BARTHWAY IN BARRISTERLAND - or- The Broad Goes Abroad

Part the First: I Almost Marry Two Different Englishmen

My “Year Ahead” horoscope for 2006 said that this year would bring more opportunity and good fortune in career and romance than I’d seen in 12 years. That’s pretty good news, since (A) 12 years ago I actually thought I might amount to something, and (B) my life has sucked donkey dick in the interim. When I read this back in December I thought, What was I even doing 12 years ago? And then I realized: 1994 was the Year of Two Englishmen.

DO THAT BLURRY FLASHBACK THING WITH THE HARP MUSIC. I had been chasing Jay for 5 years, with spotty and inconclusive results, and I had finally left him for Mark the Oil Baron, whom I met at Carnegie Hall. I was working as a cater waiter, and he was a guest; I greeted his group in the doorway with a tray of beverages and my usual “Champagne, white wine, mineral water?” and he approached me and took a wine glass.

“What’s this?” he said, pointing to the stem of the glass, and I looked down to see there was a rubber band hanging loosely around it. No idea how that happened.

“Oh, that means you win the door prize!” I replied instantly, with the kind of wit that made me such a very bad formal-occasion waiter.

He made eye contact with me and raised an eyebrow. “If you’re the prize, I’m a lucky man.”

And really, once somebody goes there, one has no choice but to reply, as I did, “You have no idea.”

So he followed me around for the rest of the evening, making mildly lascivious remarks in his plummy English accent and wheedling my phone number out of me. OK, with the accent it wasn’t that hard to get it. Oh, and did I mention his Byronic good looks? Longish, wavy burnished-blond hair, big blue eyes, cherubic mouth that opened into a beautiful grin? He really was cute as hell. He was also allegedly filthy, filthy rich, but everything was currently tied up in litigation with another oil baron, so he wasn’t lavishing gifts on me now, but there was the promise of much generosity to come.

So to make a long story short, a couple of months later I found myself flying to Switzerland (he could only pay half ’til the litigation was over, but he would more than make it up to me once his money was freed up) to stay with him for New Year’s and to audition for the part of Wife No. 2. And to make the story even shorter, I knew I didn’t want the part about 20 minutes after I got there, when he handed me a broom (O YES HE DID) and told me to “Clean the place up a little, will you? I’m going to have a bath, and I’d like a pot of tea when I come out. Oh, and I take steamed milk in my tea.”

“Those are all interesting tidbits of information,” I replied, holding the broom at arm’s length (those things are filthy!), “but I don’t see what any of it has to do with me. I’m a guest, not a servant. If you wanted someone to clean up, you should’ve hired an au pair.”

With a chuckle he kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, “But darling, I’d have had to pay an au pair.”

And the kid — you know I’m not a breeder, but I don’t dislike kids. (I should state, however, that neither do I like all kids, as apparently women are supposed to. Kids are just people, and as with all people, I am highly selective about whom I like, and frankly suspicious of anyone who professes otherwise.)

This kid, though, was a freaking DEMON SPAWN. It was totally not his fault — he was only six — but I swear little Ossie (pronounced like “Ozzie,” and short for something I forget which was awful and conqueror-based but not Ozymandias) had never been said no to in his entire short existence. Imagine a blond little pig-faced boy shouting at you (with full-metal Petulant English Schoolboy accent) in front of a room full of guests, “I’m the chief around here! My daddy pays for everything, so you have to do as I say!” And need I add that Daddy thought this behavior was the most adorable thing ever? Can you imagine how happy I was at breakfast when Ossie demanded another croissant (gorgeous yummy fresh flaky things procured from the konditorei just up the hill; GOD they were good) and Mark replied evenly, “Mardie will give you her croissant, Ossie darling,” without even looking up at me?

I do need to tell you, though, and in great detail, that I had no place to sleep. I couldn’t possibly sleep with Mark, you see, because Ossie slept with Mark. (Six-year-old in the parental bed? I judge.) And I couldn’t sleep in Ossie’s bed because, well, that was Ossie’s bed! And the two guest rooms? Those were taken by Gilead (the gay barrister from London) and Tony (Gilead’s straight friend), who were arriving the next evening for a skiing holiday. And no, I wasn’t told ANY OF THIS before I left my NATIVE LAND. Well, I thought, at least there’ll be two other adults here soon to entertain me. Whenever Ossie was in the room, all attention had to be focused on him and I was invisible to Mark. sniff

Since all the beds were taken, and since there was no actual sofa, I spent nine days sleeping on a PONY-FUR COVERED CHAISE LONGUE. Say that again out loud. They do exist. And I slept on one. In a Danish Modern mansion that was packed to the rafters with Louis XVI antiques (décor courtesy of the ex-wife — thanks, Petronella, you tasteless bitch with a name that sounds like insect repellent!). Picture the entire contents of the palace at Versailles stuffed into an empty Ikea store. And me sleeping there on a PONY-FUR COVERED CHAISE LONGUE.

OK, I really AM going to tell the short version of this part. The houseguests showed up, and Gilead the Gay Guy turned out not to be gay. In fact, he turned out to be delightfully heterosexual, adorable, funny, a Sondheim fan (and no! not gay!) and instantly and completely smitten with me. And no I did NOT sleep with him while we were in Switzerland. That would have been rude. I did make out with him my last night there — really, NINE DAYS! I think I showed amazing restraint! — and we didn’t hook up ’til I was back in New York and had officially broken up with Mark. Gilead came to visit me, and we had a lovely, romantic week together. However, Jay and I were already on the mend, and ultimately I had to choose between this new, untested relationship with a barrister from London who couldn’t just up and move to New York (meaning I’d have to up and move to London if we got serious, and we were definitely going to) and the sweet familiarity of Jay, whom I’d loved for years and who was finally, finally ready to commit to me. (Funny how running off to Switzerland with another guy will do that. I hate it when my mother is right.)

So I married Jay, and kept in touch with Gilead via email. I saw him three or four times during my eight-year marriage whenever he was in town, and felt wistful, but always ended up feeling I’d made the right decision. And frankly, I’d given him two chances — one before I got married, and one when my marriage was ending — to step up to the plate and declare his love for me, and he couldn’t do it. I mean I TOLD him that’s what I needed him to do, and both times he had some lame excuse but then was crushed when I ended up with someone else. I always heard from other people that he adored me, but he wouldn’t come forward if there was ANY other guy competing for me, and let’s face it, I believe in understudies, so that’s just not going to happen.