The Single Life. Liz Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ with herself than with Lauren. After more than twenty years in the business, she should be more tactful, more considerate, more kind when dealing with the financial and legal affairs of a woman whose heart had been ripped in two and whose life was broken—especially when the woman was also a friend.

      But Clare had never been very good at holding hands and passing the Kleenex. Maybe because she’d had her own share of hard luck—and then some—when most kids were still wiping their eyes over Bambi’s mother and Simba’s father. Maybe because she’d learned early that no amount of hand-holding and Kleenex-wringing would pay the bills. Only hard cash would, aided by calculating law. That’s where she came in. The rest would take time—a lot of time.

      But time was something Lauren didn’t have, at least not when it came to the house. Not that Clare thought Lauren should hang on to the house. Even with the crippling bills, Lauren was holding on to it harder than any life belt, as if it were the only thing keeping her alive now that her husband, her children and her creative inspiration were gone. Clare knew there were days, weeks even, when Lauren didn’t leave her cocoon. But that didn’t change the fact that no house—not even a gingerbread one with gaily painted walls, shining wooden floors, tower bedrooms and shingled turrets—could put Lauren’s life back together. Only Lauren could do that.

      Still, Clare wished there were something she could do. There must be something she’d missed when she’d explored all the angles with her long-time colleague, the top-notch financial planner Lynne Pozzorni. Lynne had been disappointed with some of the choices Lauren had made and hadn’t hidden it from Clare.

      “We women never learn, do we?” she had said, shaking her head in dismay and disapproval. “We want to be nice and kind and generous. We forget it’s a world of wolves out there—and our exes are the meanest and the cruelest. We must be genetically programmed for it. That’s the only way I can explain it.”

      Clare wasn’t sure genetics had anything to do with it, but she knew what Lynne meant. She had seen it often enough with other cases. Divorcing mothers ready to forego everything but regular child support payments—only to learn that no provisions had been made for hefty college tuition fees down the line. Middle-aged women who gave up their life savings to pay off their new spouse’s debts—only to lose that investment and much more when the rosy first blush of the honeymoon disappeared into the darkness of a divorce settlement. Good-hearted women who trusted their husbands with managing their incomes—only to discover the man had been stashing cash and hiding assets.

      Small wonder Clare had never bothered to tie a knot. When office gossips speculated about her, they agreed on one point: Clare was a cold-hearted cynic who would never give happily ever after and true love a chance. They were not wrong. It was hard not to be a cold-hearted cynic when you knew what cruelty, insincerity and selfishness lie in the hearts of men. And as attentive as she was to using gender-neutral terms, Clare really did have the male of the species in mind.

      Office gossip didn’t know there was a time when Clare hadn’t thought that way. When she had been wrapped in the soft tissue of romantic love. When she had believed it was the magic cloak that would keep all evil, pain and heartache away.

      That had been a long time ago, a lifetime. Which was why it was hard to understand why her throat was constricted now, her chest tight, her eyes watery. Whatever would the office gossips say if they knew?

      Clare forced herself to swallow. She was overreacting to Lauren’s call. She was letting her friend’s situation get to her. She was trying to do the hand-holding and the Kleenex-wringing when she was better off leaving that to someone else. Someone like Alice. She would call Lauren’s oldest and closest friend and see what the two of them could do.

      Or rather what Alice could do because Clare could only continue doing what she had been doing for the last twenty years. What she was paid to do. What had got her here, in the corner office with a view of Lake Michigan, a personal assistant on call, a BMW in the garage, a wardrobe that would make an upcoming starlet envious, and more than her share of fun—nights of fun, weekends of fun, a lot of money’s worth of fun.

      But no one to go home to.

      It’s bad enough to arrive home one night to discover your housemate naked on the living room couch. It’s worse, when someone else is with her, as naked as she is. Worst of all is recognizing the naked guy is someone you introduced her to, someone who you thought might get naked with you.

      Not that Helen Matter really, truly wanted to get naked with Josh. He was just another techno-weenie who cared more about bytes and transfer protocols than romantic, candlelit dinners—a dandruff-coated techno-weenie in the familiar uniform of jeans, white socks and an oversized, long-sleeve shirt.

      On a scale of one to ten, he was probably a two, or a one and a half. But scales were for women who could choose between Matt Damon and Matt LeBlanc, Jude Law and Justin Timberlake. Not for a woman who had to choose between Josh and nothing. Until she had walked in the door the other night, she had thought at least that choice was hers.

      Helen had known Josh as a fellow graduate student for some time, but hadn’t thought twice about him. Which was surprising given how these days she thought a lot about guys and a lot more about why she didn’t have one in her life.

      So she had been happy when she and Josh had managed to find something to talk about other than techno-jargon. The lab computer had crashed one evening while they were testing a new program, and he had filled in the silence with an account of his bicycle trip in Germany, which had been more fun than the year before when he had interned at his step-father’s firm, and he especially enjoyed it because of the model of bike he was riding, which he preferred to the sixteen-speeder he’d had as an undergrad. She had tried to look interested, although she was really almost numb with boredom. Even so, when he had suggested they go to the movies afterward, she had agreed.

      This is it, she had thought. This is the start of something new, wild and passionate! He will be Paris to my Helen, Lord Devlin to my Althea, Rhett to my Scarlett.

      Now, she couldn’t even remember what movie they saw, only that it had something to do with robots taking over the world. Not exactly what she considered a great choice for a first date. Because even though they had bought their own tickets, hadn’t shared popcorn or even come close to holding hands, she considered the outing a date.

      When the film was over, they had gone to her house. He’d met Sharon then and all three of them had gone out again to the neighborhood bar. Helen hadn’t seen Josh much after that. Duh! He was at her place with Sharon while Helen was at the lab alone.

      Just as well. Josh was really not what she was looking for. If Sharon wanted him, she could have him. As long as it wasn’t on Helen’s couch and in her living room.

      And if Sharon got everything she wanted from Josh on the nights of his visits, she didn’t get an easy response from Helen.

      “What’s the big deal?” she had asked, when Helen broached the subject. “It’s not as if he is, like, your boyfriend.”

      “You were doing it on the couch, Sharon, in the living room.”

      “So?”

      “So? Something called privacy—your space, my space, our space.” Helen flapped her hands at the designated spaces, but the gesturing didn’t help. Sharon just stared back at her, uncomprehending. “Whatever!” She rolled her eyes and held both palms out to show that the discussion was over. “If you’re not happy, you can, like, find someplace else to go.”

      Which was what Helen was going to do, even though the lease was СКАЧАТЬ