The Year Of Living Famously

I nodded.

“Interesting.” She patted the chair next to her. “Declan, move over here, won’t you?”

I groaned a little, but God love him, he crossed the room without hesitation and sat next to her. I remember thinking they looked lovely together: Emmie with her cap of ginger hair and her lined, pale face; Declan with his amused grin, his white teeth, his golden-brown eyes.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Emmie said.

“Christ, no. I’ll have one with you.” Out of his pocket, Declan pulled a red book of matches.

I left them alone for a moment. When I returned, Emmie was in her prime entertainer mode, telling the story of a dinner she’d had with Prince Charles when he was a teenager. Declan’s quirky, rolling laugh filled the room. He cracked a joke about the royal family “splitting heirs.”

Emmie laughed and clapped her hands. Then she gave me a little bow of her head. Declan had been accepted.

When cocktail hour arrived (5:30 p.m., sharp, for Emmie), she whisked the tea tray away and brought out a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.

“To Declan,” she said, raising her glass, “and the success of his film.”

Declan beamed. We all touched glasses.

Two hours and another bottle of champagne later, Declan and I left Emmie’s apartment. It was dark already, in that strange, sudden way that darkness falls when you’ve been drinking in the late afternoon.

“She’s fantastic,” Declan said. His hand was in mine again, and we were walking up Madison. We were moving in the direction of my apartment, although we hadn’t planned anything yet.

“I’m glad you like her,” I said.

“Now don’t get me wrong, here. She doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

I sneaked a sideways glance at him. “Is that right?”

There was a second’s pause, during which we kept walking, both of us looking straight ahead. “I don’t mean to give you a fright saying that,” Declan said. “I’m not usually like this, you see?”

Have I already said that I was smiling so much that afternoon? It seemed I couldn’t drag that grin off my lips, and right then it became wider. “Sure, I see,” I said.

Another pause. Declan held my hand tighter. “Where are we going?”

We’d reached my apartment by then. Without a word, I tugged him toward the door.

“Yeah?” he said, looking up at my brick building.

“Yeah,” I said.

Afterward, when we were lying in bed, he stared at my face. How strange to be studied like that, when there hadn’t been a man in my bed for so long, but how amazing to be there next to him. It was simply right.

“What kind of name is Felis?” he said, surprising me. I thought he was working up to something sexier.

“It’s Puerto Rican. My father was from there. My mother was Irish.” I said this proudly, though I’d never been to Ireland or even Puerto Rico, and I knew so little about my heritage.

“Thank God you’re half-Irish! Now I can marry you,” he said in a jokey tone.

His words sent a zing up my spine—terror and thrill in equal parts.

The next morning, Declan slept later than me, and when he came into the kitchen, he found me standing naked at the counter, eating my normal breakfast—pickles and peanuts.

“Nude breakfast?” he said.

I nodded. He growled in return.

“Christ, what’s this?” he said, walking to the counter. He glanced down at the two jars side by side. I had a small serving of peanuts poured into a cap. The pickles I pulled out one by one.

“Breakfast, just like you said.”

“What happened to oatmeal and runny eggs and slabs of bacon?”

“You must be thinking of breakfast in Dublin. But what you’re seeing here is the perfect start to a morning.” I picked up the jar of pickles and waved my hand under it like a game-show hostess. “Vegetables,” I proclaimed. Then I lifted the peanuts, and with the same underwave, said, “Protein.”

“You can get vegetables and protein by having tomatoes and eggs.”

“Ah,” I said, popping a peanut in my mouth, “but those foods only keep for a week or two. Meanwhile, my breakfast foods last for months.”

“You mean you eat this every day?”

“Pretty much.” I offered him a pickle.

It snapped as he took a bite. “You’re fecking weird,” he said between chews. “And I like it.”

chapter 5

To: Kyra Felis

From: Margaux Hutters

Hey, girl, what’s up with no return phone calls? Don’t you love me anymore? Wait, don’t tell me—you’re still running around with that actor. I thought he was leaving after a month or two. Hmm. Well, do tell, because I’m so bored. Peter is away again on a trial in Delaware, and he doesn’t even know when it will end. Work is painfully dull. Meanwhile, Manuel, my massage therapist, still wants to help me “relieve more tension,” if you know what I mean. And I’m starting to consider taking him up on that offer.

To: Margaux Hutters

From: Kyra Felis

Don’t you dare sleep with your massage therapist! You are married, for Pete’s sake (pun definitely intended). And, yes, Declan is still in town. I’m sorry I haven’t been calling you back. He’s consumed me. You liked him when you met him, right?

To: Kyra Felis

From: Margaux Hutters

Of course I liked him! What’s not to like about that sexy accent and that cute butt of his? It must be so glamorous, hanging out on a movie set. Maybe you’ll be discovered. Speaking of which, did you hear from the catalog that was considering buying your trumpet skirts?

To: Margaux Hutters

From: Kyra Felis