“Oh Peter,” she’d say.
“Oh Peter what? It’s in a man’s nature to be attracted to beautiful young girls. It’s instinctual. A man wants to sleep with as many beautiful young girls as possible. It’s all about reproduction.”
Driving on the back roads in his Porsche, he’d say, “I’m a little crazy, Janey,” like he was proud of it. “Do you think I should go to a shrink?”
“I think it would be totally useless,” Janey would say, and he’d laugh, taking it as a compliment, so by the time they arrived at the party, he’d have his hand on her leg. Then they’d walk, arms around each other, up somebody’s lawn or gravel pathway, laughing, smiling over their shoulders at the other guests. All the PR people knew them, so they didn’t even have to give their names at parties, and photographers took their picture. The summer was green and warm, and for those moments, anyway, it felt perfect.
The Monday after Janey and Peter ran into Harold, Harold called.
“I’m worried about you, Janey,” he said. “You’re a nice girl. You shouldn’t be with a guy like Peter.”
“Why not?” she said.
“He’s a creep.”
“Oh Harold. You think every other guy is a creep.”
“I’m serious, Janey,” Harold said. “I want to give you some advice. Maybe it’s not my place, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. Stop this running around and get married. You’re not the kind of girl who’s going to do something with her life, so marry a man you love and have his children.”
“But I will do something, Harold.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take my advice, Janey. You’re young now, and you’re beautiful. This is the time to find a real guy.”
“Who?” Janey asked.
“A nice young guy. A good-looking guy. I don’t know. I’ll fix you up with my architect. He’s thirty-three and wants to get married.”
“No thanks,” Janey said, and laughed softly.
The relationship with Peter went from bad to worse. It was partly the sex. Peter didn’t want to be touched, and could barely bring himself to touch her. They had sex once every three weeks. “Do you think maybe you’re gay?” Janey asked. She’d developed a habit of baiting him. “I’m going to find some hot young guy to have sex with. Men over forty really can’t perform, you know.” Then they’d get into a screaming argument in his house. One morning, Janey burned some toast, and he stormed into the kitchen and fished the burnt toast out of the garbage, scraped it off, and tried to make her eat it. She fed it to Gumdrop instead, who promptly threw up. Janey had fantasies of killing Peter, and wondered if she accidentally threw his cell-phone recharger into the pool, he’d be electrocuted.
They’d make up because they always had parties to go to, and eventually, the summer passed.
Moomba again. Janey sat by herself, sipping a martini at the bar. The bartender was young. He said, “I remember you in that movie. I’m embarrassed about this, but I used to masturbate to your picture.”
“Good,” Janey said. “Then I guess I don’t need to give you a tip.”
“This is on me,” he said, nodding at the martini. He leaned over the bar. “What are you doing now?”
“Waiting for a friend,” she said, and turned away.
She was willing Zack Manners to show up. She’d found she had this uncanny knack: If she willed something hard enough, it would happen. Instead, Redmon Richardly, the novelist, came in. He nodded at her, then walked all around the club to see who else was there. Then he came over.
“Where’s Zack?” she asked.
“How the hell should I know.”
“I’m hoping he’ll show up.”
“Forget about Zack,” Redmon said. “I’m the best you’re going to do tonight.”
“I want Zack.”
“Zack is a weirdo,” Redmon said. He ordered a scotch.