"So do you really just have sex?" I asked, intrigued. "I mean, don't you talk and that?"
"Not really," she said. "Honestly, we have nothing in common. He's from a different generation. He comes over. We have sex and a bit of a laugh. He tells me I'm the most beautiful woman he's ever met--I'm probably the only woman he's ever met--and he leaves in the morning--usu- ally taking a pair
147
of my socks with him--asks me for his bus fare and off he goes. It's great!"
Gosh, I thought, looking at Laura with frank admiration. "You're such a nineties woman," I told her. "You're so cool."
"Not really," she said. "I'm just keeping the wolf from the door. Any port in a storm, that kind of thing."
"So is he your boyfriend?" I asked. "I mean, would you walk down Grafton Street holding his hand?"
"Lord no!" she said, looking horrified. "What if I met someone I knew? No, no, the little angel is purely a temporary measure. Keeping the bed warm until Mr. Right gets here. Although I can't think what's taking him so long."
Although I was very happy to see Laura, I was very aware that this was actually my first social outing as a single woman in over five years.
And it was my first social outing without my wedding ring. I felt very vulnerable and naked without it. It was only when I wasn't wearing it that I realized how secure I felt when I was wearing it. You know, it makes a statement, it says something like "I'm not desperate for a man, because I already have one. No, really, I do. Just look at my wedding ring."
Laura had split up with her boyfriend, Frank, about a year or so before.
So, in spite of Laura's teenaged lover, we were, to all intents and pur- poses, two single women sipping wine in a crowded downtown pub on a Thursday night in March.
I wondered if men could smell desperation from us.
I wondered if there was desperation to be smelled.
Was I giving Laura my undivided attention? Or was one part of my at- tention scanning the crowd for attractive men? Was I keeping tabs on how many men had given me admiring glances since I arrived?
None, actually, just for the record.
Not, of course, that I was counting or anything.
I laughed at something Laura told me. But I couldn't be sure that I was really laughing. Maybe I just wanted to show the men in the pub that I was perfectly happy and well-adjusted and not feeling like a quarter of a person without a man.
My God, but I was really starting to feel depressed. I felt as if I was wearing a neon sign over my head that said "Recently
148
Dumped" in flashing pink and purple lights, and then "Worthless Without a Man" in orange and red lights.
All my confidence in myself had gone.
Laura noticed that I had started to droop like a dying plant and made routine inquiries. I tearfully tried to tell her how I was feeling.
"Don't worry," she told me kindly. "When Frank left me for the twenty- year-old I felt so ashamed. Like it was all my fault that he had run off. And I felt that I was worth less than nothing without him. But that passes."
"Does it?" I asked her, my eyes brimming with tears.
"Honestly, it does," she promised me.
"I feel like such a reject," I tried to explain to her.
"I know, I know," she said. "And you feel like everyone else knows it."
"Exactly," I said, feeling thankful that I wasn't the only person who'd ever felt like this.
"All right," I said, drying my eyes. "Time for more drinks."
I fought my way through the happy crowds of people and finally got to the bar. I stood there, being jostled and having elbows stuck in my face and drinks spilled down my back as I tried to attract the bartender's atten- tion. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I would have to lift up my dress and show him my boobs before he would notice me, someone put his hands on my waist and squeezed.
This was all I needed! Someone taking advantage of a single woman of a certain age!
Outraged, I turned around as quickly as I could in the confined space, ready to apprehend someone for sexual harassment.
And came face-to-face, as it were, with someone's chest.
It was the beautiful Adam.
Adam, who might or might not be Helen's boyfriend.
The jury was still out.
"Hello." He smiled charmingly. "I saw you from the other side of the bar. Do you need a hand?"
"Oh hello," I said, maintaining my composure but feeling delighted to meet him. What a stroke of luck that Laura chose this pub, I thought.
149
"Am I damn glad to see you?" I said. "I haven't even placed my order yet. The bartender hates me."
He laughed.
And I laughed. I had completely forgotten that we were supposed to be feeling awkward with each other after the little scene in my bedroom where he practically suggested that we make babies.
Adam said, "I'll order the drinks for you."
I gave him the money and told him to get two glasses of red wine and whatever he was having. I took pride in remembering where I came from--I too was once a penniless student. I remembered watching people practically lighting their cigarettes with fivers and wishing enviously that they would buy me a pint of Carlsberg, just one pint.
Adam squashed into the bar. My check was practically resting on his chest. I could faintly smell him. Soap. He smelled so fresh and clean.
I wryly told myself to get a grip on myself. I was starting to behave like Blanche Du Bois. Or the mad old alcoholic from Sunset Boulevard, whatever her name is. Or any of the myriad old hags featured in any story about Beverly Hills, face-lifted to within an inch of their lives, consumed with lust for much younger men. Sad and pathetic. And I didn't want to be like that.
Naturally, in no time at all Adam had got the drinks. Bartenders treat guys like him with respect. They have no time at all for women like me. Especially ones whose husbands have run off on them.
Like every other man in the universe, the bartender obviously knew I was a loser.
Adam handed me the two glasses of wine and then he said, "Here's your change."
"Oh, I've no free hands," I said, indicating the two glasses of wine.
"No problem," he said, and slid his hand into a pocket on the side of the dress I was wearing. Just for a second his hand rested on my hipbone. I could feel the heat of it through the fabric of the dress.