The Other Life (29 page)

On their way, Quinn still couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that someone was watching them. She kept looking behind her.

“What’s the matter?” Meredith shouted over the music.

“I feel like someone is following us.”

“Best news I’ve heard all day.”

“What if it’s an ax murderer?” Quinn asked.

Meredith shrugged. “Is he single?”

Quinn laughed. “I think you might need higher standards.”

“I think
you
need a drink.”

“I’m pregnant, remember?”

A cute guy with dark curls pushed his way through the crowd and embraced Meredith. She introduced him to Quinn as Steven Marsh. He smiled, glanced quickly at Quinn’s breasts, and then looked back at Meredith with a lewd squint.

“A writer,” Meredith added as part of her introduction, giving Quinn a look that was easy to interpret.

After chatting for just a few minutes, Meredith dismissed him with a flirty squeeze of the arm. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she said.

“I think he likes you,” Quinn said as they continued toward their destination.

“Not as much as he likes himself.”

Before they reached the bar, they ran into three more acquaintances of Meredith’s, two of whom were conquests.

“I wonder what you’ll do when you run out of writers in this city,” Quinn said. The driving, heavy-beat pop song had ended and was replaced with a ballad, which was a little easier to talk over.

“Please. The easiest way to understand the concept of infinity is to start sleeping with writers in New York.”

At the bar, Meredith ordered something called an electric martini, a funky blue drink served in a stylishly retro glass. Quinn got a club soda with a twist of lime, served in an oversized, inelegant tumbler. The two women remained by the bar for several minutes as they scanned the room, trying to catch a glimpse of Walt St. Pierre. When Quinn’s eyes reached the right side of the room, she saw a man’s head turn away quickly, as if he didn’t want her to see him looking at her. Was it just her imagination? She tried to get a better look at the man, but he disappeared into the crowd. All she could tell from that one quick glance was that he was bald. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. Even if someone had been following them, he was probably looking at Meredith, and not at her. Given her friend’s history, there was a good chance she had some screwy admirers.

“I see Walt,” Meredith said, pointing to the left of the room. “There, near the DJ booth.”

The two women took their drinks and pushed their way through the crowd to Walt St. Pierre, who was chatting with another man. Quinn kissed him on the cheek—successfully this time—and shouted over the music to introduce him to Meredith.

“She runs Baston’s Books,” Quinn said.

“I love that store,” said the other man. He introduced himself as J.D., and Quinn wondered if Meredith would make a play for him instead of Walt. He was young and handsome, with short blond hair, a pretty smile, and what Quinn assumed was a spray-on tan.

They made small talk over the music, chatting about the weather and the party. J.D. smiled at Quinn several times, and she was surprised that he seemed more interested in her than in her leggy friend. Or maybe it was her cleavage. She caught his eyes wandering to her chest more than once. Quinn cursed herself for not changing out of her atomicpowered bra.

J.D. asked what everyone was drinking and then went off toward the bar.

“I’d love for you to do an event at our store,” Meredith said to Walt, laying a hand on his arm. “I heard you give great . . . book talks.”

Quinn cringed. Her friend was laying it on so thick.

“That’s because I really enjoy giving ... book talks,” Walt answered, giving Meredith’s lithe body the once-over.

She moved closer. “So many authors just go through the motions.”

“That just never pays off,” he said.

“A good book talk can really move people,” Meredith said.

Quinn wanted to tell her friend that this banter sounded like the script of a bad porno movie, but she didn’t want to cramp her style, and was glad when J.D. showed up with the drinks a few minutes later. She thanked him and asked what he did for a living, happy to extricate herself from Walt and Meredith’s verbal tango.

“I’m an underworld crime boss,” J.D. said quickly. A well-rehearsed joke, no doubt.

“I could tell you were Sicilian,” Quinn joked back. He had translucent blue eyes and blond lashes.

“Actually I’m a nuclear physicist,” he said.

“I think I’m more inclined to believe the crime boss story.”

“I’m a Manhattan district attorney,” he said.

“Nuh-uh.” She didn’t believe that, either.

“Retired general?”

She laughed. He was in his late twenties.

“I’m a dot-com millionaire,” he said.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you invented Yahoo! or something.”

“Don’t be silly. I would never insult your intelligence with such a ridiculous lie.”

“Thank goodness.”

“I invented Windows.”

She folded her arms. “I think that was Bill Gates.”

“Help me out here,” he said. “I’m trying to figure out what would impress you.”

“The truth,” she said.

“I’ve never tried that.”

“Always a first time.”

He cleared his throat. “The truth,” he said, “is that I’m an actor. An
aspiring
actor.”

“That I believe,” she said.

She asked about his career, and he told her about finding an agent and going on auditions. She told him about the career of her soon-to-be brother-in-law, and it turned out J.D. had once auditioned for the same soap. They continued talking until a song with a fast beat came on and J.D. asked Quinn to dance.

“Why not?” she said, and followed him to the dance floor, where they moved and sweated to three different songs before Quinn said she needed to sit down.

J.D. found an empty table for them and left Quinn while he went to get more drinks. By the time he returned, Quinn was so thirsty she downed half her drink in one long gulp.

“This is just club soda, right?”

“With a little Rose’s Lime Juice for kick,” he said.

“Is there alcohol in that?” she asked.

“In Rose’s? No. It’s just a tangy mixer.”

“That’s all?”

“Promise.”

She finished the rest of her drink while J.D. talked about the ups and downs of his career. By the time he got to a story about getting a bit part on
Law & Order,
Quinn realized she was having trouble following his story.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Just a little dizzy,” she said. “Probably my pregnancy hormones telling me to slow down.”

He looked shocked. “You’re pregnant?”

“Five months.”

He looked at her drink. “Oh, fuck.”

She sniffed it. “You didn’t.”

“Vodka,” he said. “The lime juice is so concentrated it masks it.”

“Oh, my God!”

“I . . . I didn’t know. Walt didn’t tell me you were pregnant.”

“But I
asked
you what was in it!”

“I thought you were in on the joke.”

Without thinking, Quinn threw what little was left of the drink in his face and stormed off. She wobbled downstairs to the main level, where she found herself pacing, trying to shake off the effects of the vodka and think. What should she do? Had she consumed enough alcohol to harm the baby? She looked around. In the shadows by the staircase she could make out the figure of a man. Was it the bald guy who had been watching her upstairs?

To hell with him
, she thought, taking a seat at the bar.
If he comes over here, I’ll tell him to get lost
.

She asked the bartender for a glass of water, thinking it might be a good idea to try to flush the alcohol from her system. Had she heard about that someplace? She couldn’t remember, but at the very least it wouldn’t hurt.

She drank it quickly and got a refill. As she sipped it, she started to get an odd feeling, as if there were a portal nearby. Was the alcohol clouding her judgment? She looked left and right, but couldn’t get a sense of where it might be.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to focus on what she was picking up from the other side. Nothing came, and Quinn dismissed the sensation as imaginary. She was probably just thinking about her single days with Eugene because this party reminded her of that lifestyle.

Suddenly, Quinn became aware that her bladder was so full she had to get to the bathroom immediately. When she stood, her head was spinning, and she held on to the bar for a minute to steady herself. She glanced in the direction of the ladies’ room and thought she saw the bald man again. She looked harder and saw nothing, so she dismissed the notion as drunken paranoia. Quinn went into the bathroom, pushed her way into a stall, and peed with relief, feeling as though she could fall asleep right there on the toilet. But she forced herself to stand and managed to go through the motions of washing her hands before leaving the bathroom.

In the narrow hallway, she smelled something appealing—a familiar aftershave. Was it her imagination, or was it the scent Eugene wore? Maybe she had caught a whiff of it earlier, and that was why she thought she had sensed a portal nearby. Perhaps it was just some man wearing Eugene’s cologne.

She leaned against the wall for support and closed her eyes. She was still so damned dizzy.

“Hello.”

It sounded like Eugene’s voice, which made her shut her eyes even tighter. How could she be hearing Eugene? Was there a portal nearby after all? This was all too much. After the mess of accepting his proposal and sleeping with him, she wanted to forget all about it. She wanted to be a normal person with one life, one husband, and decisions that couldn’t be undone.

She had to get out of this place, to put some distance between herself and the very bewildering portal she sensed.

Quinn opened her eyes and stepped forward, almost crashing into the man standing in front her.

“Excuse me,” she said, without looking at his face.

The man grabbed her shoulders. “Quinn,” he said.

She looked up. It was the bald man. She recognized him immediately, but it took her a few seconds to find her voice.

“Eugene?” she said.

“You look so shocked—like you’ve just seen a ghost. I haven’t aged
that
much, have I? Except for the shaved head, that is.”

“I . . . I didn’t expect to see you here. Walt had said you couldn’t make it.”

Eugene made a face. “He can be such a fuckwit sometimes.”

Quinn tried to reconcile the two realities. There was the Eugene she had made love with in Fiji a few days before, and the man standing in front of her now. She took a deep breath, slowing her pulse. “I guess . . . I guess he assumed I wouldn’t come if you were here.”

“Is that true? Would you have stayed away on my account?”

She pictured the scene in their apartment ten years before, when she told him she was moving out. At first he didn’t believe her—he just couldn’t accept it. Then he tried to change her mind with a massive guilt trip. When it became clear that wouldn’t work, he got angry and told her that if she left him he would never speak to her again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I figured you hated me,” she said. “You were pretty angry when I left.”

There was one small overhead light in the dark vestibule where they stood, and it shined directly in Eugene’s face. He seemed to be remembering. “I don’t hate you anymore,” he said.

“You don’t?”

“I just dislike you intensely.”

She felt stricken. Why had she ever agreed to come to this party?

“I’m kidding,” he said.

“You are?”

“It was ages ago. I’ll admit I was furious for a long time. But what guy would be able to handle his girlfriend leaving him for Louie the taxi man?”

“Lewis,” she corrected. “Not Louie. And he bears no resemblance to the Danny DeVito character from
Taxi.”

“Do you mind if I go on picturing him like that?”

She laughed. “Suit yourself.”

“I was actually worried you wouldn’t want to talk to
me
, especially if you were here with . . . whatever his name is. I tried to stay out of your way until I could figure out if you were alone.”

So that was why he had been tailing her all night. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?” she asked.

“Just that everything is okay now. That’s all.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and left it at that. She didn’t want to ask him about his career, which she figured was a sore point. She was just happy to know he didn’t bear a grudge and that his life was okay.

“I’ve got a pretty good gig upstate. I never knew I would like being in a small market, but it’s not bad.”

“Less stress?”

“That’s the key,” he said. “I don’t feel like I have to prove anything. I get to be the hottest ticket in town.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“And then there’s Linda.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Almost five years now. What about you? How’s married life? I think I heard you had a kid.”

“Isaac. He’s six. A beautiful, amazing boy. And get this—my mother’s artistic talent skipped a generation and went straight to him.”

Eugene was quiet for a moment, then he reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “I read about your mom in the paper,” he said. “I’m so sorry. She was a great broad.”

Quinn nodded. She was too choked to speak. She was accustomed to people asking about her mother, but it was rare to run into someone who knew her and loved her. It made the tragedy of her death seem so fresh.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She wasn’t. She wasn’t okay at all. And the question was all it took to push her over the edge. She simply couldn’t keep back the tears. Eugene took her in his arms and held her close. His tenderness felt like the permission she needed to let go completely, and her shoulders shook with sobs. She remembered how much her mother loved Eugene, how his teasing lit her up. At that moment, she couldn’t help thinking she had made a terrible mistake. If she had only stayed with Eugene, her mother would be alive now. It didn’t mean she didn’t love Lewis and Isaac with all her heart, but the unfairness of the trade-off was too much to bear.