“I’m pretty sure he didn’t sleep with his nanny,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it was his kids’ nanny. And, shit, Tess. That was a zillion years ago. You sure do hold a grudge . . . I guess you’re still miffed at Hugh Grant for the Divine Brown incident? And Rob Lowe for the sex tape?”
“I’m not miffed at any of them. I’m all about second chances. For anyone but Nick,” I say emphatically, thinking back to my discussion with Romy, April, and MC, finally feeling decisive on the topic. Hookers, love affairs—anything in between. All indefensible, all unforgivable. That is my final position, I silently decide.
She gives me an incredulous stare, steadfastly refusing to believe that Nick is capable of being anything other than a decent guy.
“C’mon. Please tell me you’ve rid yourself of this crazy notion?” she says, lowering her voice as our wine arrives.
“I don’t know,” I say, thinking of Nick’s elusiveness this afternoon. How he was unavailable virtually all day, even when I called him three times from the airport. I take my first swallow of wine, feeling an instant buzz—or at least a good feeling, enough to numb me as I utter my next statement. “He’s either up to no good or really out of it. Big-time disengaged. Something is up.”
Cate smirks, refusing to take the subject seriously. “Okay. If he were up to something—and I know he’s not. . . Would you go there?” she says, nodding toward the corner booth once again.
“Go where?” I ask.
“Would you get even? Take a lover? A revenge screw?”
I take a longer drink of wine and humor her. “Absolutely. Hell—I might even have a three-way,” I say, doing my best to shock her, which of course doesn’t work.
“Jude and his friend?” she asks, appearing intrigued by the notion—or perhaps visualizing such a tryst from her colorful past. Her still colorful present.
“Sure,” I say, playing along. “Or Jude and his nanny.”
Cate laughs and then flips over her menu, informing me that she already knows what she wants.
“What’s that?” I say, perusing my options.
“The frisée aux lardons salad, the chicken-liver mousse, and the steamed artichoke,” she rattles off, clearly a regular.
“And a little Mr. Law for dessert?” I ask.
“You got that right,” she says, grinning at me.
***
But moments after our entrees are cleared, just as we’re joined by Rachel and Dex for an after-dinner drink at the bar, Jude and his friend are joined by two blondes, both of whom appear to be models, hovering near six feet, crazy pretty with nary a line on their faces. Despite the fact that I know Cate was mostly kidding about Jude, I can tell she is also disappointed that her chances with him went from very slim to nil, and even more deflated by the fact that the girls must be a full decade younger than we are.
“That figures,” she says, as the canoodling commences.
“What’s going on?” Rachel asks.
“Jude Law,” I say. “In the corner.”
She turns ever so slightly to catch a glimpse as Dex does a rapid 180.
“Jeez. You two are clearly related,” Cate says with a fond smile. “Your sister got whiplash, too.”
Dex turns back around and drapes his arm around my shoulder, too confident to be shamed by Cate.
“So how was the show?” I ask, referring to the off-Broadway play they just went to see, one of the many things Dex gladly does with Rachel—either at her request or because he actually wants to, both scenarios filling me with envy.
“It was interesting,” Dex says. “But Rach fell asleep.”
“I did not!” she says, frowning at a loose button on her long, sheer black cardigan. “I just rested my eyes for a second.”
“While you snored and drooled,” Dex says, working his way into a space near the bar and ordering a vodka martini for Rachel and an Amstel Light for himself. Then he makes a face and says, “So Jude Law. Didn’t he sleep with the nanny?”
I laugh, proud of my brother’s tabloid knowledge, even prouder of his disapproval of such reindeer games, which, combined with my now strong buzz, prompts me to say, “Do you think Nick would ever do something like that?”
“I don’t know,” Dex says. “How hot are your babysitters?”
I force a smile, one that my brother must see through because he looks at me, confused, then shifts his gaze to Cate and says, “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing,” Cate replies, reaching out to tap my thigh. “She’s just being a Paranoid Patty.”
Dex looks at me again, awaiting an explanation. I can feel Rachel’s eyes on me, too, as I hesitate and then say, “I just. . . have a bad feeling lately.”
“What do you mean?” Dex asks. “What kind of a bad feeling?”
I swallow and shrug, unable to reply for fear that I will start crying.
“She thinks Nick might be having an affair,” Cate says for me.
“Really?” he asks.
I nod, wishing that I had kept things lighthearted, thinking there is something so depressing about having this conversation, drunk, at a bar.
“Tell her it would never happen,” Cate continues with her usual verve and rah-rah conviction.