The One That Got Away (10 page)

“You’re not a klutz,” said Alex as he stared into the fridge. “You just never were any good on moving objects. Remember that elephant in Sri Lanka?”

“Of course,” I bluffed. “That elephant.”

“It’s specifically with women over forty,” interrupted the young black man. “Four points. I think it was leaving in the middle of that speech for the hospital. The clip is all over the news. Classy move, van Holt.”

“Well, I guess my natural chivalrousness finally came in handy,” he said, giving me a wink. I looked down and blushed.

Alex walked over and lifted Sam out of his seat, tossed him up in the air, and tickled him until he shrieked, then handed him to me.

“I have lunch at the police station on Spruce, and then I have that rescheduled KYW interview,” he told me. “I figured you could use another afternoon to recover, so we didn’t book anything for you today.”

I looked at him, forcing another expression besides my usual “deer in headlights,” and he added with an eye roll: “Except for tonight,
of course
. I know nothing will keep you from tonight.”

Not knowing what to say, I just smiled and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

“You all right?” he asked, laughing. “Need some more coffee or something?”

But before I could answer, he turned and looked at the nanny. “Actually, I could use some too. May?”

May! And better yet, coffee! My eyes widened, eager to solve the mystery of the invisible coffeemaker.

May put down the sippy cup she was rinsing, smiled sweetly at Alex, and walked toward the back wall, pausing in front of a rectangle of black glass above a perforated steel box. She tapped the glass and it came alive with a row of glowing buttons. She hit a few and, thirty seconds later, handed him a steaming latte.

Alex took two quick sips and put it down. He moved toward the door, following the other men. He paused at the kitchen doorway, then looked back.

He stared at me like he was looking for words, and I found my body frozen under his gaze, eager for whatever charming remark he might leave me with.

“Oh, and, Abbey?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget to pick up my tux.”

With my oversized Gucci sunglasses and black cashmere wrap, I looked like every other woman on Walnut Street, but as they paused before window displays and opened heavy salon doors, I kept walking, my eyes dead ahead. I had only an hour or so before Sam woke from his nap and Gloria got home from school, so I moved briskly, weaving around anyone in my way and noting each cross street I passed: Eighteenth, Seventeenth, Sixteenth, Fifteenth, and, finally, Broad Street. I paused for the light and to recheck the map on my phone. I was almost there.

When the light turned green, I moved with the crowd and crossed over the wide avenue. But halfway down the next block I had to stop again, derailed by a truck pushing a Dumpster toward a storefront under renovation.

I stepped back from the cloud of dust and waited. Looking up, I watched construction workers chipping away at an old wooden sign. I tilted my head to read it: “Ochs & Ochs.”

This, or what was left of it, was the old Ochs luggage store, one of Philly’s last independent retailers, a holdover from the days when luggage cost more than a box of diapers. I covered my eyes from the sun and peered inside, remembering old Mr. Ochs and his brother, always in three-piece suits, always yelling at kids not to touch anything. Now the shop floor played host to a row of white mannequins, indifferent to their nakedness and the workers who moved around them.

A construction worker strolled outside for a cigarette and I asked him what store was moving in.

“Beats me,” he said, lighting up. “I just do what they tell me.” After exhaling his first drag, he examined me further, letting his eyes linger on my ample chest.
That’s a first,
I thought. I decided to cross the street after all.

Finally arriving at Thirteenth Street, I entered a boxy concrete office building through revolving doors that spun me into an empty, dimly lit foyer. I scanned the directory of doctors’ offices and law firms until my eyes found the name I was looking for: Agency X, Suite 1105. I stepped inside the elevator, hit the button, and waited for movement. Eventually, it jumped awake and heaved itself upward, each floor announced with a dull clink.

The eleventh floor was bright and open, with long white corridors punctuated with an occasional poster or plant. I breathed in Chinese food from one door and paint smells from another, and heard rap music from farther down.
This must be where they put all the creatives,
I thought, and I was right. The suites I passed were occupied by interior designers, Web developers, architects, advertising agencies… and a lone psychiatrist. How convenient for them.

I turned a corner and peered down another long hall. The last
door at the end was bright white like the others, except for a large hot pink “X” painted stylishly and off-center across it. I smiled; this was definitely the place.

Hot pink had always been Jules’s favorite color. Maybe because it looked so good with her green eyes or maybe it was the one girlie indulgence she allowed herself, but as long as I had known her, she’d insisted on pops of pink in her decor, in her artwork, or in her wardrobe. In college it had been hot pink pillows; in our early twenties, it was pink streaks in her hair; and, later, when life demanded a more “mature” palette, she downsized to a single pair of pink leather flats. Luckily, she had a partner in crime in Gloria. They would sit for hours coloring hot pink butterflies and hearts and flowers, bonding over the shade like two old ladies discovering their mutual love for Judi Dench.

Heart racing and anxious, I entered the office suite. At the stark white reception desk, a bored young girl with a nose ring looked up to see what I wanted. Yes, I was here to see Miss Xavier. No, I didn’t have an appointment. Yes, she would know who I was. And no, thank you, I didn’t need a kale-and-pineapple smoothie.

I sat on the edge of the first chair I found and waited. And waited.

For almost half an hour I sat there, twisting my heavy wedding rings and observing the daily grind of a small communications firm. I had toiled in agencies my entire adult life, so some of the sounds were familiar to me—phones ringing, fingers tapping, young staffers hurling insults at one another—while others were less familiar—the
beep-beep
of a far-off video game, the gurgle of a fish tank, the soft whir of a fancy blender.

I smiled as a Jack Russell terrier scampered up to investigate my shiny Rachel Zoe boots. I leaned down and scratched him between his ears and wondered what his name was. I certainly knew whom he belonged to.

If there was one thing Jules loved more than pink, it was dogs. While she was growing up, her family already overwhelmed with six kids, a ninety-six-year-old grandmother, and a decaying Victorian, they added to the fun with at least four dogs at any given time, most of them rescues. Ever since, Jules had a weakness for strays, letting them move too quickly into her heart and bed. Later, she would replace the dogs with men, and I knew exactly which species left Jules with more of a mess to clean up.

When we’d first met in college, Jules had been a sensitive, curly-haired art student with a fondness for bong hits and Billie Joe Armstrong. The first time I saw her—on freshman move-in day—she was sitting on her bed in our shared dorm room, tears streaming down her pale, freckly cheeks.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Abbey.”

“Hi.” She sniffed, wiping away the tears and looking up. “I’m Juliana. But everyone calls me Jules.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I know it’s only been a few hours, but I miss my dog.”

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry,” I replied, dropping comforters and books on a plastic-covered mattress. “They aren’t allowed in the dorms?”

“No, not even to visit,” she said.

“Maybe you can go see him on the weekends?”

“Her. And yes, but it’s not the same. She’s slept on my bed since she was a puppy. I’m worried she’s going to think I deserted her.”

I sat down on the bed opposite and tried to think of something comforting to say. She stopped sniffling, took a deep breath, and looked down at her shoes. We were sitting there quietly, both contemplating the psychological state of the abandoned puppy, when in walked my mother, interrupting the silence with a canary yellow tennis dress and matching visor. She dropped the floor lamp she
was carrying with a clank and began fanning herself with overly tanned hands.

“No air-conditioning?” she asked. “Jesus, I’m paying twenty-four thousand dollars a year so you can sweat your ass off all day and night?”

I looked at Jules, cringing inside and wondering what this sweet-faced dog lover would think of Roberta DiSiano.

She looked at me with wonderment, then turned to my mother. “I hear you, lady. Let’s burn the fucking place down.”

I knew right then we were going to be best friends.

The bobbleheads on the receptionist’s desk had long ago stopped wiggling and the dog was well into a running dream on his bone-shaped bed before the receptionist finally spoke.

“You can go back now,” she said without raising her eyes from her computer.

I walked down a short hallway lined with posters from Philadelphia events, all in the colorful-yet-clean style that had won Jules so many Ad Club awards. Stepping into a small office lit by one big window, I took in the white laminate desk, Lucite chairs, and a rug of converging pink and orange circles.

Behind the desk was Jules, glancing up when I entered. Her long reddish brown hair was blown out straight, and her green eyes shone under long black lashes. Her wine-colored blazer looked polished and cool, its sleeves rolled up to reveal a contrasting striped lining and thick onyx and gold bangles. She said nothing, her eyes on some layouts, as I sat across from her.

“I am
sooooo
glad to see you,” I said. “You are not going to believe what’s happening. I can’t even explain, but I’ll try. Oh my God, how do I start—”

It took me a few seconds to realize she had barely moved, only
her left eyebrow arching upward. I stopped talking and leaned forward, trying to make eye contact.

“Jules?” I said softly. “What’s wrong?”

“What can I help you with, Abbey?” she asked, finally looking me in the eye. “I told you before I can’t do any more free charity logos for you. I’m running a business here.”

“No,” I said, frustrated. “I don’t want any work, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“About?” Still with that chilly tone.

“This is going to sound totally crazy, but I think I am—we are—living in some kind of alternate universe,” I said. Saying it aloud made me wince, but I pressed on. “And I think that maybe you had something to do with it.”

“Me? What would I have to do with anything? I haven’t seen you in years.”

I sat back in my chair, confused. I turned to the side and saw two photos on a file cabinet: one of the dog I had just met, and one of Jules, her arms encircling a man with choppy black hair and Buddy Holly glasses.

“No. Listen. We just saw each other Friday at work,” I explained. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This isn’t real; something really bizarre is happening.”

“Saw each other at work? We haven’t worked together in six years, remember? We started this agency together and you ditched me at year two. Too busy redecorating or something.”

I ignored her and began to talk louder and slower. “I know it sounds batshit crazy, but this is not real. This is all a dream or a delusion or some kind of black hole,” I said, desperate for her to believe me. “You and I are best friends and we work at Elkins PR in Conshy. We hate it, but we do.”

She stared at me for a few seconds, then looked away. “I’m sorry,
but I’m really busy,” she said, returning her gaze to her paper-strewn desk. “I’ve got a ton of work to do. Lots of calls to return.”

“Jules, it’s me, Abbey. Bee. We’ve known each other for almost twenty years. You’re my best friend.” I reached out to grab her hand, but she yanked it back as if I was a monster.

“Look. I don’t know what you’re on or how much expensive chardonnay you’ve mixed it with, but I’m not your therapist. Or your friend, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

She stood up and I gasped. Not only was she perfectly put together and stylishly dressed—not to mention successful enough to rent this hipster office and then fill it with equally hip employees—she was thin. Model thin.

My eyes grew wide and a smile broke across my face.

“Jules,” I whispered. “You’re gorgeous.”

But the look she returned was not only not appreciative but venomous, her lips pale and grim. She picked up the phone and punched some numbers, ignoring me. I stared, unable to move, unable to accept that my best friend could be so cold, so distant.

“Jules,” I muttered again as my eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand. What’s happened?”

But her green eyes refused to meet mine. Instead, she spun around in her chair and began to speak to someone about a press check. I sat for a few more moments but then felt myself starting to cry. I grabbed my purse and hurried out, scurrying past Little Miss Nose Ring like a scolded child.

“Don’t let the dog out,” I heard Jules yell as I let myself out. Then, more quietly, she added, “Bitch.”

W
hen I arrived back in the apartment building, my red-rimmed eyes hidden by sunglasses, I was drained. Not only was the encounter with Jules terribly upsetting, but I had to visit five different Center City dry cleaners before finding a size forty-two long tuxedo for “A. van Holt.”

Could what Jules said be true? That we hadn’t hung out in years? That we only ever spoke when I needed a free logo? Even though we both looked so different, and lived different lives, it didn’t seem plausible. In what universe wouldn’t we be friends?

She said we had started a business together—an actual communications firm with real clients and a real copier—just like we always said we should but never did. We started it together, we worked together for two years, but then I “ditched” her? I would
never
have left softhearted Jules to fend for herself in the kill-or-be-killed world of public relations and strategic communications. But then again, she seemed to be surviving quite well.

Inside the elevator I hit the twelfth-floor button impatiently, eager to get upstairs to the apartment and the refuge of its clean, quiet space. Eager for a few moments alone, to try to figure out the more puzzling parts of Abbey van Holt’s life.

But greeting me on the other side of the door were two strangers with identical faces and identical pained expressions, toting matching wheeled silver suitcases.

“Finally!” they said in unison, each throwing up his hands and widening his eyes, their exasperation announced in stereo.

“Where have you been?” asked the one holding a giant coffee. “We’ve been waiting almost half an hour. And you know my brother hates to wait.”

“I
do
hate to wait,” said the other man, moving closer to me. “Especially on such a big night.” He pinched my chin with his fingers, tilting my puffy, mascara-smeared face toward the light.

He scowled at his brother, then at me, and let out a long sigh.

“Let’s get going,” he said. “We have a lot of work to do.
Serious, serious work
.”

They wheeled their shiny suitcases toward my bedroom, gesturing impatiently for me to follow.

Thus did I meet the Bacco Brothers, Abbey van Holt’s longtime stylists. They were there to help me get ready for tonight’s high-society fund-raiser at the Union League, the event that Alex had mentioned, the one I refused to miss. Despite their matching faces and physiques, Bobby was bossy and loud while Francis was soft-spoken and gentle. Bobby mostly did hair, while Francis concentrated on my makeup and nails. They both consulted on wardrobe. As I watched them flit around my bathroom, I smiled to myself. Only Abbey van Holt would have not just one gorgeous gay boyfriend, but two.

I stood between them shyly, watching them unpack. I was made to shower and instructed to shave everything. Despite having just met these men only three minutes ago, I did.

Once I was out—dripping yet clean—they seated me on my tufted stool and got to work, speaking to each other in a strange beauty shorthand. One dipped my hands in bowls of pink liquid,
while the other massaged something slimy into my hair. They worked quickly and deliberately, as if I were a patient just wheeled into the OR with cardiac arrest. It might have been my bathroom, but once they started fluffing and plucking, brushing and painting, I realized I was completely in their care. Best to sit down, shut up, and let the trauma surgeons operate.

“These roots are crazy bad,” said Bobby as he combed and separated a few wet strands. “I knew we should have come last week.” Crazy bad? They looked perfectly acceptable to me. He paused and looked over at his brother. “Remember when we first met her? How her hair was?”

“Dreadful,” said Francis. “So bleached it was almost green.”

“But you were so cute.” Bobby smirked. “So determined to try to be
you
.” My ears pricked up at this.

“Mirabelle was just confounded,” chimed in Francis. They both laughed.

I lifted my head at the mention of my mother-in-law, but Bobby gently pushed my head back down.

“Those days were fun, though,” he reminisced. “Everything so new. You were one of our first clients. And now we do
everyone
in this town.”

He looked down and saw me trying to understand, to catch up, and mistook it for annoyance. “But of course you’re our
favorite
.”

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

“Oh my God, do you remember that dress?” blurted Francis, looking up from the footbath he was filling on the floor. “The one you wore the night of the engagement party? It was some god-awful flowered thing from Ann Taylor or somewhere.”

“Hideous,” added Bobby, shuddering for added emphasis. “And I believe, if memory serves, one hundred percent polyester.” Their matching high-pitched laughter lifted and faded in harmony.

“It wasn’t polyester,” I said indignantly, but knowing exactly which one they were talking about. (I had bought it with my first paycheck and still wore it; in another universe it was waiting, along with a size 4T child’s skating dress, to be picked up at Top of the Hill Cleaners.) I slapped Bobby’s hand away and continued: “And a lot of working women shop at Ann Taylor. Their clothes are really good quality, especially when you’re on a budget.”

“Budget?” said Bobby with a horrified expression and comb frozen in midair. “Promise you’ll never say that horrible word again.”

This time when they began to cackle, I covered my ears and shook my head in irritation. But I also couldn’t help but crack a smile.

For the next hour and a half, I was exfoliated, massaged, clipped, creamed, painted, and perfumed, until I finally emerged—transformed. I watched in the mirror as my new overcaffeinated, overenthusiastic courtiers turned a normal-looking mom into an aristocrat, one who was not only pretty but perfectly on trend. The dress—fetched from the kitchen and held by both brothers with reverence—slid perfectly over my board-certified size-six body.

Once the hair and makeup and nails were complete, Francis pulled out his iPhone and a small plastic speaker and the atmosphere turned into a party. As a group, we moved into the closet, opening velvet-lined trays and lacquer boxes as we searched for the perfect accessories. No detail was considered too inconsequential, and every decision—bracelet clasps, heel height, even color of just-in-case tissues—was open for debate. It was the most fun I’d had in ages, feeling so deliciously feminine and luxurious, and as the closet got messier and messier, I got more excited about the night ahead.

Having returned from an after-school playdate, Gloria and Sam joined us too, crawling between the Bacco Brothers’ shiny track
pants and trying on discards from the pile of rejected accessories. Eventually, with just a few minutes to spare before I was due to meet Alex, I was complete. My bag was boxy and beaded, my earrings long and sparkly, my stilettos boldly strappy.

And for the first time today, my happiness genuine. When the two men took a photo of the finished product—yelling “Smile like you mean it!” before they snapped—I couldn’t help but do just that.

Underneath, though, I was nervous, anticipating my time with Alex. Would I be dressed right? Would I say the wrong things? Would he suspect I was an imposter? Would he like me? I realized I was feeling first-date jitters because technically it was one. At least for me, anyway.

Glancing at Alex’s tux hanging on the back of the door, my mind slipped to Jimmy. God, how he hated dressing up; I only ever saw him in a suit at our wedding and his mother’s funeral. He preferred khaki pants, work boots, and T-shirts, and if he felt the need to be more professional, a golf shirt.

On our first official date, Jimmy arrived at my doorway in a heavy army green parka and jeans, with something hanging over his shoulder.

“How do you feel about ice?” he asked.

“I feel cold. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you skating. So you better change out of that skirt and into something that can take a fall.”

I laughed, then realized he wasn’t kidding as he unveiled a pair of well-worn black-and-white hockey skates with gleaming, freshly sharpened blades. He walked into the apartment and suddenly the space felt even smaller.

I had been ready for hours and had painstakingly picked out this outfit to accentuate the positive: a tight pencil skirt to show off my pert rear and a shirred V-neck shirt to disguise my flat chest. At least he got to see me in it before I went to extricate my favorite
jeans from the hamper. Though he had seen every inch of my body the weekend before, I hid in the bathroom to change, chatting with him through the white wooden door.

We drove out to Grange Hill and parked at a large seventies-style brick monolith called the Skatium. The imposing building looked like a windowless fortress, but teenagers, old folks, and families moved toward the doors happily, anxious to leave school and work and the bladeless world behind, if only for an hour or two.

“Don’t worry that you’re a first-timer,” said Jimmy, helping me out of the green truck and pointing to a family up ahead. “See, there’s a two-year-old.”

“That’s not making me feel any better,” I said. “That little guy is going to fall.”

“I have a feeling that the only thing that will be falling tonight is you,” he replied, helping me across the snowy parking lot.

“Oh, you’re on, big guy,” I said, jogging past him and up to the door.

But Jimmy was right: I was terrible. On the ice, in my brown rental skates, my long arms and legs seemed to get even longer, while my weak ankles wobbled from side to side. I clung to the side of the rink in fear as the good citizens of Upper Darby breezed by in waves of Old Navy fleece. Even Jimmy, whose broad shoulders and heavy build made him slightly top-heavy, glided in and around the other skaters elegantly.

Two watery beers later, I was relaxed enough to make it around the rink without Jimmy’s guiding hand on my back. Emboldened by the alcohol, I attempted to go faster, trying to mimic the easy glide of the skaters around me. Then a teenage kid in a T-shirt and hockey mask cut me off and I lost my balance, my hands windmilling around before I landed hard on my butt.

“Are you okay?” Jimmy asked, after shouting at the teenager to slow down.

I attempted to stand but kept slipping back down. “Ow, ow, ow.”

He bent down and lifted me to my feet, then guided me safely to the wall, out of the fray.

“So sorry,” he whispered, his eyes full of concern. “I was just joking before. I really didn’t want you to get hurt, I swear.”

“I’m fine. I’m having fun. Really.”

“I know it’s probably not the kind of dates you’re used to,” he said as he looked out onto the rink, now even more rowdy and crowded. “You’re probably used to fancy dinners. With guys who wear ties. And went to college.”

I appreciated that he thought I was such a sophisticated lady. And so in demand. But I also knew it was my time to be honest.

“This is the first date I’ve been on in a year. And I’m so glad you called. I didn’t think you would, especially after that, uh, crazy night,” I said quietly. “And I know you probably won’t believe me, but I have
never
done that before. Go home with a guy I just met, I mean.”

He didn’t say anything; his only response was to pick up my hand and pull me back onto the ice, a smile crossing his lips.

“I feel honored,” he said. “And certainly have no complaints. In fact, I hope you’ll come out this way more often.”

“I think I just might have a reason to,” I said, feeling confident enough to release my fingernails from his arm. “But only if my butt heals. I have a feeling I’m gonna have a bad bruise.”

“I’ll take a look at it later,” he said, putting his arm around me as we slid around a curve in unison.

I flushed with embarrassment. But not so much that I spent the night alone. I invited him back to my place that time.

The Union League was housed in an oversized mansion set back about ten feet from the rest of the buildings on Broad Street, their plain gray
facades providing the perfect counterfoil to its rosy redbrick facade. I had been there once before with my mom, years ago, so its curving double staircase and age-blackened statues were familiar, though no less daunting. Roberta had dragged me to a Princeton University admissions seminar she had read about in the paper. I didn’t want to go, and knew we would never be able to afford Ivy League tuition anyway. I suspected she just wanted to meet divorcés, preferably those who were old, rich, and susceptible to her kind of in-your-face femininity.

Tonight, the grande dame of a building was abuzz with people, noise, lights, and a long line of limos stretching all the way to city hall.

“Do you want me to circle and get closer?” asked Oscar from the front seat of the Suburban.

“No, thanks,” I told him. “I’ll just get out here and cross over.”

Alex was MIA due to a late interview, so I would have to brave the elaborate steps, TV cameras, and hordes of high society alone. It was not what I was hoping—I was nervous enough—but I guess it couldn’t be helped. I walked carefully across the street in my delicate heels, avoiding puddles and taxi exhaust before falling in line with the other ball-goers. Gowns and tuxedos lined the steps ahead of me like a scene from a Disney movie; some of the older women even wore long white gloves and tiaras.

Once inside the crowded main entrance hall, its wide expanse filled with people, busts of soldiers, and an inordinate number of grandfather clocks, I kept a low profile by studying the program. The event was a fund-raiser for the Ballantine School, a West Philadelphia private school for lower-income kids, and as I learned from the program booklet, the social event of the season. The more than eight hundred guests were a mix of Philadelphia’s wealthiest, be they scions of business, politics, high society, or, like us, all three. I was reading the names of donors—which included Alexander and Abigail van Holt at the “Platinum” level—when I felt someone
come up beside me smelling of expensive perfume and, very faintly underneath, of hay.

I turned and found myself face-to-face with my sister-in-law, Aubyn. She looked plainly elegant in a black velvet dress and pearls. Beside her, a twentysomething man with slicked-down, flame-red hair stared blankly at me, then looked down.