Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (16 page)

“He's the biggest slut on Fire Island.”

“Can you call a guy a slut?”

“You can call Ricky Phillips a slut. That guy has slept with
everyone
in the industry.”

“Except you, of course.”

“Of course not me. I may be hard up at the moment, but I'm not stupid. Sleeping with that guy—on a holiday weekend in Fire Island when everyone I know is there to witness—is like the kiss of death. You sleep with Ricky, you become known as one of Ricky's girls—and no one wants to sleep with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you are easy game. And that's no fun for anyone. Most guys like a challenge. And if you give it up for Ricky, you'll give it up for just about anyone.”

Apparently I had forgotten everything I needed to know to effectively manage my sexual encounters. “So whatever happened with Enrico?”

“He's still around, but he's starting to annoy me. I swear, if it weren't for the fact that I felt this great little package waiting for me beneath those jeans of his, I'd lose him.”

“What?” I was beginning to suspect Jade's lack of a sex life had more to do with her pickiness than anything else.

“I come home from Fire Island Monday night, and there's two messages from him. So I'm tired and stuff, and I don't call him back. The next day I'm at work and he calls me up and blasts me about how I didn't call him back. Then he goes into this jealous rage over these other guys he imagined I was with all weekend on Fire Island.”

“Poor Enrico.”

“Poor nothing. We had like one date, and he's pulling the possessive boyfriend act.”

“Isn't that terrible? He actually likes you enough to want you for his very own.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means cut him some slack, Jade. He
likes
you. Of course he doesn't want you going off to Fire Island without him.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I'm giving him another chance, aren't I? We're hanging out this weekend. And I'm getting that boy naked before he completely cracks on me and I have to dump him and do without for three more months. Though I'm a little worried about what will happen when I do sleep with him. He'll probably drag me off to Italy by my hair to meet his mom.”

“A trip to Italy wouldn't be so bad.”

“It would under those circumstances.” I heard her light a cigarette. Then she asked, somewhat suspiciously, “So when did you become the spokesperson for the testosterone set? I never knew you to be such a great champion of the meaner sex.”

Uh-oh. She knew. “Uh, well, I've just been thinking that maybe women are too hard on men. I mean, here I was all bitter about Derrick, when all he's doing is living his dreams…I mean who am I—”

“He called, didn't he?”

“Yeah, but that has nothing—”

“Let me guess…it was Memorial Day weekend, and Derrick Holt, new boy in town, had no one to play with for the holiday, so he figured he'd call the ex and pour his heart out.”

An ache filled me, but I immediately squashed the feeling by
rushing to Derrick's defense. “He just called to say hi. I mean, he
said
he was going to call once he was settled—”

“Don't tell me you let him have the friendship clause in this breakup?”

“Of course we're going to remain friends. Why wouldn't we?”

“Listen, Em,” she said, inhaling hard on her cigarette, “take it from an ex-girlfriend who knows. The
only
reason guys ever want to remain friends with their exes is so they can get ‘friendship sex' during the dry spells.”

Ah. I had her now. Laughing confidently, I said, “Yeah, like Derrick and I will be having lots of sex while living on opposite coasts.”

“His family's still here. He
has
to come home some time. Wouldn't it be convenient for him to have a nice piece of ass to keep him happy during his stay?”

“His family's in Jersey,” I replied, trying not to feel hopeful about the prospect of Derrick coming home and ravishing me. Was it too much to wish for this Christmas?

“Yeah, well. They'll take anything. I mean, when things are dry, even phone sex starts to look appealing.”

Gulp. “Look, Jade, it's not like I could tell him I was never going to talk to him again.” Even the thought of it sent icy fear through me.

She sighed. “Okay, okay. Talk to him. I'm just saying to be careful. You talk to him enough, you'll start thinking you have a boyfriend when you don't. Then you'll be turning down
real
boy friends left and right out of some warped sense of loyalty.”

Suddenly a memory stabbed at me. Of a man, potentially rich, potentially tall, and potentially marriage material. She was right. I had already forgotten about my next potential boyfriend. Henry Burke. “Oh my God. I have a date.”

“See what I mean? Already you're feeling guilty.”

“No, it's not that. It's tomorrow night.” Looking ruefully down at my bulging midsection, I whined plaintively, “And I have nothing to wear!”

 

Confession: I have discovered temporary relief without paying department store prices.

 

Jade came to my rescue, meeting me for lunch the next day and dragging me off to a sample sale for a designer she swore by. When it came to fashion, I trusted Jade emphatically. Not just because I was desperate, but because I truly believed she understood what looked good on me better than I did. It always amazed me how she could give a man or a woman the once-over and rattle off their dimensions, everything from waistline to shoe size. This probably accounted for her unerring ability to size up a man's equipment while he was still fully clothed, thus saving herself any disappointments once she got the guy home.

By the time my lunch hour was up, Jade was hugging me goodbye and sending me back to the office with a swingy little black skirt, a clingy knit tank in a shade of deep blue she swore made my eyes positively glow with color, and a one-button black shimmery cardigan to guard against the evening chill. Not that it was very chilly in the evenings anymore, but I couldn't bear to leave the sale without it once I discovered the fabulous price.

I came back to the office to find a message blinking on my voice mail from Henry, who had done the gentlemanly thing and called to confirm that we were, in fact, having drinks that evening. I called him back, brimming with confidence and offering to meet him at Karma, a little bar conveniently located on W. 4th Street, mere blocks from my apartment. Not that I planned on bringing Henry back to my place. Quite the contrary. I just wanted to be able to hurry home in the event that the date was a complete disaster, and wait for Derrick to call again.

Later that night, as I was getting ready for my first foray into the singles world, I began to have misgivings. I wasn't ready, I thought, as I took a quick shower, hoping to wash away whatever residual anxieties I was feeling. Then I spent an incredible amount of time blowing out my hair, trying to convince myself that no matter what happened with Henry Burke, at least I had Derrick…on some level. I mean, I had a phone number, didn't I? An invitation to visit? That was
something.

Once my makeup had been carefully applied, I got dressed in
my new duds. From the moment I felt the silky fabric of my new skirt slide against my freshly shaved legs, my confidence was bolstered. After pulling the top carefully over my head and slipping my feet into my always-reliable-yet-subtly-sexy slides, I stood before the full-length mirror and gawked.

I was gorgeous. I felt it, from the tips of my freshly painted pink toenails to the top of my shiny tresses. Not a bulge threatened to disrupt the smooth fall of my skirt, and the knit top managed to make the most of my bust and even showed off what looked like the first results of my gym workouts: subtly toned arms and shoulders.

Checking my watch, I saw that I had a little time. I called Alyssa.

“Hey,” I said when she answered on the second ring. “I'm going out with good old Hank tonight.”

“You are? Why didn't you
tell
me?”

“I
am
telling you. Besides, I figured you had other things more important on your mind,” I continued, neglecting to mention that I myself had almost forgotten about good ol' Hank after Derrick's phone call. “How's Lulu doing?”

“She's still pretty much the same. I'm taking her in to see—” she stopped herself short of saying the
J
word, and I knew Richard must have been in the room. “I'm taking her for those tests on Saturday.”

“You need company? I could meet you there and we could go to the gym after—”

“You know, I think it might be best if I go myself, Em,” Alyssa said, her voice full of meanings I couldn't decipher at the moment.

“Well, I'm here if you need me,” I said, hoping she understood that meant no matter what happened with Lulu, Jason—whatever.

“I know, I know. Don't worry about me. Just go and have a good time. I only met Henry once, but he really seemed like a genuinely nice guy. And Richard likes him.”

I smiled now. “Well, if he has Richard's and your blessing, how bad could he be?”

 

Confession: Yes, looks matter to me. More than I ever realized.

 

The first thing I realized as I walk into the dimly lit bar is that I have gone on this blind date under the illusion that my friend
Alyssa understands me well enough to know what kind of man I find attractive. But as my eyes scan the room, looking for a dark-haired, bespectacled type gazing thoughtfully over a freshly poured martini, I realize that man isn't here.

The second thing I realize, as I see a stranger in a dark gray suit stand and wave a thin white hand hesitantly in my direction, is that Henry Burke is not that man. It wasn't the fact that he wasn't wearing glasses, or even drinking a martini. It was that he was incredibly short. And completely bald.

Well, not completely, I discovered as I walked toward him, a smile plastered on my carefully made-up features. He still had a widow's peak in the front, which sported just enough light brown hair to comb over that vast bald patch between his hairline and the crown of his head. Still, I mustered up at least the appearance of enthusiasm as I stopped beside the small table for two he had chosen for our tête-à-tête.

“You must be Emma,” he said, grasping my hand in his thin, somewhat damp one.

“Henry, right?” I said, summoning the courage to make it through the date.

“Oh, you can call me Hank,” he replied.

Not even that could save him now, I thought as I smiled at him anew. Then he smiled back at me, and his whole face changed. As he flashed me a row of even white teeth, I realized he could pass for one of those cool CEO types that I imagined spent Saturdays on the golf course with the boys, looked tanned and confident in khaki shorts and a polo shirt. I felt a small flicker of hope, wondering when would be too soon in our budding relationship to recommend Rogaine.

“Have you been waiting long?” I asked, as he pulled my chair out for me, surprising me so much with the chivalrous gesture that I almost tripped over the chair leg when I attempted to sit down. I prayed he didn't notice, composing my features quickly as he sat down across from me.

“No, no, I just got here.” He smiled again, then signaled the
waiter. “What would you like to drink?” he asked, as a buff, well-clad young man approached our tiny table with a cheerfulness that did not match his position—or my mental state, for that matter.

“A white wine spritzer,” I replied, even while I felt some surprise at my own choice. I never really drank white wine, let alone
diluted
white wine. I must have been suffering from some strange belief culled from years of reading women's magazines that a spritzer would make me seem feminine, health conscious and, ultimately, more appealing. Henry—Hank, I should say—ordered a Dewar's on the rocks, impressing me further with his manly choice.
Maybe this will work after all,
I thought, glancing away from his thin white fingers to focus somewhere safely below that bald patch and those incongruously beautiful white teeth. Those teeth said money, I realized now, wondering if he'd had them whitened.

“So Richard tells me you're a writer,” Hank said, diving right into things.

He did?
I thought, but managed a politely modest, “Oh, well…” as I wondered how Richard knew anything about my previous incarnation. Then I remembered that I had still been busy at work on that ill-fated novel when Alyssa had introduced me to Richard as her “writer friend” years ago.

“So what type of things do you write?” Hank asked.

I decided not to shatter any illusions Richard might have encouraged in Hank about my artistic abilities and reverted for the moment to my former writer self. “Oh, mostly short stories. Though I have thought about a novel.”

“That's impressive. And quite a commitment.”

Uh-oh. I began to fear the one redeeming quality Hank might have was slowly slipping away. Was he a commitment-phobe? I thought that only poor, struggling artist types were afflicted with that condition.

Still, I sallied forth. “Yeah, well, I haven't exactly, uh, started the book yet.”

“I admire anyone who can write.” Then he laughed ruefully. “You know, I once thought I could be a writer. Back in college.”

Big uh-oh. Suddenly that confidently tanned and smiling man on the golf course was transformed into a pale, disgruntled paper
pusher who vaguely yearned for a more bohemian life. Luckily the waiter came with our drinks at this point, rescuing us from this dangerous turn in the conversation.

“So have you been at Holworth, Barnes, and Steingold a long time?” I asked, proud of myself for remembering the name of Richard's firm and safely steering the conversation to topics that might somehow revive the idea of Hank as Perfect Husband Material.