Eight

WELL . . . THAT HAD been interesting. Angie had wanted the stitch ’n bitch club to be a place where we felt comfortable being open and honest with each other, but had we, perhaps, taken it a little far? We’d only been meeting for a week and we had already shared so much personal information. Last night alone, we had learned that:

1. Sophie was married to a self-absorbed jerk, and was more than just a little cynical about love.

2. Angie was dating some religious-nut movie guy named Thad, and now wanted to turn her light on, or whatever.

3. Nicola was obviously perfect in every way, which might eventually become a little irritating to those of us who were actual humans.

4. Martin was gay, wanted to quit smoking, and was some kind of knitting prodigy.

And of course, they knew that I had a number of self-esteem issues stemming from committing four years of my life to my supposed soul mate who, it turned out, really just wanted to “hang out” with me indefinitely. Was it me, or was this all a bit of information overload? Weren’t friends supposed to grow to love one another, warts and all, not meet once and say: Nice to meet you. What do you think of my warts?

I’d still enjoyed the evening; it was just a little less uplifting than our initial get-together. I had to admit, most of that was due to the fact that my fun single girlfriend, Angie, was now smitten with Thad, the Kabbalah boy. But in a way, it was comforting to know that I was ensconced in a group of kind but flawed individuals, just like me. Everyone had their own problems, and hopefully, we’d be able to support each other through our weekly meetings. Besides, next week we were going to start a real knitting project. I planned to make a scarf for my mom’s May birthday—or for my sister-in-law’s in July, depending on how long it took.

But now, I had my work to focus on. Seattle Scene had arranged for me to interview a noted architect named Jim Davidson whose passion was green architecture. (A quick Google search explained that green architecture was an environmentally friendly approach to building, occupying, and using buildings.) We were to meet at a swanky hotel bar downtown, and I was even allowed to expense our cocktails. I really did have a pretty good job.

Since it was only 4:30 in the afternoon, I easily found a table in the modern Asian-inspired lounge. While the decor was impressive, the low bench seating and table did pose some problems. For one, I had worn a stylish short skirt, assuming that my legs would be safely tucked away under a standard height table. In my current position, I would have to keep my knees clamped together and twisted off to the side, to keep from providing Jim Davidson with a more in-depth view of his interviewer than he’d bargained for. The short-legged table also made jotting notes in my notebook difficult. Leaning over at such an angle would give my subject an excellent view of my breasts spilling out of my V-neck top. I was going to have to conduct the interview with my notepad balanced on my awkwardly twisted lap. God, this was ridiculous. I was dressed relatively conservatively and yet I was forced to sit like some sort of contortionist for fear of giving the green architect a peep show. This bar must have been designed with call girls in mind.

Somehow, I knew him right away. He was wearing a suit, no tie, and had a lean, tanned outdoorsy look. There was an air of distinguished confidence about him, that unmistakable quality that says “I’m at the top of my field.” Jim Davidson appeared to be in his mid-forties, with silvering hair and stylish wire-rimmed glasses. He scanned the dimly lit room until his eyes rested on me, sitting with my knees clasped tightly together, back rigid to keep my boobs in my shirt. Professionalism dictated that I rise and greet him, but I wasn’t certain I could get up off this bench without flashing at least some of my private parts. I gave him a little wave.

He strode over. “Are you Beth from Seattle Scene?”

“That’s me,” I said, still seated. “You must be Jim Davidson.” I stuck my hand up in the air and he shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Beth.” He took a seat across from me, looking relaxed and comfortable despite the low-slung banquette. If only I had worn pants.

“You, too,” I said. “Can I get you a drink before we get started?”

“Sure,” he said, smiling. Looking past me, he waved to the pretty Asian waitress who hurried over. She matched the decor perfectly—short and stylish. “I’ll have a beer. Beth?”

“Glass of white wine, please. Anything but Chardonnay.”

When she left, Jim said, “I’m not a Chardonnay fan, either.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it? It’s so acidic. I get heartburn just talking about it.”

Jim laughed. “I’m more of a red wine man, myself.”

“Me too, actually. But . . . well, I have this white shirt on so I thought maybe red was a bit risky.” Jim laughed again. He seemed to find me kind of funny, maybe even . . . charming.

Moments later, our drinks arrived, signalling that it was time to get down to business. “So Jim...” I began, opening my notebook on my lap. “Can you tell me, what exactly is green architecture?”

I jotted furiously as he expounded on his mission: to change the way buildings were designed and used to ensure a sustainable future for our planet. That was the gist of it, anyway. Jim Davidson was obviously extremely passionate about his work—and extremely knowledgeable. As I read off my list of questions, he answered each in elaborate detail, often going off on a tangent that led us into far more interesting territory. I found myself being caught up in his enthusiasm. I’d always considered myself environmentally conscious: I recycled, I turned off lights, and I didn’t even own a car (although that was more a financial issue than an environmental one). But I would never have deemed the environment a passion of mine. Of course, I cared about the Earth, but I still wore deodorant and occasionally ate farmed salmon. But Jim’s fervour was contagious. And he seemed something of an oxymoron: a well-groomed, well-dressed full-fledged environmentalist.

Finally, when I was getting a serious cramp in my upper back from writing in such a twisted position, I asked my final question. “What about your house, Jim? Is it green?”

“My home on Bainbridge Island is pretty green,” he explained. “I have solar panels on the roof and use a ground source heat pump for heating. There are a lot of little things you can do to make your home more green, like use water-efficient fixtures, put in more insulation, divert rainwater runoff into your garden . . .”

“So . . . you live on Bainbridge Island?” I asked.

“I’m semi-retired,” he said. “I come into the city to work on certain environmental projects, but I’m at the stage in my career when I can pick the jobs I want to be involved with.”

Gee . . . he seemed pretty young and vibrant to be semi-retired. “You seem pretty uh . . . young to be semi-retired?”

He chuckled. “I started in this business when I was in my early twenties. I feel like I’ve been doing this kind of work for a lifetime.”

Hmm . . . So if he started working in his early twenties, a “lifetime” in business was, what? Twenty or thirty years? So that would make him . . .

“I’m forty-eight,” he said, reading my thoughts. “Off the record.”

“Of course.” I smiled, closing my notebook. “Well . . . I think I’ve got all I need. Thanks so much for meeting with me.”

“It was my pleasure,” Jim said. “I hope I didn’t ramble on too much.”

“Oh no, you were a perfect interview. So . . . if you think of anything else you want included in the article . . .” I dug in my purse and extracted my business card.

He handed me his. “Send me an email or call my cell if you have any other questions.”

“Okay. And I’ll let you know when the article will run.”

“Great.” He looked at his watch. “Gee, I’d buy you another drink but I’ve got a ferry to catch.” His hand held briefly in the air was enough to send the waitress scurrying toward us. She must have sensed a big tipper.

“It’s on me,” I said quickly as Jim extracted his wallet from his pants pocket.

“I’ve got it.” He tossed some bills on the table.

“No, really . . . The magazine picks up the tab.”

He looked at me and gave me a slight wink. “Call me old-fashioned but I can’t let a lovely young woman pay for my drink.”

Was he being patronizing? Chauvinistic? Or just plain charming?

“Not that you aren’t, you know, capable of buying me a drink,” he added. “I don’t mean to be patronizing.”

Nope, just plain charming. I managed to stand, though my left leg had fallen asleep from my cramped position. “Nice meeting you, Jim.” I held out my hand.

He took it, firmly, professionally. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and left.

The rest of the week was spent completing my fictionalized review of the Fremont coffee shop, and working on my interview with Jim Davidson. I also managed to visit The Yarn Barn and select a beginner scarf pattern and three skeins of soft cream merino wool. Cream was a more versatile scarf colour than blue-green, and I decided I would save the hopeful yarn for myself. On Wednesday morning, I met Mel and Toby for coffee and a chat at the dog park, and suddenly it was Thursday again. The days had flown by since the last meeting of the stitch ’n bitch club. As I trudged up the hill to meet Angie before heading to Sophie’s hilltop house, I had a sudden realization. I had barely thought about Colin all week! While I had previously been embarrassed by my frank confession at the last knitting circle, maybe airing all my pain and humiliation had been therapeutic?

Although . . . now that I was thinking about Colin, I felt incredibly alone. And this, of course, brought back the excruciating run-in with Newlywed, Engaged, and Pregnant. But while the reminiscence made me decidedly blue, I no longer felt the urge to lie down on the damp sidewalk and cry for several hours. In fact, I didn’t even feel the need to sneak in a few tears camouflaged by the darkening sky and the incessant drizzle. I really was making incredible progress.

Angie called a cab from her place, and we pulled up in front of Sophie’s charming gingerbread bungalow minutes later. I was thankful it had been such a short ride. I was afraid Angie might try to sell me a bottle of magic Kabbalah water if we were alone for too long.

“Hi!” Sophie greeted us like long-lost friends. She was wearing a pretty bohemian-style dress and her hair was pulled back in a loose bun. She looked young, fresh, and pretty. “Come on in.” As our hostess took our coats, Nicola pulled up in a gleaming pewter MINI. She waved to us as she sidled the tiny car into a parking spot.

“Nice wheels,” Angie commented.

“I know,” Sophie agreed. “Isn’t it cute? And it totally suits her.”

It did. It was cute, trendy, and sparkling: Just like its owner.

Sophie continued, “Martin’s already in the living room—head down the hall and hang a right.”

Sophie’s home was cozy and full of character, with the hardwood floors, wainscotting, and crown mouldings indicative of its era. Baby Flynn’s presence was evident through an enormous blue plastic bin in the corner overflowing with toys, and an abundance of framed family photos littering every surface. Angie, Martin, and I strolled around, taking in the pictures of Sophie’s adorable child and her attractive, if somewhat stiff-looking, husband.

When Sophie and Nicola joined us, I said, “Flynn is gorgeous.”

“Oh... thanks,” Sophie replied gleefully.

“Where is the little munchkin tonight?” Martin asked.

“I dropped him off at Rob’s mother’s.”

“It’s so nice that he has his grandmother nearby,” Nicola said. “When I have kids, I want them to be super close to my mom and dad.”

“Yeah . . .” Sophie shrugged. “Granny-dearest is probably poisoning him against me at this very moment.”

“Really?” Nicola asked.

“Is she that bad?” Angie moved over to the sofa.

“Oh, she’s subtle,” Sophie said, “but yeah, she’s bad.”

“Like what?” I asked, joining Angie on the couch.

“Little things, like: Oh Flynn, look at that cute little outfit. I hope you don’t freeze to death. Doesn’t your mother check the weather before she dresses you?”

“No!” Nicola cried.

Sophie said, “Verbatim.”

Angie and I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Brutal,” Martin chuckled.

“She is.” Sophie nodded, continuing her impersonation. “Oh Flynn! Look at your precious little hands. Doesn’t your mother ever cut your nails? Oh Flynn! Do you have a bit of diarrhea? Mommy must be feeding you too much dairy again.”

“Ewwww!” Angie squealed.

I asked, “What does your husband say when she does this?”

“Oh, he pretends he doesn’t hear her. Although . . . lately, he’s always thinking about work so he probably doesn’t hear her.” She sighed heavily. “Okay... red or white wine?”

“I’ll just have a tiny, tiny smidge of white,” Nicola said, holding up her fingers to indicate a tiny smidge. “I drove tonight because I’ll have to leave by 8:30. Neil and I are meeting our wedding planner at nine.”

“How’s that going?” Sophie asked, pouring a dribble of wine into her glass.

“Oh god!” Nicola cried. “I’m so stressed. The wedding is in April and we still have so much to do. I mean, a lot of the big stuff is done: We’ve booked the church and the hotel for the reception. I’ve got my dress, thank goodness, but I’m still not sure what kind of headpiece I’m going to wear. And we haven’t finalized the flowers, although I’m leaning toward antique English garden roses combined with dahlias . . .”

I tuned her out. It wasn’t that it was particularly painful for me; it was all just so . . . irrelevant. I mean, it wasn’t like I needed to pay close attention in order to pick up tips for my own nuptials. When (or if) they ever happened, I’d be at that age when an extravagant, frothy wedding becomes somewhat comical. Somewhere around forty, mutton-chop sleeves and ornate centrepieces become a little . . . cheesy.

“But we found this divine little bakery...” Nicola was continuing. “They hand-make iced butter cookies. We’re going to give all the guests a cute little bag with two heart-shaped cookies, iced in pale pink with the letter N on them.”

“N for Nicola and Neil!” Angie cried, jubilantly. “How adorable!”

“And they’ll match the cake! It’s four-tiered, chocolate with mocha filling iced in pale pink...”

“So . . .” Martin cleared his throat, thankfully interrupting the wedding dissertation, “did everyone bring a pattern?”

“I downloaded some off the internet,” Nicola said.

“Me too,” Sophie seconded.

Angie said, “I bought this book.” She displayed an enormous hardcover volume with a glossy photo of a blonde in an orange cowl-neck sweater on the cover. “I’ll probably make quite a few things out of it.” For the next while, we concentrated on starting our first real projects. Conversation was limited to advice, encouragement, and, occasionally, frustrated swearing.

“So . . .” Sophie said eventually, casting on mint green stitches for the little hat she was knitting Flynn. “How’s Thad?”

Angie, who was focusing intently on a piece of bruschetta, looked up. “He’s great!” she cried, blissfully. “He just found out he’s going to be filming in Vancouver for the next four months, so we’ll be able to see each other every weekend.”

“Every weekend?” I said, dejectedly. So much for martinis and dancing into the wee hours...

“Well, he’ll probably be working a lot but I’ll still visit him. I love Vancouver. It’s so beautiful... and cheap!”

“Sounds like you two are pretty serious,” Martin said. The navy blue ribbed scarf he’d just begun was increasing at a frighteningly rapid pace.

To my astonishment, Angie shrugged. “I think the next four months will be really telling. Once we’ve spent some more time together, we’ll be able to think about next steps.”

Next steps? Was she talking about moving to LA? I couldn’t bear the thought of losing her. I reached for my wine and took an enormous sip.

Nicola, meticulously creating knit stitches for her mauve angora-wool blend scarf, addressed me. “And what about you, Beth? No more run-ins with those horrible women from the coffee shop?”

I laughed. “No, thankfully. I’ve had a pretty good week, actually.”

“It’ll just get easier and easier.” Martin patted my hand.

“You’ll be moving on in no time,” Sophie added.

“I know...” And then, unbidden, a thought popped into my head. “So... What’s the oldest guy you would date?”

“Why?” Angie gushed. “Did you meet an old guy?”

“No!” I shrieked. “No . . . I j ust . . . I was just wondering.”

“Well,” Nicola said. “Neil is three years older than I am. My parents are exactly the same age—their birthdays are just two weeks apart. I think you have more in common if you’re closer in age.”

“Not necessarily,” Sophie said, resignedly. “Rob is six months older than me and I don’t think we have much in common . . . not anymore, anyway.”

“Thad is forty-two and we have plenty in common,” Angie said suggestively.

Martin chimed in. “My last serious relationship was with Terry, who was three years older. My partner before that was... let’s see . . . four years younger, I think.” He shrugged. “Neither one of them worked out, so I can’t really judge.”

“Come on,” Angie said, pointing a knitting needle at me. “You’re not just asking this out of the blue. Who is he?”

Suddenly, Nicola started, saving me from having to answer. “Oh, my gosh! It’s 8:40. I’ve got to meet Neil and Judith, our wedding planner, back at my apartment in twenty minutes! She’s bringing swatches for the head table draping!” We said our goodbyes as Nicola hurriedly gathered her belongings and scurried out to her MINI. Unfortunately, the interruption was not enough to divert Angie’s attention from my initial question.

“Come on, Beth. Who’s the old guy?”

“There’s no guy,” I said. “And he’s not old.”

“Aha!” Angie held her needle up in the air triumphantly.

“Okay . . . I interviewed someone this week and I thought he was really interesting...and passionate and exciting. But I’m not interested in him, in that way. I just thought he seemed very youthful, for his age.”

“What’s his age?” Martin asked, his fingers deftly knitting and purling.

“Forty-eight.”

“Hmm . . .” Sophie said. “And how old are you?”

“Thirty-three—but this isn’t about me. I just didn’t realize that men that age could be so vibrant. I just wondered, you know, down the road, if I should be open to dating older guys?”

“Definitely,” Angie said. “Older men have a lot to offer: stability, money, power...

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, nodding. “What does this guy do?”

“An architect... and an environmentalist.”

“Oh...” Angie curled her nose up slightly. “He doesn’t have a long grey beard and body odour, does he?”

“No!” I cried. “He’s really successful and fit and well-dressed.”

“He sounds great,” Sophie said.

“Not that I want to date him or anything. I’m sure he’s married and has a bunch of teenaged kids.”

“Ring?” Angie asked.

“I forgot to look.”

“You idiot!”

“I’m not interested in him that way! Really, I’m not. God!” I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “I wish I hadn’t even brought it up now.”

“Don’t get all flustered,” Martin chided. “We promise not to tease you about your old geezer boyfriend again.”

“He’s not my old geezer!” But I stopped when I heard myself, and dissolved into laughter.