He looked fantastic, the bastard, not like me, with red-rimmed eyes and popcorn in my cleavage. He said all sorts of sanctimonious things about the death of this great friend of mine (“One game of golf and your man-crush doesn’t make him your great friend, you dick!”) and about how Sunshine was one of those people who had a pretty strict agenda of her own (“To raise your children? That agenda? The reason we bought a house with four bedrooms?”).
Wine was chugged from the bottle, I’ll admit it.
To my relief, the hosts all gave him a hard time. He answered their questions with ease. “I do regret hurting her, believe me. But you can’t live your life according to what you once wanted when something as radical as a near-death experience completely changes your priorities.”
He used the words live life large eleven times in the four interviews. He’d gotten two tattoos since posting the Corpse blog. One said—surprise!—Live life large! The other was NVC... Nathan’s initials.
I hoped the Coburns weren’t watching my ex-boyfriend use their son for his fifteen minutes of fame.
Eric wasn’t the only one who’d been approached by the media. Oh, yeah. I’d been called, too. Thanks, but no thanks. I let them all go to voice mail.
The Friday meeting with Eric that Jonathan had set up loomed like a tornado on the horizon. Eric had even sent me an email to confirm. And another to Jonathan, cc’ing me, saying how much he was looking forward to our “pitch” and seeing how it compared with the others he’d been fielding.
Jonathan had sent me a memo with bullet points on the pitch. It was color-coded.
At least I had Kate to look after. Though I felt guilty about it, I was glad to have a purpose. I baked her a chocolate cake to temper her cramps and found some sci-fi movies for us to watch. Brooke and her sons had come over the other night, and the second she walked in the house, Brooke started to cry. I took the boys into the media room and played astronaut with them, tipping them back in the chairs and doing a countdown with all sorts of drama and blastoff noises. At least I’d been able to make them smile.
Kate was quiet and appreciative. She’d always been on the reserved side, always seemed so together, always a little removed from the complicated, messy, intense feelings the rest of us dealt with. Maybe it was the camera, always by her side, always documenting life rather than making her live it, in a way.
Even so, I still felt fairly useless. I wasn’t able to think too far into the future. My job wouldn’t cover rent on a decent place in town, and I loved Cambry-on-Hudson. I scanned the internet for jobs that might pay more than the magazine, but there wasn’t much out there. Nothing for philosophers, nothing for disgraced news producers.
Interior decorating might be fun, but I quickly learned that was a field glutted by housewives who thought they had good taste (like me); any real career came only after a degree and an apprenticeship.
Dog-washing? Dog-sitting? Ollie told me with his beautiful brown eyes that I was the world’s greatest person. At least I had him.
On Monday night, Kate told me she was going back to the grief group, and I perked up. “That’s great!” I said. “Hey, do you mind giving me a ride? Not to your group this time, but, well...maybe the divorce group.”
And so it was that I walked into the basement of St. Andrew’s, waved to the adorable Leo and the even more adorable George, then went into the next room. Alas, it was AA, where they were chanting the Serenity Prayer. I finished with them—“And the wisdom to know the difference” could be applied to so many situations, after all—then went into the correct room, according to the sign. DWI: Divorce With Integrity.
“Catchy name,” I muttered.
And there was Jonathan, who did a double take at the sight of me. Super. Still, I smiled. It was not returned.
There was no Lileth for this group, just four people, two middle-aged women: one wearing yoga pants and a tired T-shirt, no makeup; the other decked out in skintight leather pants, stacked heels and cropped top more suitable for an eighteen-year-old French prostitute than a fifty-year-old soccer mom. Tiny frame, double D boobs, tight eyes. Her teeth were so white they hurt my eyes. Seemed like she’d coped with divorce by becoming a plastic surgery junkie. She reminded me a bit of Candy.
For men, we had Jonathan and another guy, about forty.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Ainsley. I work with Jonathan, and my boyfriend of eleven years dumped me on his blog. Do I qualify for this group? The widows and widowers kicked me out.”
They swarmed me (minus Jonathan). Marley and Carly were the women, each divorced in the past year, both with kids. Henry was the other guy—midforties, good-looking, well dressed and possibly in the closet. If not, I might introduce him to Kate. When the time was right, of course.
The metal chairs were in a circle, same as the grief group.
“Sit, sit,” Carly (or Marley) suggested. “We’d love to hear your story. You’re Sunshine, right? Sorry, I read the blog. Who hasn’t?”
“Yep. Feeling more like a little black rain cloud these days.” I looked at the chairs. “Can I make a suggestion? Is there any reason why we can’t go out for a drink instead of staying here?”
“We always meet here,” Jonathan said.
“You have a point,” Marley (or Carly) said to me. “I could go for a strawberry daiquiri. Why do we meet here, anyway?”
“To avoid becoming bitter alcoholics?” Jonathan suggested.
“Who’s bitter?” Henry said. “A piña colada would taste great right now. And if things go south, we know where to find AA.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in Cambry Burgers & Beer. I’d suggested Hudson’s, which was closer, but Jonathan grimly insisted on this place, which was lively and fun (surprising, because Jonathan had picked it.)
We ordered drinks and appetizers and exchanged the usual getting-to-know-you chitchat. Except Jonathan, who already knew me, of course.
“So I went on my fifteenth first date this weekend,” Marley said (I’d ridden with them and figured out who was who on the ride over). She had an inch of gray roots showing and cracked her knuckles as she spoke. “He won’t call. I’m surprised he even made it through the entire drink.”
“What did you wear?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” Jonathan said.
I turned to him. “Yes. It’s all about first impressions, Mr. Kent.” I looked back at Marley. “I would love to give you a makeover.”
“I’ve been asking her to let me do the same thing for a year,” Carly said.
“So I can get a pair of these, Barbie? No, thanks,” she said, jabbing Carly fondly.
“Maybe we could do mutual makeovers,” I suggested. “All us women style each other.”
“Except you, Ainsley, you’re adorable. I wouldn’t change a hair,” Marley said. She chugged half her margarita. “You really think you could help me? I’m old, honey. I’m fifty-four.”
“That’s not old, and sure!” I said. “I love clothes. And makeup. And shoes.”
“That would be fun,” said Henry. “I’m a hairdresser. I’d love to have at you both. Not you, darling, you’re perfect,” he added, adjusting a strand of my hair. “Though a streak of gray would be very on fleek.”