“Okay,” she mumbled, dejectedly. I had just reached my bedroom door when she called, “Oh, Beth?”
“Yeah?”
“Someone called for you.”
“Who was it?”
“Umm . . . it was a man. I can’t remember his name, but I wrote it down somewhere . . .”
She tells me now, after a ten-minute conversation about kitchen gadgets? This was only about a thousand times more important than her mom’s free knork! But I managed to maintain my cool as I rushed, casually, out to the living room. “You wrote it down somewhere?”
“Check the pad of paper over by the phone . . . Or on top of the fridge,” she said, reopening her magazine.
I hurried to the phone table and sorted through the mound of phonebooks and take-out menus littering its surface. Who had called me? Who? It was a guy so...my brother? Martin? Jim Davidson, maybe? Having no luck, I sprinted to the fridge. There, amidst the clutter of yoga schedules and supermarket flyers, was a beige slip of paper. Written on it, in red ink, was:
Beth,
Colin called.
833-2900
Ten
SO, DO I call him back, or what?”
“What’s the point?” Angie said, dipping a chip in guacamole and popping it in her mouth. We were knitting at Martin’s apartment tonight, which was not quite what I had anticipated. It was tidy and functional, but I always thought the gay had more design flair. This could have been a straight guy’s apartment. Not that it was overrun with sports paraphernalia and empty beer cans, but it was just so . . . utilitarian: black leather couches, IKEA coffee table, enormous TV and stereo system in one corner. The only remotely effeminate accoutrement was a large pillar candle.
“The point is,” Nicola said, carefully knitting a fuzzy mauve stitch, “that it would be terribly rude not to. You can’t just not phone him back.”
“Of course she can,” Angie said, shifting the needles and silky aquamarine yarn in her lap. She was making herself some sort of wrap—although, she would be more likely to turn it into a nice granny shawl since, at her current pace, she would be about ninety when she finished it. “He broke her heart. She has every right to blow him off.”
“Martin, what do you think?” I asked.
“Call him,” he said, his fingers working furiously on the navy scarf that appeared to be seconds from completion. “Be cool, casual . . . Show him how over him you are.”
“But what if I’m not over him?”
“Of course you are,” Angie blurted. “What about that old guy?”
“I told you, I’m not interested in him,” I shrieked. “And can we please call him something other than ‘that old guy’? His name is Jim.”
Sophie sighed heavily. “Men are more trouble than they’re worth, anyway.”
“Uh-oh,” Angie said, refilling Sophie’s glass of Cabernet. “Trouble with Rob again?”
“Oh, just the usual.” She rolled her eyes. “He hasn’t been home before nine all week, and tomorrow he’s going to a friend’s bachelor party in Vegas. I just feel like Flynn and I are so far down his list of priorities.”
“I’m sure he loves you both very much,” Nicola said, sympathetically. “He probably just gets wrapped up in his work. That happens to Neil sometimes, and I just have to gently remind him that our relationship comes first.”
Sophie looked at her blankly for a moment. It was obvious that gentle reminders didn’t really work on Rob. “Yeah . . . on my husband’s list of priorities, I fall somewhere after perfecting his golf swing and maximizing the usage of his PDA.”
“Oh, Sophie,” Nicola said. “That can’t be true.”
“Oh, enough about that...” Sophie waved her hand. “I agree with Martin, Beth. Call Colin back and regale him with tales of your fabulous life without him.”
Yeah, right. Oh, hi Colin. How are you? Me? I’m simply fabulous! I have this awesome new writing gig where I get to expense my lattes. It’s true! Sometimes, I even have two of them! I certainly don’t need love or commitment now!
“What if he wants to get back together?” Nicola said, placing her mauve scarf project on her lap and reaching for her wine.
“He might,” Sophie agreed.
“Maybe,” I muttered, “but if he does, it would definitely be on his terms. He’d want me to come back and be his semi-serious girlfriend for the rest of my life.”
Nicola countered, “Maybe he’s had a change of heart?”
“I doubt it.” I deliberately changed the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming along? Have you decided how you’re going to wear your hair?”
Nicola launched into an excited account of the afternoon spent at her hairdresser’s over the weekend. They’d tried a sleek up-do, romantic waves, and a classic chignon. I nodded along politely as did Sophie and Martin, but Angie seemed really intrigued, commenting on Nicola’s bone structure and asking about the neckline of her dress. I was perplexed by her sudden interest in wedding hairstyles. She couldn’t be thinking about marrying this Thad character already, could she? She had only recently broken her more than three dates rule! That would be just great. My social life would wither away to nothing but the stitch ’n bitch club and movie nights with Mel and Toby.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be beautiful whatever you choose,” Martin said, sincerely.
“Oh, you’re so sweet.” Nicola blushed. “Thank you.”
“Of course she will,” Sophie agreed. She turned to Angie. “Okay... Thad update please.”
Oh, here we go. Before she’d even opened her mouth, Angie had become all rosy-cheeked and giggly. “I went to see him in Vancouver last weekend.”
“How was it?”
“Amazing! I mean, he had to work a lot, but on Saturday night, we drove out to this park with this lighthouse—it’s called Lighthouse Park, I think. And we took flashlights and walked down this trail and along this cliff and then we . . . we totally had sex, standing up against the cliff!”
What—was she seventeen?
“It was really meaningful and spiritual to be commingling in nature like that.”
Come on! Screwing in a public park was meaningful and spiritual? Oh, I’m sorry—commingling in a public park was meaningful and spiritual? My eyes darted around the circle to see if anyone else was sharing my distaste. But Martin was chuckling, Nicola had a sweet smile pasted on her face although she looked a little uncomfortable, and Sophie said, “Oh my god. That sounds like such a turn-on.”
“It was!” Angie gushed.
“Isn’t that a bit risky?” I sniffed. “I mean, you could have been arrested and thrown in a Canadian jail.” Of course, I knew nothing about Canadian jails. They were probably clean and nice and offered French lessons. But for impact, I intoned as if I were saying, Turkish prison.
Angie looked at me for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “Well, it was worth it.”
There was an awkward silence brought on by our overt hostility. Everyone pretended to be focused intently on their knitting, but I knew the tension between Angie and me was palpable. I wasn’t sure why I was being so unsupportive of Angie’s new relationship. Okay—I could think of a few reasons:
1. Thad was a Hollywood type, so probably very vain and flaky.
2. He was into Kabbalah, so probably very vain and flaky.
3. Angie was trying to change herself to please this guy. She wasn’t spiritual and deep. She held the record for tequila shots at a number of local bars! She had dated (or just blown) half of the Seattle Mariners! She should be with someone who loved the real, spirited her, not this illuminated nouveau spiritualist!
But deep down, I knew that my negativity stemmed from my own issues. I had to get to the source of the ugly feeling that rose in my stomach any time Thad was mentioned. Was I just jealous that Angie had someone to love and I did not? Resentful that Angie was too busy commingling up against a lighthouse to support me in my time of need? Surreptitiously, I stole a glance at one of my oldest friends. She was painstakin
gly wrapping her aquamarine yarn around her needle. The shawl she was knitting demonstrated by far the least progress in the group. I suddenly felt incredibly guilty for my lack of support, and just a little bit sad. I wanted to say something to show her I still cared about her. I wanted to say something to cut through the tension—but what?
Martin beat me to it. “I’m done,” he said, holding up his completed blue scarf.
“Oh my god!”
“Already?”
Martin shrugged. “I switched to the Continental method. It’s much faster.” He addressed me. “You should try it, Beth. You use your left hand so it would be perfect for you.”
“Mmm,” I murmured with feigned interest. I had barely gotten the hang of my current knitting style; I wasn’t ready to learn a whole new method!
We all hurried over to admire his work. The purls lined up perfectly with the purls, and the knits with the knits, creating a flawless ribbed pattern. “You’re amazing,” Nicola said, inspecting the navy weave.
“You are,” Sophie said, beaming at him. “Have you always been this good with your hands?” There was something ever so slightly flirtatious in her tone. But that was crazy: married Sophie flirting with gay Martin? I’d had too much wine—again.
“This calls for another drink,” Angie said. “We must toast the stitch ’n bitch club’s first completed project!”
“I’ll pour,” I offered, giving my friend a conciliatory smile. Somewhat grudgingly, she smiled back. I felt something akin to relief as I refilled the glasses. I hadn’t blown it with Angie completely, and I vowed to work on my negative attitude. When all the glasses were full (but just a tiny, tiny smidge for Nicola, who had to meet her parents to discuss the seating plan), I held mine up in the air. “To Martin,” I said. “And his amazing hands.”
“To Martin’s amazing hands,” they chorused, and we all drank.
Eleven
SO, DO YOU think I should call him?” This time I was getting Mel’s opinion. We were walking Toby along a path in a park not far from the university.
“Of course you should,” she said. “Aren’t you dying to know what he wants?”
“But what if he doesn’t want anything? What if he just wants to torture me by reminding me how sweet and perfect for me he was?”
“Colin wouldn’t do that. He probably has something to tell you—news about a mutual friend or something.”
“Do you think maybe . . .” I began, hesitantly, “he might want to get back together?” I knew Mel would give it to me straight, even if it hurt my feelings.
She thought for just a moment. “No, I doubt it. He’s probably got some kind of news... Or maybe you left something behind at his place. It might just be an excuse to talk to you again, but I don’t think he’s going to beg you to come back.”
Ouch. “No, I didn’t think so either.” I laughed, awkwardly. “One of the girls in my stitch ’n bitch club thought, you know... maybe . . .” I trailed off.
“I’m sure he still misses you, but you’ve been gone three months. He’s probably started a new life without you.”
Right. Okay. There was being straight with me, and then there was being completely oblivious of my feelings.
“I mean, you’ve moved on, right?” Toby chose this moment to take an enormous poo in the middle of the trail. “Good boy,” Mel cooed. “That’s a nice big poopy.”
I averted my eyes. “Uh . . . yeah, I’ve moved on: met some new people . . . got a new hobby... work’s going well . . .”
Mel proceeded to pull a clear plastic bag out of her pocket and, placing it on her hand like a glove, picked up the enormous pile of excrement. I turned away, trying not to gag at the sight of my friend with a handful of dog shit. She was being a conscientious and responsible pet owner, but that didn’t make it any less revolting. “Exactly,” she said. “Colin’s probably moved on, too. He might even have a new girlfriend by now. You’d be surprised how quickly men can rebound.”
God, why didn’t she just poke me in the eye with a pointy stick?
Mel summed it up. “Call him back, and find out what he wants. Be breezy, casual...Maybe have a glass of wine before you dial.”
We continued down the trail, chatting about Mel’s cousin in Maryland who’d just had gastric bypass surgery. But my mind was firmly rooted on the phone call from Colin. What if Mel was right and he had moved on? What if he was calling to tell me that he had a new girlfriend? That they were moving in together? That with her, he had no commitment issues and would I like to attend their June wedding? Maybe he was calling to tell me she was pregnant, and would I mind if they named the baby Emma? I suddenly felt nauseous—and not just from Mel’s recounting of how her cousin throws up if she eats so much as a Ritz cracker.
Soon we emerged at the street and headed to a coffee shop several blocks away. While my body was craving caffeine, I wasn’t sure I could stomach anything at the moment. But I waited patiently while Mel tied Toby up outside, kissed him on his dog lips, and then went in. Being in the U district, the café was littered with tables of students, most hunched over laptops or debating in animated clusters. We got our lattes, and found a table next to two women and a little boy colouring furiously in a colouring book.
“So,” I began, eager to change the subject, “have you heard from Nancy?” Nancy was a former coworker of ours who had recently married a wealthy widower from Berlin.
“Yeah, I had an email from her the other day. She says she’s starting to get over the culture shock, but she just can’t get used to eating so much fatty processed meat...” I nodded along, smiling in all the right places as Mel recounted Nancy’s trials with the German diet. But still, my mind drifted back to the predicament of Colin’s phone call and whether returning it would give me peace of mind, or a trampled heart. Suddenly, the little boy seated behind us called out loudly,
“Ewwwwww! Who farted?”
“Dylan!” his mother gasped, her cheeks turning pink. “Shhhhhhh! That’s very rude.”
“But it stinks!” Dylan insisted. “Someone farted.”
“Stop saying that,” his mother hissed, frantically.
But Dylan was right. When I didn’t have my coffee cup under my nose, there was a definite stench. Other patrons were noticing it, too, evident by a number of curled-up noses and sideways glances from neighbouring tables. Mel, on the other hand, was oblivious. She was still talking about the amount of nitrites found in a traditional German kielbasa.
I leaned toward her across the table. “God, do you smell that?”
“What?”
I was starting to feel slightly woozy. “I think I’m going to need some fresh air. It smells like a dirty diaper in here.”
“Ohhhhh!” Mel said with a laugh of recognition. “It’s probably this.” She held up the clear plastic bag full of Toby’s poo. “I forgot to throw it out. It’s been in my pocket this whole time!”
Oh god. My mouth was beginning to water menacingly, my standard precursor to vomiting. I was also more than just a little embarrassed. I mean, my coffee date was sitting in a crowded café with a bag of poo in her hand! Someone at the table to our left retched. I had to get out of there. I bolted for the door.
Forty minutes later I was home in my vacant apartment. Mel had been slightly annoyed by my abrupt ditching of her. When she met me on the sidewalk out front, I’d apologized. “I’ve got a really strong sense of smell and a bit of a queasy stomach,” I tried to explain.
She shrugged. “Not everyone’s a dog lover, I guess.”
I like dogs fine, I wanted to retort. I like people, too, but I’m not about to fill my pockets with their shit.
But instead, we made idle chit-chat as she drove me home in her station wagon, Toby in the back seat, drooling over my left shoulder. When we pulled up in front of my apartment, Mel turned to me. “Good luck with Colin,” she said. “And remember, you’re strong and you’ve moved on. You’re going to be fine.”
Now that I was home, alone with the t
elephone, I was not entirely sure that I would be fine. What if he really did have a new girlfriend? What if they were getting married or having a baby? Could I handle it? I would have to, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy. Remembering Mel’s suggestion, I poured myself a glass of wine. It was barely noon. God help me if Kendra came home early with a sore throat. She’d have me carted away to Betty Ford in no time. But I needed the calming effects of the alcohol or I’d be a jittering, stammering mess when I tried to speak.
The phone rang, sounding like a fire alarm in the silent apartment. Oh shit! I wasn’t ready! Not yet! Greedily, I began to chug the glass of Merlot, red rivulets running down the sides of my mouth like I was a vampire. Oh god, oh god. One more ring and the call would click over to voice mail. I could feel the wine burning in my stomach, sending its warmth through my body. I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I had to answer.
“Hello?” Casual. Breezy. Only a tiny bit shaky.
A male voice said, “Is Beth Carruthers there, please?”
It—it wasn’t Colin! I’d gotten myself all worked up for nothing. This guy was probably doing a customer satisfaction survey for my bank, or he was a telemarketer trying to sell me a newspaper subscription. “Uh . . . this is she,” I replied, coldly.
“Hi, Beth. This is Jim Davidson calling.”
Jim Davidson! Jim Davidson was calling! I’d sent him a copy of our completed interview. Hopefully, he was phoning to tell me what a great job I’d done. “Hi, Jim,” I said. God, I hoped I didn’t sound drunk. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” He sounded very businesslike—almost abrupt. “I was wondering if we could meet to discuss your article?”
“Uh . . .” Shit! He didn’t like the article! I’d been so confident that he would that I’d left virtually no time for editing. The magazine needed it handed in by the end of the week. “Okay,” I said weakly.
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