Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Read online

“So …,” he continues as he chews, “are you going to?”

  I shrug, sawing at my filet mignon. “I don’t know. I went to talk to Sam last night and Lucy was a total bitch. I mean, I still care about her, but it’s hard to see us getting back together when she’s acting this way.”

  “Well, take your time and have some fun, if you know what I mean.” He moves his eyebrows up and down suggestively. “Who is she, anyway?”

  “Who?” I ask, feigning innocence.

  “Give me a break. You don’t just walk out after being married that long. There’s always somebody else involved.”

  “There’s not, really.” God, am I blushing? What am I, twelve? The way Mike is laughing and pointing his steak knife at me confirms it. “Okay … I am interested in someone, but she’s not the reason I left.”

  “I knew it! Spill.”

  “I work with her … I don’t know … she’s great.”

  “She hot?” he mumbles through a mouthful.

  “Soooo fucking hot.”

  “Have you nailed her yet?”

  “No. We’ve been flirting for a while but it hasn’t gone beyond that. But we’re having a drink on Friday at the bar in my hotel. So, you know, hopefully …”

  “Get busy, man,” Mike counsels. “You know Lucy won’t wait for you forever.”

  I shrug, sawing off a piece of steak. “Well, the way I feel right now, I’m not too worried about that. You know … maybe this thing with Annika will work out?” Mike lets out a snort of laughter. “What?”

  “This thing with Annika is not going to work out.”

  I suddenly feel like punching him in his fat, steak-eating mouth. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been there, remember? There was a girl, a flight attendant, when Hope and I were going through our stuff. In fact, there were a few girls. I thought I might end up with one of them, but in the end, it was just about sex. It’s just the excitement of being with someone new. Your life is with Lucy and Samantha.”

  “Samantha will always be a part of my life,” I say, defensively. “She’s my kid. I don’t have to be living with Lucy to be a good dad to her.”

  “No, but it makes it a hell of a lot easier.”

  “Life’s not always easy, Michael,” I say, sagely. I wave to the waiter to bring two more beers. “I’ll be a better father if I’m happy. And Annika makes me happy.”

  “Of course she does. I bet she makes you feel young and desirable. She probably makes you want to take better care of yourself, wear hipper clothes, maybe get a little plastic surgery …”

  “I wouldn’t go that far—but yeah, she does make me feel … you know, younger. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Except that it won’t last.”

  The big-fat-mouth-punching urge is returning. “Look, you don’t know anything about my relationship with her. Just because things didn’t work out with you and your flight attendant doesn’t mean you know what’s going to happen with me and Annika.”

  “Okay, okay. Jesus, I’m sorry.” The waiter approaches and sets down two more Stella Artois. “You’re right. Your relationship might be totally different than mine were. I’m just saying what happened to me.”

  I take a swig of beer. “What happened?”

  “Well, Laurie—the first one—was still involved with her ex-boyfriend. Mel, the flight attendant, was just a fling really. She was too young for me, but she was really uh, energetic, if you get my drift. And then I had this flirting thing with a client, but I couldn’t cross that line. She was married anyway, so it would have been a big mess.”

  “Yeah, well Annika’s not a client, she’s not too young, and she’s not married. So … it’s totally different.”

  “Yeah, of course it is. I’m sure you’ll live happily ever after.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Mike laughs and takes a swig of beer. “So … how about those Canucks?”

  Lucy

  “I’M KIDNAPPING YOU FOR THE AFTERNOON,” Camille says when I enter the office Friday morning.

  I look over at our boss, Bruce, the props master. “Fine with me,” he says, reclining in his chair. “Wynn Felker’s gone to L.A. for some party, so they’re just shooting blue-screen scenes with Adam’s character. You’ll make the time up next week after the concept meeting on Monday.”

  “Well, okay then,” I say gamely. “What are we going to do?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Camille says, with a devilish twinkle in her eye. I feel my stomach lurch uncomfortably. Oh, please don’t take me to a male strip bar or something—not that I know of any male strip bars that operate in the afternoon. Unlike men, women don’t really like to watch the opposite sex gyrate around in the nude while they eat lunch. Still, from the look on Camille’s face, she’s got more in store for me than an afternoon of shopping.

  The morning drags but finally, at one o’clock, she finds me on set. “Okay, let’s go.”

  “Sure … So, where are we off to? Lunch? Shopping?”

  “Let’s grab a quick smoothie. I’ve got us an appointment at 1:30.”

  The spa! Hurray! Some pampering will do me a world of good. Obediently, I follow Camille out to her SUV and allow her to chauffeur me to the juice place. “So where is this spa?” I ask as we hurtle down Oak Street, sucking on our thick blueberry smoothies.

  “On Broadway,” she says cryptically.

  I try to think of a spa located on Broadway but come up empty. “Is it a new place?”

  “No, he’s been there for a while.” Her tone is dismissive.

  “Okay,” I say, realizing that she’s not going to be any more forthcoming. I sit back and drink my smoothie, thankful for Camille’s heated seats in the damp February chill. I take a deep breath and feel myself relax in anticipation of the impending indulgence. Considering that my husband left me only five days ago, I’m handling myself quite well. Not that I have the luxury of falling apart completely. I have my daughter to think about.

  Sixteen minutes later we’re in a small mirrored elevator traveling up to the eighth floor of a nondescript office building. “There’s a spa in here?” I ask. It seems a strange location, but then all the elite spas are probably hidden away in nondescript buildings.

  “We’re not going to a spa,” Camille says, her expression mischievous.

  “Where are we going then?” I snap. “My husband just left me five days ago. You better not be taking me someplace weird.”

  “Dr. Andrews is a licensed plastic surgeon. We’re going to get you a Botox treatment, and it’s on me.”

  “What!” I shriek at the precise moment the elevator doors open with a ding.

  “Come on, you big baby.” Camille grabs my arm and escorts me into the hall. “You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

  “No,” I retort, “I’m afraid of looking like a frozen mannequin. I’m afraid of getting a droopy eyelid or a permanent headache. I’ve heard tons of horror stories about Botox gone wrong. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Come on,” my friend cajoles. “I’ve been doing it for years and I’ve never had a bad experience with it.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah! Getting Botox is like dyeing your hair was in the eighties. Everybody does it. They just don’t talk about it.”

  I look at Camille’s forehead. It is surprisingly smooth for a forty-two-year-old. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? I’ve always attributed her youthful good looks to the fact that she’s never had to juggle the stress of having a family and a career. I’m two years younger, but in comparison I always look a little … haggard.

  “Let’s go in,” she continues. “Dr. Andrews will explain all the risks and you can decide then. But just think, in a matter of minutes you could completely get rid of that deep frown line.”

  “Deep frown line?” My hand flies to my forehead. “Is it really that deep?”

  “Well …” she says kindly, “if you get Botox now, it won’t get any deeper.”

  Dr. Andrews looks ab
out twelve years old, except for his receding hairline. He is possibly, but not definitely, gay. He explains that, in his nine years of practice, no one has suffered a droopy eyelid or a permanent headache, and all customers are completely satisfied.

  “You’ll love it!” Camille chirps. “You won’t look so tired and angry anymore. Do it!”

  Tired and angry?

  “What do you think?” Dr. Andrews says encouragingly. “Should we get rid of those nasty frown lines?”

  Oh great. Now a licensed plastic surgeon has diagnosed my frown lines as “nasty.” No wonder Trent left me! I’m a hag! Before I break down in a blubbering pool of self-pity, I blurt, “Let’s do it.”

  Dr. A assures me that the needle will feel like a mosquito bite, which is true if you count those giant killer mosquitoes in horror movies. But it’s all over in a matter of minutes, and I leave the office with a series of bloody dots on my forehead. As I prepare to exit, the doctor says, “The toxin will take a couple of days to kick in. Try to frown a lot to help it activate faster.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Camille has already paid the receptionist when I emerge into the lobby. “Next stop, my hairdresser!”

  “This is too much,” I insist. “Seriously, let me pay.”

  She leads me to the elevator. “No, I want to do this for you. Besides, it’s fun for me. It’s like I’m your Pygmalion. I’m going to have you back on the scene in no time.”

  “Camille!” I look at her in shock. “It hasn’t even been a week since Trent left!”

  “So? Do you think he’s sitting alone in his hotel room looking wrinkly and frumpy? You’ve got to get out there again.”

  She has a point, and it would seem ungrateful not to go along with her plan. Camille does have really gorgeous hair, and when we leave her Yaletown salon, so do I.

  “Wear something sexy and we’ll go for drinks at George tomorrow night,” she says, driving me back to the office to pick up my car.

  “I can’t leave Sam home alone right now.” The thought of my daughter has me fishing in my purse for my cell phone. I’d turned the ringer off when I thought we were going to the spa. “Besides, I’m just not ready.”

  “I’m not saying you should go out and pick up a guy,” she scoffs. “But it’ll be good for you to get out of the house for a couple of hours.”

  “Shit!” I say, extracting the phone: two new messages.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I put the phone to my ear. “I just hope Sam didn’t need me. She’s been upset all week.” The first message is from Anthony in the set decoration department. I skip it and move on to the next one. “Oh god,” I murmur as my worst fear is realized. “Oh no.”

  Trent

  I DOUBT THAT ANNIKA IS THE KIND OF GIRL who cares if my hotel room is a mess, but I tidy it up just the same. Lucy would laugh if she saw the state of it, saying something like, “How can you make such a mess in a room that comes with its own maid?” Of course, it’s possible that Annika won’t even come up to my room tonight, but it’s just as possible that she will. The thought makes my stomach gurgle. I need a drink.

  Going to the minibar, I mix myself a rum and Coke. I’m really going to have to buy a bottle if I stay here much longer. These minibar costs are breaking me. The rum burns in my stomach, a comforting feeling.

  Okay … Whatever happens with Annika tonight, it’s going to be fine. I want her, and unless I’m completely off base, she wants me too. No, I’m not off base. The sexual tension has been building between us for months. So if we both want each other, then we should be together. Just because I’ve been making love to the same woman for eighteen years doesn’t mean it can’t be great with someone new. And I’m sure I’ll be able to satisfy Annika, just as I satisfied Lucy. I mean, how different can two women be?

  Although … Annika definitely has a lot more experience than Lucy. She’s probably had dozens of lovers—even hundreds. The thought is a little intimidating … in fact, it’s almost scary. That reminds me, I don’t have any condoms. It’s the guy’s responsibility to provide protection, right? It used to be, but maybe that’s an old-fashioned notion. Annika will probably come prepared. But what if she doesn’t? And what if she’s had hundreds of lovers and she gives me some horrible venereal disease? And what if Lucy and I get back together and I give her the horrible venereal disease I caught from Annika? I’ve got to calm down. I down the remains of my drink.

  The clock radio next to the phone tells me it’s time to get dressed. I strip off my shirt and stop in front of the large, wall mounted mirror. I stare at my reflection: not bad for forty three. I mean, other than the fact that most of my chest hair is gray, I could pass for a much younger man. Could I dye my chest hair? Or would that be really obvious? If Annika noticed, she’d think I was trying too hard—and it would definitely buy into Lucy’s mid-life crisis theory. I turn to the side to take in my profile. I have a definite paunch—it wouldn’t necessarily qualify as a beer gut, but it’s there just the same. Oh fuck, I can’t sleep with Annika. She’ll think I’m old and fat and disgusting.

  For some reason, I feel another surge of anger toward Lucy. Obviously, all my insecurities aren’t her fault, but would it have killed her to show a little attraction to me once in a while? Couldn’t she have initiated sex, like, even once in the past three years? If she had, I might not be in this situation right now.

  Okay, I’ve got half an hour until I’m supposed to meet Annika downstairs. Do I shave or am I sexier with a bit of five o’clock shadow? Stroking my chin, I decide to leave it. When I got in I’d showered, but I think I forgot to put on deodorant. I sniff my armpit. I can’t really tell, but better safe than sorry. As I head to the bathroom my cell phone rings. The shrill sound in the quiet of the room startles me.

  “Hello?” I’m worried that it could be Annika calling off our date, but I try for a casual tone.

  “Trent, it’s me.”

  I suddenly feel guilty and a little sick to my stomach. “Oh, hey Lucy. How are you?”

  “Not good. I’m not good at all. It’s Sam.”

  “Sam?” Panic makes my knees weak and I sit on the edge of the bed.

  “I was out all afternoon and there was a message on my cell phone from the school. She …” A sob steals her voice.

  “What?” I practically scream. “What is it?”

  “Sam and her friend Jordan turned up drunk at school! She cut class and now she’s drunk! At school!”

  I could almost laugh—not that it’s funny that my daughter is turning into a teenage piss-tank, but considering that moments ago I thought she was the victim of some kind of school massacre, it is somewhat of a relief. “Okay, just calm down. Where are you now?”

  “I’m driving to Crofton House. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  “Great, okay. Take her home, give her some carbs, and send her to bed. I’ll be over in the morning and we can deal with it then.”

  “What?” Lucy shrieks. “You expect me to handle this all on my own? You expect me to march through the halls of the city’s best private school, pick up my wasted daughter, and apologize to the principal for my shoddy parenting, all by myself? You’re the reason she was drinking in the first place!”

  “That’s a low blow!” I growl. “If we could have handled things my way, she wouldn’t be so upset.”

  “Oh, so I drove her to the bottle by being a little sarcastic,” Lucy snaps back. “Right, yeah, of course, that’s it. This had nothing to do with you LEAVING US!”

  “Calm down,” I say, suddenly fearful that she might crash her Forerunner into a power pole. “There’s no need to panic. Sam’s fifteen. This is pretty normal teenage behavior.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down, Trent. Our daughter is drunk at school. Would you prefer we wait until she’s a crystal meth addict panhandling on Hastings Street before we freak out?”

  “No, of course not. I’m just saying—” But my wife cuts me
off.

  “What have you got on tonight that’s more important than dealing with your daughter’s drinking problem? Are you going out with Mike again? Or have you got a date or something?”

  “No!” I cry. “Of course not! I just thought … I don’t know … that maybe you could handle this on your own.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry I’m so weak and incapable,” the queen of sarcasm continues. “My husband walked out on me at the beginning of the week, and now my fifteen-year-old daughter’s drowning her sorrows in a bottle of gin. But you’re right, it’s no big deal. I should just toughen up.”

  I know when I’m defeated. “Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Before she can say another word, I hang up and start to punch in Annika’s number. Strangely, I feel just the smallest glimmer of relief.

  Lucy

  “WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF, YOUNG LADY?”Samantha looks at me, her eyes slightly unfocused. Then she bursts into laughter. “You think this is funny, do you? Well, let me tell you, little girl, this is not funny!”

  “Don’t waste your breath on her right now,” Trent interjects. “She’s hammered. We can deal with this in the morning.”

  I turn on him. “Don’t you mean I can deal with this in the morning? You’ll be at your hotel, maybe having a massage or enjoying the brunch buffet.”

  “Right, like I’m on vacation.”

  “Well, it sure as hell beats staying here and dealing with all this shit!”

  Samantha finally speaks. “Here you go again,” she slurs. “Can you blame me for having a couple gin and orange pops at lunch? God!”

  “Don’t you try to blame us for this,” I snap. “You’re old enough to take responsibility for your actions.”

  “Right,” she mumbles. “I’ll be responsible … like you guys are.”

  “Watch it, Sam,” Trent growls. “Don’t say something you’re going to be sorry for later.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Can I have some nachos?”

  “No, you cannot have nachos!” I scream, finally losing it with her nonchalance. “Go to bed and we’ll talk about this when you’re sober.” The words prompt an uncontrollable swelling of emotion. Trent and I have handled our separation so badly that my fifteen-year-old daughter has turned to alcohol! At lunch! At school! I burst into tears.