The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (6 page)

I remember thinking it was preposterous. Inconceivable. Unreal.

“I’ve known for years. I thought I couldn’t do it to my family. I thought I could make it work with you, and maybe if we had a family of our own, playing it straight could make sense.”

“And did you ever, for one second, stop and consider what all this would mean for me? That my marriage to my alleged best friend would be a sham? That the person I thought I could trust more than anyone else in the world not only lied about who he is, but didn’t contemplate my feelings at all?” I paused for air and forced myself to lower my voice a notch. “Wow. I have no idea what to say, Brendan.”

“How about you understand?”

I remember I glared at him and forced myself to keep breathing until he came out with, “Think how hard this is for me. And at least now we won’t ever get divorced.”

The Brunello flew into his eyes and I ran out of the restaurant, burning with embarrassment over making a scene, humiliated beyond what I ever imagined possible, and terrified of facing my friends and family with the news that I must be the stupidest woman in the Tri-State area, if not on the entire Eastern Seaboard, if I could be with a guy for a decade and fail to deduce his sexual orientation.

My mother denies it, because she doesn’t want to support the idea that her daughter’s happiness should be tied up with a fairy tale wedding, but my brother tells me
she’s
been seeing a therapist regularly ever since
my
break up. I think at times she felt more invested in planning the reception that I did, and I think she nearly died of shame when she had to tell her friends the news. My father reacted in a more circumspect manner, reassured me it was better to know, and never brought up the topic again. My friends all claimed to be as stunned as I was, though I suspect Kevin and Angela may have played up their shock so as not to rub more salt in my open sore.

I’m so lost in my thoughts and horrified at the still fresh hurt that I’m not sure how long it takes me to realize that we’ve arrived at the restaurant. The cabbie is tapping on the partition, understandably urging me to pay the fare and vacate the back seat so he can pick up a new customer. I apologize, tip him well, and find myself on the sidewalk. Good. Eight minutes early. Time to walk around the block and clear my head. I will not allow my bad break-up to derail my first promising post-engagement date before it starts.

The over-plucked, under-nourished hostess peers down at me from her elevated stand for a good half minute before speaking, and during those thirty seconds, I loathe myself for allowing her to make me feel inadequate. At least I’m in respectable company. Even Angela agrees that a single sniff of disapproval from one of these slinky, black-clad creatures is enough to send almost anyone running to an emergency session with a therapist. Or at least an expensive wardrobe consultation. Thanks to Kevin’s sprint to his love-struck laundress, my trusty almost-too-much-but-not-quite chandelier earrings, and the sample size Sergio Rossi’s Angela sent my way last week, I have nothing to apologize for. I am the fashion equal of every person here. Amazingly, the hostess’s studied frown breaks into a smile when I say I’m meeting Oscar Thornton.

She steps down from her pedestal and leads me through the restaurant to one of the best tables. That must be a good sign. A total psychopath
probably
wouldn’t have favored patron status at an upscale restaurant. But it’s not impossible. Why did I ever agree to dinner? Does he do this all the time—ask out women he’s never met and then take them on expensive dates?

He gets up when he sees me approach and I freeze. What’s the etiquette here? Will he go in for the air kiss? Should I stick out my hand and introduce myself? I wish the hostess would stop hovering. For some illogical reason I don’t want her to know we’re meeting for the first time.

Before we make it across the room, it becomes obvious that practically every woman in the place is watching Oscar Thornton. And with good reason. He’s even better looking up close than from across Madison Avenue, and taller. He’s broad-shouldered, high-cheekboned, and he’s been blessed with the most soulful brown eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. He’s wearing his suit with a pink, French-cuffed shirt underneath, but no tie. And he’s definitely one of those men who can carry off pink. A forty-something blonde woman rolls her eyes when she sees me coming and whispers something to her friend, who actually points at me. For a second I have the sickening feeling that my dress is caught up in my underwear. But that’s not it. I can feel the fabric, swishing reassuringly against my legs.

Oscar goes in for the air kiss. I turn my head too fast and he gets my ear. We sit down and wait for the hostess to retreat before I say, “I’m Zoë, by the way.”

“Oscar,” he says. “But you already knew that. Can I offer you a drink?”

I glance down at his dirty martini, and when the waiter arrives I order a pomegranate one, which should take the edge off my nerves, but which I resolve to nurse. There’s no word that fairly describes this Oscar other than “delicious,” and I am not about to screw things up by becoming a drunken fool. I search the recesses of my brain for a safe topic. I’m guessing he does not need to hear about my recent humiliation at the hands of my former fiancé.

Fortunately, he speaks first. “So tell me, what goes on over there across the street? I’ve decided you’re either in phone sales, or you’re some kind of consultant. Which is it?”

“Well, I suppose both would be accurate. I work for C.R. Broadwick and Associates. We’re headhunters. But you really don’t know where I work? You didn’t check before you sent the flowers? Which are gorgeous by the way, thank you again.” If he asks what happened to them, I’ll have to tell him I took them home, for fear of inappropriate
feng shui
.

“You’re very welcome. So do you like hunting heads?”

Less than five minutes into our first date, and he cuts right to the million-dollar question, which my parents ask me at least every other time we speak. “Not many kids dream of growing up to work in legal search.”

“Right. Most toy stores don’t carry junior headhunter kits.” He nods with flirtatious pretend seriousness.

“I worked in a gallery out of college, which loses its glamour quickly, unless you’re lucky enough to own your own place. And the
Wall Street Journal
isn’t exactly full of ads that say, ‘Art History Majors Wanted.’ The money in head hunting is good, and once in a while, I can really help make someone’s career, which is nice.” I realize I’m on the verge of answering a short answer question with an essay response and stop myself.

“Very few people
love
their work. If you’re happy sixty or seventy per cent of the time, you’re ahead of the game. Besides, you’re young. You’ve got time to change careers four times, if that’s what you decide you want to do.”

I listen to his advice, thinking he’s so handsome and confident that I could jump him right here. Though he must not feel the same way if he’s giving me a speech I could get from a career coach. But I’m not sure where else to steer the conversation so I flip my hair flirtatiously and decide to stick with our safe and serious topic. “So how about you? Do you love your job?”

“Yeah, I suppose I’m part of the lucky minority.”

After that, we talk about his job, and I learn that he’s the point man for at least half a dozen accounts, and all of those are for household-name products. I’m starting to feel a little professionally inadequate next to him, when he changes the subject and asks where I’m from. Good. More safe territory.

He orders us another round of martinis but makes no move to consult the menu. I realize I’ve finished my drink and give him the short version of my life. He listens raptly, as if it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard, when I tell him I grew up in Wellesley, right outside Boston, which was an idyllic existence, featuring excellent public schools, private tennis lessons and long weekends in Stowe and Wellfleet. Then I landed at Princeton and encountered a whole different level of privilege: the kind of kids who use “summer” as a verb, and do so on the Riviera.

My parents now “winter” in Florida, where they can play golf, drive below the speed limit and eat dinner before six. I neglect to mention that my father, a retired math professor, has become obsessed with paint-by-number kits. Every wall in both parental homes is covered in paint-by-number reproductions of the great masterpieces of classical art. Or that my mother gets hippy-dippier as the years go by, but limits her eco-consciousness to certain aspects of her life. She wears only organic clothing and grows her own herbs. But she still gets her nails done every Thursday and insists on driving her gas-guzzling BMW six short blocks to her gym. I do mention that I have an older brother. He’s married with kids in San Francisco. I stop myself before blurting that he’s probably the most normal member of the Clark clan.

The drinks arrive. “So that’s the sixty-second scoop on me. How about you?”

Oscar runs his fingers through his hair and leans towards me over the table. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell. I was born in Utah, but I went to Columbia and haven’t dreamed of leaving Manhattan since. I’m forty-two years old, and my wife left me a year ago for a French film producer she met at a charity benefit. Maybe I should have seen it coming. They had this whole Euro connection thing going on.”

I must look at him like he’s lost me, because he explains, “Olivia was from Andorra. We met at a coffee cart on 53rd Street.” He pauses to smile at this memory. “She was on vacation with some girlfriends, but she canceled her ticket home after we spent the better part of a week together. We got married, and while she never complained about it, she never really took to living on our side of the pond. I suppose we’d been growing apart for some time, but it still smarted. Anyway, I came home early from a business trip to London, to surprise her for our anniversary, and the housekeeper told me my wife had gone out. She wouldn’t look at me when she said it, and I knew something wasn’t right. When she came home the next morning and saw me there, she didn’t even try to deny it. She just went to her lingerie drawer and pulled out divorce papers.”

He pauses and looks directly in my eyes. I have no idea what to say. If Angela told me some guy shared all that on a first date, I’d say, way too much information. The little voice in the rational side of my brain is yowling “red flag!” at the top of her little imaginary lungs, but I’m blinded by Oscar’s looks. Every woman in this restaurant wants my date. I can’t toss him aside because he might be on the rebound like me. Or sensitive. Which, if I recall correctly, used to be considered a good thing in a man, at least until the early 1990’s or so. I take a huge gulp of my second pomegranate martini and mumble, “I’m sorry.”

He brightens. “I believe everything in life happens for a reason, and I don’t believe in looking back. But I do want to be upfront about my history. What about you, have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Ever come close?”

“You could say that.”

The waiter reappears and provides me with a temporary stay, which is good, because I’m not eager to tell Oscar about Brendan. To an outsider, it might seem weird—no, not weird,
unfathomable
—that I knew a man for fourteen years and didn’t surmise he was gay. I still feel like the biggest fool ever. In my defense, Brendan went to great lengths to hide the truth. I found a bottle of Viagra after he moved out. It had fallen behind the bathroom vanity, and in hindsight, explained a lot.

Oscar asks if he can order for us, which catches me off guard because no guy has ever asked me this before. He rattles off a list of requests, and selects a bottle of wine, which the waiter calls a highly discriminating choice. Any thoughts I had previously entertained about offering to pay my share vanish. The rent is more pressing than this stranger’s opinion on my post-feminist manners.

The wine, on top of the cocktails, gives me the courage to ask Oscar if he ever asked out a complete stranger before.

“You’re the first. And don’t get creeped out. I just moved into that office a couple of weeks ago. Everyone’s telling me it’s time to get back in the saddle, but I spend so much time at work, and I can’t bring myself to do Internet dating. So when I noticed you, you seemed so beautiful, and fresh, and
approachable
, that I decided to dip my toe in the water. I figured the worst that could happen would be for you to ignore me.”

The little voice in my head squeals, “Line! Line!” but I silence it and smile back at him. The wine feels warm in my otherwise empty stomach and I’m getting lost in his gaze. The sushi arrives, not a moment too soon, and the wine keeps flowing. Another bottle appears and lubricates the conversation.

We actually have quite a bit of those first-date things in common. We both prefer dogs to cats, but neither of us has time for one.

It turns out Oscar’s ex-wife now lives with his two ex-Labradoodles in Paris. In addition to both being dog-less dog lovers, we both like to ski, but neither of us gets to go very often. We’re annoyed by SUV’s, reality television, and clueless people who don’t care what’s happening in the world. By the time the waiter clears the plates, my first date jitters have developed into a full-blown crush. And he’s getting cuter by the minute. Or maybe that’s the wine.

We leave the restaurant a full four hours after we arrived. When he steers me out the door, his hand lingers on the small of my back. I expect him to hail a cab, but a black sedan pulls up. “Your chariot,” he jokes, as he holds the door. He’s so engaging, and gorgeous, that his hokey humor doesn’t bother me at all. I slide into the back seat. “Where to?”

In a moment of insanity, I blurt Angela’s address. I do this because Oscar seems so perfect. I want to remove the temptation to invite him upstairs and ruin the chance of something bigger, for one night of fun.

“You heard the lady,” he says, and raises the privacy screen. He drapes his arm around me and before I fully process what’s happening, we’re kissing in the back of his limousine. It sure doesn’t feel like he’s out of practice. His hand rests on my knee before sliding up my inner thigh, and while the voice in my head is shrieking at me to push him away, my body over-rules it and I feel my legs open a little as he pulls his mouth away from mine to kiss my earlobes and neck. He pushes one of my spaghetti straps off my shoulder and his mouth moves down to my collarbone. The hand that’s not on my thigh moves up my waist.