“How could you possibly know? You really are a wonder, Oona.”
The following month, Edward told her he had something special planned. Lou Reed was playing in concert that night, so it already promised to be a memorable evening.
I hope he doesn’t propose. Not yet. Not tonight.
He took her to a narrow Indian restaurant on Curry Row, its low ceiling strung with lights shaped like chili peppers and tinsel stars. They ate vindaloo and discussed Edward’s dreams of building a culinary empire. His enthusiasm was contagious, but she didn’t offer to be an investor; maybe keeping business out of their relationship would salvage it the following year.
After dinner, they went to the Bowery Ballroom. Oona had gotten tickets to the show months ago, but Edward secured VIP spots for them in the balcony. That was his “something special.” She was relieved and touched by the thoughtful gesture, though she would’ve preferred to arrive hours early and stand close to the stage.
Seeing Lou Reed was a religious experience for Oona. Though he performed only five Velvet Underground songs, she savored each one like a sermon. She pressed herself against the railing, wanting to sail over it and kneel beside the man on stage with the dark sunglasses strumming his guitar and speak-singing with a casual air of cool. Edward stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist. As much as she loved him, she wanted to shake herself free, to be alone in the crowd, to let the music engulf her. During “Candy Says” she wept, recalling how she and Dale listened to Velvets records in his basement, sometimes spread out like starfish on the rug with only their fingertips touching; other times on their sides, pressed together, legs entwined, kissing deeply. Kisses brimming with the blind optimism of first love.
After the concert, in the taxi home, Edward wanted to talk about the show, but Oona sat with her forehead pressed against the glass, eyes glossy with unshed tears, unable to say anything.
Though Madeleine was aware of Edward’s existence, Oona put off introducing the two. Even if her mother’s unspoken but obvious disapproval came later, it was easier to postpone it. But once May rolled around and they’d been living together for two months, there was only so much grumbling Oona could stand from Madeleine about never being invited over.
“All right, all right! Come by for dinner next week. Edward will make you shrimp fra diavolo.” Maybe cooking Madeleine’s favorite dish would ingratiate him to her. In case it didn’t, Oona also stocked up on her favorite pinot grigio.
Good food and wine took them only so far.
When Madeleine walked through the front door, Oona held her breath, waiting for something to go wrong.
“Mom, this is Edward.”
He stepped forward, arms out because Oona had told him her mom was a hugger.
But Madeleine held out a hand to shake instead, her smile lacking its usual exuberance.
This set the tone for the rest of the evening. No matter how much wine was poured, polite barriers stayed up and the conversation never adopted a natural flow, despite Oona’s frequent nudges to keep the chatter going.
When Edward left to use the bathroom, Oona turned to her mother and hissed, “What is the matter with you? Why are you behaving like a robot?”
Madeleine’s eyes widened in mock innocence. “I’m being perfectly nice.”
“That’s what’s so strange. Nice has no personality. You have personality. You’re nice, too, but why aren’t you sharing any of your stories or asking inappropriate questions or being too flirty or … being you?”
Madeleine put up her hands and pled ignorant. “I thought I was being me.”
“Why don’t you…” Like Edward? But he returned to the dining room in the middle of her question, so she softened her tone and course-corrected. “… let me get us another bottle of wine?”
“That would be lovely.”
Oh, if she never saw another sickly fake smile from her mother.
After Madeleine went home, as they cleared the table, Edward asked, “Did I say something to upset her? Was there a problem with the food?”
“The food was fantastic. You were fantastic.” She corked the last of the wine, resisting the temptation to guzzle it.
“Are you sure? Because I got the impression she didn’t like me. Maybe she thinks I’m not good enough for you. I sometimes wonder the same thing.”
His uneasy frown made her breath hitch. How dare Madeleine make him feel less than, unworthy. “Don’t say that. You’ve made me happier than I’ve been in years. You’re a great guy. And a phenomenal chef.”
“One who can’t even get his own restaurant off the ground. Who lets his girlfriend pay all the bills.” He set a stack of dirty plates back on the table and bowed his head.
“Hey, you will have your own restaurant one day. I keep telling you to cut your hours at the bistro so you can focus on that, because I believe in you. And I’m the one who refuses to let you pay the bills, remember?”
“You must let me contribute in some way, Oona. My parents didn’t raise me to take handouts, and I won’t allow myself to be a kept man.”
They settled on Edward’s buying and preparing food as his household contribution. He also pared down his work schedule, which allowed him time to write up a business plan, scout locations for his future restaurant, and meet with potential investors. Would he ask Oona to fund the venture? She hoped he’d wait until she offered; otherwise, it could put an immediate tarnish on their relationship and make her question if money was the root of Edward’s continued romantic interest.
In June, Madeleine got a boyfriend of her own: Nathan, a pharmacist at a small drugstore where she got her arthritis medication. Oona suggested a double date for them to get to know one another, but her mother said she preferred it be the three of them (“Nathan can be shy around new people”). Not the first time she’d excluded Edward, but Oona didn’t press the issue. Instead, she made lunch reservations for three at the River Café; with any luck, the stunning view of the Manhattan skyline across the Hudson would make up for any potential awkwardness.
It didn’t.
Madeleine and Nathan were a half hour late, by which time Oona had to bribe the hostess-slash-aspiring-model to keep their table, a mortifying exchange for both women. When the tardy couple finally arrived, Oona was irate and immediately suspicious at the sight of Nathan. Overgroomed was the first word that came to mind, from his slicked-back silver hair to his fake tan. The teeth were a little too white, the eyebrows too sculpted, the sides of his mustache and goatee too trimmed. Loud was the second word, from his purple shirt and pink tie—both silk—to his booming laugh to the cologne he’d doused himself with, which triggered a sneezing fit from the hostess. Once that subsided, there was another uncomfortable moment when she had to find him a suit jacket to wear because of the restaurant’s dress code. Madeleine was too captivated by the bouquets of flowers filling the front entrance to notice Nathan ogling the leggy hostess as she returned, but Oona noticed.
As he walked ahead of them, Oona turned to her mother. “I did tell you jackets were required for men.” A low singsong voice, teeth gritted.
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Madeleine replied.
“Pretty sure I did.”
Things only got worse when they sat down.