The Single Life. Liz Wood
and you’ve stopped coming to the fitness classes,” Alice had said in that honeyed voice of hers. “It would be nice to catch up. Let’s try lunch at The Green Factory. Clare can make it, too. It’ll be fun, Lauren. Just like old times.”
But it wouldn’t be like old times, not for her anyway. Those times were gone. Gone with the wind. Make that the hurricane.
So Lauren hadn’t promised anything, and she certainly hadn’t bothered to get ready for lunch today. But she hadn’t figured on the bad cop arriving. Like a dark-haired Valkyrie in pursuit of revenge, Clare had pushed her straight into the shower, thrown some clothes on her bed and practically forced her into the car. Nor did her relentless takeover stop when they arrived at The Green Factory. She wouldn’t even allow Lauren to give her order to the boyish-looking waiter. Not that it mattered. She didn’t care what it was anyway, even though she had had a mouthful or two.
Lauren glanced at her friends. At least, they weren’t having any trouble eating. No more than they were with life. No road blocks on their paths to happiness, not even a bump.
Clare said something indiscernible. Alice nodded and continued to talk about Frank. That marriage was obviously still going strong. Which was somewhat surprising, given all the odds against them.
Frank, the rebellious son of New Jersey factory workers, had traded in his youthful rock musician aspirations to work with emotionally disturbed children. Alice was born and bred in the affluent suburb of Oak Park, and it showed, right down to her woolen knit skirt, sensible but expensive leather shoes, and her senior management position at a Chicago bank. Yet Frank and Alice had found something together that Charles and Lauren, with their similar backgrounds, never had. Now that Frank and Alice’s youngest was almost out of college, it seemed to be honeymoon time all over again for them. No wonder Alice couldn’t understand what Lauren was going through. No more than Clare could.
Lauren turned toward the other woman whose black hair, olive-toned skin and dark eyes revealed her Mediterranean origins. She was saying something in her eloquent, persuasive style, gesturing in short, rapid movements to hammer home a point. Lauren noticed again how tiny Clare’s wrists were, making her seem fragile and delicate.
But there was nothing delicate or fragile about Clare. Lauren knew that for a fact. Clare clearly didn’t need anything or anyone—not a husband, not children. Lauren had always thought how empty Clare’s days must be without them. But, looking at her now, it was clear that Clare’s life could hardly be qualified a failure.
Unlike Lauren’s.
Suddenly aware of a lull in the conversation and two pairs of eyes scrutinizing her, Lauren impaled something on her fork and dragged it into her mouth. She chewed with effort, and the big, tasteless lump went down slowly, very slowly.
She didn’t notice Alice reaching over until she felt the squeeze of her hand.
“Clare told me about the house,” Alice said, slowly releasing her grip. “I’m sorry.”
Tilting her head, letting her shoulder-length hair fall around her face like a veil, Lauren kept her eyes on her plate. “Yeah, well.”
“Three heads are better than one, you know. Together we’ll think of something.”
“Have you thought about it?” Clare asked. “What you’re going to do with it?”
Lauren lifted her head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I just know I can’t sell it. Not after all the time I put into it. Not now that I’ve lost everything else. The house…” She glanced around the restaurant and swallowed, hoping no one noticed the break in her voice. She forced herself to look back at the two women. “That would be the last straw.”
“You haven’t lost everything, Lauren,” Alice said. “You have to stop thinking that way.”
“Right.” Lauren set her fork on her plate and leaned back in her chair. “And which way should I be thinking?”
“Certainly not only about the bad things. Think about the good things. You have two wonderful children, a house you restored practically on your own, an award-winning book. Should I continue?”
Lauren shrugged. “What’s the point?” She studied the pattern on the table cloth, hoping the conversation would change and her friends would ignore her, the way the rest of the universe had been doing. But she underestimated them.
“Oh for crying out loud, Lauren!” Clare said, running her manicured fingers through her dark curls. “You’ve got to stop thinking this way. The world hasn’t ended just because you lost your husband! Maybe you didn’t lose anything. Maybe you just got rid of something old and useless. Maybe this is your chance to begin something new.”
“Clare, I’m fifty-three,” Lauren retorted. “You don’t begin something at fifty-three. You begin to end it. Unless you’re me, and it’s already over.” She smiled brightly at her weak attempt at humor.
Clare didn’t respond in kind. Her features seemed sterner, and she shook her head emphatically. “It’s not over. Not all of it, anyway. It’s time for you to say goodbye to one part of your life and move on to the next.” She blew out slowly, then continued in a more restrained tone. “I mean, it’s not as if we just have a single shot at doing something with our lives.”
Alice nodded. “Or one way of living it.”
“I can’t. I’m just not cut out for any other kind of life. I really don’t think I can manage this…this…this single life.” Lauren pointed at the air, as if to provide a clearer idea of what she was talking about.
“You don’t know that until you’ve tried,” Alice said. “Things change, and we keep on living.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You still have your life, the one you’ve always had, the one you’ve always wanted.”
“Not exactly.”
Alice sounded almost wistful, but Lauren knew that wasn’t possible. She was projecting her own failures and disappointments onto her friend. Alice really did have everything—a career on track, a husband who obviously loved her more than ever and two children, living close enough to visit, whose only contact didn’t have to be through the telephone or the Internet.
“You think your life is over when you could be entering one of the most exciting periods,” Alice continued. “Just think of all the exciting, new places you could visit, the fun things you could do, the great guys you could meet.”
“Men are not interested in me.” Lauren waved her hands over her chest, where, even with a firm under-wire bra, her breasts sagged. She didn’t need to point at the rest of her. She was obviously a dismal heap.
“You don’t know that,” Clare said. “You haven’t bothered to get in touch with that writer who your agent Louise has been trying to set you up with.”
“Or that guy who Chrissie has been wanting you to meet,” Alice added. “She certainly thinks someone might be interested in you.”
“Chrissie’s just being a good daughter,” Lauren replied. “Nothing can shake her faith in me.”
“So learn from her and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Your life isn’t over. It’s just beginning. Think of it as…as…as…” Alice’s face suddenly brightened. “I know, as the dawning of a new age.”
Alice must be listening to Frank’s old albums, Lauren thought, bemused. She wanted to remind her friend how outdated that kind of talk was. But Alice seemed so sincere, Lauren didn’t have the heart. Besides, she suddenly realized how hard Clare and Alice were trying, for her sake. Surely, the least she could do was listen.
“Go ahead,” she said, forcing herself to smile at the concerned faces. “Explain.”
“It’s just a question of changing your attitude. Your husband walked out? Good riddance,” Alice said.
“That’s what I would say.