The Friends We Keep(53)
“You know what I mean. I have been thinking about both of us, living on our own and not really enjoying living on our own, and I have been wondering if you might consider moving in with me. This isn’t about romance, or sex, but, as it was with Felipe, companionship. I like having someone to sit opposite me in the mornings to chat about what we’re reading in the newspapers. I like hearing someone else moving around the apartment. The guest suite has its own entrance should you wish to bring people back and have more privacy, but I have thought about this a lot, and I think that our personalities are very well suited.”
“Our personalities are very well suited.” Topher sat back, surprised at the proposition, never thinking this might be a living arrangement he would want. He was one of the biggest soap stars on television, more than capable of looking after himself, financially and otherwise, and yet he, too, missed the conversation, coming home to someone, having someone to talk to.
“You would have your own life, Topher. I don’t expect rent, and there isn’t much I ask. Occasionally cooking on the weekends, accompanying me to events if you want to come. Mostly, I like having someone around at home. You’re so young that I am also prepared for you to meet someone and leave. I wasn’t surprised when Felipe left, but for now, at least, I thought we could perhaps take care of each other. It would alleviate my loneliness, and I thought it might alleviate yours.”
Topher sat and thought of his apartment. Of the closets still filled with Larry’s clothes, the memories that crowded into every square inch. He thought of bringing men back to Dickie’s apartment, but he couldn’t quite see it. That wasn’t something he tended to do. In fact, the older he grew, the more he thought he might not be a sexual being at all. Asexual, he thought, at times. A lover of beauty, which was always enough.
“Yes,” he said, a smile spreading on his face. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
twenty-three
- 2005 -
The alarm woke Maggie with a start, Ben still snoring beside her. Today was the last day of her fertile window, the four days when Ben’s sperm, such as it was, was most likely to survive, and they had had sex every day, even though neither of them was particularly in the mood. Sex had become something of a chore since Maggie started tracking her fertility. If she wasn’t ovulating, there was no possibility of pregnancy, and if there was no possibility of pregnancy, she wasn’t interested.
They had had perfunctory sex after lunch, after which they both fell asleep. She let the alarm continue buzzing, reaching for her BlackBerry to see if anyone had e-mailed her while she was asleep, cursing as she knocked the large amethyst crystal off her bedside table. She looked over, but Ben hadn’t stirred. He’d take a while to wake up, hence leaving the alarm buzzing.
She hadn’t meant to nap today—they had a party at their neighbors’ house at three—but she’d slept terribly the night before. Ben had been snoring heavily, which always made her nervous. He only snored like that when he’d been drinking, but since his latest bout of sobriety ten months ago, he hadn’t snored, not like he did last night. He had started coming to bed after her. Last night, after she had taken her temperature and checked her ovulation testing kit, they had gone upstairs and had sex. There was little foreplay, and afterward she lay on the bed with her legs in the air, resting against the headboard, visualizing strong sperm swimming their way to her egg. When she had first done this, years ago, Ben had laughed, lying on the bed with her as she inched her feet farther up the wall. Last night, after Maggie had shifted to put her legs in the air, Ben had gone to the bathroom, put his clothes back on, and went downstairs to watch television.
When she woke up at two a.m. because of his snoring, she crept downstairs to go through the rubbish bins, hating herself every second. She had no idea what she would do if she found, as she expected to find, empty bottles of alcohol; she didn’t know if it would result in a fight, or in her expressing her disappointment, feeling more like his mother than his wife.
This was his third time getting sober, and this time, she thought, until last night, this time she thought it was different; this time it was for good. He wasn’t just going to meetings, he had a sponsor, and they met for breakfast twice a week. He was happier than he had seemed in years, less volatile, and she had started to relax, letting go of the need to monitor his drinking. It had been months since she was on high alert, all her senses heightened, furtively monitoring how much he was drinking.
The relief she felt when she didn’t find any evidence of alcohol in the early hours of the morning was overwhelming. She went back up to bed, slipped in some earplugs, and allowed herself to feel hopeful before drifting back to sleep, knowing they had one more day to have sex, one more day this month to create a child.
All of their friends had children, as did all of their neighbors here in Somerset, where everything seemed to revolve around children. So many of the fathers worked in London during the week, the wives bonded together Monday to Friday out of boredom, desperate for adult conversation, and Maggie, who had initially felt like she belonged because they were trying for a baby and it would surely only be a few months before she was granted entrance to the same club, was beginning to dread their parties.
She was now singularly focused on becoming pregnant, trying anything and everything, no matter how esoteric. She had recently read an article in a women’s magazine featuring three women who had been trying to get pregnant for years. None of them had any luck until they each saw a healer who pronounced their homes had “bad feng shui.” All of them had moved furniture, painted walls, and filled their homes with strategically placed mirrors and crystals, leading to all three of them getting pregnant.