Unravelled Page 7

  I tuned her out. It wasn’t that it was particularly painful for me; it was all just so . . . irrelevant. I mean, it wasn’t like I needed to pay close attention in order to pick up tips for my own nuptials. When (or if) they ever happened, I’d be at that age when an extravagant, frothy wedding becomes somewhat comical. Somewhere around forty, mutton-chop sleeves and ornate centrepieces become a little . . . cheesy.

  “But we found this divine little bakery...” Nicola was continuing. “They hand-make iced butter cookies. We’re going to give all the guests a cute little bag with two heart-shaped cookies, iced in pale pink with the letter N on them.”

  “N for Nicola and Neil!” Angie cried, jubilantly. “How adorable!”

  “And they’ll match the cake! It’s four-tiered, chocolate with mocha filling iced in pale pink...”

  “So . . .” Martin cleared his throat, thankfully interrupting the wedding dissertation, “did everyone bring a pattern?”

  “I downloaded some off the internet,” Nicola said.

  “Me too,” Sophie seconded.

  Angie said, “I bought this book.” She displayed an enormous hardcover volume with a glossy photo of a blonde in an orange cowl-neck sweater on the cover. “I’ll probably make quite a few things out of it.” For the next while, we concentrated on starting our first real projects. Conversation was limited to advice, encouragement, and, occasionally, frustrated swearing.

  “So . . .” Sophie said eventually, casting on mint green stitches for the little hat she was knitting Flynn. “How’s Thad?”

  Angie, who was focusing intently on a piece of bruschetta, looked up. “He’s great!” she cried, blissfully. “He just found out he’s going to be filming in Vancouver for the next four months, so we’ll be able to see each other every weekend.”

  “Every weekend?” I said, dejectedly. So much for martinis and dancing into the wee hours...

  “Well, he’ll probably be working a lot but I’ll still visit him. I love Vancouver. It’s so beautiful... and cheap!”

  “Sounds like you two are pretty serious,” Martin said. The navy blue ribbed scarf he’d just begun was increasing at a frighteningly rapid pace.

  To my astonishment, Angie shrugged. “I think the next four months will be really telling. Once we’ve spent some more time together, we’ll be able to think about next steps.”

  Next steps? Was she talking about moving to LA? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. I reached for my wine and took an enormous sip.

  Nicola, meticulously creating knit stitches for her mauve angora-wool blend scarf, addressed me. “And what about you, Beth? No more run-ins with those horrible women from the coffee shop?”

  I laughed. “No, thankfully. I’ve had a pretty good week, actually.”

  “It’ll just get easier and easier.” Martin patted my hand.

  “You’ll be moving on in no time,” Sophie added.

  “I know...” And then, unbidden, a thought popped into my head. “So... What’s the oldest guy you would date?”

  “Why?” Angie gushed. “Did you meet an old guy?”

  “No!” I shrieked. “No . . . I j ust . . . I was just wondering.”

  “Well,” Nicola said. “Neil is three years older than I am. My parents are exactly the same age—their birthdays are just two weeks apart. I think you have more in common if you’re closer in age.”

  “Not necessarily,” Sophie said, resignedly. “Rob is six months older than me and I don’t think we have much in common . . . not anymore, anyway.”

  “Thad is forty-two and we have plenty in common,” Angie said suggestively.

  Martin chimed in. “My last serious relationship was with Terry, who was three years older. My partner before that was... let’s see . . . four years younger, I think.” He shrugged. “Neither one of them worked out, so I can’t really judge.”

  “Come on,” Angie said, pointing a knitting needle at me. “You’re not just asking this out of the blue. Who is he?”

  Suddenly, Nicola started, saving me from having to answer. “Oh, my gosh! It’s 8:40. I’ve got to meet Neil and Judith, our wedding planner, back at my apartment in twenty minutes! She’s bringing swatches for the head table draping!” We said our goodbyes as Nicola hurriedly gathered her belongings and scurried out to her MINI. Unfortunately, the interruption was not enough to divert Angie’s attention from my initial question.

  “Come on, Beth. Who’s the old guy?”

  “There’s no guy,” I said. “And he’s not old.”

  “Aha!” Angie held her needle up in the air triumphantly.

  “Okay . . . I interviewed someone this week and I thought he was really interesting...and passionate and exciting. But I’m not interested in him, in that way. I just thought he seemed very youthful, for his age.”

  “What’s his age?” Martin asked, his fingers deftly knitting and purling.

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Hmm . . .” Sophie said. “And how old are you?”

  “Thirty-three—but this isn’t about me. I just didn’t realize that men that age could be so vibrant. I just wondered, you know, down the road, if I should be open to dating older guys?”

  “Definitely,” Angie said. “Older men have a lot to offer: stability, money, power...

  “Yeah,” Martin agreed, nodding. “What does this guy do?”

  “An architect... and an environmentalist.”

  “Oh...” Angie curled her nose up slightly. “He doesn’t have a long grey beard and body odour, does he?”

  “No!” I cried. “He’s really successful and fit and well-dressed.”

  “He sounds great,” Sophie said.

  “Not that I want to date him or anything. I’m sure he’s married and has a bunch of teenaged kids.”

  “Ring?” Angie asked.

  “I forgot to look.”

  “You idiot!”

  “I’m not interested in him that way! Really, I’m not. God!” I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “I wish I hadn’t even brought it up now.”

  “Don’t get all flustered,” Martin chided. “We promise not to tease you about your old geezer boyfriend again.”

  “He’s not my old geezer!” But I stopped when I heard myself, and dissolved into laughter.

  Nine

  I WAS TELLING the truth. I wasn’t interested in Jim Davidson, per se. But my meeting with him had opened my eyes to a whole new realm of possibility: the older, established man. It made perfect sense. While chronologically, Colin was only one year younger than I was, based on his maturity, he was about fourteen. Therefore, if I dated a guy fifteen years my senior, we should be, roughly, on par. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I guess because I’d always had a preconceived notion that after forty-five, men were all paunchy, wrinkly old codgers with saggy old-man bums. Jim Davidson had certainly dispelled that misconception. Not that I was interested in him, specifically.

  Of course, I was rather charmed by the email he sent me thanking me for the interview and the drink. And I did have to reply that it was actually he who bought me a drink, since he was so “old-fashioned.” And then, he emailed me back saying that next time he saw me, he would insist that I buy him a drink or maybe even dinner, just to demonstrate how modern he was. And I had agreed, just a little flirtatiously, that next time the drinks were definitely on me. Meanwhile, I worked diligently on my article. I’d promised to send him a copy for his review and approval before I submitted it to my editor.

  On Wednesday morning, I went to check out a new coffee shop in Capitol Hill. Two gay guys from Cuba had just opened it and I’d heard it had a fun Latin vibe. I decided to take along the scarf I was knitting for my mom’s birthday. I would make a morning of it: a scone, a couple of lattes, and some quality knitting time while I listened to the gossipy gay banter going on around me. Who knew? Maybe Martin would be there?

  I wasn’t sure that Martin lived on Capitol Hill, but it was a fair assumption given his sexuality. Not that everyone in the ne
ighbourhood was gay. Colin and I had lived there and we were straight. Colin still was—living there, and presumably, straight. I felt a little apprehensive at the thought of running into him, but I was quite sure he’d be downtown at work. And what were the odds that every time I went to do a café review, I’d run into some painful memory from my past? It couldn’t happen again, it just couldn’t. I didn’t want to have to give up my dream job.

  Café Cubano was noisy, vibrant, and, mercifully, Colin-free. I stayed for over an hour, imbibing two café con leches (on my expense report, I would say that my first one spilled), and a blueberry cream cheese muffin. The conversations zinging around my corner table were loud and hilarious, and I often found myself smiling as I pretended to be engrossed in my knitting. Unfortunately, my distraction was evident in my work. It was a simple knit two, purl two pattern, but I had lost track. Was I knitting now or purling? I wasn’t experienced enough to know the difference. There was a way to tell—something about little Vs versus little nooses, but without my guidebook, I was at a loss. If only Martin with his keen knitter’s eye were here. After a few minutes of intense inspection, I realized that I was going to have to unravel the last two rows.

  I started to rip out my stitches, the yarn spilling gently into my lap . . . and into my coffee cup and muffin crumbs. Oh no! This was no good. I couldn’t very well give my mom a coffee-stained scarf for her birthday. Although my mother would still appreciate my efforts, there was an enormous chance that the scarf wouldn’t be finished by her May birthday. If I ended up giving it to my sister-in-law, there was no way she would be as understanding about the state of her homemade gift. Stuffing my knitting into my plastic bag before I did any further damage, I departed.

  Automatically, I began walking north along Broadway. The neighbourhood was so comfortable and familiar that I felt myself slipping back in time. As my consciousness drifted, it was as if I were heading back to the cozy apartment I’d shared with Colin. Suddenly, a painful jolt of realization stopped me in my tracks. This was no longer my neighbourhood. I no longer lived just two blocks away. That familiar sense of melancholy descended as I thought of the life I’d so recently lost, the hope and optimism I’d had for a different kind of future. And then, before my brain could tell my feet otherwise, I started to walk again.

  I knew where I was going. It was pointless, stupid even, but my legs kept marching in that direction. I don’t know what I was looking for. Closure? A peeping Tom thrill? A new way to torture myself? But suddenly, I was standing in front of my old building... Colin’s home. I stared at the squat three-storey structure, my eyes travelling to the second-floor corner window. He wouldn’t be there, I was certain. He had to be at work. Unless, of course, he was so devastated by our breakup that, at this very moment, he was lying on the floor in his underwear, drinking beer and weeping. Engaged had said he was having a hard time. Cocking my head, I listened carefully for strains of The Cure or The Smiths or other suitable wallowing music. Nothing. No . . . Colin was moving on, just like I was.

  Movement at the front door startled me and I jumped back, obscuring myself behind a hedge. It probably wasn’t my ex, but it could be Edith, the old lady who’d lived next door to us. I’d tried to be kind when we’d first met. Edith was definitely a talker, but she was lonely and the least I could do was to stop for a chat with her in the hallway. Unfortunately, Edith’s favourite topic of conversation was how the immigrants were destroying our great country and George W. Bush should send everyone with brown skin back to where they came from. She was also the type who would just love to tell Colin: I saw your old girlfriend lurking outside the building today. You don’t think she might try to break in and kill you while you’re sleeping, do you? You’d better watch it. She could give some immigrant fifty bucks and he’d be more than happy to do it for her. But moments later, I breathed a sigh of relief as a UPS guy charged past me.

  Feeling a surge of courage, I made my way up the walk to the front entryway. There it was: the intercom panel. The occupants’ names and apartment numbers were listed, white lettering on a piece of black tape (the landlord obviously still owned one of those 1970s labelling machines). There was his name: Colin Barker, #204. Beneath it, the space where it used to say Beth Carruthers was blank, a bit of sticky tape residue the only evidence that I had ever lived there. I lifted my hand, about to reach out and touch the glass covering Colin’s name, when I realized how overly sentimental and maudlin a gesture it was. Instead, I marched back to the street.

  On the sidewalk, I turned to face the building one last time. I would never find myself back here—I knew that. And somewhat surprisingly, this moment didn’t feel as emotional as I’d expected. As I stared at the structure before me, I saw it for what it was: an unattractive building, home to a largely transient group of renters and one long-term bigoted old woman. It had been my home for a while, too, but now . . . now it was nothing but a shell. There were memories there, of course, but they would fade with time. And one day, when I was strong enough, I would be cuddling with my stable, possibly older, husband and I’d smile, wistfully, about the good times Colin and I had shared in that apartment. When Emma was going through the terrible twos and Jack was colicky, I might even long for the carefree days of my past. But they were gone, and I was ready to say goodbye.

  I remembered an anecdote Mel had shared from one of the plethora of self-help books she’d read after her divorces. A symbolic gesture was an excellent way to gain closure on a relationship. She’d mentioned burning a candle with your ex’s name written on it, or writing all your hurt feelings down on paper and then burning them in a symbolic fire. Of course, doing any kind of burning here on Colin’s sidewalk would be highly illegal, not to mention conspicuous. My gesture would have to be something subtle. Picking up a dried bit of orange peel from the sidewalk, I tossed it gently onto the small patch of lawn. “Goodbye,” I whispered—to the building, to the neighbourhood, to that chapter of my life. “Thanks . . . for the memories.” Nervously, I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my corny little moment. Jeez, tossing a dried-up orange peel on the lawn? Couldn’t I have thought of something better than that? Just then, I became aware of a rustling of curtains in the second-floor window opposite Colin’s. Edith! Turning on my heel, I scurried back toward the bus stop.

  As lame as it was, I actually felt real closure after the symbolic dried orange peel toss. Mel’s relationship book had been right. When I got off the bus in my Queen Anne neighbourhood, I knew this was now my home. Letting myself into the musty-smelling lobby of my building, I felt a sense of peace. I’d suffered a loss, but I was now on the road to recovery. And I couldn’t help but feel a little . . . proud of myself. When Colin and I first split up, I thought I might never stop crying, never get off Angie’s couch, never stop watching Trading Spaces because it was the only show that didn’t make me burst into tears . . . And yet, look at me now! I was supporting myself financially; I’d made some new, interesting friends; I had a hobby that would cut my Christmas shopping bill in half; and I had a cute little apartment in a great part of town . . . Thankfully, I would have it all to myself since Kendra would still be at work.

  But the moment I opened the apartment door, I knew she was there. It was almost like I could sense her presence. Shania Twain warbling something about a man being like a piece of real estate also indicated that she was home. Okay... I could do this. I could have a pleasant, even mildly interesting, conversation with my roommate. Besides, it was unfair to place all the blame on Kendra for our uncomfortable co-habitation. I had probably been a real drag since I moved in, all mopey and broken-hearted. But after today’s symbolic adios, I was feeling stronger and more positive than ever. I was going to make the extra effort.

  “Hey!” I said brightly as I entered the living room. “What are you doing home?”

  Kendra was snuggled on the couch under a blanket, an empty teacup and a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the table next to her. She looked up from the O magazine s
he was reading. “I’ve got a sore throat,” she croaked. “I came home early.”

  “Ohhhhh . . .” I said, sympathetically. “Do you need anything? Some more tea or anything?”

  “Yes, please.” She held her mug out to me. “The kettle should still be hot and there are Lemon Zinger tea bags in the cupboard by the fridge.”

  “Okay.” Moving to the kitchen, I set about preparing her hot beverage. This was definitely a positive step toward improving our roommate relations. Perhaps I should offer to read to her? Or massage her feet? An involuntary shudder ran through me. No, one step at a time . . .

  “Here you are.” I placed the steaming mug on the coffee table. With much effort, she struggled to a seated position.

  “Thanks. I can’t believe I got sick, tonight of all nights.”

  “Did you have plans?”

  “Yeah . . . My mom is hosting a kitchen gadget party. I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks!”

  She had to be kidding me. But no, this was Kendra... “Oh, that’s too bad,” I managed.

  “I just can’t believe it. There are so many things that I need: a meat pounder, a Bundt pan, a new garlic press . . . And if I’m not there, my mom won’t sell the minimum quantity to get the free knork.”

  “The free what?”

  “Knork,” Kendra replied, sounding slightly annoyed by my ignorance. “It’s a combination knife and fork. It’s the latest thing. It’s got a bevelled edge for cutting meat and stuff, but it’s not sharp so you don’t cut your mouth.”

  “Cool!” I said, overdoing it ever so slightly.

  “But if I’m not there to buy all the stuff I need, there’s no way she’s going to meet her quota.” She flopped back on the couch, her tea untouched.

  A wave of panic gripped me. What if Kendra asked me to go to the kitchen gadget party in her stead? She seemed really concerned about her mom losing out on the free gift. “I’ve got some work to do,” I said, hastily. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”