The Three of Us Read online

  ‘Ah, is the onlay absolutely necessary?’ I venture.

  ‘Yup, ’fraid so. No way I can fill this, there’s not enough tooth left to hold up,’ he says.

  He takes another exploratory jab with his metal spike and I jump, notwithstanding the injections.

  ‘We could do it in gold instead of porcelain,’ he offers.

  Christ, for $1,750.00 I would expect a diamond stud as well, I think, but I simply shake my head and say, ‘Porcelain will be fine.’

  Evelyn holds a colour chart at my open mouth. It covers a spectrum from dazzling white, through various shades of yellow, to a tobacco-stained beige. ‘This is the best match,’ she pronounces, and Wasserman nods, making a note of their disappointingly yellowish choice.

  Finished, I trudge north along a continuous row of designer stores on Madison and beat myself up. I should have known, with his Park Avenue address and the burnished plaque proclaiming his qualifications at Columbia School of Dentistry, that Wasserman was bound to be pricey.

  Tuesday, 24 November

  Joanna

  I am beginning to find yoga so helpful that I am practising some of the easier moves on my own. There is only one thing which worries me: at the end of each session Mary thanks us and gives each of us a little bow with her hands clasped together, as if in prayer.

  It is clear we are meant to return this gesture, but neither of us seems able to. I usually nod and smile in an embarrassed, English sort of way while Peter starts busily rolling up his mat. We have discussed our inability to perform this small and yet, I suspect, important detail of yoga etiquette and have put our failure down to British reserve. But today when Mary bows I catch her eye and force myself to return her gesture with a stiff little bow of my own.

  I can see Peter watching me, and sensing the need to make some gesture of his own he suddenly nods and raises his left hand in a brisk, police-officer-type wave. Though certainly a start, it is not a manoeuvre I have come across before in our admittedly limited yogic repertoire.

  Wednesday, 25 November

  Peter

  I am flattered to be offered a job today, teaching a writing course this summer at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, just north of the city. It is a graduate class in something called ‘Creative non-fiction’. Why is it that non-fiction is defined in the negative, forever salaaming to made-up stories? Fiction should rather be labelled non-fact. As for creative non-fiction, I’m not even sure what that means. It sounds awfully like President Clinton’s definition of legal truth – something that’s not demonstrably a lie.

  Wednesday, 25 November

  Joanna

  In the lift today I see a sign asking for a twelfth man to sit shivah, the Jewish ritual of mourning. And down at the wall of mailboxes off the lobby, another sign advertising for sale the entire contents of an apartment.

  ‘Very sorry to hear about the death of 13G,’ I say to Gerard, the Toulousian super. I pause, but he knows what’s coming next. ‘Any idea what’s happening to the apartment?’ I ask lightly and immediately feel ashamed of myself. ‘It’s just that we have so many friends looking, you know what it’s like…’ I apologize.

  ‘Don’t worry – everyone asks – it’s already gone,’ he replies.

  Friday, 27 November

  Peter

  Today there is evidence of the new tenants – a large removals van is parked outside, disgorging all the bric-à-brac of someone else’s life. The side of the van is decorated with a large picture of two men pushing a trolley loaded with a giant ear. Underneath it says Van Gogh Movers: A Cut Above the Rest.

  Saturday, 28 November

  Joanna

  This morning, leaving for the office, I enter the lift expecting as normal to be the only passenger. I’m not. Standing by the buttons is Richard Dreyfuss. I am so surprised to see him that I jump and then, trying to recover myself, blurt out, ‘Hello’, in what I fear may be a starstruck voice.

  ‘Hello,’ he says noncommittally.

  I debate whether to mention the Krippendorf Tribe or The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz or even his Oscar-winning performance in The Goodbye Girl, but decide against it and we descend in silence. And as we reach the front lobby he makes quickly for a scruffy white stretch limo, which lurches off down West End Avenue, a portion of its back fender hanging off.

  Sunday, 29 November

  Peter

  Obsessively checking my Amazon.com ratings today, as others check their share prices, I am enormously cheered to see that I have rallied strongly and now stand at 9,127th instead of the high twenty thousands, where I have been languishing of late.

  I boast of this fact to Michael, who is a fellow author and obsessive Amazon.com checker, but he tells me that a sudden rally such as I have just enjoyed can in fact be bad news. He has gone to the trouble of phoning Amazon.com’s literary score-keeper, who explained that it’s usual for books that become unavailable in bookshops (because their sales are too torpid to be worth the shelf space) to jump suddenly in their Amazon.com ratings. So this can, in fact, be a sign that a book is on the way out.

  The score-keeper has also told Michael that Amazon.com uses a complex logarithmic formula, multiplying number sold with recentness of sales, to calculate a book’s ranking. Apparently when you get down into the thirty thousands, the sales are so slight that a single purchase can yank you up several thousand places.

  DECEMBER

  Your baby’s lungs and digestive tract are almost fully developed and it can now see in utero and distinguish light from dark.

  Your baby now weighs 6 lbs.

  The womb is so snug you may notice less movement.

  If you are interested in breastfeeding sign up for a class or interview lactation consultants.

  BabyCenter.com

  Saturday, 5 December

  Joanna

  Today, at ABC, the luxurious furniture store on 19th Street and Broadway, whose interior is cunningly designed to feel like a magical bazaar, we see a truly magnificent crib. Its wooden panels are exquisitely hand carved with cherubs and laurel wreaths, and its front railing cleverly drops to convert it into a day bed. Even Peter agrees that it is an outstanding piece of furniture. But the price is silly – we reluctantly agree on that too. ‘The kid will never appreciate it,’ he reasons. ‘Let’s just get a basic, safe cot, not a juvenile throne.’

  So we leave, determined to shop around.

  Sunday, 6 December

  Peter

  I am sitting at the kitchen table on our inherited fake cowhide bar stools, trying to make notes on a book I am supposed to review, groping for a word that remains elusively on the tip of my lobe. Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in both temples simultaneously and the awful realization washes over my mind that this is it, this is what it feels like to have a brain haemorrhage. I am invaded by the prospect of myself slumped in a wheelchair, drooling and mute. Will I be loyally tended by partner, friends and family? Or will I be dumped in an underfunded institution, sentenced to inhale boiled cabbage fumes, watch daytime TV and be talked down to by jolly Caribbean caretakers for the rest of my miserable life? I give a small shriek of alarm and bring my hands gingerly up to my temples, where I encounter something cold and metallic.

  ‘This’, comes Joanna’s voice from behind me, ‘is what it feels like to be born by forceps delivery.’ And with that she prises off the claws of the chrome pasta tongs that she has gripped onto my head.

  Monday, 7 December

  Joanna

  Tonight it is the turn of John Guare to entertain the American Friends of the Royal Court. He has agreed to be interviewed by John Lahr, the theatre critic for the New Yorker, whose father played the Lion in The Wizard of Oz. The venue is a frightfully smart brownstone on 80th Street, within smiling distance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art – one of the chicest strips of residential real estate in the city. It is owned by someone on the board of Lazard Frères, the investment bank. As our contribution, Peter and I have been asked to invite some of our
journalist friends in order to whip up media interest.

  ‘Christ, I’ll come just to see the house,’ said Meredith, when I sounded her out.

  It is worth the inspection, oozing expense from every interior-designed bow. As forty or so people mingle in the downstairs drawing room, they can be heard quite openly estimating the real estate value. ‘Several serious Lazard bonuses,’ concludes Meredith.

  Guare is an hour and a half late and, anxious to make up for this spectacular rudeness, begins circulating garrulously. ‘My dear,’ he says, patting my belly and exhaling a generous whiff of claret, ‘how are you, we know each other, don’t we?’ I smile noncommittally, knowing I have never met him before. ‘Of course,’ he cries, ‘I recognize you from the television!’

  This is not an uncommon line in New York and I have learned it is better to maintain a silent acquiescence than to deny it. So I grin back as an attractive young woman in a black leather jacket slides up to Guare and tugs his sleeve.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘My name’s Julie and I just wanted to tell you I’m such an admirer of your work.’

  Guare beams. ‘My dear,’ he says, taking her hand and holding onto it, petting her wrist. ‘And what do you do? In the theatre perhaps?’

  ‘I’m a screen writer,’ she says proudly.

  The great playwright’s expression changes and he drops her hand. ‘Oh, how humiliating for you,’ he says. ‘Ugh, how could you? You don’t even own your own work and your films never get made. I fear for your mental health, my dear. An unpublished poem has more integrity than any screenplay!’

  Taken aback by this onslaught, Julie attempts to defend herself. ‘Well, I have many friends in the theatre who are waiting tables,’ she protests. ‘At least I’m earning a living.’

  Guare raises his hand and, peering at her closely, declares, ‘You’ve sold out. I see it all the time. It’s corporate writing, my dear. I have a friend who has written sixteen screenplays, he has them beautifully bound in leather on his bookshelf, but not one of them has been made! Ha! Tell me, do you have any credits?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Julie quickly. ‘I got a quarter credit for Harriet the Spy, the children’s movie that came out two years ago.’

  ‘A quarter credit,’ laughs Guare. ‘So humiliating!’ And with that, he sweeps grandly off to the other end of the room.

  Tuesday, 8 December

  Peter

  I see that drunk-driving commercial again today and, as always, it leaves me chilled and fearful. The ad starts with a sonogram of a full-term baby. In the foreground are the reassuring peaks and troughs of a normal heartbeat with its bleeping soundtrack. Suddenly there is a screech of tyres, a crash, a shattering of glass and a depressed horn. The heartbeat stops and becomes a continuous beep and the graph flatlines. Text appears over the foetal sonogram: ‘Abbey Danielle – killed by a drunk driver – on the way to being born.’

  Wednesday, 9 December

  Joanna

  This morning I suddenly hear myself announce that as soon as I have finished my decaff, I am going shopping for baby things.

  ‘Where to?’ enquires Peter.

  ‘Oh, downtown, various places.’

  ‘ABC?’

  ‘I might drop by there,’ I admit diffidently.

  ‘All right, I’ll come too,’ announces Peter. I know he is suspicious that I am intending to order the crib we admired there. He is right to suspect me.

  But it turns out to be a frustrating experience, as the assistant seems reluctant to sell us one.

  ‘What’s your due date?’ she asks, eyeing my straining jacket.

  ‘January 22nd.’

  ‘Oh, we can’t have it ready by then,’ she says, sounding almost pleased.

  ‘It’s OK, the baby will spend the first eight weeks in a Moses basket,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, we need a minimum of fourteen weeks,’ she says, as if this is obviously the end of the conversation.

  ‘We’ll have to hope it doesn’t come early then,’ I retort, suddenly determined to have the crib whatever the cost. Peter, of course, having pretended to check the safety locks while pronouncing on the quality of workmanship, has moved safely off to examine musical mobiles with bogus intensity.

  ‘I want the green one,’ I say petulantly.

  ‘What sex is the baby?’ asks the assistant.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Not yet, no.’

  ‘Well, what colour’s the nursery?’

  ‘Um, it’s white.’

  ‘Well, mint green is a very difficult colour to team with, it will dominate the room. Are you prepared for that?’

  ‘The room is fairly big, I don’t think it will dominate it. And the curtains will match; they’re blue and green.’

  ‘Well, what colour’s your crib linen?’ she persists, weirdly determined to put us off.

  ‘White.’

  ‘What, surely not all of it?’ she challenges.

  ‘Look,’ I say firmly, reaching for my purse, ‘I want the mint green crib with the engraved cherubs.’

  ‘If it’s a boy, he’ll hate you for choosing the cherubs,’ observes Peter, as we move towards the till.

  ‘Honey,’ says a middle-aged woman, smiling slyly as she folds her credit card slip, ‘chances are he’s gonna hate you anyway. They all do, you know. Eventually.’

  Saturday, 12 December

  Peter

  Though I have an aversion to pasta, Joanna has cooked up a Medusa’s head of spaghetti for dinner and splodged onto it a jar of insipid tomato topping. I am having difficulty serving the meal, for ever since they were stretched abnormally wide to effect my forceps delivery the pasta tongs refuse to clench back to their original position, and the spaghetti keeps slithering through the claws.

  Monday, 14 December

  Joanna

  I am now going to the surgery on a weekly basis. Today, as usual, the nurse velcroes the rubber cuff round my arm and squeezes the bulb to check my blood pressure, then forces me onto the scales to confirm a total weight gain of 29 lbs.

  ‘Good,’ says the nurse. ‘You can expect your baby anytime from January 1st.’

  Panicked at the news it might come three weeks earlier than expected, I come home to find Peter frantically ordering Lugo, the leisurely handyman, around the baby’s room, where the two of them are trying to put up curtain rails. Lugo is having difficulty because, despite our careful measurements, we appear to have ordered the wrong-sized rails.

  It turns out to be my fault because I wrote the measurements down and then ordered the rails from the Pottery Barn catalogue with no apparent reference to the figures whatsoever. Even odder, I ordered more rails than we have windows. I am uncertain how this happened, but it has left Peter furious, Lugo bewildered, and me convinced that we are not sufficiently practical to be parents.

  Monday, 14 December

  Peter

  I’m at the gym, striding away on the ski-trek machine and, through a veil of sweat, watching a CBS early evening news spot on the stress of Christmas shopping. A new study, they report, shows that for many men Christmas shopping is more stressful than being in combat. Well, I’ve been in combat and this test is patent nonsense. Combat is not nearly as stressful as Christmas shopping. For one thing there aren’t as many choices in combat.

  Tuesday, 15 December

  Joanna

  Despite my failure over the curtain rails, there is one achievement I do feel rather proud of. I have been slowly accumulating the layette and, according to Miriam Stoppard, I have now got everything on the list apart from six muslin ‘sick-cloths’.

  I do not seem able to find muslin sick-cloths anywhere in New York. Macy’s, Bergdorf-Goodman, Barneys, Saks: I have tried them all. Eventually, an assistant at Albee’s, the discount baby emporium, tells me that Americans do not use sick-cloths.

  ‘But what do you use?’ I ask.

  ‘No one has ever asked me that before,’ she says.

&
nbsp; ‘Perhaps American babies don’t vomit like English babies,’ I try dryly.

  ‘No, no, they probably vomit about the same,’ she says sincerely. ‘Couldn’t you use a cloth diaper, maybe?’

  ‘Aren’t they a bit bulky?’ I ask.

  ‘Not if you arrange them artfully,’ she says, pulling down a packet from a nearby shelf. ‘You could wear them over your shoulder like this,’ she demonstrates, ‘as a scarf.’

  I cannot imagine my grey Jil Sander suit accessorized with a cloth diaper, but I buy a packet of eight anyway.

  Tuesday, 15 December

  Peter

  I am back in Dr Wasserman’s chair, having my thousand buck onlay onlaid.

  ‘Here it is,’ says Wasserman. He reaches his big but surprisingly nimble paw into a little plastic box and, with a flourish, produces the onlay.

  ‘Hmm,’ I say, determined not to be impressed, which is not difficult – it is a tiny, rather yellow blob of resin.

  He glues it into the hole in my mouth he has previously excavated, and while he waits for the adhesive to bond his nurse, Evelyn, chats to me.

  ‘You have a nice accent,’ she says. ‘I think the English accent is so classy.’

  ‘Hank yaw,’ I say, my mouth still clamped open.

  ‘D’ya think I have a Brooklyn accent?’ she enquires of Wasserman in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

  ‘Occasionally it shows through a little,’ he says tactfully. He notices me checking out his framed Columbia Dental School scroll hanging on the wall. ‘We were the rebel year,’ he recalls proudly. ‘WE thought we knew better.’ I try to conjure up a class of firebrand dentists, but fail.

  Wednesday, 16 December

  Joanna

  We have been invited back to their carolling evening by the Horatio Street Association, our old neighbourhood group. We meet at Jackson Square, a defiant triangle of grass, squeezed between Eighth Avenue and West 14th Street. Usually it is populated by weary dog owners armed with their obligatory pooper-scoopers, but tonight’s assembled group is a mixed bunch of Wall Streeters, models, out-of-work actors, writers and painters, accompanied by a few precocious Manhattan children dressed against the freezing fog in puffa jackets, mufflers and bobble hats. Hymn sheets are distributed and we set off down Eighth Avenue, bathed in the festive flashing red lights of our NYPD squad car escort.