My Favorite Midlife Crisis (33 page)

“I know what you thought. And a few years ago, no doubt you would have been right. But not any longer. Not with you.” He let that sink in before he said, “Obviously, we have a way to go in terms of trust, of knowing the other person’s heart. Which is one of the hallmarks of a successful intimate relationship, yes?” It sounded like he was hitting the self-help books again. Maybe
I
needed to go on Amazon.

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling I’d done him an injustice. Tracy, my manicurist, told me I had major trust issues. Stemming from my mother, aggravated by Stan. Now they were spilling over to my relationship with Simon. “I have a tendency to rush to judgment. I’ll work on that,” I promised him.

“No apologies necessary. We’ve both got work to do. Let’s not make too much of it. Just think of it as a little bump in what I hope will be a long and happy road.”

***

Less of a bump, more like a pothole that swallows you whole.

The following day, mid-morning, I was in my office catching up on paperwork when Mindy put a call through from Simon. Forgoing his normal introductory small talk, he cut to the chase. “You haven’t read your
Washington Post
yet today,” he said, as if he had a crystal ball.

No time in the morning for such luxuries. I brought the paper to work in my briefcase. If I was lucky enough to get a break for lunch, I read it then. If not, I repacked it and tackled it when I could in the evening.

“Why?” I asked. “Did you make the front page?” That was half joke, half serious. You couldn’t put it past him to cop some lofty scientific prize. “It’s right here, though.” I extracted it from my briefcase.

“Well, I’d like you to read it now, please. Style Section; page C3, above the fold. Right-hand column. I’ll wait.”

“Won’t take long,” I said, “I’m a fast reader. Hot Flashes?”

I could almost feel his shudder through the phone. “Yes.”

Hot Flashes
, the headline, was in bold face. Beneath it, a copy block.

Ducky and Doc: Romance Sails the Pond?
That was wealthy Washington benefactor Delores “Ducky” Franzblau in the arms of veddy British, veddy famous cancer doc Simon York at the Kerns-Brubaker Tea Dance fund-raiser yesterday at the Ritz-Carlton. It had to have been more than Ducky’s contribution of two mil to the prestigious New York institution that brought stars to the eyes of York, who never left her side. The couple was pasted together for every waltz and fox-trot. When questioned about a romance, Ducky gushed, “Just old friends. But very close friends,” and the urbane York gallantly commented, “A lovely woman with a generous heart. Can you think of anything more irresistible?”

“Finished,” I announced, in a voice that implied “terminated.” I was swaying in my chair.

He took a deep breath that sounded like it filled all the alveoli of his lungs. “So you see why I wanted to alert you before you found it on your own and perhaps jumped to erroneous conclusions.”

“Hold on,” I said. “I’m looking at the photograph.”

In it, Simon, more alive than I currently hoped, was staring into the camera, his normally serene features drawn into the human equivalent of The Happy Face, irises jumbo dots, grin carved nearly ear to ear. And he was indeed superglued at the hip to Ducky Franzblau, around whose liposuctioned twenty-three-inch waist his arm was entwined. Ducky was fortyish and attractivish with the best nose money could buy and the too-familiar quotient of adoration in the gaze she beamed up at him.

“Very nice,” I said. “Worth a thousand words.”

“All of them false,” Simon said. When the silence at my end grew thunderous, he broke it with, “Gwyneth, are you there?”

“Here,” I said. “Ducky Franzblau. What kind of person is named Ducky?” I rescanned the paragraph, getting zapped by small shocks each time I hit a key phrase. “You were pasted to her,” I read. “You had stars in your eyes. You were an item. Jesus, Simon.”

“We weren’t. It’s all rubbish. A gossip column. Made up whole cloth. No better than those supermarket tabloids. This woman is the head of my foundation. ”

No comment. I used my doctor strategy. Just listened.

“The photographer posed us, inching us together. I suppose I should have been more aware of the consequences but I didn’t think anyone would misinterpret what was a congenial gesture. And you can’t exactly tell your benefactor you don’t want to stand next to her.” He paused, then threw what he must have thought was his best punch. “What happened to the trust issues you were going to work on?”

Not smart to get aggressive in the middle of a weak defense. Someday, if there
was
a someday, I’d trounce him in chess. “You want to talk trust? While I was out combing the streets for my father in twenty-degree weather, you were warming up to Ducky Franzblau. This was the meeting you left me for. So much for trust.”

“Not true. There
was
a meeting on Saturday. The tea dance was Sunday. You’re not making sense here. This isn’t like you, Gwyneth. So over the top.” He sighed. “Look, this is no good over the phone. We have to see each other. Talk this through. You need to be in my arms where those doubts of yours will vanish, I promise.” I heard a frantic rustle of paper in the background. “This Friday you’re in Manhattan for that television program, right?”

Right. The first of my two appearances with Fortune Simms.

“I know I told you I have to be in California this weekend for an editorial board meeting.” Simon was listed on the masthead of one of our specialty’s most prestigious journals. “But I don’t leave for San Francisco until midday Friday—ah, here we go—December eleventh. So why not come in early and stay over Thursday. We can put your fears to rest.”

“Thursday?” I took a long pause. “I’ll think about it.”

“Please,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, with a proper reluctant edge.

“Wonderful.” He was instantly cheerier. “Sweetheart, we’ve something special here. Let’s give it every chance.”

With that, I didn’t slam, but did hang up the phone.

Then I wiped my sweaty palms on my lab coat and read the paragraph a third time. Slowly. For nuances. Chewing a nail. And considered all possibilities, like the scientist I was. My conclusion: if you microscopically examined the context, Simon’s comment could have just as easily been interpreted as the response of a grateful beneficiary to a donor’s largesse.

Which made me feel a lot better. The problem was, if you’re bullshitting yourself, how do you know?

***

At eight that evening a floral delivery arrived. Fleur spotted Luann, our concierge, signing for it and called up for me to come claim it.

“Flowers. So exciting!” Luann crowed, beaming behind the lobby desk.

“Ducky and Doc Sailing the Pond?” Fleur said. She’d read the
Post
item and for once hadn’t given me her uncensored opinion. So far. But she eyed the flowers suspiciously.

I opened the card. “We’ll work this out. Together. With love.” I handed the card to Fleur. “You can’t tell me that’s not sweet.”

She blew a Bronx cheer. We all stripped down the green and white paper.

“Holy Casanova,” Fleur muttered as we stared at three dozen long-stemmed red roses. She gave a wolf whistle. “This must have cost him a pretty penny. I’m impressed. He pulled out all the stops for you. You’ve got to wonder, though. Is it love? Or is it guilt? Real or Memorex?”

“Well,” Luann said, “I think your flowers are gorgeous. And your Englishman—the doctor?—is very distinguished. But I have to tell you, in my humble opinion, the one with the beard, that Mr. Galligan who used to come by? Now he’s a real charmer.”

“My sentiments exactly. Harry Galligan. He da man,” Fleur managed to get out before I turned on my heel and headed for the elevator lugging my roses.

Chapter 35

Subj: Good Fortune

Date: Sunday 12/6 4 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Dear Gwyneth,

Time to energize for your Friday, December 11, appearance on Good Fortune! Our other guest will be Dr. Prasad Rao talking about taking stock of your relationships as an end-of-year exercise. A copy of his new book, Men Are Coconuts, Women Are Pomegranates, will be in your mailbox by Monday. I suggest you read it before your appearance. It will give you the courage and confidence to own your feelings and speak your mind.

Tips to maximize your power this week:

Be healthy: Avoid alcohol, eat well. Try a juice fast for 24 hours before the show to rid your body of toxins.

Be brainy: Practice yoga, which increases blood to the brain and keeps your thinking cells shipshape.

Be zippy: Rejuvenate your momentum with good sex.

Be centered: Meditate to enrich your spirit. Bless each day with a promise to take charge of your life.

Monday: Reap the rewards of being your highest self.

Tuesday: Take pleasure from work and special talents.

Wednesday: Give freely without expectation of return.

Thursday: Love is negotiable. Bargain from the heart.

Friday: Trust the lightbulb moment—the Great Aha!—when it all comes together in a flash.

See you Friday in the Green Room for a final briefing.

With love and joy,

Fortune

“A juice fast? Have sex? That woman is six feet four of high-quality chutzpa. What a control freak. Do you think she lets that husband of hers pee standing up?” Fleur read over my shoulder, shedding pork rind crumbs onto my computer.

Kat appeared in the doorway holding a tray with steaming mugs of ginseng tea and a plate of fruit and cheese. “You can make fun of Fortune Simms, Fleur, but she’s supposedly studied Eastern philosophy at an ashram in Tibet. Personally, I think she has some interesting things to say. About not blaming yourself for life choices, but taking responsibility for them. And Gwyneth, it might be helpful to practice that attitude as you’re working out your problems with Simon this week.”

Fleur swiped all of the Gouda, sniffed the tea, and waved it away. “Good luck.” She gave me a skeptical look. “I just don’t know about this guy. Maybe Simon York is brilliant with bacteria or cancer cells but the man
tells
you he stinks with more advanced life forms and you fall in love with him. I mean really, why don’t women believe men when they confess their faults? Why do we think we’re the one who will finally change him? Even after parades of women have gone down like ten-pins thinking the same thing.”

“People
can
change,” Kat countered, eyes firing. “It sounds like he’s already done some work and is open to more. As for this Ducky person, let’s not jump to conclusions. I mean, can we really trust the media to get the facts straight? Everything is so sensationalized these days. And say he did go a little overboard in buttering up his benefactor. It’s not helpful to blame him exclusively. Gwyn has to take some responsibility for not setting down ground rules for the relationship early on. Responsibility, not blame. Fortune says blame is a brick wall. Responsibility is an open window.”

“And I am a door that will slam shut behind me if you don’t stop spouting this feel-good drivel. Honestly, Kat, you are so gullible. Fortune Simms is no philosopher. She’s a marketing machine. She’s zeroed in on every woman’s doubts and fears and she makes millions plastering them with these verbal Band-Aids that—”

“Hush, Fleur,” Kat, ever polite, cut her off. “I’m not saying you have to swallow this woman’s philosophy whole cloth. But she didn’t get where she is without touching some universal chord. Why not just extract what you need from what she offers?”

Why not indeed.

***

“Love is negotiable.” Fortune’s Thursday quote had been lifted, I discovered, from
Men Are Coconuts,
etc.,
the 244-page jumble of pop psychology, Eastern mysticism, and off-the-wall horticulture I thumbed through on the train to New York.

I figured if I was going to share Fortune’s guest couch with its author, Dr. Rao, the next day, I’d better bone up on his fruity theory. It might also give me some tips for my upcoming powwow with Simon.

The gist of it was that men are coconuts—a simple organism, tough skinned, hairy on the outside, blandly pleasant within. Women are pomegranates—complicated, compartmentalized, in part unpalatable, and difficult to get to the heart of. But when you do, ah the rewards—the seeds of Nirvana, sweet, tart, and juicy. Coconut-men want relationships to be simple and uniformly sweet. When there are problems, hack them open, lay them out. Pomegranate-women pick, pick, pick, suck and spit, suck and spit, which drives the coconuts crazy. Dr. Rao’s book counseled women to achieve their relationship goals by coconut-negotiating: slicing to the heart of the problem and presenting the meat of their concerns quickly and directly.