Running from Love: A Story for Runners and Lovers (33 page)

“Perhaps we should get off the phone now and talk when you’re less upset,” Will said, sounding worried.

“I’m not upset.”
You are.
“I’ve never felt calmer actually. I know what I want.”

“What’s that then? To live in the Bronx and be a salesperson all your life? The sneer in his voice was unmistakable. Finally, she recognized it for what it was. An insult to her and everything she had made for herself over the past three years of rebuilding her life without him. Her mojo rising, she’d give him something to really sneer at.

“No, Will. To live in the Bronx and become a schoolteacher again.”

“You can’t be serious.” His voice was disdainful.

“I am.” It felt good not to emulate his scornful, sophisticated tone. It was unattractive. She’d always equated sophistication with beauty. Suddenly she saw it wasn’t necessarily so. It was as ugly as when he called her “darling,” followed by the latest change in plans. Who needed it? She’d rather hear Ana or Blanca trash-talking her any day. Or Jude.

Again a significant pause. “Farrah, I’d better get going.”

“Have a good Christmas, Will. Tell your mother I’m sorry I won’t be making it to her new year’s bash.”

“So we won’t see each other before you leave for California?” He sounded like a small boy trying to get his mother to change her mind about going out without him.

“No.”

“Well, what about afterward? What day are you coming back?”

“Not afterward either. There’s no point, Will.” She paused, searching to get across what she knew in her heart. “We don’t fit together.”

“I see.”

“You should. Goodbye.” Without even trying, her voice remained calm. It was easy, because she had no regrets.

Gently, she put down the phone. It would be a lonely Christmas and New Year’s, but satisfying. She was moving in on who and what she wanted—a genuine relationship with a person she could trust and with whom she could be herself, and a job that truly mattered. Self-knowledge was the best Christmas gift she could give herself. Even if it came at a price.

Flipping open her laptop, she found the New York City Road Runners Club website and signed up for the New Year’s Eve Midnight Run race in Central Park. Running would save her. It always did.

T
HIRTEEN

T
he manuscript was almost done. It had cost him his budding relationship with Farrah then almost being blackmailed by Missy Henckels. She appeared to want to get her husband’s attention, and Jude was fairly certain he had been used along the way to achieve her aim. He was ready to shut the book on writing about how to get rich. Now that he knew some of the techniques of those who were, he no longer envied them.

The evening before he’d attended a holiday party at Greenwich’s Millbrook Club. It was the first time he’d met some of the husbands of his interview subjects. Anne Alexander was there with Matt, a private equity man. Jordan Marshall was with her husband Charlie, head of an international corporate conglomerate. He found it ironic that of the three attractive women he’d interviewed, Missy, who was head and shoulders above and beyond the serious gorgeousness of the other two, appeared to receive the least attention from her husband. She had also been the most available for interviews.

When he’d joked about running another race for charity, Anne’s eyes had flickered then looked away. Next to her Jordan had been polite, but distant. Had he overstayed his visit in the Marshall’s spare room over their garage? Nervously, he thought about his conduct over the past few weeks since he’d been there. Nothing came to mind that might have gotten him into trouble. He’d been quiet, writing almost nonstop in a desperate sprint to the finish line of
How to Marry Money.
Thank God he was only there for another six days until the 27th, when the Griswold’s guests left. Again glancing at the group, he sensed gazes being averted. Something was up. Invisible lines had been etched in the sand.

Jude headed for the club bar, across the hall. It was filled with men only, not surprisingly. Jay Henckels stood across the room, smoking cigars with two others in front of the open hearth fireplace underneath an enormous elk’s head. He got a whiskey and soda and wandered over. When he introduced himself, a nanosecond of silence followed before conversation resumed. The society freeze out had just taken place. He’d been on the wrong end of plenty of those as a child.

What had he been thinking to mistake he was one of the gang? He was there at The Millbrook Club as a guest, not a member. Ginny Slade had brought him along since she didn’t have a date for the evening. When Anne introduced him to her husband as a writer and personal trainer, Matt Alexander had avoided eye contact as they briefly shook hands. In the men’s eyes—all of whom were in finance or business—Jude imagined he held the status of one of their wives’ playthings. Anyone could say they were writing a book. As a ghostwriter he was unknown as an author. As far as the men were concerned, he was a personal trainer—a service provider.

He wandered back to the main ballroom, ill at ease and feeling out of place.

“Excuse me, could you tell me where the silent auction room is?” a woman asked, glancing at Jude as if he had “Staff” written on his forehead.

A wistful longing came over him. If only Farrah was there with him. But he wouldn’t have been there at all if he’d been with her. He would have been somewhere more down to earth and cozy, like an Irish pub in Riverdale or Ryan’s Steakhouse. Nobody would be looking down their noses or freezing out anyone else. Children would be inappropriately sitting on their parents’ laps at the bar, women wearing too much makeup, with less than perfect figures would be chatting with each other ignoring their husbands and kids, and the men would be taking in the game on the TV behind the bar. Except for him. He’d be taking in Farrah next to him, in all her grapefruity floatiness.

A sharp ache shot through him followed by frustration. How could she just pull the plug on their budding relationship? Didn’t he deserve an explanation?

“Having fun yet?” Ginny asked.

She’d glided up to him noiselessly. He was almost grateful for her company. It would keep thoughts at bay of what could have been but wasn’t.

“Not really.”

Ginny glanced at him then looked away. She seemed less horsey tonight. Some sort of smudgy smoky eye makeup made her look like Alice in Wonderland dressed up like Nefertiti. Perhaps it was the black velvet hair band.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but Anne and Jordan acted a bit frosty when we spoke.”

“Your writing is taking you over. Aren’t you over-analyzing?” She fidgeted with her hair, pushing it back behind the head band.

Jude looked full into her face.

“Am I?”

There it was again. The nanosecond delay. Something was up.

“Have you seen Missy tonight?” she asked casually.

He shook his head. “Why?”

“No reason. I was just wondering when you last spoke.”

“It was a while ago. Before Thanksgiving.” Just thinking about the woman made him sweat. Whether with fear or unwanted attraction, he wasn’t sure.

“Ever get to the personal training session with her?”

“Uh—well—yes, we did. I did,” he corrected himself.

“How’d it go?”

“It was what it was.” Nervously he jangled the change in his trouser pockets. He’d just used one of the lamest phrases ever to come into common parlance. As a professional writer, his syntax bordered on criminal.

“Was it now?” She looked at him questioningly.

“Why? What did Missy say to you? Did she mention it?”

“She said you apparently don’t have a girlfriend.” She looked at him appraisingly. “I told her I thought you did, but I wasn’t sure. Want to set me straight?”

Blood coursed up and down the sides of his neck. He wasn’t sure which of her statements he should respond to first. All of them put him in a dry sweat.

“I—uh. Why exactly did she say she didn’t think I had a girlfriend?”

“She said you were very friendly at all of your get-togethers.”

“All of our get-togethers? We only got together a few times.” He could feel his face flush.

“Well, she said you’d really gotten together when you got together. If you know what I mean.” She looked at him curiously, as if she half hoped he’d deny what she was implying.

“That’s ridiculous. We got together for a few interviews then we did the personal training session. That was it.” He shrugged, but inside his blood ran cold. Like Mark Anthony in the hands of Cleopatra, he’d been masterfully handled, then reduced to silly putty. He couldn’t stand these silky smooth society women. Especially the devastatingly beautiful ones.

“Well maybe you should speak to her. She’s putting it out there that that was
not
all it was. Seems word has gotten round.” Ginny smoothed down her dress over one bony hipbone. Was she hoping he’d focus on her as his next subject?

“Where is she?” he hissed, raging inside. It was time to have it out with Missy. She’d played him. Then when she hadn’t gotten the response she’d wanted, she’d slandered him to her friends. He rued allowing her to maneuver him into that confused state of being attracted to someone who was clearly manipulating him—a game some women were masters at, and many men proved helpless morons at resisting.

Ginny shrugged. “This wouldn’t be the right moment, would it? And you didn’t answer my question.”

“It’s not? I didn’t?”

“What is your status these days?”

“My status?” What
was
his status? Unhappily adrift. But did Ginny need to know that? He couldn’t stop thinking about Farrah next to him as they watched the sun set over the Hudson the last time he’d seen her. What had happened since then for her to freeze him out? He shuddered to think she had gone back to her ex.

“Missy said you had a girlfriend but it didn’t work out.”

“I was seeing someone, but I’m not now.” He gritted his teeth. “Thanks to her, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah, I got that impression. Well, you got yourself involved with a total powerhouse. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”

“Ginny, I am not into or getting into anything with that woman. I told her that at the time, too.” He was beginning to sound like Bill Clinton. At least he wasn’t married. Farrah’s almond eyes floated before him.

“When you play with Missy
you
don’t decide what you’ve gotten yourself into. She does.”

He couldn’t believe his ears. He’d had enough of the self-assured Gold Coast, female commando style. He needed fresh air. Immediately.

“I wasn’t playing with Missy. I interviewed her. Then I offered her a single personal training session just like you told me to. Why did you set me up to meet her if she was going to be trouble on wheels?”

“I didn’t. I introduced you to Anne.”

“Who introduced me to Missy.”

“You’re the one who told me you needed help with your book.”

“Missy’s the kind of help I don’t need. She cost me losing my girlfriend.” Farrah hadn’t exactly been his girlfriend but he’d certainly hoped she’d be.

“Jude, no one can cost you losing someone you love other than yourself. I mean—outside of death or an accident or something.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s like self-esteem.” She paused. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

“What was that?” It sounded familiar, like some sort of old saying.

“Eleanor Roosevelt said it. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Jude burned at the words. That hadn’t been true in his case. There were so many ways people had made him feel inferior growing up that he couldn’t bear to think about it. He’d buried all the subtle slights and digs under the rubric of “who cares?”

“That’s great, except that Eleanor Roosevelt didn’t grow up on the wrong side of the tracks. What would she know about it?” Eleanor hadn’t been a looker but she’d come from a blueblood background, even fancier than her husband the President’s. It hadn’t been hard for someone like her to say something like that, he imagined.

“My, you’re getting defensive,” Ginny remarked, taking a step back. “You act like you know something about it yourself. Are you identifying with the poor tired masses now?”

“No. I’m just steamed because your friend messed up the best thing that’s happened to me in awhile.”

“No one can mess up anyone else’s life permanently unless you let them. Barring physical injury of course...”

Jude looked down at the floor then back up at Ginny.

“Listen, I can’t talk now. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Sure. But just remember—you need to speak to Missy before she does any more damage. Then you need to talk to whoever it was you let get away.” Ginny looked wistful, as if she were harboring secret desires of her own that weren’t likely to be satisfied anytime soon.

“Thanks for the advice. I just can’t take it right now.” He walked away, feeling like a tossed-out paper cup. Rich people did that. They used people they needed for the moment then tossed them aside when something better came along. But why was he letting that happen? It made him even more angry to realize it wasn’t rich people he was angry with. It was himself. Even worse, he couldn’t help thinking what a dignified soul Ginny was. She wouldn’t allow his lack of interest in her upset her apple cart. She felt pain, but she would never feel inferior. Unlike him, who felt both at that moment.

He strode down the stairs, desperate to escape, his shadow following all too closely behind.

“S
O WHAT WERE
you thinking to go bad-mouthing me to your girlfriends?”

“I can’t remember at the time.” Missy fussed with her small, white tipped nail.

“Look, are you for real? You just slandered me to my friends. In my own town.”

“Maybe it’s time for
you
to get real. Those weren’t your friends, and this isn’t really your town.”

“What makes you think it’s yours?” An anger way out of proportion to her words flared up inside him. She was a bit too prescient for his taste.

“Who said I did?” She tossed her hair over one shoulder walking to her car in the parking lot of Greenwich’s Belle Haven Club.