The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund (30 page)

“Um, Randy, could I ever, do you mind if I um, just . . . dash across the street and grab a sandwich?” Their brows furrowed as if I were speaking Farsi. I felt stupid or, as Kiki used to write, stoopid.

“Uh, why don't you just take your lunch hour?” said Randy.

I'd been out of the workforce for so long, that I only remembered my assistant days when I'd been forced to eat at my keyboard or starve. But even though I'd been doing nothing but mommying for six years, my position was high level enough to merit a real lunch. I grabbed a falafel and walked the streets, wandering into cool little shops I'd never seen before. Thinking of Elliot and his cute note, the harsh pavement beneath my boots might as well have been clouds.

 

 

 

At work the next day Noah Greene came in and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey you—come in my office.”

I nervously followed him up to the third floor to the brothers' lair, which I hadn't seen yet.

“Wow, this is amazing,” I said, scanning the Warhols and Lichtensteins on the wall. “Your art is fantastic.”

“Thanks. We hired a top consultant. She gets us the best shit,” he bragged, gesturing to an amazing Motherwell behind his couch. Then he walked to his bathroom door and opened it. “Check it out, I got a Jasper Johns over the pot.” Nice.

Back in his office, he flopped onto a big Eames lounge chair, his crocodile boots up on the matching ottoman.

“I know this great art adviser, Elliot Smith. Do you know him?” I asked.

“Like the singer? No. And I know everyone in the biz.”

“Really? I know he works with Lyle Spence a lot.”

“I've bought tons and tons of shit from Lyle. But never heard of Smith.”

Oh, well. I thought I could score Elliot a new fat-cat client. But before I could butter him up further, Noah changed the subject.

“So, good job with this
Spin
piece. How'd you pull that off? I had some broad here two years who barely got what you got in three days.”

“I know this guy Matt Sevin and suspected he'd like the album, and he did.” While there clearly weren't fireworks love-wise with the golden sneaker-clad hipster, I had definitely still felt comfortable sending him the tunes. “It's a small world, you know.”

“I like you. You can write, too—the press release is terrific. The chick in the marketing department copied parts of it verbatim for the sales force.”

“I saw. I'm flattered.”

“They like you, these people. Editors, people around here. I want you to take on another act. We're signing this young broad, she'll be our Britney, but not a fucking thing like her—she's like an anti-Britney. Thinking chick. Like you. She's called Casey Sinclair, and she's a beauty. Hot little body on her. You're gonna help us make her a star.”

“Wow, that is great, thank you so much.”

“You better kick ass for me.”

“I will, Noah, I swear. I will kick ass.”

The following day Noah gave me the still-unfinished demo; he was grasping it in his little pig-in-a-blanket-sized fingers and slid it conspicuously across my desk and walked off.

 

 

 

I
celebrated New Year's Eve solo, as Elliot was seeing his family upstate, but truth be told, I never liked it anyway; all the forced merriment and drunkenness always felt like too much pressure. It was kind of like Saturday nights; I always had more fun on an unexpected Tuesday than when everyone else was geared up for paaartay!

Miles came home the next day, and I was so excited to see him, I was pacing by the window.

“Mom!” He ran to me and we stayed up way past his bedtime, talking about ski school and looking at all the Christmas gifts his dad and grandma had gotten him, a sea of Spider-Man everything. We popped popcorn and played the match game with his new special set printed with pairs of Marvel comics characters. I always played to win and yet he beat me three games in a row. Either my brain was going to mush or my kiddo was darn smart.

“How is your new job?” he asked.

“I love it,” I responded truthfully. Being at Celestial really gave me a sense of purpose, and I had fun being down there. I paused for a second, wondering whether or not to share the news of Elliot with him. On the one hand I wanted to protect him, but on the flipside as an only child, and a mature one at that, I wanted to share with him my excitement.

“There is something else new, honey,” I ventured slowly. “Some
one
new, actually: my new friend, Elliot.”

“Can I meet him?” he asked without missing a beat. Phew. I figured Avery was on frigging family vacation with him so I could at least have him meet Elliot.

“Sure. I'd love that! I have our
Nutcracker
tickets for January fourth. Would you want him to join us?”

“Yeah! I want Elliot to come, too.”

 

 

 

Elliot called me when he got back and I downloaded all the work news, including Miles's request.

“I'm honored,” said Elliot. “And excited—I haven't been since I was a kid.”

“See? Tim said he never went and that it's very ‘fanook' to take my son to the ballet. He doesn't want him pirouetting down the soccer field. Please.”

“Fanook?”

“It's what they called that dead gay guy on
The Sopranos
.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I know! He's living in the Triassic Period like Sherry Von.”

Elliot came across the park to pick us up and then go back to Lincoln Center. He wanted time to chat with Miles before the curtain, so we gabbed in the car (Elliot was surprisingly well versed in the various Power Rangers) and shared a quick mozzarella and tomato sandwich from the designer concession stand before taking our seats. We whispered as the lights dimmed and I almost melted when Miles wanted Elliot to sit in the middle. The vast room was dark, except for a spotlight on the orchestra conductor on the stand. Elliot and I held hands as Tchaikovsky's overture began against a curtain of a snowy landscape shining with glittery whiteness. I leaned down to look at Miles's face, which was transfixed.

The little girls and boys danced the party scene with the parents. The creepy cloaked uncle came in with the Nutcracker, and the scene with the rats had all the well-dressed children in the audience giggling with joy. Next was my favorite part, the snowflakes. The delicate pointed toes lightly leaped and patted the floor silently as the almost-real snow fell from the staged sky, making a sparkly blanket of shimmering white across the New York State Theater stage. The precision and synchronicity of Balanchine's steps never ceased to give me chills, and when I looked at both Elliot and Miles, they had matched rapt eyes focused on the leaps and twirls before them. Next to them, taking in the glistening blue-white glow and fairy-light prances, I was in heaven.

At intermission, we walked out onto the promenade to score some M&M'S for Miles, who spied a classmate from St. Sebastian's.

“Wylie!” he yelled, and sprinted to his pal. They talked about their vacations (Wylie was on safari, La Singhita) as Elliot and I held our place in line for snacks nearby. I had been bursting because we hadn't had the chance to maul each other in a week but obviously had to restrain myself affection-wise in front of my son.

“He's a special kid,” Elliot said of Miles. “Amazing.”

“He likes you, too.”

“Amazing mom, as well,” he added.

“I missed you,” I said, and he stroked my arm the way he had the weekend before.

“I missed you, too.”

We both sighed simultaneously, in echoed desire to beam,
Star Trek
-style, into the same bed.

“
Holly
. . .” The way he said my name, in an almost whisper, made me feel so emotional about the excited newness of this, of how this man walked into my life and helped me rebuild myself, that I got caught up in a tidal wave of the moment.

“Elliot, I love you.”

Shhhhit.

So awash with blinding adoration was I that I fumbled big-time. I made the worst mistake possible. I committed the dater's cardinal sin: I blurted out the words that send men running and screaming. It hung in the air, and as soon as it was out I wanted it to be carried away by the spinning whoosh of a gliding tutu, but it wasn't. And the worst part was the reaction: Elliot leaned in and kissed my cheek. I felt a sinking pit of utter humiliation and embarrassment, suddenly wondering if this whole thing may have all been a fantasia construction in my head. Maybe we were just having sex like regular grown-ups. Maybe I was living this whole overactive imagination-spun lie. I pretended to be totally fine and blasé about my verbal diarrhea. We were next in line, and with a smile on my face, I ordered our candy and sodas. I was nonchalant and normal, but it was all a total Meryl Streep blocking the pounding fear that shook my whole body.

We said good night by the fountain outside, where throngs of people were rushing for cabs. I spied one and we split pronto. As soon as we got home and I finished Miles's bedtime stories, I dialed Kiki, fingers shaking.

“Hi, it's Holly. I know you just got back from France tonight and you're totally jet-lagged 'cause it's 3:00 a.m. Paris time, but I am freaking out.”

I relayed, in a state of panic, the details of my royal screwup.

“No! You didn't.”

“Yes, Kiki, I did. Please don't freak me out even more. Jesus.”

“I told you never to do that!” she admonished.

“KIKI! I know, okay? I effed up hugely, I'm aware. I'm just asking what the hell do I do now?”

“Okay okay okay. Damage control. Let's think. . . . Okay, I've got it: Maybe, you can show him you say that to a lot of people all the time, like how British people say ‘darling' and stuff like that. Why don't you say ‘I love you' to, like, the cab driver.”

“Great, thanks,” I muttered, rolling my eyes, with even deeper alarm at my goof.

“Or—to me, you know, when you talk to us, just always say ‘I love you' or ‘loveya.' Throw it around and stuff so he knows it doesn't really pack that big a punch for you.”

“Do I have Tourette's? What was I THINKING? I am losing my mind. It was like I was out of it for a second. On drugs. I can't believe this. See? He is drugs to me! My mind is MUSH.”

“Honestly, it's not that bad.”

I was mute.

“You know what? It's not, Holly, think about it: You were just honest, and frankly, if he can't take that or wigs about it, then he's not the one. He's not. If he can't deal with a little Hallmark-style confessional, then fuck him.”

“But I really like him,” I said, starting to cry. “I think I do love him.”

“Honey, he's so fucking into you,” Kiki assured me. “I saw him looking at you at that Seaport party when you said that you hate mimes—his face was lit up like a Christmas tree, he was so enraptured.”

“I don't know. . . .”

“The guy is enamored.”

“
I'm
enamored. I can't think about anything else. I'm writing my work stuff and I drift off.”

“That's normal—”

“People always say the beginning is so amazing and exciting, but I feel ill. Not when I'm with him, but all the time we're apart I'm spazzing about
will this last? Does he miss me? Does he love me? Will he be my husband?
”

“He'll say it. Soon. Trust me, his ‘I love you' is in the mail. It's on its way.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.”

“Why is ‘I'm crazy about you' just not the same? He said that in bed the other night.”

“Because it's not. Be patient. It's in the mail.”

 

 

 

The postman was delayed. After a day of agonizing pacing, Elliot left a voice mail.

“Hi, sweetie, it's me. I just found out I have to go to Geneva for a few days. But when I come back I really want to go out together. Maybe that new Broadway show they gushed about in the
Times
. Okay, I miss you a lot already and also I . . . have something I want to tell you. Have a good night—”

Though
sweetie
sounded promising, I was still a wreck. Kiki came over for Chinese order-in and to play with Miles. She had brought back a bag of French loot for us from Bonpoint and Collette. After ripping open our presents, we sat around a big puzzle of the United States and attempted to forge sections of our great nation but only managed to piece together chunks of each time zone, floating in an ocean of carpet beneath.

“So what do you think it means?” I asked Kiki, who had just listened to my saved voice mail. “I need analysis.”

“Oh, look, Miles, this one goes with Kentucky,” said Kiki, expertly snapping the jigsaw pieces together,
Rain Man
-style. “Okay, so cute he's into Broadway like you. You practically had to drag Tim. And helloooo, I think we both know what he's going to ‘tell you.' You have nothing to worry about!”

“Really?” I wasn't so sure. “I think the axe is going to fall. I totally flipped him out.”