My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

1.WHITNEY

It’s not yet five o’clock when the Lyft driver drops me off at the waterfront Manhattan Beach bar where I’m scheduled to meet Whitney for happy hour. Though I’m a few minutes early, she is already standing at the entrance awaiting my arrival. Upon spotting me in the growing dimness of the mild California January evening, she grins and waves one arm wildly. Her eager body language might be better suited to someone reuniting with a twin separated at birth.

Whitney and I are not long-lost relatives – in fact, we’re not even friends, having known each other for a grand total of two days. She is an acquaintance from my new gym, which is a convenient ten-minute walk from the ocean view apartment I leased for the year in King Harbor, in Los Angeles’s South Bay area. I know little about this woman except that she is blond and pretty, with shiny white teeth that glisten within the arc of a perpetual scarlet smile. Whitney’s demeanor is carefree, cheery, undemanding. She doesn’t carry much baggage or wield much intellectual heft. In short, she is exactly the kind of person I want to associate with as I embark on my new life, in the first month of my first year of full—if involuntary— independence.

“Mar,” Whitney says, still beckoning as if desperate to capture my attention, though I am now three feet away. She leans in and gives me a brief hug, then steps back to admire my aqua-blue leggings, plush ankle boots, and dove-gray cashmere sweater. “You clean up nicely,” she tells me with a wink. This is something gym rats like to say when they meet any place outside of the gym. I’m pleased she’s noticed my spiffed-up wardrobe.

“So do you,” I say, a reciprocal compliment being the expected response. Two weeks into my membership at Seaside Fitness, and I’ve nailed the etiquette.

We go inside and grab a high table near the bar. A glass of California chard for me, a dirty martini for Whitney. We clink our icy glasses in a merry toast as I stifle the impulse to complain that my chardonnay has arrived overchilled. I don’t want to spoil this lovely moment of camaraderie with my newfound acquaintance. I check my cellphone before tucking it inside my purse, but not before Whitney glimpses the screenshot of a towheaded toddler.

“Who’s that little cutie?” she asks.

“My grandson Benny.”

Her jaw drops. “Get out. How can you have a grandson? We’re, like, the same age, right?”

“Not unless you’re fifty,” I say, a hint of braggadocio in my voice. On the first week of January, I celebrated my fiftieth birthday quietly and alone by preference. People always think I’m at least ten years younger than my age. It’s in the genes. “Our family is like Dick Clark’s. We all look insanely youthful for decades, then we drop dead.”

She gives me a blank stare. “Who’s Dick Clark?”

Seriously? I know this woman is many years younger than me, but isn’t Clark still revered as an icon of American pop culture? I give her the benefit of the doubt and briefly explain American Bandstand . Whitney pretends to listen, but I can tell she’s still hung up on the grandma revelation. Is my new buddy already backing off from our relationship out of misplaced ageism?

But I’ve misread the situation. “Wow, you look amazing,” she says. “You remind me of someone.”

“A famous actress?” I ask hopefully.

She studies my face. “No, I don’t think so. It’s someone else. So . . . where did you find the fountain of youth? I’m thirty-five, and I’d like to know how I can look as good as you in fifteen years.”

Ah. She is trolling for beauty secrets. I wish I could offer some pearls of wisdom on personal maintenance, like “get a lot of sleep and drink plenty of water.” But the truth is, I’m not much of a sleeper and I drink more wine than water. I assure her it’s a mix of favorable genetics and dumb luck.

“So . . . are you married?” Whitney asks.

“Divorced. But it’s all good. No hard feelings between Henry and me.”

“Oh, cool. I’m not married either, never have been. Maybe someday, but I don’t know . . . I like having fun, fun, fun, not being tied down to anything, you know?”

Oh, I know. At least, I’m trying to know. Fun, fun, fun, with no commitments—that’s what I want my life to be now.

“So . . . how long were you married to . . . what’s his name again?”

“Henry. Like Henry Kissinger.”

Her eyes glaze over in another blank stare. Not to be unkind, but last week they had a question about Kissinger on an episode of teen Jeopardy! and the high school kids got it right. Has this woman been exposed to nothing but the inside of a martini glass? I push this uncharitable thought from my mind, along with my mild irritation over the way she begins every other sentence with an elongated “so . . .”

“Let’s not talk about Henry and me. It’s a boring story.” What I don’t tell her is that Henry and I were married for twenty-eight years. There are indeed hard feelings, at least on my side. And divorce is seldom boring.

Over the first round of drinks, we discuss a variety of safe if vacuous topics: hair, clothes, restaurants. Then she tells me about her favorite exercise classes, which I find instructional, being a newbie to the gym. Whitney reps a line of women’s sportswear and athletic apparel, which she sells through trunk shows at boutique hotels and health clubs.

“I’m editor of an engineering publication based in New York, but they let me work from my home,” I say.

She shows little interest in this. That’s fine. I’m not into talking about my life nowadays.

The server cruises by with a “last call” announcement, urging us to capitalize on the rock-bottom happy hour prices by placing our food and drink orders in the next five minutes. After minimal discussion, Whitney and I agree to share the Margherita pizza and a side of roasted Brussels sprouts with our next round of drinks. This time I switch to a glass of Malbec that is warm to the touch as if the wineglass had been yanked from a steaming industrial dishwasher. To my mind, any restaurant that serves its white wines too cold and its reds too warm might as well hang out a sign that says, Mediocrity rules here, or maybe even, we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing, but we do it with a smile. Because the service, I have to concede, is indefatigably cheerful, even by Southern California beach restaurant standards.

“So . . . you live in King Harbor?” Whitney asks, struggling to get her lips around her first slice of pizza, which is topped with stringy browned cheese that sticks to the plate.

I stab my fork into a Brussels sprout and pop it into my mouth, biting down with caution. It is smothered in an over-aggressive basting sauce, a sticky blend of balsamic and maple syrup. Bacon bits and chopped candied nuts have been tossed into the mix. Somewhere I believe there is a roasted vegetable in this sorry mess, but I can’t taste it.

“Yes, I’m renting a little apartment,” I say to Whitney. “They call it a two-bedroom, but the rooms are all tiny. Still, it’s a nice building, and the views are great. It has everything I need.” Everything and more , I reflect. Every nook and cranny of the place is piled with unpacked boxes of possessions I dragged over from my sprawling suburban house up on Peninsula Hill, a mere four miles from here. Why I saved all that stuff, I can’t imagine.

I don’t say this, but the best thing about my new apartment is that I can’t picture Henry there. When I rattled around alone in our big family home for ten months after he left, I would descend to the kitchen every morning half expecting to find him downing a mug of black coffee like he used to do before heading to the office. Or I’d walk into the den we had repurposed into a man cave for Henry five years ago – I guess I’d have to call it a manless cave now – and be surprised, all over again, that the seventy-inch wall-mounted TV was all mine to watch. Goodbye, golf and football. Hello, cable news networks and History Channel.

“You’re so lucky to have a place on the water,” Whitney says, and I know it’s true. “All I can afford is a little studio about three miles inland. It’s so hot there in the summer.”

“At least you can escape to the club when you need an ocean breeze,” I point out. Seaside Fitness, as the name implies, is right on the waterfront. Though the floors are scratched from years of use, the cardio machines are dated, and the workout spaces cramped, you can’t beat the views or the sensation of well-being that results from those wonderful negative ions generated by the constant motion of the sea.

“I love Seaside Fitness,” Whitney says, smiling. “It’s so friendly.”

“Until this year, I belonged to a gym on Peninsula Hill.” I tell her the name of my previous health club, but she shakes her head. “It’s that big uber-modern building north of the mall,” I explain. “The facility is beautiful and everything is state of the art, but it’s not a friendly place. I didn’t know how much I disliked it until I moved down off the hill and resigned to join Seaside.”

Whitney looks pleased by this revelation, as though I have just signed up for her team. “Are you coming to the power sculpt class tomorrow? Ten-thirty?” she asks.

“I haven’t been to that class.”

“You should totally try it. Donna’s the instructor. She’s the best.”

I nod and tell her I’ll be there.

“And when the weather’s nice, bring your grandson to swim. The kiddie pool is great for the young ones,” she says.

Another thing I don’t say is that I see little of Benny and his parents – my son, Michael, and my daughter-in-law, Heather. I miss them, especially the little guy. But I find it too uncomfortable to be around them knowing they’re all in cahoots with Henry and . . . with her . Alice.

Alice, the woman Henry left me for. She’s been employed at his company for a couple of years now, in an inside sales position. Although Henry has suggested it might be a good idea for the two of us to meet – “For what possible reason?” is my answer – I’ve never laid eyes on her. All I know about Alice is the way she speaks.

When I called the office one day around six months ago to check with Henry on a missing bill payment, she answered the phone in a soft, melodious voice resembling that of a trained singer or professional announcer. “Alice Hanley. How can I help you?” she crooned, rather than spoke, into the phone.

How should I respond, I wondered at the time. Perhaps I should answer, “This is Margaret, Henry’s ex. You can best help me by disintegrating into thin air, since your non-existence might allow me to reclaim my former life.” Not wanting to say this, I hung up.

I imagine Alice Hanley to be in her thirties, dishy and self-confident, a blonde or a redhead. But this is all conjecture. I have dug in my heels and refused to meet this Alice or learn anything about the mystery woman with whom my ex-husband has cohabited for almost a year. Even our friends have become their friends – Henry and Alice’s. This was a bitter lesson learned during those first weeks of the separation, when I tried to socialize with our old pals and discovered that couples want to be friends with other couples, not with an abandoned wife. I more or less went into hiding at that point until finally emerging from my shell to make the short but significant move down to King Harbor.

Whitney interrupts my thoughts. “Your grandson. I was saying you should bring him to the kiddie pool.”

“Great idea. Benny would love that.” I force a smile.

...

I enjoyed my two hours of baggage-free banter with Whitney, or that’s what I tell myself. It was the perfect prelude to an evening of hard work. I’m back at my apartment before seven-thirty when I settle down with a glass of wine in my little office, which is occupied by a workstation and a futon stacked with file folders I haven’t gotten around to organizing. I’m ready to dive into tonight’s assignments, reviewing staff-written articles and columns for the next issue of Powder World, the magazine I edit.

In common industries from food to pharmaceutical, countless powdered substances must be mixed, blended, conveyed, captured, packaged, stored, and manufactured into final form. It is the job of Powder World magazine to tell readers how to approach these daunting tasks with efficiency and accuracy. Granted, the average citizen doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of this. But for our audience of engineers, plant managers, and equipment suppliers, these are life and death topics.

I take a sip of chardonnay and smack my lips. Unlike the happy hour wine, this one is chilled to the perfect temperature, and the taste on my palate is more crisp than creamy. My editorial work takes on a pleasant aura when it’s fueled by a steady flow of good quality vino. I think I average around five times the recommended consumption limit for a woman my age – that is, if you listen to the so-called health experts. Having learned a thing or two about engineering during my editing career, I’ve also become adept at reverse engineering. I begin at the end – stating a premise, then selecting the facts that support my foregone conclusion. For example . . . alcohol is good for me. Wine reduces my anxiety, improves my verbal skills, sharpens my editing, curbs my appetite, facilitates my sleep, and even raises my good cholesterol.

Perhaps there is something hard-wired into my genes that gives me such a high—no pun intended—tolerance to alcohol while producing such sanguine physical and mental results. Perhaps I’m burning off the booze with my two or three hours of daily exercise. But drinking agrees with me. Besides, I confine my consumption to topnotch products from the best-regarded California vintners. There’s no question it is healthier for me to imbibe than not to. The cherry-picked facts are indisputable.

I scroll through my inbox. The first message is from my boss, Robert Carlson. This afternoon, I forwarded him an article submitted by one of our big advertisers, Camfield Corporation. In my accompanying email, I wrote:

Sorry to report, Camfield is playing fast and loose with the editorial guidelines. They’ve sprinkled some blatant sales messages through the copy. How do you want to handle?

I skim through Robert’s reply.

Let’s discuss. Working late tonight. You can call my cell up until 11 p.m. Eastern.

I double-check the time before placing the call.

“Margaret, hi.”

I bristle a little at his greeting. “Hello, Robert.”

“About the article . . . I only took a quick glance. Is it fixable from your end?”

“Yes. If I delete the product plugs and the other self-serving stuff, it will be fine,” I say. “Camfield won’t like it though. I wanted you in the loop before I piss off a big advertiser.”

“Understood. Make the changes, send it back to them with your usual reminder about our strict editorial rules, and copy me.”

“Do you want to review the changes first?”

“Nah. I know you’ll get it right. You can fudge in the email and tell them I’ve already approved the revisions. If they come whining to me, I’ve got your back.”

“Sounds good.”

“All right, then. G’night, Margaret.”

“Uh—remember what we discussed? It’s ‘Mar’ now.” I’d told him weeks ago that I wanted to be called “Mar” going forward.

“But why?” he asked when I first made the request.

“Margaret sounds too much like an old schoolmarm. I’m going for a younger, hipper vibe,” I said.

The truth is, I changed my name along with everything else in my life to escape the painful reality of Henry’s defection. But for whatever reason, Robert has trouble remembering to use the new name. I’m not sure why this bothers me so much. “I’ll try to be better about calling you that, I promise,” he says. “But it’s not easy to change after all these years.”

You can say that again.

As I sip my chardonnay, admiring the subtle aromas of citrus and pear, I tackle the Camfield article first, making the agreed-upon edits. My next assignment is a piece called “Doctor Dave’s Dust Diagnostics.” The author, David Silverman, has a Ph.D. in engineering and writes this popular alliterative monthly column in which he troubleshoots readers’ questions. As usual, Doctor Dave’s answers are spot-on from a technical standpoint but are delivered in execrable prose. Don’t they teach the basics of grammar in engineering school? He either writes in endless run-on sentences or short, choppy ones that aren’t sentences at all, littered with misspellings that clog the path to comprehension, the way flotsam and jetsam might block a riverboat’s course down a narrow canal. Fortunately, I learned years ago how to translate “Doctor-Dave-speak,” so the editing proceeds without a hitch. Within forty-five minutes, I’ve whipped an unintelligible draft into a succinct, informative Q&A column that is sure to snag a high readership score as always.

I unwrap a one-ounce portion of dark chocolate to munch on as I settle back to work, this time to review an article written by my young associate editor. This girl knows her stuff. I make a handful of minor edits and compose an email to compliment her on the work. After such a productive evening, I think I’ve earned a final glass of wine to enjoy while I catch the evening news. I’ll give these articles another read-through in the morning before sending them off. As I refill my wine glass and retire to the living room, I reflect on how work is the only part of my life that’s going well right now. I’m fortunate to have Robert as a boss. He’s flexible, he’s supportive, and he even allows me to moonlight, as long as my freelance clients don’t represent a conflict with Powder World. My one quarrel with him these days is his failure to use my preferred name. He can’t bring himself to embrace the new “Mar.”

I wonder if anyone anywhere will ever embrace the new Mar.

But why would I even want that? The people I used to hold close to me have done nothing but disappoint. Much better, much safer, to keep others at arm’s length, free of the yoke of any suffocating connections.