Crushing Crystal (7 page)

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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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Couples weren't required to participate in the scheduled activities, but if they chose not to, they never heard the end of it. Once Reilly and I opted out of the game of passing fruit to each other while holding it between our chin and neck, and Cupid Annie never let us live it down. “Cupid Annie was so sad not to see her favorite wove birds at Body Sports this afternoon,” she said to us as we nibbled on chocolate-dipped strawberries and drank cheap pink champagne. “You don't want to break Cupid Annie's wittle heart now do you?”
“Um, no, of course not Annie, er, Cupid Annie,” said Reilly. “We'll be sure to make it tomorrow.”
We will?
I thought.
“No you won't pumpkin puddins. Tomorrow afternoon I'm leading Sweethearts Tennis, where the score is always love, love,” Annie said with a hiccup of a laugh.
Splashing champagne in her face would be considered rude, right?
I thought.
“Sounds like fun, what'd'ya say, sweetheart?” he elbowed me. For a moment, I thought he was kidding. Sadly he was dead serious.
The fact that Reilly was not hostile toward her made me hostile to him. At least if we both hated Cupid Annie we could bond together against the common enemy. His cheery accommodation of every goofy request the staff members made was a complete turnoff.
During our pre-wedding battle Reilly promised Club Wed could be great fun.
“Italy was going to be great fun!” I shouted. “Why can't you tell your parents thanks but no thanks?”
“Prudence, be sensible,” Reilly switched his strategy. “If we put off the trip to Italy we can put a down payment on a loft in SoHo that's right above a gallery. We can live among art for the rest of our lives, and it will make a great investment. The trip is completely free. It would be rude to turn it down. Prudence, I know it's important to you to see Italy, but we'll go another time. It's not going anywhere.”
“That's what they said about Pompeii,” I moped.
“That's the spirit,” he said.
How exactly is that the spirit?
I thought.
Did you even hear what I said?!
After that, I should have known then that Reilly and I weren't well-suited for each other, but never even considered canceling the wedding. The invitations had already been mailed. My bridesmaids paid for their dresses. My mother was so proud of my choice.
I suggested we go to Italy for our fifth wedding anniversary, but Reilly said we needed to wait until we were more financially secure. We had no kids and each earned six-figure salaries. How much more secure could we get? I asked again on our tenth anniversary, but Reilly suggested that everything I would ever want to see at an Italian museum could be viewed on the Internet.
Reilly said that he travels to different countries so much for his job as an international business consultant that he prefers to vacation at resorts. We've been to Cancun, Barbados, Puerta Vallarta, Bermuda and Jamaica. Once we took a cruise to Alaska.
Reilly isn't entirely to blame. I am a self-sufficient adult. I could've easily booked a flight for myself and taken off, but traveling to Europe alone held a certain stigma for me. Like I'm such a loser I couldn't even get a date for this wonderful journey. Perhaps, Matt and I would go together, I thought. I drifted to sleep on the sweet thought of Matt and me together in Italy. In my dream, we were sitting outside the Coliseum in Rome having a picnic of nothing but candy. In real life I would never overdose on sugar this way, but in the dream I wasn't the least bit concerned about my weight. I was practically drunk on strawberry cream–filled chocolates when I fell onto our picnic blanket laughing. I don't remember what was so funny, but Matt was laughing too. He rolled onto me and began kissing me, moving down toward my stomach. He lifted my shirt ever so slightly and began nibbling my belly. Then he asked me if I was awake. “Prudence, are you up?” he whispered, kissing my stomach again. “Prudence,” he teased. “Wake up.” Then Reilly was there kissing my stomach too.
Shit, this really is Reilly!
I realized as I bolted upright in bed. Damn it. I was enjoying that dream until my husband sidled his way into the picture. In the dark of our bedroom, I saw Reilly leaning onto his right elbow, coming at me in his Ward Cleaver pajamas. I felt as sexually repulsed as the time when my twelfth-grade chemistry teacher hit on me during detention. Both times, I knew I couldn't follow my instinct to bite and run. Then and now, I would have to come up with an excuse that spared the ego, but kept the enemy troops at bay.
“Reilly, I've got a big meeting tomorrow. I need my rest tonight,” I explained.
“You've got big meetings every day,” he reminded me.
“I know, but I'm exhausted,” I said, irritated by his persistence.
“There's a new one,” Reilly muttered just loud enough for me to hear.
“What's that supposed to mean?” I shot back.
Reilly started fiddling with the fitted sheet, trying to get it to hug the edge it had slipped from. After he accomplished this, he straightened the top sheet a bit.
“Hello?!” I sniped.
“What?!” he took it up a notch.
“I asked you what that comment was supposed to mean and all you're doing is making the bed in the middle of the night. What did you mean, ‘That's a new one'?” I said, using my dopey male voice as his.
“I meant that you've been tired a lot lately,” he clipped.
“I
am
tired,” I defended. “It's not like I'm sitting around all day waiting for you to come home so I can put on my fucking kimono and serve tea. So sorry if I have a life!”
Exactly why was I trying to find a new wife for this shithead anyway? He is a selfish pig who thinks nothing of waking me up in the middle of the night because he wants to have sex. Reilly sighed and changed his strategy.
“I know your job is stressful, but I also remember how we used to collapse into bed at night and wake up at three in the morning having sex, neither of us knowing who started it. Remember that, Prudence?”
“That's not what happened tonight!” I rebuffed. “You practically bludgeoned me on the head with a blunt object trying to wake me up. What did you expect me to do, wake up and say let's do it baby!”
“Not in those exact words,” Reilly answered.
Not in this exact lifetime.
The truth was I felt like I was cheating on Matt. And I had no interest in even kissing Reilly, much less having sex with him. I knew Reilly deserved a wife who was at least somewhat sexually available to him. I also knew that would never be me. I decided to continue my plan to find Reilly a good woman. So, the plan was deceitful. In the end, he would be better off.
“I'm sorry, Reilly,” I conceded. “This isn't your fault. I'm just under an enormous amount of stress right now and I'm taking it out on you. Forgive me?”
He smiled. “I'm sorry too.”
Stop! Do not apologize to me. I feel guilty enough without you telling me that you're sorry. I killed you over the weekend. I danced naked on your coffin. You have no apologies to make, Reilly. Please just spit on me and go to sleep.
 
 
At five that morning, my cell phone in my purse began to ring. I grabbed the entire bag and ran into the bathroom before Reilly rose from the dead. It would have been a smarter move for me to let Matt's call roll over to voice mail, but I couldn't wait to hear his voice. On the plane ride home, I thought of so many things I wanted to tell him about. How the lady in the seat behind me snored like a power tool. I read an interesting article on stem cell research. (I actually read it the week before, but wanted to work it into the conversation to impress him, so I would tell him it was an article I read on the plane.) How I had a meeting in the morning with a man who owned a chain of jazz brunch restaurants across the country. I wanted to hear about his documentary he was working on, what his house looked like, who his friends were. Anything that had to do with him. I sat on the tile floor of my bathroom, resting my back against the bathtub and watched the blue light from the window grow brighter as the sun rose.
“Hey, Malone, it's me.”
It's me. It's me. Me. Like I should just know who “me” is. His confidence was delicious. Me. Do men get any sexier than this?
“Hey, you,” I whispered. “How was your flight back?”
“We landed. Everything after that is gravy. Hey, this address you gave me. Is this your home or your office?”
“Huh?”
“You wrote down a suite number here. Is this your office address?”
Shit, why did I put my suite number?! How easy would it have been to just write “apt” or just the number symbol? How do I earn a living with this semifunctional brain of mine?
“Oh, well I work so much, it's like my second home,” I laughed.
“Well, how 'bout giving me the address to your first home?” Matt said. “Maybe I'll surprise you one day.”
I think it would be you who's surprised.
“Of course,” I gulped before giving him the address to the loft. “Matt, I am kind of embarrassed to tell you this, but, well, I'm really kind of vain and I'd hate for you to just show up here when I look like a slob. Promise me you'll call before you just come here?”
“Malone, just the thought of you looking like a slob is getting me turned on right now,” he teased. “You know what they say about sloppy women, right?”
That they're lying, cheating, murdering adulterers? And they're sloppy too?
“Sloppy chicks are easy lays,” Matt said. “So, what are you wearing right now? I'm sure you're not all made up at this hour.”
Why are sloppy chicks easy lays?
I tried to create a raspy sound to my voice, but came across more like an adolescent boy. Instead, I whispered. “Well, I've got on old sweatpants, my Giants jersey and my mascara is smeared underneath my eyes.”
“You slob,” Matt said, knowingly and seductively. “Go on.”
“And my hair is a mess,” I giggled.
“Jesus, Malone. I am so fucking turned on by you right now. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me over here?”
Cool chick, think cool, sloppy chick.
“I've got some idea,” I said.
Finally, I am sticking to the script!
“Take off your jersey,” Matt whispered.
“What?” I whispered with masked trepidation.
“I hate the Giants,” he teased. “Take off the jersey.”
My heart was pounding with both excitement and terror. I loved the thought of having cross-country phone sex with Matt as the take-charge fuckmaster. But at six o'clock, Reilly's alarm would go off and he'd head straight for the shower. If he found me curled naked on the floor of the bathroom with the cell phone clutched in my hand, then he really would drop dead.
Still, I had a sloppy vixen reputation to live up to with Matt. More than that, I wanted to take off my jersey as he ordered. Quietly, I tiptoed back into the bedroom and looked at Reilly's clock without saying a word. Five-thirty-nine. I grabbed my watch from the nightstand and scampered back to the bathroom to resume our conversation.
“Okay, it's off,” I told Matt.
“You know what I want you to do now?” Matt asked.
“I don't, but I do know this. The answer is going to be yes,” I whispered.
“Malone, you are a very bad girl.”
That is a definite understatement,
I thought, as my sweatpants dropped to the floor.
Chapter 7
A
fter their initial shock at Monday's lunch, Jennifer, Sophie and even Chad agreed that while they didn't necessarily understand my need to find Reilly a new wife, they'd at least help me. Wednesday evening after work, we met at Bar 89 for our mission. We would draft an advertisement for Reilly's new wife, then place it in the personals section of the
Village Voice.
But first, we'd have to hunt for a clear table. I couldn't believe how busy this place was. The food is good, but frankly, I just think people like the glass bathroom stalls that fog up for privacy when the doors close. But Bar 89 was noisy and close to all of us, so it soon became our Manhattan version of Cheers, where no one knows your name.
After ordering our drinks, Jennifer began. “Okay, we've got forty words to reel in the babes. First, let's brainstorm some descriptive words about Reilly then weave it into copy. Plan?”
Chad rolled his eyes. “Why am I here?”
Jennifer had already hit her limit with Chad. “Why
are
you here? If you're gonna be negative about this then just getthefuckup and go.” I loved how Jennifer could make “get the fuck up” into one word. “Wanna know why you're really here, Chad?”
“Why don't we turn our attention to the task at hand?” suggested Sophie. “If we want to craft an effective message for Reilly's advertisement, it will probably take some time.”
“No, I'd like to hear why I'm
really
here,” Chad said, half teasing, half annoyed. Jennifer's response would decide which way Chad's mood went.
“You guys,” I begged.
“No, I must hear this,” Chad insisted. “Just think, without Yoda over here, I may never uncover the secrets of my universe.”
No one could help smiling at the thought of the Jedi Master as a tall black woman dressed in a yellow petticoat from
Oklahoma!
“You couldn't stand to be left out of the loop on this,” Jennifer said. “It would kill you to have this juicy story going on without you involved. You're a scandal addict.”
Chad interrupted. “This is such a tired old stereotype—”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Jennifer cut him off. “You are a gossip hound and you would die before you let all this happen without you, so here's the deal. You're in or you're out, got it?”
“Who appointed you mistress of ceremonies?” Chad asked. “Thank you,” he said to our waiter, who was taking his time placing our drinks on the table. He had that distinctly trying-not-to-look-curious look. “I think Prudence needs to decide whether she's ready to vote me off the island just because I'm not going to rubber-stamp approve everything you come up with. Honey, I'm in, don't get me wrong,” he said to me. “I can be very useful to you, make no mistake about it, but I've gotta be me, love. You want Chad, take the whole package.”
“So Chad, I'm curious now,” Sophie began. “Why is it that you want to be involved in Prudence's plan that you are so morally outraged by? Is Jennifer right?”
Chad sighed, exasperated. “Prudence, honey. I adore you, you know that. I want to help you, yes. But alas, my friend Jennifer knows me too well. I can't get enough of this kind of shit.”
“He watches soaps too,” Jennifer laughed.
“I do not,” Chad shooed her away.
“
One Life to Live
,” Jennifer whispered. “He gets the shakes if he misses more than three days in a row. Very sad, really.” She paused long enough to take her legal pad from her briefcase.
Jennifer decided that since she was the advertising professional, she should oversee the ad writing. She was as serious about her job as if there was a possible Clio award in this for her. “Words that remind us of Reilly. Go,” she said urgently.
I began. “Reilly is successful. He's very loyal to those he loves. He's kind.”
Starved for sex.
“I find Reilly attractive in a nerdy way,” added Sophie.
“That's very in now,” Chad chimed.
“Single words. I need single words,” Jennifer demanded.
Why does she need single words?
“Controlling,” Chad said.
“You think Reilly is controlling?” I asked.
“Not Reilly, honey,” he smiled.
“Heard that. Not funny,” said a grinning Jennifer. “How 'bout this? Rising young international business consultant seeks woman to share life with. Devoted and kind.”
“
Rising
young professional?” Sophie questioned. “How much did Reilly earn last year, Prudence?”
“Two-forty, I think. No, no, with his bonus, it was two-ninety-five.”
Jennifer swept her pen dramatically across her legal pad. “I'm on it Soph. Two-ninety-five? He has risen,” she declared.
“In more ways than one,” Chad smiled.
“D'y'guys eat yet? I'm starved,” Jennifer said, glancing at the menu. “Let's order some food. Okay?”
Chad signaled the waiter who was more than happy to come back to our table. He practically scurried over, sat beside us, rested his chin in his hand and said, “So what did I miss?” He seemed rather disappointed that all we wanted to share with him was our entrée selections.
“How's this?” Jennifer continued after scribbling on her yellow pad. “Very successful international business consultant, recently divorced and looking for long-term commitment that leads to marriage.”
“What is Reilly looking for in a woman?” Sophie asked.
“Actually that reminds me that Reilly said he wanted someone just like me. So put that being a career woman is a must. Oh yes, she can't want kids because of the whole, you know,” as I made a scissor-cutting motion at the waist.
“What does Reilly do for fun anyway?” asked Chad.
“Um, he watches a lot of television. He's away a lot of the time for his job, so this woman will definitely need a life of her own. She can't be the clingy type.”
“Good, good, this is all good stuff.” Jennifer wrote furiously.
“Prudence, I've been wondering, how is it that you're going to introduce Reilly to these ladies?” Sophie asked.
Jennifer pondered that thought, biting her pen tip. “That's true. It's not like Dudley Do Right's gonna cheat on you. How's the hookup gonna happen?”
I explained that I was going to screen the women first, then after I left him, I'd leave a list of a dozen or so of the best prospects I found. “He can take it from there,” I said. “It's those first dates that are the worst. By the time Reilly gets to the list, they will be fully screened, bona fide candidates for marriage.”
“How will you explain to these ladies that
you
are meeting them instead of Reilly?” Sophie asked.
“I'm going to tell them that I'm his sister, and that Reilly is an exceptionally busy man so he asked me to do the initial interviews.”
Sophie liked that idea. “That might add an element of mystery to him. Reilly is very important so he can't be bothered with first dates. Very unavailable. Women love that.”
“I'm coming along,” said Jennifer. “I'll say I'm his sister too.”
“Jen, you're black. Who's going to believe that we're sisters?”
“Oh that's how it is?” she teased. “No black people allowed in your family? Real nice. I could be your half sister. God knows with that father of yours out humping like a prairie dog, you could have a black half sister out there somewhere.”
Ouch.
“I think two-on-one interviews might be a little intimidating,” I said.
Chad seemed fully on board with us now. “Why don't all four of us screen the women? We could make it like a game show format.” His eyes were wide at the thought. “We'll ask questions about their lifestyle, politics and all that. I'd be perfect for the job. Can you see me? ‘You are the weakest link. Good-bye!'” he said in an English accent. “Or a reality show—Who Wants to Marry My Ex?”
“Okay, let's get back to business,” I suggested.
“I've got it,” Jennifer said, rustling her yellow sheet. “Successful divorced business consultant looking for a long-term commitment with career woman who is attractive, independent and devoted. Must live in Manhattan. No boroughs.”
“Take out the stuff about no boroughs,” I said. “It sounds snobby. Plus, there are plenty of lovely sections in Brooklyn these days.”
“This from the girl from Staten Island,” Chad said of Jennifer.
Jennifer defended her disqualification of borough women. “I grew up with these women, I know of what I speak. Gum. Nails. Hair. Everything funny is a ‘pissah',” she scrunched her face and swatted away her words. “No other states that want to be New York either. No New Jersey. No Albany.”
“Albany is New York,” Chad corrected. “Albany's not another state, you idiot. It's the capital of New York.”
“It's practically Canada,” Jennifer snapped. “Prudence doesn't have to go traipsing all over the East Coast when there are four million women right here in the city. Just put Manhattan only, Prudence. Think of the travel time. Think of the hair!”
“Leave it out,” I insisted. “You've become a terrible snob, Jennifer.”
“Indeed,” she retorted. “Righteous indignation from a married woman who's gonna start dating other women so she can find a new wife for her old husband after she runs off with an indie-film boy toy who believes his fiancée is a widow.”
Chad and Sophie howled and applauded, and I could not disagree. I raised my hands in surrender. “Fair enough,” I laughed. “Fair enough.”
So the ad was mailed to the
Voice
and was scheduled to run the next week.
When I returned home that night, there was a note from Daniel letting me know that a package was delivered for me, and that I should pick it up at the gallery. I ran downstairs and found him showing patrons his work, and handing them a schedule of upcoming shows.
“I know what you're here for,” Daniel said. “Let me finish up and I'll get them for you.” He turned back to the older couple.
Them?
After the couple left, Daniel returned from the back office with a clay vase filled with sunflowers. He opened the little envelope and read, “Next week I'm sending my ear.”
“It doesn't say that.” I grabbed the note from him.
“Well, it should, you little tart,” Daniel smiled. “I've got to give the man credit, tracking down sunflowers this time of year. And you should give me a little something for intercepting the note the florist left on your door.” He leaned forward and pointed to his cheek, which I promptly kissed. Then, I tore the small envelope open.
 
I love you. Matt.
I considered leaving Matt's flowers at the gallery and setting up a visitation schedule with the guys, but couldn't bear the thought of being apart from my one physical reminder of Matt. So, I did something awful. I placed the card in my wallet, took the flowers upstairs and put them on the dining room table.
Reilly didn't arrive home until eleven that night. His tie was loosened, his body saddled by life. As tired as he was, though, the flowers were the first thing Reilly noticed. “Who sent flowers?” he asked.
“Who said anyone sent them?” I fished to see how he knew they were delivered.
“I don't know,” he shrugged. “Who got us flowers?”
Us?!
Reilly tossed his keys and wallet on the table, and threw himself onto the couch.
“I just thought flowers would brighten up the place,” I told him.
“Oh.” He seemed less interested. Reilly flipped on the television and began his nightly ritual of watching exactly one half second of every show on all seventy-two stations.
Reilly shouted to me as I prepared my Sleepytime tea in the kitchen. “Honey, are we going to your mother's or father's place for Thanksgiving this year?”
“Mother's,” I returned. “Why can't we go to your folks for Christmas? You know how I despise holidays with the sperm donor.”
As I popped my head through the kitchen doorway, I noticed that the juxtaposition of the flowers on the table and Reilly's head resting on the couch created the illusion of Matt's sunflowers as my husband's headstone. If that weren't freaky enough, Reilly flipped past
South Park
and one of those round little cartoon kids shouted, “They killed Kenny!” After ten minutes and three full rounds of the channels, Reilly finally found something he wanted to watch—CSPAN 2.

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