Dumping Billy (25 page)

“Of course you are,” the woman said tiredly. “But he ain’t on tonight until six.”

Kate looked at her watch. She had almost two hours to wait. She sighed, more aggravated than ever. “Well, thank you anyway,” she said, and turned to leave. She’d find somewhere in this ruin of a neighborhood to have a cup of coffee.

But before she’d taken more than three steps, the barmaid called after her. “Hey! You the one who told him his nickname?”

Kate turned around and nodded. “Dumping Billy,” she said. “Isn’t that what everyone calls him?”

“Yeah. He just didn’t know it.” She laughed. “Put him in quite a spin.” She looked Kate over again.

“Well, I’ll come back later,” Kate said. At least she’d had some impact on the arrogant bastard. That might help her on this errand.

“Look, if you gotta see him now, he lives above the bar.” She pointed to a buzzer on the other side of the doorway.

“That’s okay. I’ll come back another—”

Before Kate could get the words out, the woman rang the buzzer and shouted into the intercom. “Hey, Billy! You got company and—surprise, surprise—it’s a woman.”

“Thanks, Mary,” Billy’s voice said through the speaker. “I’ll buzz.”

Kate gave Mary a small half smile. “Thanks,” she said, although she wasn’t sure she meant it.

“Don’t mention it, Red,” the barmaid replied.

“I’m Kate,” Kate told her.

A smile spread across Mary’s face. “Oh. Kate . . . ,” she said knowingly, and she went back into the bar.

The door buzzed open. Kate smoothed her hair once and put her hand on the doorknob. She ascended the steps to the landing of the first floor, where a door stood open. She peered in at the room before her. It was not at all what she would have predicted. Instead of being a “bachelor pad” filled with empty pizza boxes and furniture that looked as if it had fallen off a truck, the room had a polished wooden floor, a shabby but attractive Persian rug, a big worn brown leather Chesterfield sofa, and two walls of bookshelves filled to the ceiling with hundreds of books. A window seat was built into one bookshelf wall, and the window was open. Through it there was the view of a tree and a bit of the sky, though the blowing white curtains kept obscuring the small vista. Altogether it was charming and far more homey and sophisticated than Kate would ever have given Billy Nolan credit for.

Billy sat at a mahogany desk with his back to her, transfixed by the laptop screen in front of him. Kate entered the room and looked around. Her surprise continued to grow. Almost half the books on the shelves were in French, and she now could see two nicely framed Daumier prints. A woman must have furnished this place, she thought. “Hello,” she said.

Billy did not take his eyes off the monitor. “Hold on. Hold on. I’m just catching up on my e-mail,” was all he offered as a greeting.

“This won’t take long,” Kate began. Billy pulled his hands off the keyboard and spun around. There was an awkward silence.

“I d-d-didn’t realize it was you,” he stammered. “I thought I had to interview a n-n-new barmaid.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified for the job,” Kate said, and was then ready to bite her tongue. She sounded snotty, and she really hadn’t meant to.

Billy stood up. “So did you just come over here to turn down a job offer, or is there more to this unexpected visit?” he asked.

The two of them stood across the room from each other, the sofa and plenty of tension between them. Kate tried to decide whether it would be best to just blurt out her apology and throw out her dare or first try to bridge the gap between them. Everything she had practiced seemed inappropriate. “I wanted to . . . ,” she began.

“Yes?” Billy raised his eyebrows. It was annoying to see how attractive he was, even with his hair in disarray and his shirt untucked and open to the third button. She tore her eyes away from him.

“I wanted to apologize for . . .” It was coming out wrong. “I wanted to apologize for not telling you the truth the other night.”

Billy laughed. “That doesn’t sound like much of an apology to me.”

“I realize after what happened I may not be your favorite person, but that’s not what counts,” she explained. She put her purse on the desk.

“It isn’t?” Billy asked.

“No. What counts is that Bina really likes you,” Kate said. This was going badly. She was being either too direct or too indirect and was annoyed at her inability to really express herself to this guy. “And I think you might like her.”

“Oh, really?” Billy smirked. “And what would give you insight into my feelings?”

“Look, it’s none of my business, but—”

“Well, you finally got something right,” he said, and sat on the Chesterfield. “What is your business, anyway?”

“I’m a psychologist,” she said.

He shook his head. “I should have known,” he muttered. “Nothing worse than a psychologist except a psychiatrist.”

“How would you know?” she asked. “Have you dated both?”

“No. I consulted both. A long time ago. And they were ineffectual intellectuals.”

She wondered what a mook like him had gone into therapy for but knew better than to ask. She just walked over to the little window seat and tried again.

“I don’t like this ‘Dumping Billy’ stuff,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I’m not responsible for the name. Apparently, everybody uses it.”

“Apparently,” he said dryly. “As if my personal life is anyone else’s business.”

Here was her chance to put in one more plug for Bina. She pushed forward. “Well, that’s why I dropped by. Of course, it’s none of my business, but I think you two would be very . . . you know . . . good for each other . . . which would be quite . . . something . . . so what I’m saying is basically what I have already said . . . you know?” What the hell had she just said? she thought. She’d never been less articulate in her whole life.

“Actually, no,” Billy said, smiling gently at her obvious unease.

“Oh, I just knew you would make this difficult!” Kate stood up and walked to the door in frustration. It was never so hard to speak with children. Or to Elliot. Or Bina, the girls, or even Michael. Why was she having such a hard time talking to Billy Nolan?

“Why should I go out with Bina? I pick my own women. And she looks like a husband hunter,” Billy said. “Not my type.”

Kate could take his slight mocking of her, but how dare he insult her friend! “That is totally out of line. You’re the loser!” she almost shouted at him.

“Me?!” Billy asked. He got up from the couch and faced her. “Hey, I own this place. I built it up from nothing. I’ve got bigger plans, too! I’ll be opening a restaurant next year.”

“Yes. But can you manage one decent relationship?” she asked.

“And I can date anyone I want!”

“Not anyone. You can’t date me!”
Kate flared. “You are still just a Mick who never even got out of Brooklyn. The trick with you is you are slightly better looking on the outside than you are on the inside, and the inner and outer you are in constant conflict. That’s why you don’t know you’re a loser.” Kate was out of breath, and her face was hot. This was not going well. She looked at Billy, who was surprisingly cool.

“Are you speaking as a doctor or as a bitch?” he asked with a coldness that cut right through her.

Kate opened her mouth, then checked herself, remembering her mission. She crossed to the desk, picked up her purse and muttered loudly enough for Billy to hear: “You couldn’t do it anyway.”

“Do what?” he demanded.

Kate turned around to face him, eyes blazing. They stared each other down as they had in the bowling alley the other night. “Nothing,” she spat. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Tell me,” he said through clenched teeth, leaning across the back of the sofa toward her.

Kate almost smiled, because she knew that she’d be victorious. He was no more difficult than Tina Foster. “It’s just that when I came here I knew you couldn’t date Bina for more than a week or two,” she said, self-assured. “You obviously have a repetition compulsion.”

“A what?” Billy asked, indignant.

“A repetition compulsion,” Kate replied impatiently.

“What’s that? Some jargon from the
DSM-Four
?”

Kate was surprised he knew about the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
The
DSM
was the bible of mental dysfunctions that was compiled regularly for mental health professionals. Still, she didn’t let him see her reaction. “It’s not a
DSM-Four
construct. It’s an older Freudian theoretical position.”

“I thought Freud was unpopular these days. Oedipus complex, penis envy. Isn’t that all pretty much out-of-date? After all, he was a guy who didn’t know what women wanted.”

Once again, Kate was surprised by his casual familiarity with things she figured he had never heard of. “I think it’s still valid,” she said. “Especially in your case. It’s roughly defined as compulsive neurotic behavior in which a person repeats an altered version of traumatic events from his past. Once it starts, the compulsion requires the person to keep doing the maladaptive behavior.”

“Oh, really?” Billy asked. As she hoped, he was becoming belligerent. “And what maladaptive behavior would I be repeating?”

“An attempt at intimacy that has to be followed by abandonment. And each time you pick an inappropriate partner to ensure the eventual split.”

“And how do you know all of this about me?” he asked.

“Well, I am a doctor,” she said, “and I do know several of the inappropriate women you’ve played the pattern out with. I just thought Bina might be a real person, someone you could actually bond with. She isn’t one of your typical Brooklyn big-haired bimbos. And she’s quite sad at the moment. Anyway, it didn’t work, and it doesn’t matter to me or to Bina. I’m just sorry I gave you an easy excuse not to conquer it.”

“You didn’t give me anything but a headache,” he shot back.

“Well, we’re not really talking about me, are we? We’re talking about you. And you find it impossible to date a nice girl with whom any kind of commitment might be possible.”

“That isn’t true,” he told her.

“I guess that isn’t why you have the nickname, then,” she said.

“I’d have no problem dating Bina. She’s a nice enough girl, and she knows how to have a good time. Unlike some uptight, word-dropping psychologists I’ve met. And I don’t have a . . . petition . . . whatever.”

“Sure you don’t,” she said.

“I don’t,” he insisted.

“Great. Then prove it,” she said. “Date her for a couple of months without dumping her, and I will be proven totally and utterly wrong. Well, if you can manage a real relationship, you might also lose the nickname. But I don’t think you can do it.”

“Done,” he declared. “And only because I want to. And because she’s a nice girl. Not my type, but nice. And I’ll see her as long as I want to. I don’t need a shrink to manage it, or to psychoanalyze me later.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Kate smiled and headed to the door. She put her hand on the knob, but before she turned it, she looked back at Billy.

“I can give you Bina’s number,” she said.

“Thanks, but I already have it. And it’s memorized: Bina Horowitz, on Ocean Parkway.” He looked at her with a glint of triumph in his eye. And Kate, for some reason she didn’t quite understand, was annoyed.

Well, her feelings didn’t matter in this ridiculous escapade. She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do. So she simply opened the door, exited, and slammed it behind her.

Chapter Twenty-seven

K
ate was almost a quarter of an hour early at LaMarca on Wednesday evening because she didn’t want to be late. The restaurant, an unpretentious bistro in Chelsea, was not the kind of snotty place where you had to “wait at the bar until your party has joined you.” Kate was seated at a window table and had a chance to freshen her lipstick and twist her hair up into a knot. Then she waited, trying hard not to think. Nestled next to her lipstick in the makeup bag she carried in her purse was a pretty blue box that contained a pair of new keys on a silver Tiffany key ring. The ring was actually more like a U than a circle, with sterling silver balls at each end that unscrewed so that keys could be added and subtracted easily. It also had a small silver dogtag on it. The number engraved on the sterling was registered at Tiffany’s, and if the keys were ever lost and dropped in a mailbox, Tiffany’s would return them. Kate felt that perhaps she had gone overboard, that she might be compensating with the gift for a diminution in her passion for Michael.

She’d tried over and over to analyze why she seemed to have cooled toward Michael. Certainly their sex was fulfilling and their relationship sound and based on shared interests, though she had never felt truly passionate about Michael as she once had for Steven. That, however, she had considered a good thing. After Steven, Kate had promised herself she would never allow an obsession with a man to take over her life. And until now she had been more than happy with Michael. Despite Elliot’s prejudice against him, Michael was a grown-up—perhaps the first male grown-up in her life—and he respected and liked her. Unlike a lot of guys, Michael wasn’t intimidated by her work, her looks, or her independence. And he was not the kind of man to run from intimacy. So why, she wondered, did she find herself resisting? Was she afraid of the next step in their relationship? She didn’t think so. But as Anna Freud had pointed out, resistance was an unconscious thing.

“Would you like something to drink while you’re waiting?” the waiter asked, startling her.

“A glass of Chardonnay, please,” she said, and then felt a bit guilty, which in turn made her feel annoyed.

As she was taking her first sip of the wine, Michael strode in, an unusually wide smile on his face. He was, she reminded herself, very nice looking. Not dramatically gorgeous like that idiot in Brooklyn, but handsome in an understated way. His hair was thick, and a little silver was mixed prematurely with the brown. The steel-rimmed glasses he wore went well with his hair, and Kate had sometimes wondered if he knew that. If his shoulders were a little narrow, he made up for that with his height. Now, he bent over her, took her chin in his hand, and turned her head so he could kiss her on the mouth. She smiled at him, and he slipped into the banquette opposite her.