Cleopatra and Frankenstein(72)

“We raised,” he said. “And all kids are brats at that age.”

She smiled, then frowned. “I wasn’t.”

She turned toward the espresso machine and handed him the tiny, steaming cup.

“So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?” she asked. “Any more Russian supermodels?”

“Sasha was Ukrainian,” he said. “And no.”

“Well, well.” Christine raised her eyebrows at him. “What have you been doing with all your spare time?”

Cleo, he thought.

“Working,” he said.

Things had been going well at the magazine, despite his inattention. They were opening an LA office and, in fact, had asked him a few days prior to be head of the West Coast team. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet and now realized, with a surge of pleasure, that he could tell Christine.

“Actually,” he said. “I’ve been offered editor in chief at the new LA office.”

“Oh, Anders, how wonderful.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “So, when will you be moving?”

“It’s flattering, but I’m not going to take it,” he said. “What with Jonah, you know, I should be here near him. And it’s a lot farther for my parents if they ever want to come visit.”

He had no intention of leaving New York. Not when his life had suddenly become so full of Cleo. Perhaps it would be better if Frank did know sooner rather than later. He would forgive him eventually. Especially if he was, as Cleo suspected and Anders couldn’t quite believe, in love with Eleanor. Anders could be happy with Cleo. They could live together, get their own place. Uptown maybe, near the park. Jonah would like her, he was sure.

“Anders.” Christine furrowed her brow at him. “Your parents have never once come to the States in all the years I’ve known you. And as for Jonah, you hardly see him every month as it is. He can go and see you out there. I’m sure he’d love that.”

“I see him more than that, surely?” Anders ventured.

“Anyway, it’s not Jonah you have to worry about. Frank’s the one who really can’t live without you.” Christine took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “He’s like the poster child for codependence.”

“That’s not true. And he’s got Cleo now.”

Just the sound of her name in his mouth gave him a feeling of warmth.

“I don’t see those two lasting.”

“You don’t? Why’s that?”

Because he had fucked her twice last night?

“Frank still acts like a child,” Christine said. “And, from what I’ve heard, she virtually is a child.”

“She’s hardly—” He was mildly panicked by this description of her, not least considering that he was two years older than Frank.

“Ah!” Christine threw her hands in the air, looking past him. “And here is my child!”

“I’m not a child, Mom,” Jonah growled.

Anders leaped up to hug Jonah, who submitted to, but did not reciprocate, his embrace. Jonah was in the awkward part of a growth spurt, his limbs somehow a little too long for his body. His shaggy brown hair partially covered the dusting of acne that was creeping from his cheeks to his temples. Despite all this, Anders thought, he looked pretty good. He was wearing a Chelsea jersey and a pair of slim selvedge jeans Anders would have worn himself.

“My god,” Anders said. “You’re almost as tall as me now.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Jonah, staring at his sneakers. “But you’re still mad tall.”

“I thought we’d go to the Natural History Museum.” Anders rested his hands lightly on Jonah’s shoulders. “There’s a butterfly exhibit.”

The suggestion sounded deeply lame, even to him. Jonah gave him a look that could only be described as withering. When had he learned to look at someone like that?

“All right, fuck that.” Anders grinned. “You want to go get steaks or something?”

“Language!” said Christine.

“Sure, whatever,” said Jonah, shrugging on his parka.

The steakhouse they went to was dark and empty, unpenetrated by the sunshine or air of weekend merriment that permeated the streets outside. In keeping with the main item on the menu, the interior of the restaurant was blood red; carmine-drenched walls, congealments of dark maroon chairs, thick crimson napkins pleated on mahogany tables. It was like being inside an artery.

Anders ordered them porterhouse steaks with sides of baked potatoes and creamed spinach, plus a Peroni and a Coke. Real man’s food, he observed dryly to himself, thinking of his weekly vegetarian brunches with Frank at Sant Ambroeus; their orders of organic eggs and many rounds of Bloody Marys to ameliorate the effects of the night before. He realized, with a start, that those brunches would be over for good.

“So, how’s high school?” he asked.

“I’m young for my year,” said Jonah, slurping his Coke in one gulp. “Everyone else is fourteen.”

“But how is it?” said Anders. “Are you making friends?”

“It’s all right,” said Jonah. “What’s it called when you have, like, letters standing for words?”

“Acronym,” Anders said, relieved to have remembered.