"Next Friday?" he says, crestfallen.
"High five," Bonnie says, and slaps hands with Faith.
Robert says, "Do you like me at all?"
"Yes, I like you."
"A lot?" he asks.
"Pause before answering," Faith says.
"Yes," I say.
"Good," he says. "Don't stop."
Bonnie sings the Mary Tyler Moore theme song, "Who Can Turn the World On with Her Smile?"
—•—
Robert calls me at the office and calls me at home. He calls just to say good morning and good night.
One night, he calls to tell me he thinks he's found an apartment only a few blocks from mine and wants me to see it.
I tell Robert I wish I could. I want to so badly it hurts. I wonder when I can be normal again.
"You're normal now," Faith says.
"You were screwed up before!" Bonnie says.
Faith says, "If you were being your normal self, he wouldn't even be calling you now."
"All right," Robert says. "I guess I'm going to sign the lease." Then: "You don't feel like I'm stalking you, do you?"
—•—
I meet Donna for a drink and admit that I read the book she told me about—the fishing manual.
"Isn't it the worst?" she says.
"I know," I say.
"All those exclamation points," she says. "It can't apply to New York."
"The thing is," I say, "it's working."
"You're actually doing it?" Then she says, "I don't know why I say it like that—I tried it myself." She tells me that she kept pretending to be aloof, but men didn't seem to notice. "Maybe it was the men I was meeting," she says. "Cabdrivers," and she imitates herself nonchalantly giving an address.
I tell her about my date with Robert and that now he's calling me all the time and he's actually moved into my neighborhood.
"No!" she says, mocking my distress.
"But it's like I'm tricking him into it," I say.
She says, "Well, what about all those guys who act like they're in love with you to get you into bed? Like Fuckface."
"But," I say—I'm having trouble saying what I mean, "I want this to be real."
She says, "Was it more real when he wasn't calling you?"
—•—
I'm getting ready for my date with Robert when Faith says, "Try not to make so many jokes this time."
"Listen," I say, "funny is the best thing I am."
Faith says, "Making jokes is your way of saying Do you love me? and when someone laughs you think they've said yes."
This gives me pause.
Faith says, "Let him court you."
Bonnie hands me my deodorant. "You can be as funny as you want after he proposes!"
Robert arrives early, saying he wants to take me to a play. He has brought a stick for Jezebel to chew, and she gives him the loving look I wish I could.
I pour a glass of wine for him and go back to the bathroom to finish drying my hair. "Now this is a real date!" Bonnie says.
I say, "Your idea of a real date probably ends in a carriage ride through Central Park."
"Her point is that it started with asking to meet for coffee," Faith says. "Now he's trying to win you."
Through the motor of my blow-dryer I hear the phone ring, and when I come into the living room Robert's staring down at the machine, frowning. Gus is asking if I'd like to go out for dinner next week.
Robert looks over at me. "She can't," he says to the machine. "Sorry."
—•—
We go to Mere Mortals, a collection of one acts by David Ives, the best of which is about two mayflies on a date; they watch a nature documentary about themselves and discover their life span is only one day long—after mating, they'll die.
Leaving the theater, Robert and I are both dazzled and exuberant, talking at once and laughing, and we spontaneously kiss.
He says, "I want to mate with you and die."
We have a drink at one of those old-fashioned restaurants in the theater district. Robert says the mayflies play is what every cartoon he draws aspires to be—beautiful and funny and sad and true.
"I want to see them," I say.
"Okay," he says, and takes out a piece of paper.
It's a pen-and-ink drawing of Jezebel, and I think, You are the man I didn't know I could hope for.
"Relax," Faith says. "It's a sketch."
—•—
Back at my apartment, we begin to mate with our clothes on, lying on the sofa on top of shards of chewed-up stick.
At first Faith's voice is no more than a distant car alarm. But it gets louder and I hear her say, "No."
"Yes," I say to her.
"You don't want to lose him," she says, in the voice you'd use to talk someone on acid out of jumping out a window. "The way you've lost every man you've really wanted."
I sigh inwardly and pull back.
"What?" he says.
I tell him that I'm not ready to sleep with him yet.
"Okay," he says, and pulls me back to him. We go on kissing and touching and moving against each other for another few minutes, and then he says, "Are you ready now?"
Here is a man who can make my body sing and make me laugh at the same time. "Which is why you don't want to lose him," Faith says.
—•—
Over the phone, he tells me that his ex-girlfriend called him today. I picture Apollinaire.
I want to ask who she is and how he feels about her, but Faith practically takes the phone from me. Instead, I ask how long ago he went out with her.
Almost a year ago and she's why he left New York. "She sort of decimated me." He asks if I'd mind signing a nondecimation pact.
I'm choosing which of my decimation experiences to relate, but Bonnie says, "He doesn't need to know about that!"
—•—
We meet for a drink at the café between our apartments. He asks what I wish I could do instead of advertising.
I think, I'd like to make pasta necklaces and press leaves; I didn't really appreciate kindergarten at the time. But I just shake my head.
He says, "Let's make a list of what you think would be fun to do."
"No," Faith says. "Don't let him think you need help."
"I do need help," I say.
"He'll think you're a loser!" Bonnie says. With her thumb and index finger she makes an L, pinches it closed and opens it fast: the flashing Loser sign.
—•—
He doesn't call the next morning, afternoon, or night, and, needless to say, I can't call him.
Friday night, we go to the movies as planned, but he doesn't hold my hand in the dark theater, doesn't kiss me on the cab ride home. I want to ask him what's wrong, but Faith says not to. "It shows how much you care."
When the cab pulls up to the Dragonia, he tells me he's tired. He doesn't ask if I have plans for Saturday night.
Saturday night, I read until midnight. When I take Jezebel out for her last walk I go all the way to his street, down the dark side. He and Apollinaire are sitting on his stoop.
I am shaking when I get home.
—•—
Sunday, when the phone rings I run for it. But it's a crush from college, Bill McGuire—nicknamed "Mac." He lives in Japan and says he'll be coming to New York next weekend and wants to take me out for dinner Saturday.
I hesitate.
Bonnie says, "Get out there!"
"I've been out there," I say. "Now I want to stay in with Robert."
"He's not staying in!" Bonnie says.
"I don't know that," I say.
"You saw them!" Bonnie says.
"They could just be friends," I say.
"Friends?" Bonnie says.
"He went to Oberlin!" I say.
"Regardless," Faith interrupts, "hunters like competition. It tells them that what they want is worth having."
"But I would feel terrible if he went on a date with someone else," I say.
"And you're
trying to set an example?" Faith says.
"It doesn't work like that!" Bonnie says.
I agree to dinner, but as soon as I hang up, I say, "This feels wrong."
"It's right," Faith says, unzipping her dress. "It's just unfamiliar."
"No," I say. "It feels wrong."
She's wearing a slinky, champagne silk slip with spaghetti straps. "Aren't you being pursued the way you always wanted to be?" Faith says.
"I was," I say.
"This'll help," Faith says decisively.
"I hope you're right," I say. "That's a pretty slip."
"You should get one!" Bonnie says.
—•—
The day after Sophie gets back from Italy, we meet for coffee at a café in the Village. Before she tells me about her honeymoon, she asks what's going on with Robert.
I tell her that I don't know. "I think maybe he's seeing someone else."
She says, "What?"
"I saw him with that statue from your wedding," I say. "Apollinaire—the goddess of NASA."
"Apple's a lesbian, okay?" she says. "Besides, he's in love with you. The question is, are you in love with him?"
I nod.
"So, why are you making him so crazy?" she says. "He's not even sure you like him."
I hesitate before breaking the vow Don't talk to non-guide girls about the guide! Then I tell her everything.
For a second she looks at me like I'm someone she used to know. "Are you serious?"
"I know how it sounds," I say. I try to think how to explain. I borrow Donna's swimming-vs.-fishing analogy. "I realized I didn't know anything about men."
She says, "You didn't know about manipulation."
I say, "Tell me I haven't wrecked every relationship I've ever been in."
She says something about the unworthiness of my ex-boyfriends.
"I don't want to wreck it with Robert," I say.
"You won't," she says, "if you cut this shit out."
I admit that I don't think the book is all wrong.
"What's it right about?" she says.
"Well," I say. "Max made the first move, right?"
"Right," she says. "Max is a slut."
"And he pursued you," I say. "You didn't even return his calls."
"I thought he was insane," she says.
I persist. "And he said, `I love you' first."
"On our first date," she says. "He's like you—or how you used to be—"
I say, "Well those are all vows from the book."
"Vows?" She shakes her head. "You need deprogramming."
She bums a cigarette from our waitress, and I remember to ask her why she warned me about Robert.
She hesitates. "I thought of him as a commitment-phobe. But now I'm more worried about you. You have to stop reading that book."
"I haven't read it in weeks," I say. "I internalized it—you know how susceptible I am." I remind her of the time I borrowed an ancient typing manual from the library; I kept typing a practice exercise about the importance of good grooming in job interviews. I say, "Every time I go on one I still think `Neatly combed hair and clean fingernails give a potential employer—' "
She interrupts me. "You need an antidote." She suggests Simone de Beauvoir.
—•—
I'm reading The Second Sex when Faith says, "My husband was a total commitment-phobe!"
"Really?" Bonnie says.
"Lloyd didn't have a girlfriend the whole four years he was in medical school."
I say, "Maybe he was studying all of the time."
"Yeah," she says, "studying pussy."
Bonnie's nose wrinkles. "Faith!"
"The point is," Faith says, "the guide is about getting commitment-phobes to commit."
"I'm trying to read," I say.
"Did you ever read her letters to Sartre?" Faith says. "Pathetic."
I ignore her.
She says, "You'll notice that she never became Madame Sartre."
"Look," I say, "I'm not not thinking about marriage anymore. I just want to be with Robert."
"You sound just like Simone," Faith says.
—•—
Friday, Robert takes me to dinner at the Time Café, a hipster restaurant, and we're seated across from a table of models.
He doesn't even seem to notice them, and against Faith's protests, I tell him with my eyes how I feel.
I can see he's surprised—he practically says, "Me?"
I say, "You."
"Me, what?" he says.
I say, "Will you make love to me after dinner?"
Bonnie says, "I can't believe you."
Faith gets the waitress and orders a double martini.
Robert moves the table and comes over to me on the sofa, and we kiss and don't stop until our salads come.
He eats his with theatrical speed. "Let's take Jezebel and go to the country tomorrow."
"Yes," I say.
Robert tells me that Apple invited us to her girlfriend's place in Lambertville, and all he has to do is call them.
Bonnie says, "You have a date tomorrow, kiddo."
I taste the vinegar in my salad.
Once our plates are cleared, I excuse myself and go to the phone.
I dial Information. I feel bad canceling on Mac, but when the operator asks, "What listing, please?" I feel even worse. I don't know where he's staying.
During dinner I try to convince myself that I could just not show up for the date. But I know I'm incapable of this.
"Robert," I say finally, closing my eyes. "I can't go away with you."
"Why?" he says.
I can't make my mouth form the words. I start to. I say, "I have..." and Robert says, "You have a date."
He shakes his head for a minute. Then he signals for the waitress. While he signs the credit-card slip, I blather on about how the guy is from Japan, and I would cancel but I don't know—he interrupts me with a look.
"Two stops," he says to the cabdriver.
Faith says, "Nice going."
—•—
In the morning, I call Robert, but his phone rings and rings. I take Jezebel to the dog run at Madison Square Park. It is the first true day of summer, but the clear sky and strong sun make New York seem gritty.
Even the sight of Jezebel prancing around doesn't cheer me up. I feel like the old whiny beagle none of the dogs will play with.
"I know how hard this is," Faith says. "But if Robert is so easily discouraged, he's not right for you anyway."
I say, "If Robert did this to me, I'd try to forget about him."
"You're putting yourself in his place," Faith says.
"But you're not Robert!" Bonnie says. "You're not a man!"
"I'm a dog," I say, "and you're trying to make me into a cat."
—•—
I wash my hair. Dry it. I put on a dress and sandals. Drop lipstick in my bag. I do it all as perfunctorily as if I were preparing for an appointment with my accountant.
Bonnie says, "Look at your nails! You could repot a geranium with what's under there."
"What is it with you people and nails?" I say irritably.
I put on my bicycle helmet.
"You're not riding your bicycle," Bonnie says. "He'll think you're a weirdo."
"I am a weirdo, Bonnie."
"Well," she says, "you don't have to wear it on your sleeve or whatever."
I see Mac before he sees me. He's tall with broad shoulders and wavy blond hair, aristocratic in a blue blazer and white shirt. His strange features—beady eyes, thin lips, and pointy chin—somehow conspire to make him attractive, though I feel none of the electricity of yesteryear.
"Jane Rosenal," he says, and as he kisses my cheek, I realize that for all of our flirting we never kissed.
He looks down at my helmet. "Bicycle?"
"Yup," I say.
Isn't it dangerous?" he says.
I nod.
"Do you mind eating outside?" he asks.
We follow the ma d' upstairs
to an exquisite roof garden with candles and flowers, flowers everywhere. It's breezy and the sky is full of billowy clouds, and for a moment I am not sorry to be here. Then I remember Robert and the cost of this dinner.
"Do you want a bottle of wine?" Mac asks.
"I think I'll have a drink-drink," I say, and when the waiter comes I order a martini. Mac says he'll have the same.
"So," he says and begins to ask the questions you'd expect. He speaks and then I do, his turn then mine; it's less like a conversation than a transatlantic call.
He says that he lives in a residence hotel for businessmen, which is convenient and luxurious; and it isn't until he adds, "Home, sweet residence hotel, I guess," that I realize he's funny, dry, and deadpan, his own straight man.
"By the way," he says, "you can call me Mac if you want to, but I go by William now."
I say, "I go by Princess Jane. If we get to know each other better, I may let you call me just Princess."
He laughs. "That's what I remember about you," he says. "You were so funny."
"See?" I say to Bonnie and Faith.
"And it only took him fifteen years to call," Faith says.
—•—
After two martinis and a bottle of wine with dinner, I realize I better order coffee if I want to walk down the steps.
During dessert, Mac asks if he can call me Princess, and I say, "Yes, William."
He tells me that he plans to come back from Asia before long; he wants to teach in Morristown, New Jersey, the horsy suburb where he grew up.
"What would you teach?" I ask.
"Anything but gym," he says. "What about you, Princess? Can you see yourself growing old in the suburbs?"
I know what he's asking, and the Faith and Bonnie in me is glad to hear it. But I say, "Only if it's a choice between the suburbs and setting myself on fire."
Outside, he suggests we go somewhere to get a drink or hear music.
"No, thank you," I say. I tell him that I have to walk my bicycle, and if I start now I'll just make it home before sunrise.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks.
I shake my head. I'm about to say that my lips are spoken for, but with a pang I realize that they are not. I say, "You can unlock me," and I hand him the key.
He unlocks my bicycle, and says, "We'll put it in a cab."
He hails one, and manages to get my bicycle into the trunk.
I get in the cab and thank him for dinner. He nods. "My pleasure."
I say, "You have a nice personality." Then I give the driver my address.