Part 15 (1/2)

”You're not too old,” I say. ”That's ludicrous.”

”I'm almost thirty- five ,” she says. ”I'm running out of time. I'm running out of eggs.”

”You have plenty of good eggs left,” I say. I am trying hard to be a supportive friend, but I can't help fixating on the other part of her statement. The part about me not understanding. I don't want to make her angst about me, as my mother does whenever someone else is experiencing trauma, but I can't help asking, ”Why do you think I can't understand this?”

Jess and I never argue, so she has no experience in detecting the edge in my voice now. She has no way of knowing how annoyed I am. How much I am regretting calling her back at all. I could still be at Richard's. I wish I were. Almost. Actually, I'm not sure about that, in some ways it was nice to get the natural out. Much easier than deciding for myself whether I should spend the night.

But what I do know is that a man like Trey should not have the power to infiltrate my romantic life. It's bad enough that he has impacted my best friend's.

I look at Jess, waiting for an answer. She lights another cigarette as she says, ”Because you don't want kids.”

Right , I think to myself. And I guess that means that I also have no imagination, no empathy, no feelings. I can't possibly fathom how another woman feels when I don't want to be a mother myself. After all, what kind of a woman doesn't want to be a mother?

fifteen.

The next day Daphne calls me from the waiting room of her fertility clinic. I'm about to go into our weekly editorial meeting, and I want to take the time to either review my notes or say good morning to Richard or both. I called him back last night, after my conversation with Jess, but I still feel strange about leaving so quickly after we slept together for the first time. I tell Daphne that I can't talk and will call her back after my meeting.

”But it's nine-twelve,” she says.

”Yeah. So?”

”So your meeting doesn't start at nine-fifteen, does it?”

I know precisely where she's going with her line of questioning, but I still fall into her trap and say, ”No. It starts at nine-thirty.”

”You have a few minutes then, right?”

I shake my head and sigh. Daphne seems to think that because I have my own office and phone, I should always be able to talk. But instead of delving into the details of my meeting or anything of my evening with Richard, I say, ”Okay, Daph. I have about three minutes. What's up?”

I can feel her victory smile over the phone. ”So,” she says, ”we're here at the doctor's office. Tony is getting his tests. You know, to see if something is wrong with him.”

”Right,” I say, checking my e-mail. I have one from Richard. Just the sight of his name makes my heart flutter. He was so good last night.

She says, ”The first step is his s.e.m.e.n a.n.a.lysis.”

”Uh-huh,” I say. ”That makes sense.”

”So they put him in this little room with all these p.o.r.n videos and girly magazines and stuff.”

I laugh and say, ”Poor Tony.”

”Poor Tony ?” Daphne says. ”He's looking at naked women right now. I don't think you need to feel sorry for him .”

”I'm sure he's embarra.s.sed, though,” I say as I quietly click open Richard's e-mail and read, When can I see you again ?

I smile and type back, At 9:30. Aren't you coming to the editorial meeting ?

Daphne continues, ”He's not embarra.s.sed in the slightest. He thinks the whole thing's hilarious. He was cracking jokes, asking the nurse if they had any girl-on-girl videos.”

”Tony cracks jokes when he's embarra.s.sed. Remember when he forgot to put his car in park that one Thanksgiving?” I say, remembering how his new, black Acura rolled backward, causing a four-car pileup. ”He made self-deprecating remarks about that maneuver for years. He still brings it up.”

”That's different,” she says. ”That was sort of funny. After the fact, anyway.”

”This will be funny someday, too,” I say as I read Richard's virtually instantaneous response: See you alone. As I saw you last night .

”So is it totally unreasonable for me to be annoyed?” Daphne asks.

This is her trademark question; Daphne always wants me to gauge the unreasonableness of her emotional reaction to something. I consistently want to tell her that, yes, she's being unreasonable, an instinct Maura gives in to, but I've learned to tread carefully.

”I can see why you would be annoyed,” I say to Daphne as I compose an e-mail back to Richard: As soon as possible .

”I mean, it's just gross ,” she says. ”And it adds another layer of humiliation to this whole process.”

”Try not to think of it that way,” I say. ”Just get through it.”

”Well, don't you think Tony should have told them he didn't need props? Don't you think he should be thinking about his wife? Instead of jerking off to p.o.r.n?”

”I'm sure he is thinking about you. Give him the benefit of the doubt, Daph.”

”Yeah, right,” she says. ”Our s.e.x life sucks. Unless I'm ovulating, it's nonexistent. And when I am ovulating, it's a total ch.o.r.e.”

”It will get better,” I say, thinking of Richard again. How good last night felt. How I will never have to experience the drudgery of procreational s.e.x. ”You guys are just under a lot of pressure.”

I glance at my watch. It is 9:19, and it takes approximately four minutes to take the elevator up three floors and walk to the conference room. Which leaves me only seven minutes to look over my notes.

Just as I'm about to say good-bye, she says, ”Do you think this is his fault?”

”Fault? What do you mean?” I ask.

Clearly it's not Tony's fault that their clinic, the clinic Daphne researched and selected, keeps p.o.r.nography on hand.

”You think it's his problem or mine? The reason we can't get pregnant?”

Surely Daphne must realize that I have no possible way of knowing an answer that requires extensive diagnostic testing, but this sort of thing never stops her from asking the question; she is a big believer in random speculation and blind guesswork.

I humor her and say, ”I think it's probably his issue. But I also predict that it will be a fixable issue Listen, Daph. I really gotta run. I'll call you after my meeting. Okay?”

”Okay. But cross your fingers that you're right and that it is his fault,” she says before we say good-bye.

Her last comment about fault disturbs me so much that I frown at the phone as I hang up, something that people usually only do on badly written television shows. I'm not sure what about it bothers me, but I tell myself I can a.n.a.lyze it later.

For now, I must get in my saleswoman frame of mind. The purpose of the weekly editorial meeting is for editors to pitch ma.n.u.scripts to the editorial director and heads of other departments who have the opportunity to shoot the proposal down for any number of reasons: this won't sell; this book is too much like another book released last year; or just a plain old, this ma.n.u.script blows . Obviously a lot is at stake for editors so the meetings tend to have a Darwinian feel with plenty of office politics coming into play. Emotions run high, and it's not uncommon for junior editors, who are desperate to make a name for themselves, to leave the conference room in tears. I have had my share of traumatic meetings as I came through the ranks, but I'm actually six for six for novels pitched this year (which could be a house record), and I'd like nothing better than to keep my perfect track record alive. I also want to impress Richard. It would be a real shame for my streak to be broken on the heels of last night.

When I walk into the conference room, I can instantly sense Richard's presence. I hear his robust laugh and, out of the corner of my eye, can see him pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup. I don't have the gumption to approach him or even look his way. Instead, I avoid all small talk and sit at the long, oblong table where I diligently scan my notes as Jacqueline Dody, my good friend and closest editorial ally, takes a seat next to me and asks if I want a doughnut. I say no, thanks, which might be the first time in my life I've declined a Krispy Kreme doughnut. But I'm too nervous to eat today. I've never had to speak professionally in front of someone I've just slept withor slept with at all, for that matter.

That's when I hear Richard say, ”What the h.e.l.l? Parr's turning down doughnuts?”