the pecking order. And this guy thinks art thief is close to the top. Look at how much I’m learning. Bill leaves me, and my world is expanding. Who knew divorce would be so broadening?

  “So what do you steal?” I ask, as if this is now part of my normal conversation, just one of those getting-to-know-you topics.

  “They only got me on conspiracy,” he says coyly, “but it’s been alleged that I steal Monets.”

  “Just like in The Thomas Crown A fair!” Bellini exults. “How fabulous. What an exciting life!”

  I shoot Bellini a what-are-you-doing look. “I hated that movie,” I say.

  “But Pierce Brosnan was so sexy in the remake,” Bellini says. And then, putting her finger against her inmate’s—and I hope not future mate’s—cheek, she says saucily, “You look a lot like him, by the way.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he says.

  Oh God, how did this happen? If three-hundred-dollar opera tickets net you an ex-con, imagine who you meet Ladies’ Night at O’Malley’s bar.

  I tuck my arm through Bellini’s and try to physically pull her away from Mr. This Is So Not the Right Guy for You.

  “Let’s go study the libretto,” I say.

  “I did that last night,” she says, resisting my efforts.

  But her admiration for a B-list movie and a possibly A-list art thief doesn’t pay off. Her guy finishes his drink and slams it on the bar. “Listen, ladies, nice to meet you, but I’m off. Seem to be a lot of women here and it’s time for me to meet a few other people.” He pats Bellini on the back and swaggers away, and we watch him move toward a buxom blonde across the room. Clearly Bellini’s strapless bra wasn’t enough—she should have gone for a padded push-up.

  Bellini blinks a few times and looks after him, crestfallen. “And he was so cute,” she says.

  “An ex-con,” I remind her.

  “Nobody’s perfect,” she says with a sigh. “He seemed very cultured.”

  “Right. He listens to music and steals art.”

  Fortunately, the lights in the lobby dim, signaling the start of the opera. “Come on, let’s go hear some Mozart,” I say soothingly.

  “Mozart, I hate Mozart. I don’t like any opera,” Bellini complains. “Let’s get out of here. It’s Wednesday. Free drinks at O’Malley’s.”

  But we never quite make it to the bar, because as we’re strolling down Broadway, we’re waylaid by a blinking neon sign in a storefront.

  LAND OF THE MIDNITE SUN! 24 HR SUNLESS TANS

  “Wow. The only thing open all night in Ohio is the emergency room,” says Bellini, staring at the sign. Then she looks at me and laughs. “I guess in New York not being beautiful enough is the real emergency. You can probably get a manicurist to your house faster than an ambulance.”

  I grin and start to walk away, but Bellini quickly calls after me. “Wait a sec. Look at this: thirty-nine-buck special tonight. Let’s do it. That’s ten dollars less than I usually pay.”

  Than she usually pays? Bellini grabs my arm and drags me inside, and I notice that her hand on top of my pale skin glisten
s a rich nut brown. Since it’s October and it’s been raining for a week, it’s suddenly obvious to me that my sweet Bellini isn’t a sunless-tanning virgin.

  I stand back while Bellini chats with the attendant at the desk. “They can take us immediately,” she says excitedly when she comes back—as if snagging a sunless tan at nine P.M. is as hard as getting a photo of Mary-Kate Olsen eating.

  “Okay,” I say with a sigh. “But what am I getting myself into?”

  “The deluxe spray-tanning package. Nothing gives a girl a glow like a head-to-toe spritz. Takes about fifteen minutes and lasts a whole week. Well, maybe five days. Or three.” She pauses. “Definitely two.”

  “Great. Because if there’s one thing I want in my life, it’s to look fabulous tonight when I go to sleep alone,” I say as we head to the back. After singles night at the Metropolitan Opera, you’d think I’d be a little warier of Bellini’s ideas, but what the heck. Maybe my skin will turn orange, but no man’s ever going to see me naked again, anyway.

  Bellini disappears behind a door and points me toward my own room. “Get ready. Your technician will be there in a minute.”

  I step uncertainly into a white tiled room with a bright light hanging in the middle. Draped over a hook on the door is a thin robe and what appears to be a paper G-string. I hold it up to the light and turn it slowly around in my hand, trying to make sense of the circular piece of elastic, no bigger than a rubber band, with the tiniest triangle of white paper attached to the front and an even narrower strip on the back. Or maybe it goes the other way around. I’ve never worn thong underwear, and now I know why. Whichever way I put this on, it’s going to feel weird.

  I slip out of my dress and spend as much time as I can neatly hanging it up. Then I confront the thong thing. Gingerly stepping into it, I pull up the elastic and realize that somehow I’ve managed to plant the modesty-protecting triangle over my left thigh. Very useful. I’ve always been slightly shy about my cellulite, but I have a feeling that’s not what the patch is supposed to be covering.

  Taking off the confounded thing, I’m trying to untangle the now-twisted strings when the technician knocks airily and bursts in without pausing for me to say “Come in.” She must have trained under my gynecologist; he never waits either.

  The technician offers me a big smile. She’s tall, regal-looking, and magnificently dark-skinned. Either she’s from Jamaica, or she’s a walking advertisement for the company.

  “I’m Denise. Ready to start?” she asks. She cheerfully takes the panties, puts them in the proper position, and holds them out for me. Once they’re on, she eyes them critically, then reaches over to make a small adjustment. “You wouldn’t want the tan line to be uneven,” she says, as if the thong-shaped white patch will be previewed on the Howard Stern show.

  She reaches outside the door and pulls in a heavy metal canister with a spray nozzle attached. I’m hoping it isn’t filled with the same pesticides Lawn Doctor uses to kill off crabgrass. But clearly it’s filled with some sort of potent chemical, because Denise pulls out a face mask and fastens it around her own nose and mouth. Well, at least one of us is protected. She doesn’t even dare sniff the stuff she’s going to be spraying all over my body and face. Good news is I won’t get skin cancer from basking in the sun. Bad news is I might grow a third eye.

  “So what color are you thinking?” Denise asks, fiddling around with the nozzle.

  “Something like yours,” I say, admiring her smooth, flawless complexion.

  “I think chocolate brown may be a little dark for you,” she says tactfully. “I’d recommend a deep beige.”

  Funny, that’s exactly the shade the house painter suggested for my living room. Doesn’t anybody look at me and think chartreuse?

  Denise tosses out some instructions, and before I know it, I’m standing in front of her wearing nothing but a paper thong, which is now riding up my butt. With my legs splayed apart and my arms stretched out straight from my shoulders, I feel like a criminal waiting to be strip-searched. Hard to imagine that I’m submitting to this—and there’s not even a policeman aiming a gun at my head. Sorry, officer, my only crime is that I’m too pale.

  And, obviously, we’re going to take care of that inexcusable offense right now. Denise comes at me with the hose and a fine mist hits my legs. It tickles, and I try not to giggle. Beauty is serious business. She sprays up and down my lower body, with the precision of an artiste, a modern-day Michelangelo creating the David. And that seems to be how Denise sees herself, too.

  “Shall I do some body sculpting?” she asks. “I can slim down those thighs of yours and maybe narrow the hips a little.”

  I imagine her pulling a chisel out of her back pocket.

  “Go ahead, chip away,” I say.

  Denise laughs. “No, it’s just a matter of shading. I just make some areas darker than others and create an optical illusion.”

  “Can you do something about my nose?”

  “Your nose is lovely,” she says. “But I will work on the thighs.”

  She purses her lips and concentrates on the one area of my body that nobody ever wanted to focus on before. When she’s done, she tells me it’s time to tan my face—so I should close my eyes and hold my breath.

  Trying to follow instructions, I clamp my fingers around my nose, as if I’m on a diving board.

  “You might not want to do that,” advises Denise, “unless you’re going for the patterned look.”

  I drop my hand away and she turns her spritzer to me full-on. Quickly, my face, neck, ears, arms, torso, back, butt, and feet get colorized—probably with more finesse than Ted Turner exercised on those old black-and-white movies. Will Woody Allen object to my tan as much as he did to seeing Gone with the Wind in primary colors?

  Denise puts her equipment away and gives me a friendly wave.

  “Stay perfectly still for fifteen minutes,” she says, as she disappears.

  I stand in place for about two minutes, which for me is a record, then walk over to the full-length mirror. Yup, that’s me all right—only darker and with an evened-out complexion. In fact, I look kind of sexy. For once in my life I have a healthy glow—though maybe the FDA wouldn’t agree on the healthy part.

  I shuffle around for about ten more minutes, then get dressed and go to the lobby where Bellini and I exchange delighted squeals. I’m feeling so good now I don’t even mind going out with her for a drink, though I insist that we upgrade from O’Malley’s to the lounge at the St. Regis.

  In the classy hotel bar, we plant ourselves on high stools and I cross and uncross my shimmering honey-colored legs, admiring how they gleam. I hope I don’t wear out the tan at the knee. In no time at all, I have two martinis and smile back at a man who smiles at me. I’m feeling so heady that I tell myself I’m going for this spray tan every week.

  Well after midnight, I’m tired but Bellini isn’t ready to leave. I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room and quickly lather my hands and splash some cold water on my face. Bellini walks in then and gives a little shriek.

  “You didn’t wash, did you?” she asks in alarm. “You have to let the color set for twenty-four hours.”

  I glance into the mirror again and see that my evenly tanned face is now streaked with white stripes. I avert my eyes to the sink and, horrified, watch the glorious spray tan on my arms and hands swirl down the drain.

  “What do I do now?” I ask, holding out my arms to Bellini and revealing the back of my hands, which seem to shine bright white.

  “Max Factor Instant Bronze,” she says firmly.

  “If I could get bronzed from a tube at CVS, why did we do this?” I sigh and stare at my mottled complexion. “What a disaster.”

  “Look on the bright side,” says Bellini, the same woman who saw husband potential in an ex-con. “At least you didn’t get sunburned.”

  At my office the next morning, I sneak frequent peeks in my compact mirror, trying to decide if I look more like a raccoon or early
Michael Jackson. Eventually, I turn my attention to something even more distasteful—a file folder on my desk, filled with a stack of pictures. I quickly flip through them. Naked woman. Naked man and woman. Naked man and woman copulating.

  “Eww,” I blurt out. “This isn’t what I needed to see before I’ve had my first cup of coffee.”

  The beefy man across the desk from me goes to cross his arms in front of his chest, but his too-tight suit pulls against his hefty arms and he settles for putting his palms flat out in front of him. Joe Diddly may be the most celebrated private investigator on the East Coast, but evidence suggests he’s been spending too much time staking out Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “Pretty good work,” he says triumphantly. “I got him, didn’t I?”

  “Definitely,” I agree. “But unfortunately the guy you got was our client.”

  Joe reaches for one of the eight by twelve Kodachrome blowups, showing our client, Charles Tyler, being straddled by a young redheaded woman who works for him at the publicity department of Alladin Films—the very same colleague he claimed he’d never even met for a Frappuccino. Maybe so, but something frothy is definitely going on.

  “You told me to follow the redhead, Melina Marks,” Joe says, reaching into his briefcase for a white donut box. So I was wrong. He eats Krispy Kremes. He slides the box across the table and after taking a moment to choose, I reach for a chocolate one glazed with sprinkles.

  “We wanted some information on her personal life, but not this,” I say, delicately taking a bite. “Let me explain. Mr. Tyler’s being sued for sex discrimination by a woman who works for him named Beth Lewis. Beth’s colleague—the redhead Melina—got a promotion Beth thought she deserved. She claims that Melina only got the job because she was screwing their boss, Mr. Tyler.”

  Joe yawns. “That’s not a case, it’s a catfight. Sounds to me like Beth is just pissed that Tyler was sleeping with the other girl instead of her. Maybe she wanted her own shot at him. Think the guy’s that good in bed?”