have a drink.
“Love to another time. But I’ve got to be off. I have to shave and change, or Mira will lynch me. She makes a point of having me always look shipshape in public.” He rolled his eyes. “Image polishing and so on. Take care. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He took me briefly in his arms, pressed a little kiss on my cheeks, right and left, and let me go—much too quickly. I didn’t recognize myself. Until that afternoon, I’d rather have died than tell anybody about the appalling graduation-trip incident. And I never would have considered asking a man up to my apartment—nor would I have dreamed I’d wish he could squeeze me as long as possible.
I smiled at him and said, “Bye, Nick. Looking forward to hearing from you. Don’t drive so fast, get home safely, and thank you for the marvelous afternoon.”
I watched him drive away, slowly at first. He waved out the window. When I hurried upstairs, exhilarated by the wonderful day, it occurred to me that he was very vague about getting together again, and in a second my mood had plummeted into the cellar.
Chapter 4
That night and for days afterward I engaged in a futile struggle against my old familiar self-doubts and inner demons. They taunted me, saying I shouldn’t flatter myself that Nick was really interested in me. And it looked like they were right. I didn’t hear a peep from Nick the next day or over the weekend (how many days were meant by “soon”?), though my cell phone was charged and worked flawlessly. A more self-confident woman would, I suppose, simply phone him or at least text him. But that seemed too pushy to me, especially given his status.
I discovered a new tendency toward masochism when I yielded to an irresistible urge to Google him. I left my overdue paperwork in my in-tray as I trolled the Internet for information about him. I was both fascinated and horrified as I read the paeans of praise for his talent, the prizes he’d garnered, and the stars he’d worked with. He liked to jog and didn’t drink. His Facebook fan page had more than three hundred thousand likes.
I could see how vastly different our lives were. That hurt. He could just as well have come from another planet. But it was genuine torture to see the online gossip about his romantic affairs and the countless photos of him with all kinds of beautiful women. With an increasing fire in my gut, I studied every photo, noting how damn good he looked, and trying to tell from his expression whether there really was anything between him and any of the many women on his arm. But, of course, he was an actor, and the women were colleagues or well-known models—all well versed in presenting themselves. The second they were on camera, they could switch on their most dazzling smile and act their part. I didn’t succeed in separating wheat from chaff, the genuine girlfriends from the fake ones. In a deep gloom I turned off the computer and tossed and turned the whole night. It looked like he was a ladies’ man after all and that he’d slept with every one of those beautiful women—that’s how lovingly he beamed at every one of them.
A tiny voice in my head tried to speak up, though: But he looked at you differently, more interested, more genuine, and never once with that exaggerated toothpaste smile. But when I didn’t hear from Nick all that Sunday, I figured that my first impression was correct, and that little voice had only been a feeble attempt at self-deception. Presumably, he’d found in the last few days more exciting and willing company than mine. My lonely weekend was neither relaxing nor stimulating.
With a heavy heart, I got into my car Monday morning and thought during the entire drive to the office about what to tell Chris to save face. It was hard enough to admit to myself that for the second time in my life I’d fallen violently in love and had played the fool. So I acted blasé, as though Nick and I had only lunched together, that he’d admitted
“Love to another time. But I’ve got to be off. I have to shave and change, or Mira will lynch me. She makes a point of having me always look shipshape in public.” He rolled his eyes. “Image polishing and so on. Take care. I’ll be in touch soon.”
He took me briefly in his arms, pressed a little kiss on my cheeks, right and left, and let me go—much too quickly. I didn’t recognize myself. Until that afternoon, I’d rather have died than tell anybody about the appalling graduation-trip incident. And I never would have considered asking a man up to my apartment—nor would I have dreamed I’d wish he could squeeze me as long as possible.
I smiled at him and said, “Bye, Nick. Looking forward to hearing from you. Don’t drive so fast, get home safely, and thank you for the marvelous afternoon.”
I watched him drive away, slowly at first. He waved out the window. When I hurried upstairs, exhilarated by the wonderful day, it occurred to me that he was very vague about getting together again, and in a second my mood had plummeted into the cellar.
Chapter 4
That night and for days afterward I engaged in a futile struggle against my old familiar self-doubts and inner demons. They taunted me, saying I shouldn’t flatter myself that Nick was really interested in me. And it looked like they were right. I didn’t hear a peep from Nick the next day or over the weekend (how many days were meant by “soon”?), though my cell phone was charged and worked flawlessly. A more self-confident woman would, I suppose, simply phone him or at least text him. But that seemed too pushy to me, especially given his status.
I discovered a new tendency toward masochism when I yielded to an irresistible urge to Google him. I left my overdue paperwork in my in-tray as I trolled the Internet for information about him. I was both fascinated and horrified as I read the paeans of praise for his talent, the prizes he’d garnered, and the stars he’d worked with. He liked to jog and didn’t drink. His Facebook fan page had more than three hundred thousand likes.
I could see how vastly different our lives were. That hurt. He could just as well have come from another planet. But it was genuine torture to see the online gossip about his romantic affairs and the countless photos of him with all kinds of beautiful women. With an increasing fire in my gut, I studied every photo, noting how damn good he looked, and trying to tell from his expression whether there really was anything between him and any of the many women on his arm. But, of course, he was an actor, and the women were colleagues or well-known models—all well versed in presenting themselves. The second they were on camera, they could switch on their most dazzling smile and act their part. I didn’t succeed in separating wheat from chaff, the genuine girlfriends from the fake ones. In a deep gloom I turned off the computer and tossed and turned the whole night. It looked like he was a ladies’ man after all and that he’d slept with every one of those beautiful women—that’s how lovingly he beamed at every one of them.
A tiny voice in my head tried to speak up, though: But he looked at you differently, more interested, more genuine, and never once with that exaggerated toothpaste smile. But when I didn’t hear from Nick all that Sunday, I figured that my first impression was correct, and that little voice had only been a feeble attempt at self-deception. Presumably, he’d found in the last few days more exciting and willing company than mine. My lonely weekend was neither relaxing nor stimulating.
With a heavy heart, I got into my car Monday morning and thought during the entire drive to the office about what to tell Chris to save face. It was hard enough to admit to myself that for the second time in my life I’d fallen violently in love and had played the fool. So I acted blasé, as though Nick and I had only lunched together, that he’d admitted
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