The Idea of Him (22 page)

Wade grabbed my elbow in a viselike grip. “Allie,” he grin-whispered. “I don't care if you're already switching to your maiden name. I get it.”

“That's not what I meant.” My face was burning now. Never a mention of divorce and yet here we were, practically discussing the terms.

“I want to know every single goddamn thing about your relationship with Max Rowland.”

Wade's face was glistening with the exertion of lying to me. “I have to go wash my hands.” Clearly his shark-infested waters were more dangerous than even I had understood.

As Wade worked his way through the room and to the stairs, I was not one bit surprised when Jackie's friend from the bar in the tight dress slung her bag over her shoulder and sashayed down the stairs right in front of my husband. It was a good ten minutes before either of them returned.

30

Rare Moment of Maturity

I exited the Tudor Room, jacket half on, scarf trailing behind me and catching in my heels, as if I were running for my life. Wade had left a few minutes ahead of me, sexy redhead with the severe blunt cut now on his coattails. I'd thought about surreptitiously following them to their lair, but I decided that at this point in my life, I simply couldn't control who Wade was screwing or where. I ran around the corner full speed for no apparent reason, full of regret at the way I'd treated Tommy, full of angst over why I'd married Wade in the first place. I rested against a telephone pole and considered throwing up Georges's $48 sea bass into a trash can in the middle of the day in Midtown Manhattan.

Just then, Jackie tapped my arm with her forefinger. “I saw the whole thing go down. I was dying. There was nothing I could do.”

“Oh, Jesus. It was awful, Jackie. I like Tommy so much, and I swear almost nothing has gone on yet between us. I wanted to write with him, help him with his script as he's helped me with mine. I don't know, having a partner of some kind while I do work that scares me to death. He's never cared about my husband, but now I'm sure he does.”

“Can I give you some advice?” she offered, her mere twenty-five years of life experience only emboldening her further. “Because it looks like you need a little.”

“Yeah.”

“Affairs aren't for pussies.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, amazed she'd pegged me so well.

“Believe me, I know. Remember affairs are a dark and dirty game, only for the toughest of the tough.”

“But you told me to just screw anyone like you do,” I reminded her.

She looked down. “I'm pretty sure you don't roll like that. I'm getting to know you a little. You get hooked and then you let them reel you in.”

“I know exactly what I'm doing,” I answered sternly. “It's just a screenplay thing.”

That lame explanation fell flat, and she rolled her eyes at me. “C'mon, there's a false bottom underneath every affair that's designed to give way just when you think you've hit rock bottom. If you only think you can handle it, you definitely can't.”

I was feeling like I'd hit rock bottom, and I hadn't even officially started the affair. I told her, “He just came over to our table out of the blue; it's not like I'm going to be destroyed. I'm not even . . .”

“Thing is, you look like you do care, a lot. Just beware.” She smiled. “Affairs are like gambling is all I'm saying. You have to fold the split second you're ahead. You'll want that one more pull of the lever. One more spin of the wheel. The jackpot of all jackpot turn-ons might be just one little turn around one more little corner and your obsession will take over all the reasoning powers you have.”

I was surprised by her astute advice, but Jackie was right: just when I got hooked on Tommy O'Malley with the magic tongue, the ground gave way, and all the confidence I'd artificially gained from his affections went tumbling after.

My cell phone rang.

“What the fuck, Allie
Crawford
?”

Long pause. I looked at Jackie and mouthed,
Tommy,
and pointed to the phone. She caressed my shoulder, turned, and sped back into the restaurant.

“You sound mad,” I replied, trying not to sound weak or too upset. “And if you're mad, that's just not fair, and I'm not going to take any shit from you and we're done, if that's your position.” I was distraught, and I didn't even remotely mean what I said. It was all false bluster on my part and hardly his fault we'd bumped into each other.

“You think I sound mad? Allie Braden? I googled you and nothing came up.”

“My husband is not part of the deal, you said so yourself. We agreed never to discuss him.” I paused. No answer on the other end. “I get that you're a little shocked, but if you're pissed, that's not fair. You kept details about your life from me too.”

There was silence on the line. I felt uncomfortable having this conversation over the bleating of horns and screech of brakes, but there was no stopping it now.

Tommy finally answered, a controlled calm in his voice. “You told me your husband works in the magazine business. You come off like a normal woman, working at a PR firm of some kind, party planning, like no big deal.”

“I don't have a big-deal job. I told you the truth about all that.”

He sighed. “There's a difference between giving me the barest outline of things and telling me the real deal.”

“Stop being like that,” I countered. “We're in an undefined relationship. You specifically told me not to bore you with my real life. You never wanted to know who he was or what he did. That's what you do when an affair is on the horizon—you ignore the real world.”

“You do know that if we were having an affair we would actually be fucking, right? And besides, there's a difference between nondisclosure and deception, Allie Braden, or should I say
Crawford
.” His voice seemed less angry, a little hurt, even. “Look, we talk about everything. He's not just some guy, you know. I happen to serve him his pinot noir three days a week. If I'm banging his wife, or close to it, I'd like to know that so I can either spit in the pinot or get someone else to serve him.”

I spun on my heel. With Tommy still at the restaurant, maybe I could patch things up a little in person.

“You're right,” I answered quietly.

“And so what if I'm good at saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Big Swinging Dick Wade Crawford. Yes, that candied black raspberry aroma with a little smoky kick you enjoyed with your Chilean sea bass last week? It was the 1994 . . .' That doesn't merit a whole explanation, Allie. It isn't a
deception
because I didn't tell you exactly which restaurants I consult for.”

“It wasn't a deception on my part either,” I said. “It was discretion. Big difference.”

“Right. Discretion. Potato, potahto.”

Let's call the whole thing off? Was that what he was saying?

I went on. “You're right. We both kept things from each other. For reasons only each of us might understand that the other doesn't. Can we just accept that and not play guessing games that lead to God knows where or try to nail each other on some point just for the sake of it? Can we please just move forward?”

Silence. He was considering my proposal, one that shocked even me in its maturity, especially in my current whacked-out state of mind.

“I have to think about all this,” he said after a few moments.

Maybe the Wade Crawford news was a game changer. Maybe Tommy was intimidated by Wade's success. Or maybe Tommy didn't like that he actually knew the husband in the flesh. That does, I suppose, make a difference. I felt sick inside. I debated whether to tell him so.

“I feel sick inside,” I said.

“Me too,” he answered gently.

I stayed silent. Listened to him breathe.
Affairs aren't for pussies,
I recalled Jackie saying.

After a long pause, I asked him, “If we both feel sick, maybe we should consider for a minute how unusual it is that we feel this bonded in so short a time.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, what now?”

“I don't know, Allie. I just don't. We have to reconsider.”

“Okay. Look. Can we talk tonight? I've got to get back to work.” Of course I didn't want to be the one who called. I wanted him to call me and say, “This was all so silly.” No reason to stop the fun now, and we had script work to do. “You've been so generous with my writing, I do want to return the favor. It's your turn, you know.”

“Sure. I'll text you.”

As I slipped the phone into my pocket and crossed Fifty-Fourth Street, the wind whipped up the side of the building and practically threw me against the person next to me. Two strides back, no wind; here a virtual tornado. I kept my eyes closed, praying that Tommy wouldn't run for the hills.

 

THAT NIGHT AT
six
P.M.
, my phone pinged and I saw his number texting me. I leaped for the phone.

It read:

WE R DONE
.

31

Life in Boxes

Something very
base
took hold of me during this time, and I felt its pulse slamming against a deep cavern inside: the fear of being alone.

I'd wake up in a lonely and desperate box, clouded with a fog of insecurity. In that box, it wasn't only self-doubt that enveloped the walls around me; it was a total inability to see that I could pull myself away from the mess I'd become.

That alone fear had the power to make me irrational. It convinced me I'd chosen door number two when I should have chosen door number one; so when I woke at four
A.M.
, I'd plot every way to get James back on this side of the Atlantic. Or, when James didn't fill that hole, I would seek someone else to. I'd sit at my desk sitting on my hands not to text Tommy to ask for a second chance, feeling so adamant that his adorable everything would just plain save me. Save me from what exactly? Why did I need to fill the hole with another man the second I considered purging myself of my husband?

Sometimes, mercifully, that alone fear wouldn't ride me so hard. I would then say to myself that I could survive with the kids on my own; Wade would simply get a little studio down the block and have fun with whichever naked woman he wanted on his kitchen counters there. Oh, the glory of no lying husband in my house! He'd live nearby! We'd get along! I wouldn't care about his photo assistant girl or his Jackie dalliance and their perfectly toned arms! Life would be like a permanent spa vacation in Tahiti with no husband and no male-servicing duties.

I'd walk around the city and feel all neat and packaged up in the strong, confident, I-can-do-this box, perhaps channeling Jackie more than I thought I could.
I don't need anyone.
I'm not a total mess.
But that bravado would be fleeting . . .

To get through this, I told myself most women contemplating divorce for real must react like I did. It was okay to give in to both feelings—to experience the momentary highs of independence and the fears of soul-wrenching loneliness. So what if I was strong 10 percent of the time and fearful the other 90 percent? If I felt tough all the time and ignored the painful part of my reality, then my supposed strength would be no more than a mere brittle façade. That's the self-help speech I gave myself anyway.

Three mornings after the breakup text from Tommy and after seventy-two hours of dark glum inability to see how I would ever feel that 10 percent of strength again, I experienced the physics of rebound.

I yanked open the curtains to let the early morning light shine in, while I forced myself to start working on my screenplay. I thought about something Helen Gurley Brown, the founder of
Cosmopolitan,
who looked fabulous into her eighties, once said:
The greatest love in your life should be your work, not your man.

I decided I would do exactly that: strive for intellectual passions to feel good about myself rather than obsess over men who hurt me or who I'd let get away.

It was Saturday morning, and Wade as usual had the kids on this day for pancakes and special daddy time. I was going to work in bed and let him handle kid duties. I liked this plan: my brain passions would save me! At that point in the turmoil, I grasped at anything to act as elusive
savior,
whether it be a man or a work concept.

I pulled the laptop off my side table and started making notes in my script. I mapped out up to page 115, thinking about how the problem would be set up in the first act, how the reckoning would have to begin happening in the third act. My own reckoning was moving like a locomotive, but I sensed speed bumps ahead with no surefire man to hold me tight as I flew over them.

Two hours later, I was deep into writing a successful scene where the new love interest dumps the heroine, making her hit rock bottom before they even started—writing what I knew, in other words—when Wade opened the door. The kids appeared with a wobbly breakfast tray they'd all put together in the kitchen—his first of many peace offerings that weekend to atone for his other women sins.

“You kids!” I said with a scratchy morning voice. “Thank you so much!”

Blake carried the tray, Lucy held a small bouquet of tulips bought from the corner Korean market, and Wade walked carefully alongside them, his hand supporting the heavy tray carrying orange juice and eggs that was swaying precariously to and fro in my son's arms. “You slept so late, Mommy,” Lucy said. “Daddy took us to get you these.” She placed the flowers next to my bed.

“I'm going to take the kids out all day so you can relax,” Wade said, edging toward the door. “We left you some gifts outside. You're the best mom in the world and we wanted you to know.”

“Thank you, guys, this means the world to me,” I answered, getting out of bed to hug my children. Having Wade say that only brought me down; he knew how good I was to him, so how did he let this all happen?

Blake whispered in my ear, “Thanks for giving me the best advice ever on Jeremy. I wanted to write you a card like Dad said I should, but I didn't have time.”

“Well, what would you have said, honey?”

“What I said to Dad. That you are a good mom because you told me if I ignored him and played with William, Jeremy would stop being mean.”

“You can make all the right decisions on your own; I just wanted to remind you not to let a bully see you react. That's all they want. Why don't you each pick out something yummy from the candy bag in my closet?” They cheered and ran out of the room. I paced between the bed and the door, slipping on jeans and trying on three different shirts before settling on one I liked, all the while waiting for Wade to talk. I did yoga breaths to try to summon some deep strength I wasn't sure I possessed at all. Wade stood by his dresser, frozen like a child.

I finally stepped in front of him. “Do you have something to say?”

“I do,” he answered in a low and humble voice. “I'm sorry about everything. Really I am. You're the most caring woman in the world. You deserve better.”

I turned to the man I married. “I know you fall hard when you fall for someone. Did that happen?”

Silence.

I went on. “Let me put it to you this way: Has that happened several times in the past two years?”

He just put his head down like a little boy.

“So you still want to maintain that each of these instances—some major, some minor—are just some fucking
slide show
that you, as a male, have lived? Not a
narrative
movie? Not connected in any way to each other? I don't know, call me crazy but I think I see a pattern here: lots of women behind my back, some you fall for. I don't think there are just isolated instances anymore. You can't lie to yourself or to me and maintain that.”

He tried to answer, “They were individual, separate . . . I don't know, Allie. It's hard to explain. I care about you. I don't know why I did it when I knew it would hurt. And I don't want to have to go through . . .”

“You know what?” I said, trying to control my voice. “I don't need details; the big
narrative
picture has come through loud and clear.”

“You deserve better, Allie,” was all that he could muster.

“Well, you're not the only one who thinks that. I'm considering my options.”

I had to choose my words carefully or risk Wade covering his tracks. “Is there anything about your business or our finances I should know about before I speak to a lawyer?”

“I can't tell you about business right now, and I'd really appreciate it if you would wait a bit before making any rash decisions,” Wade pleaded. “Besides, it was only this one time.”

My pulse skipped a beat. We were clearly entering divorce waters, and I was pretty sure that neither of us had a paddle, much less a boat. “You're already lying. There was the photo assistant when Lucy was three months old! But I don't care about the girls, Wade; I care about our kids.”

“So do I. Which is why you have to believe me when I tell you that there is nothing you need to worry about.”

“I am worried, Wade. Desperately worried,” I answered, tears in my eyes. “How did we get here? How did
you
get us here?”

“I've got it under control,” he replied, wiping under my eyes and then pulling me toward him.

I rested my head on his shoulder, and he put his arms around me. “Well, it certainly doesn't feel that way. On any front.”

“I can't make you feel better, but know I'm trying, Allie.”

Just as quickly as he'd barged into the bedroom, he turned around and left. I could hear him getting the children all excited about their big day with magic Daddy. By the time I followed him out of our bedroom, good-bye hugs were already being offered up.

Wade hurriedly gave me a peck on the forehead. “We're on the same team, Allie. Remember that.”