My Favorite Midlife Crisis (18 page)

3. When we ran into Fleur and her date in the Waterview lobby, I dissolved in giggles as the date kissed my hand. Who was this guy and why hadn’t we discussed him at length? All I knew was Fleur looked like she was ready to strangle me. As I cracked myself up over the continental guy with an honest-to-God pompadour, a major pinky ring, and very wet lips, she sent me her haughty to-the-manor-born look. No one did haughty better than Fleur. I was abashed but couldn’t stop giggling even when Harry flashed me a warning signal.
My mother was right, my baptism didn’t take. I am a sinful person.

Two things I liked about me, in spite of my mother:

1. I apologized to Harry for my rudeness.

When he said fairly casually during the good-night ritual at my door, “Let’s do this again,” I got all ruffled and told him I was going to be out of town the following weekend giving a speech to an audience of menopausal women. That stopped him in his tracks.

“That’s okay,” he said finally, “I didn’t have a specific date in mind.”

Take that, you self-important MD-type.
Then maybe he regretted backhanding me, for that’s when he planted the surprise kiss.

After we disconnected, I said, “It was fun, Harry. I’m sorry if I was such a pain tonight. It’s been a tough week and a lousy day. Earlier I mean.” Thinking about Kat and Summer.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

“Drive carefully.”

My feet were killing me. For the hundredth time, I swore I was going to give up anything higher than one-inch heels. Once I could sail along on three-inchers, but lately even namby-pamby two-inchers were hell on my feet and lower back. I needed to unhook my bra. I wanted to peel my panty hose down from their control top to their sandal toes and toss them over the balcony and far, far away into the water, which shimmered the reflection of a full moon.
Lunacy.
Dating at this age is sheer lunacy.
But I vowed to do it again sometime. Dumb persistence. That was the second thing I liked about me.

Chapter 19

On Monday morning, before I could execute my planned ambush on Seymour Bernstein, Bethany materialized at my side, clutching a balled-up tissue in one hand. She looked awful. She was either suffering from the cold I thought was fake or she’d been crying.

“You shouldn’t be working sick. It’s not fair to your patients. Or to the staff.” I resumed scanning a radiology report on my next patient.

“If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you,” she sniffed. “Please.”

“In my office.”

Sitting across from me, she said, “I want to apologize.” She pulled her skirt down over primly crossed knees. The skirt was longer than those she’d been wearing during the last month and the feet that tapped to a nervous internal beat were clad in what looked to be Red Cross shoes. Sturdy and not at all sexy. I imagined she’d given some thought over the weekend to redeeming her image and dug her pre-affair wardrobe out of the closet.

Her voiced cracked when she said, “I feel horrible about what happened the other day.”

“You should.”

“I don’t know where my head was.”

“You need to keep better track of all your body parts, Bethany.”

“Agreed. I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“But believe me, I am sincerely sorry.”

Sorry for her behavior or sorry for getting caught,
I wondered. “Look, if you want to...” I searched for a word to use with prissy bluestocking Bethany, then remembered I was addressing someone who foot-groped a colleague in the boardroom, “...screw around with Seymour, that’s your choice.”

Her eyebrows took off. Surely she wasn’t shocked by my use of “screw.” Maybe back on the estate in Easton, they didn’t talk about it; they just did it wherever and with whomever they wished. As members of the congenitally elite, they were entitled. Maybe that’s what I detested about Bethany. That inherent sense of entitlement I’d never felt and could never feel, the one, along with Gerber’s strained peas, your wellborn mama fed you with a silver spoon.

“You’re both single and above the age of consent. Seymour is so far above the age of consent he probably signed his ID with a quill pen. But that’s your business. It’s only mine when you make it mine. And the staff’s. You and Seymour are the hot topic in the coffee room. They’re not blind, you know. This is indefensible, unprofessional conduct.”

“You’re right.”

“You’re damn right, I’m right. And why do you have to bring it into the office, anyway? You both have apartments. With bedrooms.”

She wrung her tissue and mumbled, “Seymour gets turned on by—”

“Enough.” I held up a halting hand. I really didn’t want to hear any more. “Just know this, I’m not going to allow you to climb the ladder on your back. Not in this practice.”

“What!”

“Oh, please. Spare me the outrage. Let me tell you something, my generation worked too damned hard to bury that load for you to come along and dredge it up again.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Bethany said, leaning forward to dig her nails into my desk. “You can’t possibly think that I’m sleeping my way into a partnership.”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“My God. My God.” She sunk back in her chair, shaking her head incredulously. “I don’t expect you to believe this, but I love Sy. I do. I know he’s thirty years older than I am and sometimes he’s a little rough around the edges, but that doesn’t matter to me. I’m in love with him. And he’s in love with me.”

We both observed a moment of silence while Bethany recovered from and I tried to process this revelation. Sy and Beth in love. You might figure them for some recreational slap-and-tickle, but love? That was like a romance between Godzilla and Mothra. I said finally, “Well, I’m thrilled for you. But it’s no excuse.”

“You’re right. We got carried away and we’ve been stupid and thoughtless.” Lids were lowered. “I assume I should start sending out my CV? I mean, you’ve got your ammunition now so you can do what you’ve been wanting to do for a long time. Fire away.”

“No one’s firing anyone,” I said. “You’re a good doctor, an asset to the practice. I consider the matter closed. For the time being anyway. We have discussed this…ummm...situation and,” I decided to give her a break, “it remains between us, and of course, your boyfriend. Who, by the way, has been avoiding me. Eventually, I’ll tag him in the hall and we’ll talk this through.”

“I’d rather speak to him myself first, if you don’t mind,” she said.

I bet.
Then again, I didn’t relish a duel between partners. Bad for the practice. “Fine. But make sure he knows how ticked off I am. And that one day we’ll have our own little chat, Sy and I.”

She nodded. “Are you going to tell Neil?” Who would have been appalled. Neil was a stickler for observing the code of ethics.

“I’d rather we resolve this among the three of us.”

“Thank you.” No tears. No sniffles. Her cold was apparently miraculously cured.

“You’re welcome,” I said, turning to my computer. Dismissing her. But I watched her from the corner of my eye. And she knew I’d be watching her very closely from now on. One misstep, one shot across the bow and she was done for. She and Seymour Bernstein both. One word to Neil and heads would roll. Hers anyway. Seymour would keep his, but lose major face. So there would be no more talk about my age, my retirement, my mentoring young up-and-comings, my taking a backseat to the young’uns because the exit sign was lit. I had a garlic necklace to protect me from the vampires. I was safe now.

For the moment, anyway.

***

Two days later,
I
was on the receiving end of a scolding. “You really are becoming a one-dimensional person. Working nonstop. And don’t tell me you don’t have time for anything else. There’s always time for romance. Like there’s always room for chocolate,” Fleur grumbled as she scowled at my reflection in the long mirror of the Istanbul Salon and Day Spa on Wednesday evening.

While Attila cut her hair and Melik highlighted mine, we sat in adjoining chairs, nibbling sandwiches from carryout containers in our laps.

“You don’t understand. I’ve done fifteen surgeries so far this week. As far as I’m concerned there’s only one gender on this planet.” I wiped mayo from my lip. “Your point is moot anyway. It’s not like the men are lining up for me.”

“You have Harry Galligan,” Fleur reminded me. “Who, from everything you’ve told me, is a national treasure.”

“Harry’s wonderful,” I agreed. “But I’m not sure I’m going to see him again. No tingle.”

“Now you want tingle? I didn’t know tingle was on your wish list. Fine, you’ve revised,” she surrendered. “Which means you’re still shopping.”

“I don’t want to shop. I don’t have time to shop,” I said.

“How long does it take to log on to your computer? When was the last time you opened your email from Ivydate.com?” My reluctance to be Internet matched continued to be a sore point with her. “Okay, so maybe he won’t be a doctor with great pecs and genuine Israeli circumcision, but there are some good men out there. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? ‘If you dig around a little, Fleur, there are lots of good men, or good enough anyway.’ But only for me, right? Not for you, you hypocrite.” She grunted with exasperation. “And you’re fucking spoiled to boot.”

Melik must have registered the “fucking” because his eyebrows shot up. He plucked a square of aluminum foil from my outstretched hand, brushed it with bleach, and wrapped it around a hank of my hair. Very focused. “Too much gray,” he’d announced when I walked in. Just what I needed to hear. “Gray coming in fast. Color today. More blonde.”

Fleur and I talked freely with only the stylists around. They didn’t speak much English. Melik knew “shorter,” “longer,” “blonder,” “darker,” and when he finished with you, “absolutely gorgeous, honey.” And probably “fucking.” I was beginning to think, with maybe the addition of “harder,” “softer,” “higher,” and “lower,” that should be the limit of every man’s vocabulary.

“What about this Ben-Gurion or whatever his name is? Has he emailed you?”

“No.” Which was fine. Ari was a fling. Flings are like firecrackers. Once flung, you really can’t get a second bang out of them.

There wasn’t much to mention about Simon York. Still, his memory tickled. “There was another man,” I said, finally.

Melik pointedly examined my scalp. It was a sham, his thick accent, his limited vocabulary. My Turkish hair stylist was probably an Oxford scholar.

With many polysyllabic words, I described my encounter with Simon at the airport. “Fleur,” I asked, “did you ever have a thunderbolt hit you? The first time you met Jack, did you feel like you couldn’t catch your breath?”

“Actually, yes. I met Jack when I walked in on him taking a piss in the men’s room at Chiapparelli’s. I thought it was the ladies’ room, that’s how bombed out on Strega I was. But no thunderbolts. For what it’s worth, my theory about thunderbolts is at the first sign of one, run, do not walk, to the sunny side of the street. Thunderbolts end with someone getting burned.”

“You’re probably right. But for this kind of feeling, I might be willing to take the risk. It’s all moot, anyway. I only spoke to him twice. I’ve been thinking of maybe writing a follow-up note. I had a question for him that I never got to ask. Purely professional. And he said to drop him a note.”

Fleur’s head jerked so violently, she knocked the scissors out of Attila’s hand. “No shit. In case you are completely out of touch, that’s what is called a come-on. But of course, your being Miss Manners who just happened to be born in an East Baltimore row house, you decided it might not be proper to go after this guy. Look at that face,” she rebuked me, “you’re making yourself a permanent scowl.”

I leaned toward the mirror to check. Melik yanked me back. “Maybe I should get Botoxed. And I’ve been thinking about having the eyelid lift done.”

“You don’t need plastic. You just need to cut down on that cockamamie schedule of yours. The pace is going to kill you. I hope you write this York person and he writes you back. And then I hope he screws you until you beg for mercy. God knows you need a little diversion.”

“Dryer, honey.” Melik sent me off to get the blonde streaks baked into my hair.

Fleur shook off Attila and trotted after me, “Look, why don’t you come with me tonight? I’m going to the Gee! Spot. I need to find something special for an up-and-coming date with the guy from Saturday night, Eldon. Well, up and coming if I play my cards right. And if you’re worried we’ll be seen, don’t. It’s all private. Very discreet.”

The Gee! Spot, an upscale, by-appointment-only sex accessory shop, was owned by Antonia Guest, one of Fleur’s ritzy chums from prep school. How’s that for taking revenge against your country club childhood? Could you shove your middle finger any higher than that?

“Some other time,” I begged off. “I’m really beat and I have to prepare my speech for the Menopause Forum on Saturday, plus I’ve got surgery first thing tomorrow.”

“You really need to lighten up, Gwynnie. Smell the roses before they fucking wilt. Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll buy some crotchless panties and a new pair of handcuffs,” I fervently hoped she was putting me on, “and you can pick up a vibrator. Antonia has an amazing selection.”