Ordinary World (24 page)

I resented him for needing to justify my credentials to this human Barbie doll that made the same face I’d just made to the invisible David after eyeing the paintings, and I knew she was wondering the same thing:
You actually chose this woman? What were you thinking
?

“How sweet,” Carmen replied, still looking at David.

I wanted to dematerialize.

“That’s cute,” I said, pointing to her clutch bag.

Carmen ignored me and took David’s hand. “Darling, when am I going to see you again? I absolutely must.”

“Just call,” he said. “You have my number.”

Holy crap, did he just
wink
at her?

She coyly smiled the way Devin’s clients used to behind his back, at the mere mention of his name. “I certainly do,” she cooed, “and Darling, let’s have lunch instead of sitting in some stuffy office next time, shall we? My treat.”

“We’ll see,” he said. He then sandwiched her hand between his two before letting go, to which she responded with a lingering kiss on his cheek. He smiled—not his classic Devin smile, but obligatory, one that said
it’s all part of the job
. I couldn’t discern whether I was outraged by her flagrant flirting in my presence or jealous of her long legs.

“It was nice to meet you,” I squeaked.

Still fixated on David, Carmen uttered something like “Yes,” and then left the gallery. David, seemingly naïve to her rudeness, bent down to kiss me hello and ran his hand along the goose bumps on my arm.

“Hey, are you cold?”

“I’m going to get hypothermia if you don’t get me out of here,” I replied.

“Hang on; I’ve just got a couple of things to finish up here. C’mon back with me; it’s not as cold in the office. Besides, I’ve got my jacket there. You look nice, by the way.”

“Thanks. You have lipstick on your cheek.”

He wiped Carmen’s puckered imprint from his face as I accompanied him into the cramped office where another sundress-clad, stiletto-shoed, paper-thin woman was sitting at the desk, on the phone. The office was as immaculate as the gallery and reeked of perfume. David pulled his Versace sport jacket from the chair she was sitting in and draped it over my shoulders. He then transferred some papers from the desk to a file folder before moving to the computer and performing a series of tasks so quickly that I didn’t even have time to see what was on the screen. The woman continued her phone call and ignored me just as Carmen had. I looked at the white bulletin board above the desk and saw photos of people holding crystal champagne flutes, clad in high end fashion and jewels and tans and frosted hair. Lots and lots of beautiful people. David was in many of the photos, mostly with women.

I felt tiny while blanketed inside his jacket.

He finally got the woman’s attention.

“I’m going now, Sheila. Probably won’t be back today. If Dominic calls, give him my cellphone number please? If he doesn’t make a bid on that Sorrento piece, he’s going to lose it.”

“Will do, hon,” she said in a whisper after pulling the phone away from her lips.

Hon?

“Seeya,” he replied. He didn’t wait for her to respond, nor did he introduce me, nor did she acknowledge me.

“Ready to go?” he said to me.

“Sure,” I said.

“Anyplace special?”

“Someplace outdoors,” I replied.

“Done.”

            I let out a sigh of relief as I unclenched every muscle of my body the moment we stepped out of the icy gallery and into the Boston heat. For another disorienting moment, I expected to see the dense crowds and cabs of New York before readjusting. Thankfully the humidity was low, and I slid my sunglasses on before taking off David’s jacket and handing it back to him. He put his arm around me and kissed me again.

            “This is nice,” he said as we walked together, now holding hands. “We should meet for lunch more often.”

            “Who was she?” I asked.

            “Who was who?”

            “The woman in the office.”

            “Sheila?” he asked.

            “Yeah, Sheila.”

            “She manages the gallery.”

            “Oh,” I said. “And who’s Carmen?”

            “I told you, a client. A patron,” he corrected again.

            “How long have you known her?” I asked. He looked up to the sky as he mentally did the math.

            “Three years, I think? Maybe four. Why?”

            “Just curious,” I said.

            “You don’t think…” he started.

            “It occurred to me actually, yes.”

            He stopped in his tracks.

“Andi, how could you—first of all, a woman like that does not need an escort.”

            “But she would buy one just because she could,” I said. “It’d be a treat for her, I’m sure. Like getting an ice cream sundae.”

We resumed walking.

            “Second of all, no one in Boston knows that I used to be an escort.”

            “That you know of. They could find out. I mean, you had that one woman—you know, the textbook rep who transferred, or whatever. And that’s just the one you told me about. Besides, it’s not like New Yorkers don’t like art, or Boston.”

“So they find out. I doubt many of them would care. Anyway, that’s not the point. How many times do I have to tell you—I’m not that guy anymore.”

            “But you act like him when you’re in the gallery. It’s not just today. I’ve seen the way you talk and schmooze with all of them, male and female alike.” I spoke matter-of-factly as opposed to being defensive.

            He paused to consider this. “It comes in handy,” he said. “The purpose is the same, I guess: to please them. They’re spending a lot of money, after all.”

           
Ah,
I thought.
It’s “business as usual”. I remember that.

            “I just sometimes wonder what you see in me,” I said.

I think the words even surprised me, as did the revelation that
that
was what had always kept me from making a move on Devin years ago, what had stopped me from insisting that we throw out the contract that had forbidden us to be friends, or saying to hell with the arrangement and just fucking him right there on his pristine sofa in his West Village loft. Many of his escort clients had been women in six-figure-salary positions, women who could afford an escort. But there were also a lot of women like me. Almost all of my Brooklyn U female colleagues, for example, who maxed out their credit cards just for one date; women who were rather ordinary, who used over the counter hair products and wore no-name clothes and costume jewelry, their fingers craving a wedding ring.

I had never seen myself as beautiful enough for his world. For
him
. Despite his telling me otherwise then, and now, I had never been convinced. And yet, I’d never once had that insecurity with Sam. For one thing, he never said things like, “You
look
beautiful.” No, Sam would tell me constantly that I
was
beautiful, that when it came to me, beauty wasn’t merely in the eye of the beholder, but hardwired into me. This coming from a man who was the poster boy for gorgeous. But Sam didn’t even have to say anything to convince me; I felt that way in his presence even if I’d just woken up. If he just said, “Good morning, Sweetheart,” then that was enough. And it wasn’t Sam’s saying that made it so; rather, I believed that I had been that way all along. For Sam, though. Not Devin. And apparently, not David either. At least not yet.

            “My God, Andi. If you have to ask…” David said, shaking his head incredulously. 

“If I have to ask, then what?”

            “Then you must not know
me
at all.”

***

Maggie drove up to Massachusetts for the Labor Day weekend, and we laughed incessantly. It felt good to laugh like that again. If I had had a biological sister, I imagine our relationship would be like mine and Maggie’s. She was, at that time, the only person with whom I really felt at home. Even Miranda, my best friend in Massachusetts, never reached the heights of silliness with me (balanced with mutual love and respect) that Maggie did.

We sat on my deck, where my brothers had played their guitars, she and I drinking non-alcoholic daiquiris. 

“Do you think I’m beautiful, Mags?”

“I don’t wanna marry you or anything like that,” she said, “but you know I think you’re beautiful, Cupcake. Why? What’s up?”

“I met one of David’s art clients.”

“And?”

“And she made Wonder Woman look matronly.”

“Oh, one of
those
nightmares,” she said and took a sip. “Really Andi, don’t give her another thought. She’s got more plastic on and in her than Wonder Woman’s invisible jet.”

“You should have seen the way she was all over him.”

“How did he respond?”

“You remember the way he used to be with Allison the textbook rep?” I asked.

Maggie nodded as she recalled the mental image, and I knew that was all she needed to hear.

“Well it is his business,” she said. “Being an art buyer or a dealer or whatever he is now can’t be much different than being an escort. In order to keep them happy, he has to play their game.”

“That’s pretty much what he said,” I said.

“And I’m sure they’re not all like that woman. And who cares if they are? He’s with
you
.”

“But why me? He could have any woman he wants.”

“Sam could’ve had any woman he wanted. Did you ever question why he was with you?”

“You wanna know something crazy? Sam used to ask me once in awhile why I was with
him
.
He
was the insecure one. And Sam was different. He was never around that world of glitz and money and whatnot. He was a reading and writing geek like you and me.”

“But it’s not like David was born into that world. He was from Long Island just like you, and worked his way through college and all that. Devin was an illusion. You said so yourself.”

I finished my daiquiri. “You’re right,” I said. “I’m being stupid.”

“He loves you, Andi.”

“I know.” I tilted my head toward the sun-splashed trees and squinted.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Mags,” I said. We exchanged devilish grins.

We drove down to our old stomping grounds at South Coast Community College, and afterwards even further east to Cape Cod for a couple of days, my first time there since Sam’s death. First we went to Pop’s Coffeehouse. Two SCCC professors who remembered Maggie from an inter-disciplinary committee joined us at our table and chatted. It took all of my strength to keep a straight face—she loathed these two excuses for abolishing tenure. Just as she gave me a get-me-out-of-this expression, I got up to buy another iced chai latte. From behind me I heard a customer call out, “Hey, Rob,” to the kid behind the counter.

I didn’t have to turn around to know the voice that sent a needle into my spine.

As Rob handed me my change, he called back, “Hey, Andrew. Hazelnut mocha today?”

            For certain this was punishment for my leaving Maggie with the heathens.

            There was no way I could avoid facing my ex-fiancé short of moving like the old Frogger video game: laterally, then in reverse, then laterally, then…