“You have your computer,” James said. “Can’t you watch TV shows on that? Isn’t that what everybody does these days?”
“Everybody has a computer. And a TV.”
“You could read a book,” James said. “Have you read Anna Karenina? Or Madame Bovary?”
“I have, and they’re boring. Besides, I don’t have room for books,” she complained, gesturing at the tiny space.
James bought her a TV — a sixteen-inch Panasonic — that they placed on the windowsill.
On the day before James was to go back out on book tour, he turned up at her apartment earlier than usual. It was eleven o’clock, but she was still sleeping, her head resting on the down pillow she’d bought from ABC Carpet, along with a down comforter that James suspected cost over a thousand dollars. When he questioned her about it, however, she said she’d bought it on sale for a hundred. He didn’t expect her to sleep without covers, did he? No, he did not, he agreed, and let it go.
“What time is it?” she asked now, rolling over in her bed.
“It’s almost noon,” he said. He found the fact that she was still in bed slightly annoying, and wondered what she’d been up to the night before that would cause her to sleep till midday. Or perhaps she was depressed.
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. First thing,” he explained. “I wanted to say goodbye. And to make sure you were okay.”
“When will I see you again?” She stretched, extending her arms up to the ceiling. She was wearing an orange tank top with nothing underneath.
“Not for a month.”
“Where are you going?” she asked in alarm.
“England, Scotland, Ireland, Paris, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Terrible for us but good for the book,” James said.
She threw back the comforter and patted the mattress. “Snuggle me,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I don’t think ...” James said cautiously, despite his beating heart.
“It’s only a hug, James,” she pointed out. “No one can object to that.”
He got into bed next to her, awkwardly arranging his long body so several inches of space remained between them. She turned to face him, curling up her knees into his groin. Her breath was pungent with the lingering smell of vodka and cigarettes, and he wondered once again where she’d been the night before. Had she had sex with someone?
“You’re funny,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Look at you.” She giggled. “You’re so stiff.”
“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said.
“We’re not doing anything,” she countered. “But you want to, don’t you?”
“I’m married,” he whispered.
“Your wife never has to know.” She trailed her hand down his chest and touched his penis. “You’re hard,” she said.
She started kissing him on the mouth, thrusting her fat tongue between his teeth. James was too startled to resist. This was so different from Mindy’s kisses, which were dry little pecks. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed someone like this, marveling that people still did this — that he could still do this — this making-out thing. And Lola’s skin was so soft, like a baby’s, he thought, touching her arms. Her neck was smooth and unwrinkled. He tentatively touched her breasts through the fabric of her shirt, feeling her nipples erect. He rolled on top of her, pushing himself up on his arms to stare down at her face. Should he go further? He hadn’t made love in so long, he wondered if he would remember the moves.
“I want you inside me,” she said, touching the mound of his penis. “I want your fat cock in my wet pussy.”
The mere suggestion of this sex act was too much, and as he was trying to unzip his jeans, the inevitable happened. He came. “Damn,”
he said.
“What’s wrong?” She sat up.
“I just ... you know.” He slid his hand into his jeans and felt the tell-tale wetness. “Fuck!”
She got onto her knees behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only the first time.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are so sweet,” he said.
“You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”
“Am I?” she said, jumping off the bed. She pulled on a pair of cashmere sweatpants. “James?” she asked in a syrupy voice. “Since you’re leaving and I won’t see you for a month ...”
“Do you need some money?” he said. He reached into his pants pocket. “I’ve only got sixty dollars.”
“There’s an ATM in the deli around the corner. Do you mind? I owe the landlady two hundred dollars. For utilities. And you don’t want me to starve while you’re away.”
“I certainly don’t,” James said. “But you should try to get a job.”
“I will,” she reassured him. “But it’s hard.”
“I can’t support you forever,” he said, thinking about his aborted attempt at sex.
“I’m not asking you to,” she said. On the sidewalk, she took his hand.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He extracted five hundred dollars from the ATM and handed it to her.
“I’ll miss you,” she said, flinging her arms around him. “Call me the minute you get back. We’ll get together. And next time it will work,” she called over her shoulder.
James stared after her, then set off down Ninth Avenue. Had he just been taken for a ride? No, he assured himself. Lola wasn’t like that. And she’d said she wanted to do it again. He strolled down Fifth Avenue full of confidence. By the time he reached One Fifth, he’d convinced himself it was a good thing he’d ejaculated prematurely. No fluids were exchanged, so it couldn’t really be called cheating.
20
Early that evening, on her way to Thayer Core’s place, Lola paused across the street from One Fifth and stared at the entrance. She often did this, hoping to run into Philip or Schiffer. The week before, they’d announced their engagement, and the news was all over the tabloids and on the entertainment programs, as if the union of two middle-aged people was not only a big deal but an inspiration for all lonely, still-single middle-aged women everywhere. Schiffer had gone on Oprah to promote Lady Superior, but really, Lola thought, to boast about her upcoming nuptials. Their marriage was part of a hot new trend, Oprah said, in which women and men were finding first loves from the past and realizing they were meant for each other all along. “But this time around, one is older and wiser — I hope!” Schiffer remarked, which drew knowing laughter from the audience. They had yet to set a date or a place but wanted to do something small and nontraditional. Schiffer had already picked out a dress — a short white sheath covered in silver bugle beads — which Oprah held up for the cameras. While the audience oohed and ahhed, Lola felt sick. It should have been her wedding Oprah was blathering on about, not Schiffer’s. And she would have chosen a better dress — something traditional, with lace and a train. Lola couldn’t stop thinking about the wedding; filled with envy and anger, she possessed a pernicious fantasy of confronting either Philip or Schiffer.
Hence her occasional stakeouts of One Fifth. And yet she didn’t dare linger too long — she might encounter Philip or Schiffer but might as easily run into Enid.