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“But that’s not true!” Pandy exploded theatrically. “I was in love with every single one of those men I dated. Don’t you understand? That’s the problem. I think I’m in love with them and then all of a sudden, that ‘in love’ feeling goes away, and there’s no getting it back. Not to mention that I’m perfectly happy with my life right now. I don’t need the complications of a Jonny Balaga. Or any other man, for that matter.”
“You see? There’s the problem,” Portia said triumphantly. “You?
??re not vulnerable. With men, you need to show your vulnerable side. That’s why no one’s ever asked you to get married. When you don’t show vulnerability, it makes men think you don’t need them.”
“But I don’t need them,” Pandy insisted, thinking of her million dollars.
“Every woman needs love,” insisted Suzette.
“No, what every woman needs is a million dollars cash in her savings account. That she earned through her own hard work,” Pandy declared.
* * *
“Is it human nature or just female nature to keep hoping for love, beyond any evidence that such a thing is possible?” she groaned to Henry on the phone when the girls finally left at eleven.
She hung up, fluffed her pillow, and leaned back against it with a mighty sigh.
How she wished she could make her friends understand that not being married and not having children was a small price to pay—if, indeed, it even was a price—for the deep self-esteem and self-confidence gained by being a self-made woman.
Society celebrated the self-made man, but the concept of the self-made woman hardly even existed. Probably because what society insisted defined a woman were her relationships to other people.
The next morning, she was still riled. “Henry,” she said on the phone, “doesn’t anyone realize that for men, marriage and children aren’t considered achievements? Or even accomplishments? For men, marriage and children are a lifestyle. And that isn’t right!”
Henry laughed. “And yet I’m assuming that none of this feminist talk is going to prevent you from going on that date with Jonny Balaga.”
“You’re right,” Pandy conceded, rolling out of bed and pulling up the shade. “I’m a complete hypocrite. And I hate myself for it.”
“Life makes hypocrites of us all, my dear,” Henry said kindly.
“Oh, Henry.” Pandy plopped back onto the bed and sighed. “When it comes to love, I’m a lousy human being. I’m like Romeo. I’m in love with being in love.”
“‘Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!’” Henry quipped, quoting Shakespeare.
“In other words, I’m doomed,” Pandy said.
* * *
By the time she was in the taxi heading for Jonny’s new restaurant, Pandy had recovered her equilibrium. The seesaw had tilted in the opposite direction, and she was now on top. As she’d signed her name to the contract and then smartly replaced the cap on the sterling silver pen she saved for these rare occasions, she felt quite sure that a new phase in her life had begun. How could it not? She was a woman in her prime: no longer young and foolish enough to put her career aside in hopes of securing a man; and after twenty years in her profession, experienced enough to finally be taken seriously. But mostly, she still had time. Time to truly make her mark in the world.
But not enough time, she thought, glancing at her watch in annoyance, to sit in ridiculous theater traffic.
Irritated, she called Suzette. “I don’t care what you guys say. I am not yet desperate enough to sit in traffic for forty-five minutes for a man. I haven’t even gotten there, and I already hate Jonny Balaga and his stupid restaurant.”
Suzette laughed. “Stop complaining. I’ve heard it’s going to be the hottest place in town.”
The taxi turned the corner. Once again, thanks to Jonny’s opening, the traffic was stopped.
“Gotta go,” Pandy said, glaring at the huge crowd standing out in front.
Apparently, Suzette was right. About the restaurant, anyway. The paparazzi were massed five-deep on either side of the red carpet. Pandy stopped and posed dutifully, meaning she stood stiffly with her hands at her sides and stretched her lips into her widest smile. SondraBeth had always been after her to work on her posing skills, but Pandy hadn’t listened.
Two uniformed doormen swung open the doors to the restaurant and Pandy stepped inside.
She gasped. It was like walking into a mouth.
The walls were red lacquer. There were gilt mirrors and booths behind red-velvet curtains. Dark oak chairs with shiny silk cushions.
It was, she realized, the ultimate expression of Jonny’s aesthetic: a plush French bordello.
