The first step, as I advise all future divorcées, is to sell the engagement ring and take a trip with the proceeds. My ring, a two-and-a-half-carat empire cut, didn’t yield as much as I expected—it turned out the ring was as flawed as the man who gave it to me—but when I threw in the diamond wedding band, the spoils of my spoiled marriage got me through the first item on my list: a solo trip to Sicily. There I spent the week with a beautiful Italian, the second item on my list. He didn’t speak English, but we managed to communicate just fine. Back home I followed up that decadent week with a couple of one-night stands and a three-month fling with a much younger jazz musician whom I met on his cigarette break (yes, I briefly took up smoking again) outside of Minton’s jazz club in Harlem. He played the bass nearly as well as he played me, and I learned that even with all that extramarital practice, Derek wasn’t a very good lover. These flings were just for fun, though. I never introduced anyone to my girls, and mostly only saw the men when the girls were with Derek. I didn’t need a boyfriend to make me happy, just them—to me the best nights involved the three of us seeing a Broadway musical or even just singing along to one at home in our pajamas. I was happiest when I was with them, and soon I tossed my list in the trash, satisfied that I had sowed my oats.
Concentrating on forming my company as opposed to lasting relationships was a healthy move for me. Many newly divorced women take a different approach. They want to find a new man straightaway. I don’t think one way is better than the other. It may seem like my approach renders me the stronger, braver woman, but I’m not so sure. Those women who get right back on the horse seem pretty brave to leave themselves vulnerable again. I couldn’t even take off my thong for a masseuse.
My thoughts had distracted me, and before I knew it my time on the table was up. I left the appointment feeling slightly enlightened about myself and completely unenlightened about John Westmont. As I stood by the subway entrance on the corner of 59th and Lex, the tension began to seep back into my neck and shoulders. I called CC, who was actually at the office on a Sunday, to admit my failure. She was comforting and suggested that she take a crack at John Westmont herself. Every now and then, when all else fails and we are sure of someone’s infidelity but lacking proof, we resort to an entrapment scenario. I’m not particularly proud of this aspect of our business, but sometimes it’s necessary to use a few tricks to catch a rat in the act. We’ll usually hire a younger woman for the job, to maximize the temptation factor, but since Anna was close to my age, and since Caroline said that John wasn’t the college-coed type, I knew that CC would do for the part. She had played temptress on a few occasions when an older woman seemed to fit the bill. She’d acted in college and was more attractive than most women half her age. She didn’t mind doing it, but I wouldn’t take her up on it. I knew her husband, who was still out of work and feeling increasingly demoralized, was not a fan of his wife’s fake-seducing a stranger, even if it was paying the bills. I can’t say I blame him.
I walked down the stairs to the subway, stopping just before the entrance so as not to lose the call. “We’ll just hire someone older,” I said understandingly, even though I couldn’t remember what it was like to have someone around to care whether I fake-seduced all of the Upper West Side.
“Too bad you don’t have the guts,” she taunted. We both knew I didn’t. “Hold on!” she said, suddenly sounding alarmed. “Where did you say you were?”
“At the subway station by Bloomingdale’s,” I told her, and she gasped.
“So is John Westmont.”
My eyes darted around the subway platform. I couldn’t see anyone who looked like the man in the photographs.
“It’s packed, but I don’t see him,” I said, scanning the crowd. A train came, and nearly everyone on the platform got on. After it pulled away I asked, “Is he still here?”
“Yup,” CC responded. “I bet he’s in Bloomingdale’s.”
I thought about Caroline, about myself, about all the people being cheated on all over town right at this very moment. All of a sudden it seemed imperative that I find and catch this one cheater today. My adrenaline kicked in and I announced my plan: “I’m going to seduce John Westmont myself.”
“It’s a big store, Andie. You’re gonna have to find him first.”
“Maybe I can narrow it down. I bet he’s buying Caroline an anniversary gift. Trust a cheater to wait until the day of. Just keep your eye on the screen and call me back if he leaves.”
I knew it would take a while, but Derek had the kids tonight—he even had Franny, our dog, so I had nowhere to be. With anniversary gifts in mind, I started my search in the jewelry department. No John Westmont. Figures—he was probably in housewares, buying her a vacuum cleaner. I covered the handbag and perfume departments quickly and headed to the escalator. I knew the store like the back of my hand. I grew up in the suburbs, and Bloomingdale’s was the first place in the city my friends and I were allowed to go on our own. It’s where I was measured for my first bra and bought my first lip gloss. It really is like no other store in the world. As I made my way up, I told myself that if I didn’t find him I’d go get frozen yogurt on seven as a consolation—win-win.
I reached the third floor about twenty minutes into my search. I called CC to check that he was still in the store. Just as she answered, I spotted him.
“I have eyes on him!” I whispered, in full detective mode.
“Keep me in your ear and I’ll tell you what to say.”
“I’ve got this,” I said, and hung up. I wanted to do this sans CC de Bergerac.
John Westmont was standing in the middle of the ladies’ dress department with an armful of dresses. He began laying them out on a table shoulder to shoulder as I approached. I thought quickly and came up with my first line.
“That’s a lot of dresses. Are you outfitting a black-tie women’s basketball team?” I said with a confident smile. I thought it was pretty witty. He looked up, confused.