The Wife of Reilly (16 page)

Undeterred by our resident advertising executive complaining about the commercialism of the season, Sophie said she was looking forward to her first Christmas in New York. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had this romantic notion of Christmas in Manhattan. The lights, the ice skating, the windows at Saks Fifth Avenue,” she swooned.

Jennifer reached her hand across the table onto Sophie’s. “Don’t let me bum your buzz. I just feel completely and utterly alone, but you enjoy, okay?”

“Waiter!” Chad snapped. “Cosmopolitan for the little match girl please.” Turning to Sophie, he rested his elbows on the table. “You’re our city holiday virgin,” he chimed as he stirred his drink. “I’m taking you ice skating at Rockefeller Center, we’ll do the tree lighting, must see the Messiah,” he began to list. “Then when we’re done with that, I know all of the insider, need-to-know-someone type places I can take you.”

“Like where?” Jennifer sulked.

“Oh, nowhere you’d want to be,” Chad said. “Just holiday bullshit. You’d be bored to death,” he winked at her.

Jennifer cracked the slightest of smiles under her flirty, tilted eyes. If they weren’t constantly bickering, and Chad weren’t gay, one would think they were in love.

“Tomorrow
is
another day,” Jennifer said.

Chad’s eyes shot to the windows fearing the fate of the bar’s velvet drapes.

“You know who’s coming in two and a half weeks, right?” I asked.

“Matt,” they answered in polysyllabic unison as if they were imitating the drone of kids in the classroom saying, “Good morning, Mr. Jones.”

“Hey, speaking of the next Mr. Malone,” Jennifer perked up, “how’s the search?”

“Where did I leave you guys last time?” I asked.

“The lesbian,” Chad said.

“Wow, it’s been a while. Okay, let me fill you in. I’m on hold right now till Reilly leaves, but last week there was Lisa who bored me within ten minutes going on and on about some ridiculous new miracle diet that only allowed her to eat same-colored foods at each meal,” I began.

“Oh, I heard about this one,” Jennifer added, energized by the topic of the hunt for Reilly’s new wife. “This is the one who mixed rice, milk and sugar and drank it from a sports bottle, right?”

“That’s the one. Pretty low calorie, huh? Anyway, I think I may have dated the daughter of the KKK Grand Dragon who went into her ‘what’s wrong with America today’ speech before water was on the table. You’ll appreciate this, Jennifer,” I said, turning to her. “She said she really liked the part of Reilly’s letter that specified ‘no boroughs’ because, let me try to remember exactly how she put it…. Oh yes, she said that ‘the coloreds’ were ruining the neighborhood in Queens where she grew up.”

“
Coloreds
?! She used the word coloreds?”

“Not exclusively.”

“How seventies.”

I continued as our food was served and we began to eat. “One woman spent a half-hour listing all her phobias,” I said, taking a bite of my goat-cheese-and-pesto pizza. “Get this. She said she has such a fear of flying, she needs to take a tranquilizer to make a plane reservation.”

“Now that’s scary in and of itself,” laughed Chad.

“One woman told me that she and her husband broke up when her baby was two weeks old,” I reported.

“Men are such assholes,” Sophie offered. “The bastard was probably upset because the baby cried all night or he couldn’t have sex or —”

“She had an affair,” I interrupted.

“God, that’s even worse. What kind of bastard cheats on his wife right after she’s given birth to his child?!”

“
She
had an affair,” I stressed. “She met a guy when she was six months pregnant and started carrying on with him. Can you believe?”

They all stared with knit brows. “
She
had an affair?” Sophie clarified. “What kind of man is going to have sex with a lady out to here?” She made a pregnant belly with her hands.

“That’s worse than you, love,” Chad said.

“What a freak,” Jennifer perked up. “Go on, my Prozac in Prada. I love hearing about your freaky dates.”

“Okay, last week I went out to dinner with a woman, and when the waiter asked her how her salad was, she said it could use twenty-five percent less dressing and a better means of distribution.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Chad, trying not to laugh.

“Too much dressing on some leaves, and not enough of it on others,” Sophie answered. “I hate it when they do that. You get no dressing on the top, then it’s like a bowl of soup at the bottom. She was right to complain. They need to toss it around a bit. If I go out and pay good money for a meal, it damn well better be prepared well.”

“Okay, another woman told me her gift was revisionism,” I attempted.

“Again, what does that mean, love?” Chad asked.

“She said she only remembers the good in life and forgets the rest. This way she only has happy memories.”

Jennifer loved that one. “
This
is my competition out there! I’ll bet anyone at this table a thousand bucks that Miss Smiley Face is married before I am. Keep her number. I’ve got to track this bitch. We should track all of them and publish some sort of report.”

“Easy, love,” Chad held out his hand like a crossing guard stopping her. “This is not the normal pool of women. These are women who answer ads in the newspaper.”

“That’s so unfair, Chad,” I protested. “People have busy lives. This is a legitimate way to meet people. Not everyone can fall in love the old-fashioned way.”

“Old-fashioned way, nothing!” Chad said. “Listen, I met Daniel while he was doing makeup for drag queens for the Leather Fest variety show in Bangor, Maine. You don’t see that one too often in the ‘how we met’ stories in the old Ann Landers column. Please. My point is that the personal ads are for people who look better on paper than in person.”

“Chad, that’s so cruel,” I shot.

He dabbed his fake tears with an invisible hanky. “How callous of me, love,” he sniffed. “So, when exactly are you going to tell Reilly you killed him to be with another man, anyway, oh great goddess of compassion?”

“Don’t even start,” I defended. “This is the most humane way to handle the situation.”

“Humane?” Jennifer laughed. “Sounds like you’re euthanizing a sick cat.” They all laughed, as I wondered if they were interested in helping me with my predicament, or simply considered my romantic foibles fodder for their caustic comedy.

“I know a lot of people who’ve met their husbands this way,” Sophie told us. “Either in the paper or online.”

Jennifer sat upright in her seat. “That’s what you oughtta do, Pru. Set up a web site through one of these online matchmakers. Takemyex.com, brought to you by Match.com. What d’ya think? For the cheater with a conscience.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea, love. Not the cheaters part, but I kind of like the online recycling aspect of it,” said Chad. “Okay, go on, more, more.”

* * *

My cell phone rang on the walk home. Matt. I had left three messages and was dying to catch up on the last twenty-six hours with him.

“Hello,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Oh hi, Father. No, I just didn’t expect it to be you…. No, it’s fine…. What can I do for you?” Father said he was sorry I was not going to be able to spend Thanksgiving with him, but was looking forward to Christmas.
Yada yada yada.
I looked at my watch, subtracting three hours from New York time. Where was Matt anyway? Why hasn’t he called? The call waiting interrupted as Father was telling me to send my mother his regards. This undoubtedly was to remind me that she had forgiven him. Subtext: why can’t I?

“Can you hold for a second, please?” It was Matt. “Hang on a second, I’ve got to get rid of this call.” Click. “Okay then, Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Father. I’ve got to take this call. I’ll talk to you another time, okay?”

Hearing Matt’s voice was like sliding into an easy chair after a long day. I had absolutely nothing to say, nor did he, but we spent a good half-hour chatting about that vitally important nothingness. Smiling foolishly, I walked down the street hugging the love of my life to my ear.

* * *

The next day I went into Dr. Kaplan’s office for my plastic surgery consultation. He was
the
man to see for eyelids, but was also known for his wonderful work with asses. When I arrived at the office, I was caught off guard by the sight of Father’s wife Carla sitting in the reception area buried behind a copy of
Redbook.
I looked down at the floor and gave the receptionist my name in a muted voice.

“Malone?” she said loudly. “How are you spelling Malone?”

Can you please keep it down?! How many ways are there to spell Malone anyway? It’s the same way you spelled Carla’s last name, you half-wit!

“M-A-L-O-N-E,” I said in a whisper as I leaned forward and cupped my face with my right hand.

“And how do you spell Prudence, Miss Malone?” said the twentysomething terrorist behind the marble counter. “P-R-U-D-I?” she began to guess. I tried to bring her voice down by lowering my own even more.

“E, it’s an E not an I,” I corrected.

“So it’s P-R-U-D-E-N-S,” she said, loud as ever.

Perhaps there is a broadcast system we could air this on so the whole fucking building can hear my name!

“No, it’s Prudence. P-R-U-D-E-N-C-E.”

She contorted her smooth face. “I’ve never heard that one before. Prudence, did you say?”

Yes, and my good friend Discretion is coming in later so I suggest you learn her name too.

“And you’re here for a lid consult and collagen, right, Miss Malone?”

Can you please stop using my fucking name?

“I’m not having collagen injections today,” I muttered.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. It says here you weren’t happy with your collagen injections last year and now you want to talk to the doctor about lip implants, Miss Malone.”

What type of time would I be looking at for assault and battery?

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

When she looked up from her notes, the receptionist focused only on my lips. I was no more than a skinny set of lips to her now.

“Okay Miss Malone, you can take a seat now. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

I sank into the mauve velvet couch and reached for a magazine to hide behind. My stomach churned at the thought of making eye contact with Carla. On the other hand, I did gain a sense of satisfaction knowing that even lovely little Carla felt the time had come to plop a few grand on the counter and concede the old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.

“Hello Prudence,” Carla said as she placed her magazine softly on her lap.

“Oh, hello Carla,” I said, trying to pretend I hadn’t noticed her before.

“Funny running into you here,” she said.

Hilarious.

“Are you here for a fanny lift?” Carla asked me.

“No. Eyelids. What about you? Are you in for your ass?” I said, hoping perhaps we could at least agree to keep each other’s secret.

“Me? Goodness no,” Carla answered. “My girlfriend is having a laser peel and I’m driving her back to Larchmont.”

Oh sure, you’re just the chauffeur. I’ve heard that one before.

Then a middle-aged woman who looked like a burn victim was escorted out into the lobby and led to Carla. A nurse handed Carla instructions on caring for her friend, and informed her that a follow-up appointment had already been set.

“Bye Prudence,” Carla sung with victory. “See you at Christmas. Good luck on your fanny lift.”

Dr. Kaplan and his nurse, Sylvia, entered his hunter green carpeted office. The doctor’s desk was massive mahogany, and diplomas from several medical schools hung on the floral papered walls. He explained the eyelid lift procedure and said he could schedule the surgery for early next week.

“How long of a recovery time am I looking at, doctor?”

“You’ll be back to your old self in a week, and in the meantime you’ll have these small bandages on your eyes,” he explained as he showed me the paper-thin tape I would wear.

“I don’t want to look like my old self,” I laughed. “That’s why I’m here.”

Both Dr. Kaplan and Sylvia remained expressionless. “Right,” he said. “Poor choice of words. You’ll be fully recovered in a week. Did you want to see what you’ll look like after the surgery?” he asked, gesturing at his computer.

“I would,” I said excitedly.

Sylvia shot a photo of me on her digital camera, started fiddling around with the computer, and within a few minutes there was an image of a bright-eyed new me on the screen.

“You are going to love how you look without those bags under your eyes,” Sylvia said.

“You could pack for a family holiday in those babies,” the doctor said.

Hey buddy, you’d be out of business without women’s vanity, so watch the attitude.

Sylvia clicked a few buttons and soon before-and-after images of my face appeared on the screen. They talked about the bags under my eyes like they were cancer they were eager to remove. “You’re going to wonder why you let this condition advance for so long once you see the difference,” said Sylvia.

“Can you show me what the lip implants will look like too?” I perked.

The doctor explained that there was a new lip injection available that he’d like to try on me before going with the Gortex implants.

“We use human cell tissue,” said Dr. Kaplan.

“Like stem cells?” I scrunched my face.

“Not exactly. We’re using cadaver cells very successfully for cosmetic use these days.”

“Dead people?” I asked.

“Cadavers,” he corrected.

Dead people.

“I can do it today if you’d like,” offered Dr. Kaplan.

I felt like a contestant on
Jeopardy
who had to come up with an answer in thirty seconds. I practically heard the music in my head.

Then I remembered that Matt would be in New York in just two weeks. When he arrived, I wanted to look like a new woman. A pouty little vixen with the eyes of a teenager.

“Okay, I’ll do it,” I announced.