Читать книгу The Single Life - Liz Wood - Страница 11

Lauren pushed the diced carrots around her plate. Alice Mirosek was saying something about her husband Frank and his camera. Or was it his carburetor? Did it really matter? Either way, Lauren had lost the point to the story, and no one seemed to notice. Why had she come? Why had she let Alice and Clare talk her into it?

Not that there had been any discussion involved. They had pulled the good cop/bad cop routine. First, the good cop had called about the planned get-together.

“I never get to see you anymore now that the kids are gone and you’ve stopped coming to the fitness classes,” Alice had said in that honeyed voice of hers. “It would be nice to catch up. Let’s try lunch at The Green Factory. Clare can make it, too. It’ll be fun, Lauren. Just like old times.”

But it wouldn’t be like old times, not for her anyway. Those times were gone. Gone with the wind. Make that the hurricane.

So Lauren hadn’t promised anything, and she certainly hadn’t bothered to get ready for lunch today. But she hadn’t figured on the bad cop arriving. Like a dark-haired Valkyrie in pursuit of revenge, Clare had pushed her straight into the shower, thrown some clothes on her bed and practically forced her into the car. Nor did her relentless takeover stop when they arrived at The Green Factory. She wouldn’t even allow Lauren to give her order to the boyish-looking waiter. Not that it mattered. She didn’t care what it was anyway, even though she had had a mouthful or two.

Lauren glanced at her friends. At least, they weren’t having any trouble eating. No more than they were with life. No road blocks on their paths to happiness, not even a bump.

Clare said something indiscernible. Alice nodded and continued to talk about Frank. That marriage was obviously still going strong. Which was somewhat surprising, given all the odds against them.

Frank, the rebellious son of New Jersey factory workers, had traded in his youthful rock musician aspirations to work with emotionally disturbed children. Alice was born and bred in the affluent suburb of Oak Park, and it showed, right down to her woolen knit skirt, sensible but expensive leather shoes, and her senior management position at a Chicago bank. Yet Frank and Alice had found something together that Charles and Lauren, with their similar backgrounds, never had. Now that Frank and Alice’s youngest was almost out of college, it seemed to be honeymoon time all over again for them. No wonder Alice couldn’t understand what Lauren was going through. No more than Clare could.

Lauren turned toward the other woman whose black hair, olive-toned skin and dark eyes revealed her Mediterranean origins. She was saying something in her eloquent, persuasive style, gesturing in short, rapid movements to hammer home a point. Lauren noticed again how tiny Clare’s wrists were, making her seem fragile and delicate.

But there was nothing delicate or fragile about Clare. Lauren knew that for a fact. Clare clearly didn’t need anything or anyone—not a husband, not children. Lauren had always thought how empty Clare’s days must be without them. But, looking at her now, it was clear that Clare’s life could hardly be qualified a failure.

Unlike Lauren’s.

Suddenly aware of a lull in the conversation and two pairs of eyes scrutinizing her, Lauren impaled something on her fork and dragged it into her mouth. She chewed with effort, and the big, tasteless lump went down slowly, very slowly.

She didn’t notice Alice reaching over until she felt the squeeze of her hand.

“Clare told me about the house,” Alice said, slowly releasing her grip. “I’m sorry.”

Tilting her head, letting her shoulder-length hair fall around her face like a veil, Lauren kept her eyes on her plate. “Yeah, well.”

“Three heads are better than one, you know. Together we’ll think of something.”

“Have you thought about it?” Clare asked. “What you’re going to do with it?”

Lauren lifted her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know I can’t sell it. Not after all the time I put into it. Not now that I’ve lost everything else. The house…” She glanced around the restaurant and swallowed, hoping no one noticed the break in her voice. She forced herself to look back at the two women. “That would be the last straw.”

“You haven’t lost everything, Lauren,” Alice said. “You have to stop thinking that way.”

“Right.” Lauren set her fork on her plate and leaned back in her chair. “And which way should I be thinking?”

“Certainly not only about the bad things. Think about the good things. You have two wonderful children, a house you restored practically on your own, an award-winning book. Should I continue?”

Lauren shrugged. “What’s the point?” She studied the pattern on the table cloth, hoping the conversation would change and her friends would ignore her, the way the rest of the universe had been doing. But she underestimated them.

“Oh for crying out loud, Lauren!” Clare said, running her manicured fingers through her dark curls. “You’ve got to stop thinking this way. The world hasn’t ended just because you lost your husband! Maybe you didn’t lose anything. Maybe you just got rid of something old and useless. Maybe this is your chance to begin something new.”

“Clare, I’m fifty-three,” Lauren retorted. “You don’t begin something at fifty-three. You begin to end it. Unless you’re me, and it’s already over.” She smiled brightly at her weak attempt at humor.

Clare didn’t respond in kind. Her features seemed sterner, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s not over. Not all of it, anyway. It’s time for you to say goodbye to one part of your life and move on to the next.” She blew out slowly, then continued in a more restrained tone. “I mean, it’s not as if we just have a single shot at doing something with our lives.”

Alice nodded. “Or one way of living it.”

“I can’t. I’m just not cut out for any other kind of life. I really don’t think I can manage this…this…this single life.” Lauren pointed at the air, as if to provide a clearer idea of what she was talking about.

“You don’t know that until you’ve tried,” Alice said. “Things change, and we keep on living.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You still have your life, the one you’ve always had, the one you’ve always wanted.”

“Not exactly.”

Alice sounded almost wistful, but Lauren knew that wasn’t possible. She was projecting her own failures and disappointments onto her friend. Alice really did have everything—a career on track, a husband who obviously loved her more than ever and two children, living close enough to visit, whose only contact didn’t have to be through the telephone or the Internet.

“You think your life is over when you could be entering one of the most exciting periods,” Alice continued. “Just think of all the exciting, new places you could visit, the fun things you could do, the great guys you could meet.”

“Men are not interested in me.” Lauren waved her hands over her chest, where, even with a firm under-wire bra, her breasts sagged. She didn’t need to point at the rest of her. She was obviously a dismal heap.

“You don’t know that,” Clare said. “You haven’t bothered to get in touch with that writer who your agent Louise has been trying to set you up with.”

“Or that guy who Chrissie has been wanting you to meet,” Alice added. “She certainly thinks someone might be interested in you.”

“Chrissie’s just being a good daughter,” Lauren replied. “Nothing can shake her faith in me.”

“So learn from her and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your life isn’t over. It’s just beginning. Think of it as…as…as…” Alice’s face suddenly brightened. “I know, as the dawning of a new age.”

Alice must be listening to Frank’s old albums, Lauren thought, bemused. She wanted to remind her friend how outdated that kind of talk was. But Alice seemed so sincere, Lauren didn’t have the heart. Besides, she suddenly realized how hard Clare and Alice were trying, for her sake. Surely, the least she could do was listen.

“Go ahead,” she said, forcing herself to smile at the concerned faces. “Explain.”

“It’s just a question of changing your attitude. Your husband walked out? Good riddance,” Alice said.

“That’s what I would say. What I say.” Clare nodded approvingly. “I mean, come on Lauren, think of what Charles did to you. It’s not as if he was ever really there for you. You know that.”

Alice leaned forward. “Besides, now you don’t have to waste your time socializing with his colleagues at those silly dinner parties you hated.”

This time, Lauren’s smile was genuine. “I did hate them.”

Charles had always argued that part of his career depended on pleasing the people he worked with. So Lauren had accepted the role of hostess, even when it hadn’t been what she wanted. She certainly didn’t miss that part of her former life!

“See what I mean?” Alice said. She tilted her head slightly. With her mousy curls framing her face, she suddenly looked cherubic, despite her fifty-something years.

“Maybe.” Lauren shrugged her shoulders. “But that’s just one thing. What about everything else?”

Clare opened her mouth, then closed it to smile at the waiter, returning to check on them. Alice asked for more bread.

“About Charles…” Clare began when the waiter left.

“No, forget about him.” Lauren waved her hands. “He wouldn’t matter so much if I could finish this book. What about not being able to write? That has never happened to me. Never. Not even when Chrissie was a baby, and Jeff was three, and between the two of them, I was up all night and all day. I was exhausted, but I wrote. Nothing memorable, of course, but I wrote. I can’t even do that now.”

The two women exchanged glances. Clare shrugged, and Alice spoke.

“Maybe you’re writing about the wrong thing. When the kids were small, what did you write about?”

“Them. Me. Parenting. Our lives. Stuff like that. Like I said, most of it was pretty bad, but it gave me a routine that I could stick to. Now, I can’t think of a paragraph, a sentence, a word to put down.”

Alice smiled sympathetically. “I understand. But the book you won the award for was about the house, your family, the people and things you love, right?”

“Autobiography of a House? Yes, you could say that.” Lauren narrowed her eyes, realizing where Alice was going. “But my current project, My Mother’s Garden, is about the same sort of thing. Only this time, I just can’t write. So there goes your theory.”

“Maybe you’ve said all you have to say about it,” Alice continued. “Start thinking about something else and maybe you’ll begin to write again.”

“That would be great if it weren’t for a little thing called a contract,” Lauren said.

Alice looked at Clare for help.

“Be inventive. Your editor has agreed to extend the deadline, hasn’t she?” Clare began, then paused as the waiter arrived with the bread and waited for him to leave. “Like I was saying, maybe you can persuade your editor that this other topic—the one you are going to come up with—is really great. Talk to your agent. Talk to Louise. That’s what she’s there for.”

“You make it sound so easy, Clare. It’s not.”

“I never said it was.” Clare’s hands thumped lightly against the tabletop. “I just said you have to think about things differently. It’s a start.”

“Maybe.” Lauren picked up her fork again and pushed it around her plate, shaping the untouched food into a mound. “But here’s the real test. What do I do about the house?”

Alice looked at Lauren’s plate. “Have some bread. It’s whole wheat, the kind you like. Go ahead. Dip it in the yogurt sauce.”

Alice did just that, but Lauren didn’t follow suit. Instead she watched, enjoying Alice’s obvious pleasure in the food, despite her own dark mood.

“Go on, Lauren. Have some.” Clare helped herself to some bread and dipped it in the sauce. “We don’t want you missing out on a good thing. That’s what you said to me the first time you brought me here. Remember?”

Lauren remembered. She and Alice had been rewarding themselves here regularly with good, healthy food after grueling sessions at the fitness class. When they had befriended Clare, a sister in sweat, they had invited her along. But the vegetarian menu didn’t thrill Clare. The first couple of times she’d ordered only salads. She even joked about it: the Green Factory became the Slim Factory and the name stuck for a while.

Then, one day, Clare became adventurous. She tried a tofu burger and liked it. The next time, she moved on to the lentil loaf. After that, it was the olive-roasted bread, millet pilaf and vegetable croustade. Now, she was a jolly green monster, insisting Lauren eat bread. Everyone else worried about carbs, but Clare pushed bread!

Lauren forced herself to eat some in a show of good will. For some reason, it took less effort to get it down than whatever had been on her plate.

“Happy?” She looked at Alice who was leaning back, her hands folded across her stomach. “Aren’t you going to have any more?”

Alice shook her head. “I’ve had too much already. Not that I can stop myself. I’m addicted. I’ve got the hips to show for it.”

She patted them, inviting Lauren to look at the parts of her figure visible behind the table. It was full and ample and curvaceous. Lauren wished she looked half as healthy and a quarter as feminine.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. Besides, I think it’s going to happen, addiction or not. It has something to do with meno… No, what did you call it? Oh, yes. The dawn of a new age. You don’t loose your figure, you just gain a middle.”

Alice wagged her finger. “Careful, Lauren. I’m going to think you agree with me.”

“Help me with my house and I just might.”

Clare became suddenly serious. “Look, as your lawyer, I really think your best option is to sell.”

“I told you—” Lauren began, but closed her mouth when Clare lifted up a dainty index finger.

“Alice and I have been talking about it, and we think, well, there is something you could try.”

“What?” Lauren reached for some water.

“Get a job.”

Lauren almost knocked her glass down. “A job? I have one. It’s called writing.”

“And apparently, it’s not going too well.”

Once again, Lauren opened her mouth to say something; once again, Clare persevered.

“I’m talking about another job, Lauren. One that would get you some cash. And it would have other advantages. It would get you out of the house. It could give you something to write about.” She held up three fingers. “It might even shake your depression.”

Clare dropped her hand, leaned her elbows on the table and moved closer to Lauren. “I’m serious, Lauren. Get a job, and you just might be set for that new life we were talking about.”

“Get a job?” Lauren looked at Alice for help and saw that the battle lines had been drawn earlier, probably before she had arrived at the table. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. The last time I tried was a lifetime ago. And who’s going to want a woman who’s over the hill, anyway?”

“Well, if that’s the way you think, no one!” Alice said, impatience straining her voice for the first time. “Shake out of it, honey. You may not be the only one who’s got problems around here, but you’re the only one who’s determined not to do something about them!”

Lauren was so startled by the uncharacteristic outburst, she stopped listening until Clare pounded her fist against the table.

“You really haven’t been hearing a word we’ve been saying, have you? Well listen to this. It’s all about attitude. Convince yourself and you’ll convince others.”

Chrissie hadn’t needed any convincing. She had been delighted with Clare’s and Alice’s idea and had urged her mother to explore the professional contacts she had developed over the years. Western University, where Lauren had taught years ago, might have short-term jobs. With the semester beginning soon and the increase in enrolments, the school would be looking for a good, experienced teacher, especially one whose name carried a little weight in the publishing world.

Western had asked Lauren to run a creative writing workshop several years ago, when she had won the Behn Foundation Award, but she had been eager to start her second book then and had turned down the offer. A year later, Western had renewed it. She had been on the verge of accepting when Charles had announced that he wanted a divorce. Lauren’s friends had encouraged her not to abandon her plans, but she simply forgot to respond until it was too late. Now, she sincerely hoped Western wouldn’t hold it against her. A few hours teaching the craft of writing might be the ideal way to hold on to her house.

The next day, sobered by her friends’ parting remarks, encouraged by her daughter and armed with budding newfound courage, Lauren called Diane Cart, the head of the writing department, who promptly invited Lauren to a trendy coffee shop near the campus to talk.

Lauren took her time getting ready. She considered this meeting an interview. She carefully sorted through her clothes, seeing, for the first time, some advantage to the extra closet and rack space Charles had left behind. She tried on three trouser suits before finding one that didn’t hang on her hips like a sack. But it still needed a belt and was much less flattering than it had once been. She had lost far too much weight recently, but, with the state of her life, she hadn’t given a thought to her wardrobe.

Not that Lauren had ever been a woman who turned heads. Although she was tall and toned from exercise, she lacked the hourglass proportions of the ideal female figure. Her breasts were far too small, her behind too big and her waist almost nonexistent. Nonetheless, she had always liked to wear good quality clothes, and she had enjoyed scouring expensive boutiques and department stores in search of them. She hadn’t done that since the divorce, but maybe things would change with the interview.

Examining herself in the full-length mirror, Lauren tried not to dwell on the ravages of the past few months. At least, she looked like a professional woman ready for an interview. That was what mattered.

Her gray roots were showing, but that couldn’t be helped now. She styled her hair as well as she could and promised herself an appointment at the hairdresser, if she got the job. Then she went to work on her face, hoping to put more sparkle in her blue eyes and more color in her cheeks. She may not have used her makeup kit for a while, but she still knew a few tricks. The woman she saw when she gave herself a final, parting glance in the mirror was not who she used to be, but she wasn’t this year’s lifeless shadow either.

Diane wasn’t at the café when Lauren arrived. She glanced around the room, taking in all the poised, youthful diners, in their twenties and thirties, wearing expensive designer clothes, drinking coffee, reading newspapers or engrossed in flirtatious conversations.

It was like walking onto the set of a fashion shoot. Despite her efforts with her appearance, Lauren felt self-conscious and out of place.

She felt even more drab and dull when Diane Cart swept into the room, looking as if she had stepped off the pages of Vogue. Lauren watched Diane cross the room—a self-aware, well-kept, confident woman—and wished she had never made this appointment. She should have waited until she looked less of a wreck. How was she ever going to assert herself to someone like this?

“I’m so sorry I’m late, darling. You can’t imagine how busy I am, with the new term beginning and all the meetings I have to attend.” Diane leaned over to air-kiss Lauren, enveloping her in perfume. She placed an expensive leather bag on the table, the brand name visible. “The dean has asked me to head another committee. It really is a nuisance. But there you are. I have to do what I have to do. It’s so difficult to delegate. I’m sure you understand.”

Without bothering to really look at Lauren, Diane waved the waitress over and ordered an espresso.

“One shot. And please make sure it really is only one shot.” Turning to Lauren, she said, “Sometimes they add too much water, you know. It tastes like drip coffee. Not at all what I want.”

Lauren gave the waitress an apologetic smile, ordered bottled water for herself, then returned her attention to Diane, who was talking again about the accumulated responsibilities of her life.

“…and that’s why I wanted to see you. I was sure you would want to contribute to the fund-raiser. I thought you could do a reading. Maybe present some of your more recent material. That would be wonderful. I’m sure everyone would love it.”

Lauren had been practically hypnotized by the brightness of Diane’s scarlet nails, so she wasn’t sure she had heard right.

“I’m sorry. Did you invite me here today to discuss a fund-raiser? For Western University?”

Diane’s hand froze in midair. With a smile as stylized as her dress, she looked at Lauren. “Yes. I was sure you would want to help.”

Lauren laughed without humor. “I think there’s been some misunderstanding. Actually, Diane, I called because I’m looking for a job. I was wondering if that workshop you offered me a while ago—two years ago—was, well, a possibility.”

Diane frowned. “You’re looking for a job?”

Lauren nodded.

“I’m sorry, Lauren, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize… I had heard that…but I didn’t realize…” Diane waved her red-tipped fingers in the air to fill in the spaces she left blank.

Lauren doubted that the woman’s sympathetic look was genuine.

“Yes, Diane, I’m looking for a job. With the divorce and everything, I’m a bit short on cash.”

“I understand.” Diane wrapped a cold hand around Lauren’s wrist. Lauren resisted the urge to push it away. She waited to see how understanding the other woman really was.

After a moment, Diane withdrew her hand, leaned back in her chair and sighed heavily. “I realize that it must be really terrible, what you’re going through. My husband is such a wonderful man, I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose him. But surely you must know that our workshops are planned at least a year in advance. Anyway, after the last offer, I thought you weren’t interested.”

“I was interested. It was just, well… It was just a bad time for me.” Lauren smiled as sweetly as she could. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hold back her tears. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want Diane to know how much she cared. “I guess now is a bad time for you.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“And I don’t suppose there would be a teaching position open for the next semester?”

“There might be something, but surely you understand I can’t offer you anything, Lauren. It’s been several years since you’ve published, and our students want to be instructed by cutting-edge writers, those who can help them get into print. I don’t know if you have that kind of clout anymore.”

It took all Lauren’s concentration to keep her eyes fixed on Diane’s face. Everything inside her was screaming at her to walk away before hearing another humiliating word. But she couldn’t leave, not just yet, not without exploring one more possibility.

“I was thinking more on the lines of basic writing skills, composition classes, written expression, that sort of thing.”

“When was the last time you taught such a class? Ten years ago?”

Lauren hesitated. She could bend the truth a little, but what was the point? She shook her head. “Longer.”

“More than ten years! Lauren, you don’t really expect us to hire someone without recent experience? Besides you’re overqualified. We rely on our graduate students for those courses, sometimes even the advanced undergrads. They do just fine, especially since they’re more in touch with the needs of their peers.”

“So there really isn’t anything?”

“Not at the moment. But if anything should come up, you’ll be the first in mind.”

Which was obviously Diane-speak for “Don’t hold your breath!”

Clare Hanley pressed the intercom button to address her personal assistant.

“Anything I need to deal with in the next hour or so?”

Anne Wright relayed recent messages, reminded Clare of an upcoming meeting and reported that Anton Muller was waiting to see her. “He wants to go over the McGrady case.”

“Send him in. We need to deal with it as soon as possible.”

Anton stepped into her office a few moments later, an enormous file under his arm. Clare motioned him toward the table in the corner of the room.

When Anton had joined the firm several years ago, Clare had been skeptical about how they would work together. She had hoped the job would go to one of the women candidates she had been committed to promoting, but, in the end, she’d conceded that Anton’s qualifications were strong and his decade-long experience as a Chicago police officer was a considerable asset.

It was his law-enforcement experience that had made her so wary. The firm was already sufficiently testosterone-charged. She really didn’t need another junior associate—especially one close to her own age—whose previous profession probably didn’t dispose him to taking orders from a woman. For despite all the recent publicity, Chicago’s finest could hardly be more gender sensitive than Clare’s Ivy League male colleagues. And she knew what Neanderthals they were when it came to working with women, let alone taking directions from one!

So it had come as a complete surprise to discover that Anton was not only an efficient, diligent and cooperative team player, but also extremely respectful of her position and authority. Not that he was a pushover. After working with her on only a couple of cases, he had begun to question her interpretation of the law. Surprised, she had listened to him, and their discussion had shed light on the situation and ultimately helped them to win the case. She appreciated his conviction. She also liked his courteous, diplomatic manner. More and more, she found herself seeking his opinion and collaboration.

This had everything to do with his competence and nothing to do with his looks, she now reminded herself, nothing to do with his broad shoulders and flat stomach and trim waist. Moving toward the table, he turned his back to her, offering her a tantalizing view of a very firm behind, covered in a conservative suit that did nothing to conceal his strong masculinity.

More than once, she had found herself mesmerized by his sleek, pantherlike movements. When she wasn’t admiring his gracefulness, she was wondering how his thick hair would feel under her fingers. It was almost as dark as hers, but he had no need to dye the graying streaks. Why should he? They made him look distinguished, nothing like the washed-out, worn-out woman she would be if she didn’t make her monthly trips to the hairdresser.

Like her, Anton was single—no family, no significant other of either sex. He always attended office functions solo, as she did. He had joked about it once, suggesting they join forces as the few remaining singles on board. They had laughed loudly and long, but they both knew that was never going to happen. Which was too bad. Because if she didn’t have a rule about dating colleagues, he would be first on her list.

“Congratulations, Clare!” He waited for her to sit down before lowering himself into a chair. “I heard about the Dubovski settlement.”

She kept her eyes on the table, away from the long, lean legs stretched out in front of her. “Thank you, Anton. I’m pleased with the outcome. It went well for us.”

“That’s an understatement!” He laughed, and his rugged features softened, making him look younger than the forty-something he was. “Astounding is what everybody else is saying.”

She tried to focus on his words, not the vibrant tones of his deep voice. Funny how his voice always sounded so authoritative in court and with clients, when all she could hear in it now were the rich, throaty timbres more fitting for the bedroom.

Clare ignored the tingling sensations spreading from her stomach to her toes. “Congratulations to you, too, Anton,” she said, resisting the pull of his blue eyes. “You were a big part of that success.”

She worked hard to transmute her face into a patronizing grin, the kind of smile that she used to get from the most senior lawyer in the office when she first joined the firm. Not that Mr. Bailey Senior had had many grins for her. They were reserved for the “boys” who went golfing or fishing with him.

Now Clare allowed herself one last, quick glance at Anton’s broad shoulders. Then, bracing herself for the work before them, she reached for the file, her manner all business. “About McGrady vs. McGrady. Have you finished the Preliminary Declaration of Disclosure?”