The Post-Birthday World (52 page)

The telephone seemed wasteful. She grabbed her jacket, and flew out the door. On the way to Blue Sky, her stride grew so long and light that for short distances she broke into a run. In the lobby of Churchill House, she begged the receptionist not to forewarn her “husband” of her presence—everyone here thought they were married—because she wanted to surprise him.

She surprised him. The door to his office was closed, but no de facto wife should have to knock.

Something wasn’t quite right. Surely those two ought to have been sitting on either side of his desk, or contemplating his computer screen. Even if they were conferring together on the couch, shouldn’t there be papers? Although it wasn’t that the duo was too cozy; by the time she got the heavy door open, they were sitting bizarrely far apart.
“What are you doing here?” asked Lawrence in a strangled voice.
“Funny,” said Irina lightly. “I was about to ask the same thing about
Bethany.
”
“Oh, just consulting about work stuff,” said Bethany brightly, standing and smoothing her tiny skirt. “It would bore you. Ta,
Yasha
!” With a blazing smile at Irina, the little tart swished out the door.
Irina had arrived with wonderful news. In willing that its delivery
would be
wonderful, she struck out the last sixty seconds in her head with a dark line of Magic Marker, like one of those redacted manuscripts of declassified documents issued to satisfy Freedom of Information requests. She even deleted the fact that
Bethany
had a special name for Lawrence—a Russian diminutive for a middle name with which Bethany had no reason to be acquainted. Bethany and Lawrence were colleagues. These people were surely in and out of each other’s offices all the time.
Given the cheerful nature of her errand, she even managed to put out of mind her running grudge over the fact that the illustration from
Seeing Red
that she’d framed in glass for Lawrence’s Christmas present two and a half years ago was still propped against the wall—though she had lugged it here herself. Blue Sky was fussy about not putting holes in the plaster, and Lawrence had never gotten round to asking the housekeeping staff to run a wire from the cornice.
So she told him. He hugged her, and proposed a fabulously expensive dinner to celebrate that very night. He declared his utter confidence that she would win. Only in his arms did the honor come home. * * *

Although while dressing for the reception in the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue Irina was understandably nervous, the scale of her anxiety seemed disproportionate. Try as she might to protect herself from getting her hopes up, she knew in her gut that

Ivan and the Terribles
would clinch this prize. So the source of her fretfulness while she wrestled with her unruly hair had little to do with girding for defeat.

By unhappy coincidence, Jude Hartford was also short-listed for the Lewis Carroll. Ever since Irina had spotted her name in the

Telegraph
article about the award she’d been trying to fashion an attitude with which to confront the woman. Curiously, Irina couldn’t cite a single romantic breakup over which she still harbored strong feelings of any kind—be they good-riddance or good wishes. By contrast, the rare friendship that had blown up in her face left a jagged edge that for years later she could still run her tongue over like a broken tooth. Friendships aren’t supposed to take on the apocalyptic structure of romance; like old soldiers, they might fade away, but never die. Breakups like the one Irina went through with Jude, replete with the harsh words and total renunciations of a lovers’ quarrel, defied the natural order. Mortal clashes between friends have about them a savage gratuitousness; romantic partings, in retrospect, a soothing quality of the inevitable. Thus Irina’s umbrage even after five years still felt raw.

“Hey, that is one hot dress,” said Lawrence.

Irina bit her lip. “You don’t think it’s too short?”
“Hell, no. You’ve got a whole two inches before the hem hits crotch.” “It’s more low-cut than I realized in the store. Maybe I should wear

that little black jacket.”

“Don’t. You look sexy.”
Irina was surprised; he’d usually say
cute.
“I thought it makes you uneasy when I look sexy.”

“That’s a load of horseshit. Where’d you get that idea?” “You don’t like it when I dress up.”

“I don’t like it when
I
have to dress up.”
“Speaking of which . . .” She gave the familiar dark Dockers and

threadbare button-down with no tie a disparaging once-over. He was such a handsome man if he just stood up straight and made an effort! “I hate to break it to you, but I think most of the men will be wearing tuxes.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to feel sorry for them, then. Are you edgy about seeing Jude?”

“A little,” she admitted. “I haven’t a clue what to say to her.”
“Tell her to go fuck herself. Tell her that you’re more talented than she is, and smarter than she is, and that you’re incredibly relieved not to have to listen to her tired liberal bromides at dinner anymore. Tell her that you’re going to win tonight, and that
The Love Diet
is the most pathetic piece of PC crap you’ve ever seen. Just because she can’t keep her hands off the Twinkies doesn’t mean that every pork-wad kid in the country should
lu-u-v
themselves, and that it’s okay to be overweight.”
“Actually, the book is practically Atkins for eight-year-olds. But thanks for your diplomatic advice.” Lawrence had a way of siding with Irina in such extremity that he drove her to her own adversary’s defense.
Indeed, Lawrence hadn’t read the competition carefully. Jude’s storybook was about a chunky little girl who grows so smitten by a boy at school that she cannot eat. Never a worthy object for her affections, the little boy is unremittingly chilly and difficult. Yet meantime the protagonist slims down so in her lovelorn state that every other boy in her class is stuck on her—happy ending.

Trailing apprehensively behind Lawrence, Irina entered the events room to mark Jude’s presence at the far end by the drinks table—in a form-fitting evening dress, looking amazingly svelte. But it wasn’t sighting Jude that hit her midsection like a right hook.

The sensation recalled Irina’s real-life version of Jude’s little storybook. In junior high school before her braces came off, she would often walk into the cafeteria and spot the handsome student-council president, on whom she’d had a torturous crush for three years straight. She’d sit nearby but never at the same table, straining to overhear his conversation while feeling so self-conscious of her own that she could barely ask her girlfriend what she thought of the tuna-melt. In those days, it was rational to be anxious—of drawing attention to herself; of not drawing attention to herself. Yet at forty-six, she could not put her finger on why this unexpected apparition in the Pierre Hotel would likewise stab her stomach to the point of nausea. In any event, that tall, tuxedoed gentleman at Jude Hartford’s side was none other than Ramsey Acton.

As she and Lawrence advanced, neither of their old friends seemed to notice them, so intently were they engaged with each other in hushed, urgent-sounding tones. Ramsey’s hand on Jude’s arm confirmed that they’d gotten back together. Irina felt a curious little sag.

Jude looked up with a distracted, harried expression. “Oh, hi there!” Her delivery was aerated as ever, but her eyes were vacant. They did the whole cheek-kissing thing; pecking Ramsey, Irina lingered to inhale.

“Just like old times!” Irina said with nervous gaiety. “Our old foursome is back.”

“Yes, it’s quite a coincidence,” said Jude aimlessly.
“Well, maybe it isn’t,” said Irina, straining to be generous. “Maybe it’s just talent—both being talented . . . You know, cream rising to the top.” She hated herself for acting as if all that acrimony had never happened. But the twist of Jude’s face implied that she truly couldn’t recall the ugliness of their last encounter, being much more absorbed by some misery in the present.
“Call me prejudiced,” said Lawrence, “but I think
Ivan and the Terribles
is fantastic.” He gripped Irina’s waist.
In turn, Ramsey slid an arm around Jude’s shoulder, which he massaged with his left hand as if kneading a dry, resistant mass of pasta dough. Jude had never seemed very sensual—she was too tense, too highly strung—and didn’t appear to be enjoying the attentions. He had beautiful hands. Irina thought,
What a waste.
“So, you two”—she nodded at the couple—“are giving it another go?”
Jude managed an anemic smile. “Authors are prone to sequels.”
“Not a promising analogy, pet,” Ramsey chided. “Your average sequel is never near as good as the original.”
“To be honest,” Jude said with that faintly hysterical laugh, rearranging her stance in such a way as to shuck Ramsey’s arm, “having a hard time topping your own success is generally only a problem when you had a success to begin with!”
Irina was not sure what they had walked in on, and tried to turn to a neutral subject. “I’ve missed our birthday dinners,” she told Ramsey. “I have as well,” he said with feeling. “And didn’t you miss a corker last summer.”
“I pulled out all the stops for Ramsey’s fiftieth,” said Jude. “Hired a room in the Savoy. Invited the whole snooker crowd, and not a few of the haut monde. To be quite honest, it was terribly dear! But everyone— everyone
else
—said it was the occasion of the year.”
“I don’t fancy a lot of fuss,” Ramsey muttered.
“Yes, sweetie,” said Jude with a pressed-lip smile. “Several thousand quid later, I got that message loud and clear.”
“Hey, Ramsey!” said Lawrence, clapping the snooker player’s shoulder. “Congratulations on winning the championship!”
“Cheers, mate,” said Ramsey lightly.
“Lawrence and I watched the final on the BBC,” said Irina, omitting the fact that Lawrence had lobbied for
CSI
instead. “It was wonderful. And finishing with a 147!”
“Don’t happen every day,” he conceded. “Shame our friend Jude here had to wash her hair.”
“I had
previous commitments
!” said Jude with exasperation. “You didn’t
go
?” asked Irina in astonishment.
“I’d have been there if I could have been. Though to be honest, snooker’s never been my cup of tea.”
“Oh, I’ve only gotten more interested!” said Irina passionately. “It’s a bit different when you’ve not much choice.”
Now a bona fide fan, Irina was mystified how Jude could hook up with a snooker pro and be so wearied by the sport. If
she
were with Ramsey Acton, she’d go to every match! But Irina had resolved to be gracious. “By the way, Jude—congratulations yourself!”
“Sorry?” Jude seemed to have forgotten why she was here. “For being short-listed for the Lewis Carroll, of course.” “Oh, that!” Jude said absently. “Well, mine can’t possibly win.” “Why not?”
“Just a presentiment.” Jude looked worn out. Round patches of rouge stood out like tiddlywinks; underneath her cheeks were surely drawn. “Yours, though. It has a proper chance. The illustrations are very clever.”
Clever
was a mile from
good,
its connotations cold and empty, and the conflict from five years ago came back in a rush.
“I see you’ve moved on to computer graphics,” Jude added.
“That’s right,” said Irina coolly. “The book’s sold surprisingly well.”
“Yes,” said Jude with returning coolness. “It would.”
“I think we all need a drink,” said Irina.
As they filtered toward the wine, she fell into step with Ramsey, and drew him aside. “After all you told me at Omen,” she said quietly, “I’m surprised you’re back with Jude.”
“At my age, I’m too knackered to make a new mistake. It’s easier to make the same one.”
“But are things all right between you two?” Just as in Bournemouth four years before, they fell into a ready collusion. “She seems—jumpy.”
“You mean, she’s acting like a right cow. This spot of good fortune— well, success don’t always have an improving effect on people.”
“You should know. You must feel so satisfied. Finally winning that title.”
“Remember what else I told you that night?” He knocked back his wine in a gulp. “
I’m never satisfied.
Get one thing you want, and it clears the way to seeing what else you’re missing.”
She met his eyes. “And what would that be?”
He looked back, but didn’t answer. “You know, something tells me you’re going to win this medal tonight.”
He really shouldn’t have said such a thing to Jude’s competition. “I bet you’ve told the same thing to every girl on the short-list, you cad!”
He didn’t smile. “I ain’t no womanizer. You should know better.”
Their locked gazes had grown uncomfortable, but if she broke eye contact now she’d seem a coward. “Have you read
Ivan
?”
“I read it.”
“Did you understand it?”
“I understood it.” As if to demonstrate as much, he didn’t deliver his next sentence as a non sequitur. “Irina, me and Jude’s planning to get remarried.”
Irina glanced at her toes before looking up again. “I guess that’s very good news.” She shouldn’t have appended the
I guess,
but she couldn’t help it.
“Leastways, maybe I’ll get the house in Spain back,” he said, but the effort at leavening failed. “And you’re married anyway, more or less. What else is a bloke to do? I reckon you’re greedy, pet. Like to have your cake, and make eyes at it as well.”
It was the closest either had come to acknowledging that temptation on his forty-seventh birthday, and the moment was so ungainly that Irina was grateful for the intrusion behind her. “Irina Galina!” Only one person in the world pronounced that double-barrel without irony, and Irina turned to hug her mother with much fanfare.
“Pozdravlyayu tebya!”
Though Raisa congratulated her daughter, her plunging crimson gown indicated a little confusion as to which member of the family was the star of the hour.
“A eto shtoza krasavets?”
“The
handsome man
is Ramsey Acton, an old friend of mine. You remember, Lawrence and I mentioned him a while ago. The snooker player.”
Irina was pulled away to meet the judges and press, and left her mother pulling the whole Passionate Russian Number on Ramsey, her hands gesticulating so broadly that she might easily have upended a passing platter of shrimp toast. Putting on a great show of fascination with snooker, Raisa laid on the Slavic accent with a trowel. As a ghastly alternative future flashed before her eyes, Irina was suddenly grateful that Ramsey was engaged.
Thereafter, Irina found herself adjacent to an aristocratic man whose aura of being at sea stirred her compassion. She asked what had brought him here.
“I happened to be in New York for a board meeting, and Jude Hartford asked me to attend,” he said in a plummy British accent. “But the lady’s barely said two words to me. And that snooker chap she’s with— bloody rude!”
“Ramsey, rude?” said Irina incredulously. “You must have misunderstood.”
“I fear I understood all too well, madam. Good-night, my dear. And good luck.”
A nice man, but his story didn’t add up; Ramsey was the most polite, considerate man on earth. To wit, he caught Irina’s ear again. “I met your sister,” he said. “Bird rabbited on—”
“Now, how can a bird
rabbit
?”
“You’re a pedant, you are,” he said affectionately. “Bird
banged
on— that better?” (One grew inured to glottal stops in London, but back in the States his
that be-ah?
was charming.) “About how she was ‘only a housewife and mum,’ different to her sister who’s all famous and such. Never heard a bird so humble on the one hand, and so hacked off as well. Oi, and out of nowhere your woman starts waffling about how you was never cut out to be a mum yourself. How all you care about is your work, and larking about foreign countries, and if you was to have a sprog you’d leave it hanging upside down with marbles in its nose while you had to go and paint another daisy. Quite a sodding earful, that.”
“What did you say?”
“What do you figure? That you was warm, and decent, and smart, and I reckoned you’d make a blinding mum. That got her to shut it.”
Irina laughed, and said without thinking, “I adore you!” as they were all called into dinner.