“Hey,” he says, his gravelly voice so familiar. “I texted you. But I didn’t hear back. I . . . I’m in New York. I’m home. I mean, I’m here at the apartment. Our apartment. Or . . . your apartment. Whatever. I’m here. Waiting for you. I know it’s short notice. But don’t you think we should talk about things? Don’t you think there’s more to say? I’m just rambling now, so I’m going to go. But hopefully I’ll see you soon.”
When the message is over, I run down the stairs, swipe my card, and slip onto the train just as it’s leaving. I pack myself into the crowded car and try to calm down as we roar through each stop.
What the hell is he doing home?
I get off the train and make my way to the street. I put my coat on when I hit the fresh air. Brooklyn feels colder than Manhattan tonight.
I try not to run to my apartment. I try to remain calm, to remain composed. There is no need for you to rush, I tell myself. Besides, I don’t want to show up out of breath, and I really don’t want to ruin my hair.
I head through the front entrance and up the stairs to my apartment.
I slip my key into my door.
And there he is.
David.
In my kitchen, cleaning dishes as if he lives here.
“Hi,” I say, staring at him.
He looks exactly the same. Blue eyes, thick lashes, cropped hair. He is wearing a maroon heathered T-shirt and dark gray jeans.
When I met him, as we fell in love, I remember thinking that the fact that he was white made things easier because I knew he would never tell me I wasn’t black enough. I think of Evelyn the first time she heard her maid speaking Spanish.
I remember thinking that the fact that he wasn’t that well read meant he would never think I was a bad writer. I think of Celia telling Evelyn she wasn’t a good actress.
I remember thinking that the fact that I was clearly the more attractive one made me feel better, because I thought that meant he’d never leave. I think of how Don treated Evelyn despite her being, arguably, the most beautiful woman in the world.
Evelyn rose to those challenges.
But looking at David right now, I can see that I have hidden from them.
Perhaps my entire life.
“Hi,” he says.
I can’t help but vomit the words out of my mouth. I do not have the time or energy or restraint to curate them well or deliver them mildly. “What are you doing here?” I say.
David puts the bowl in his hand into the cupboard and then turns back to me. “I came back to iron out a few things,” he says.
“And I am something to iron out?” I ask.
I put my bag down in the corner. I kick off my shoes.
“You’re something I need to set right,” he says. “I made a mistake. I think we both did.”
Why, until this moment, did I not realize that the issue is my own confidence? That the root of most of my problems is that I need to be secure enough in who I am to tell anyone who doesn’t like it to go fuck themselves? Why have I spent so long settling for less when I know damn well the world expects more?
“I didn’t make a mistake,” I say. And it surprises me just as much as, if not more than, it surprises him.
“Monique, we were both acting rash. I was upset that you wouldn’t move to San Francisco. Because I felt like I had earned the right to ask you to sacrifice for me, for my career.”
I start formulating a response, but David keeps talking.
“And you were upset that I would ask that of you in the first place, because I know how important your life is here. But . . . there are other ways to handle this. We can do long-distance for a little while. And eventually I can move back here, or you can move to San Francisco down the line. We have options. That’s all I’m saying. We don’t have to get a divorce. We don’t have to give up on this.”
I sit down on the couch, fiddling with my hands as I think. Now that he says it, I realize what has made me so sad these past few weeks, what has plagued me and made me feel so terrible about myself.
It isn’t rejection.
And it isn’t heartbreak.
It is defeat.
I wasn’t heartbroken when Don left me. I simply felt like my marriage had failed. And those are very different things.
Evelyn said that just last week.
And now I understand why it got under my skin.
I have been reeling because I failed. Because I picked the wrong guy for me. Because I entered the wrong marriage. Because the truth is that at the age of thirty-five, I have yet to love someone enough to sacrifice for them. I’ve yet to open my heart enough to let someone in that much.
Some marriages aren’t really that great. Some loves aren’t all-encompassing. Sometimes you separate because you weren’t that good together to begin with.
Sometimes divorce isn’t an earth-shattering loss. Sometimes it’s just two people waking up out of a fog.
“I don’t think . . . I think you should go home to San Francisco,” I say to him finally.
David comes and joins me on the couch.
“And I think I should stay here,” I say. “And I don’t think a long-distance marriage is the right play. I think . . . I think divorce is the right play.”
“Monique . . .”
“I’m sorry,” I say as he takes my hand. “I wish I didn’t feel that way. But I suspect, deep down, you think it, too. Because you didn’t come here and tell me how much you miss me. Or how hard it has been to live without me. You said you didn’t want to give up. And look, I don’t want to give up, either. I don’t want to fail at this. But that’s not actually a great reason to stay together. We should have reasons why we don’t want to give up. It shouldn’t just be that we don’t want to give up. And I don’t . . . I don’t have any.” I’m unsure how to say what I want to say gently. So I just say it. “You have never felt like my other half.”
It is only once David gets up off the sofa that I realize I assumed we would be sitting here talking for a long time. And it is only once he puts on his jacket that I realize he probably assumed he would sleep here tonight.
But once he has his hand on the doorknob, I realize that I have put into motion the end of a lackluster life in the interest of eventually finding a great one.
“I hope one day you find someone who feels like the other half of you, I guess,” David says.
Like Celia.
“Thank you,” I say. “I hope you find it, too.”
David smiles in a way that is more of a frown. And then he leaves.
When you end a marriage, you’re supposed to lose sleep over it, aren’t you?
But I don’t. I sleep free.
* * *
I GET A call from Frankie the next morning just as I’m sitting down at Evelyn’s. I consider putting it through to voice mail, but there’s already too much swirling around in my brain. To add Call back Frankie might just put me over the edge. Better to handle it now. Have it behind me.
“Hi, Frankie,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is light, almost cheerful. “So we need to schedule the photographers. I assume Evelyn will want them to come to her there at the apartment?”
“Oh, that’s a good question,” I say. “One second.” I mute my phone and turn to Evelyn. “They are asking when and where you’ll want to do the photo shoot.”
“Here is fine,” Evelyn says. “Let’s aim for Friday.”
“That’s three days away.”
“Yes, I believe Friday comes after Thursday. Do I have that right?”
I smile and shake my head at her and then unmute Frankie. “Evelyn says here at the apartment on Friday.”
“Late morning, maybe,” Evelyn says. “Eleven.”
“Eleven, OK?” I say to Frankie.
Frankie agrees. “Absolutely fantastic!”
I hang up and look at Evelyn. “You want to do a photo shoot in three days?”
“No, you want me to do a photo shoot, remember?”
> “You’re sure about Friday, though?”
“We’ll be done by then,” Evelyn says. “You’ll have to work even later than normal. I’ll make sure Grace has those muffins you like and the coffee from Peet’s that I know you prefer.”
“OK,” I say. “That’s fine, but there’s still a lot of ground to cover.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll be done by Friday.”
When I look at her skeptically, she says, “You should be happy, Monique. You’re going to get your answers.”
WHEN HARRY READ THE NOTE Max had sent me, he was stunned silent. At first, I thought I had hurt his feelings by showing it to him. But then I realized he was thinking.
We had taken Connor to a playground in Coldwater Canyon in Beverly Hills. Our flight back to New York left in a few hours. Connor was playing on the swings as Harry and I watched her.
“Nothing would change between us,” he said. “If we divorced.”
“But, Harry . . .”
“John is gone. Celia is gone. There is no need to hide behind double dates. Nothing would change.”
“We would change,” I said, watching Connor pump her legs harder, swing higher.
Harry was watching her through his sunglasses, smiling at her. He waved to her. “Good job, honey,” he called out. “Remember to keep your hands tight on the chains if you’re gonna go that high.”
He had started to control his drinking a bit. He had learned to pick and choose his moments of indulgence. And he never let anything get in the way of his work or his daughter. But I still worried about what he’d do if left too much to his own devices.
He turned to me. “We wouldn’t change, Ev. I promise you that. I would live in my house, just like now. You’d live in yours. I’d come by every day. Connor would sleep at my place the nights she wanted. If anything, appearances-wise, it might make more sense. Pretty soon people are going to start asking why we own two different houses.”
“Harry—”
“You do what you want. If you don’t want to be with Max, don’t be. I’m just saying that there are some fairly good reasons for us to get divorced. And not many cons, except that I won’t call you my wife anymore, which I’ve always been so proud to do. But we will still be as we’ve always been. A family. And . . . I think it would be good for you to fall in love with someone. You deserve to be loved that way.”
“So do you.”
Harry smiled sorrowfully. “I had my love. And he’s gone. But for you, I think it’s time. Maybe it will be Max, maybe it won’t. But maybe it should be somebody.”
“I don’t like the idea of divorcing you,” I said. “No matter how meaningless it might actually be.”
“Dad, watch,” Connor said as she flung her legs into the air, swung high, and then leaped, landing on her feet. She nearly gave me a heart attack.
Harry laughed. “Outstanding!” he said to her, and then he turned to me. “Sorry. I might have taught her that.”
“I figured.”
Connor got back onto the swing, and Harry leaned toward me and put his arm around my shoulders. “I know you don’t like the idea of divorcing me,” he said. “But I think you do like the idea of marrying Max. Otherwise, I don’t think you would have bothered to show me that note.”
* * *
“ARE YOU REALLY serious about this?” I asked.
Max and I were back in New York, at his apartment. It had been three weeks since he had told me he loved me.
“I am very serious,” Max said. “What is the saying? As serious as cancer?”
“A heart attack.”
“Fine. I am as serious as a heart attack.”
“We barely know each other,” I said.
“We have known each other since 1960, ma belle. You simply do not realize how much time has passed. That’s more than twenty years.”
I was in my midforties. Max was a few years older. With a daughter and a fake husband, I thought falling in love again was out of the question for me. I wasn’t sure how it would ever happen.
And here was a man, a handsome man, a man I did rather like, a man I shared a history with, who was saying he loved me.
“So you’re suggesting I leave Harry? Just like that? Because of what we think might be between us?”
Max frowned at me. “I am not as stupid as you think I am,” he said.
“I don’t think you’re stupid at all.”
“Harry is a homosexual,” he said.
I felt my body pull back, as far away from him as possible. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
Max laughed. “That line didn’t work when we were getting burgers, and it won’t work now.”
“Max . . .”
“Do you enjoy spending time with me?”
“Of course I do.”
“And do you not agree that we understand each other, creatively speaking?”
“Of course.”
“Have I not directed you in three of the most important films of your career?”
“You have.”
“And do you think that is an accident?”
I thought about it. “No,” I said. “It’s not.”
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “It’s because I see you. It is because I ache for you. It is because, from the very moment I set my eyes on you, my body was full of desire for you. It is because I have been falling in love with you for decades. The camera sees you as I see you. And when that happens, you soar.”
“You’re a talented director.”
“Yes, of course, I am,” he said. “But only because you inspire me. You, my Evelyn Hugo, are the talent that powers every movie you are in. You are my muse. And I am your conductor. I am the person who brings out your greatest work.”
I breathed in deeply, considering what he was saying. “You’re right,” I said. “You are absolutely right.”
“I can’t think of anything more erotic than that,” he said. “Than being each other’s inspiration.” He leaned in close to me. I could feel the heat of him on my skin. “And I can think of nothing more meaningful than the way we understand each other. You should leave Harry. He will be fine. No one knows what he is, and even if they do, no one’s talking. He doesn’t need you to protect him anymore. I need you, Evelyn. I need you so badly,” he whispered into my ear. The heat of his breath, the way his stubble scratched my cheek, awakened me.
I grabbed him. I kissed him. I pulled my shirt off. I tore his. I unfastened the belt of his pants, flinging the buckle. I ripped apart the button fly of my jeans. I pushed myself against him.
The way he grabbed me back, the way he moved, made it clear he was yearning for me, that he couldn’t believe his luck to be touching me. When I pulled off the straps of my bra and exposed my breasts, he looked me in the eye and then placed his hands on my chest as if he’d unlocked a hidden treasure.
It felt so good. To be touched like that. To set free my desire. He lay down on the couch, and I sat on top of him, moving the way I wanted to, taking what I needed from him, feeling pleasure for the first time in years.
It felt like water in the desert.
When it was over, I didn’t want to be apart from him. I wanted to never leave his side.
“You’d be a stepfather,” I said. “Do you get that?”
“I love Connor,” Max said. “I love children. So to me, that is a benefit.”
“And Harry will always be around. He will never go away. He’s a constant.”
“He does not bother me. I’ve always liked Harry.”
“I’d want to stay in my house,” I said. “Not here. I won’t uproot Connor.”
“Fine,” he said.
I was quiet. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. Except that I wanted more of him. I wanted the experience of him again. I kissed him. I moaned. I eased him on top of me. I closed my eyes, and for the first time in years, when I closed them, I did not see Celia.
“Yes,” I said as he made love to me. “I’ll marry you.”
&n
bsp; Disappointing Max Girard
Now This
June 11, 1982
EVELYN HUGO DIVORCES HARRY CAMERON, TO MARRY DIRECTOR MAX GIRARD
Evelyn Hugo is the marrying kind! After 15 years of marriage, she and producer Harry Cameron are going their separate ways. The two have just come off a winning streak, both taking home Oscar gold earlier this year for their film All for Us.
But sources claim Evelyn and Harry have been separated for some time. Their marriage turned into little more than a friendship within the past few years. Some are claiming that Harry has been living in the home of their late friend John Braverman, just down the street from Evelyn.
Meanwhile, Evelyn must have used that time to warm up to Max Girard, her director on All for Us. The two have announced plans to marry. Only time will tell if Max is the lucky ticket to happiness for Evelyn. But what we do know is that he will be husband number six.
MAX AND I GOT MARRIED in Joshua Tree, with Connor, Harry, and Max’s brother, Luc. Max had originally suggested Saint-Tropez or Barcelona for our wedding and honeymoon. But both of us had just finished movies shooting in Los Angeles, and I thought it sounded nice, just a small group of us in the desert.
I dispensed with white, having long ago stopped feigning innocence. Instead, I wore an ocean-blue maxi dress, my blond hair feathered ever so slightly. I was forty-four.
Connor wore a flower in her hair. Harry stood next to her in dress pants and a button-down.
Max, my groom, wore white linen. We joked that it was his first wedding, so he should be the one to wear white.
That evening, Harry and Connor flew back to New York. Luc flew back to his home in Lyon. Max and I stayed in a cabin, a rare night alone.
We made love on the bed, on the desk, and, in the middle of the night, on the porch underneath the stars.
In the morning, we ate grapefruit and played cards. We flipped channels on the television. We laughed. We talked about movies we loved, movies we’d shot, movies we wanted to make.
Max said he had an idea for an action movie starring me. I told him I wasn’t sure I was fit to be an action hero.
