A Better Man (14 page)

And so they make small talk for a while. She shows him photos of Foster and Isla in their Halloween costumes (a zombie Yoda and a princess zombie, respectively), and he tells a circuitous story involving a trip to Egypt, a spitting camel and his latest failure to quit smoking.

“So I’m covered in dust, sunburnt to a crisp, when the camel farmer turns to me and offers me a cigarette. What could I do?” Gray throws his hands up in the air as if to show it wasn’t his fault.

Maya laughs, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “You know it would have been much healthier in the long run just to have punched him in face like you wanted to.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“That’s my new philosophy,” she says impulsively. “Radical Honesty. Do what you feel and say what you want, and the universe will automatically answer.”

Gray gives her a funny look. “And how did you arrive at this so-called theory?”

Maya shrugs and gives a noncommittal laugh. “I read it somewhere. But trust me, it
works.
It’s amazing what you realize about yourself when you have the guts to admit what you want.”

Silence descends. Gray stabs a straw at the ice cubes at the bottom of his Diet Coke. The waiter brings their food. Pizza for Gray and a salade niçoise with fresh tuna and no potatoes for Maya. Gray carves up his pie with a steak knife and eats it with his hands—something Nick would never do if a fork was available. Maya admires Gray’s gusto. His greed. She reflects on how unusual it is for her to be eating a meal with a man who is not her husband. Then she remembers why she’s here and a shiver goes through her. Maybe it was a bad idea to mention self-help when she wants to seem professional?

“Listen, Adam, I sensed you were apprehensive about meeting me, and I understand why.”

Gray is motioning to the waiter for another Diet Coke. She reaches across the table and brushes the cuff of his suit with her fingers to secure his attention.

He looks at her warily. “You do?”

Maya nods. She wants him to understand she’s no idiot. “It was pretty obvious,” she says.

“It was?” Gray looks truly unnerved. Why is he taking it so personally?

“I hope you can keep this conversation between us. I haven’t told Nick I was asking your advice. In fact, Nick has no idea I’ve even been thinking about it.”

Gray has abandoned his pizza now and is shifting in his chair.
How strange,
Maya thinks, watching him fidget.

“Look, Maya,” he begins. “I want you to know I’m on your side and I’ll always stand by you. But I feel like you’re putting me in a strange position here.”

“It’s really not the end of the world if they won’t have me,” Maya says quickly. “I just wanted to ask your advice on, you know, my prospects in the marketplace. I know you think I’m crazy to want to come back, but the truth is I miss it. I’m glad I had time with the kids, but now I’m ready to get back to work. Just like I used to. Much harder, if that’s what it takes.”

A look of comprehension floods Gray’s face. He shakes his head and laughs to himself, as if at a private joke. Maya wonders if years of billable hours have actually driven him a bit crazy. He chews idly on a discarded pizza crust.

“Right,” he says. “I get it. You’re ready to come back to work. But you know times are tough, even in our relatively recession-proof profession.”

Maya glances down at her fiddled-with salad. She wishes that for once she’d ordered something she actually wanted to eat.

“I know, of course. But I’ve got a whole new perspective to offer now. I’m experienced and committed, and I know exactly what I’m getting myself into.”

“So why haven’t you mentioned your plans to Nick?”

Maya pauses. She squeezes her hands together beneath her napkin. “I guess I wanted to gauge the situation first, before I put
it to him. I think he may need some convincing, but I’m sure he’ll come around.”

“And what makes you so sure of that?” A strange smile plays on Gray’s lips, then quickly vanishes.

“I’m confident that in the end, he’ll support me in whatever I want to do.”

Gray looks at her skeptically. “You know I love your hubby, but ‘selflessness’ isn’t exactly his middle name.”

Maya straightens up in a way that indicates she doesn’t appreciate Gray’s disloyalty. “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s really changed. It’s like something has shifted, internally. It’s actually quite astonishing … But I’m not explaining it properly.” She can feel her eyes shining, the blood rushing to the surface of her face. “Have you seen him recently?”

Gray regards her cautiously. “No. I mean, why would you ask?”

“I just thought maybe you’d had one of your secret day drinking sessions. Not that I’d mind—I never did mind—it’s just that if you had, I think you’d see that Nick’s quite different than he used to be.”

“You’re blushing,” Gray said.

“No, I’m not.” Maya feels a hot rose bloom across her forehead.

Gray gives a dry cough and glances at his phone. “Just because he takes you out for a nice dinner doesn’t make him a better man.”

“You’re such an old cynic, aren’t you?” she says as lightly as she can manage.

Gray laughs and the storm passes.

“What happened to your romantic side? The power of love and all that stuff?”

“Do you mean the Frankie Goes to Hollywood song or the one by Huey Lewis and the News? Because if it’s the latter …”

She gives him a swat on the arm. “I mean you used to believe in that stuff: the transformative effect of kindness. In university you were the most romantic guy on campus. What happened?”

Gray laughs bleakly and shrugs. “I guess that’s what ten years of the law will do to you.”

They spend the rest of lunch on easier topics—his apparently non-existent love life, her parents and their never-ending world travels, the coming election, whether their team would make the playoffs—and when the bill comes in its tiny tray, Maya swipes it, despite Gray’s booming protests. She tells him to knock it off—it’s her treat and was always going to be.
She,
after all, was the one who invited
him
out to lunch.

“But you’re not even working, and I’m”—he pats his chest, looking around the room as if for the perfect adjective to describe it—”I’m
rich.
”

Maya sniffs and signs the bill. She stuffs the receipt in her purse, then looks up at Gray one last time. She is far too proud to mention the job thing again and finds herself thinking how much of a waste this lunch has been. How she might have spent the afternoon doing flash cards with the twins instead of indulging her fantasies of having a career again. What would a firm like Gray’s possibly want with a bored housewife?

She mutters something about needing to get home and is relieved when the waiter quickly brings her coat. As she stands, Gray takes her by the shoulders and carefully studies her face.

“Don’t be sore, old girl,” he says softly—all the growly gruffness suddenly drained from his voice. “If you really want a job
again, of course I’ll do everything in my insignificant power to help you out at the firm. We can always use a talented mind like yours. I just want to make sure it’s really what
you
want. Not what you think you should want. Not what your husband wants. Just your very own heart’s desire. Does that make sense?”

Maya finds herself nodding fast, a brightness spreading across her face. She feels like a child on Santa’s lap being told that in fact all her good behaviour
has
entitled her to a pony.

“Oh, Gray, that’s wonderful. I mean, I don’t want to jump the gun here—I know you can’t promise anything—but it’s just fantastic. I can’t tell you how much your support means to me.” She pauses and reminds herself to breathe.
Pull yourself together.
“And I do mean
me.
Not anyone else.”

Gray smiles his wonderful wolfish smile and spreads his arms for a hug, which she falls into with an exhalation of tension, resting her head against his broad, suit-padded shoulder. They stand like that—old friends sharing an innocent embrace—until the moment passes and it’s time to get back to real life.

He wakes up in a lather—chest pounding, rib cage twisted in the bedsheets. For a moment, he has no idea where he is. He looks around, eyes flashing over the patterned wallpaper, the heavy drapes, the muted flat screen. There is a puff of lemon-scented steam and Shelley emerges from the bathroom, shower-pinkened and not wearing a towel. She drapes herself over him and nuzzles his neck like a sleepy cat. And he remembers: it is Tuesday afternoon and they are at the Plymouth. Two hours ago he met Shelley in the bar for lunch and explained why, despite an obvious attraction, it would never work between them. She was pouty enough to make him feel appreciated, but not too teary, thank God. Out of premature nostalgia, they ordered a second bottle of Chablis. And the second turned into a third. By then, the afternoon was shot and they were day drunk and so thoroughly enjoying each other’s company that they decided they might as well have ex-sex to commemorate the affair they were never actually going to have. Upon entering the room, Shelley slipped straight into the bathroom and shut the door. Nick has
no idea how long he was passed out. Five minutes? An hour? Maybe more?

And that, roughly speaking, is how Nick ended up here—in bed on the fourteenth floor of the Plymouth, feeling as if he’d snorted several lines of ground glass and then gone for a roll in a cold puddle. Shelley, by the looks of it, is not suffering in the same way. She nuzzles and mewls and wriggles about in a manner that suggests one of two things: (1) she still wants to have sex, or (2) she is in love with him and wants to cuddle. Nick isn’t sure which option he finds more alarming—though it’s probably the first. At least if she’s in love, he doesn’t actually have to move.

Nick wants to be surprised he’s ended up here but finds he can’t be. When it comes to marital indiscretion, he’s a novice—he’s only ever flirted with the act, having never gone all the way. Instead he has a well-established pattern: It starts out with an exchange of numbers. This leads to texting. Texting leads to meeting for lunch, which leads to more texting, which leads to meeting up for drinks to discuss “what’s going on here,” which leads to Nick delivering his breakup speech (“I can’t do this—I’m a happily married man,” etc.), which leads to a feverish breakup make-out session. And there you have it: Nick Wakefield’s guide to screwing around in two dates or less.

Shelley is now nibbling on the top of his ear and giggling to herself. “We’re terrible people, aren’t we?” she says. And Nick grimaces. He knows she’s joking, but he suspects, at least in his own case, that it’s actually true.

“I can’t do this,” he says.

She pulls back and looks at him, leaning back on her haunches like a rabbit rising to sniff the air for danger. Her hair is a jumble
and almost as red as her nipples, which are right there, staring at him, asking for attention.

“Nick, you brought me here. This was
your
idea. Unless you’ve failed to notice, I’m actually
naked.
” As she says this, they both look down at her breasts and she pulls up the cover of the duvet.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Shelley’s eyes fill with tears, and she smiles and shakes her head as if she was expecting this all along. Nick puts a hand on the soft curve of her hip, and without hesitating she winds up and smacks him hard across the jaw. His face sizzles with the impact, and the burn brings a strange kind of pleasure.

“I deserved that,” he says.

Shelley just shakes her head and starts pulling on her jeans.

The rest of the day passes like an out-of-body experience. Nick feels as if he is dangling somewhere above himself and looking down, his psyche hanging on by a thread while his sluggish form drags itself through the office hours.

SoupCan is in pre-production for the CurvePhone job, which is ramping up to shoot in a couple of days. Usually at this point in a commercial gig, Nick is running on empty, tweaking with the life force, a deep well of pumped-up panic surging forward into the future. He gets these great geysers of energy that rumble up and out of him like Texas oil, gushing forth with terrifying force until the job is through. It’s part of the reason he’s stayed in this business—he’s hooked on the gut-churning, ball-clenching mania that is production. He doesn’t just ride the wave, he
is
the
wave—a great, undulating superhuman tsunami of
will
that lifts everything and everyone in its path until the job is done.

But the rest of the day isn’t like that.

Instead, Nick sits in his office, rubber spine slipping down his chair, as people he vaguely recognizes but doesn’t actually know—wardrobe assistants, production designers, accountants, line producers, lighting specialists and agents—file in and out for meetings he should be taking control of but somehow isn’t. Thank Christ for Larry, who presides on the big white sofa, greeting the masses, engaging in small talk, cracking jokes and, when the moment requires it, making the decisions Nick cannot muster the focus to make himself. Larry says they’ll have the green filter, not the blue. Larry says the set design is too “chocolate box,” a term Nick has often heard, and even used, but never really understood. Larry thinks the outfit for the male lead isn’t swank enough—couldn’t they find something a bit, I dunno, classier?

Nick listens to all this, knowing he should speak up, assert his so-called directorial vision, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. Every once in a while, Larry glances at him and Nick offers a drearily authoritative nod of the head. He holds his chin in his palm and it is all he can do to keep from laying his cheek flat on the desk in front of him. This is pre-production, a long string of meetings stretching from early morning to night. After a couple of hours there is a lull, and Larry turns to him and asks, “What’s your problem?”

Nick is taken aback. Larry is usually exceptionally tolerant of his moods due to his unassailable status as the “creative” member of the partnership. (He noticed long ago that most people who
work in commercials actually prefer a bit of aberrant behaviour from a director—it makes them feel more artistically validated.)