The Frog Prince

Chapter Four

C hapter F our

K now when to say when.

Olivia’s words stay with me as I drive home. The fog is moving in, and it’s not even that late. It’s late August and it feels like winter, and I don’t know if it’s the cold, damp night or Olivia’s fatalism, but I’m definitely depressed.

I realize, too, that my problems seem pretty insignificant compared to David’s loss. His partner died. Mine just divorced me. Jean-Marc and I were married for one (unhappy) year. Tony and David had a meaningful decade.

Driving the hilly, congested streets punctuated with the clang-clang and rumble of the cable cars, I can’t help wondering what makes couples stick.

Why can some people go the distance? What makes a relationship work?

If only I could identify the ingredient that makes two people want to be together and stay together despite the problems, the conflicts, the self asserting its needs, then maybe Jean-Marc and I would be together today.

Maybe my mom and dad would be together today.

Maybe half of U.S. marriages wouldn’t end in divorce.

I change lanes but fail to signal, and suddenly a white Porsche brakes hard behind me, and the driver gives me lots of attention with his middle finger. Thanks, man. That feels good.

For a split second I feel like Loser Girl all over again, and then I shake it off, thinking instead of David and Tony, of how much David loved Tony and how much Tony—and the Leather when dark didn’t work, I tried red, and the red turned out brassy, overly chemical, and then I tried again and looked Persian with the odd henna purple rinse.

There were diets.

Trips to the shrink.

Agonized phone calls to college friends.

What’s wrong with me? How can I change? How can I make him fall in love with me again?

But this is none of Tom Lehman’s business; this is something I would never have told him. It’s too late now; he knows about my failure. With my pride gone, I give in. “What time are our reservations?”

“Eight. I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”

An hour and a half of drinks before at least two hours of dinner. Great. I think my first date in two years is going to kill me.

I hang up, head to the kitchen, and curse Jean-Marc yet again.

It’s his fault I’m here, back on the market. I didn’t want to be on the market. I’d thought I’d escaped all this.

Dating is nothing short of torture.

I know. Some women actually enjoy it, but I never have. I’m so not good at bullshitting. I struggle with having to be nice and make this polite, cordial conversation that sounds horrendous even at cocktail parties. It’s practically a miracle to have a good date. It’s an out-of-body experience when a man knows how to carry on an interesting conversation.

Jean-Marc was interesting. Talking to him was like playing a game of tennis on a summer morning: warm, flirty, light. Jean-Marc knew a great deal about literature and politics, and yet when he spoke he was dry, witty, self-deprecating. From the first night, I loved being with him.

I loved him.

It didn’t hurt that marrying him meant I was done with meeting men, done with the awkward conversations and even more awkward attempts at lovemaking. I wasn’t a virgin when I married Jean-Marc, but-I certainly wasn’t an expert, either, yet being with Jean-Marc, making love to him, felt right.

Since Jean-Marc and I spent all our time together, getting married seemed like the natural progression. Marriage meant safety. Security. Acceptance.

In case you’re wondering, the sound you hear, that’s me laughing hysterically.

Once I’ve stopped laughing (or crying, depending on how you categorize the sound), I examine the cabinets, looking for something that could pass for dinner, but all I see is my stuff.

Even now, three months after moving in, my kitchen shelves kill me. I have eight Waterford wineglasses but no regular drinking glasses. One set of inexpensive everyday dishes and twelve place settings of Rosenthal china, rich cobalt blue on white, edged with gold. The Rosenthal was four hundred a place setting—so expensive that the lady at the Visalia department store said to my mother (not knowing it was my mother), “Who does this girl think she is, picking out china that’s fit for a princess?”

And my mother, bless her, looked that small-town saleslady in the eye. “My daughter.”

I really think, in my mother’s heart of hearts, she wanted me to be a princess and marry Prince Charming and have the happily-ever, because she didn’t. But she and I should have also realized that not everyone in our small town would feel that way. After all, we’re not Trumps, Hiltons, or Rockefellers. In Visalia we’re Johnsons and Smiths, Morses, Winns, Woodses, and Humpals, but you’d never know it by the gifts Jean-Marc and I received. It was almost as if the entire town wanted the fairy tale, too, because instead of sturdy, practical beige and brown bath towels from Sears, we received the entire set of Rosenthal.

I hadn’t ever imagined we’d get the entire set of fine china, but that’s what happened. We didn’t get pots and pans; we got hardly any bath towels; we didn’t get ice cream machines or coffee-bean grinders; but we did get all our Waterford (which Jean-Marc took, except for the eight white-wine goblets). I took the complete set of china.

That’s how I started my new life: poor in spirit but rich in extravagant table settings. A girl has to know her priorities.

I never knew mine.

And having been married—for, oh, just about 320 days—I’m going to break the code of silence and tell you all the secret stuff the permanently marrieds would never tell you.

First, be suspicious of anything that is surrounded by the word “shower.” The moment the word “shower” is attached to a function, i.e., baby shower, wedding shower, be careful. Really careful.

A bridal shower is usually given by a close friend or family member of the bride, and who attends? All the older women. Mom, Grandma Betty, Aunt Claire, Aunt Carol, Godmother Eileen, plus Mom’s bridge group, the friends from Symphony League, PEO, Pi Beta Phi alums, and so on and so on until the young, nubile bride is surrounded by a sea of gray and bottle-brown and blonde fifty-, sixty-, and seventy-year-olds, and what do they do? They shower the bride with presents and pretty cards and lots of enthusiasm when really, on the inside, they’re thinking, Oh, is she in for a big surprise.

That’s right. They know. They know that marriage is a rotten arrangement for women. They know that the young bride will soon be an exhausted new mother and then a frazzled parent and then a stressed-out middle-ager, and, bam, menopause hits, kids are gone, husband is taking cholesterol meds and Viagra, and you know, it’s just not a lot of fun anymore.

Thus, the gifts. The gifts are to sweeten the pot, make it all a little more bearable, and while we’re toasting your soon-to-be entrapment, we’re going to feed you some cake, too.

Good God, this is what we want little girls to grow up looking forward to? Bridal magazines and filmy veils and lavish flowers and so much pretty-pretty before utter bewilderment?

I say, let’s just call a spade a spade and show the young bride what’s really happening. A death of fantasy, fairy tales, and imagination.

Wait, I’m getting off track. Let’s pause for a moment, forget the roomful of old women secretly gloating that another fresh-faced young woman is about to bite the dust. (Come on, you’ve got to know by now that women never stop being hard on each other!) Let’s pull back from the boxes of domestic conveniences, of dish towels and king-size sheets with a 240-thread count.

Let’s get away from the nice bows and the silly tradition of how many ribbons broken equals how many babies you’ll have, because guess what? You don’t have to get married to get presents. You can buy all the stuff yourself.

Let me say that again: you can save yourself a great deal of stress and strife if you just opt out of the wedding and head for Bergdorf Goodman and buy all the plates, the silver, the crystal, the linens your little heart desires. Never mind “his.” “His” doesn’t really care about all that stuff, and if he cares a lot, run. Run really fast, because most straight guys don’t give a flying fig for towels and mugs.

And speaking of towels and mugs, I suddenly think of all the household items Jean-Marc and I selected together. He seemed interested at the time, looked at all the displays with me, and my gaze settles on the shelf of eight handsome white-wine goblets.

Why did Jean-Marc let me order Waterford instead of Baccarat?

*

The next morning by the time I arrive at work, Olivia knows about my date with Tom before I even hang my coat up and adjust my turtleneck sweater.

Immediately summoning me into her office, Olivia gestures to the protein bars on the corner of her desk—I pass—and tells me to pull up a chair. “Good for you, Holly. You’re smart to get back out there.”

I feel like a Bactor in a spaghetti Western. “I’m not getting back out anywhere.”

“You’re right to start dating. You’ve got to. You can’t let what’s happened ruin your life. You’re only twenty-five. You’re still so young.”

You’d think Olivia had thirty years on me. And then I remember Tom mentioning my divorce last night. “How did Tom know I’d been married?”

“Aimee must have said something.”

No duh. I try to find a nice way to say this. “It’s not something I’m comfortable discussing with people I don’t know.”

“Lots of people get divorced.”

But I’m not lots of people. It happened to my mom, and it nearly broke her. It sure as hell wasn’t going to happen to me.

For a moment a cavern opens up inside me, and my whole life seems to be rushing at me: the childhood that seemed relatively normal until Dad abruptly disappeared, the teen years trying to get used to the fact that Mom was never going to be the same Mom she was before Dad left, and the fierce determination that my future would be so much different from (which translated to so much better than) my past.

Wrong.

The cavern opens wider, and I can almost taste the champagne and my white-chocolate wedding cake again, and isn’t it horrible how the best night of your life can be someone else’s worst nightmare?

Olivia’s been studying me. “You’re not over your ex, are you?”

Over him? Or over the pain? I realize that the two are tangled up together now in my mind. “Legally he’s still my husband.”

“I thought you filed.”

“I did. It’ll be final by Christmas.”

Olivia blows on her chai, expression thoughtful. “Tonight’s your first date?”

Somehow I’d forgotten all about Tom Lehman and the fact that we were supposed to be getting together for drinks. “Yes, unfortunately.”

“It’s good you’re going out. This is how you meet people.”

I’m not in a good mood. “Even people you don’t like?”

Olivia’s eyes crease. I must amuse her, but I’m not sure why. “How do you know you won’t like him? You haven’t even gone out yet. There could be chemistry.”

“If I was drunk.”

“So drink.” She’s trying not to laugh.

And I’m trying not to be insulted. “You’re kidding.”

“You’ve got to be practical.” Her slim shoulders twist, her silk eggplant sweater playing up her complexion, and she crosses her leg, showing off one knee-high black boot with a stiletto heel. “He has money—”

“I don’t care about money.”

“Connections.”

“So what?”

“Could get you into places where it’s good to be seen.”

That’s another problem. I don’t want to be seen. I need to lose weight. My hair hasn’t been highlighted in ages. I hate men. I don’t really like me. This adds up to social disaster.

“So what are you going to wear?” Olivia persists, taking a sip from her tea.

“Clothes.”

“Just not too many, I hope.”

“He’s a dweeb, Olivia.”

“Which means he probably has a big dick.”

“Disgusting.”

She laughs, puts down her tea, and leans across her desk. “You like little dick?”

Of course, she can joke about little dicks and big dicks. Her boyfriend is the starting center fielder for the Los Angeles Dodgers and just signed a new contract for what seems like a hundred million dollars. You can have the littlest dick in the world if you make a hundred million dollars.

I stand as gracefully as I can. “Tom Lehman’s dick isn’t getting anywhere near me.”

Olivia laughs again and reaches for the phone. “Maybe an O is just what you need.”

I give her a dirty look and exit from her office. I’m serious. Tom Lehman’s dick isn’t ever leaving his pants.

Returning to my desk, I bury myself in work. Unlike most days, today I don’t want time to pass quickly. I pray for interruptions, a heavy workload, annoying problems. Let there be a reason I have to cancel tonight’s date: let a meteor fall from the sky; let the San Andreas Fault shift again; let Tom Lehman eat something fishy and foul at Fisherman’s Wharf at lunch and end up with a bad bout of food poisoning…

But none of that happens. The day sails along, far too quickly for my tastes, and before I know it, it’s five thirty and I’m home (not even traffic to slow me down!), changing for my date with Tom Lehman.

If my dread could be visualized, it’d look like something contestants on Fear Factor have to eat. Spoiled. Slimy. Maggot-infested.

*

Stepping out of the shower, I try to give myself a pep talk. Tonight may not be that bad a date. It could be fun. Tom may be less of a pompous ass in real life than he is on the phone.

And yet, as I towel off in my bedroom, I know I’m about as excited as I was last March when I went to the dentist for my second crown and discovered that a root canal was needed, too.

Standing in front of my closet, I try on virtually everything dangling from a hanger. Most of the things I want to wear don’t fit, and the things that do fit make me look huge.

No female likes gaining weight, and for me, those extra ten, fifteen pounds equal failure. It’s not that I care if I look chunky-ish for Tom, but the extra weight reminds me I’ve lost control, and good girls never, ever lose control.

Eventually I settle on black jeans and a long, lacy black sweater I wear over a black silk camisole. The soft sweater covers my hips and butt, but the open lace weave shows off my slender collarbones.

I pull on a silver necklace, silver bangles for my wrist, and with the flat iron I go over my hair, flattening it straight. I use more makeup than I have in a while, darkening my eyes, lining my lips, using blush to contour imaginary cheekbones.

The doorbell rings. Butterflies fill my stomach. I look in the mirror, study my now serious face.

I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know how to do this. This is a date, my first real date in years, and I’m petrified.

But I can do this. I can, and Aimee and Olivia and everybody say he’s a good guy, a really nice guy, so I open the door bravely.

Tom enters my narrow entry hall and checks me out, his gaze sweeping up and down before he gives me a nod of approval. “You look hot.”

The guy’s word choice isn’t my favorite, but I’m trying to be flattered. I haven’t felt pretty, much less “hot,” in ages, so I smile. “Thanks.” I try to find a compliment for him even as I suppress a whisper of disappointment. He’s… okay. Medium height. Nice features. Dark hair. Except at the back of his head, where he’s bald. I shouldn’t be disappointed. He could be a wonderful guy. I just need to give him a chance. “You look great, too.”

I get my coat, lock up the house, and as we descend the front steps, I see his car, a small BMW model, waiting in the driveway (Cindy would love that), headlights on even though the engine’s not running. I reach for the passenger door, but Tom stops me.

“Don’t you even think about it,” he says loudly, firmly. “That’s my job, sweetheart. A woman should never have to open her own door.”

“I don’t mind opening my own door.”

He presses between me and the car. “A man should take care of a woman.”

It’s a nice idea, I want to tell him, and there’s a part of me that would love to be taken care of, but it’s beginning to seem like a fairy tale.

Inside the car, Tom fiddles with the music, the dashboard electronically bright. He’s changing CDs, flipping through his extensive collection before settling on something that reminds me of Norah Jones.

Mood music.

It’s going to be that kind of evening all night long.

I buckle up, tell myself to lighten up, and then we’re off, gunning up the hill.

“So what do you like to do in your free time?” Tom asks, shifting gears hard and fast.

We tear around the corner. I grip the edges of the seat. “The usual.”

He shoots me a side glance. “What’s that?”

“Read. See movies. Hang out with friends.”

“What kind of movies?”

“Comedies. Drama—”

“Chick flicks, right?”

He weaves in and out of traffic as if we’re in the Indy500 and the checkered flag’s about to come down. I’m glad for the front and side air bags. “Not necessarily. There are all kinds of good movies being made these days, and I love indie films—”

“ Indies? Like India?” He shifts down abruptly, slams on his brakes, gives the car next to us a look as we’re forced to change lanes. “What do you call those movies? Bollywood?”

I’m not even going to go there. Jean-Marc and I used to see all the foreign films we could, and of course, Jean-Marc adored the French films in particular. He collected the older French films, had one of the most extensive black-and-white collections I’ve ever seen. “What kind of movies do you like?” I ask, determined to get the focus off me.

“Action films. Thrillers. Tom Clancy’s my favorite.”

“Clancy hasn’t done anything in a while.”

“I know.” He makes another abrupt lane change. “What do you think of The Rock?”

“He’s all right.”

“And Vin Diesel?”

I purse my lips. “He’s good, too.”

“Who do you like better?”

“I don’t know that I like one better than another. They’re; both interesting.”

“But who would you rather watch in a movie?”

Are we really having this conversation? “Depends on the movie.”

Tom leans forward, opens the sunroof to let the damp San Francisco night in. “Never mind.” He laughs, reaches over, pats my knee, his hand lingering longer than I like.

I bite my tongue, hard, as the evening stretches before me. Lengthy. Endless. A Kevin Costner film brought to life.

“Feisty girl,” he adds. “I like that.”

And then he growls at me.