All Eyes on Her (19 page)

I
KNOW HOW TO CHECK MY LIPSTICK IN THE REFLECTION OF MY
cell phone’s time and date screen when my compact is nowhere to be found (say, because I was so drunk that I accidentally dropped it into a toilet at a club in Vegas). I know how to stare directly into a stranger’s eyes for long enough to figure out whether he’s got something to hide (I am The Queen of visual “chicken”). I even know how to tie my hair up with my thong before stepping into an unfamiliar shower the morning after (in the absence of a rubber-band, who’s gonna risk an awkward conversation just because one’s waiting for her hair to dry?). These are only a few of the handy little tricks that any capable woman masters after a sufficient number of years of living and loving in the ethical funhouse that is Los Angeles.

What she apparently does not learn, however, is how to maintain her composure when confronted with an ex-boyfriend and a couple of pitchers of sake. As it turns out, fifteen years of living and loving in Los Angeles is no real protection against feeling like a fumbling, geeky amateur every once in a while.

Case in point: there really is no way to describe the distasteful sound my lips made while I sucked the last sesame seed out from between my teeth as Alex approached the table at The Ivy the following afternoon. It was sort of like the sound of a bathroom drain expelling a clumpy, hairy clog, backward. Even a few of the bitchy waiters turned around to look me up and down.

“Wow, so it was that bad, huh?” Alex took a seat and grinned at me.

“No!” I smoothed over my printed copy of his screenplay while cursing my flapping lip as much as the sesame seed that did me in. “Actually, I really enjoyed it.”

It would have been nice if I had been able to resist the warm bread they set out while I was waiting. It would have been nice if I hadn’t torn into it like a prisoner into the first woman he’s seen after being paroled. It also would have been nice to have been reincarnated as Aishwarya Rye. But there was no time to dwell on the past. And the present was much more pressing. I cleared my throat and ran my fingers through my hair. He tilted his head, obviously awaiting further praise. Why are men always such whores for positive reinforcement? Never mind, I told myself. Just throw the guy a bone…

“You’re really very funny, Alex,” I told him while a waiter with a tattoo of what looked just like Gianni Versace’s face on his forearm tipped water over the edge of the pitcher. “Really.”

“Really?” he mocked me in a high-pitched voice.

Clearly flirtatious. Clearly testing the waters. Clearly, this was the moment for me to draw my line in the sand. I was spoken for, after all.

“Really.” I was monotone and intent on delivering some useful feedback. To stall for time so that I could come up with some, I guzzled the entire glass of water before me.

Why had I agreed to read his screenplay? Why did I care whether he saw a sesame seed in my teeth? How could I feel this way when I was so sure about Raj? Had I become one of those people who claims to be able to love more than one person at the same time? But that was impossible! I had always eyed those sorts of women with the same suspicion that I usually reserved for vegans and men who wore pink shirts in public while insisting that they were heterosexual.

Regardless, Alex was waiting for my feedback. And if I could visit a strip club for Bruno and crawl into a changing room for Lydia, then this was the least I could do for Alex. But the truth was that I was nervous about giving him my thoughts on his new screenplay,
Tell Me More About My Eyes,
because it was unlike anything I had ever expected him to write. It wasn’t just funny, frothy and a little tongue-in-cheek. It was the love-child of satire and sarcasm. It was…

“It was well-organized,” I said. “The plot, I mean. It flowed and maintained dramatic pace throughout. The humor was appropriate for the subject, but it was definitely a lot darker than I remember you being.”

“Well, it’s been a long time, Monica.” He reached for his menu. “Some of us have become dispassionate and others have just gotten darker.”

Huh?

“I guess that’s what age does to people, right?” I tried to keep things light. “So where did you come up with these characters, anyway? They were pretty…umm…extreme.”

And that was like saying that your first trip to a gynecologist was sort of
surprising.
On the surface the story was simple. The screenplay follows two strangers through a one-nightstand on New Year’s Eve where they meet, dance and decide not to ruin the magic of what seems like the perfect, no-strings-attached liaison with silly details like where they’re from or what they do for a living. But the question that lingers throughout the script is why Lenny (the tall, dark man in the three-piece suit) and Veronica (the petite, perky brunette wearing a little black dress and “a smile saying she’s looking for trouble”) are both so desperate to connect that they’re willing to set their usual getting-to-know-you questions aside.

What begins with an air-toast and a wink across the ballroom of a black-tie New Year’s Eve ball in Chicago proceeds to Veronica telling Lenny that rather than hearing any of the details of his life she would prefer that he “tell her more about her eyes.” And as the screenplay progresses there are flashbacks to episodes of each of their pasts, laced with witty but evasive banter that manages to heighten the suspense as much as the sexual tension. In the end we learn that nearly five years into widowhood, Veronica has yet to forgive herself for cheating on her late husband. Lenny was recently paroled from prison after it was proven that the hit-and-run in which a girl was run over was not his fault. For both of them, it’s the first time to have been intimate in years.

Somehow, Alex had managed to make all of this seem funny. Lenny’s hair gets tangled in Veronica’s earring as he tries to nuzzle her neck. Veronica treats herself to an eyeful of soap in the bathroom while freshening up when the dispenser accidentally misfires. And there is the part when Veronica, making her best effort to unzip her dress and have it fall seductively to the ground, instead gets her zipper stuck in her nylons and winds up gasping for air while Lenny yanks it tighter around her waist in a botched attempt to come to her rescue.

“Life is extreme, right?” He aligned the silverware on both sides of his plate in a transparent attempt to avoid eye contact. “Love has as much power to hurt as it does to heal.”

“You always go back to the same theme, don’t you?” I stated, as the waiter laid our chopped salads before us.

“You always did think I was a dreamer, didn’t you?” He smiled, somewhat sadly.

No, I didn’t always think that. But I do now.

“Alex,” I said, and dug into my salad, “I think this movie is gonna do well whatever the message is.”

“The message is what I’ve always believed, Monica.” He reached across the table for my hand to force me to look up from my plate. “Idealism is what I’ve got. Wasn’t that always what you used to say that you loved about me?”

I tried to pull away and then found that I was fixated on the image of our hands clasped together again. It all seemed so artificial. Who was this man? It had been years since we were in a relationship, and although I still knew he was decent and would always share memories of the childhood we had ventured through together, something was off. And it wasn’t just that he was no longer the same Alex. It was that I was no longer the same Monica. Nor did I want to be.

“Why are you being so academic and nonemotional with your feedback on my screenplay? I didn’t show it to you for your opinion on plot structure. Come on,” he whispered and lowered his head. “It’s
you and me.
”

And I could see how much he wanted it to be. But it was like watching someone who just got voted first-runner-up; the tightness of her face as she smiles for the camera only reinforces how sincerely she feels that it’s not turning out the way that it should. I softened, and clasped my hand on top of his instead.
He didn’t even know me anymore, I was getting ready to tell him. And this wasn’t about me. It was normal during the course of a divorce to wind up clutching at anything that seemed familiar.

But I didn’t have the chance.

“I have a confession.” He furrowed his brow before looking up at me, saying, “I saw you on
Smacked!
And…I hired Steel specifically to get back in touch with you.”

Suddenly, I felt like all eyes in the restaurant were on us. Was he about to say what I thought he was about to say? And if he did, was it partially my fault? Had I been leading him on? Oh my God, was I
that girl?

“Hey, where is that waiter of ours?” I scanned the patio, trying to make a joke to stop him from finishing his thought. “Is he actually picking the parsley for the garnish himself or something?”

Alex leaned across the table. “Monica, I was more than disappointed when I saw that ring appear on your finger the other day. I assumed you were single when I saw you kiss that guy on television. And at first, I was even more disappointed to find out that you’re engaged. But then it occurred to me that your kissing that other guy must mean this engagement isn’t right for you.”

“Well, I don’t think that’s necessarily fair.” I pulled back.

“I want to give us another chance.”

It’s not as if I was completely unaware of the flirtation going into this lunch. And as uncomfortable as the situation was, I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to diffuse it without insulting him or losing my firm a client. But to think that he would actually move beyond flirtation to make a move on me while he was still married and I was still technically engaged? I was disgusted. Disgusted, disappointed and at the same time, thrilled. Because my ire came directly from how protective I felt of what I had with Raj. And the moment I realized that was where my indignation was coming from, I also realized that I could not keep my mouth shut.

“So,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, thinking about the poor woman he was trying to cheat on with me, “how is Carolyn doing anyway?”

“What?”

“Your wife, remember? The woman to whom you are still married.”

“She’s all right.” He blinked and stiffened. “She’s fine.”

“Alex, I have to say that this is very unlike you…plotting to get ahead of the possible failure of your marriage? You know, most clients who have gotten this far with Steel have already told their spouses and at least been formally separated. But you haven’t even brought Carolyn into the office. Should I assume that this means you’re trying to salvage things? To be
adult
about the situation?”

His silence made me wonder if I had overstepped my bounds. He was a client. I had to fix this, find some way to play it off. For what felt like ten minutes we just sat there glued to our chairs.

“Are you in couple’s therapy?” I finally asked.

“We tried that, actually.” He gulped down the remains of his sake without looking at me. “But it didn’t work. I just can’t seem to get past it.”

“Past what?”

After a while, he answered. “She cheated on me.”

And he seemed so small, so tired. For the first time since he had walked into Steel, I was really thinking of Alex not as my ex, but as somebody else’s husband. He had taken vows and heard someone else take them in return. He had planned for his life to turn out very differently than it had. He probably didn’t feel very good about himself at that moment, and now to top it all off, I had rejected him. Again. I felt more than sorry for him. I felt protective. Sorry, protective, and even guiltier about Luke.

By the end of lunch I found myself counseling Alex more like a family minister than an ex-girlfriend. Not as his lawyer, and not as his former flame, but as a friend. I really wanted him to know that he was not irrational because he was unable to overcome her infidelity.

“I guess it really has been a long time,” he said through the last mouthful of salad. “Because this is the last conversation I ever expected to be having with you.”

“I
MEAN, OBVIOUSLY
I
WOULDN’T HAVE SLEPT WITH HIM THAT
first night if I had any interest in seeing him again,” a bottled and botoxed blonde quipped to her friend in the elevator later that afternoon.

“Du-uh!”
her friend with the pastel nails and the spray tan immediately concurred.

Alex and I shared a smirk but kept our thoughts to ourselves.

“So what do I do? The idiot has sent me flowers every day this week.”

“Actors,”
Spray-tan spouted. “That’s why you should only have one-night stands with agents—they never bother you again. Actors are too emotional.”

“So…”

“So, actors are for hot, short, summer relationships. Agents are for one-nighters. Bodybuilders are for quickies.”

“Then where do women in L.A. look for real relationships?”

“Hell if I know,” she shot back and shrugged, before stepping off at their floor.

“Maybe I’ll just tell him I’m pregnant,” Bottled-and-Botoxed decided while following closely behind her friend. “That was always the quickest way to get rid of a man in Atlanta.”

We waited until the doors had closed to finally burst into cackles.

“So should I take it as a compliment that you didn’t sleep with me on the first night we went out back in college?” Alex asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied, smiling, as the doors opened on our floor. I motioned toward my office, since we had some more paperwork to finish.

“Is there some correlation between how long you made me wait and how seriously you were planning on taking the relationship? Because those were the longest three months of my life!”

“Yes, there is,” I said, as we rounded the hallway leading to my office. “And for the record, I took you more seriously than I had ever taken anyone else in my life.”

“Monica,” he began, but paused and looked down for a moment, while holding the door open for me, “in case I forget to mention it later, I really want to thank you for your help. Honestly. I know that…you and me…It was a long time ago. But we still do have a history, and…well…you can’t blame me for getting nostalgic.”

I tried to wave it away, and get past him into my office, but with a hand on my arm and a more earnest look than I’d ever remembered, he held me to the spot.

“I know you, Monica. And I know you’re not all tough-as-nails. So thank you, as usual, for being the…voice of reason in our…err…whatever this is.”

“Friendship, Alex.” I smiled up at him.

He nodded. “Yeah, friendship. Let’s go with that.”

“Besides, I’m tougher than I look, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember that tough girl very well.” He reached a sentimental hand up to touch my face.

It was the most relaxed and familiar that I had felt since Alex came back into my life. And for a second I thought things could be that simple. Why shouldn’t we be friends? Why wouldn’t we still care about each other? Why couldn’t we be around each other without things becoming romantic?

And why was everything suddenly in slow motion?

Alex was shooting me a smile that meant he was on the same page. As I was getting ready to step back, something I sensed over my shoulder made me turn around and look.

It was Stefanie. With her arms crossed and her smirk cemented, she must have been watching us from the other end of the hallway the entire time. And from the looks of it, she had been far enough to miss the words, but close enough to take presumptuous note of the tenderness in our exchange.

She looked up from my shoulder and into my eyes. The smirk spilled outward into a way-too-satisfied smile. And before I could even turn around completely, she had twisted on her heels and gotten a running start in the other direction.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no!
She was heading straight for the partners’ offices, and all I could do was practically sprain an ankle trying hard to catch her. No matter what the truth was, Stefanie was about to plant a seed in the partners’ minds that I might have to spend years trying to erase. I had to convince her that what she saw was an innocent exchange between old friends.

Time caught up with itself a few seconds later, and sensing this, she increased her speed. I rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway in time to see her snicker and leap-frog those stairs. Damn the open floor plans in this place. Nobody could have ignored the sight of two junior associates in heels leaping three steps at a time toward the partners’ suites on the second floor. She got to the top as I made the last step, and at that point, she broke into a sprint. If I had taken a moment to think about it, I might have slowed down. I might have acknowledged the eyes assaulting us from open-air cubicles scattered below. I might have recognized that the glass walls were making for a very public chase. Instead, I had to struggle to catch my breath because a woman on a mission like hers was superhumanly fast. There was no way I would reach her in time, so instead I did the only thing I could think of.

“Stefanie!” I yelled, doubled over at the top of the stairs. “You can’t do this!”

“You don’t tell me what to do,” she spat the words at me, in between heaving and gasping for air. She may have been fast, but she definitely wasn’t pretty with pit marks full of sweat.

Then again, judging by the expressions of the office full of witnesses, neither was I. I staggered, swallowed and took a step back from the violently charged situation. Plus, I had the sensation that Stefanie might have bitten me if I got too close. We were beyond animosity, and whether or not she had anything real to tell the partners, she was clearly planning to try. Knowing that, I had to stop her.

“This isn’t right.” I reached out physically, adopting a more civilized tone than the roar I was holding inside, and took a small step in her direction. “This…this has all gone too far!”

And then I made the biggest mistake in the world. I touched her arm.

“Get away from me!” she shouted, and jerked at the elbow, knocking over a tray of Starbucks being carried past her by an intern too focused on avoiding spillage to have taken note of the situation.

The coffee flew everywhere, almost as if it had exploded. It was on our clothes, on the floor, on the walls, and all over the poor, shivering intern. With my mouth agape, I looked from Stefanie’s clothes, to the intern, to the floor and finally to my own shirt, which was bisected by a splash of what must have been an iced mocha only a few short seconds before. Rather than stopping at all, Stefanie smiled maniacally and turned to run away.
Damn it!

“Will you just listen to me?” I yelled, just to make sure that
the entire office
was listening. Brilliant move, Monica.

But she wouldn’t.

So I lunged for her.

And I caught her…

…by the hair.

This meant, in effect, that I yanked her to the floor. Cavewoman-style.

Not my proudest moment.

Immediately, I snapped back and instinctively tried to reach out and help her to her feet. But she recoiled, and seemed hyperaware of our growing audience. Then she smiled, telling me this was not going to be pretty.

“Ask and you shall receive, Monica,” she buzzed, with one eye narrower than the other. Was she having an epiphany or an aneurism?

“What?”

“You wanted me to say what I’m thinking to your face, right? Well, here it is. I am going to confront you, exactly as you wish, to your face, in front of everyone, you self-important bitch!”

“Stefanie, I…”

“So counselor, what exactly was the meaning of the client gently stroking your face back there?” She planted her hands on her hips, clearly savoring the view from what looked like a position of moral superiority.

“You don’t understand.” I swiped whipped cream from my blouse and splattered it onto the carpet.

“So you’re denying it?”

“No! This has gone too far!”

“What?” she mocked me, licking some of the coffee from her own face. “Your professional relationship with our client? Well, that’s pretty obvious.”

“No! What has gone too far is this unnatural hate that you have for me.” I pulled myself together and decided she wasn’t the only one who was going to work the audience. “And I’m sick of sweeping it under the rug! And I’m sick of worrying that if I acknowledge it then everyone will think I’m a hyperemotional child! And I’m sick and goddamned tired of putting up with it! That’s what has gone too far. As for Alex, it was nothing. There is nothing between us. And you cannot walk over to the partners’ offices and imply that I would do something so unethical. I shouldn’t have to watch my own back so fiercely because of your obvious insecurities!”

“So then there is absolutely nothing between the two of you?” Niles, who had by that point emerged from his office, interjected.

“Well, no. I mean, not really,” I fumbled, squeezing coffee from my skirt and noting the incredulity in the dozens of eyes piercing me from every direction. “We dated. Years ago. Back in college. I haven’t seen him in years. And I know that I should have mentioned it when he became my client, but I knew that it wouldn’t interfere with my work because it’s ancient history. There’s nothing there between us.”

Silence reigned while Niles studied me. Someone coughed, Stefanie huffed and the intern started collecting the cups.

“For God’s sakes, I’m engaged!” I continued, laughing nervously. “So let’s all calm down. I mean, it’s not like I was
sleeping with a partner
or something.”

That’s when the silence turned a corner of its own. In fact, I think it went and hid behind the intern. The blood had drained completely from Stefanie’s face, and rather than looking at me, Niles was staring at the floor. When I saw that, it hit me.

“Oh my God,” I said.
“You?”