Ghosts of Manhattan: A Novel(37)

“And tell Julia we may want to contract her to do the interior design job for our Hamptons place.” I can’t imagine that will fly with Sybil.

“You can tell her yourself.” If he is already talking with Julia, I hope he interprets this as a statement that I know what he’s up to.

“Okay. We’ll talk with you soon.”

“Bye, Oliver.” I hang up and dial Julia’s cell phone. “Hi.”

“Hey. What’s up?” Her words are clipped and angry. The only reason she would pick up would be to hear an apology, and the edge in her voice says an apology over the phone won’t cut it.

“I just got a call from Oliver.”

“Really?” It feels like genuine surprise, and without alarm. I’m relieved.

“He wants to set a squash game with me.”

“What’d you say?”

“I’m not interested in finding new ways to spend time with the guy. I told him I’m busy.”

“All right.”

“He wants the four of us to go out to dinner again. I would have thought last night was enough to put a stop to those.”

She doesn’t respond.

“Julia.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry for what I said about you. I don’t feel that way, I was just drunk.”

“Nick, I don’t want to talk about this now. Certainly not while you’re sitting at your desk.”

This was only getting her angrier. What I said last night was bad enough and the implication that it could be handled by this form of apology was taken as an insult and making it worse. “I know. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye.” I hear the phone click off.

I replay the tone of her voice again to try to determine any hint of guilt or nervousness about Oliver. Julia’s an uncomfortable liar and something would show. I know I should be fixing the root of the problem, but now I’m too focused on how acute the symptoms have become.

I can hear her voice again in my head and I think she is too calm to be a person who has crossed the line. Julia could be just trying to get me to show signs of life in our relationship. And she could be trying to feel alive herself. To feel desired and sought after. A flirtation just enough to feel the emotional charge of what is possible but short of committing any act. Had she not forewarned me of her unhappiness, even this flirtation could be a betrayal. But it is within the bounds of her honesty and is innocent. She may have taken phone calls from Oliver and she may have allowed his adorations to go beyond what is appropriate, but I don’t think she has started an affair. Although I do think she is starting to entertain the promise of something else.

I have an awful tightness in my stomach and groin. I know the feeling has nothing to do with Oliver. He’s irrelevant. He’s a single utensil at a great banquet. He can fawn on Julia all he wants, but he’s not of her caliber.

My tightness is around the scale of the problem with Julia. What on the surface seems so simple to fix feels so out of control beneath the surface. I can’t think of what to say when I get home. Like trying to stop a fire with only my own spit, I feel like I haven’t even got the right tools for the job. But I know I need to get home tonight, even if I say nothing. Going to a Knicks game and avoiding home until the early morning hours would be a finger in her eye. I might as well send Oliver to my home in my stead for a candlelight dinner. Oliver who shows no conscience and moves like a cancer.

The phone rings again. “Nick, it’s Fred.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“You still planning to come to the meeting with Dale? It’s going to be in January after year-end.”

Jesus, this is a month out and he’s calling me. I feel sorry for him. There’s no reason to go except to offer moral support, which he obviously needs. I have no other role to play except to stick my neck out, and I’m starting to think it could be more dangerous than I previously had thought. But I said I’d do it. “Sure, Freddie. I’ll be there.” Damn.

“Okay, buddy.” It’s Jerry standing behind me and slapping my shoulder. “Drinks at Pastis, then we have courtside tickets for the Knicks. You can rest your toes on the hardwood.”

I’ve already decided that I need to get home. If I show Jerry that I’m wavering at all or show any appreciation that it could be a fun night, he’ll be relentless. I need to be defiant. More than defiant, I need to be angry. “I can’t do it.”

“Nick, c’mon. These guys love you. They’ve been asking if you’re coming. We need you.”

I turn my chair so my shoulders are square with him. “Jerry, I’m not going. Not tonight.” I do sound a little angry and it feels good to release it. I’m ready to raise my voice if there’s another iteration, and I want to. Jerry’s smart enough to recognize this isn’t just about me being tired and needing to rally. Something else is going on.

“Fine, fine. You pansy.” I see he’s disappointed by the way he shifts his bulk. I don’t blame him. It feels strange to be the only thirty-something in a group of twenty-somethings.

“I’ll make the next one. I’ve just got some stuff I need to do.” I start to turn my chair back to my desk.

“Everything okay?” This has the tone of being a reflexive response rather than a reflective one. A human obligation to check in when another human appears to be struggling. Something most of us learn in our formative years or maybe is genetically coded, but is a noncognitive trigger response. I imagine the horror on Jerry’s face if I turned to him and said, “Actually, I’m having a really difficult time. Do you have a few minutes that we could go somewhere and talk?”