The Decent Proposal (12 page)

He would have been surprised to know that a few weeks later, Elizabeth felt the same way. As Richard grew more comfortable with her, in addition to stories about his childhood he began relating tales of his various barroom encounters. Even though his money problems had been temporarily solved with the infusion of cash from their first monthly payment, Richard's career prospects continued to falter, and often these drunken liaisons were the sole highlight of an otherwise dreary week, the only events he felt like recounting when she politely asked him how he'd been. Many of these stories ended with him “hooking up” with women he had no intention of calling afterward.

The tastelessness of his overshares was repellent enough, but in these moments Elizabeth felt as if she'd made a mistake by agreeing to the proposal. What was she learning? How would
she be more equipped to meet someone who was right for her when their year was over? Why were guys so
gross
? It all felt so pointless. She knew she should have confronted him, told him she didn't want to hear his sex stories ever again, but she also knew he'd think she was a prude at best, or jealous at worst. So she kept her mouth shut and endured his blathering.
At least I'm getting paid
, she reminded herself whenever it got really bad. At the end of every month Jonathan Hertzfeld wired her earnings into a new account she'd nicknamed “Orpheus Funds” in her online banking profile. She almost had enough to cover the first few months of some sort of assisted living situation, though she hadn't yet raised the issue with Orpheus himself, which was easier said than done. In the meantime she would keep attending her weekly sessions, dutifully and diligently. But had she been at liberty to avoid Richard after any one of these interactions, she unquestionably would have done so.

If it had been up to Elizabeth, she would have avoided discussing politics as well, but it wasn't long before Richard pressed the issue. A dyed-in-the-wool Boston Democrat whose views were reaffirmed daily among the liberal denizens of Hollywood, there was no doubt in Richard's mind that the Democrats were the good guys and the Republicans the bad guys, and it pained him not to know where Elizabeth stood. It was at Sugarfish, during their final discussion of
Jane Eyre
, that he took the opportunity to find out. Richard theorized that the novel had a socialist message in Jane's refusal to hold on to her hard-won inheritance, in her insistence on sharing it with her impoverished relatives.

“I disagree,” said Elizabeth. “If she was really a revolutionary she would've taken up St. John's offer and gone to India. And that's kind of the point. She wants the traditional path. She wants to fit in. And eventually she does so without compromising who she is. That's the wish fulfillment of the story.”

“Well, it's not like you have to be a
revolutionary
to be in favor of socialism,” he said.

“Actually, you do. Especially in nineteenth-century England. But now too,” she added, immediately regretting it.

“Oh God, you're not one of those people who hate socialism, are you? Who think it's like a dirty word?”

“I don't
hate
it, I just—”

“Are you a Republican?” he asked impulsively, with a breathless intonation. He may as well have asked:
Are you a pedophile?

“No.”

He drew his hand across his brow, flashing her his signature grin.

“I'm more of a libertarian,” she said.

“Ugh,” he groaned, the grin vanishing, “Please don't tell me you're one of those people who believe in fiscal conservatism even though they claim to be socially liberal? Like the Tea Party? You're not in the Tea Party, are you?” he asked, anxious all over again.

“I don't belong to any party,” she said. “I'm a registered Independent. But when you came as far as I did to get to where you are and have to watch half your salary go to taxes that're mostly a waste, maybe it's more frustrating for me than it is for you.”

He refrained from groaning again—but just barely. She'd brought up class, which was one of her two trump cards, the other being race, of course.

“So you
are
pro-choice?”

“I am,” she admitted reluctantly, annoyed that he couldn't fathom an intelligent person thinking otherwise. Until she was eighteen she'd been unquestioningly Catholic, hence staunchly pro-life, but her “rough patch” had included a wholesale rejection of the notion of organized religion. Still, this didn't mean she couldn't respect people who felt otherwise.

“And you
are
pro–gay marriage?”

“Of course!” she said, a little too emphatically for his taste, before forcibly moving on to another topic.

Back in his apartment on the night of
Alien
, Richard clicked out of iMovie and happened to see the YouTube logo among the options displayed on his AppleTV screen.

“Hey,” he shouted over the din of running water, “there's this spoof of
Alien
I saw once, where the alien is Sarah Palin and the crew are like all these prominent Republicans and Democrats, and she's just
eviscerating
them. Except for Hillary. Hillary is Ripley, of course. I'll bet I can find it on YouTube.”

“Oh, goodie!” Elizabeth shouted, managing to convey tartness at a high volume.

She didn't turn around, but he shot her a look anyway. And because she couldn't see him, he allowed his eyes to linger on her backside, which shook in rhythm to her scrubbing.
Just like those pretzels
, he thought, amused by his irreverence. At least her story proved she'd been close to her family once. It was the first time she'd mentioned her parents since telling him she never spoke to them, and he still had no idea why. And of course they were both as clueless as ever about what—if anything—connected them. Every now and then Richard would mention a person or place from his past—most of which had been supplied to him by Mike, whose curiosity about the connection between him and Elizabeth had never abated. But nothing ever clicked. The connection eluded them.

He let himself stare a little longer while she scrubbed away, oblivious. Now that she had relaxed around him—on this night she had literally let her hair down, which was much wavier than when she tied it back—she was officially pretty. But he never would have pronounced her “hot” if he saw her walk into a bar. And yet she wasn't the type to walk into very many bars, and while he wished he could label her a “prude” and be done with
it, this word was as ineffective as “voluptuous” had been in his first attempt to define her. She was too unpredictable for such categorizations: the way, for instance, she'd gotten dressed up for their first date like some tween girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes, which proved how touchingly inexperienced she was when it came to matters of self-presentation outside the professional sphere. She was an odd one, and it had become a favorite game of Richard's to contrast Elizabeth with Mike, whose self-presentation, for instance, was professional-grade. Mike's beauty was natural but by no means effortless, requiring at least an hour at the gym each day, a biweekly facial, and no fewer than five skin creams and emollients (he'd counted them once himself), applied as religiously as her prayers before bed each night. He wondered now: what did Elizabeth do before getting into bed? Probably just washed her face, maybe brushed her hair? He imagined her lifting the dark waves off her back, letting them cascade onto those stupendous breasts, which wouldn't have a bra reining them in. . . . Maybe she was the kind of girl who wore only boxers to bed, nothing else? He could see that. . . .

To his surprise, he felt a telltale throb down below, and looked away from her, as if she could feel it too. This was a first. But wait: was it only a coincidence that he was fantasizing about her while she was
doing his dishes
? In the wake of this horrifying thought (he couldn't wait to share it with Mike, she'd get such a kick out of it), all activity below his waist subsided harmlessly.

He walked into the kitchen, leaning against the wall behind her.

“You know, we never talked about what we're going to do with our money,” he said.

She glanced back at him, startled by how close he was.

“I'll be paying off my mortgage,” she said, turning back to the sink.

Of course
, he thought.
How sensible.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Pay off my credit card debt for sure. And some student loans from college. But I'll still have a lot left over after that.” He hesitated. “You know my friend Mike?”

“Your soul mate? Sure.”

“Ha, right. Well, her dad has Parkinson's, and they're really struggling to give him the best treatment they can. So I'd like to help with that.”

Elizabeth turned off the water and faced him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“Richard, that's really great,” she said.

He basked in the rare warmth of her tone, even though he knew he didn't deserve it. He had every intention of helping out Mike, but he'd promised never to tell another person about her father, and the only reason he'd told Elizabeth now was to make him look better in her eyes.
I'm an asshole
, he thought.

“It's not a big deal,” he mumbled.

“Yes it is!” she insisted, stepping toward him.

Now he could add false modesty to his growing list of crimes.

“You know,” said Elizabeth, “I actually have a—”

“You think we put in our two hours yet?” he asked, retreating to the living room in search of his phone. Suddenly he was ready for the night to be over.

She didn't answer him, but he found his phone quickly enough.

“Oh yeah, wow, we're good. It's almost ten.”

When he turned around she was already at the door.

“Remember to get
Pride and Prejudice
this week,” she said, reverting to her default monotone. “Make sure you read the first few chapters.”

She was gone before he could respond. Richard sighed. Sometimes he felt like he was getting to know her, but other
times she was as much of a mystery as the first day they'd met. He poured himself a generous gin-and-tonic. He was supposed to meet up with a bunch of people that night, the usual crew, but he texted Mike now to say he wasn't feeling well. When she texted back asking if it was another herpes flare-up, and then suggesting a different STD every few minutes (gonorrhea? chlamydia? HPV? etc.—she must have started drinking hours earlier), he didn't even bother to respond.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
was less successful for purposes of the book/movie club, because there wasn't much to debate. It was, plain and simple, a delight. Richard was shocked by what an easy read it was, how light, how pleasurable, how
funny
, and on their third and final week of the book he erred on the side of effusiveness to make sure she knew just how much he'd enjoyed it.

“Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are so hilarious together! They should have their own sitcom, you know what I mean?”

“I guess,” said Elizabeth. Austen wasn't
all
fun and games, and she wondered if he understood this. She still couldn't quite believe he'd never read
Pride and Prejudice
before.

“Are you
sure
it wasn't required reading in high school?” she asked, watching him dump half a saltshaker into his matzoh-ball soup. They were at Factor's, a Jewish deli—and L.A. institution—a few blocks south of Beverly Hills.

“Oh, it was,” he said airily. “And I read every page . . . of the Cliff Notes.”

CliffsNotes
, she corrected him inside her head.

“Maybe we should watch the movie,” he suggested. “I remember hearing good things about Joe Wright's version when it came out a few years back—”

“Is that the one with the skinny actress? With the underbite?” Elizabeth stuck out her jaw as far as it would go.

“Keira Knightley, yeah.”

“Don't waste your time,” she said, cracking a bagel chip in two. “If you're going to watch anything, it should be the BBC miniseries with Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle.”

“So you
do
watch television.”

“On occasion. If period British dramas count.”

“Oh, they count.”

Sometimes she wanted nothing more than to smack that self-satisfied, smug little grin off his face.

“Want to split a black-and-white cookie with me?” she asked, looking for an excuse to leave the table.

“Duh.”

“HEY, CHECK IT OUT,”
he said, when she returned from the deli counter with a Saran-wrapped disk so massive it looked like a miniature Frisbee. His eyes were trained on a table a few booths down. On one side sat a young black woman with a little blond boy who looked to be about three years old sprawled in her lap. Opposite her sat a white woman at least twice her age holding a baby that was bawling so loudly, the younger woman—who was obviously the nanny—had to reach across the table and retrieve it, at which point it settled down immediately. The older woman then tried to coax the boy to come to her, but he cowered where he was, refusing to leave the nanny's side. Richard chortled through his nose, so as not to make too much noise.

“Amazing,” he said. “I
won't
have what she's having.”

What's so funny about it?
thought Elizabeth. The mother, who was trying to put a good face on the situation, glanced around the restaurant uneasily, and for one horrible second she and Elizabeth made eye contact. Elizabeth looked away guiltily, annoyed that Richard had drawn her into witnessing this painful scene. She took no delight in making fun of the woman. It was
almost mean-spirited, she decided, the way Richard insisted on extracting comedy from every situation he encountered. Everything was “amazing” or “fascinating.” He loved talking about “awkward” encounters during which someone had behaved inappropriately. He did it to himself, too: after making a stupid or inappropriate joke he would self-critique, “See what I did there?” or, “Too soon?” All these catchphrases were supposed to indicate an appreciation, but from a distance only—an ironic detachment.
Haven't we gotten past irony yet?
she thought a little desperately. There was a fine line between self-deprecation and self-obsession, after all.