Faking Life Page 23

  “I know what you mean,” Esther said, eyes darting about the table as though she were unsuccessfully searching for a different answer.

  “You do? I thought you had a job.”

  “I do. I mean, I'm probably in a similar boat. I like what I do, but I expected to be more satisfied by this point. I can't really put my finger on it.” She motioned to a passing busboy for more water. “But I understand what you're saying. Sometimes when you're just looking for a rest, life drags you along.”

  “So are you ever gonna tell me what you do?” Esther remained silent, her face looking at her plate. Then she looked up.

  “Maybe,” she said. “When I get more comfortable with it.”

  They sat for several minutes in silence. The waiter returned and took John's empty glass. He replaced it with a fresh beer and served two half portions of salad. He set them down and went to another table, where a heavyset man in a gray pinstriped suit was beckoning with one finger.

  “I didn't realize this came with anchovies,” John said, picking out a slimy piece and dropping it on his napkin.

  “I didn't know you hated anchovies.”

  John laughed. “Why would you know something like that?” Esther didn't respond.

  “Here,” she said. She switched her plate with his. “This one has less of them. You can pick them out and put them on my plate. I love anchovies.” Guess she's not preparing for a goodnight kiss, John thought. He watched her pop a forkful of salad—topped by a large, brown anchovy—into her mouth. “So how have you been passing time since you got fired? Any hobbies, girlfriends, pets keeping you busy?” John smiled and leaned back.

  He found himself charmed by the sour smell of anchovies as they wafted from Esther's mouth. She wasn't being dainty or delicate, or trying too hard to come off sassy or sexy. She wasn't guilty of any of the unforgivable sins women at bars tended to collect like so many bottles of designer perfume. She surely didn't realize her breath reeked, but that was what made the moment endearing. She was above that. Beyond it. She knew there was something between them and was confident enough to drop the blanket of conscientiousness that hampered the potential of so many disastrous dates. Esther knew what she had to offer. Confidence, to John, was sexy in women only if they were unaware of it. Fake confidence—the kind displayed by girls used to getting their way—was as unappealing as moldy foccachia.

  “John?” she said, leaning across the table and snapping her fingers.

  “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “I was asking what you're doing to keep busy while you look for work.”

  “Writing actually.” He stopped. A smile came across his face and a chuckle escaped his lips. He shook his head and took a large swallow of his beer.

  “What's funny?”

  “You're the first person I've told.”

  “About what?”

  “My writing. Well, my roommate knows, but he doesn't know how serious it is. We've never really spoken about it. I've been writing a book—a memoir I guess you could say—for a few months now. I even have an agent, silly as that sounds.” Esther remained silent. Her eyes were concentrating on the glass of wine, gently rolling it between her fingers.

  Finally she broke the silence. “That's really great. I'm sure a lot of people would love to read it.”

  “You mean that? How do you know?”

  “I'm sure you have a lot to say. I know some people in that industry and I'm sure they'd be interested.” John's eyes perked up.

  “Really? Like who?” Esther didn't seem to be expecting the question, though her reply was quick and confident.

  “A guy I know named Jeremy Friedkin. He's an editor and he's always on the lookout for slice of life stuff, things people can relate to. Not the cheesy memoiry stuff written by the granddaughters of famous actors or boozehounds in rehab. Not stuff people can only relate to if they pull in a few million a year.”

  “I don't think mine falls under that category,” he said. “But if you're looking for someone readers who can relate to who pulls in a few thousand a year, I'm your man.”

  Esther chewed with her mouth open, blissfully unaware, the sweet smell of anchovies lingering. John finished his second beer and refused a third while Esther drained the rest of her wine. The waiter cleared the table and brought out a small dish of freshly grated Parmesan cheese.

  “Maybe I could put you in touch with Jeremy,” she said. The way she talked, it sounded like an afterthought. Something he shouldn't pay that much attention to, but hopefully noticed.

  “That'd be great,” John said. Esther smiled and dug into her purse, a small black cylinder that looked barely large enough to hold a stick of gum. She took out a tiny brown wallet, unsnapped the button, and rifled through an assortment of business cards. When she found the one she was looking for, she handed it to John.

  “Thanks.” He put it in his pocket.

  “You're not going to lose that, are you?”

  “I don't lose anything, especially phone numbers given to me by women. Even if it is a random guy's number.” Esther laughed and lightly slapped John's wrist.

  The waiter returned with two steaming plates of pasta, smothered in succulent red sauce and tossed with fresh shrimp, scallops and clams. John hung his face over the dish for a second, letting the steam coat his chin.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I shaved before and my face is a little dry. This feels soothing.”

  “Riiiight.”

  They ate with dueling noises that would have made any chef in New York proud. The noodles were warm and soft and the seafood had a hint of saltiness, as though plucked straight from the ocean. The mussels were perfectly chewy and the shrimp had light garlic seasoning that made John's mouth water. They moaned their way through heaping forkfuls until they were forced to come up for air.

  “Might I say that this was an excellent choice for dinner,” John said, dabbing at his mouth. “If your taste in restaurants is this good I might never want to pick in the future.”

  “Getting a little presumptuous aren't we? Next time? In the future?” John rolled his eyes.

  “Come on. This is by far the best date I've been on in years, and I'm pretty sure you're not having a bad time yourself. So why don't we cut the b.s., skip the games, and just agree to do this again. Hopefully very soon.” Esther grinned and nodded demurely.

  “I think that's a wonderful idea. And I'd prefer it if you pick the place next time..”

  “Done deal. Now wasn't that easier than playing the 'let's lead John on for a month before agreeing to go out again' game?”

  “Absolutely.” She sounded like she meant it.

  They finished their dishes, leaving barely more than empty clamshells and sauce residue for the waiter to take away. They declined coffee and desert. To John, the caffeinated buzz of a good date couldn't be trumped by the best Columbian brew, and he was so full that desert probably would have made the pasta come right back up. He tried to hide a grimace when he accepted the check. He paid the tab in cash.

  “Change, monsieur?” Monsieur. He was pretty sure this was an Italian restaurant…

  “No thanks,” he said, adding glibly, “keep the change.”

  As the busboy began to clear the dishes, John got a sudden urge.

  “Wait one second.”

  He took his full glass of wine, untouched throughout the meal, and stared at the light caught in the deep red. He could see his reflection in the glass, uncertain eyes peering back at him. He looked up at Esther, her gaze confused. Slowly, he raised the glass and smiled at her.

  “To an incredible first date, and to a truly incredible woman. You have no idea what tonight meant to me.” John heard Esther take a deep breath as he tilted the glass back and swallowed a mouthful of wine. It tasted sweet and bitter and lingered on his tongue. Nothing else. No bile or saliva. No revulsion. Esther's eyes seemed to glisten and for a moment, John thought she was about to cry. He dismissed it. She couldn't possibly know the signi
ficance of what he'd done.

  As they left, John held Esther's coat open, allowing her to slip her delicate arms in. She glanced over her shoulder as he held the sleeves, his arm grazing her check, her skin warm and inviting. She let the touch linger. No 'thank you' was necessary, he felt it in her eyes. She looked like she wanted to say something, but was talking through her body, her movements, her eyes. And John took in every word.

  They walked along avenue B, the sun having given way to the grayish blue New York night. Traffic lights and lampposts provided faint illumination as they walked side by side.

  “So where to now?” Esther asked. John shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “Well, I guess I didn't plan too far ahead. We could catch a movie or something if you'd like.”

  “I'm not really in the mood for a movie. Any other suggestions?”

  “We could go for a drink?”

  “I had drinks with dinner.” She moved closer to him, her perfume tickling his nose.

  “We could…stand out here on the street and do nothing.” She laughed, inched closer.

  “Now where's the fun in that?”

  “I don't know, if you really want you can have fun with anything…”

  Before he could finish the thought, Esther leaned forward and kissed him. He felt her lips press against his, gentle, smothering. He pushed back and felt her gloved hands around his neck, her breath hot on his face. Finally they pulled apart, breathed, stared at eachother's eyes.

  “My roommate…” John said.

  “Mine is out for the night.” He smiled. She laughed, then grabbed his hand.

  “Come with me.” She hailed the nearest cab and gave the driver her address. As soon as the motor started, John felt her hands back on his face, her sweet smell intoxicating. They stayed like that the entire ride, until finally she led him upstairs and into her deep embrace.

  “We need to go to that restaurant more often.” John laughed.

  Esther lay across his chest, her hand lazily brushing the hair between his pectorals. Her cheeks rose and fell with her breathing. He smiled and stroked her lips. Her eyes were open, warm and satisfied.

  “Now aren't you glad we didn't bother playing any games?” he said. Esther laughed and lightly slapped his arm.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said. “It was delicious.” He nodded. Her skin was so warm against his touch. He lightly pressed his fingertips against her wrist, feeling her steady pulse.

  “We'll definitely go back sometime. But the dessert. Mmm…mmm. Even better than the main course.” John leaned over and nibbled her ear, Esther letting out a shriek of pleasure as he pretended to gnaw away.

  “Stop that! We'll get a noise complaint.” He took his head away and licked his lips.

  “Delicious. A hint of cinnamon. Could use some dressing maybe.”

  “Don't you dare.”

  They smiled. John leaned over and kissed her forehead, Esther closing her eyes, a dreamy grin on her face. Then she kissed him, her tongue gently flicking around his mouth, the swell of her body pushing against him.

  “You're incredible, John.” He leaned back, her eyes staring into him.

  “Don't say that.”

  “I mean it, you are.”

  “You are too, Esther.” She shook her head.

  “You don't need to tell me I am just because I told you. I really think you're amazing.” John wrapped his arms around Esther and hugged her tight, pressing his cheekbone against the bridge of her nose.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. Leaning across the bed, Esther took her watch from the nightstand.

  “It's early.”

  “You still up for a movie? Maybe a cocktail?”

  “Not really. Actually,” she said, bracing herself with her elbows. John traced his finger along her naked sternum, her skin warm and slick.

  “That tickles.”

  “I'll stop.” She shuddered.

  “No, don't.” He gently traced the curve of her breasts, her chest rising sharply as he kneaded her skin, feeling her body shiver.

  “John?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Would you show me your book?” His finger stopped moving.

  “Now?” She nodded exuberantly.

  “Why so urgent?”

  “I don't know, I'd just really like to see it.” John sat up on the bed and looked at the clock.

  “Don't see why not. Paul's probably not asleep yet, not that he'd care anyway. You don't mind coming all the way downtown? It's kind of a hike.”

  “Well, you'd let me stay over wouldn't you?” John smiled.

  “I'd even make you breakfast in the morning. And I haven't done that in years. I must have some cereal or crusty old pancake batter lying around. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  They put their clothes back on, making no effort to avoid physical contact as they tugged on socks and shoes, pulling shirts over eachother's heads, gentle kisses waiting as they poked their heads out. Esther put together a small overnight bag and they went downstairs. John had just enough cash to cover the cab downtown.

  They took their time walking, hands millimeters apart. John felt the static in the air, a hushed quiet that seemed to suck all the noise from the city, leaving him to hear only them. He could hear her breath, her shoes on the concrete, her slight sniffle in the cold. He playfully nudged her when she hesitated at a green light and she pushed back, their laughter subsiding into quiet smiles.

  When they reached his apartment, John checked the mailbox and led Esther upstairs. When they reached the top of the walkup, John smiled shyly as he opened the door.

  “It might be a bit messy,” he said.

  “I don't care. I'm here to be with you, not to dust the place.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She placed her hand on the inside of his elbow. He felt blood rush to his cheeks, and for a split second he had an urge to pull her closer before leading her inside. He could hear her long, slow breaths, watched her coat rise and fall.

  He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door inward.

  “Paul, you decent?”

  John held the door open for Esther, twirling his arm in a chivalric gesture. As he followed her in, head bowed, he bumped into Esther, nearly knocking her over. She was standing immobile in front of the door, facing the living room, her head riveted in place.

  “Esther, you can go inside if you…” Then John saw what had caused Esther to freeze. His keys fell on the floor with a muted jangle.

  Paul was sitting on the couch, his hair askew. His elbows rested on his knees, his eyes full of thick, stringy veins. At least a dozen bottles of beer littered the floor, many of them strewn in between pieces of broken glass with mangled labels still attached. John noticed notches on the wall where Paul must have smashed the bottles. Several pieces of paper sat on the couch next to him. John recognized them immediately. His stomach clenched. He could smell sour vomit wafting from somewhere in the apartment.

  Paul picked up the pages and held them out to John.

  “You motherfucker,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Paul,” John said hesitantly. “What's going on?”

  “This,” Paul said, tapping a finger against the contract he held in his hand. “So this is what you didn't want to show me.”

  “Paul, it doesn't matter. So what…”

  “This shit,” he said, crinkling the paper between his unsteady fingers. His eyes were full of wax. Sweat beaded down his face like an athlete in a sports drink commercial. “I've worked years, goddamn years to just get to the point where someone would represent me. And here you are, a goddamn ex-bartender fuckup who hasn't written more than a tax return in his whole life and you have the nerve to sign one and then lie about it.” There was nothing John could say.

  “Paul, I didn't lie, I just never said anything.”

  “Shut up. It's people like you who fuck up the whole system,” Paul said. He was
n't looking at John anymore. He didn't seem to have even noticed Esther. She was still standing by the door, looking like she wished she could pass through the wall and disappear.

  “Fucking people like you,” Paul railed. “You come along with the next great idea, the next big thing they can market and then it doesn't matter if you can fucking spell cat. If you look good on the jacket you'll fucking sell. And it leaves people like me who actually deserve it out in the goddamn streets. And your book…” Paul's expression morphed from utter disdain to sadness, and he choked back a sob. “There're things in there you've never even told me. Me.” He jabbed his finger against his chest, denting his blue sweatshirt. “Your best friend.”

  “Paul, you need to understand…”

  “I read everything, John. Front to back. We've known each other for ten years and you never told me these things. Your life…fuck, I mean Gloria…how could you not tell me about Gloria?”

  “Paul, I couldn't even tell myself about her. You've got it all wrong…”

  “And then I'm sitting here and the phone rings. I decide to let the machine get it cause I'm too busy reading your crap. Then I hear this.”

  Paul reached out with an unsteady hand and pressed a button on the answering machine. After the beep, John recognized the voice of Nico Vanetti. They all listened in silence. When the message was finished, John's heart skipped a beat. He heard Esther gasp next to him. Paul shook his head in disbelief.

  “So you're the next golden boy,” he said, his face turning haggard. “The next poster child. You see me day in and day out and you don't even have the fucking decency to tell me.” John stepped forward, his face burning. Jesus, was Nico serious?

  “Paul, I swear I didn't know about the money. It was never about that.”

  “Bullshit. I don't deserve to be treated like this.” Paul staggered to his feet. “I'm fucking better than you,” he said, picking a beer bottle off the table and gripping it, his fingers turning white as the blood was forced out of them. The pages of Nico Vanetti's contract fluttered to the ground and began to soak in spilt alcohol. “You don't deserve anything.”