Ghosts Of Boyfriends Past

by Carly Alexander

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

First She Wanted Naughty... Madison Greenwood's first post-college Christmas is more Sex and the City than It's a Wonderful Life. Sure, she does the home-for-the-holidays thing, but with her cynical gay pal Leo tagging along, her mom confessing to an extramarital affair, and every guy she ever dated (or lusted after) in high school beating a hot path to her front door, the movie of her life is anything but G-rated. Still, a girl's got to sow her wild oats while she can, right? ...Then She Wanted Nice... Five years later, Madison's more interested in nesting than sowing, and the Christmas of her twenty-sixth year finds her looking forward to the gift of a proposal. Her Scottish boyfriend, Ian, is picture-perfect...in an impressionistic sort of way. The idea of him--his looks, his career, his to-die-for accent--fuels fantasies of home, hearth, and a whole new life across the Pond. Too bad the reality is a sham. A married sham. ...Now All She Wants For Christmas Is The Real Thing By the ripe old age of thirty-one, Madison would like to believe she's learned something about relationships. About what she really wants, and what she sure as hell doesn't need.  As the holidays roll around once more, she's grateful, as always, for the blessing of good friends, but lonely for that one special person. The one she might just find under the mistletoe the minute she stops looking...

Release date: October 1, 2003

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

As our plane touched down in San Francisco, I nudged my bud Leo. He was tuned into his Walkman, tuned out from the roar of the reverse thrust engines, probably trying to escape the fact that he was headed off for a family vacation with his straight friend.

I leaned closer and pulled one earphone away from his ear to see what he was listening to. The low groan of the singer from Crash Test Dummies told me it was the “Mmm Song.”

“Cut it out, nosey,” Leo said, slapping my hand away.

“You know, before we get back we have to make a decision on the roommate thing.”

“I’ve already decided,” Leo said. “We’ll run an ad while we’re gone and start interviewing when you get back in January.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a control freak?”

“No. Never. Shut up and restore your tray table to its upright position.”

“But what about Sugar?” I said. “I thought we were going to talk about how she might fit in.” Sugar was one of my best friends, and it just so happened that she needed a place while Leo and I were looking to fill the third bedroom of our new apartment.

“Ebony‘s answer to Scarlett O’Hara?” Leo frowned. “Not sure I can stand all that Southern charm dripping over the kitchen counter.”

“Sugar is my friend.”

“That’s your right, but I don’t have to live with her.”

We’ll see about that, I thought, letting the subject drop. One thing about Leo, you don’t want him to dig his heels in on something. He can be so stubborn. I’d have to give him time, and it wouldn’t hurt to soften his resolve with a little of the traditional Greenwood Christmas cheer. “This is going to be a blast,” I said. “My mom really knows how to do Christmas.”

“Stop, you’re scaring me.” He adjusted the earphones and closed his eyes. “Not to burst your bubble, Madison, but has anyone ever told you there is no Santa Claus? No elves to fill your stocking? And since we’ll be in San Francisco, there will be no snow for Christmas, thank God.”

“Do you get off on being a deconstructionalist?” I asked him, wowing him with what I’d learned in Philosophy 201, one of the few things I’d learned in that class. I wasn’t the best student Columbia had ever enrolled, and now I could thank my lucky stars that school days were behind me.

“Bah humbug.”

“Go on, be a Scrooge,” I said. “Mom and I will win you over.”

“Just don’t ask me to do midnight mass,” he said. “And promise me you won’t even put me in the same room with that wretched fruitcake.”

I wasn’t sure if the fruitcake referred to my mother, the Christmas Freak, or the actual candied cake, but either way, I wasn’t going to push him. I had worked hard to get Leo here, and I figured it was best to just let him settle in and enjoy. He’d spent the last month mooning over his old boyfriend, Jordan, who had stuck with Leo through college only to leave him on graduation day for an older man with a fabulous job and a big apartment on Riverside Drive. That’s the thing about men; they’re always quick to trade you in for a flashier model, and that’s something a woman does so rarely. A girl hangs on to her guy through thick and thin, defending him when his boss disses him and when his buds argue with him and when his mother keeps buying him those tight Fruit-of-the-Loom grundies he used to wear in junior high. Damn it, we go to the mat for our men, and for what? So that they can use us as a stepping stone to the next gorgeous woman? Don’t get me started!

Okay, maybe I was in a semi-rant because I’d been suffering a dry spell. Ever since I’d started at Columbia my luck with men had gone bad. I kept telling myself it was New York guys, with their dark hair and dry humor and self-absorption, bumping past you on the street without an apology and flipping open their New York Times in a restaurant without caring who they offended. Rude boys. Back in California I’d encountered guys who were lacking in the manners department, but none who offended with such a brazen sense of entitlement.

Maybe that’s why I fell for Hugh Paddington. Yes, the Hugh Paddington, legendary poet and Editor-at-Large for Skyscraper magazine. I’ve been working there as an assistant editor since I finished my course work, and although it is probably the coolest magazine to ever hit the east coast, my job is distinctly uncool. Photocopying, answering phones, redirecting calls to our subscription service. Occasionally an editor will throw me a bone and give me some fact checking. Big whoop.

It’s a totally stupid job, and the biggest irony of all is that it’s considered to be a plum position for journalism students. I mean, you need an Ivy League degree or a reference from a big shot (both of which I had) to get this job. And for what? For Drucie-the-giant from production to tell you that you’re a slow reader and you missed a syntax error?

But don’t get me started on the hierarchy of suppression in publishing. Even though I’d majored in humanities, it was totally the wrong job for me. I mean, I didn’t even graduate with my class because I couldn’t finish writing the goddamned senior thesis, that fierce, festering editorial canker that oozed new errors and became riddled with warty queries every time I handed it in to my advisor. But don’t get me started on the sore spot of my overdue thesis, which I’d finally turned in two weeks ago. Writing that thing nearly killed me, and yet somehow I was working for a magazine, being groomed for a position as an editor/writer. How could I have landed in such an ill-suited position?

Parents. Robin and Dr. G. were going to make sure their little darling lapped up all their juicy connections. Thousands of miles away, and still they meddled. Thank God for my friends. Like Leo.

Anyway, I’d spent the past month bugging Leo about coming home with me. “You can’t be alone for Christmas!” I had insisted over and over again. “That would be so wrong! Come back to San Francisco with me. My parents have a huge house we can knock around in, and it’s a fabulous city.”

He just kept making noises about how he couldn’t imagine Christmas without Jordan, and how he couldn’t face his bossy dysfunctional mother, and how the turkey special at the diner would be just fine. Pulllease! I wasn’t about to let him play the martyr. I finally got Leo to commit at my company Christmas party. Leo was my escort that night since I needed a date so that I didn’t look incredibly hopeless, and I needed a date to ward off Hugh, who was still making noises about getting together even though I kept assuring him that we had no chemistry.

The party was held at Top of the Sixes, a posh bar at 666 Fifth Avenue, and Christmas spirit was flowing nearly as fast as the champagne, courtesy of Skyscraper magazine, my employer. It was the only way I could currently afford coldies at a place like this, being twenty-one, working for slave wages, and in the process of finishing my senior thesis. Did I mention how relieved I was to be through with school?

Anyway, Leo and I stood by the windows, having a Nick and Nora moment as we gazed out at the handsome buildings that filled the majestic grid, finally giving way to the trees and browning grass of Central Park. Leo looked totally suave in his dark jacket and red silk tie. I knew the other girls from the office were salivating over him, if they weren’t picking up on the undercurrent of gayness. Leo is tall and lean, with thoughtful green eyes that make you want to swell up and spill your life story to him.

“Have you decided what you’re doing for the holidays?” I asked him.

“I will carefully avoid all familial events, and certainly drink heavily.”

“I think you should go with me,” I prodded.

“I think you should have another martini, darling.”

“I’m having a whiskey sour,” I said.

“A beginner’s drink,” he said. “Leave out the lemonade, take two aspirin, and call me in the morning.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. I’m not backing off, Leo. Not until you promise to spend Christmas with my parents and me.”

“I don’t do parents well,” Leo said. “They always have issues. They either want to undo my body piercings or marry me off to their daughters.”

“My parents aren’t like that,” I insisted, hoping it was true. Well, I knew that my mother wasn’t that way, and my father, a surgeon, always spent so much time at the hospital that he wouldn’t be a factor. “Oh, come with me, Leo. We’ll have a blast! We’ll bake cookies and have lots of coldies in cool West Coast bars. You can’t spend the holidays moping about Jordan.”

“I’m not moping,” he insisted sternly. “I’m having the time of my life, darling.”

I noticed the way his brow creased, which always happened when he was lying. We’d been together all through college, and we knew each other well. He was my best friend, especially since we didn’t have to deal with issues of sex or competition. “Just say yes,” I prodded.

“You just don’t get it, Dr. Ruth. I want to be alone, to wallow in self-pity, to rent videos of pathetic old movies. Cry in my microwave popcorn. This is my Christmas of mourning.”

“Oh, pulllease. Jordan isn’t dead. He’s probably peering through opera glasses in a box at the Met with his big daddy, even as we speak.”

Leo winced. “You are ruthless.”

I nodded. “Totally ruthless. I have to confirm my flight reservations tomorrow, and you know what? I’m going to book you a seat.”

He smiled at me. “You are not.”

“Dare me?”

He lifted the little sword of olives out of his glass. “Like that would stop you.”

“Good. Consider it done, then.” I lifted my whiskey sour in a toast. “Here’s to a great Christmas in San Fran.”

“I hate you,” he said, toasting me back.

“You so do not!” I said joyously, realizing that people were admiring us—and why not? We really were a striking couple, silhouetted by the glass windows and darkening sky. And who was watching? The girls from copywriting? The gang from layout? My boss, Ms. Macy Gramble, the beautiful bottle-blonde pasted together by Valium and bountiful compliments of gentleman callers?

Or Hugh. Where was he, anyway? I shot a glance over at the bar and located him in a cloud of people. Hugh could be a total pip at a party. He was the quintessential storyteller, and he knew tons of celebrities and prestigious writers. That was the good Hugh, the Hugh I would have loved to be with tonight, posing as his arm candy.

Yes, I wasn’t beyond selling myself short to be in his entourage. When you’re with Hugh, celebrities come up to you and talk to you as if you really matter. And then you become a celebrity by association.

Hell’s bells, I even thought I was going to get a promotion out of him. I mean, he sort of alluded to it. “You have much to learn if you want to get ahead in this business,” he used to say. Other times, he would look at me and sigh. “I see I have my work cut out with you, Madison. Youth is a gift wasted on the young.” I know it sounds schoolmarmish, but Hugh has a way of delivering lines like a Shakespearean actor. Witty, funny, self-deprecating ... Hugh Paddington is the man you want to be with.

Until the lights are out.

That’s when I was reminded, in most graphic details, that I was dating a man who is, like, forty years older than I am. I mean, I’m twenty-one and he’s like . . . I don’t even know, but his body sags in places you can’t even imagine, and despite all his whimsical talk and charisma, he has zero magic under the sheets.

“I can tell you’re thinking about him,” Leo said. “Is he here? Where? Tell me.”

I raised my head and cocked an eyebrow at the bar, trying to appear regal. “He’s at the bar with his posse.”

Leo gracefully sipped his martini as he eyed the party crowd. “Tweedy blazer and bow tie? You know, he could be my type.”

“No, no, the one in the dark suit. Dark suit, silver hair.”

“Très petit.” Leo seemed perplexed. “How could such a little man cause you such major concern?”

“Just promise me you won’t let me out of your sight tonight,” I said. “No matter how many coldies I consume.”

“Sure thing. Which reminds me, we need a refill.” He took my glass, still staring toward the bar. “But refresh my memory, how bad was the sex? I mean, you’d think that with that much life experience, the guy should know a few tricks.”

“The sex was lacking,” I said, trying to sum up without having to revisit the whole, ugly affair. “He . . . I don’t know if the sex was really the problem. He’s so damned persuasive, he had a way of making me go for it. Plus he helped me with a pitch. He backed me up in front of everyone in the editorial meeting.”

“And you thought a round of nookie would pay him back for his editorial services?”

“I hate you,” I told Leo. “And him. Why am I looking at him?” I turned away from the bar.

Leo lifted his drink, assessing Hugh over my shoulder. “He’s not so bad.”

I lowered my voice. “But his body is so old. Once you’ve seen a flabby ass puddling like vanilla pudding on your office desk, you’re happy to do a few extra minutes on the Stairmaster.”

“Okay, then, why don’t I get those drinks.” He headed toward the bar, turning back to me to murmur, “That’s enough to put me off pudding for a long time.”

Leo’s exit left me thinking of the one person I was trying to banish from my mind. I’m still trying to forget that first night, when he took me out to dinner and invited me in for coffee at his apartment. He had poured two glasses of brandy, which I hate, and told me to follow him as he led the way into the bedroom. Hugh isn’t a bad kisser, and before I could say “Oh, you old perv!” my shirt was unbuttoned and I’d tugged off my camisole. “You’re so beautiful,” he told me as he ran a hand over my bare shoulder and down, down over my breasts. He stroked my chest and tummy, which wasn’t an uncomfortable sensation, but then he plucked at my nipples, causing me to let out a yelp.

“What the hell are you doing?” I said.

“We’re going to make love,” he said into my cheek, and I could smell the brandy on his breath. I wanted to tell him that, yes, I knew we were going to have sex. What was I, an idiot? I mean, two people half-naked in a bed . . . You do the math. But that nipple tweaking just about iced me over.

“I’m not into S and M,” I said.

“Such a clever girl,” he said, kissing my neck. “Too bright for your own good. Don’t you see that I’m trying to turn you on?”

And it was almost working. I felt a little tug of desire as his fingers slid down between my legs. The man seemed to know his way around a vagina, at least. He slid his hand in my panties and drummed a little beat down there. I know it sounds weird, but it was sort of ticklish and exciting at the same time.

Yes, it was working. I could feel myself warming to him. I pressed myself into his hand, wanting more. How long had it been since I’d had sex? This was only the second time in New York, and ... Oh, damn! He pulled his hand away.

“Hey, I was liking that,” I said.

But he was already positioning himself on top of me, trying to fit his thing in with all the finesse of a carpenter lining up a bolt.

And then he was pumping away, in and out, breathing heavy, making me wonder if his heart was going to burst. Which was never a worry while I was going at it with any other boyfriend.

That was when I knew it was over, before it had ever really started. As Hugh nailed me in his musty bed, I stared at the ceiling and found myself wondering when he’d had it painted last. Which is not a good thing to be doing when you’re supposed to be rising to the big O.

After that, I somehow repeated my mistake a handful of times, which is typical of me since I’m always looking on the bright side and telling myself things weren’t as bad as they seemed (and usually I am so wrong). Besides, I didn’t know how to turn down someone so overwhelmingly engaging. So I went to dinner with him again, and we ended up back at his place with me hoping that the sex would go better the second time. (Again, so wrong!)

So even though I knew there was no future for us, I kept getting sucked in when Hugh would support my pitch in an editorial meeting, or take me along on a power lunch with a famous author, or offer to read my thesis. For a while we settled into this sort of business relationship in which I’d be his cute office pal and he’d be my mentor, which was fine with me, until sex came into play. Once, while I was in his office going over some queries, he closed his door and slipped off his shoes and told me he couldn’t live without me. Can you believe it? This guy was a charmer, I’ll give him that.

“You’re kidding,” I told him.

“My dear, you are the essence of springtime in the autumn of my life,” he said.

“Really?” I smiled nervously. I was flattered, even though I knew it was a crock. But I didn’t have the nerve to call Hugh on his embellishment—I never did. The student does not question the master.

That afternoon in the office, I have to admit, I wanted to do it with him. The danger of someone coming in was sort of a turn-on for me, and as I lifted my skirt and pulled my panties aside, I wondered again if a relationship between Hugh and me could work out. I mean, I wanted to be one of the planets in Hugh’s orbit. Ever since the day he first defended my pitch in an editorial meeting, everyone had looked at me with a little more respect, a little bit of awe. Besides, men never really bothered much with me in my years at Columbia, and now, here I was, Hugh’s girl, the rising young ingenue at Skyscraper.

I wanted to be wanted by someone important. I wanted to ride on the wave of his vast reputation.

But I also wanted a guy who could heat me up and make me shriek with delight, and on that level Hugh could not deliver. Christ, you’d think that after such a long dry spell I’d be happy to have any guy touching me. But Hugh was fast and methodical with his sexual ministrations, and no amount of skill was going to gloss over the fact that his body repulsed me. Yes, my dreams of being Hugh’s girl faded that afternoon as I watched him tuck his wrinkly, pink thing into his pants.

Okay, so I let it happen once more one night at the office when I was working late fact checking a story, and Hugh sauntered in with a glass of sherry for me. I sipped the sherry but gave him a shrug when he said something about us working late together. I didn’t meet his eyes, but I didn’t stop him when he ran his hand up under my skirt and dipped into the waistband of my tights.

That one I really regretted, mostly because I do not usually have sex with someone if there’s no potential for a relationship. With me, as with most girls, so much of the euphoria of a relationship is wrapped up in the emotional appeal of a person. It’s about wanting to connect with the guy, wanting a deeper, more intimate connection than a kiss.

I knew it wasn’t there for Hugh and me. Why didn’t I stop him?

The next day, when copy about date rape landed on my desk, I spent a good half hour feeling sorry for myself. I hadn’t wanted it, and he’d pressured me, and I just felt lousy about it. But by the time I’d marked up the copy, I’d made a few resolutions: I was not going to use sex to get a promotion at work, and I was not going to sleep with Hugh Paddington again.

Which may be a long way to go to explain why it was so important that Leo accompany me to that party and protect me from the lascivious Hugh, who, by the way, breezed past us and said a bright, genuine hello, then headed off with Sebastian Lavor, the magazine’s publisher. And all the time my heart was beating like a rabbit because I wanted to be noticed by Hugh but I didn’t want to be snagged by him, which doesn’t really make any sense at all when you think about it.

In any case, it was at that party that Leo agreed to join me for Christmas, and now, looking over at Leo, I suffered a pang of anxiety, worrying that he would be disappointed. I mean, I always loved San Francisco at Christmastime, but what if my enthusiasm didn’t rub off on my skeptical friend?

The flight attendant was making the perfunctory announcements about staying in your seat, blah-blah-blah, but people were already up and rooting through the overhead compartments. Leo handed me my leather jacket and carry-on bag, which I slung over my shoulder.

“This is going to be the best Christmas ever,” I told him.

With a deadpan expression, he said: “ ‘God bless us, every one.’”

“I’m glad you two are here in time to help me decorate the tree,” my mother said. “I’ve baked the cookies but held off so you can help me with the icing, which is so time-intensive. And before I forget, I’ve signed you up for tonight’s lamplight tour of Pacific Heights.” Did I mention that my mother is a Christmas freak?

“Sounds good.” I couldn’t help but smile as I snuggled into the backseat. Home for Christmas. What’s not to like?

Leo reached up to ping the jingle bells hanging from the rearview mirror of Mom’s BMW, but ended up slapping the dashboard as Mom swung wide on the freeway. Leo had seemed pleased when I’d given up the front seat, but I’m no fool. Nineteen years of watching my mother’s car eat up asphalt had cured me of wanting a front-row seat.

“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the symphony last week,” Mom said, flashing a look at me in the rearview mirror.

“Uh . . . no, who?”

“Just Mr. Brophy from the high school. He’s still the principal, and he wants you to come to the school to speak to the students about publishing.”

“Mom, I’m just an assistant editor.”

“At one of the hottest magazines on the East Coast!” Mom said, beaming with pride. “I told him you would squeeze it in before you head back in January. You are staying on for awhile, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” I said. “Leo needs to head back after Christmas, but I’ll be here.” The Skycraper offices were closed until the second week of January, and I was taking some vacation time. I’d been looking forward to holing up at home, eating for free, and heading out for a few shopping sprees with Mom’s credit cards in my pocket. My father is an incurable cheapskate, but Mom has figured out ways to overcome that. She just says Dad was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and he worries that if he opens up too much, he might drop it.

As the graceful San Francisco skyline rose before us, Mom chattered on about plans for our family’s traditional Christmas Eve bash. She was working closely with the caterer, she was making all her own desserts this year, she had melted wax into tiny molds in the shape of pine trees, she had acquired eclectic decorations from far and wide to trim the old Victorian house. “Gold, silver, lavender, and white,” she was saying. “Those are my colors. I’m keeping it simple this year, and quite tasteful.” The BMW’s tires screeched as she pulled into the driveway of the tall, twisting gingerbread house I called home.

Mom got out, slammed the door, and popped the trunk. “Oh, geez,” she said, checking her watch. “You two had better toss your things inside and wash up. You don’t want to be late for the lamplight tour.” She slung one of Leo’s totes over her shoulder, then hiked up the stairs to the house.

When Mom was out of sight, Leo turned to me. “Is she always this bossy?”

I felt myself bristling. “What do you mean? The lamplight tour is fantastic. She just doesn’t want us to miss it.”

“And the party details . . . white and silver? It sounds like she’s planning a wedding.”

“Ha! Fat chance of that, especially with all the action I’ve seen lately.”

“You’re right,” Leo said as he lugged his suitcase up the steps. “Maybe it’s good that she has a party-planning outlet. You’re not getting to the altar anytime soon.”

“All right, already! Do you have to pour salt on the wound?”

Leo just laughed and bumped his suitcase onto the porch.

As I stepped into the old house, a magnificent building painted lavender with dark purple trim, I walked into a swirl of old feelings and memories: the soapy smell of the marble floors in the front vestibule, the laughing gingerbread trim along the rising staircase, the cozy, round turret room where I’d lost my virginity one weekend when my parents had been away at a medical conference. I had to resist the urge to drop everything in the hall and plotz on the couch with a bowl of ramen noodles and the remote in hand.

But Mom would have none of that.

“Better take those bags right upstairs,” she said with all the flexibility of a drill sergeant. “You’ll want to freshen up and head out. The tour starts at Pacific and Van Ness, and it includes a few of the grand old mansions. I hear the Wedding Ho. . .