My Favorite Midlife Crisis (34 page)

Elephant manure or brilliant strategy? We’d see when I had my talk with Simon. I was prepared to slice.

He welcomed me with everything short of a brass band. The apartment was spick-and-span, as if the cleaning lady had left only minutes before. Playing softly in the background was a romantic rhapsody and Simon had actually lit a vanilla candle in the living room. Overkill, I thought. But still, a part of me was touched he’d gone to all the trouble.

I accepted his kiss, though I didn’t give much back.

“We have to talk,” I said, as soon as I took off my coat.

“Of course, but there’s no need to rush. You’ve had a long train ride. Change into your nightclothes. I have tea and biscuits waiting. How about I bring a tray to the bedroom? I’ll give you a back rub, and you can unburden yourself.”

“No back rub, no biscuits.”

He looked so stricken I said, “Yes, to bedroom and tea.”

There was lavender soap in the bathroom next to my towel and on my side of the bed a vase of roses, mixed red and white. “The florist told me red is for passion,” Simon announced, “and white for harmony,” this last uttered softly as if he were making a fervent wish.

Denied. When I emerged from the bathroom, I found him leaning back on the pillows, eyes closed. He patted the blanket next to him.

I knew if I got in, if I felt the warmth of that deliciously hairy coconut body against my skin, heard the English accent murmuring sweet everythings, I’d cave. So I stood my ground at the foot of the bed and talked. And he opened his eyes.

I told him how disappointed I was that we had so little time together. That yes, we had tight schedules and yes, we lived in two different cities, but if this relationship were to continue, we’d have to do better. “If we’re going to make this work we need to invest more into it. Because relationships are built on time spent together and we spend hardly any.”

“That’s not entirely true,” he protested. “Actually, we’ve seen each other a good deal since we met in September. This weekend was a disaster, admittedly. But let’s review. We missed two weeks because of your friend’s lumpectomy. Surely I can’t be held responsible for that. Then there was Budapest. Unavoidable. And the weekend I spent in Key West. On my calendar before you and I had even met.”

He’d closed his eyes to count, I suppose, because he said, “We’ve seen each other a total of eight times over three months. Which is laudable, considering.”

“Two or three were only hours long. Just for sex, it seemed.”

His eyes snapped open. “That’s beneath you, Gwyneth. Nonetheless, you’ve won the larger point. So let’s make it better. Right now. Chop-chop.” He leapt out of bed, wrapped himself in a silk robe, and cleared a spot from the clutter on the round table parked next to his dresser. He pulled two chairs close.

We took out our calendars. Mine was a state-of-the-art PDA handheld, which he viewed with distrust. Electronic gadgets weren’t Simon’s strong suit. His calendar was primitive, a little brown leather notebook, probably crammed with his physician-typical chicken scratchings.

We penned, not penciled, in four meetings over the following six weeks. Two were only half days in Baltimore for Simon, one en route to Slovakia to treat the newly elected woman prime minister, the other a detour on his return from a Miami consult. But we had two full weekends on the docket, New Year’s Eve for me in Manhattan and in Baltimore at the end of the upcoming week after his presentation at the GRIA conference in D.C.

I could live with that. For the time being. Long term, I wasn’t sure how long distance would hold up. But now wasn’t the time to fret about it. Dr. Rao’s book had a chapter on living in the moment; “the present is a gift,” he called it.

“There,” Simon said, closing his calendar, “well done. Lots to look forward to. Now,” he gave me a twinkling smile, “any other complaints? This is the time, luv. Let’s get them all on the table and deal with them. No unfinished business to ruin our night.”

“Well, there’s the matter of exclusivity.”

“What?” His smile faded.

In spite of the opening throb of a tension headache, I pressed on. “Exclusivity. It might be we came too far too fast. All I’m asking is that if you want to see other women, you let me know so I can play by the same rules.”

He gave a mirthless laugh. “Rules? Other women? What are you talking about, Gwyneth?”

I plunged on before I could censor myself. “Ducky, I mean Delores Franzblau. Come on, Simon, it was all there in black-and-white. Look, I don’t want to tie you down. If you’re having second thoughts, I’d understand.” Well, not really. But he didn’t need to know that.

Simon enunciated very slowly, as if I had a learning disability. Or spoke only Azerbaijani. “This is all in your head, Gwyneth. As I told you, Ms. Franzblau is chair of a foundation that supports my work. She is an amiable woman with very deep pockets. That’s it. You have nothing to be jealous of. No one.” He swallowed hard. “Mind you, if you want to date other men, I’d never trap you against your will. But it’s not what I want. Is it what you want, Gwyneth?”

“Actually, no,” I admitted.

The weight in the room seemed to lift. He leaned forward and took my hand. “Then all this can be about is you’re afraid you’re not loved.” Which may have been partially true, but also let him off the hook. “Is that what it is? Because I can promise you, you are. Very much so. Come with me.” He rose, tugged me to my feet, and led me to the bed. He got in, then lifted the sheet so I could slide under and into his embrace. Which was warm, strong, and reassuring. His hands skimmed my skin to shivers. His fingers teased me with pleasure. “Let me prove it to you. There you go. Reassured? How’s that? And this?”

I thought “this” was going to be an extension of “that”, which had to do with his lips on my… Surprise! He swung an arm over me, pulled out the drawer of the night table on his side, and extracted a small box.

“For you,” he said. “From me.”

I stared at a lovely gold and jade ring nestling in velvet.

“A token of my affection. Here. Try it on. I guessed your size but, see, it fits perfectly. It was meant for you to look at whenever you need to feel close to me. I need to feel you close right now.”

As I lay entwined in his arms, he murmured, “I’ve been thinking. A few years ago, I had an offer from Johns Hopkins to run a lab there. I turned it down. No reason at the time to make the move to Baltimore.” He caressed a breast. Nuzzled an ear. “But now I have a reason. Perhaps I’ll give them a call. See what’s currently open. Explore my options. How does that sound?” He cupped my chin in his hands. Gazed at me with expectant eyes.

“I love you, Simon,” I said breathlessly.

“I do you, darling.”

Talk about foreplay!

So just when everything seemed to be falling apart, everything came together. Including me, of course. Sandwiched between Simon’s murmuring, “You didn’t mean what you said about seeing other men,” and his assuming the dead pope position for a full eight hours of post-coital sleep, I achieved the Ultimate You Know
times two.
A first for me.

Give the juicy pomegranate a great big hand.

***

Next morning, he roused me with a kiss to start our two-hour honeymoon. He was in a jolly mood. I was probably certifiably insane: an undiagnosable mixture of euphoria, relief, excitement, and stage fright. With Simon’s perfectly chosen words, the calendar entries, the jade ring, and some incredible lovemaking, he’d vanquished all my worries.

He cooked breakfast for me. Okay, only Kashi and soy milk, but he poured. He also handed over the editorial page of the
New York
Times,
which doesn’t sound like a big deal but you have to think of it like a cat leaving a dead mouse at your feet. Not much of a gift at first glance but considered from the cat’s perspective, an offering of great value, enormous sacrifice, and what passes in the species for love.

By ten, fully charged, he laid out my instructions before heading for the lab. He made me promise I’d be out of the apartment by noon, because the cleaning woman was coming in. He showed me fresh towels and demonstrated how to work his new showerhead. He reminded me twice to check that the door was locked behind me when I left. No key necessary, all I had to do was slam. He asked me so many times if I was sure I’d kept the roundtrip part of my train ticket that I was forced to pull it out of my wallet and let him read it just to get him off my back.

Overnight case slung on shoulder, Burberry muffler tucked into coat, he left me with a peck on the cheek and a reminder that he was staying with me in Baltimore the upcoming Friday night after the GRIA conference in Washington. As if I’d forgotten. I wished him a safe flight to California and a productive editorial meeting and waved him off at the door.

After I showered and dressed, but skipped the makeup because Fortune’s stylists would do my face and hair, I had an hour to waste. With what Fleur called the
shpilkes
and my father used to call ants-in-the-pants. I wandered around the house, looked through Simon’s CDs, attempted the
Times
crossword, switched on CNN, peered at the photo wall in his study. I went through the books stacked behind his computer printer to see what he was reading these days. Pushkin. Nice and light. Ugh. Something called
How Women Think.
A Japanese poet I’d never heard of. A glossy picture book titled
The Great Resorts of Europe.
And, because God has a sense of humor,
Men Are Coconuts, Women Are Pomegranates.

I did not, because of residual outrage over my mother’s childhood invasion of my privacy, look at or through any of the following: medicine chests, cupboards under the sink, drawers in any furniture, printouts on his desk, or even the piece of pink writing paper used to bookmark
How Women Think,
with “Dearest Simon” visible under a deckled edge. Though I have to admit, that one was tough to pass by.

Between each of these activities, I peed. Maybe six times in the space of an hour. All my television appearances so far had been on local stations. Fortune reached umpteen millions of viewers. Anxiety shriveled my bladder to the size of a garbanzo and sent it into spasms.

So when the phone rang as I was doing a final, I hoped, pee, I dashed to the closest phone in Simon’s study thinking—I swear this—that it was him calling to wish me good luck. By the time I skidded in, the answering machine had already clicked on. Its volume, turned all the way down, allowed only a shadow of neuter voice to emerge. Innocent as a babe, I turned it up. And heard a throaty woman’s voice say, “Simon, it’s Claire. Sorry, sorry, I’m calling on this phone, but I tried your cell and it’s not turned on. I left a message on your office voicemail, but who knows when you’ll pick that up. Anyway, I’m in the Denver Airport about to board, so—I
will
make it back in time for the dinner tonight. I thought to save time, I’d stop by your place around five to help you with your cummerbund and studs. Really looking forward to the night together at your place. Gotta go. Love you, darling.”

Love you, darling?
Night together?
I’d met this Claire. The scientist from his lab. Paralyzed, I stared at the phone. When my legs began to wobble, I collapsed in Simon’s desk chair, my heart beating a wild tattoo.

Forcing myself to breathe, in-out-in-out, I reached for the phone and checked the caller ID—small prayer here—to see if Claire’s message might have been recorded a year ago and by some electronic fluke resurrected. But no, there it was glowing with digital certainty: Claire McKenna, 12/10, 11:54 a.m., along with her cell phone number. That mobilized me. Flooded with adrenaline, I grabbed a pen from Simon’s desk and a sheet of paper from the heap in his wastebasket. In a palsied script, I managed to scratch on its flip side Claire’s full name and phone number.

Then, because all bets were off now and I was
this
close to a Jerry Springer moment, I reached over to Simon’s stack of books and extracted the Dearest Simon note expecting the worst. And finding it.

Dearest Simon,

I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed our long, luxurious weekend. Also, I’m returning those sunglasses you left on my porch. Notice I overnighted them. I thought you might need them for your California trip. I really do miss you my darling. The bed seems so awfully empty without you. Can’t wait for Christmas together!

Love and many kisses,

Jordan

Dated the week before, and along the very bottom, next to a tiny engraved turquoise palm tree, the name Jordan Conrad. No doubt the friend from Key West.

Sonofabitch. The brilliant, accomplished, handsome, charming Simon York, with whom I had fallen thunderstruck in love, was, deep down where his heart should have been, just another womanizer. No, not
just another.
Because Simon wasn’t your common garden variety womanizer. As he did everything, he did his philandering at top form. This was spectacular cheating. Nobel quality screwing around. Two, count ’em,
two
other women. While I had my proverbial head up my proverbial butt.