The Wife of Reilly (32 page)

“You’re not giving me the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, are you?”

“But it
is
me,” I pleaded. “Can’t you see how fucked up I am?”

“Actually, Prudence, I can. It’s the only thing that keeps me from really hating you. Don’t get me wrong, there are days I want to break down the door and kill you for what you did. I thought we were happy. You were running an escort service so you could dump me for another guy. It wasn’t enough for you to divorce me; you had to humiliate me in the process. I’d better stop thinking about it because honestly I can’t guarantee that I’m not going to jump across this table and strangle you right now.” He took a sip of water and resumed with a calmer tone. “I go through this every single day, Prudence. Every goddamned day I am enraged by you, I am humiliated by you, I am heartbroken by you. But after all this, one question kept lingering in my mind. And that was, what kind of person does this?”

He paused to take his first bite of salad. Then his second. It didn’t seem as though he were going to finish his thought.

“And?” I said.

“And what?” he asked.

“And what did you come up with? What kind of person am I to have done this to you?”

“Oh,” he laughed. “A screwed-up person. I’m sorry, I thought that was clear. A very screwed-up person. But not an evil person. Just very screwed up, and I’m not trying to be nasty by saying this, but if this is who you are, I think I’m better off without you.”

Why bother lunging across the table to strangle me when you can kill me with your words? You don’t even have to take a break from your salad this way.

“So, what happened to your leg anyway?” Reilly said in an obvious attempt to shift to neutral. When I told him about my ski accident, he seemed to take a bit of pleasure at the thought of my knee snapping against the frozen earth. “Since when do you ski anyway, Prudence?” He laughed a bit.

“I was on vacation and decided to give it a try,” I said sheepishly, hoping this conversation would not continue its logical progression. “You know, Reilly, remember what you said back at the apartment, about needing to think about other things so your blood wouldn’t boil every time you think about me?”

He nodded affirmatively.

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” I said. “I’d understand if you don’t want my opinion on this, but can I give it to you anyway?”

He nodded again.

“Let your blood boil over what happened, Reilly. You’ve got every right to be angry at me. I mean, I really, really wasn’t trying to hurt you, but I can see that I did. I think you really ought to get angry about it, and let yourself feel hurt over it. Don’t try to think about something else instead.”

“I don’t get it, Prudence,” he said. “You
want me to hate you?”

“No, I don’t. I want you to get over it, but I think the only way to get over your anger is to go through it first, you know?” I said. “I want you to hate me for a while so you don’t have to forever. Does that make sense?”

Reilly smiled. “You know, it does. I hate that you’re making sense. I prefer to think of you as totally off-the-wall. So much easier to be rejected by a mental case than by a woman who, once in a blue moon, says something somewhat insightful. One more thing to hate about you, Prudence. My list just keeps getting longer and longer.”

After we ordered our dinner, a familiar-looking blond woman and her mother passed by our table. The older woman wore a felt hat with a beaded peacock sewn on the left side. They both had the same hair, sloped noses and wide-set green eyes, making it clear they were related. The younger woman turned to our table and pointed at me as if she were trying to recall where she knew me from. “Cooking Without Recipes, right?” she said.

“Yes, yes, I thought you looked familiar,” I said to her. “Wasn’t that teacher bizarre?”

“Oh my God, when she made you eat that bloody omelet, I thought I was going to hurl,” she said, laughing. “Oh excuse me, this is my mother, Renee Petersen. Mom, this is, I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“Prudence, Prudence Malone, and this is Reilly,” I said, unsure of his title. I could see the chemistry that had sparked between them. Reilly looked at Sarah the same way he did me back when we were at Wharton together. Only this time he did not seem shy and awkward. Reilly looked confident, like he knew how to handle himself with a woman.

“I’m Sarah Petersen,” she said to me. Then to Reilly. Sarah had a lovely grace about her. She was tall and slim with a Norwegian look about her. Very exotic and yet elegant. I felt her wondering what the relationship between Reilly and me was. Which made three of us.

“Reilly is my soon-to-be-ex-husband,” I told Sarah matter-of-factly. “We’re just going over the terms of our divorce. It’s all very amicable. That’s just the kind of guy he is. It’s just impossible to hate him, even after what he put me through,” I winked.

Reilly shot me a look as if to say, “Put away the commemorative mug.”

“Renee, Sarah, won’t you join us for dinner? We just ordered our entrees three minutes ago,” I told them.

“Thank you for the offer, but we’ve just finished,” Sarah said. She lifted a small paper bag. “See, these are
my
leftovers.” How anyone could say a bitchy thing like that and have it come out sounding so completely charming was beside me. Reilly and I were simultaneously falling in love with her.

“What do you do, Sarah?” Reilly asked.

You go, boy!

She pursed her lips together to keep from smiling too broadly. “I’m a freelance journalist.”

“Well, that’s a bit modest, Sarah,” sounded Mom. “She writes for
Business Week
,
Fortune
,
Forbes
, and
The Economist
and wrote for
Success
before they went under. No fault of Sarah’s, of course.”

“Mom, I’ve
never
written for
The Economist
,” Sarah corrected.

“That’s right, you wrote about one. Sorry, I get confused with all of these financial magazines. She writes for the
Wall Street Journal
too.”

“Mom’s my agent,” Sarah rolled her eyes.

“Reilly is actually an international business consultant,” I added. “Yes, he’s at Sheehan, Walsh and Warren. They do —”

“You don’t have to tell me what Sheehan, Walsh and Warren does,” Sarah interrupted before turning her attention back to Reilly. “You guys are legendary after what you did for Cheung Kong after the Hong Kong property market collapsed in ’98. People are still talking about how you got a meeting with Li through Tung Che-wa, and then floored him by giving your entire pitch in Cantonese. Wait, you’re not Reilly Sheehan, are you?”

Eighty-seven dates and a gallery exhibit, and all I had to do was take Reilly out to divorce dinner to find a woman for him?

“Wow, well, now I’m even more sorry that we’re done with dinner. I’d love to talk with you more about where you see Hong Kong going in light of China entering the WTO.”

Did you hear that, Reilly? Did you hear how she said she’s “even more sorry” than before? She was sorry before because she was missing out on dinner with such a cutie, but now she’s “even more” sorry. That’s code, baby. And let me translate: She wants you!

* * *

Reilly walked me back to the loft with a lot less hostility than he had on the walk to the restaurant. He muted his smile and turned to me. “Don’t even think you orchestrated this, Prudence,” he said. “You’re not claiming credit for my meeting Sarah. You cannot walk away from this thinking your plan all worked out in the end, do you hear me? This was a coincidence, nothing more.”

“Reilly, why can’t our story have a happy ending?”

“Because what you did was screwed up.
You
are screwed up, Prudence!” he shouted.

“So?! The screwed-up deserve only misery? Who needs a happy ending more than the screw-ups of the world?”

Reilly put my arm around his shoulder and told me it was simply because he couldn’t stand watching me hobble anymore. “We are not friends, Prudence. We will never be friends, do you hear me? I just happen to be in a charitable mood.”

“Reilly, she’s all over you. Call her tomorrow like you said you would. Don’t play the wait-three-days game.” And then I remembered, he never did.

“You are not off the hook, Prudence Malone. I’m not kidding. You can never undo what you did to me, do you understand? I think you are a liar, a cheater and an absolute nut case. I could kill you and a jury would feel sorry for me because I had to spend eleven years with a screwed-up bitch like you.”

“That’s it, baby, feel the rage,” I said, swatting his leg lightly with my crutch.

Chapter 32

When I got home from dinner with Reilly, I made a cup of Sleepytime tea and slipped into my pajamas for the night. I shook out my hair, brushed my teeth and looked at myself in the mirror. Lines from my nostrils to my outer lips were beginning to form and my neck was forming what Sophie calls “tree rings.” Never had the aging process seemed less gradual.

Outside of my bedroom window, I saw the stark branches of a ginkgo tree lit by a yellow streetlight. A group of four or five tipsy young voices admired one of Daniel’s sculptures in the gallery window, as the group walked by in heels that sounded as heavy as horseshoes. After checking the time, I decided to call Matt. I settled into bed and flipped the switch to illuminate my stars. As I dialed, I wondered why he hadn’t called me by now. I’d been home an entire day already without a word from him. I resolved to have the big talk with him once and for all. That night, no excuses.

“Malone, I was just about to call you,” Matt said excitedly when he heard my voice. “I have got really big news. Remember the guy I met with about the film? He found us another producer, and we’ve got the final chunk of money we need to finish the movie.”

“Congratulations, Matt, you must be elated,” I said.

“Elated is not the word, Malone.”

“I’m glad I caught you in a good mood, because there are some things I think we need to talk about.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Matt said. “You’re not breaking up with me, are you?”

I didn’t like the sound of
that
. He was so casual in his delivery. If it were me I would have broached the topic with a tone of great trepidation. “You’re not,” I’d say before a dramatic pause. Then I’d lower my voice as though I were announcing the war-dead, “breaking up with me, are you?” Oh well, I suppose he doesn’t have to respond
exactly
the way I would have, I realized.

“Of course not, Matt. I want to hammer down a date for our wedding, figure out where we’re going to live and talk about, you know, the whole kids issue.”

“Oh, is that all?” he laughed.

“Actually, no,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me why we, why you ended things between us after college.”

“Malone, do we have to do this tonight?” Matt asked. “I kind of just wanted to celebrate.”

“I thought our getting things settled would be a good thing. I know it’s not drinking champagne out of my shoe or anything, but it would be a good step for us, I think.”

“Drinking champagne out of
your shoe
? Why would I drink champagne out of your shoe?”

“Matt, it’s just an expression. Can we at least talk about a wedding date?”

“Yeah, no problem,” he resigned. “Can you hold for a minute, though? The other line is beeping.”

I wondered why I even wanted to rehash something that happened between us fifteen years ago. Couldn’t I let the past be the past and just focus on our future? People grow and change after fifteen years. Why wasn’t that enough of an answer for me? Why did I insist on making him a guest on my own personal
Oprah Winfrey Show?

Where the hell is that man, anyway?

“Malone, are you still there?” he rushed back. “I’m so sorry about that. It was Rick’s friend, Curtis, calling about the film. There are some Pasteur descendants who are up in arms about our film and are threatening to sue.”

As well they should. But wait, back to me, Matt.

“Matt, why didn’t you ever return my phone calls after you got back from Europe that summer?” I asked firmly.

Matt sighed. “Why are we beating this dead horse?”

His dead horse reference reminded me of the scene in Matt’s film where Louis Pasteur was pouring arsenic into the hay bales after the bank turned him down for a loan. Did they even do bank loans back then?

“It’s not a dead horse to me,” I said.

“But it is to me,” he returned quickly.

We had a silent stand-off for a few moments. “Look, I was very young. I didn’t want to get tied down when you were going to be in Philly and I would be in L.A. I was twenty-two years old. I was a different person than I am now.”

“How?”

“I’m older and wiser, Malone. I don’t know. What do you want me to say? I’m sure you’re the one, okay?!”

“Well, what if you change your mind. Would you tell me? Or would you just disappear from my life again?”

“This is the real deal, babe. I’m never going to leave you,” he assured me.

“Okay then, the last woman you dated. Did you end it, or did she?”

“I did,” he said.

“How did you break it off?” I asked.

“I don’t know, we just did,” he said, annoyed.

“Well, how? Did you take her to a restaurant and give her the ‘it’s been great’ speech. Did you send her an e-mail? How did you break up with her?”

God forbid he should ask me the same question.

“I don’t remember, let me check my diary. We just ended it, that’s all,” he grew more impatient.

“Aloud?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you even tell her it was over, or did you just let her figure it out on her own?”

“Who fucking cares about how I broke up with Sandreen? It’s you and me now. I’m sure if you talked to her today, she’d say I handled it fine.”