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Chapter One
Gertrude Alise Stanhope Finnegan
ITRY TO FOCUS ON THEconversation that my friends, Blonde One and Blonde Two, aka Elaine and Marta, are having without me, but all I can concentrate on is the salad dressing stain on my silk blouse. I don’t get invited to “ladies who lunch” activities very often, so I think I ought to try harder to fit in, but I have nothing to add to the conversation about the Botox faux pas someone I don’t know has been victim of. Someone Elaine and Marta claim doesn’t need the Botox as much as she needs dental whitening as they wonder why she didn’t start there.
I run my tongue over my own teeth and worry that I’ve never whitened them. Should I have? There are so many things I don’t understand about my world, and I have no excuse. I was born into it, after all. Raised in the same Fifth Avenue penthouse I still live in.
Elaine is getting married to a man I don’t remember, but I’m sure I’ve met since we all graduated in the same class. He didn't stand out, though, and that was mostly because I hadn't been the typical sorority member and didn't have the same college experiences my sisters did. I was only able to attend a few of the mixers and lived off campus all four years. My grandfather had needed me, and I can’t regret the time we spent as he battled Alzheimer's. Not even if it meant I had virtually no social life.
“Tru, do you have any words of wisdom for the bride? After all, you've been married for two years,” Marta asks, pulling me away from my stain.
“God, yes,” Elaine adds. “I love my Michael, but you surprised all of us with your snap wedding to the silver fox. He's so...mature.”
Marta smiles “And charming. For real. He's like an American James Bond.”
Richard Finnegan is both those things. He takes care of me, stepping in when Grandfather slipped far out of my reach. I’d have been lost without Richard.
Elaine sips her wine. “It's so romantic, really. I never thought of going for an older man, but you wear it well. You've always been ages more mature than the rest of us. I mean that in a good way, of course. But even though we were surprised to hear you'd gotten married, when I saw the likes of him, it all made perfect sense. Normal guys could never do it for you in college, either.”
“I wouldn't say that,” I argue. “I just never had any experience with dating them. Richard is the only man who talked to me outside of class.” I shrug. “It just made sense for us to be together when we were grieving for my grandfather. Richard was like a son to him.”
The truth is, most people find me odd. I know that. Richard is the only one who was able to see I’m not a snob...I’m just shy. We were both so distraught when Grandfather started declining so quickly near the end. Richard promised him, during a lucid moment, that he’d make sure I was taken care of. And he has.
“Well, I think it's terribly romantic. What's it like being with an older man?”
My single gold band wedding ring feels very tight today. Richard thought it was a good idea to keep our rings simple, unlike the ring on my other hand that belonged to my grandmother. I know he wishes I wouldn’t wear it, but it makes me feel closer to her.
What’s it like being married to an older man? “It's lovely, really.”
It'slonely.
I don’t think I said that aloud, but both the women look at me with pity.
I long for something indefinable. The easy camaraderie between Elaine and Marta, who try, bless them, to include me once in a while despite my awkward social skills. I want the catch in Elaine's breath when talking about “her Michael.” I never really belonged anywhere. Not with my grandparents, who retired decades before taking me in. Not in high school, when I went home in the afternoons to care for my ailing grandmother. Not in college, when I did the same for my grandfather. Certainly not in my marriage to a man twenty years older and busy, so very busy.
I have what most women dream of—a penthouse apartment, a gentleman husband, more money than I know how to spend. I have friends, at least the kind who invite me to lunch a few times a year, even if I don’t feel particularly close to them. I have Fifi, currently napping in her Louis Vuitton pet carrier. My feeling of discontent is an embarrassing display of first world problems.
But if you took away my money, my marriage, and my poetry major, no one would know me. Not the Tru that is under all those things. And the scariest of all, I wouldn't know myself.
After lunch, I do what any bored antisocial socialite would do and shop for things I don’t need while continuing to contemplate the things missing from my life that I can’t buy at Barney's. I actually hate my wardrobe but find myself buying virtually the same things time after time, and today is no exception. Because, also, I hate shopping. I notice no other woman my age is in the section I’m shopping in, but it’s so much calmer in this department. There isn’t as much to choose from, and the cuts and styles are all similar. Boring but similar.
Maybe I should ask Richard, again, if I could travel with him. He's warned me that his trips are boring and I’ll be happier at home, but since I’m not happy, what could it hurt? Maybe we’d grow closer if we spent more time together. I could explore the cities while he attends meetings, and we could at least have dinner together most nights.
By the time I enter the lobby, my arms laden with shopping bags full of my emptiness, I actually feeling better. My marriage is not a love match, but we care for each other as friends. We have the same temperaments. Maybe it is even time to revisit the baby discussion. Richard was right that I wasn’t ready to start a family two years ago, but maybe now is the right time. Maybe sex might even be nice now. Richard and I have separate rooms, and the rare occasions he’s home haven’t been exactly intimate.
I’ve only had sex three times. Richard has assured me that my low sex drive is normal and that he is fine with it. I wonder if that’s really true. Could we be more if I just tried to be less frigid?
As I enter the classy, if snooty, lobby, my low heels click across the shiny marble floor. I drop my packages at the reception desk and ask for them to be sent up in an hour and then head to the elevator bank, my mind suddenly full of ideas buzzing like bees. I can make changes in my life. Surely having a baby would keep the loneliness at bay. Yes, things are starting to make sense. Finally.
“Mrs. Finnegan,” a startled concierge emerges from the elevator as I am about to step in.
“Hello, Mr. Brinkman.”
He steps back into the elevator with me. I’ve never seen the man so flustered. His eyes dart around, refusing to settle, and he pulls the collar away from his throat. “Mrs. Finnegan, I must speak with you.”
I hope it isn’t about Fifi again. I don’t know who isn’t picking up after their dog, but it isn’t me. “What is it, Mr. Brinkman?”
“There...there are some goings-on in the penthouse.”
