Just Friends Read online

  JUST FRIENDS

  ROBYN SISMAN

  BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Praise for Just Friends

  Copyright

  For my mother

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks go to Susan Dull and Maureen Freely for allowing me to pick their brains; to Harriet Evans of Penguin for buoying me up with her effervescent phonecalls; and to my brilliant editor, Louise Moore, who demands the best and always gives it, too.

  I owe a huge debt to my family: to my mother for her insight and encouragement; to my in-laws for unstinting moral and practical support; to my children for enduring a famine of holidays and maternal attention; and to my sister Tamie and her husband Paul for a wonderful visit at their Chelsea (NY) apartment.

  Last, first and always is my husband Adam—my severest critic and most loyal champion.

  CHAPTER 1

  Freya peeled off her clothes and stood in her underwear, contemplating her reflection. She wanted to look her best for Michael tonight. There had been no time to go home to change; she must make do with this cramped ladies’ room beneath her office. Her new dress hung from the cubicle door: a cool thousand dollars’ worth of palest pink that shimmered with a tracery of opalescent beads—a Cinderella dress chosen to make her as feminine and delicate as a porcelain doll. That was the look she was aiming for, less femme fatale, more . . . femme, plain and simple.

  Let’s go somewhere special, he had said over breakfast on Monday morning, somewhere we can talk. Questions had exploded in her head like popcorn in a hot pan. Talk about what? Why not right here in the apartment? Freya had choked them back. Instead, she’d done a lot of shopping.

  But all week long she had carried his words around with her, a time bomb in the pit of her stomach, tick-tick-ticking as the days passed. Was this It? Was she about to become Mrs. Normal, grouching about schools and the state of her suburban lawn?

  With a hand that was not quite steady Freya twisted the tap and splashed her cheeks with cold water. On with the war paint. She began to make up her face—a pencil to darken the pale arches of her eyebrows, mascara to bring her light-blue eyes into focus. Which lipstick? Scarlet Woman was out, obviously. So, frankly, was Vestal Virgin, a relic of her infatuation with an artist who had left her for a seventeen-year-old. Aha, Crimson Kiss, that was more like it. She slid the color back and forth over her lips, then bared her teeth, satisfactorily white against the red. I floss, you floss, we all floss. God bless American dentistry.

  But what if she was wrong? Maybe Michael just wanted to discuss the new service charge for the apartment, or to finalize plans for their trip to England. Freya cocked her head to fix an earring, considering this possibility. No, she decided. Michael was a lawyer, and a man: habit was his middle name. Every January he bought his suits in the sales, always two, always Armani, either navy or charcoal. He called his mother on Sunday evenings (allowing for the time change to Minneapolis), got his annual hay fever shot right after Groundhog Day, and always tipped ten percent on the nose. There was nothing unpredictable about Michael, thank God. If he wanted to “talk,” he must have something important to say.

  Balancing precariously on one flamingo leg, then the other, Freya slid on sheer stockings, then stepped carefully into the precious dress and drew it up her body, shivering at its silky opulence. A hidden side zip pulled it snug around her small breasts, miraculously creating a discreet cleavage. She slotted her feet into flat shoes, with the faintest sigh of regret for those strappy four-inch heels she’d seen in a Fifth Avenue store. It was too bad Michael wasn’t taller. She reminded herself sternly that successful relationships were founded on compromise.

  A few adjustments, a mist of perfume, and she was finished. Did she look the part? Freya found her brain flooding with words she had never associated with herself: fiancée, engagement, honeymoon, Mr. and Mrs. . . Daddy and Mommy. She grabbed the sink with both hands and peered close. Narrow pointed face, skin as pale as buttermilk, collar bones you could beat a tattoo on, long arms and legs—too long? She was as tall as many men: “giraffe,” they had called her at school. Could somebody really love this person—for ever and ever, amen? She picked at her newly cropped hair (another hundred bucks), so fair it looked almost colorless in this light. “Freya the beautiful,” her mother used to call her, named after the warmhearted goddess of the icy north who was loved by all men. But that was when she was six years old. It was impossible to know what her mother would make of her now.

  As she turned this way and that, assessing this unfamiliar self, Freya was reminded of one of those ballerinas that twirled mechanically on one leg whenever someone opened a musical box. She gave an experimental twirl herself, laughing a little as her legs tangled and she almost lost her balance. The movement had dislodged a lock of hair, and as she smoothed it back she caught sight of her left hand, with its bare ring finger. Her expression sobered. It was nice to be wanted, she told her twin in the mirror. It was wonderful to be loved. She wasn’t twenty-nine anymore.

  Yes, Michael was the one, she was almost sure.

  The restaurant Michael had chosen was a new and very expensive place on the edge of the Village, so confident of its must-go status that Freya walked past it twice before spotting the tiny engraved entryphone. She leaned on the buzzer, and immediately the door was opened by an angelic young man with a peroxide crop. She found herself in a waiting area furnished according to the latest style edict to look “just like your own home”—if you were a millionaire. Voluptuous sofas flanked a faux fireplace. There were Georgian-style urns on the mantelpiece, magazines and “real” books artfully disarranged on low tables, even a chess set, apparently abandoned in midgame. Shallow steps led down into the dining room. From it wafted up fashionable smells and the uninhibited chatter of people utterly at ease with their own tremendous success. The name of the restaurant, she remembered, was Phood.

  As the young man led the way, Freya scanned the crowded tables. On one of the plump banquettes, perched somewhat stiffly between lime-green bolsters, was Michael. Sober-suited and serious, frowning slightly as he checked some document with a hovering pen—perhaps, knowing Michael, a checklist of their compatible qualities—he looked so out of place among the flashy media poseurs and Wall Street dudes that Freya’s face melted into a tender, teasing smile. Her anxieties retreated. She realized that his choice of restaurant was a compliment to her, and vowed to keep any sardonic comments to herself. She would be amusing, charming, attentive—the perfect partner. She made her way down the steps, waiting for him to notice her. When he did, he looked startled, almost shocked: very gratifying. Cramming his papers in
to a side pocket, he leaped up from his chair to greet her with a kiss on each cheek.

  “Freya, you look wonderful!”

  “I know.” She put her hands on his shoulders and laughed into his eyes, then stepped back so that he could admire her properly. “It’s the new me. Don’t tell me, you thought I was born wearing trousers.”

  “No, no.” Her exuberance seemed to disconcert him. “I mean, you always look fabulous.” He pulled the table out so she could sit down opposite him, and resumed his position. How adorably lawyerly he looked, with his square, handsome face, serious brown eyes, and wavy hair clipped close. They would love him in England. She wondered if he’d already bought her a ring, and if so where he was hiding it.

  A waiter brought them menus and drew a bottle from a cooler by the table. “Champagne?”

  “Absolutely.” Freya shot Michael a sparkling smile. “Are we celebrating?”

  “Well . . .” He looked bashful. “It is Friday night.”

  Freya held her tongue. After five months of living with him, she knew perfectly well that Michael’s favorite Friday-night routine consisted of gourmet take-out, a video, and early bed. But then, he did work very hard.

  As the waiter filled her glass, Freya was surprised to see that the bottle was already half empty. It was unlike Michael to drink alone. He must be gathering his courage.

  “So, how was your day?” she heard herself ask. Holey moley, she was turning into the perfect little housewife already!

  “Fine. They’re holding a meeting next month to vote on the new senior partners. Fred thinks I have a good chance.”

  “Fred always says that.” Freya popped a couple of char-grilled pistachios into her mouth. Then she saw Michael’s lips purse and quickly added, “But I’m sure you do. King of the divorce courts, that’s you. Hey, look at this.” She pointed to the menu, hoping to distract him from her lapse in tact. “Beggar’s Purse, seventy dollars. What can it be? Molten deutsche marks?”

  “Some kind of pancake, I think, with caviar inside. Seems a lot to pay for fish eggs, doesn’t it?”

  “Not if it’s beluga. My father took me to St. Petersburg once, when he was working at the Hermitage, and we went to this special dinner. I was about twelve, and it was the first time I’d ever tasted caviar, but I’ve never forgotten it. Total heaven. Go on, try it.”

  “Fish gives me a bad reaction, you know that. I think I’ll go for the soup.”

  “Good choice.” Michael always had soup.

  There was an awkward pause. Freya felt suddenly artificial in her expensive dress amid the chic absurdities of this place, smiling at this man who was smiling back at her. It was as if they were in a play and had both forgotten their lines. To prod the scene into life, she launched into a girlie pantomime of choosing what to eat. Was this too fattening? (Of course not, she could never be fat.) Was that too garlicky? (It didn’t matter; he positively liked garlic.) She exclaimed over the restaurant. How had he succeeded in getting a reservation? Wasn’t it original to have feathers in the vases instead of flowers? Michael responded distractedly and blew his nose, saying he thought he might be allergic to feathers. Freya suppressed a twinge of irritation. Michael had always been shy: she must let him go at his own pace.

  It was his shyness that had caught her attention in the first place, that evening at the gallery. Michael had come to an opening with his boss and the boss’s ghastly wife, one of those pampered Manhattan ice queens who liked to think of themselves as patronesses of the arts when they weren’t having their nails done. Freya was supposed to be checking out the competition, but it was as much as she could do to stay upright. Still recovering from her latest disastrous relationship she felt shaky and listless. No one spoke to her; she knew she exuded misery and defeat. From her vantage point in a corner, the cold concrete wall at her back for support, a glass in her hand for cover, she had watched the pantomime of Michael’s superpolite behavior as he was alternately patronized and snubbed, dispatched to fetch wine or to deposit a fur coat. She was impressed by his good humor. She liked the way he bent carefully to read the titles and descriptions beside each painting, then stood back to give them his serious, slightly perplexed consideration. Romance was the last thing on her mind; she was done with all that. But observing his open, masculine face, free of cynicism, the thought had occurred to her: Why can’t I fall for a nice man like that?

  Later Michael confided that he had dared approach her only because she looked as lost and alone as he felt. Galleries were not his scene; he had no talent for social chatter. When it turned out that the boss’s hospitality did not extend to dinner, Michael had asked Freya out instead. She couldn’t remember what she’d replied—nothing, perhaps. But he had found her coat and drawn her out into the snowy street, then into a steamy restaurant. She was too thin, he said, and he’d made her eat pasta and drink red wine until he could see the color return to her cheeks. He’d asked nothing of her, just told her about his home and his family and his job—soothing, undemanding talk about normal people and normal lives. Afterwards, he had taken her home in a cab, wheels hissing through the slush, and made it wait while he accompanied her right to the door of that miserable walk-up off Lexington. He hadn’t pounced on her, hadn’t even asked to come in, just made sure she had her key and said goodnight.

  It had been a slow, old-fashioned courtship, especially by Manhattan standards—flowers, exhibitions, walks in the park, tea and muffins at Bendels. Michael treated her almost like an invalid, and she had liked the attention. Fifteen years in New York had taught her the art of detachment—from the drunks and crazies, from filth and noise, from the loneliness that came in the small hours and the men who said they’d call and never did. It was nice to feel attached. Michael’s apartment on the upper West Side was blissfully warm and comfortable. Freya spent more and more time there until one day—and it was shaming to admit that she couldn’t remember the exact details—they became lovers. Soon afterwards Michael persuaded her to move in altogether. And she had liked that too. The simple domestic pleasures of shopping and cooking, that relaxed moment at the end of the day when they would exchange news of what had happened since they parted in the morning, made her feel that she was at last having a grown-up relationship. It was comforting to have someone who wanted to listen to this sort of personal trivia, and it felt special to be entrusted with someone else’s, even if it wasn’t always that interesting. Michael was patient and kind, and in due course she had bounced back, as she always did. They bickered, of course—once she’d accused him of preferring that pathetic wreck he’d picked up at the gallery to her real self—but bickering was normal, wasn’t it? Now they were almost like a married couple. Very like a married couple, Freya realized, for Michael had been talking to her for some time and she hadn’t heard a word.

  “. . . so I said, ‘Okay, we’ll shut you down.’ That shut him up.” Michael looked up triumphantly; Freya wanted to ruffle his hair. He was so sweet and straightforward. He would make a wonderful father. Not that she wanted children right now, of course. But it would be reassuring to have some quality sperm on tap, as it were.

  “But that’s enough about me. How about you? How’s Lola?”

  “In Milan, thank God. At least the time difference means the phone calls peter out by the afternoon.”

  Lola Preiss was Freya’s boss, a woman of unspecified Central European origins and legendary reputation, whose gallery on 57th Street attracted gamblers with a million or so to spend on big hitters like Howard Hodgkin and Frank Stella. Three years ago, after years of dogged drudgery in half the musuems and galleries in New York, learning about everything from framing and lighting to printing techniques, publicity, and U.S. Customs forms—while simultaneously developing her own “eye”—Freya had been rewarded by an offer to set up Lola Preiss Downtown, a brand-new gallery in a beautiful space in SoHo. Her brief was to seek out and develop younger artists who might one day feed into Lola’s megabucks machine. Freya loved the work, and it would
have been a dream job but for Lola’s monstrous ego, which made her interrogate Freya over every decision she made, castigate her for her failures, and publicly claim Freya’s successes as her own. Fortunately Lola was nearing seventy and spent increasingly more time visiting the homes of her wealthiest clients (known uniformly as “dahlink”) along the seaboards of America and throughout the moneyed cities of Europe. But her influence was palpable and oppressive even from afar.

  “So, has it been a good week?” Michael persisted. “Sell any big ones?”

  Freya rolled her eyes. “Michael: you don’t measure art by the square yard.”

  “I know that. You’ve told me often enough. I was just taking an interest.”