The Hole in the Middle

Chapter 22: SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2011

I follow the film crew up to the ward and stand around for awhile until it becomes clear that I am not needed. I touch Geoff’s arm to get his attention and he jumps back as if stung; his involuntary reaction makes both of us feel terrible.

“Do you think I could go up to my office for a while? It looks like things are under control.”

“It’s going great,” Geoff says stiffly. “Really, Sophie, you don’t need to be here. Go home. Be with your family.” It feels like the rebuke that it is, and I don’t know what to say, so we stand there for an awkward moment or two until I can’t stand it anymore and beat a hasty retreat. I wonder how many parts of my life I can screw up in one week. From the vantage point of Saturday morning, it looks like one for the record books.

I’m standing in front of the elevator, awash in indecision, when my cell phone rings. It’s Zoe.

“I know you’re busy,” she says, “But when can you get out of there? I need an intervention.”

I hesitate only for a fraction of a second, realizing that I can’t afford to lose any more karmic points by being a fair-weather friend, and that if I meet Zoe for lunch in her time of need, I might actually earn some back. I also know that conventions of female friendship demand that I deliver a full and frank airing of the Will issue in the wake of my disappearance at dinner last night. That, and, let’s face it, I’m desperate to get away from Geoff and Claudio and everything to do with the Baxter Children’s Hospital. But the idea of going home and dealing with the aftermath of my fight with Jesse makes me want to drink heavily.

“I’m leaving now,” I say. “Where do you want to meet?”

“We’re going to the Four Seasons,” she says. “They have a really expensive wine list and Richard is paying.”

I look at my watch. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

“Nonsense,” says Zoe. “By the time you get here it will practically be lunchtime.”

“Are we eating lunch?”

“If you want,” she says indifferently.

When I arrive at the restaurant, Zoe is already working her way through an impressive-looking bottle of red.

“Are we celebrating or commiserating?”

“A little of both,” says Zoe. “I kicked Richard out last night.”

“Wow,” I say. “For good?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “This is huge. I’m so sorry, Zoe.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I know you never liked him.”

“Zoe, I…”

She holds up a hand. “You were right. He was an arrogant, humorless bastard.”

I’m in dangerous territory here. A break-up is a fragile thing in its early days, and I know from bitter experience that the friend who shares fully in the piling on of insults can find herself shivering in cold and lonely isolation while the once-again happy couple basks in the afterglow of reunion sex. In such moments, therefore, it is critical to be mindful of all possible outcomes, and to employ a contextual filter to any remarks about the maligned partner’s conduct that you might be tempted to make. “I never said that,” I say.

Zoe laughs. “I admire your caution,” she says. “But you can relax. There is no prospect of reconciliation. When I got home last night, earlier than expected, there was a Prius in the driveway. So I let myself in the back door and kind of tiptoed into the living room, and surprise! There’s Richard making out with some girl on the couch. And I recognized her but I couldn’t quite place her, you know, and then I realized that it was the salesgirl from Hiker’s Haven who sold us the kayak for Richard’s birthday.”

“Mr. Intellectual is banging a girl who sells kayaks for a living?” I say, as my filter slips ever so slightly.

“Oh, yes,” says Zoe. “And now we understand the sudden interest in camping. Can you believe it?”

“God, what a jerk,” I say, filter now entirely disengaged.

“That’s more like it,” says Zoe. “But wait, there’s more. According to Richard, this is my fault because I kept him in a ‘box of urbanity’ and prevented him from accessing his ‘primitive soul’.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I say.

“It means that I never have to listen to him whine about his sinuses again. I never have to pretend to like conceptual jazz or experimental theatre. He can figure out what to buy his odious parents for Christmas. I am so finished with all of his bullshit.” Zoe takes a long drink and looks thoughtful. “You know, it’s funny,” she says. “I always thought there was a possibility that Richard would leave me, but I never thought it would be for some pretty little dimwit.”

I adjust my face into what I think is a neutral but supportive expression.

Zoe laughs. “You still think he’s gay?”

“I never said that either!” I say, horrified.

“True. You never did, but you have a lousy poker face. It never bothered me in the least, though, because your instincts on that front are hopeless, as you demonstrated again this week.”

“Fair comment,” I concede.

“Honestly, one of the only things I’ll really miss about being married to Richard is watching you try to figure out how to like him,” says Zoe. I start to protest and she puts up her hand. “I’m not criticizing. I’ve really appreciated the effort you put into it all these years.” She smiles. “I think I was always afraid that Richard would leave me for someone more creative or intellectual or political. Someone more like you, actually. Book smart rather than street smart.”

I bristle at the backhanded compliment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you can speak intelligently about virtually any topic but have trouble seeing things that are right in front of you.”

“Such as?” I say sharply.

“Take your pick: the fact that your office lap dog is in love with you, or that your husband is being pursued by his business partner, or that you’re still half in love with Will Shannon, or that you’re having a full-fledged mid-life crisis,” says Zoe.

“I’m not having a mid-life crisis. You’re projecting. I’m not the one leaving my husband,” I say unkindly.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” says Zoe. “I don’t deny that I married a flaming a*shole — clearly a mistake. But aside from that admittedly large issue, I’m happier with my life than you are.”

My indignation evaporates in the sure knowledge that Zoe is right about this. “You know what?” I say, as if changing the subject, “I was sitting in a meeting this week and I had this fantasy that I quit my job to stay home with the kids.”

“I suspect that would be a bad result all around,” says Zoe. “You might want to consider some options in between. In the meantime, though, what’s going on with you and Will?”

It’s a good question. If I read back a transcript of everything that Will and I have said to each other in the past several days, there would be no outward sign of the tectonic shift occurring beneath the surface. But since his return, my world has been clearer and sharper and more colorful, as if he’s adjusted the dial to eliminate the grey static around me. “I have no idea,” I say. “It’s very confusing. He offered me a job.”

“What job?”

“Running the Baxter Foundation with a view to taking it over from Lil.”

“Interesting,” says Zoe. “What does Jesse say about it?”

“He thinks it sounds interesting,” I lie.

“And what do you think?”

“It’s a dream job,” I say. “It’s all the things I love to do, almost none of the things I hate, not to mention better pay and way more autonomy and flexibility.”

“But it feels like a hand-out?” Zoe guesses.

“It is a hand-out,” I say. “They’re only offering it to me because of the personal relationship I have with Lil.”

“Does that have to be a bad thing?” asks Zoe. “Is it absolutely necessary that you earn everything by yourself without any help from anyone else? They know and like you, yes, but they wouldn’t want you if you weren’t capable of doing a fantastic job.”

“Possibly,” I say. “But then there’s the issue of working for Will. He’s the Chair of the Board. I’d report to him, at least technically. And I’m not sure that’s smart.”

“Because?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Because of what happened the year you were in Paris. Because it’s never been resolved or discussed or even acknowledged between us. Because he makes me feel like I’m twenty-two all over again whenever I see him. Because it drives me insane that I still don’t know what’s going on in his head and probably never will. Because for all of these reasons, I’m in a state of complete anxiety when he’s around and I don’t want to have that kind of relationship with my boss.”

“OK,” says Zoe. “Let’s focus on the anxiety. I have a theory about that.”

“You don’t say.”

“I think that you are terrified of really examining your feelings for Will, because you think that if you do, you’ll discover that you married the wrong man.” I half rise from my seat, and she holds up a hand. “Let me finish. I also think that you’re mistaken about Will. According to my theory, you married the right man.”

I exhale slowly, beating back my flight instinct. For all of her new age zaniness, I have to admit that Zoe is unexpectedly perceptive, and I’m willing to seize on any theory, no matter how implausible, if it validates the core decision of my adult life. “Enlighten me,” I say.

“The idea is that all women have a dominant romantic archetype that drives their choice of partners. Most women are also influenced by one or more secondary archetypes, which can complicate their choices. I think that’s what’s happening with you.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, by which I mean, is there a reason why self-help devotees are never content with mere self-help? Is the process of salvation incomplete unless you commit yourself to showing others the light?

“I’ve identified six major archetypes. You, for example, are dominated by the Jane Austen. The Jane Austen’s romantic narrative is about rescue, but Jane won’t agree to be rescued until the rescuer demonstrates that he recognizes her as an intellectual equal. She’s like Cinderella with a University degree. She wants the Prince to see her for who she really is inside.”

“You should write this stuff down,” I say, by which I mean Carl Jung is spinning in his grave.

“You also have a strong Amelia Earhart, which means that you are looking for an impossible challenge in love. You’re attracted to the danger and sheer unlikelihood of success. You’re determined to beat the odds or die trying, metaphorically. It’s your Amelia Earhart that can’t let go of Will Shannon.”

“What does the theory say about you?” I ask.

“My dominant archetype is the Jerry Maguire.” She gives me a withering look. “Don’t laugh. My romantic narrative is that I’m looking for someone to complete me. To summarize a very long story, my role in my family was to be the pretty, sociable one, so that my brother Zack could be the smart one, which he needed to be since he was pretty dorky. But my romantic choices have all been about trying to find someone to help me reclaim the smart side.”

I am reminded, not for the first time, how little we understand the people we most love. “Zoe,” I say, “I’ve always thought of you as one of the smartest people I know.”

Zoe blinks hard and squeezes my hand, and then continues. “I was flattered that Richard thought I was intellectual enough to share his life. It made me feel whole. And my choice was reinforced by my secondary archetypes. Like you, I’ve got a lot of Amelia Earhart in me, and Richard was always a challenge. But he also appealed to my Mother Teresa.” I bite my lip, taking in Zoe’s flawless makeup, her Victoria’s Secret model hair, her designer skinny jeans, and the shimmering rope of semi-precious stones looped casually around her neck, but I don’t laugh. “Mother Teresa’s romantic narrative is about finding a partner who genuinely needs her and who can be transformed by her love. I thought I could do that for Richard. I thought his sarcasm was a defense mechanism against vulnerability. I thought his coldness was a fear of expressing his true feelings. I thought his selfishness would melt away when he realized that I wanted to take care of him. I thought he was a Jerry Maguire. But he’s actually a Material Girl.

“I thought the archetypes only apply to women,” I say, mostly to avoid engaging with the topic of Richard as Material Girl.

“It’s a work in progress,” she says. “The Material Girl is the opposite of the Mother Teresa. Her narrative is about finding a partner who fills all of her needs. She’s doesn’t value permanence. Relationships are commodities to her. Once she extracts everything useful from the relationship, she moves on.”

“Is that what happened with Richard?”

“I think so. In hindsight, things started changing when my career took off. He was cranky about my hours and my travel schedule, but I assumed it was because I wasn’t around to go to dinner parties and openings with him. I thought he missed my company, but he was uncomfortable with my success. He wanted me to be smart and successful enough to make him look good, but not enough to overshadow him. Through our entire marriage, I thought I was evolving into the partner he wanted, but what I was really doing was destroying what he loved best about our relationship.”

“Which was?”

“Hero worship. When I stopped providing it, he decided to move on. And judging from his new girlfriend, he’s figured out that he’s going to have to move further down the food chain to get that kind of attention.”

“Far be it from me to defend Richard, but I don’t think your relationship would have lasted this long if that was all it had going for it. You did share common interests, not just the ones that Richard dictated. Maybe not conceptual jazz, I’ll give you that, but lots of other things that kept you going in the same direction all these years.”

“I guess,” she says, sadly. “But looking at it now, it seems like our shared purpose was in trying to compensate for each other’s insecurities. It wasn’t a strong enough foundation to withstand a shock, and it was never going to fill me up or make me feel complete, even if Richard hadn’t made the first move out the door.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. “Another bottle?” asks Zoe, and waves to the waiter.

“What’s Meg?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Sorry?”

“Meg. What archetype is she?”

Zoe laughs, and it’s good to see. “A Material Girl-Amelia Earhart combo. I’m not sure what the proportions are.”

“Laura?”

“Jane Austen-Mother Teresa.”

“Sara?”

“Mother Teresa-Jerry Maguire.”

“Nora?”

“Pure Jane Austen. But I’m still not done with you,” says Zoe. “I got off track. We were discussing your love triangle.”

“Don’t call it that.”

Zoe ignores me. “As I was saying, you are a Jane Austen. And Jesse, whatever his faults, is your intellectual equal as well as being a good husband, father and all-around nice guy.”

“Agreed. So why does Will Shannon have any hold on me when I have a perfect husband, according to your theory?”

“Three reasons. There’s your Amelia Earhart, as we discussed. Will has always been fundamentally unattainable, which makes him irresistible to you. Then there’s your other secondary archetype, the Groucho Marx.” I burst out laughing but Zoe’s exposition continues unabated. “You don’t want to join any club that would have you as a member. Jesse chose you. Therefore there must be something wrong with him.”

“And?”

“And lastly, part of you believes that you settled for Jesse because you don’t see that he rescued you.”

“He didn’t.”

“Of course he did,” says Zoe. “He rescued you from Will.”

I don’t have a snappy recovery line, so I change the subject. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you that we hired a new VP yesterday. Barry the Blowfish is history.”

The wine arrives, and Zoe raises her glass. “To the Blowfish,” she says. “Karma’s a bitch.”

“Amen to that,” I say, and we clink.

“Do you have a lawyer yet?” I ask.

“I’m doing some research,” she says. “I’m looking for someone with a scorched-earth, retributive, make-him-wish-he-never-met-me kind of approach. Let me know if you have any recommendations.”

“I’ll think on it,” I say.

“I meant to ask you,” says Zoe, “Have you filled your prescription yet?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not talking about the one for your sinus infection.”

“Oh,” I say. “Not yet. I’ve been busy.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’ll get around to it,” I say defensively.

“No time like the present,” says Zoe. “I’ll escort you to the pharmacy myself. But first, we deal with more pressing priorities. Trust Dr. Zoe. She knows what you need.”

Half an hour later, I’m teetering in front of a full-length mirror in black strappy stiletto heels, with a zipper up the back. Zoe looks on approvingly. “Perfect!” she declares.

“These shoes aren’t really my style, Zoe,” I say. “When would I wear them?”

“First of all, these are not merely shoes, Sophie. These are f*ck-me shoes,” says Zoe.

The clerk nods. “It’s an industry term,” he affirms.

“Second of all, you will wear them out tonight to the party, and after that you’ll wear them whenever you feel like it, which will be a lot more often than you can imagine right now.”

“Tell me the truth: are these made by young girls in developing countries who are forced to work in factories instead of going to school?”

“I seriously doubt it,” says Zoe. “They’re really expensive.”

“Zoe, I can’t afford to spend a fortune on shoes.”

“You can’t put a price on the health of your marriage. You need them. It’s an emergency situation.”

“About that,” I say. “According to you, I’ve found my perfect mate. So how does your theory explain the fact that it’s not exactly romance central at our place these days?”

“My theory just tells you if you got off to the right start, Sophie. You still have to try.”

“Shoes are not going to fix whatever is wrong with my marriage.”

Zoe sighs. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, and still you underestimate the power of shoes. Have I achieved nothing?”

“I’m drunk. My judgment is impaired. I’ll think about it and come back another day.”

The clerk looks concerned.

“You will not,” says Zoe, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the clerk. “The shoes are on Richard. Consider it repayment for all of the times you had to listen to him go on about the marginalization of organic cheese farmers.”

“Are you really telling me that the perfect marriage is within my grasp with the help of sexy shoes and anti-depressants, Zoe? I thought we’d dispensed with that particular fantasy sometime after the 1950s.”

“You might also try some red lipstick,” says Zoe. “The no makeup thing isn’t really working for you.” She puts an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “Relax. This isn’t an intervention for Jesse. It’s for you. You need to get out of your own way and start having more fun. I mean, what do you want that you don’t already have?”