There are times when I have a nostalgic pang when Jess is meeting the girls out for sangria in the Villageor doing all the things we used to do together. But for the most part, I do not envy her position. We turn thirty-five this year, and I can tell the benchmark birthday stresses her out. She’s not desperate to marry, but she does want children someday. And she’s all too aware that her eggs have a sell-by date (her words, not mine).
Which makes it all the more frustrating when I watch my best friend repeatedly star in what would make the perfect Jackie Collins novel. She consistently gravitates to unavailable types—shameless players, married men, or West Coasters who refuse to even consider living in Manhattan. In fact, she is currently embroiled in a two-year relationship with a guy named Trey, who is all of the above. I know, it’s tough to be a shameless married player, but Trey accomplishes the feat with great flourish. In Jess’s defense, Trey didn’t tell her he was married until after she developed feelings for him, but she’s had at least a year to digest the news and move on.
Bottom line, Jess has abhorrent taste in men and always has. Even in college she’d go for the frat boy with attitude, the kind of guy you can totally see being brought before honor council on date rape charges. It’s odd, because in all other facets of her life, Jess is completely in control. She is confident, funny, and the smartest woman I know. She graduated summa cum laude from Princeton without studying much at all and then got her M.B.A. at Columbia. Now she’s an investment banker with Lehman Brothers, kicking ass in a male-dominated world and making money I thought only professional athletes and movie stars could make. On top of this, she looks like a model. With short, blond hair and a tall, willowy build, she is more runway model than underwear model, which my sister Maura highlights as Jess’s problem. “Men don’t like the runway look,” she says. “Women do.” (Maura has a whole collection of superficial relationship theories. Some of her gems: the more attractive one in a couple always has the power; women should marry men at least seven years older than they to close the aging gap; short, bald men had better be well endowed.)
In any event, I decide it’s time to confide in Jess.
So the next day we meet for lunch at a deli halfway between our respective offices. We order sandwiches at the counter, then pick up bags of Baked Lay’s and bottles of Evian and sit at an open table by a window. There are five construction workers sitting behind us, and after one gets up to go, Jess remarks that he has “the perfect ass.” She reminds me of a guy in her unabashed commentary on body parts of the opposite sex. I check out his Levi’s-clad backside, agree with her that it is a mighty nice one, and then tentatively launch into my dilemma.
Jess listens intently, her expression sympathetic. It has been a long time since I have needed any real relationship counseling from her. I can tell she welcomes the distraction from Trey’s latest angst-causing stunt as she says in her Alabama accent she has not shed despite years in the Northeast, “You and Ben will work this out. Do not panic.”
“I’m not panicking yet,” I say. “Well maybe I am just a little bit After all, having kids isn’t really something you can compromise on, you know?”
Jess nods and recrosses her long legs. “Good point.”
“So I’m hoping it’s just a phase,” I say.
Jess lifts the bun of her chicken salad sandwich and tucks a few chips inside. “I’m sure it’s just a phase,” she says. “A little something he’s going through.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at my turkey sandwich. I haven’t had much of an appetite since our return from the Caribbean.
“Remember his guitar?” she asks, rolling her eyes. Jess loves to make fun of Ben, and he does the same to her, which I only take as a sign of their fondness for each other. She laughs and says, “Ol’ Benny Van Halen was hot to trot for a few months, wasn’t he?”
I laugh, recalling the day that Ben and I wandered past a little shop in the Village called the Guitar Salon. It was tucked inside a charming brownstone, all lit up and inviting on a rainy day. So we went inside and looked around, and after a few minutes, Ben decided that he just had to own a vintage guitar. It was literally the first time he had shown the slightest interest in any musical instrument, but by this time, I was used to Ben’s sudden interest in a wide range of topics. Ben is one of those people who manages to be an enthusiast for many, many things astronomy, films, collecting old watches, you name it. So I watched him fondly and waited patiently as he asked the owner a slew of questions. Then he took his time sampling guitars, running his fingers over the strings and even attempting to play. An hour later, he was spending a small fortune on a 1956 Spanish guitar made of spruce rosewood, along with a package of lessons taught by someone of moderate fame in the New York classical guitar world.