Best Friends & Other Liars

by Heather Balog

  I can’t believe that a mere forty-eight hours ago my marriage was rock solid—okay maybe not rock solid, but divorce was definitely not on my radar—and now I am facing the possibility of a divorce. And I’m ironically already on a divorce cruise! What are the odds? It’s almost like Leah had been able to see the future or something when she booked this cruise.

  Not that Leah had ever liked Richard.

  We met Richard when Leah threw up in his cab. It wasn’t actually his cab, like he was the cab driver or anything. He had been standing on the corner hailing a cab at one in the morning, when we stumbled out of Club A in Hoboken and practically knocked him over to get in the cab before he could claim it for himself. Well, Leah did anyway. I tried to tell her that I thought the cab had been his, but she was so intoxicated it would have been like rationalizing with a two-year-old who wanted to taste a penny that she’s holding in her hand. The two-year-old is gonna stick the penny in her mouth, and likewise, Leah is also gonna do what she wants.

  So the day we “stole” Richard’s cab, I was too busy trying to shove Leah’s drunk body into it to notice that Richard had calmly opened the passenger side door and climbed in. The driver was pulling away from the curb, asking “where to?” when I heard a male voice answer and I nearly peed my pants.

  “I’m sorry...sir?” I had said politely, as I tapped on the glass partition. “I’m just trying to get my friend home as quickly as possible before she—”

  At that very moment, Leah proceeded to vomit all over the backseat of the cab. She drank several margaritas that evening, and the smell of puke lime had stayed with me for quite a while after that. To this day I can’t even look at a lime margarita without the overwhelming desire to throw up.

  The cab driver let out a groan. I had a feeling he wanted to dump her on the next corner before she did any more damage to his cab.

  “Well, I think we should definitely get her home as soon as possible,” Richard had said, without even turning around.

  We pulled up to our off campus apartment and I jumped out of the backseat, dragging Leah by her jean jacket lapels. I dug in my purse for money while Leah rolled around on the sidewalk in front of the apartment.

  “I’ve got this,” Richard said, suddenly standing next to me, his hand covering mine. He pulled a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the cab driver. I later found out that it was a hundred dollar bill, which was quite generous for the two mile drive. I stared up at him, just then getting my first real look at the man I would later call my husband. He was pretty good looking—not good looking in a frat boy sort of way, but good looking in a sophisticated way—like George Clooney.

  “Um, what?” I remember stammering.

  “It’s all taken care of. Now let me help you get her inside.”

  I gawked at him for a second, my brain screaming out all the caveats my parents had instilled in me when I went to college to begin with. Don’t get in cars with strange men (done), don’t take money from strange men (kind of done), don’t let strange men into your apartment.

  I was about to open my mouth and politely decline his offer of help when I heard a strange noise. I looked back down at my best friend sprawled out on the sidewalk to discover that she was asleep. And snoring.

  Shaking my head with frustration, I gazed toward the steep stairs that led up to our second floor apartment. There were sixteen steps in all—I knew that because I did the laundry for both of us and I had to carry the laundry baskets up and down those same sixteen steps, plus the seven steps that led to the basement where the washer and dryer was housed. To be fair, Leah did do the grocery shopping and had to carry the bags up those same steps every week. Well, no, actually, she rarely did that. She usually got John, the pre-med geek that lived in the downstairs apartment to carry them up for her with the promise of a drink or a date…which she never fulfilled. Poor John is probably to this day still dreaming of petting Leah’s hair and bringing home a nice Jewish girl to his mother.

  At any rate, I knew Leah was going to be difficult to get up those steps. As I nervously chewed the ends of my hair and contemplated my predicament, I noticed that John’s light was on in the downstairs apartment. He was probably studying. As pathetic as that was on a Saturday night, John being home was a huge relief. Not that that skinny kid could have ever hoisted Leah up the stairs (as much as he would have loved to try)—but at least if I screamed for help, he most likely would hear and be able to call 911.

  “Um, thanks,” I said to Richard. He tossed Leah over his shoulder effortlessly, and before I knew it, we were at the top of the stairs and I was awkwardly digging through my purse for the keys.

  Should I just have him leave her here or should I let him in to put her down some place...like her bed?

  In the end, I didn’t have to wonder about it because I opened the door and Richard marched right past me to lay Leah down on the couch.

  “Thanks,” I said to him, tossing my purse and the keys onto the kitchen counter. My can of mace rolled out and I snatched it up into my hand, my eyes widening as I caught him looking at it.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said with a smile. “I just wanted to make sure the girls who stole my cab got home safely.”

  I remember my blush spreading to the tips of my ears. “I’m sorry about that. Here, let me give you some money—” I reached for my purse again, but this time, Richard grabbed my wrist.

  It was then that I realized I had closed the front door, trapping me and Leah in our own apartment with this strange guy. My mind raced. How can I let John know I need his help? Should I stomp on the floor? Will he hear me and realize I’m in distress, or will he think Leah is dancing or something? If I scream, will it be loud enough?

  “No need to pay me back with money,” Richard had said suavely, his violet-like eyes drawing me in. I almost laughed at the irony, my name actually being Violet and all.

  “Uh, no?” I had stammered nervously, trying to wrest my wrist free.

  “Nope,” Richard said with a broad grin. “How about a date instead?”

  “Huh?”

  He dropped my wrist and I rubbed it, although he hadn’t grabbed me very hard. It was the whole act that had terrified me.

  “A date,” he repeated.

  I stared at Leah slumbering away on the couch, oblivious to the world. He must mean he wants me to get him a date with Leah. Ugh, what nerve!

  “You want me to set you up with Leah?”

  Richard knitted his brows together in that cute little way I would soon discover meant that he was confused. “Who’s Leah? Are you Leah?”

  I shook my head and pointed to the couch. “No, that’s Leah.”

  He recoiled and smirked, “Why would I want to go on a date with a girl who puked all over a cab because she can’t hold her liquor?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “But you’re the one who asked for a date.”

  “Because I want to take you on a date,” he said, stepping closer to me.

  Suddenly the room made me feel claustrophobic—the heat radiating off of Richard nearly paralyzing me. I was so incredibly attracted to him at that moment that I couldn’t speak. If my parents could have seen me then, I’m pretty sure they would have had me locked up in a mental institution, or enrolled in a convent by morning.

  Never having been in this situation before, and thus not knowing at all how to act, I simply found myself numbly bobbing my head up and down and agreeing to go out with him the following night.

  The rest, as they say, is history. And not all of it good. In fact, most of it not so good. I mean, it was in the beginning—it was actually pretty amazing in the beginning—but we got lost along the way. Sometimes, it makes me wonder if marrying Richard was a big mistake to begin with.

  I return to the present and stare at the Cosmo in my hand, trying to remember how it got there. Oh yeah, the bar.

  Leah had sidled up to the bar the moment we arrived at the nightclub, procured us drinks, and then went off d
ancing with a crowd around her made up entirely of men. I squint as I notice there’s now another female in the mix—it’s dark in the club, but I think it may be Kendall, the woman we met when we were standing on line to board the boat.

  I watch as Kendall and Leah continue to shake their rumps, and then when the song ends, they throw their heads back and laugh at the same time. I feel a surge of anger as Kendall touches Leah’s arm—who does she think she is? Leah is my best friend. She needs to get her own best friend.

  And then I remember she does have her own best friend. Or at least, a friend. Francine. While the next song suggests we all wave our hands in the air or something like that, I glance around the room looking for Francine. Kendall really stands out in the darkened room (especially with her electric blue sequined dress), but I can’t for the life of me remember what Francine looks like except the fact that she had blonde hair and was about my height.

  Staring at my drink, I realize it’s almost empty. I weave through the crowd, being bumped from side to side as I head to the bar. I’m amazed at the people in the club. Except for a few, they all look like they’re in their forties and fifties. They’re all shaking their rumps and waving their hands in the air like they just don’t care. I seem to be the only person not having a great time and enjoying myself.

  Well, probably because you’re the only person in the room who’s actually still married and shouldn’t even be here at all, I think bitterly. Everyone else here is divorced and trying to find their next soulmate.

  I watch a pair of forty-something-year-old women in tight leather pants (that they should not be wearing) dance with an older man with salt and pepper hair. They’re wiggling their butts on him and he’s grinning from ear to ear, the happy middle of their sandwich.

  Or at least looking for their next sugar daddy.

  I’m still staring at the women, who seem to have absolutely no morals whatsoever as they grind up on this man, when I whirl around and smack into someone.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I apologize as I realize I have splashed the remainder of my drink all over the front of this woman’s shirt. She’s staring at it, one hand holding her own empty glass and the other pulling her shirt away from her body.

  She looks up at me and I realize that it’s Francine. And she appears perplexed.

  “Oh darn it,” I mutter. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Francine, right? We meet yesterday on the line to check in?”

  Francine still looks confused as she stares at me and then back down at her white top with a plunging neckline. A deep pink stain is spreading over the front of the shirt. She looks rather uncomfortable as she continues to pull the material away from her body, but she still hasn’t said anything, or even acknowledged me. I wonder for a moment if she might be stoned. She certainly looks it.

  “Um, come on,” I say as I grab her arm and pull her toward the ladies’ room. I know, it’s not like me to take charge, but Francine looks so shell-shocked that someone has to.

  On the way to the bathroom, I pluck her glass out of her hand and set both her glass and mine down on the speaker by the DJ. The DJ shoots me a hateful look as the glasses vibrate on top of the speaker, but I just shrug—there are at least ten other glasses sitting there, most of them full. At least ours are empty, compliments of my kultzy-ness.

  Francine stumbles into the bathroom with me and up to the sink, looking like a drunk (which she could be for all I know). I grab a wad of paper towels and wave them under the automatic sink to wet them.

  “Here, let me see your shirt,” I say to her as she continues to stare at me blankly.

  “My drink spilled all over the front of the shirt,” she says to me in amazement, like a child.

  “Um, yeah. I’m sorry. And mine did, too. That’s my fault. But we can probably get some of it out if we clean it now,” I tell her.

  And that’s when she starts laughing. No, not laughing...braying like a donkey is more like it. Her face turns bright red—she’s snorting so much she has snot coming out of her nose. She continues to laugh for several minutes without pausing for a breath. Everyone who enters the bathroom stares at her like she’s insane. Which she might very well be.

  “Are you okay?” I ask when she finally starts to calm down. There are actually tears coming out of her eyes.

  “Oh yeah!” she cackles. “Never better! The shirt is ruined! It’s Karma!”

  Is that the brand of the shirt? I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean anything. Should I offer to pay for it? I don’t know how much it costs, though, and I’m really bad at gauging these things. It could be a $20 shirt from Target, or a thousand dollar item you can only get at Versace. Is Versace a place to get shirts?

  “Okay, I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “This is Kendall’s shirt,” Francine says when she has recovered enough to breathe. “I didn’t want to go out tonight. I wanted to stay in my room. I told her I didn’t have any clothes appropriate for clubbing and she insisted I wear this. And now she’s abandoned me to go party with your friend.” She waves her hand toward the door, beyond which Kendall and Leah are on the dance floor shaking their groove thang. “And now her shirt is ruined. I love it! It’s Karma!”

  Oh, that kind of Karma!

  “Want another drink?” Francine asks me. “I was on my way to the bar for another one.”

  “Um, sure,” I reply, glad that Francine is not actually nuts.

  “What’re you drinking?”

  “I’ll have a Cosmo.” I reach into my purse to give her cash. I hold it out to her and she waves my hand away.

  “It’s all inclusive.”

  Oh yeah. I keep forgetting that.

  Francine pushes open the bathroom door and I follow behind, realizing, I like her. She’s my kind of woman. Well, that’s not really true. I don’t have a type of woman...or man. I mean, as a friend. I have Leah. She’s pretty much my only friend. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I’m really lucky to have her. How many forty-year-old women can say they have their best friend from middle school at their side? Not many, I bet.

  As I dutifully follow Francine, I remind myself that I’m very lucky to have Leah by my side. Even if it does mean my experiences are limited. I don’t get out much, and when I do, it’s almost always with Leah. And it’s usually doing something Leah wants to do, like this cruise. Actually, if I’m not mistaken, it’s always doing something Leah wants to do. In fact, even when I make a suggestion (like a movie I’d like to see), Leah agrees and then somehow talks me into seeing what she wants to see.

  “You okay?” Francine asks as she hands me a drink.

  “Sure,” I say, feigning a convincing smile. I tilt my ear toward the DJ booth. “Ha, I actually like this song. First one he’s played that I can enjoy.”

  “Me too,” Francine says enthusiastically. “The music so far has pretty much sucked. All young people music.”

  I peer at her over the top of my drink. Most of the music they’ve played has been from the 80s and 90s...not much that I was into at the time, but definitely music from my generation. I am wondering how old Francine could possibly be if she considers this “young people music”. She certainly doesn’t look much older than I am. I had her pegged somewhere between thirty-six and forty-two. Forty-four, tops.

  “I’ll be fifty-nine next month,” she says, as if she can read my mind.

  I promptly spit my drink right at her. It hits her right smack in the center of her shirt. “I’m so sorry!” I gasp as I grab a napkin from the bar and dab at her cleavage…cleavage that is no way in hell the cleavage of a woman in her late fifties.

  “Don’t be. It’s already ruined anyway,” she remarks with a smirk. “Sometimes I just say that to see what people will do. I’ve never had anyone actually spit on me before.”

  “Oh,” I reply with a sigh. “I thought you were serious. I was going to say, you definitely don’t look that old.”

  “Oh, I am that old. I really will be fifty-nine next m
onth,” Francine says.

  I stare at her quizzically. “But I thought you just said—”

  “I do tell people to see their reaction.” Francine shrugs. “I get very little amusement in my life. Shocking people is pretty much my only vice anymore.” She holds up her drink. “And alcohol, of course.”

  “Oh my,” I reply, definitely shocked. And then I immediately cringe when I realize how I have probably insulted her by telling her she doesn’t “look that old”.

  “I probably should stop talking and go back to my room, crawl under the covers, and shut my big pie hole for the rest of the cruise,” I say sheepishly.

  Francine laughs and grabs my arm. “No, please don’t go. You didn’t say anything that I haven’t heard a hundred times before. I’m actually very fortunate. And it kind of amuses me that people think I am so much younger than I am.”

  “Fortunate is an understatement,” I remark in awe. I catch a glance at myself in the mirror over the bar. Next to Francine I’m the one who looks fifty-nine. I guess what they say about children aging you ten years is true. If Francine doesn’t have kids, that’s probably why she looks so good for her age.

  “I was a model,” Francine explains. When I was in my teens and twenties. I made a lot of money doing that. When I got too old to model anymore, I got really angry.”

  “Too old to model?” I ask. “That’s crazy. I see models of all ages in magazines.”

  Francine frowns. “There wasn’t much work for a woman past her prime in the modeling world, other than department store circulars and stuff. Or at least there wasn’t back then. Now there is. I started a company that employs models over the age of twenty-five for prime jobs...jobs women that age might not get under normal circumstances.”

  “That age?” I gulp, swallowing my drink. I cough, nearly choking on it. “Twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-five is considered ancient in the fashion world. Or at least it was twenty-five years ago when I started my company. Now with my company, jobs are opening up for models, regardless of age. Or weight.” She glances at my hips. “You have great bone structure. You should consider modeling.”