Mantua

This is the 17th in a series of posts about New York

Maybe you’re wondering whatever happened to Frederic – the man who was once such a major part of my New York Story.

I regret to inform you that the answer is possibly the most boring answer known to man: We became friends. Not the well-intentioned ex-lover kind, but the real kind.

Just writing that sentence makes me cringe, because the future I had in mind if the darlings ever DID make it to Mantua was either so glamourous or so horrific – nothing in between.

To recap, or for the uninitiated: Freddy and I had met at work nearly a decade ago. We had been friends, then had a fabulous, troubled, star-crossed romance at the end of our first marriages; he broke my heart when he surprised me with marrying someone who wasn’t me. The same weekend he told me he was marrying a former colleague of ours, I was hit by a car when I was out running. While in hospital, I couldn’t locate the fellow I was then-dating, which is how I found out he was cheating on me with a mutual friend’s sister (the friend had set them up).

Being a resilient woman, I made my displeasure with Everything That Happened That Weekend known by hunting silver foxes through the British Isles and (former) colonies for the ensuing few years.

Eventually, Frederic and I met for lunch at the Pool Room, where everyone who’s anyone in New York gets business done, and I Got Over It. (NB: If you ever want to convince me to do anything important, I would strongly recommend talking me through your proposal over gazpacho or crab cakes at the Four Seasons, with a side of cotton candy.)

That was it, really.

(Well, not really. Throughout the last few years, we had had a lot of open conversation about feelings, and recovery, and grown-up things – messy, yucky, ugly things. Those kinds of conversations are good for friendships but they make for terrible blog posts. Repairing trust doesn’t happen in fewer than 800 words.)

After that, we worked on a handful of professional projects together; I hired his firm to do some work for mine. We see each other frequently enough; Paul and I sent his family a Christmas card this year.

Everything is so middle-aged and normal that I keep waiting for a gotcha. We used to torture each other at every turn -trying to outsmart and outwit each other – and at our last meal together, we had a 20 minute conversation about why luxury cars weren’t what they were cracked up to be and why I was glad, retrospectively, that I no longer had my fancy English car. (Now I drive a Volkswagen.) At which point, he chimed in that he was thinking of trading in his SUV for a tricked out Ford Focus.

Apparently, the far side of the road travelled by star-crossed former lovers is done in sensible sedans?

I don’t know that this is a Happy Ending, per se, or even a typical one. I don’t think you go from standing barefoot in the ladies’ lounge at the W in Union Square telling someone to go fuck himself; to having his tongue down your throat in the elevator lobby at Bloomingdale’s; to pulling up your Jag at The Retreat at Westchester to pick him up to start his new life; to finalising mutual divorces; to watching him marry someone who isn’t you; to receiving the birth announcements for each of his beautiful children and being genuinely excited for him and his wife; to sending his family Christmas cards signed by you and your fiancé.

What this all tells me is that I don’t know much, really.

But what I do know is that this sort of thing only happens in New York.

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