I didn’t believe it. Okay, or maybe I didn’t want to believe it. Tattletale was unreliable. (After all, they were the tabloid that constantly published ridiculous claims from Sidra about her “time with George Clooney.”) And Cole had seemed so nice. It couldn’t be true.
Wendy giggled, oblivious to my confusion.
“He’s apparently some kind of sex addict,” she said brightly. “I mean, he has this reputation for hooking up with anything that walks.”
“I don’t believe it,” I repeated in an unconvincing mumble.
“Believe what you will,” Wendy chirped. “But now that he’s midway into charming your pants off, I thought I’d better warn you.” She laughed. I blushed, thankful that Wendy wasn’t here to see my giveaway reaction. Which meant nothing.
“He’s not charming my pants off,” I protested. “And anyhow, it’s not true. He’s not like that.”
“Whatever you say,” Wendy said sweetly. I knew she was teasing me, egging me on. She pressed on. “My friend Diane’s friend Matty works at Tattletale, and she told me this week they’re going to report that Cole Brannon’s sleeping with his publicist. Some woman named Ivana, I think.”
I could feel my heart drop in my chest. For a moment, I was entirely speechless.
Suddenly, it all made sense. Ivana had planned to come to brunch with us. Cole had known that she was still in bed. I tried to ignore the fact that I felt betrayed and hurt. What was the matter with me? Was I actually feeling jealous of Ivana Donatelli?
“Um, that can’t be true,” I stammered. “He didn’t seem like that kind of a guy.”
“And your judgment about men is so good?”
I knew Wendy was referring to Tom, but I ignored her.
“So . . .” Wendy’s voice trailed off suggestively. “I still think you should test your one-night-stand theory on Cole Brannon. Seeing as how he seemed so willing.” She giggled.
“First of all,” I said, “it’s not my theory. Secondly, did you forget about Tom?” I hadn’t. I looked at my watch. It was 5 p.m. I told him I wouldn’t be home until at least ten o’clock, but I was moving along at a remarkable pace. I had a feeling I’d be done with a first draft by 6:30 if I could just get Wendy off the phone. I’d have to come back tomorrow to fact-check and do some final edits, but I was hours ahead of where I thought I would be today. Cole was just so easy to write about.
“Tell you what,” I said finally. “If Cole Brannon is such a sex addict, you go and sleep with him. In the meantime, I’m going to finish up my article and go home to my boyfriend.”
“You’re no fun.” Wendy pouted.
“I know,” I said. “And because I’m so boring, I have to get going. I’ll be here forever if I don’t get started writing.”
“Okay, okay,” Wendy said, sounding resigned. “Suit yourself. It’s your loss. ‘Claire Brannon’ had such a nice ring to it. Or you could hyphenate. ‘Claire Reilly-Brannon.’ What do you think?” I growled at her and she laughed. We said our good-byes and hung up, and I turned back to the computer screen.
I stared at it blankly for a moment, leaning back in my chair. How had I been so foolish? Of course he was sleeping with Ivana. Why should it bother me, anyhow? I had Tom. And I had a firm rule against being anything but absolutely professional with the people I interviewed. That’s what set me apart from the Sidra DeSimons of the world. Okay, that and a significantly smaller cup size, a significantly smaller salary, and a complete lack of designer wardrobe. But still. A girl has to have her standards, even if she can’t quite afford Louis Vuitton, Chloe, or Chanel on a regular basis.
Besides, it would be ludicrous to think my affections could ever be returned, if I indeed ever did start developing a Cole Brannon crush. He was the world’s hottest movie star. I was the world’s plainest, shortest, most boring magazine journalist. We weren’t exactly screaming “compatibility.”
Anyhow, I knew better than to actually start developing a crush on an interview subject. I knew better than to believe that his charm was real. And I also knew I had a boyfriend whom I would never even dream of cheating on. Ever. I knew I could never do that to anyone.
I sighed and leaned forward, ready to start writing. Whether he was a sex addict who liked to sleep around or not, I liked what Cole Brannon had said to me during the interview. I was determined that he would come across well in the article, too.
*
True to my prediction, I’d finished a draft I was happy with by 6:30. Cole Brannon was easy to write about, partially because his quotes fit so well into the flow of the story, and partially because there was so much to say about him. It was rare to find an actor that well-spoken. Plus, he had elaborated on everything—the interview hadn’t been like pulling teeth, like it often was with other celebs—so I had plenty of quotes to choose from. By the time I wrapped up, I was happy with the final product.
I picked up the phone to tell Tom I’d be home early, but I replaced the phone in its cradle before dialing. He’d said he’d be in all day. He wouldn’t be expecting me until at least 10 p.m. I’d make it home by 7:00 to surprise him. Maybe tonight would be the night we would start working on making things better between us.
And after all, didn’t a surprise homecoming sound like something Ginger or Mary Ann would do? (Was there something ridiculous about the fact that I was comparing myself to Tom’s favorite ’60s TV characters? I tried not to think about it.)
I flipped off the light over my desk and headed for the office door. This was perfect, I thought as I pushed the button for the elevator. I would surprise Tom and take him out to dinner. Maybe this wasn’t a lost weekend after all. We could even work on fixing our problems in the bedroom. I could sleep in as late as I wanted tomorrow, as long as I came into the office in the afternoon to polish and fact-check my copy.
Cole Brannon be damned—Tom and I could be the sex addicts tonight.
*
I was humming cheerfully by the time I reached the door to our apartment thirty minutes later, after taking the R train downtown to Eighth Street and walking the several blocks over to Second Avenue. I’d thought about making love to Tom the whole way home. Which might account for the strange looks people were giving me as I dreamily walked along, a frighteningly sex-starved look in my eyes.
I had stopped to pick up a bottle of my favorite merlot from the liquor store on St. Mark’s Place. I knew exactly how the night would go. We would share a few glasses, then head out to Mary Ann’s—no relationship to Gilligan’s girl—a great Mexican place up the street where we’d gone frequently during the first few months of our relationship. We would talk and laugh over margaritas like we used to, and we’d split one of their giant burrito platters, stuffing ourselves silly with churros and vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. Later, at home, everything would be the way it used to be. We’d sip wine, talk, and make love. It was going to be a great night.
Things were going to be okay. I could feel it.
When I pushed open the door and stepped into the apartment, it was dark except for a sliver of light peeking out from under the bedroom door. I could hear the stereo on in the bedroom and knew instantly that Tom had fallen asleep again. I resisted the urge to laugh. This was bordering on ridiculous. He seemed to sleep eighteen hours a day. No wonder he didn’t appear to be making much progress on his novel.
It would work to my advantage this time, though. I laid my bag, the wine bottle, and my notes softly down on the kitchen table and smiled, thinking about what I would do. I was always so rushed and hassled after work. Maybe if I crept in and woke him up gently myself, snuggling up against him, we could make love before we went to dinner, before we opened the merlot. I felt like a sex addict myself as I thought about it. Tonight would be the night that everything would change.
I took out a corkscrew and two wineglasses and put them on the table beside the wine bottle, careful not to make any noise. I took a deep breath and readjusted my Wonderbra to push up my small bosom. In this bra and shir
t I actually looked like I had a bit of cleavage. Hooray for the Wonderbra! Tonight it would be my secret weapon in the seduction of Tom.
Cole Brannon was suddenly as far from my mind as he had been before I’d met him. I mean, who needed some A-list movie star when you had a great live-in boyfriend you loved?
I crossed the room and stood by the closed bedroom door for a moment, smiling. The music was so loud. I never understood how men seemed to be able to sleep through nearly deafening sounds. I put my hand on the knob and envisioned for a moment how it would feel to curl up next to Tom. The music selection would have to change, though. Who could make love to “Born in the USA”? I took a deep breath and turned the knob.
“Hey baby, I’m home,” I said quietly as I pushed the door open. I started to say, “Did you miss me?” but I’m not sure how many words I got out before I choked on the end of the sentence.
Tom was in bed, all right, just where I’d expected him to be.
What I hadn’t expected was the naked brunette, her hair flying as she moved rhythmically up and down on top of him.
“What the hell?” I yelled over the din of the music. Evidently, Tom hadn’t missed me much at all. He looked suddenly up at me, red in the face and mouth agape. The brunette turned and looked at me with flickering eyes.
“What is she doing here?” she squealed, her heavily made-up face flushed. She stopped moving and stared at me. For a moment none of us spoke or moved. Through my utter shock, with Bruce Springsteen pumping at full volume through the stereo—my stereo—I was acutely aware that the brunette’s big breasts (which surely had to have been surgically enhanced) were still moving slightly up and down, an aftershock from their halted lovemaking.
My mouth was trying to shape something to say, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. I was vaguely aware that my mouth was hanging wide open, but there was nothing I could do about it.
“You promised she wouldn’t be home until later,” the brunette finally whined. She gestured angrily at me, turning back around to face Tom. I reached over wordlessly and turned off the stereo, plunging us into complete silence. I noticed the brunette hadn’t pulled away. Tom was still inside her. I felt like vomiting. “Well?” the brunette demanded, turning back to glare at me.
“Um, well, er—” Tom stammered, his eyes darting nervously back and forth between us. He paused for what seemed like an eternity, growing redder and redder by the moment.
It suddenly struck me, like a slow-motion revelation, that the brunette looked vaguely familiar. I stared hard at her face for a moment and had a sudden flashback to the Mod Christmas party in Margaret Weatherbourne’s enormous Upper East Side penthouse. I’d dragged Tom along against his protests. I remembered feeling relieved when I saw him talking animatedly with a curvaceous brunette I didn’t recognize, instead of sulking in the corner as he’d been doing most of the night. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to be suspicious or jealous. I had assumed she was someone’s girlfriend, sister, or wife who was feeling just as out of place at the party as Tom.
And this was her. I was almost sure of it. In my bed. With my boyfriend. Without their clothes. I finally broke the silence.
“I finished early,” I said, surprising myself with my even tone. It took great self-control not to cross the room and begin beating them both to death. “At the office. Who the hell are you?” Instead of answering, she turned back to Tom. Her brown hair glistened with infuriating perfection, spilling over her narrow and deeply tanned shoulders. Why were mistresses always tan? Was it a prerequisite to sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend or husband?
“You said she wouldn’t be home until ten,” she said sharply.
“Surprise,” I muttered. I stood stock-still as the brunette rolled off Tom, who was still partially erect. He quickly pulled a sheet over himself, and I gagged on the bile rising in my throat. There were suddenly a million questions racing through my mind as the brunette got up smoothly from the bed and started to get dressed. But all questions were overshadowed by the disgust and shock swirling through my mind. I didn’t have the faintest idea how to react.
“How long has this been going on?” I finally asked softly. The brunette, who was much taller and leggier than me, bent down to slip on her shoes. Manolos, I noticed absently. She was wearing $500 shoes and shagging my boyfriend. I wasn’t sure why that mattered. Tom greeted my question with silence, his face still the color of tomato sauce.
“Since December,” the brunette finally answered, brushing past me on her way to the bedroom door. Her face was still flushed, her hair disheveled. I felt the air vacate my lungs in a swoosh.
“Since December?” I breathed, looking at Tom. He wouldn’t meet my eye.
“What a waste of my goddamned time,” muttered the brunette. She placed a palm on the door and bent down to adjust her left shoe. She turned to glare at Tom, who looked like he was trying to shrink into the sheets, then she finally turned to look at me.
“He kept telling me he was going to leave you,” she said, looking me in the eye, her expression surprisingly calm. “What bullshit. He’s great in bed, though.” She turned away quickly and didn’t look back.
Her words echoed in my ears as she tap-tapped to the front door in her stiletto heels. I stood there in complete silence after she opened and slammed the apartment door behind her. He’s great in bed? He’s great in bed? Hell, not that I would know, lately.
I stared in the general direction of the front door for a moment before slowly turning to look at Tom. He was still wrapped in the disheveled silk bedsheets I’d bought just last month, now curled up against the feather pillows I’d had for years. He stared back at me apprehensively, guilt and fear written all over his face, which suddenly looked ugly and hateful to me. Nothing could have prepared me for walking in and seeing the man I loved deep inside another woman. Another woman with $10,000 breasts, $500 shoes, and silky brown hair that bounced just like the shampoo commercials said it was supposed to.
“Tom . . .” I began finally. The words trailed off into emptiness, because I didn’t know what to say. Half of me wanted to leap on top of him and beat him to death, and half of me wanted to break down in tears. My heart pounded rapidly inside my chest, and I could hear the blood rushing inside my head. I wondered for a moment if Tom could hear the pounding, too.
“Claire, I can explain,” he said finally. He looked so uncomfortable I almost wanted to laugh. He reached for his boxers, which lay just to the right of my bed, and awkwardly wriggled them on under the sheets.
“I’m not interested,” I said finally, my voice icy. I was surprised that I was managing to contain my anger. “I’m not interested in your explanation.”
“But, Claire,” Tom protested. He had tossed back the covers and was reaching for his jeans, which lay crumpled on the floor. “It didn’t mean anything. It’s just that you’re never around, and . . .”
His voice trailed off—silenced, I suspected, by my icy glare. Bullshit, every muscle in my face said. Even caught in the act of cheating on me, he was trying to make it sound like it was my fault.
Suddenly, I felt a cold calm settle over me from out of nowhere, and I smiled at him. He shrank back into the sheets, seeming more alarmed by my smile than by my anger.
“I’m going to leave,” I said slowly, calmly. Inside, my stomach churned. I felt like there was an icy fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing as hard as it could. “And when I come back, I want everything that belongs to you gone. Every last shred of your crap.”
“Claire, you’re overreacting,” he squeaked. I realized suddenly, the concern in his eyes wasn’t because he was worried about saving his relationship with me. It was because I was the only woman dumb enough to put a rent-free roof over his head, and he had screwed it up. I was furious at myself for ignoring all the signs. I had wanted so badly to be in a functional relationship, I’d let him use me for almost a year while I blindly believed that he loved me, and was just going through a phase or struggling with his
novel.
“I never want to see you again,” I said finally, my voice hushed and calm. I had never meant anything more in my life. I took one last look at him: his pathetic, beaten expression, his too-hairy, scrawny chest, his brown eyes that were plain, flat, and emotionless. I hated him. In that instant, I truly hated him. I pushed back the lump in my throat, and without another word, turned on my heel and walked to the front door. I grabbed my shoulder bag, my keys, and the bottle of merlot we were supposed to share. As an afterthought, I grabbed the corkscrew and stuffed it into my bag. I could feel his eyes on my back as I opened the door and slammed it behind me. His stare, which I couldn’t see but could somehow feel, sent a chill up my spine.
I waited until I was outside on the street to start crying.
How to Do a Tequila Shot
I didn’t know where I was going. Tears ran in hot, salty rivers down my face. I was in a fog as my feet carried me north on Second Avenue and west on Eighth to the N/R subway station. It was quiet this time on a Saturday. As I waited alone for a train, I opened the bottle of merlot with the corkscrew I’d grabbed from the kitchen table on my way out. I struggled with the cork without considering the inappropriateness of opening a wine bottle in the subway. Who the hell cared, anyhow? I was by myself. There was no one there to stop me.
I finally got the bottle open with a satisfying “pop,” tilted it back, and took a giant swig, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth. I didn’t bother to take the bottle out of the paper bag, and for a moment I was amused that I must have looked like a well-dressed wino. With a $16.95 bottle of merlot. If there had been anyone there to see me, which there wasn’t.
I sat down on one of the dirty benches and waited. I took another swig, and then a deep breath. I regretted it immediately, choking on the stench of oil and urine that hung heavy in the station.