Strangers on a Train I (6 page)

When I got home, I was going to take a scissors to his little black dress and shred it to pieces. I was going to go back to who I really was. Sarah plain and tall.

3

A
LOUD KNOCKING AT MY DOOR woke me in the morning, just as I had finally gotten to sleep. My night had been restless, haunted by the memory of surrendering myself to a man who was so deceitful and hurtful. How could I have been so needy? So stupid? The unwanted throbbing in my heart and between my legs had made it even more difficult to fall asleep. Groggy, I kicked off my covers, slipped on my plaid flannel bathrobe, and staggered to the door. Jo-Jo trailed behind me. I peered through the peephole. Lauren! What was she doing here? I’d never known her to be up before noon on a Saturday or venture west of Fifth Avenue or south of Fifty-Seventh Street. Her world was confined to the narrow rectangle bordered by Seventy-Ninth Street on the north, Fifty-Seventh Street on the south, Madison Avenue on the east and Fifth on the west. Within this realm, was every designer store that had Daddy’s credit card on file.

“Where have you been?” she asked, barging into my apartment. “I’ve left you a hundred messages.”

Ever since we’d been roommates at the Rhode Island School of Design, me on a full scholarship and she there, thanks to Daddy’s substantial endowment, Lauren had always put her needs and desires above everyone else’s. Though she could be extremely generous and a lot of fun, she was quite demanding. Somehow, I put up with it, and we had remained friends as we both began our careers in NYC. I was an executive assistant at a mid-size toy company, though I aspired to one day be toy designer. And she was a “Brand Ambassador,” as she liked to call her job, to one of the hottest fashion designers in Manhattan. Another one of Daddy’s clients. I assumed the “workaholic” was on the job even now, dressed head-to-toe in his clothes—polka dot skinny jeans, a tight graphic-t, and expensive black leather ankle boots that made her a curvaceous 5’8” blonde instead of the petite 5’2” she actually was.

“You stood me up last night,” she said, heading straight to the fridge. Without asking, she pulled out a Diet Coke and began drinking it.

Should I tell her the truth? She was my best friend. In fact, my only friend in the City other than Fernando, my pal at work. My other RISD classmates had scattered all over the country, and I was no longer in contact with the small-town Pennsylvania kids I had grown up with.

“I had a date,” I said glumly.

Lauren’s cat-green eyes grew wide. “You’re kidding!”

Part of me wanted to slap her. Like she could have one and I couldn’t.

“With who?” Her voice sounded snarky, like she was challenging me.

“Some guy.”

“Hel-lo-o. Name please.”

I hesitated; I didn’t really want to talk about it. “Ari Golden.”

Her mouth dropped wide open. “
Ari Golden?
The
Ari Golden? Get out!”

Slamming her Diet Coke on the vintage trunk that doubled as a coffee table, Lauren whipped out her iPhone from her red Hermès Birken (a Christmas gift from her mother) and hastily typed in something on her touch screen keyboard.

“Look at this,” she said, suggesting that I should march over to her. Truthfully, the less I knew about this creep, the better.

I trudged over to Lauren and peeked at the screen. Ari’s beautiful face filled it. I could feel him staring at me, his piercing blue eyes penetrating my body. Despite my loathing of him, a tingling rippled through me. Damn him for having this effect on me!

The headline read:
“New York’s Sexiest Billionaire.”

Lauren scrolled down and started to read aloud. “Ari Golden, Chairman of Golden Industries… Estimated Worth: 1.6 Billion Dollars… #40 on
The Forbes List
… Age: 32…”

Whoa! He had a limo with a bar, wore expensive clothes, had a predilection for fine wine and dining… but I had no idea he was this rich. Holy shit!

Lauren continued to scroll down and read. “Charities: Meds Without Borders… Pet Peeve: People who invade my privacy… Favorite Saying: ‘Imagine and dreams will come true.’”

I always said:
“Some things were best left in the imagination.”
I wished I’d never met him. I wished I’d never fucked him. I wished… I wished…
Sarah, just admit it
… I wished he was mine!

“Sarah, do you know how he made his fortune?” asked Lauren, snapping me out of my wishful thinking.

Was she testing me or something? Truthfully, I had tried to google him last night before I went to sleep, but my damn Internet connection was down again. And I didn’t own a smart phone with Internet access like Lauren. Mine was one of those yesterday’s news clunkers with a $19.98 basic monthly plan. The kind you had to convert numbers into letters for texting.

“Okay. Time’s up. His company invented Dermadoo! That miracle anti-wrinkle cream that’s so hard to get! You’ve got to get me some!”

I hardly knew the man—in fact, I was never going to see him again!—and Lauren was already asking for favors. So like her.

While I digested all this information, Lauren sauntered back to the kitchen and returned with yet another Diet Coke. I guess it was on her raw diet.

“Did you sleep with him?” Lauren asked, not one to hold back.

Silence.

“C’mon, you’ve got to tell me,” Lauren pleaded with a fling of her perfectly blown shoulder-length hair.

“No,” I said, at last. Theoretically, that was true.

“One of these days, you’ve got to say bye-bye to your virginity. It’s no big deal.”

I twitched my mouth, saying nothing to big-mouth Lauren.

Frowning, Lauren took another sip of her soda. “How did you meet him?”

“On the train home from Philly.” There was no way I was going to tell Lauren-tell-the-world about the details of our train encounter as the juices between my legs began once again to percolate. I flushed at the memory.

As Lauren put her cell phone back into her Birkin, my eyes landed on something that I hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh my God, Lauren what’s that?” I asked, pointing to her left fourth finger.

A cheeky smile spread across her Emma Stone look-alike face. “I thought you’d never notice.”

“No way!”

“Way!” she squealed. “Taylor and I are engaged. He got down on his knees—right in front of all my friends—and asked me to marry him while the Black Eyed Peas were singing “
tonight’s gonna be a good night
.”’ It was so romantic.”

The engagement ring on Lauren’s finger must have been at least five carats. And I’m sure it was flawless. Taylor Hodges IV grew up in the same circles as Lauren; their families probably dined together on the Mayflower. They’d known each other since their childhood cotillion days, but their relationship didn’t blossom into a romance until he went to Brown while she was “next door” at RISD. Despite a couple of major breakups, they’d been together for six years. He worked for her father. Already written up in the
WSG
as one of Wall Street’s wunderkinds, he was destined to be one of the financial world’s major players. While he was never my favorite person in the world, for Lauren, he was perfect marriage material.

I gave her a huge hug. “That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”

“I want you to be one of my bridesmaids. You can bring Ari as your date.”

“I’d love to,” I replied, eschewing Ari.
That wasn’t happening!

“Mummy has already lined up a private appointment for me at Vera Wang’s at noon, and then we’re heading over to the Bergdorf Bridal Salon. It would be so much fun if you came along.”

I politely declined. In my head, I knew I’d better get used to the next six months of constant wedding talk from Lauren. There’d be no detail spared, and she was going to want me to weigh in on every decision from the color of her wedding day toenail polish to the number of layers on her wedding cake. I wouldn’t be surprised if she bought me an iPhone like hers so that we could be in touch 24-7.

“Maybe, tomorrow we can hang out,” I said.

“Can’t. I’ll be in the Hamptons. Taylor’s parents are throwing us a little impromptu cocktail party to celebrate our engagement.”

Lauren plunked the Diet Coke can on the coffee table trunk (having servants her entire life, she didn’t know from cleaning up—that was my job when we were roommates at RISD) and heel-toed toward the door. “Sarah, maybe you’ll be next.” She winked at me as she turned the doorknob.

As the door slammed behind her, my phone rang. My heart jumped. I ran to it before it went to the answering machine. In my head, I could hear him saying my name. In that soft sultry sexy voice.
Stop it, Sarah. Stop it!
This man is not into you.

When I picked up the receiver, I was as relieved as I was disappointed. It was just another one of those obnoxious bill collectors. I pretended that I was someone else. I hated these people because I was positive they got some sadistic pleasure out of people suffering. Since my mother’s illness, my bills had piled up. The exorbitant cost of my weekly trips to Philadelphia forced me to make late payments and even ignore some bills. Seeing my mom had to be the priority. Someday, I would be a rich and famous toy designer and never have to worry about money again. I just wanted my mother to be in my life when I got there.

More bills were stacked in a pile on the kitchen counter. I’d left them there last night. After feeding Jo-Jo, I attacked the bills. The usual suspects—termination of cell phone service, if my bill wasn’t paid immediately, late charge for an emergency room visit (three stitches in my finger as the result of a nasty bagel cutting accident), an invitation to one of Lauren’s charity balls ($1000 per ticket—forget it)… and finally a bill from The Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania. Except the latter was not a bill; it was a letter.

Dear Ms. Greene:

I regret to inform you that your mother’s insurance company, Transylvania Life,
is no longer willing to cover her treatments. Unless we have proof of financial responsibility on her behalf, we regret that we will have to terminate her treatment and release her from our care. We will be glad to help you find an alternative course of treatment. Please contact me at your earliest possible convenience.

Sincerely,

Dr. Martin Chernoff

The letter shook in my hands as tears welled up in my eyes. How could this be happening? She was doing so well. Making progress. What was I going to do? There was no way I could afford her exorbitant treatments with my meager wages. The tears multiplied, giving way to sobs. All hope was ebbing from my pores. I couldn’t even think straight.

I needed to get clarity. With tears streaming down my face, I flung off my bathrobe and laced up my running shoes.

Jogging around the Central Park reservoir always energized me. The majestic apartment buildings along Central Park West and the soaring architectural wonders along the East Side never ceased to amaze me. And the reservoir itself was a little miracle in this big city of sidewalks and skyscrapers.

The circumference of the reservoir stretched a little over one and a half miles. I was now on my third spin around it. I was well into my run, my heart pounding at an even rate, my legs propelling me forward almost effortlessly. The temperature was probably already in the low eighties, and under the bright morning sun, sweat poured from every crevice in my body.

Clarity came to me. I would just have to work harder. Overtime for my demanding boss, Catherine. Or take a second job like being a barista at Starbucks or a waitress at some neighborhood restaurant. And I could work weekends too. Somehow, I’d figure out how to pay for my mother’s treatments.

As I got off at the Ninetieth Street entrance, another brilliant idea came to me. I’d sell Ari’s little black dress, which I couldn’t bring myself to shred, to an upscale resale shop. That should fetch me a nice bundle of money especially since it was practically brand new. Too bad I no longer had the shoes. They were probably worth a small fortune.

Slightly cheered up, I ran home through the park. The park was in its spring glory, with its multitude of verdant shrubs, colorful flowers, and blossoming trees lining the winding path that led to Fifty-Seventh Street entrance, where I would exit. It was filled with New Yorkers of all ages, taking advantage of the beautiful day after a long, cold winter. Bicyclists, joggers, strollers, rollerbladers, nannies pushing elegant prams, and even a few equestrians. The run took my mind off my mom… and Trainman. The temperature was rising and so was my heat level. My thin cotton tank top clung to my body, and my running shorts were soaked. I was looking forward to a cold shower.