Read Online The Not-So-Perfect Man by Valerie Frankel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Frankel
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all-natural Botox. David could appear in an advertisement for breakups: “In no time, you’ll have healthier, younger-looking skin. Guaranteed!”
“Come look at the kitchen,” he said. “I can fit a decent-size table in here. These cabinets will have to go. I don’t need the shelf space anyway. I tell you, living alone has been liberating. Much less stuff.”
They walked in circles, admiring David’s EIK in the sprawling West Village apartment he bought yesterday. Ilene had been getting daily updates on his apartment search over the last few weeks. He’d looked at dozens of properties before deciding to buy this “modest charmer” on Minetta Lane, near Sixth Avenue. Modest indeed. It was at least sixteen hundred square feet, probably in the seven-figure neighborhood. The actual neighborhood was noisy and crowded. Full of head shops, tattoo parlors, leather emporiums—and the legion of tourists who came to shop at them. David said he’d always wanted to live in the Village. Ilene could not fathom why.
Ilene was dying to ask about the financial details. He and his estranged wife hadn’t sold their duplex yet (they’d make a huge profit on that sale, enough for Georgia to buy a twenty-acre farm in Vermont if she wanted to). Did David have $200,000 lying around for the down payment, as well as enough liquid to pay two mortgages concurrently? Plus alimony and child support?
“Your third move in a month,” she said. “You seem unfazed.”
He said, “I’m fazed. I miss seeing Stephanie every day. But I have a good feeling about this apartment. I’m relieved to get out of the Roosevelt.”
David had been living in the East-Side luxury hotel. Must have cost a fortune, thought Ilene. David had to have family money. Working at Cash would give him a middle-class income in New York. Nowhere near enough to handle his expenses. And look at him! His was not the face of a man who was worried about paying the bills.
She said, “I wouldn’t mind living in a hotel. Room service, housekeeping.”
He shrugged. “That goes old fast.”
“You missed the comforts of home,” she said.
“My home hadn’t been comfortable for a while,” he said. “You have such a great marriage, you probably can’t understand.”
Ilene’s turn to shrug. “All marriages have ups and downs.”
“My marriage fell down and it couldn’t get up,” he said. “Let me show you the master bedroom.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the back of the apartment, through the large living room, past the bathroom off the hallway. His fingers burned on the same skin Peter had kissed an hour before. Only then, she’d been ice cold.
“This is it,” David said. “Are you okay? Your face is bright red.”
“I’m fine.” She coughed. “Something caught in my throat.”
“What?”
“My throat.”
“What got caught in your throat?” he asked.
Her thudding heart? “I swallowed my gum,” she said.
“You chew gum?” he asked as if he could more easily imagine her gutting a trout. He swung the bedroom door open and said, “What do you think?”
She approved. The space was nearly bare, just a platform bed with navy sheets, shams, and duvet, some stacked moving boxes, a nightstand with an alarm clock. The door to the closet was open. Ilene saw the suits on hangers, arranged by color, exactly as she ordered her closet.
“It’s bright,” she said. “If you need help shopping for furniture, I’d love to join you. Really. It’s the next best thing to shopping for myself.” He nodded noncommittally. She added, “Once you’ve settled here, you should go out. Have some fun. You must let me take you to dinner. With Peter. I’ll ask my sister Frieda to come, too.”
“Frieda the widow.”
Why did he insist on calling her that? “Frieda’s really much better now. She’s never looked more beautiful. She’s a devoted mother. She owns a gallery in Brooklyn Heights,” pitched Ilene. She didn’t want to push too
“Come look at the kitchen,” he said. “I can fit a decent-size table in here. These cabinets will have to go. I don’t need the shelf space anyway. I tell you, living alone has been liberating. Much less stuff.”
They walked in circles, admiring David’s EIK in the sprawling West Village apartment he bought yesterday. Ilene had been getting daily updates on his apartment search over the last few weeks. He’d looked at dozens of properties before deciding to buy this “modest charmer” on Minetta Lane, near Sixth Avenue. Modest indeed. It was at least sixteen hundred square feet, probably in the seven-figure neighborhood. The actual neighborhood was noisy and crowded. Full of head shops, tattoo parlors, leather emporiums—and the legion of tourists who came to shop at them. David said he’d always wanted to live in the Village. Ilene could not fathom why.
Ilene was dying to ask about the financial details. He and his estranged wife hadn’t sold their duplex yet (they’d make a huge profit on that sale, enough for Georgia to buy a twenty-acre farm in Vermont if she wanted to). Did David have $200,000 lying around for the down payment, as well as enough liquid to pay two mortgages concurrently? Plus alimony and child support?
“Your third move in a month,” she said. “You seem unfazed.”
He said, “I’m fazed. I miss seeing Stephanie every day. But I have a good feeling about this apartment. I’m relieved to get out of the Roosevelt.”
David had been living in the East-Side luxury hotel. Must have cost a fortune, thought Ilene. David had to have family money. Working at Cash would give him a middle-class income in New York. Nowhere near enough to handle his expenses. And look at him! His was not the face of a man who was worried about paying the bills.
She said, “I wouldn’t mind living in a hotel. Room service, housekeeping.”
He shrugged. “That goes old fast.”
“You missed the comforts of home,” she said.
“My home hadn’t been comfortable for a while,” he said. “You have such a great marriage, you probably can’t understand.”
Ilene’s turn to shrug. “All marriages have ups and downs.”
“My marriage fell down and it couldn’t get up,” he said. “Let me show you the master bedroom.” He grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the back of the apartment, through the large living room, past the bathroom off the hallway. His fingers burned on the same skin Peter had kissed an hour before. Only then, she’d been ice cold.
“This is it,” David said. “Are you okay? Your face is bright red.”
“I’m fine.” She coughed. “Something caught in my throat.”
“What?”
“My throat.”
“What got caught in your throat?” he asked.
Her thudding heart? “I swallowed my gum,” she said.
“You chew gum?” he asked as if he could more easily imagine her gutting a trout. He swung the bedroom door open and said, “What do you think?”
She approved. The space was nearly bare, just a platform bed with navy sheets, shams, and duvet, some stacked moving boxes, a nightstand with an alarm clock. The door to the closet was open. Ilene saw the suits on hangers, arranged by color, exactly as she ordered her closet.
“It’s bright,” she said. “If you need help shopping for furniture, I’d love to join you. Really. It’s the next best thing to shopping for myself.” He nodded noncommittally. She added, “Once you’ve settled here, you should go out. Have some fun. You must let me take you to dinner. With Peter. I’ll ask my sister Frieda to come, too.”
“Frieda the widow.”
Why did he insist on calling her that? “Frieda’s really much better now. She’s never looked more beautiful. She’s a devoted mother. She owns a gallery in Brooklyn Heights,” pitched Ilene. She didn’t want to push too
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