Douglas Kennedy: The Pursuit of Happiness

'So, to what do I owe this surprise... ?' she said.

But then she got a proper look at me, and turned white. I walked forward, and laid my head against her shoulder. She put her arms around me.

'Oh, sweetheart...' she said softly. 'Don't tell me he was married?'

I came inside. I burst into tears again. She fed me Scotch. I recounted the entire stupid saga. I spent the night on her sofa. The next morning I couldn't face the office, so I asked Meg to call up work and tell them I was out sick. She disappeared into her bedroom to use the phone.

When she emerged, she said, 'You'll probably call me a meddlesome old broad after I tell you this... but you'll be pleased to hear that you're not expected in the office again until the second of January'.

'What the hell did you do, Meg?'

'I spoke to your boss...'

'You called Peter?'

'Yeah, I did'.

'Oh Jesus Christ, Meg...'

'Hear me out. I called him and simply explained that you were a little under the weather today. Then he said that, "under the circumstances", you should not worry about coming in until January second. So there you go - eleven days off. Not bad, eh?'

'It's especially not bad for him - as it gives him a real easy out. He doesn't have to see me before he vanishes to LA'.

'Do you really want to see him?'

'No'.

'The defence rests'.

I hung my head.

'This is going to take time', Meg said. 'A lot of time. Longer than you think'.

I knew that. Just as I knew that I was heading into the longest Christmas of my life. The grief hit me in waves. Sometimes dumb, obvious things - like seeing a couple kiss on the street - would trigger it. Or I might be riding uptown on the subway (in reasonably cheerful form after happily squandering an afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art, or engaging in some retail therapy at Bloomingdale's) - and then, out of nowhere, I'd feel as if I was falling into this deep abyss. I stopped sleeping. I lost a lot of weight. Every time I castigated myself for over-reacting, I quickly fell apart again.

What disturbed me most was the fact that I swore, vowed, pledged never to lose myself to a man - and was always less than sympathetic (if not downright contemptuous) of friends and acquaintances who turned a breakup into an epic tragedy; a Manhattan Tristan and Isolde.

But now there were moments when I wondered how I would get through the day. And I felt like such a stupid cliche. Especially when - in the middle of a Sunday brunch at a local restaurant with my mother - I suddenly burst into tears. I retreated to the Ladies' until I got the Joan Crawford melodramatics under control. When I returned to the table, I noticed that Mom had ordered coffee for us.

'That was very worrying, Katherine', she said quietly.

'I've been having a bad week, that's all. Don't ship me off to Bellevue yet'.

'It's a man, isn't it?' she asked.

I sat up, blew on my coffee, and eventually nodded.

'It must have been serious if it's causing you this much upset'.

I shrugged.

'Do you want to tell me about it?' she asked.

'No'.

She bowed her head - and I could see how deeply I had just hurt her. Who was it who once said that mothers will break arms and legs to remain needed?

'I wish you could confide in me, Kate'.

'I wish I could too'.

'I don't understand why...'

'It's just how things between us have turned out'.

'You sadden me'.

'I'm sorry'.

She reached over and gave my hand a quick squeeze. There was so much I wanted to say just then - how I could never penetrate her protective coating of gentility; how I'd never been able to confide in her because I always felt that she sat in judgment on me; how I did love her... but there was just so much baggage between us. Yes, it was one of those moments (much beloved of Hollywood) when mother and daughter could have reached out to each other over the divide, and after shedding some mutual tears, reconciled. But life doesn't work that way, does it? We always seem to balk, hesitate, flinch at these big moments. Maybe because, in family life, we all build protective shields around ourselves. As the years evaporate, these defences solidify. They become hard for others to penetrate; even harder for us to tear down. Because they turn into the way in which we protect ourselves - and those closest to us - from assorted truths.

I spent the rest of my week-off in movie theaters and museums. On January second I returned to work. Everyone at the office was very solicitous about my 'terrible flu' - and did I hear about Peter Harrison's transfer to LA? I kept to myself, I did my work, I went home, I laid low. The outbursts of grief lessened; the sense of loss didn't.

In mid-February, one of my copywriting colleagues, Cindy, suggested lunch in a little Italian place near the office. We spent most of the meal talking through a campaign we were still fine-tuning. As coffee arrived, Cindy said, 'Well, I guess you heard the big gossip from the LA office'.

'What big gossip?'

'Peter Harrison just left his wife and kids for some account executive. Amanda Cole, I think her name was

The news detonated in front of me like a stun grenade. For several moments I really didn't know where I was. I must have looked shellshocked, because Cindy took my hand and said, 'Are you all right, Kate?'

I withdrew my hand angrily and said, 'Of course I'm okay. Why are you asking?'

'No reason', she said nervously. Turning away, she scanned the restaurant, made eye contact with the waiter, and motioned for the check. I stared down at my coffee.

'You knew, didn't you?' I asked.

She poured Sweet-and-Low into her coffee, then stirred it. Many times.

'Please answer the question', I said.

Her spoon stopped its manic agitation.

'Honey', she said, 'everybody knew'.

I wrote three letters to Peter - in which I called him assorted names, and accused him of upending my life. I sent none of them. I stopped myself (on several occasions) when the urge to ring him at four a.m. was overpowering. In the end I scribbled a postcard. It contained a three-word message:

Shame on you.

I tore up the postcard around two seconds before I mailed it... and then broke down - sobbing like an idiot on the southwest corner of 48th and Fifth, becoming an object of nervous, fleeting fascination for the passing lunchtime horde.

Matt knew that I was still in brittle shape when we started going out. It was eight months after Peter had moved to the coast. I'd switched agencies - moving to another big shop, Hickey, Ferguson and Shea. I met Matt when he invaded our offices one afternoon. He was accompanied by a PBS crew, filming part of a feature for the MacNeill-Lehrer News Hour on advertising agencies that were still hawking the demon weed, tobacco. I was one of the copywriters he interviewed - and we got schmoozing afterward. I was surprised when he asked me out - as there had been nothing flirtatious about our banter.

After we'd been seeing each other for around a month, I was even more surprised when he told me that he was in love with me. I was the wittiest woman he'd ever met. He adored my 'zero tolerance for bullshit'. He respected my 'strong sense of personal autonomy', my 'smarts', my 'canny self-assurance' (ha!). Game, set and match - he'd collided with the woman he'd always envisaged marrying.

Naturally, I didn't capitulate on the spot. On the contrary, I was deeply confused by this sudden confession of love. Yeah, I liked the guy. He was smart, ambitious, knowing. I was attracted to his metropolitan acumen... and to the fact that he seemed to get me - because, of course, we were both cut from the same urban cloth. A fellow native Manhattanite. A fellow preppy (Collegiate, then Wesleyan). A fellow wise-aleck - and, in true New York style, a possessor of a world-class entitlement complex.