CHAPTER 15
Joe
A few nights after the paparazzi busted Cate leaving my apartment, I went to dinner with my cousin Peter, his fiancée, Genevieve, and Berry. I’d invited Cate to join us, but she’d turned me down—for the third day in a row—alluding to not wanting a repeat of the paparazzi incident.
“So, who’s the latest model?” Berry asked me just after our drinks were brought to the table. It was the first time I’d ever kept her in the dark about anything significant in my life, and I wasn’t even sure why I had, other than a general feeling of protectiveness toward Cate. This question confirmed my instinct—and I felt annoyed.
“I thought you didn’t read the Post?” I said.
“I don’t. It’s trash,” she said. “I saw it over someone’s shoulder on the subway.”
“Likely story,” I said as Peter and Genevieve listened with amused expressions. “Just admit it—you stalk me.”
“You wish,” Berry said, taking a sip of her wine. “So…what’s the deal? Is it just a fling?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not ‘just a fling.’ As a matter of fact, I’ve been seeing her for two months.”
“Wow. Two whole months?”
“Yes,” I said, ignoring her sarcasm. “Exclusively.”
“Aww,” Genevieve said in her usual sweet voice. “Good for you, Joey.”
“Okay,” Berry said. “So. Tell us about her.”
“Her name’s Cate Cooper,” I said, overcome with the warm, tingly feeling that Cate always gave me. “She’s amazing.”
Berry stared back at me and said, “Where did you meet?”
“In the Hamptons.” I hesitated and then said, “She’s the one you told me not to date.”
“I did?” Berry said.
“Yeah. About a year ago. I met her while she was working on the beach. Remember?”
“Oh. Yeah. That model.”
“Former model. She retired.”
“And what does she do now?”
“She works with Wilbur Swift.”
“Who?” Berry said.
“Wilbur Swift, the fashion designer?” Genevieve said.
I nodded.
“Never heard of him,” Berry said.
Genevieve filled Berry in. “You’d love his stuff. His designs are so clean and minimalistic.” She turned to Peter and said, “You know that navy dress I have with the white piping?”
“The one you wore to Laura’s shower?” he said, referring to our cousin’s baby shower—which was months ago. It was so Peter to keep track of such details.
Genevieve nodded, looking proud of her attentive fiancé.
With Wilbur now legitimized, I shot Berry a smug smile, then turned in my chair, kicking one leg out to the side of the table and pointing down at my loafer. “These are Wilbur driving mocs. Soft as butter. My new favorites. Anyway. Cate is Wilbur’s right-hand woman…. She has impeccable style—and she’s just really…cool,” I said, wishing I had the words to capture her essence. “And yes, she sold me these.”
Berry nodded, then said, “Interesting. So, where’d she go to college?”
I stared at her and shook my head. “Look, Berry. I know what you’re doing here, and I’m not going for it,” I said.
“What?” she said, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Can you stop being a snob for, like, one second?”
“I am not a snob,” she said, truly believing what she was saying. “I’m just asking basic questions. It’s pretty standard to ask where someone went to college.”
“Nah. Good try. That’s a coded, elitist question. And you know it. You sound like my mother,” I said, getting worked up. I looked at Peter and said, “Doesn’t she?”
Always the diplomat, Peter shrugged and said, “Oh, I don’t know, Joe. She’s just asking where the girl went to school. It’s not like she asked what country club she belongs to—or what her father does for a living.”
“Yeah. For real, Joe,” Berry said. “What should I be asking you?”
“I don’t know—stuff like…what we like to do together. Whether she’s nice.”
“Oh, I know what you like to do together,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And so does everyone else who reads the Post. But I’ll play along. Is she nice?”
I smiled, shook my head, and said, “Actually? No. Not especially.”
Genevieve laughed and said, “Wait. Seriously?”
“Well, she’s not a bitch or anything…but she’s not one of those overly nicey-nice girls. She’s not fake. Nothing about Cate is fake.”
Berry raised her eyebrows and said, “Nothing? A model without a boob job?”
I shook my head and said, “Okay, Ber. Now you’re just being a bitch.”
“Okay, sorry,” Berry said, her expression softening a bit. “When can we meet her?”
“Only when I can trust you to be polite to her,” I said.
“I’m always polite!”
I resisted the urge to remind her about Nicole—and some of the other times she’d been less than pleasant with women I liked—and said, “We also have to get through this initial paparazzi situation.”
“Meaning what?” Peter said.
“Meaning she just got stalked and is now a little skittish…. Cate hates drama.”
“And she’s dating you?” Peter laughed. “Good luck with that, man.”
“Exactly,” Berry said. “And also, fun fact: women who go around saying they hate drama secretly love drama.”
“That’s pretty accurate, actually,” Genevieve said.
“Well, tell me, Ber,” I said. “Do you hate drama?”
“You know I do,” she said, walking right into my trap, as I knew she would.
“So then—you actually secretly love it?”
“No,” Berry said. “But here’s the difference. I don’t go around dating the world’s most famous bachelor and then complaining when my picture is in the paper. And you’ll forgive me if I don’t entirely buy that a model—or a former model, whatever—hates photographers and attention.”
Peter frowned, then said to Berry, “I have to agree with Joe on this one. You can’t assume she loves drama or attention because of her former profession—or because she’s dating Joe.”
“Exactly! As hard as it might be for you to believe, Berry…Cate is actually dating me despite my name…and stuff like this, right here, is why she didn’t want to join us.”
“You invited her?” Berry said, looking surprised.
“Of course I invited her. She’s my girlfriend. I’m falling in love with her,” I blurted out, my heart racing.
“Whoa!” Peter said, moving his chair back with exaggerated surprise, then looking at the girls. “Did you hear what the world’s most eligible bachelor just said?”
“I sure did,” Genevieve said, clasping her hands and bringing them to her heart. “Do you mean that, Joe?”
Without flinching, I said yes, then looked right at Berry. “And I’m going to need you to trust me—and give her the benefit of the doubt for a change.”
Berry stared back at me for a few seconds, then asked, “How serious is this? Is she…marriage material?”
I took a sip of my wine and answered a different question than the one she seemed to be asking. “Well, if by ‘marriage material,’ you mean someone I can see myself marrying?…Then the answer is yes,” I said. “She absolutely is.”
—
The following morning my mother called, playing dumb, waiting for me to tell her the news that she obviously had already heard from Berry. I played dumb right back, forcing her hand.
“Oh. And I hear you’re in love?” she finally said after some small talk. Her tone was neutral, but I knew better.
“Yep. Seems that way,” I said, bristling.
“And she works in fashion?”
“Yes,” I said. “She has incredible style. She works with Wilbur Swift. You know him, right?”
“Vaguely,” she said. “So, Joseph, would you say she is more like Phoebe or Margaret?”
I bit my tongue—and not figuratively—then said, “I’m not sure I understand that question, Mom. She’s not like either of them. She’s her own person.” I paused, then added, “Like we all are.”
“Yes,” my mother said. “I suppose that’s true…. Well. When can I meet her?”
“Soon,” I said.
“How soon?”
“As soon as I convince her that her life won’t suck with me in it,” I said. Then I told my mother that I really had to go.