Suddenly Phoebe gets this fabulous idea. Her friend James is newly single, and he loves American women. Why not set that up and see what happens?
'She lives in New York,' Martin says. 'Remember?'
'So? That's just a minor logistical problem. She could move. He could move. And at the very least, they both will have a good time. Perhaps have a good shag.'
'Not everyone sees a shag as therapy,' Martin says.
Phoebe raises one eyebrow. I wish I could do that. There are times when it is such an appropriate gesture. 'Oh, really? You might want to give it a go, Marty.' She turns back to me, waiting to hear my position on this topic.
'A good shag can never hurt,' I say, to win favor with Phoebe.
She runs her hands through her tousled hair and looks smug. 'My point precisely.'
'What're you doing?' Ethan asks, as Phoebe retrieves her cell phone from her purse.
'Calling James,' she says.
'Fucking hell, Pheebs! Put your mobile down,' Martin says. 'Have some tact.'
'No, it's okay,' I say, fighting against my prudish instincts. 'You can call him.'
Phoebe beams. 'Yeah. You boys stay out of this one.'
So the next night, thanks to Phoebe, I am eating Thai food on a blind date with James Hathaway. James is a thirty-year-old freelance journalist. He is nice-looking, although Dexter's opposite. He is on the short side, with blue eyes, light hair, and even paler eyebrows. Something about him reminds me of Hugh Grant. At first I think it's just the accent, but then I realize that like Hugh, he has a certain flippant charm. And like Hugh, I bet he's slept with plenty of women. Maybe I should let him add me to his List.
I nod and laugh at something James just said, a wry comment about the couple next to us. He's funny. It suddenly occurs to me that maybe Dex is not very funny. Of course, I've always subscribed to the notion that if I want to laugh out loud, I'll watch a Seinfeld rerun, that I don't need to date a stand-up comic, but I contemplate revising my position. Maybe I do want a funny guy. Maybe Dex is lacking some crucial element. I try to run with this, picturing him as humorless, even boring. It doesn't really work. It's hard to trick yourself like that. Dex is funny enough. He is perfect for me. Other than the small, bothersome part about him marrying Darcy.
I realize that I have missed what James has been going on about, something about Madonna. 'Do you like her?' he asks me.
'Not especially,' I say. 'She's okay.'
'Usually Madonna elicits a stronger response. Usually people love her or hate her… Ever played that game? Love it or hate it?'
'No. What is it?'
James teaches me the rules of the game. He says that you throw out a topic or a person or anything at all, and both people have to decide whether they love it or hate it. Being neutral isn't allowed. What if you are neutral? I ask. I don't love or hate Madonna.
'You have to pick one or the other. So pick,' he says. 'Love her or hate her?'
I hesitate and then say, 'Okay then. I hate her.'
'Good. Me too.'
'Do you really?' I ask.
'Well, actually, yes. She's talentless. Now you do one.'
'Um… I can't think. You do another one.'
'Fine. Water beds.'
'So tacky. I hate them,' I say. I'm not on the fence with that one.
'I do as well. Your turn.'
'Okay… Bill Clinton.'
'Love him,' James says.
'Me too.'
We keep playing the game as we finish our wine.
As it turns out, we both hate (or at least hate more than we love) people who keep goldfish as pets, Speedos, and Ross on Friends. We both love (or love more than we hate) Chicken McNuggets, breast implants (I lie here, just to be cool, but am surprised that he does not lie in the other direction-maybe he fears that I have them), and watching golf on television. We are split on rap music (I love; it gives him headaches), Tom Cruise (he loves; I still hate for dumping Nicole), the royal family (I love; he says he's a republican, whatever that means), and Las Vegas (he loves; I associate it with craps, dice-rolling, Dex).
I think to myself that I like (I mean, love) the game. Being extreme. Clear-cut. All or nothing. I do Dex in my mind, flip-flopping my decision twice-hate, love, hate, love. I remember that my mother once told me that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. She knew what she was talking about. My goal is to be indifferent to Dex.
James and I finish our dinner, decide to skip dessert, and go back to his place. He has a nice flat-larger than Ethan's-full of plants and cozy, upholstered furniture. I can tell that a woman recently moved out. To this point, half of the bookshelf is bare. The whole left side. Unless they kept their books segregated all along, which is doubtful, he has pushed all of his to one side. Maybe he wanted an exact percentage of how much more empty his life is without her.
'What was her name? Your ex?' I ask gingerly. Maybe I shouldn't be bringing her up, but I'm sure he assumes that Phoebe told me his situation. I'm sure she filled him in on mine as well.
'Katherine. Kate.'
'How are you doing?'
'A bit sad. More relieved than anything. Sometimes downright euphoric. It's been over a long time.'
I nod, as if I understand, although my situation could not be more different. Maybe Dex and I saved ourselves years of effort and pain if we were only going to end up like James and Kate anyway.
'And you?' he asks.
'Phoebe told you?'
I can tell that he is considering a fib, and then he says, 'More or less… yes… How are you?'
'I'm fine,' I say. 'It was a short-lived situation. Nothing like your breakup.'
But I don't believe my words. I have a flashback to July Fourth and feel a wave of pure, intense grief that catches me off guard with its intensity. I panic, thinking I'm going to cry. If James asks another thing about Dex, I will. Luckily, serious conversations seem not to be James's thing. He asks if he can get me something to drink. 'Tea? Coffee? Wine? Beer?'
'A beer would be great,' I say.
As he leaves for the kitchen, I breathe deeply and force Dex from my mind. I stand and survey the room. There is only one photograph in view. It is of James with an attractive, older woman who appears to be his mother. I wonder how many photographs of Kate and James were uprooted with the breakup. I wonder if he threw them away or saved them. That fact can tell you a lot about someone. I wish that I had a few photos of Dex. I have none of us together, only a few of him with Darcy. I'm sure I'll have a lot more after the wedding. Darcy will force me to order some, maybe even give me one in a frame, as a wedding keepsake. How will I ever get through it?
James returns with linen cocktail napkins, two beers poured into mugs, and a small glass bowl of mixed nuts. All nestled neatly on a square pewter tray. Well trained by Kate.
'Thanks,' I say, sipping one of the beers.
We sit close to each other on the couch and talk about my job, his writing. It's not perfectly comfortable, but not horrible. Probably because we are in a dead-end situation. There will be no second date, so there is no pressure to perform. No expectations. We will never have to deal with that awkward period after all the getting-to-know-you topics are covered, the lulls in conversation that usually come on the second date, at which point both people must decide whether to fight their way through to the comfort zone or throw in the towel. Of course, Dex and I didn't have to deal with that. Another great thing about Dex. We were friends first. Don't think about Dex. Think about now, being here with James!
James leans in and kisses me. He uses a little too much tongue-working it in frantic circular motions-and his breath smells vaguely of cigarettes, which is odd because he didn't smoke this evening. Maybe he had one in the kitchen. I kiss him back anyway, faking enthusiasm. I even moan softly at one point. I don't know why.
