The Black & The White (15 page)

“
Wow, you and M.D. are
spending a lot of time together, eh?” It seemed that whenever she
did anything lately, M.D. was involved.

“
Listen, don’t worry about
me. Just come tomorrow. Come on, Isabelle, live a
little!”

Kim was unaware of all of the living
it up I had been doing with Jeffery. For some reason, I hadn’t told
her that I was spending time with him.

At that moment, I received a message
from Stephen.

“
I know you miss me. Drinks
after work? Museum? Anything.”

A month had passed since I had seen
Stephen. My free time was consumed by the various food-related
events Jeffrey and I attended. I was fascinated by the science of
how he explained things. Andrew wasn’t so keen on my developing
relationship with Jeffrey. To Andrew, my relationship with Jeffery
meant I neglected the client relationship with Stephen that we
needed in order to get the right size of trades.

“
Would love to, but I am
going to Chelsea Piers on some guy’s boat. Rain check?”

Within seconds, Stephen called me on
my personal, outside line. “All I have to say is that I have a
boat. Why don’t you ever take me up on my offers?”

“
You’ve never
asked.”

“
I am asking
now.”

“
The answer is still no.” I
resisted because he was married. I convinced myself that having a
crush on him was a waste of time.

“
Oh, man! Tough cookie. Go
with me sometime then.”

“
Only if you
ask.”

“
I am asking
now.”

“
No, you’re not.”

“
Ms. Isabelle. Would you
please go to Chelsea Piers with me one day?” Stephen asked
coyly.

“
Ok, one day.” I agreed
despite feeling slightly uneasy.

When I got home that evening, I
rummaged through the clothes hanging in my closet. I had never been
on a private yacht before. The only boat I had ever been on was the
Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls while on a high-school class
trip. What outfit would be yacht-appropriate? I wondered. I
imagined all of the magazine adverts of tall, beautiful women
lounging on the deck with perfectly manicured nails, wearing
bikinis and high heels.

After trying several combinations, I
decided to put on my white pants, a white-ribbed cotton tank top I
had picked up at a discount store with Carin, and a thin yellow
cotton sweater I had bought in a cute, second-hand store in SoHo. I
put on my newest splurge: sexy Dolce and Gabana heels. I looked at
myself in the full-length bathroom mirror.

At the pier, M.D. introduced me to
Peter, M.D.’s best friend from college. Peter was attractive, with
a strong jaw lines, and his dark brown, wavy hair fell slightly
past his ears. He had a nice small space between his front two
teeth that I especially liked. I had learned from Kim that Peter
was also a trader. When he was thirty-four years old, he owned his
own hedge fund, initially funded by putting his mother’s house up
for a second mortgage. Since then, his hedge fund had expanded
exponentially, making it one of the largest equity hedge funds on
Wall Street. During the summers, he played polo in Connecticut for
his own team; he had even recruited some of Argentina’s top players
so that the team could play competitively. He also owned a large
horse farm in Buenos Aires where he kept a slew of polo
horses.

Peter held my hand as he escorted me
down the piers.

“
Be careful,” he said.
“Walking on those things can’t be easy.” I wondered if my naivety
was obvious.

The seventy-three-foot yacht was
parked in the last of the four rows of slips. There were boats of
varying sizes, from large houseboats to small ski boats occupying
each slip. As large as Peter’s boat was, the boat adjacent to his
was even larger.

From out of the blue, two men dressed
in white, one in long Rasta-style dreadlocks, had helped untether
the boat from the dock. A roar emerged from the water, as Peter
started the engine. M.D. popped open a bottle of champagne while
our yacht drifted slowly into the Hudson. The champagne fizzed and
dribbled onto the floor of the boat, drenching the deck. We all
laughed. Peter kept steering the yacht, not minding the mess that
had just been made. Kim wrestled M.D. for the bottle. She playfully
attempted to pour champagne over his head but got me wet
instead.

Peter waved for me to come to him. I
maneuvered myself to the front, nearly falling at every bump
through the waves. “You want to drive?” he asked.

“
No way!”

He grabbed my wrist and led me to a
place in front of the steering panel. He stood closely behind me,
co-steering. There was little room between the captain’s chair and
the steering yoke and even less room between us.

“
All you have to do is try
not to hit any boats, people, or statues. I’ll be right back.” He
descended into the galley, leaving me to steer the boat all by
myself. I was nervous at first but soon found that controlling the
boat gave me a sense of independence.

Peter soon reemerged from the galley
below with a silver plate in each hand. He beckoned me with his
head to join Kim and M.D. Peter removed the plastic wrap on the
pre-prepared silver plate, which consisted of cheeses, fruit, and a
varying array of crackers and cured meats. The captain took control
of the boat.

The boat rocked back and forth on
neutral in the Hudson, somewhere near the Long Island Sound . It
was hard to keep my wine in the glass, and so much of it spilled
out onto the deck.

Peter was engaged with Eric when I
suddenly noticed Kim rummaging through her purse. She dug out that
contraption and inserted it into each nostril. I was slightly
embarrassed for her—it seemed like something she should do in
private.

“
Isn’t Peter perfect?” she
asked in a quiet undertone. “He’s so perfect, he needs a nickname.”
She paused as she thought.

“
Mr. Gatsby,” she yelled
out. “His nickname is Mr. Gatsby,” she said with
conclusiveness.

“
But doesn’t Gatsby have red
hair? And doesn’t he live on the North Shore of Long Island?” I
asked. I knew it was true. The Great Gatsby was my favorite novel.
I wrote a paper on the characterization of the insecure and showy
James Gatsby in college. Kim’s analogy seemed to be wrong but I
didn’t want to correct her.

“
You’re too literal. I mean,
he’s just so intriguing, right?” Kim asked. She took another sip of
wine. “Sucks he’s married. His wife doesn’t deserve him.” I had
wondered if this discussion would have best been served slightly
further afar from earshot of Peter.

“
He’s married?” I say to Kim
through my teeth.

At that moment, music sounded from the
speakers. Peter emerged from the galley again with a smile on his
face. I hadn’t realized he had disappeared. “A little bit of the
1980s to set the mood doesn’t hurt anyone,” he smiled. “Were you
even born yet, Isabelle?”

“
Barely born. Everyone loves
a bit of George Michael,” I said as I stuck my tongue out at
him.

He laughed, and ducked inside
again.

“
Did you say married?” I
asked Kim again.

“
Yup. They all are. But
whatever. He’s separated anyway.” Kim took another drink from her
glass as the boat ran into a wave, causing her to spill some
chardonnay on her shirt. I nearly choked laughing. There was
something refreshing about seeing Kim spill wine on her shirt. I
wasn’t the only clumsy person on the boat.

As the day went on, I kept fantasizing
about kissing Peter. I couldn’t help it. I tried to stop myself,
but I couldn’t. As the evening went on, he became more physical. He
touched my shoulder when we talked and grabbed my hand a few times
to ask if everything was okay.

When the boat pulled into the slip,
Kim and M.D. descended into the galley, leaving Peter and me to
talk in the bow of the boat. We lay on the deck listening to the
waves lap against the boat, though the sounds were sometimes
drowned out by music from the bar at the boat yard. Peter wrapped
me up in a blanket and pulled me closer to him. He put his arms
around me, and I nestled myself into that coziness. There were long
comfortable silences between our exchanges.

I felt Peter’s hand tenderly touch my
face and turn it toward him. I kissed him without a second thought.
The intensity of the kisses gradually increased from delicate to
arousing. At the end of the evening, he asked to see me again. I
agreed without consideration.

The next day, however, I regretted
what I had done.

Jeffrey called me at work asking to
meet, but somehow I felt guilty seeing him. So I avoided him.
Instead, I met up with Kim and Carin for dinner.

“
I can’t believe I did
that,” I said.

“
Stop. It’s just a kiss. And
he’s cute. If you’re going to kiss anyone, kiss someone cute,
especially one with a super boat. Play your cards right and we’ll
have a boat for the whole summer!” she said.

“
Hell! I’ve done worse,”
Carin said. She quickly changed the subject. “I think Blake is
cheating on me.”

“
Really? Are you sure?” I
asked.

“
He probably is,” Kim said
decisively.

Kim and I listened attentively to
Carin’s story. A few days ago, at four a.m., whilst she lay naked
on their bed, Carin was lying awake, preoccupied with wondering
whether Blake was cheating on her, when his Blackberry vibrated
with an incoming message. She debated whether to read the message.
She knew it was an invasion of privacy, but the worm of jealousy
was eating at her so much that she was unable to think about
anything else.

She crept out of bed and read his
message. “Good night, love,” the message read.

She nearly threw the phone at his
sleeping body. He stayed asleep.

“
He’s fucking her,” Kim said
matter-of-factly.

“
Who would write a guy at
four in the morning and call him ‘love’?” Carin asked. “And then I
scrolled down his phone logs and it was like Michele, Michele,
Michele. I know, I know, I just don’t want to believe it. I mean,
it’s not as if we’re just dating. We’re living with each other, for
fuck’s sake!”

Carin knew just how we would
respond.

“
Let’s check the bible,” Kim
reached down to her bag on the floor and pulled out a Cosmo
magazine. She flipped through the pages rapidly until she found her
article. She dropped the magazine in front of me and pointed to the
article.

“
Unlucky 13: Signs He May Be
Cheating,” I read aloud.

“
Not sure I really want to
know the truth,” Carin said.

“
But remember, you cheated
on him also,” I said.

“
Yeah, but it’s different,”
Carin said.

“
Alright. Sign number one.
Is there a sudden change in your sex life?” I looked up at Carin
before continuing. “Is he usually too tired? If you initiate the
sex, is it perfunctory and detached? Or maybe, he’s practicing a
new sexual technique. If so, where did he learn it?”

Carin seemd to be considering the
question.

Kim smirked. “Eric’s wife should read
this.”

“
Well, he works in banking.
We sometimes have sex on the weekends,” Carin said.

“
How much sex do you have?”
Kim asked.

“
Hmmmm. Maybe once a week,”
Carin said.

Kim almost choked. “You’re not fucking
married yet and you’re having sex only once a week with a guy
you’re living with?” She shook her head. “He’s definitely fucking
someone else.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so bad
about having kissed a married man. Carin had it worse.

“
Alright. Moving on,” Carin
said. “Read sign two.”

“
Does he constantly bring
you gifts and act extra nice?” I asked and looked up at both Carin
and Kim.

“
Shit, maybe Eric is
cheating on me!” Kim said.

“
Yeah. With his wife!” I
said, teasing her.

Kim stuck her tongue out and
smiled.

“
Is he always making excuses
for not spending time with you?” I read.

“
I really do hope M.D.’s
wife reads this article,” Kim said.

“
But he’s a banker. He works
late and is always on deals,” Carin said.

“
Come on, love! I’m a banker
too and, trust me, no one except a managing director or a first
year peon works all of those hours all of the time. He’s fucking
the analyst,” Kim said.

Carin remained silent.

The quiz continued: abrupt phone
calls, physical withdrawal, defensiveness about where he was and
who he was with, improved hygiene or wardrobe, and missing clothing
unaccountably reappearing.

“
I told you,” Kim
said.

“
I know, I know, I know. It
just doesn’t feel as good when the cheating happens to you,” Carin
said.

Lastly, I read, “Does an unusual or
unexplained charge start appearing on his credit card statement or
does his credit card suddenly disappear?”