Nine Women, One Dress(40)

I saw this as my chance to get away—I really needed to just leave this man alone—so I reined in my enthusiasm and said in a much calmer tone, “Good luck. Nice seeing you again.”

As I turned to leave he gently grabbed my forearm. “Wait—please,” and to the technician, “The wheel is spinning all the time, and the last time this happened you had to hold it hostage for three hours.” He turned his laptop to face the technician, who took a look, pressed a few buttons, asked John to insert a password, and then voilà.

“Come back at four and it’ll be good as new, or close to it.”

“Great, thank you!” John stood and faced me.

“Come with me—you should come,” he said sweetly.

I would love to, I thought as I declined.

“It starts in an hour. We can have lunch at the Oyster Bar first. Go on, say yes.”

I had never done that either, but had always wanted to. I thought about the afternoon that awaited me if I said no. I would leave here, jump on the subway, and spend the rest of my day lying on the couch with my dear friends Don and Betty Draper. Lucky for me, my divorce coincided with the advent of binge television-watching. Now you could justify a lazy day spent in front of the TV watching Mad Men as an exercise in staying culturally relevant.

Or I could just say yes. I say it every morning when the man at the corner deli asks if I want milk in my coffee. I stopped making a whole pot after the divorce. It seemed wasteful.

“Yes,” I said.

“Fantastic!” he replied, adding, “My wife is usually the one of us to make new friends.” He’s got that right, I thought.

Lunch at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Terminal is a scene out of another era. I half expected Don Draper to sit down right next to us and ask for a light for his Lucky Strike. Countertops loop around the perimeter, with art deco tables in the middle. We grabbed the only two seats left at the counter in front of the open kitchen. Between the view of the chefs shucking oysters and the commuters stopping at the takeout counter behind it, there would be no shortage of distraction. We each had a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder and then shared a big plate of oysters. Their aphrodisiac powers seemed to work wonders on John, as he told me in great detail of the love he had for his wife. He added that he sensed something was wrong lately, and when he said it I felt a twinge in my heart. Poor John. He seemed to realize that he had opened up a little too much and that maybe it was odd. He apologized, saying, “There’s something about spilling your woes to a stranger that feels tremendously cathartic. Want to try it? Tell me about your life.”

I shut that down right away. I couldn’t tell him what I did for a living, and I couldn’t bear lying to him, so I proposed a pact: we’d just talk like we were old friends, no backstory necessary. He agreed, and we settled into a lively conversation about our favorite haunts in New York, politics, and a shared love for sitting alone in the balcony of the Paris movie theater until it was time to meet the tour.

The tour was great fun. It was filled with both little-known and fascinating tidbits that neither of us had been aware of. The guide showed us pictures of all the stars who rode the famed 20th Century back in the day. I think that was John’s favorite part. Mine was the Campbell Apartment, the beautiful residence of a tycoon from the 1920s turned into a cocktail bar. It was like an interior version of a secret garden.

After the tour was over, an awkwardness that we had somehow previously avoided crept in. It was clearly time for us to go our separate ways.

“Thanks for making me come with you. I loved it. I’m going to bring my kids next time,” I said, forgetting my no-backstory rule. He jumped on it.

“Oh, so you have a family?” He smiled coyly.

I gave him a little. “Twin girls, divorced.”

“I pity the fool who let you get away.” I smiled back. What a kind thing to say. What a nice guy. “You know, there’s a secret tennis court in this building that they didn’t show us. I can get court time.” Married man asking me on a date—okay, maybe not such a nice guy. I paused, trying to figure out how to respond.

“You know, my best friend just got separated. How about in two Saturdays I bring him and my wife and we double…literally!”

Not a date. At least, not with him. I didn’t know whether I was happy or disappointed with his honorable follow-up. Oh my god, I thought, what am I doing? End this now!

“I’m sorry, I, um, I don’t date separated men. They’re never really ready to date, and I don’t like being in that position.”

He responded faster than Roger Federer at the net. “Then just you and I can play. My wife won’t mind at all.”

I’m sure she wouldn’t, I thought, feeling sad and awful for not being able to tell John the truth.

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said. It’s just a tennis game, I thought. It’s not like it ends in love.





CHAPTER 22


L’Habit ne Fait pas le Moine


By Medina Karim, Shireen’s Levelheaded Sister





We arrived at Charles De Gaulle a bit later than expected. We dropped our bags at our flat and dispersed to go about our days. My father and brother went to work, my mother to shop for groceries. She instructed me and Shireen to go and collect our grandmother and bring her back home. She had been staying with our cousins on the outskirts of Paris while we were away. They live in the same neighborhood that my sister will be moving to in two weeks, after she is married. She says she might as well move back to Saudi Arabia. I know this is not true. I remind her that her fiancé is modern and even promised to teach her to drive. My sister says I am naive.