outfit, dying to look like a pseudo-slacker again.
Suddenly my cell phone was chiming, flashing “Private.” That’s either Jasmine calling from anywhere—she’s a fanatic about that—or Charmaine, calling from the landline. I’ve got
everybody’s relationship to Caller ID completely mapped.
Or so I thought.
“Nancy!” said a female voice. “How and where are you?”
“Where—?” I couldn’t believe it. My sister-in-law never calls from a blocked number—and she had twins two weeks ago! Isn’t she better off at home? Recovering?
“Gotcha!” said Elspeth. “How’s it going?”
“Where are you?” I asked back.
“Oh, I’m leaving Karen’s baby shower.”
I froze. Her friend, Karen, lives eight blocks from here.
“I have an appointment with this amazing cake designer. Her birthday cakes are gorgeous! And so original! She designed one for the mayor’s son—listen, is it true you’re allergic to chocolate? Did Matt tell you I’m planning a surprise dinner party for Jason?”
Who knew that there was such a thing as postpartum mania. Elspeth, talking at breakneck speed, was hard to keep up with.
“Ummm. Not yet,” I mumbled nervously. “How many guests?”
How can she be planning a dinner bash for her husband when she just started nursing twins?
“Twenty max. My brother says you never eat chocolate. Well, it’s Jason’s birthday, not yours, but still! I wanted to ask. Should we go for the praline? Or the genoise? Or maybe—do you want to come with me? Meet me at her loft. I need some female input. And you need to check out these cakes!”
“I can’t! I’m in a cab—I’ll call you right back!”
A man at the next table looked up from his laptop and gave me a long thoughtful stare. I pretended not to notice and called Charmaine again. As her voice mail began to chatter, another call was coming in—Matt, causing a twinge of guilt as I imagined him pacing the floor of the Gap, confounded by too many choices. I was praying that Elspeth wouldn’t call him in the next few.
I took another swig of bottled water and fumed. Okay, Plan B: shall I duck into the bathroom here and change? What thehell. Take a cab to Allison’s and leave my tote bag with her doorman. Then meet my husband at Citicorp in my vague, woman-without-a-plan costume.
As I got up, drawing more stares from the laptop user, my phone chimed. When I saw Charmaine’s long-awaited phone number, I wanted to scream with gratitude.
“I thought he would never come,” she whispered. “Can you get here soon? He’s dressing.”
The apartment was dim when I let myself in, the door to the bathroom wide open. Charmaine was standing in front of the sink in a pair of lace bicycle-shorts. Her wavy hair was piled high, held in place with a plastic clip. I know the look well: she was wiping her shoulder carefully with a damp cloth, dabbing her neck and cleavage.
“He came on my chest but he took for freaking ever. And he kept losing his hard-on.” She frowned at herself in the mirror, grabbed another washcloth, and patted her hair. “I guess I should be grateful! He could be one of those young guys who fucks for an hour and stays hard the whole time.…I know things have been crazy but I had to see some extra people before my trip to Florida.” She paused, knowing full well that I won’t mind having the place to myself while she’s gone. “I picked up two boxes of Trojan Extra Large. They’re in my closet.”
As the cab sped down York Avenue, I closed my eyes and waited for Matt to answer his cell phone.
“So I have it narrowed down,” he said. “Message in a bottle? Dalmatians? Or sliced fruit?”
Matt was still at the Gap. “What…kind of fruit?” I inquired, trying not to express too much emotion.
“Huh. They look like oranges but they’re bright turquoise.”
“Are you sure they’re not supposed to be limes? Don’t do anything until I get there!”
“I knew I could count on you,” he said cheerfully.
WEDNESDAY, 3/14/01
This morning, while Matt was dressing for work, I was pretending to sleep.
Marital possum is a newly acquired habit, more puzzling to the player than the played. Why am I doing this? Do other women pretend to be asleep for no apparent reason? What about their husbands? And why do I compare myself to other marrieds? Is it all just a normal side effect of matrimony?
As a kid, I faked sleep to trick my mother after Lights Out, but I never asked myself if the other kids were doing it. The scam was all instinct, my approach zenlike. I did not second-guess myself; I simply became the sleeping daughter. Now, as sleeping wife, I’m beset with self-doubt.
Fortunately, I have therapy later.
Late last night when Matt drowsily remembered that he had a breakfast meeting, I tiptoed out of bed. Muffling the coffee grinder with a batik teapot cosy—wedding gift from Mother—I felt like the very model of a modern wife. After filling the coffee maker with Aged Sumatra and filtered water, I placed a packet of sweetener on a saucer, then took stock of my domestic achievement. With one flick of a switch, my husband has access to caffeine when he will most need it and least expect it. How cool is that? When I returned to our bed, he was snoring. I fell asleep with the aroma of tomorrow’s coffee lingering in my nostrils.
When I woke, he was quietly selecting a shirt from his side of the closet. I quickly closed my eyes and sniffed the air for signs of coffee. And now he was leaning over my pillow, kissing my forehead tenderly to wake me from a phony but convincing slumber.
“Thanks for the java,” he murmured “You’re a genius!”
As I stroked his smooth, shaved cheek, he added, “I like that purring sound you make when you’re happy.”
How often do I touch a man’s cheek?
No matter how many clients I’ve seen, days can go by when my hands do not venture above the chest. I might blow lightly into a customer’s ear while straddling his body—or ruffle his hair while he’s going down on me. I might kiss a john’s cheek or his neck to evade his mouth. But Matt is probably the only guy whose face I touch with my fingertips. How long has he occupied this exclusive slot? It’s funny how I work to avoid some things—like kissing—with my clients, while others just don’t happen. Why is it so personal and sweet to touch a man’s face? As we kissed good-bye, I realized that my hands have been accidentally faithful for more than a year. For a brief second, I felt like a stranger to myself.
I heard the apartment door close and got up quickly. My cell phone, snug in the bottom of my
