The Men I Didn't Marry by Janice Kaplan Page A

I always have a mistress.”
    “Eric!” I gasp.
    He laughs. “Work. My mistress was my job. Takes more time than any woman. And more time than any woman can put up with.” Then he smiles and winks at me. “Besides, my darling, nobody could ever match your charms. Though I will say each of my wives reminded me a little of you.”
    “Is that a compliment?” I ask. “Were they five foot five with wavy brown hair? Greenish gray eyes? Or is it that they were all nineteen— like I was when we were together?”
    “All of the above,” Eric says, chuckling.
    Having a chauffeur is definitely the way to travel. We’re already in Manhattan and I didn’t have to pay for a train ticket or sit next to a beer-swilling businessman on Metro-North. We pull up in front of the entrance to the Time Warner apartments and Eric jumps out before the driver can come around and open the door. I peer out of the car window, craning my neck up at the towering green glass building. Despite the hour, the street is bustling with late-night club-goers, chatting gaily as they hop in and out of taxis.
    Eric swings open my door and extends his hand. When I got into the car half an hour ago, I didn’t really focus on where we were headed, but obviously we’re on our way upstairs. It’s almost three in the morning. The restaurants can’t still be open. I take Eric’s hand and stroll with him through the lobby and into the elevator. As we walk by, the doorman, two lobby attendants, a concierge, and the elevator man all nod obsequiously and say, “Good evening, Mr. Richmond. Pleasure to have you back.” Nobody bothers to glance at me. I’m obviously a transient.
    Or a tramp. If Emily ever did something like this, I’d kill her. Wouldn’t she realize what it means to a guy if you agree to go up and see his apartment at this hour? But I can easily convince myself that there’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing. Eric’s single and so, apparently, am I, at least in every way that matters. My wedding ring is off and so is my husband—off with another woman. If Bill can have Ashlee, I can have Eric. He doesn’t even count. I already have that notch on my belt.
    We step into his apartment and I gasp. Even before Eric turns on the pinpoint lights hidden in the ceiling, the room is already shimmering with the glow of the city. The glistening views reflected on all sides in the floor-to-ceiling windows provide all the decoration the room really needs. Some interior designer has been smart enough to realize the hard work has already been done and his job was just not to get in the way of the fantastic views. Muted low-slung sofas in soft grays sit on a quietly elegant beige carpet. An undulating glass coffee table almost disappears, except for the slim Giacometti sculpture sitting decorously on its surface. The one wall without a window manages to hold its own with a subtly spectacular Picasso.
    Someone must have known we were coming, because the sleek steel table in the dining room is set for two. The tapered candles are already lit, and a generous dish of caviar is sitting inside a silver bowl filled with ice. Eric goes over to the waiting magnum of Dom Perignon, pops the cork, and fills two glasses, leaning over to hand me one.
    I grab the glass and take a big gulp.
    “Wait a minute. We need a toast,” says Eric coming closer. He raises his glass and clicks it against mine. “To you. To us. To first love.”
    Now I bring the glass to my lips, but I can hardly swallow. The whole apartment could be out of a movie, and so could this scene. Is all this just a fantasy? Remember, Hallie, you haven’t seen this man in twenty years.
    “You know, you were my first love,” Eric says as we sit down on a deep-cushioned sofa and he scoops some of the caviar onto a plate. He holds out a little spoon of beluga for me. “And you were my first lover. I’ve gotten even better in bed since then.”
    “I don’t know if I have. I’ve been with the same guy