Dating Game Read online

  “She left half an hour ago. She couldn't wait to get back to her new boyfriend. She says he's an actor. He's been in two horror pictures, and half a dozen commercials.”

  “At least he's working.” Virginia was glad to see her up and dressed, but the toll of the last month and Peter's perfidy was all too visible. It was the look of despair in her eyes that was so haunting. As though she no longer believed in anything or anyone and had lost hope and faith in everything she had once believed in. It was brutal.

  They chatted over coffee for a while, and Virginia finally looked at her, fumbled in her bag, and pushed a piece of paper at her. It had a name and phone number on it, and an address in downtown Greenwich.

  “What's that?” Paris looked startled as she read it. She didn't recognize the name. It just said Anne Smythe, with a Greenwich number.

  “My shrink's phone number. I couldn't survive without her.” Paris knew that she and Jim had had their ups and downs too. He was a difficult man, had suffered from chronic depression at one time, and had improved immeasurably with medication. But the dark years he'd spent before that had been hard on Virginia and their marriage. Paris knew she saw someone but had never thought much about it, nor asked her.

  “Do you think I've gone crazy?” Paris asked sadly, as she folded the piece of paper with the number and slipped it into her pocket. “Sometimes I think so.” It was almost a relief to say it out loud and admit it.

  “No, I don't,” Virginia said honestly. “If I did, I'd have the guys here with butterfly nets and a straitjacket. But I think you will end up that way, if you don't get out of this house, and talk to someone about what happened. You've had a hell of a shock. What Peter did to you is about as traumatic as it gets, short of having your husband drop dead in his dinner. And that's probably a lot easier to survive than what he did. One minute you're married, think you're happy, have a husband and a life you've known and loved for twenty-four years, and the next minute he's gone, he's divorcing you, and you don't know what hit you. And to make matters worse, he's living an hour from here, and dating someone twenty years younger. If that doesn't kick your self-esteem and psyche in the ass, I don't know what will. Shit, Paris, most people would be sitting in a corner, drooling.”

  “Well, I've thought of it,” she said with a grin, “but it's so messy.”

  “I'd be a basket case, in your shoes,” Virginia said, with profound respect for her. Even Virginia's husband had admitted to her that he wouldn't have survived the blow, with or without medication. And her friends realized that there was always the possibility that she could get suicidal over it. With the exception of the comfort of knowing that her children were out in the world somewhere, she had very little to live for. She definitely needed someone to talk to. And Virginia thought Anne Smythe might be just the person. She was warm, down to earth, sensible, and combined just the right amount of sympathy with all-right-fine-now-what-are-we-going-to-do-about-this? She had gotten Virginia back on her feet and out of the doldrums after Jim's depression. After he was fine again, Virginia had suddenly felt depressed and without purpose. She had been so used to centering all her attention on him that when he no longer needed her as much, she started to feel useless. “She saved my ass, and several of my friends whom I referred to her. I think she's terrific.”

  “I'm not so sure my ass is worth saving,” Paris said as Virginia shook her head.

  “That's exactly what I mean. You think there's something wrong with you because he left you, instead of seeing that this is about him, not you. He should be feeling like hell about himself, for what he did to you, not you feeling like that because he left you.” All Virginia wished was that Paris would get angry, and even hate him, but she didn't. It was obvious to anyone who knew her that she still loved him. As devoted as she had been to him, it would take a long time for love to die, longer than it would take for him to get the papers he wanted to free him. The divorce could dissolve their marriage, but not her feelings. “Will you call her?”

  “Maybe,” Paris answered honestly. “I'm not sure I want to talk about it, particularly to a stranger. Or to anyone. I don't want to go out, because I don't want to watch everyone feeling sorry for me. Christ, Virginia, it's so pathetic.”

  “It's only pathetic if you let it be. You don't even know what life has in store for you. You might wind up with someone a hell of a lot better.”

  “I've never wanted anyone except Peter. I never even looked at another man, or wanted to. I always thought he was the best of the breed, and I was so damn lucky to be with him.”

  “Well, it turns out he isn't, and you weren't. He did a rotten thing, and he should be strung up for it. But to hell with him. All I want is to see you happy.” Paris knew that Virginia meant it.

  “What if I'm never happy again?” Paris asked, looking worried. “What if I'm in love with him forever?”

  “Then I'll shoot you,” Virginia said with a grin. “Try Anne first. If that doesn't work, I'll find an exorcist. But you've got to get this out of your system, and get over it. If you don't, it'll kill you. You don't want to be sick and miserable forever.”

  “No, I don't,” Paris said thoughtfully, “but I don't see how she can change that. No matter what I say to her, Peter will still be gone, we'll be getting a divorce, the kids will be grown up, and he will be with a woman fifteen years younger than I am. It isn't pretty.”

  “No, but other people have survived it. I'm serious, you may wind up with a guy ten times nicer than he is. People lose their husbands, they die, or walk out on them, they find other people, they remarry, they have good lives. You're forty-six years old, you can't give up on your life now. That's just plain stupid. And wrong. And not fair to you or your kids, or any of the people who love you. Don't give Peter that satisfaction. He has a new life. You deserve to have one too.”

  “I don't want one.”

  “Call Anne. Or I'm going to tie you up and drop you on her doorstep. Will you see her once? Just once? If you hate her, you don't have to go back. Just try it.”

  “All right. I'll try it. Once. But it's not going to make a difference,” Paris insisted.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Virginia said, and poured herself another cup of coffee. She stayed until nearly four o'clock, and by the time she left, Paris looked tired, but better. And she had promised Virginia again before she left that she would call Anne Smythe in the morning. She couldn't imagine what difference it would make, and was sure it would make none, but if only to get Virginia off her back, she said she would call her.

  Chapter 5

  The waiting room looked like a library, full of books and comfortable leather chairs, and a small fireplace that Paris sensed would keep the room warm and cozy in winter. But on a warm June day, the windows were open, and down below, Paris could see a manicured well-kept garden. The address Virginia had given her turned out to be a pretty little wood-frame house painted white, with yellow trim, and quaint-looking blue shutters. The word that came to mind as soon as you walked in was cozy. And the woman who greeted Paris minutes after she sat down and thumbed through a magazine was nothing like what she'd expected. She had somehow expected to see Anna Freud come through the door, or someone cold and stern and intellectual. Instead, the doctor was a good-looking, well-dressed, fairly sophisticated woman in her mid-fifties. Her hair was well cut, she had makeup on, and the khaki pantsuit she wore was impeccable and looked expensive. She looked like a well-heeled matron, or the wife of an important executive. She was someone you'd expect to see at a dinner party, and not at all Paris's idea of a psychiatrist.

  “Is something wrong?” She smiled at Paris as they walked into her inner sanctum, which was a well-decorated airy room, done in beige and white with handsome windows, and some very interesting modern paintings. “You look startled.”

  “I just expected all this to be different,” Paris admitted.

  “Different how?” The doctor was intrigued, as she looked warmly at Paris.


  “More serious,” she said honestly. “This is very pretty.”

  “Thank you.” She laughed and shared a piece of her history. “I worked for a decorator while I was in med school. I always figure if everything falls apart, I can go back to that. I loved it.” Paris didn't want to, but she already liked her. There was a straightforwardness and honesty about her, and a lack of pretension, that was very appealing. She could easily imagine being friends with her, if she hadn't met her for this purpose. “So what can I do to help you?”

  “My son just left for Europe.” Even to Paris, it seemed an odd thing to start with, given everything else that had happened. But it was what had come out of her head first. And the words were out of her mouth before she thought about them.

  “To live there? How old is he?” She had been assessing Paris since she walked in and guessed her to be in her early forties. In spite of the agonies of the past month, she looked no older than she had before it happened, just sadder. And still pretty, despite a certain lackluster quality the doctor correctly recognized as depression.

  “He's eighteen. And no, he's only going for two months. But I miss him.” She could feel tears sting her eyes just talking to her, and was relieved to see a box of tissues sitting near them. She wondered if people cried there often, and could guess easily they must have.

  “Is he your only child?”

  “No, I have a daughter. She lives in California, in Los Angeles. She works in the film industry as a production assistant. She's twenty-three.”

  “Is your son in college, Paris?” the doctor asked personably, trying to gather the pieces of the puzzle Paris was presenting to her somewhat piecemeal. Anne Smythe was used to that, it was her business, and she was good at it.

  “My son Wim is starting Berkeley at the end of August.”

  “And that leaves you … alone at home? Are you married?”

  “I…no…yes…I was… until five weeks ago… my husband left me for another woman.” Bingo. Anne Smythe sat quietly with a sympathetic look on her face as Paris started to cry, and she handed her the box of tissues.

  “I'm sorry to hear that. Did you know about the other woman before that?”

  “No, I didn't.”

  “That's an awful shock. Had there been problems in the marriage before?”

  “No, it was perfect. Or I thought so at least. He told me when he left that he felt like he was dead living with me. He told me on a Friday night, after a dinner party we gave, that he was leaving me the next morning. I thought everything was fine before that.” She stopped to blow her nose, and then, much to her own surprise, Paris repeated everything he had said to her that night verbatim. She told her about Wim going off to school, the MBA degree she had never used, and the feelings of panic she had been getting, about who would be there for her now? What was she going to do with the rest of her life? And she told her as much as she knew about Rachel. The hour spilled into two, which was what the doctor had planned for. She liked starting with long sessions so she knew what they were going to try to do together. And Paris was shocked to see how the time had flown when the doctor asked her if she'd like to make another appointment.

  “I don't know. Should I? What difference is it going to make? It's not going to change what happened.” She had cried a lot in the two hours, but for once she felt neither drained nor exhausted. She felt relieved after talking to this woman. They hadn't solved anything, but the boil had been lanced and was slowly draining.

  “You're right, it's not going to change what happened. But over time, I hope it's going to change how you feel about it. That could make a big difference to you. You have some decisions to make about what to do with your life. Maybe we could work on that together.” It was a new concept to Paris, and she wasn't sure what decisions the doctor meant. So far, Peter had made all the decisions. Now all she had to do was live with them.

  “All right. Maybe I'll come back again. When do you think?”

  “How's Tuesday?” It was only four days away, but Paris liked the idea of seeing her sooner rather than later. Maybe they could get the “decisions” taken care of quickly, and she wouldn't have to come back again. The doctor wrote the appointment on a card, and handed it to her, and she had written a cell phone number on it. “If things get tough over the weekend, Paris, call me.”

  “I'd hate to bother you,” Paris said, looking embarrassed.

  “Well, as long as I haven't gone into decorating, for now at least, this is what I do for a living. If you need me, call me,” she said, smiling, and Paris smiled gratefully at her.

  “Thank you.” She drove home feeling better than she had in weeks, and she had no idea why. The doctor had solved none of her problems. But she felt lighter and less depressed than she had since Peter left her, and when she got home, she called Virginia to thank her for introducing her to Anne Smythe.

  “I'm so glad you like her,” Virginia said, sounding relieved. But she would have been surprised if she hadn't. She was a terrific woman, and the best gift she could give Paris after everything that had happened to her. “Are you seeing her again?”

  “I am,” Paris admitted, sounding surprised. She hadn't planned to go back again. “Once anyway. We made an appointment for next week.” Hearing that made Virginia smile. That was how Anne had done it with her too. One appointment after another, until in the end she had gone for a year. And she had been back for “refreshers” several times since. Whenever a problem came up, she went to see Anne a few times to hash it out with her, and it always helped. It was nice just having an objective person to talk to sometimes, and someone to hang on to in a crisis.

  The next time Paris saw her, she was surprised by a question the doctor asked her halfway through the session.

  “Have you thought of moving to California?” She asked it as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do.

  “No, I haven't. Why would I?” For a moment, Paris looked confused. It hadn't even occurred to her. They had lived in Greenwich since Meg was born, and she'd never thought of moving. She had established firm roots. Until recently. But even now, the house was hers, and she'd never thought of selling it. She was glad that Peter was giving it to her.

  “Well, both your children live there. You might like living closer to them, and being able to see them more often. I just wondered if you'd thought of it.” But Paris only shook her head. She had no idea what either Meg or Wim would think of it. And the idea had never once occurred to her. She mentioned it to Meg on the phone that night, and she said she thought it was a great idea.

  “Would you come to L.A., Mom?”

  “I don't know. I didn't think I was going anywhere. This doctor I've seen a couple of times suggested it today.”

  “What kind of doctor? Are you sick?” Meg sounded instantly concerned.

  “A shrink actually.” Paris sighed, feeling embarrassed, but she never kept secrets from Meg. They were confidantes and had been for years. It was a relationship Paris cherished. It was easier talking to Meg than Wim, mostly because she was a girl, and that much older. “Virginia recommended her. I've only seen her twice. But I'm going again in a few days.”

  “I think that's a very smart thing to do.” Meg wished her father would do the same, he had certainly screwed up everyone's life with no prior warning, and Meg was still wondering what had prompted it. He hadn't said anything about Rachel to either of his children yet, and wanted to let the dust settle first. Rachel said she was anxious to meet them, and Peter had promised her she would.

  “She can't change anything,” Paris said, wondering what the point was of going to a psychiatrist. The divorce was going forward, and Peter was in love with another woman. There wasn't anything Anne Smythe could do to stem the tides or bring Peter back to her.

  “No, but you can change things, Mom,” Meg said quietly. “What Daddy did was terrible, but now it's up to you what you make of it. And I think it would be terrific if you came out here. It would do you good.”

  “How do yo
u think Wim would feel about it? I don't want him to think I'm following him to school.”

  “I think he'd probably like it, particularly if you were close enough for him to stay with you once in a while, and bring friends. I loved coming home to you when I was in college.” She laughed then at the memory of duffel bags full of laundry she'd brought home. “Particularly if you do his laundry for him. You should ask him when you talk to him.”

  “I can't imagine leaving Greenwich. I don't know anyone out there.”

  “You'd meet people. Maybe you should look for a place in San Francisco. Wim could come over and see you anytime he wants. And I can always go up on the weekends. I think it would do you good to get out of Greenwich, even if you only do it for a year or two. You'd love it out here. The weather's great, the winters are easy, and we would see a lot more of you, Mom. Why don't you think about it?”

  “I can't just walk away and leave this house,” she said, resisting the idea. But it came up again in her next session with Dr. Smythe, and she told her what Meg had said when she'd mentioned it. “I can't believe it. She actually liked the idea. But what would I do out there? I don't know anyone. Everyone I know is here.”

  “Except Wim and Meg,” Anne Smythe said quietly. She had planted a seed and was waiting for it to take hold and grow. She was counting on Paris's children to water it. And if it was the right thing for Paris, she would nurture the seed herself. And if not, there were other things she could do to climb out of the hole she'd been in since Peter left. Anne was planning to help her discover and explore all her options for a better life.

  They talked about a vast number of things, her childhood, the early years with Peter, the years she had so loved when the children were small, her friends, the MBA program she'd been so successful at and done nothing with. And in late July they talked about Paris getting a job. She was comfortable with Anne by then, and she liked the time they spent together. It always gave her something to think about when she left and went back to the silent house. Paris was still avoiding her friends. She wasn't ready to see them yet.