Fat Chance. Deborah Blumenthal
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“The fourth-quarter numbers look great,” his message said. “Your column continues to be a smash, why don’t we break out some champagne over lunch, restaurant of your choice.”
In hindsight, I now realize what a mistake it was to ignore him. Just as Tamara and I were—for the tenth time—cranking up the volume of our nauseating fitness tape, we saw the door of my office open and who should stand before us, a horrified look on his face, but old Wharton. Shit. Double shit. And what did I do? Wave. He closed the door as quietly as he opened it.
Next thing I know, a messenger is delivering a Bailey’s Irish cream cheesecake, to me, from, guess who? That was followed by a voice-mail message—“When your dancing fever subsides, call your publisher about lunch.”
“Tex might be on to you,” Tamara tells me after lunch one day.
This is not a particularly welcome development. “What did he say?”
I get the whole conversation verbatim.
“Something’s up with Maggie,” Tamara says he told her one day while she was sitting with him and Larry. “But I don’t know what.”
“I looked at him straight-faced,” Tamara says. “I asked him what he meant.”
“She hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Probably something you said.”
“Can’t think of anything,” Tex says, “but yeah, it doesn’t take a lot to get women pissed. Once at a party, I got a drink for myself, but forgot to get my date one.” He nods his head, as if remembering. “I walk back to her and she says, ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might want something to drink?’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted one,’ then she pushes right past me and says, ‘Right, you didn’t think.’”
Then Larry chimes in. “Great material, we should write a screenplay. Once, I bought a gift for a woman. This black lace nightgown, great, sexy, I couldn’t wait to see her in it.” He shakes his head. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t an extralarge?”
“Observant, aren’t you, Larry?” I say. Tex laughs.
“So she takes it back for a small and finds out that it was the last one and came off the clearance rack.” Larry looks down at his drink and mixes it with his finger and then licks his finger. “So she says, ‘The one thing I hate is men who are cheap and stupid!’ So I said, ‘That’s two things.’”
Tex nods his head. “Yeah, the old one-two punch.” His voice trails off. “I think there’s some basic resentment of the opposite sex. It bobs along the surface until one day, propelled by some deep seismic forces, it explodes in your face.”
“PMS,” Larry says.
“No, that’s not it with Maggie. She’s just distant…less eager to eat out. She’s even starting to look different.”
“Different?” I say. “What do you mean by different?”
“I’m enjoying baiting him, Maggie. He is so unbelievably dense sometimes.”
“I’m not sure,” Tex says, as though he’s afraid to divulge what he’s thinking.
So Larry pipes up.
“Better,” he said. “Maybe she’s on a diet.”
“Nah, impossible,” Tex says. “Not old trencher woman Maggie. She never diets or takes off for spas like some of the women I know.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t think about things like that. That’s the great thing about her.”
“Absolutely right,” I say. “You guys read her stuff. Maggie doesn’t diet.”
“Take her out for ribs,” Larry says. “See what’s up.”
“I looked at them both, trying hard to keep from laughing,” Tamara says. “If these two geniuses were directing the investigative reporting at the paper, then the Times, the Daily News and the Post could rest assured that they had nothing to fear.”
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