Inwood Hill Park may seem an odd place for a first date, but Mark and I both grew up in the country. We picnicked and agreed that, while this wasn’t countryside, you could at least smell the earth rather than gasoline.
I was thrilled by Mark’s job as a Wall Street trader, and he seemed fascinated by the celebs I interviewed for ‘Vogue’.
We were an ideal match. We soon married, and I went part-time to be a home-maker.
And it worked, it really did. For fifteen years we loved and cherished, and raised a couple of kids.
And then, abruptly, it didn’t work anymore. Was it really Mark’s affair that drove us apart? Was I really the ‘over-critical bitch from hell’? Whatever. We divorced.
I buried him last week. He was only fifty. How I wish we’d not chased the perfect but enjoyed the good while we had it.