I was forty-one years old, had learned to comb my hair finally, had a therapist who insisted I was sexy, intelligent, and beautiful. I had two kids I loved, and bought fourteen incredibly expensive satin nightgowns. I was ready. For what, I didn't know yet. From what I could see, there was still no one out there, except my friends’ husbands, whom I wouldn't have touched with a ten-foot pole, though several of them tried energetically to convince me otherwise, and all of whom were even more boring than Roger. But in case Prince Charming showed up, and wandered into my life one day, I was prepared. My legs were shaved, my nails were done, I'd lost ten pounds. And the kids said my new haircut made me look like Claudia Schiffer. Shows you what loyalty can do to a kid's eyesight. By Christmas, thirteen months after that fateful day when Roger sat in the satin chair at the foot of our bed and let me have it right between the eyes, I had even stopped crying. Even the blueberry muffin was a dim memory by then, and in fact, so was Roger. For all intents and purposes, I had recovered. And then came dating. And a whole new life I was totally unprepared for.





Chapter Two

Dating in this day and age is an interesting phenomenon. Comparing it to olden days, medieval times for instance, it's a lot like jousting. Or going back a little further in history, it's a little bit like being a Christian in the Colosseum. You put on a hell of a good show, but you know that sooner or later, one of the lions is going to eat you.

And there are a lot of them, lions I mean. Some are merely pussycats, others pretend to be. Some of them look fantastic, but auditioning for the Colosseum is a hell of a lot of work, and in the end you still wind up in the same place, with a lion looking you in the face, deciding when he's going to eat you. After six months of dating, I felt like a Hostess Twinkie.

It was a lot like trying out for A Chorus Line, and I never seemed to get the steps right, no matter how hard I worked on them in the mirror. I met a seventy-year-old woman who told me about her new boyfriend, and I wondered where she got the energy. I was nearly half her age, and I was exhausted. Let's face it, dating is a killer.

There were fat guys, and bald guys, and old guys, and young guys, and men that my friends insisted I would be crazy about, except that they always seemed to forget to mention “one little problem,” either incipient alcoholism, or some deep psychosis relating to his mother, father, children, ex-wife, dog, or parakeet, or a minor crisis about his sexuality ever since his uncle assaulted him when he was in high school. There are normal guys out there, I know, but damned if I could find one. Besides which, I was completely out of training. For thirteen years I had been making dinner every night for Roger, watching TV with him, or sleeping, not to mention car pools to baseball. I was entirely unprepared for the New Wave of preparing gourmet microwave cuisine, serving cappuccino made from sixteen kinds of coffee beans from African countries I'd never heard of, and sports I had only seen tackled at the Olympics. It turned out that manicures and a Lady Remington were not enough. I had to be able to ski like Killy, swim the hundred meter, and complete the running long jump. And to tell you the truth, I'm lazy. After a while, it was a lot easier to stay home, watch I Love Lucy reruns with the kids, and eat pizza. And as I reevaluated where I'd been, by my second summer of freedom, I decided dating was beyond me. I just couldn't do it.

The kids spent July in the south of France with Roger that year. They chartered a yacht, went to the Hotel du Cap, and were scheduled to wind up in Paris. From there, Roger was going to put the kids on a plane home, where I would meet them and then spend August with them. I had rented a small beach house for the three of us on Long Island. Umpa's money was not limitless after all. Roger and Helena had rented a small palazzo near Florence. And it had long since become obvious to me that Helena's trust fund, if not her IQ, was a hell of a lot bigger than mine was. I was happy for him, or at least I pretended to be, which made Dr. Steinfeld very proud. Okay, so I lied to him. I was still somewhat angry, and a little jealous of Helena's legs and boobs, if not her trust fund.

The month the kids were gone was lonely at first. There was no one to watch I Love Lucy reruns with, but fortunately it also gave me an opportunity to abstain from peanut butter and pizza. Sam was eight, and Charlotte had just turned thirteen and we'd been having endless arguments about green nail polish and a nose pierce. To tell you the truth, by the second week of my solitude, I was beginning to enjoy it. And despite the heat, I always like New York in the summer. On weekends, everyone disappears. I go for long walks late at night, and sit for hours in freezing cold air-conditioned movies. It was also hard for me to believe that Roger had been gone for nearly two years. I no longer dreamed about him at night, I no longer ached for him, I no longer remembered quite so precisely what his body looked like. I would never have thought it possible, but I had finally stopped missing him, and his snoring, and the good times we hadn't had in ages.

The kids called from time to time, and it struck me funny when Roger asked me somewhat breathlessly how I did it, how did I put up with them day and night, and was Charlotte really serious about the nose ring. For once, much as I love Charlotte and Sam, I was happy they were with him … and Helena. Let her share her favorite blouse, her best skirt, and the “rad” silver bracelet she'll never see again. It will turn up under her bed in ten years’ time, along with her favorite handbag, and a half-used bottle of perfume. I always look under my bed first for anything that's lost now. I figured I'd let Helena figure that one out for herself. After all, taking care of his kids is part of loving Roger. Funnier still that she'd almost had her tubes tied at twenty-five, after liposuction and silicone, because she didn't want to ruin her figure, but decided to take the pill instead, Charlotte told me. Sam just thinks she's funny. By the third week, I figured she was going crazy, and sorry she ever married Roger. And I was growing nostalgic about green nail polish, and weakening about the nose ring. Fortunately, Charlotte didn't know that.

The house was awfully quiet without them. But I was still getting pedicures regularly, and wearing bright red nail polish so I could wear high-heeled sandals. I had given up dating a few months back, but not my new image. That summer, I cut my hair short. Helena was still wearing her mane like Farrah Fawcett. So be it. Roger loved it. And everything else about her.

And then, four days before the kids were due to come back, I made a decision. I had nothing else to do, no reason to wait around New York until they got back. It came to me at midnight on the fifth day of an unbelievable heat wave. I had seen every movie in town, all my friends were away, and it suddenly made sense to me to meet them in Paris. I decided to fly over on a special fare, and got a great deal for the trip back. And they made it so easy and so painless, it seemed worth it.

I made a reservation at a funny little hotel on the Left Bank, a place someone had told me about, owned by some fading French movie star who served divine food and catered to interesting and elite clients. I packed my bags before I went to bed, and flew out the next day. I arrived at Charles de Gaulle at midnight their time, on a warm summer night at the end of July, and the moment I arrived, I knew it was magic. It was the most perfect night that had ever been, in the most romantic city on the planet. The only trouble was that I was sharing it with a cabdriver who reeked of sweat, and was happily eating a raw onion. There was a certain Gallic charm to it, as long as I kept the window open. I did, but mostly so I could see the sights as we drove through Paris. The Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, Place Vendôme … and the Pont Alexandre III as we drove toward the Left Bank, where my hotel was.

I wanted to get out and dance, to stop someone, to talk to somebody, anybody, to be alive again, to share it with someone I cared about. The problem was the only man I'd cared about in twenty years was Roger, and he was still in the south of France with Helena and my children. And what's more, even if he'd been in Paris with me, I wouldn't have given a damn by then. I could no longer remember why I'd ever been in love with the man, and like him, I had finally begun to wonder if we'd ever loved each other. Or maybe I'd just been in love with the illusion of him, and how comfortable it all was, and he was in love with my trust fund. I had accepted that possibility long since, but I was also grateful to him that I no longer had to pay him alimony. That little opportunity for growth on my part had ended when he married Helena. Now all I had to do was pay him child support, enough to support a small orphanage in Biafra. Roger was a sweetheart.

Meanwhile, there I was in Paris, staring at the view, looking up at the Eiffel Tower, and admiring the bateaux-mouches on the Seine, all lit up like Christmas. Alone, which was essentially what I had been for the last two years, and possibly thirteen before that. What's more, I had not only lost my illusions, my innocence, my youth, when I lost Roger, I had also lost my flannel nightgowns. I had given up a lot for Roger. I had grown used to my own company, occasional solitude, and the slippery cool feeling of the satin nightgowns that had replaced my flannels. I had brought four of them with me to Paris, a new batch actually, since the first ones I had bought right after he left had already gotten tired.