True Love (and Other Lies) Read online

  “Wow,” I said. “You must be really good to have gotten so far, I mean for a guy your age.”

  “Oh, well, I’m really sixty-two. The Botox injections take years off,” he said, flashing another grin. “So, do you like what you do? Being a writer? I’ve always envied people who have creative jobs.”

  “I don’t know how creative it is. Let’s put it this way—my editor and I have very different visions of what my column should be, and it’s a fight that I rarely win,” I said.

  That was an understatement. When my editor, Robert Wolcik, went over my column, he was so heavy-handed with his red marker that it sometimes looked like the pages of copy were bleeding to death by the time he was done with them. True, my writing style is a little edgy and quirky (although Robert would describe it as “strident” and “sarcastic”), but I honestly don’t understand what his problem is. I include all of the pertinent information about early-bird specials and hotel package deals. I just also like to poke a little fun at the destination I’m writing about. Robert doesn’t tolerate my color commentary; he wants the column to be a bare-bones listing of hotels, restaurants, and attractions. Boring, boring, boring.

  “Let me put it this way—as part of my job, I actually had to visit a museum devoted entirely to Dr Pepper, and I couldn’t even point out the absurdity of it all,” I explained. “Not even in a good-natured, campy way.”

  “There’s a museum devoted to Dr Pepper?” Jack asked in disbelief.

  I nodded. “In Waco, Texas. And strangely enough, touring it is more fun than you might think,” I said.

  “So, if this isn’t your dream job, what is?” Jack asked, managing not to sound like an interviewer at a college admissions office.

  I thought about it for a minute. “I’d still be a writer, but I’d have a column at an edgier magazine with a younger, hipper readership, I guess. And I’d have complete control over my content,” I said. “What about you? Or do you already have your dream job?”

  “I don’t know how many kids daydream about one day growing up and being a corporate attorney. No, when I was younger, I wanted to be an artist,” Jack said. “In fact, I took a year off before going to law school, and spent it in Florence, pretending to be an artist.”

  “Really?” I asked. As petty as it might make me, I hate hearing stories like this—people striving for their dreams, taking risks, grabbing for the brass ring. It made me acutely aware of just how many hours I wasted while in my twenties, vegging out on the couch, watching oddly compelling crap shows like Melrose Place and Beverly Hills 90210. “That’s . . . amazing. You must be really good.”

  “Nope,” Jack said cheerfully. “I mostly just did it to pick up girls. It’s shocking how many women actually go in for the scruffy starving artist. The only thing I got around to painting was my impression of the Palazzo Vecchio, and it was pretty pathetic.”

  “Still, I can’t paint at all, well, except for those paint-by-number kits,” I said.

  “Are those the ones where you paint the happy tree and the happy sky?” Jack asked.

  I laughed. “No, that was Bob Ross. You know, the guy with the enormous Afro who had that painting show on public television. He was way, way out of my league. All I can paint are depressed trees in need of Prozac,” I said.

  We both had our seats reclined back, and were twisted to the side, so that we were facing each other as we talked, discussing everything from the best place to get a hamburger in New York to which Charles Dickens novels we’d suffered through in our college English lit courses. It was strangely intimate for being in such a public place. Every one around us was sleeping, or watching the in-flight movie, and the cabin was dark and quiet except for the white-noise drone of the engine. The more we talked, the more it felt like we were on an amazing, albeit completely bizarre, first date.

  Around the time that the plane was over Scotland and turning south, Jack said, “In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you something.”

  My heart sank. Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to tell me he has a wife and three kids, or that he’s gay but thinking of going straight and wants me to be the guinea pig. Nothing I hadn’t suffered through before, of course. I’d gone through my whole life being disappointed by men, having my hopes raised only to have them come crashing back down under the weight of reality, and as a result I was pretty careful not to invest in anyone until I got to know him better (and, let’s face it, once I did get to know any of them better, I usually wished I hadn’t). I didn’t even think I was capable of being smitten with a man on first meeting anymore . . . but Jack had definitely piqued my interest. I liked the way his hair flopped down over his forehead, despite his repeated efforts to push it back, I liked that he smelled of soap and freshly laundered clothes (I can’t stand the overpowering stench of cologne, and consider it grounds for automatic rejection), and I liked that he didn’t take himself too seriously. And I really liked the way he looked at me when I talked, as though he was paying careful attention to everything I said, no matter how banal, and wasn’t just waiting for his own turn to speak. So I braced myself for his declaration.

  “It’s the reason I’m going back to London early. When I said I had something to take care of . . . well, it’s personal. There’s someone I’ve been seeing, and . . . I’m going back to break things off with her.”

  Argh! I knew it! What were the chances that a thirty-something, attractive, smart, straight, successful guy like Jack would be single? And what was I thinking that someone like me, someone for whom a size six is as much a fantasy as getting together with Russell Crowe (even before he was married), would just happen to stumble across the most eligible bachelor of the year on board an airplane? I just knew the “girlfriend” Jack was speaking of in such a cavalier way was most likely a “wife” or a “live-in,” and when he said he was going to break up with her, that was just code for “I want to string you along with the fantasy that I’ll leave her for you just long enough to get you into bed.”

  “Ah,” I said, turning away from Jack for the first time that night to stare into the vast darkness that lay outside my tiny window.

  I was surprised when his hand reached out and caught mine. The hard-edged city girl in me should have ripped her hand back and muttered “Get a life” under her breath. But instead I turned back to look at him, and something in his face stopped me.

  “I’m not lying to you. I know it sounds convenient, but it’s true. I have a girlfriend, someone I’ve been seeing for a while, someone I thought that maybe I could . . . but I can’t force myself to feel something for her that I don’t. I think I’ve known for a while, but it seemed easier not to face it. I like her, and I figured I wasn’t hurting anyone. But then I was talking to her on the phone yesterday, and she started hinting about wanting us to move in together, and I realized that if things keep going as they are, that, well, someone would get hurt. But now that I know I have to end things, I didn’t want to wait, so I booked the first flight back to London. I’m going to meet her at her apartment when she gets home from work and tell her then.”

  He looked so earnest as he talked, still holding my hand, and running his free hand through his shaggy blond hair. The moment had a surreal feel—the odd hour, the strange location, holding hands with a relative stranger who seemed oddly familiar. I like to think of myself as having a hard, cynical shell that protects me from false hopes and insincere men, but somehow I believed him. Maybe it was his tone, or the obvious anxiety he was having about breaking things off with this woman.

  “If it makes you feel any better, you’re doing the right thing. I don’t know anyone who would want to stay involved with someone who didn’t return her feelings,” I said. This was an outright lie—I knew many people, men and women alike, who’d gladly delude themselves into believing that their significant other was committed for life, rather than be confronted with the unpleasant truth that he or she was no longer loved. But since Jack was trying to do the right thing, I didn’t
see any reason to make it more difficult for him.

  “I know, I know. Even if I don’t love her, she’s still a great person, and I hate to hurt her. Is it appropriate to bring flowers to someone when you’re breaking up?” Jack asked.

  “No! When you’re breaking someone’s heart, you never bring a consolation prize! In fact, you should make a good-faith effort to remove your things from her apartment as soon as possible,” I said. “And don’t ever break up in public, just to avoid a scene. It’s a chickenshit way to handle it.”

  “I wasn’t going to do that,” Jack said, offended. “I would never do that.”

  I felt vulnerable suddenly, as though I were the one he was about to break up with. I knew it was ridiculous (we had just met, after all), but I could easily imagine what this woman was thinking—looking forward to her boyfriend coming home, planning a romantic reunion. She had no idea that her heart was about to be broken. Here was this great guy whom she cared about, but she wasn’t going to be able to keep him. I felt for her. After all, I was well acquainted with what it felt like to have your heart shredded.

  “Claire . . . I’d really like to see you again. I know this is a little weird, meeting on a plane and all, but . . .” he trailed off, and actually looked a little embarrassed.

  “But what?” I asked.

  “I was going to say I thought there was a connection here, but then you’d just think I was a big dork who sits around watching Oprah all the time,” Jack said.

  I laughed. “Are you an Oprah fan?”

  “You’re avoiding the question.”

  He was right—I was. I just didn’t know if I wanted to take a chance on a guy that (a) I met on a plane, and (b) had already admitted that he had a girlfriend. So I stalled. “I’m only going to be in London for a few days,” I said. “And . . . there’s the girlfriend thing.”

  “Almost ex-girlfriend,” he reminded me. “What if I break up with her before I ask you out? As I said, I’m going to tell her tonight. I’ll call you afterward, and maybe we can get together before you go back to New York.”

  “Well . . . ask me again afterward,” I said, not believing for a minute that he would. But really, really wanting him to.

  “I will. I promise you, I will,” Jack said.

  Chapter 2

  I know this sounds pessimistic, but I honestly never expected to hear from Jack again, even though he had carefully written down the name of my hotel on a crumpled drink napkin, which he had then folded neatly and deposited into his shirt pocket. And as the plane suddenly lurched down, beginning its heart-stopping, overly steep descent, he had reached for my hand again, and said, “I meant what I said. I’m definitely going to call you.”

  Part of me believed him when he said he’d call, and the other part wanted to believe him. But a nagging little voice in my head kept piping in, reminding me that in the romance department, I didn’t have the best track record. It was hard enough to trust someone I’d gotten to know over time, had seen in a variety of situations, and who had actually called me the day after we slept together. It was harder to believe in a friendly, interesting, handsome guy I’d just met, who had already admitted that he had a girlfriend.

  In any event, that day I paid for my brief in-flight romance. My plan had been to pop a sleeping pill shortly after takeoff, squeeze in six hours of sleep on the plane, and then spend Thursday visiting four of the hotels I’d researched ahead of time, each of which either offered a discount to seniors or was rumored to be a generally good value. That way, other than checking out restaurants, I’d have all day Friday and Saturday open. But by the time I’d checked into my hotel—a clean if somewhat impersonal establishment that advertised a package deal for retirees—I was almost dizzy with exhaustion from having stayed up all night. I looked longingly at the bed in my room, and for a moment was overcome with desire to throw myself on it, facedown in a prone position, and sleep for the next ten to twenty years. Instead, I forced myself into a lukewarm shower and change of clothes. I only had three days to spend in London; I wasn’t going to waste time sleeping during the daylight hours.

  Before I left my room, I called Maddy to let her know that I’d arrived. Madeline Reilly was one of my oldest friends, and the main reason that I’d finagled my way into a free trip to London. We’d been roommates in college, and then moved to New York at the same time, even sharing an apartment for a brief period back when we were barely surviving in entry-level office positions. Maddy is gorgeous, sweet, and lucky beyond all sense. She really has it all—a great boyfriend, Harrison (the latest subject of her rambling e-mails that usually run along the lines of “Isn’t my boyfriend dreamy?”), and the very best job in the world. Maddy works for Nike as a trend spotter, meaning her job consists of reporting on what the hip city kids are wearing.

  When she first told me what she’d been hired to do, I couldn’t believe that such a position actually existed, but leave it to Maddy to find it. We’d been roommates at the time, sharing a studio apartment in the East Village that was barely big enough for both of us to stand up in at the same time. It was our first postcollege home, and in lieu of a couch, chairs, or a table, the entire space was filled with our twin beds, which is where we slept, ate, and hung out. I’d just begun a stint as an editorial assistant at Cat Crazy, the only magazine in town I could coax into paying me (although an alarmingly large number of glossies had responded to my carefully typed cover letter and résumé with offers of unpaid internships). Maddy was still slogging away at a nightly waitressing gig while she searched for a job in marketing during the day. One night, she came bursting into the apartment, smelling of kitchen grease and cigarettes, her cheeks pink from the cold.

  “I have a new job!” she announced.

  I looked at her, perplexed. “Waitressing?”

  “No! With Nike! In their marketing department!”

  “Oh my God, that’s fantastic! I didn’t even know you interviewed there.”

  “I didn’t,” Maddy said, dancing a little jig in the two square feet of open floor space. The entire apartment—all four hundred square feet of it—was floored with dirty linoleum. We couldn’t afford to replace it (the landlord had laughed when we suggested that it was his responsibility to do so), or even the cost of a throw rug, so we handled it by covering the floor with balled-up clothing and dog-eared magazines. Or at least, I did. Maddy played the neurotically neat Felix to my slovenly Oscar.

  “Tell me, tell me, tell me,” I begged.

  Maddy stopped dancing and threw herself belly-first onto her bed and propped herself up on her elbows. “Sunny—you know, one of the other waitresses—has a niece who’s turning twelve, and she wants to know what to get her. Well, I start to run down what’s hot among teens right now—thank God I read so many magazines—and this guy sitting at one of my tables overhears us talking. So he sort of jumps into our conversation, and one thing leads to another, and somehow I end up telling him that I was a marketing major and looking for a job in my field, and as it turns out he’s an executive with Nike! In the Trend Development Department! And he’s been looking for an assistant! He told me to come in on Monday and he’d give me a trial. Can you freaking believe it?”

  I couldn’t. Such a thing would never happen to me. And I was a little suspicious of the guy’s motives—I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but Maddy is gorgeous. I mean Kate Moss, Kate Hudson, Cate Blanchett gorgeous. But I wasn’t about to raise this concern with Maddy—who was now chortling about how she was going to score free sneakers for us—and ruin the moment for her. When Cat Crazy had extended me a job offer, Maddy was thrilled for me, and even attempted to bake me a celebratory cake in our tiny, crap oven. Granted, the cake came out so burnt and lopsided that in the end we just licked the insulin-shock-inducing frosting off it, but I appreciated the effort. So to celebrate Maddy’s momentous career change, we splurged on a bottle of corked wine—a true luxury in those days—and toasted her success, and then stayed up all night talking, long
after the buzz from the wine had faded, dreaming of the day when we’d be able to afford an apartment big enough to accommodate a sofa.

  And even if the guy who hired her did have suspicious motives—there ended up being one drunken office-Christmas-party proposition, but it was oblique enough that Maddy easily sidestepped it—Maddy was so talented and hardworking at her new job that she quickly made herself indispensable to the Nike marketing team. She’d been transferred to London from the New York office three years earlier, which came with a big promotion and a hike in pay. I cheered her success, but missed her terribly. Although we e-mailed each other frequently and talked on the phone at least every other week or so, we now only got together on those rare occasions when she returned to Manhattan—the last time was when she surprised me by flying in for my birthday and hosted a surprise party for me at Calle Ocho on the Upper West Side—and so I couldn’t wait to see her.

  I don’t exactly run around with an enormous posse of friends. After Maddy, my closest friend is Max, my manic next-door neighbor. Max is one of my favorite people—his collection of vintage eighties T-shirts is reason enough to adore him—but I missed having someone to do girly things with, like shoe shopping and manicures and browsing at the M.A.C. counter. The only place like that I can drag Max to is the Kiehl’s store (which has a respectable selection of masculine skin products). He says he has a hard enough time living down the misperception that he’s gay, and can’t risk being seen in public helping me pick out sling-backs.

  Maddy didn’t answer her phone, but it was already ten-thirty, so she was probably at the office. Rather than bother her there, I left her a message to call me when she got home, and then headed out into the busy streets of London.