The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (15 page)

Fortunately, I have plans to prevent me from spinning like a top in my apartment for the next few hours. Angela wants to meet at the bar in the Four Seasons, ostensibly because she’s coming from a meeting around the corner. Really it’s because she loves that the waiters recognize her there. As I cross the lobby, I remind myself that I should scale down my tastes to make them more proportionate to my budget. Angela’s already waiting, perched on an overstuffed chair from which she can survey the entire room, martini in hand. She’s flipping through a folder of papers on the table in front of her.

As soon as the waiter is dispatched with my drink order, a cosmo with Cointreau and Stoli O, Angela launches right into a presentation so slick I suspect she rehearsed it. “I’ve printed out listings for all the apartments in your price range, and I will clear my Saturday so I can see them with you. For moral support.”

“This is great, Angela, but I haven’t decided that I’m moving.”

“Of course you are. There’s no way you’re giving your hard-earned cash to that fuckwit. Or his family.”

She’s right, but her choice of verbiage stings anyway. It crosses that line that, instead of merely sticking it to Brendan, also makes
me
feel like an idiot. “You know that ‘fuckwit’ was the man I thought I was going to marry.”

Angela rearranges her expression to try to look apologetic. She fails. “Well, obviously he wasn’t a fuckwit
then
. Only now. Stop changing the subject. Some of these look promising. And while they’re not rent control like mine, they’re all in my neighborhood.”

I leaf through the pages half-heartedly. Moving seems so daunting, and these places sound positively tiny. I hadn’t focused on the fact that I’d be scaling down this much. Even with more units available because of the downturn, rents have soared since Brendan and I signed our original lease. And this time it’ll be me, alone, on the hook for everything. Maybe I should stop putting it off, post a roommate wanted ad on Craigslist and see if anyone normal responds.

“You know, it’ll be good for you to live by yourself,” Angela says, as if reading my mind. “You might actually like it. And you’re the only person I know who’s never willingly tried it. There should be some kind of ordinance against that.”

“I had a single for two years in college.”

“On-campus student housing so does not count.” She takes the folder from me. “I know you’re frazzled, so I’ve gone ahead and made appointments at the ones that look most worthwhile. If there’s anything else you want to see, we can call and ask if they’ll accommodate.”

I have to admire Angela. She’s a bundle of efficiency. It’s not like she has nothing to do all day. Working in shoes at
Vogue
is on a whole different level than specializing in footwear anyplace else on the planet. Most designers live and die by the magazine’s blessing, and since shoes have the second highest profit margin of all products in the fashion industry, Angela’s job is way more serious than most people give her credit for.

“So we’re starting bright and early at nine on Saturday,” she says, taking a ladylike sip from her martini. “You’d better tell Oscar you’ll be needing your beauty sleep, since I’m guessing you got, maybe, two hours at the most last night.”

“But it was so totally worth it. I feel like I can’t get enough of him, and I can’t wait to see him again.”

Angela smiles. “I’m glad you’re finally getting a normal, satisfying sex life. You’re
glowing
, for the first time, in, well, forever. But before you drag Prince Charming off to Bloomingdales to peruse the Villeroy and Boch, why don’t you get to know him better? You know, see what he’s about in the
non
-Biblical sense.”

“Since when are you all about raining on my parade?”

“I’m not. God knows I think a talented lover is a beautiful thing, but it’s also obvious to me that you crave more than a physical connection. I’m just saying, have fun, but don’t be scared of losing the sex if he’s not right for you in other ways. You can find other great lovers out there. Great apartments, on the other hand, are rare.”

“I think I should take one of the places I saw today,” I tell Oscar glumly on the phone Saturday afternoon. “Angela and I saw eleven apartments, they’re all a step down from what I have now, but they’ll probably go quickly.” Angela kept reminding me, whenever I pointed out tired Formica, dirty windows or creaky floorboards, that these flats all come without Brendan, which is, undeniably, a huge plus. By our fourth appointment, Angela had almost convinced me that these places weren’t any worse than hers. So I should stop being a bitch already and pick one. She was right, naturally, but it’s still hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that I won’t be able to sustain myself in the lifestyle to which I became accustomed while cohabiting with my fiancé. Excuse me. Ex-fiancé.

“You want to know what I think?” Oscar asks.

“Of course.”

“I think you should sleep on it, preferably in my bed.”

“That sounds nice.”

“How soon can you be here?”

“Give me an hour.” I didn’t shave my legs this morning because I didn’t want to be late for Angela. It’s way too soon for Oscar to see me un-primped, and I kind of enjoy the delicious anticipation of knowing I’ll see him soon, but not this very minute.

Three hours, seven (yup, seven) leg-shaking orgasms, and one bottle of pinot noir later, I’m feeling better about my real estate problem. Maybe I should just take the cheapest place I saw today, so I can start saving a few pennies. If things keep going this well with Oscar, I’ll probably be sleeping here most of the time anyway. I silently chide myself for getting carried away, but it’s hard not to with my head on his bare chest and his arm wrapped over me protectively. I want to stay here forever. Unfortunately, my bladder has an alternate agenda. When I come back from the master bathroom, which is bigger than the living/dining spaces in any of the apartments I considered today, Oscar’s switched on the news. His expression has gone from sated to stunned in the five minutes I was gone.

“What? What happened?” In the split second before I see the screen, a dozen different doomsday scenarios play through my head. That’s what being a modern New Yorker is like. But then I see the picture has nothing to do with attacks, terrorism or carnage, and my jaw drops in surprise.

The banner at the bottom of the screen reads, “NYC Councilman, Mayoral Frontrunner Walter O’Malley implicated in global human trafficking and pornography ring. Details soon.”

Kevin must be having heart failure.

“Oh. My. God. My friend manages O’Malley’s campaign.”

“He already knows. If all the news channels have it, the senior staff will have gotten a heads up,” Oscar says. He shakes his head at the screen. “O’Malley doesn’t seem the type. He’s way too image-conscious and clean cut.”

I’m not sure I agree. Aren’t successful men always in the news for monumental acts of stupidity? Mostly because they think they’re too smart to get caught? But I don’t feel like getting into a big discussion about it. Especially since I am still naked and have rearranged myself into what I think is an attractive reclining pose beside him on the bed.

My phone rings in my purse. “Do you mind if I see who that is?”

“Not at all.” He’s riveted to the train wreck on television that is my friend’s career.

I slide back out from under the warm and ridiculously luxurious sheets, still naked, and dig for my phone. Angela.

“You heard?” she asks, skipping a greeting.

“I just saw the headline. Was he buying or selling?”

“Neither. The FBI says he invested in the distribution of the stuff, but the materials in question aren’t exactly of the vanilla flavor.”

“Oh God. Poor Kev.”

“I know. It gets worse. It sounds like this ring trafficked underage girls from as far away as Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia to put them in the pictures and films. As if that’s not disgusting enough, the prosecutors are asking questions about where the funds for the upfront costs came from. If O’Malley was even tangentially involved in importing kiddos for perverts, his political future is
so
over. And rightly so.”

I glance back over at the TV. They’ve moved on to a report from their Middle East correspondent. “We have the news on now, and it doesn’t say anything about human trafficking.”

“It will any minute. I heard it from my sister. I just hung up with her.” Angela’s sister is married to a special agent in DC. “She never tells me anything about the FBI, but she called to tell me this story was about to break, because she knows how tight I am with Kevin. Even though her husband would flip.”

Oscar switches off the TV and rolls on his side to face me. He reaches out to pull me towards him.

“Angela, I have to go. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

Oscar slides me underneath him, kisses me hard, and reaches his hand between my thighs. I tell myself I can worry about Kevin’s career crisis a little later.

Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I roll awake and register Oscar’s absence. Through the wall, I can hear the low murmur of indecipherable phone conversation. I slide out of bed. The door to his study is closed. I knock timidly and try the knob. Locked. He must be deep in conversation because he doesn’t acknowledge my louder second knock. I slink back to bed and try to fall asleep.

By the time he reappears next to me, I’m silently squelching a panic attack about him seeing someone else. The little voice in my head says not to be so ridiculous and typical. Oscar is here with me. If he wanted to sneak around, he’d have plenty of hours in his week to do so with zero risk of getting caught. Besides, everything always seems dire at three in the morning.

As soon as I’ve reassured myself that I’m experiencing a nocturnally induced overreaction, the little voice reminds me smugly that it’s not like Oscar and I are exclusive. So I should stop being presumptuous.

At ten-thirty on Sunday morning, Kevin gets one of his lifelong wishes: an invitation to appear on
Meet the Press
. He just never imagined it would happen this year, with this candidate, and certainly not under these circumstances. Oscar and I watch on the kitchen TV.

Kevin looks stunned. He has his lines prepared and David Gregory even feigns mild surprise when Kevin stares into the camera with his exhausted eyes and set jaw, and tells the national audience, “Councilman O’Malley admits to a serious lapse in judgment, because he did not personally vet all his investments over the years. However, he vehemently and unequivocally denies any wrong doing, and he also wants to assure the people of New York that no campaign funds were used for any improper purpose. The Councilman has not been charged with any crime and he is continuing his campaign.”

“All publicity is good publicity, right?” I ask Oscar.

“Right. Until someone gets indicted.” He pours more coffee for both of us and produces an impressive fruit salad from the fridge. If it weren’t obvious he loves being in the kitchen, I’d think he was a total freak for trying so hard. I mean,
after
bedding me. I hope this kind of effort means I’m special. That there’s no one else.

He puts four slices of bread in the toaster and starts to scramble some eggs. “Did you ever catch Kevin last night?”

“No.” I didn’t want to risk calling Kevin from here, in case he’s still in the midst of his disproportionate reaction to the stupid college application thing.

“Well, you should call him later and tell him he did a great job on TV. That didn’t look easy. And the poor guy doesn’t look sleep deprived. He looks like a torture victim who’s been dressed up in nice clothes and foisted into the spotlight with no warning.” Oscar stirs the eggs and adjusts the flame underneath them.

“Kevin’s always well-dressed. He even keeps a book called
Dressing the Man
on his coffee table.”

Oscar nods but doesn’t comment, tops off his own coffee again and changes the subject. “What are you going to do about the apartment hunt? Are you going to keep looking?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I should just take one of the ones I saw yesterday. If they’re still available. A couple of them would shorten my commute by a few minutes.”

“You don’t sound enthused.”

“My current place isn’t anything spectacular, but it’s nice, it’s home, and it’s practically palatial next to anything Angela and I saw.”

“Your place is great.” Oscar sounds sincere. He serves up two perfect plates of eggs. “It, I don’t know,
feels
like you. Not that you don’t look fantastic in your present environs.”

I feel myself glowing as he leans over the counter to kiss me. Something about his touch makes me feel warm all over. I swear when his mouth touches mine, even my toes tingle. Oscar stares into my face for a moment, looking equally gooey and glowy. I can’t believe I was so worried a few short hours ago. Or that I am finally half of one of those sickening new couples who only have eyes for each other. I can’t remember ever feeling so besotted, except perhaps as a teenager, when I had a huge crush on the captain of the soccer team. Which tragically went unrequited for the entirety of our tenure at Wellesley High.