32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  “I think he’s worried about his birthday,” David says. “He’s paranoid he’s getting old, poor dear. He’s started using wrinkle cream. Oh God, that’s the doorbell. I gotta go, honey. Sorry about this. Stay for dinner and we’ll talk later?”

  “No, it’s fine,” I tell his disappearing back. “I have stuff to do.”

  I am so very hot. The heat of the kitchen, combined with an empty stomach and the small amount of wine that has actually made it past my lips, does not agree with me. I really just want to go back to Tish’s apartment and lie down for a while in the blissful cool of the air conditioning before I have to torture myself with phone calls to my family to tell them about Adam. I don’t really want to face this yet, but if they call me at Adam’s apartment and don’t get an answer, they’ll worry…Even worse, Adam himself might pick up the telephone.

  As I leave, Sylvester thrusts a package into my hands.

  “You must eat,” he tells me, kissing me on both cheeks. “You are too maigre. I worry about you, you know?”

  Yes, I know I’m too thin. Too thin, too small, too flat chested, too nice…

  Too hot and sticky.

  When I let myself into Tish’s apartment, she is in the bedroom getting changed, so I slink into the bathroom and slip out of the Donna Karan dress. It’s a lovely dress, and holds up well in the heat of the city. This dress is usually a very good look for me, but after a day of stress and upset, my complexion is pale and wan, and I look like a ghost. It seems all my wishes for wrinkles are coming true, because I have bags under my eyes. Now that I am yet again single, with no career prospects, I should take more care of my skin. Maybe I’ll get some wrinkle cream.

  After my shower, I feel marginally better as I slip into my ratty old comfort-bathrobe. The cream silk reminds me too much of Adam and I have consigned it to the trash.

  “Darling,” Tish says. “How did it go? I nearly called you to give you some moral support after I saw that appalling picture in the paper. But I thought that might make you feel worse.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe how callous he’s been. Still, I think he’s only marrying Stella for her money—she’s worth millions in toilet paper and tissues.”

  So I repeat my day of woe to Tish. I’m getting good at this now and give her the abridged version. Of course, minus the fight with Rachel.

  “I hope they’re really miserable together,” Tish tells me. “I hope her breasts droop and her face sags, and she gets cellulite round her thighs. God, am I a bitch or what?”

  “I appreciate the support, honey. Personally, I hope she leaves Adam for a twenty-year-old god so he knows how it feels to be a retread. Anyway, you’re looking particularly lovely tonight,” I tell her, because I don’t want to talk about Adam anymore. Plus, she really does look lovely.

  The black cropped bodice and hip-hugging black pants (Calvin Klein, courtesy of Sunday’s outletting trip) are ultra chic but casual. She’s fresh as a daisy and sparkling with enthusiasm.

  “I’ve got a date,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you? But if you need me here, I can cancel. It’s nothing serious.”

  How nice is that? And how quickly she’s got over Rufus, but (obviously) I don’t say so.

  “No, no. I’ll be okay,” I say, and mean it. It will be a relief to have the place to myself for a few hours. I can have a good old wallow in self-pity, cry my eyes out (yet again), put Led Zepp on the CD player (but not as loud as I’d like on account of the neighbors), and spend hours playing air guitar with Jimmy. Because I am a very sad person with no life.

  “I’ve got to phone round the family and give them the bad news.” I sigh, because I know I cannot put it off. “Peri will be crushed that she doesn’t have a wedding to plan and Julia will remind me how great it is to be single. No doubt—no doubt, she’ll quote famous feminists at me.”

  “You sure? How about Rachel? Why don’t you give her a call and see if she wants to come over?”

  “No, I need to be alone for a bit,” I say, then quickly change the subject. “So who’s the hot date?”

  “This guy, John. Remember I redid his office on Hudson Street a few months ago?”

  I do remember, because he comes into her store all the time to buy things he doesn’t need, just so that he can talk to Tish. He is not the only one. Anyway, John is thirtysomething, fit, balding, still lives with his mother, and is homely in appearance. A nice guy, and looks aren’t everything, are they? But I just don’t see him with Tish.

  “He’s always coming into the store to buy objets and paintings for his house. Today, after he bought a lovely Chinese wood cut for his living room, we got to chatting. And he just kind of asked if I wanted to have dinner. And I know he’s no oil painting, but looks aren’t everything. And he’s so sweet to his mother. So I said yes.”

  “Where’s he taking you?” Home to meet Mom? But I don’t (obviously) say this.

  “Tonight is strictly casual—you know, no big deal. Just as friends. We’re meeting in O’Malley’s for a drink, then pizza at La Luna.”

  O’Malley’s just happens to be Rufus’s local bar, and he can be found in there most evenings playing pool with his buddies. But I don’t mention this, either, and neither does Tish. Now I understand the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Okay, babe,” I tell her. “Go have fun.”

  I hope Rufus is ready for this.

  Before I make any calls, I decide to eat. I’m not hungry, but I already resemble a scarecrow and I cannot afford to lose any weight, so I investigate the package that Sylvester gave me.

  Homemade ciabatta bread, stuffed with Sylvester’s special preparation of onions, garlic, sun-dried tomatoes, herbes de Provençe and Stilton cheese. This is my favorite thing in the whole world and I am touched that Sylvester has made this especially for me. Hmm…heavenly, especially with a glass of Adam’s Special Reserve.

  I now feel strong enough to make the phone calls. I call Julia first, because of the five-hour time difference.

  “Emmeline, I was just thinking about you, darling. We had a simply splendid weekend with the Smythe-Joneses. Very picturesque. Anyway, you’ll never believe it—I got arrested for indecent exposure, it was so exciting…”

  I hardly dare ask but she’ll tell me anyway.

  “Bloody Lord Farleigh-Coombs and his hunt! We blockaded his route on Sunday, to stop the wanton, cruel killing of those poor little innocent foxes. When he tried to get us to move, I asked him how he’d feel, being ripped to shreds by a pack of ravaging hounds? How would he feel, minus his skin? He made some big pathetic excuse about how humane it is, and how foxes are a nuisance, and had I ever seen a chicken coop after the foxes had been at it? So I told him, ‘That’s all very well, but does the killing of foxes really require a troop of fat old men on horses wearing silly outfits, generally enjoying the barbaric plight of small mammals?’ To emphasize my point, I stripped off my clothes. The BBC came, so it was on television. It caused quite a stir.”

  “I can imagine. But won’t you be disbarred or something if the Law Society gets wind of it?”

  What I can’t imagine is how she ever came to marry my father, even if it was extremely short-lived. She went to Harvard as a postgraduate law student—some sort of exchange trip. Anyway, she met my dad, a handsome medical student. They fell in love, got married, and three months later the honeymoon was well and truly over when she realized he was serious about specializing in plastic surgery. Which, of course, she considers abhorrent and pandering to society’s superficial standards. Shortly after her return to England, she found out she was pregnant with me.

  When I’m asked what is it that my parents do, people are usually shocked when I tell them that my father is one of the top plastic surgeons in the tristate area, and that my mother is a top London barrister, specializing in battered wives, cruelty to animals, and asylum seekers. She’s also sued the occasional plastic surgeon on behalf of disfigured clients.

  One thing about Julia that I really, really admire
is that she never takes a client unless she knows that they are innocent—a luxury she can well afford, because she has a trust fund so doesn’t have to worry about her income. The trust fund is not huge, but enough to keep the rambling house in Holland Park from crumbling to dust. Plus, of course, she gets her rosebushes trimmed for free. George, Julia’s boyfriend, is also fairly handy with repairs…

  “Of course, I didn’t get charged,” Julia tells me indignantly. “Marjorie Smythe-Jones is very friendly with the local chief of police, so it was all very amicable, really. Lovely man, Chief Inspector Wallis. Anyway, enough of that. How was your weekend?”

  “It was completely awful,” I tell her. “Adam dumped me and got engaged to another woman.”

  “Darling, that’s terrible. But do remember what Lady Astor said. ‘I married beneath me. All women do.’ Typical man. Bastard typical man. You just can’t trust any of them for more than five minutes at a time.”

  I hear the rumble of a deep voice in the background.

  “No, George, not you. Do stop eavesdropping.”

  George started out as Julia’s gardener, seven years ago, and by the time he’d finished landscaping the garden he’d moved into her basement apartment. He still pretends to live in the basement, but I know for a fact that he hasn’t slept down there for years.

  “George sends his love,” Julia says. And then, “So I suppose she’s younger than you, this new fiancée? I bet she’s some young, twenty-year-old cheerleader.”

  “Actually, she’s fifteen years older than me.”

  “Oh.”

  This is a bit of a sore point for Julia, because George is ten years her junior and I think she worries about it sometimes.

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with older women,” I tell her. “It’s just that Adam didn’t finish with me before he proposed to her. He was stringing me along until something better came along…” I feel myself sinking back into self-pity.

  “Now come on, Emmeline, self-pity is so self-destructive, and also shows lack of moral fiber,” she tells me in her no-nonsense voice. “At least you didn’t marry him, then discover he was having affairs. You should thank your lucky stars you had such a close escape.”

  So much for motherly concern. I don’t feel lucky, but know that this is just Julia’s way.

  “So tell me, did you get the information from the relief angency about your herd of goats?”

  “No,” I tell her glumly. “My mail’s being redirected to Tish’s apartment and it hasn’t found me yet.”

  “Well, cheer up, darling.”

  “I will. Julia?”

  “Yes?”

  “I love you.”

  “I know that, dear. Me too.”

  I sigh, and dial Peri and Dad’s number.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey, how’s my little girl? Can’t wait to see you on Thursday. You are coming, aren’t you? Peri and the boys are really excited—they’re out at some party at the moment so I’ve got the house to myself for a change. My God, you wouldn’t believe how tiring those boys are. So how’s that handsome boyfriend of yours? He popped the question yet?”

  “Actually, Dad, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. We’ve split up and I’ve moved in with Tish. I just wanted to give you my new address and telephone number.”

  I figure that the less information I reveal, the better. Let them think it was a mutual decision, so they won’t be sorry for the poor dumpee, me.

  “Oh. Bad luck, honey. But these things happen. Plenty more fish out there waiting to be caught. Especially by a little cutie pie like you.”

  Ahh. My dad can be so lovely.

  “Yeah, Dad. Thanks. Have you got a pen and paper?”

  After he writes down my number, he comes up with a bright idea. This is not a new idea. It is the same one he came up with last Christmas, and last Thanksgiving, but I do not tell him this.

  “Say, have you met Norbert Boyle, my junior partner?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, knowing what’s coming next.

  “He’s still single. Very eligible young man—well established, own home, nice income. He’d make a great catch for some lucky girl. I can’t understand why he’s still alone.”

  Oh, I do. I do not want to be the lucky girl who snags him. Norbert is completely obnoxious, and I perfectly understand why he’s still single.

  “I’m not looking for anyone else just yet. But thanks, Dad,” I add, because I know he has my best interests at heart.

  “So we’ll see you on Thursday.”

  “You bet.” I’m actually looking forward to seeing them now, because a girl needs her family around her at times like this. I’m even having warm thoughts about Joe Junior and Jack Junior…

  “Shall I get Peri to give you a call? You need to have a womanly chat with her?”

  “Er, no. Really. I feel fine. Tell her I’ll see her Thursday. Bye, Dad.” Much as I love Peri, now is not the time to “share” with her.

  Wednesday, 7:45 A.M.

  Tish has gone to meet Rachel at the gym. I, of course, cannot go with them on account of Rachel’s bitchy comments to me yesterday. But I do not tell Tish this. Instead, I plead a headache.

  But I don’t have a headache. In fact, I feel quite good today. Very cheerful, in fact. You see, fifteen minutes ago Adam called me and he really made my day.

  This is what happened.

  “Hello,” I say, ready for another bout of telemarketer torture. These people really are outrageous—calling a person at 7:30 in the morning before they head off to work.

  “First my sofa and rug, and now this. It’s just so childish,” Adam says. He sounds very angry. “I can’t believe you’d do this. What the hell were you thinking? Today I’ll torture Adam with a herd of goats?”

  “Calm down,” I tell him, “Don’t overreact.” Oh dear…

  “Don’t overreact?” He splutters. “How would you feel if some guys turned up at your apartment with a herd of goats? Oh, you’re such a flake you’d probably keep the damned goats and let them eat the rugs and the drapes.”

  And I know instantly what has happened. Julia’s birthday gift has been delivered to Adam in Manhattan, instead of the Msoze family, in Uganda.

  This is great. This is amazing.

  Though not, obviously, for the goats. Or the Msoze family.

  “I want them removed from my property this instant or I’ll, I’ll…I’ll sue you.”

  “Get a grip,” I say, and I can’t help laughing.

  “This is not funny.”

  Oh, yes it is. Am I really a flake?

  “Emma? When you’ve finished laughing, perhaps you’d better speak with the delivery guy?”

  “Why should I? I didn’t order any damned goats.” I hear them bleating in the background. “For all I care they can live with you and Stella in Trump Tower.”

  Revenge is sweet!

  “Good-bye, Adam,” I say, and hang up the telephone.

  When he calls back, which I know he will, I pick up because I am very sorry for the goats.

  “What do you want?”

  “The goats are addressed to you. At this apartment. The delivery guy won’t take them away until you speak to him.”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I will not make this easy for him. He doesn’t deserve it.

  “I want you to tell the delivery guy to take them away.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What’s the magic word?”

  Adam sighs, but then complies. This is even more fun than a telemarketer.

  “Please,” he says.

  “Sure. I think I know what’s happened. Put the guy on the phone.”

  Muffled voices and bleating goats as Adam passes over the telephone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, this is Emma Taylor. I understand you have a delivery of goats for me?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Gus, ma’am.”
<
br />   “Well, Gus, let’s see if we can sort this out. These goats were ordered by my mother, but they were supposed to go to Uganda. From me. For my birthday. To the Msoze family.”

  “Your mother buys goats for someone else for your birthday?”

  “Yes—she’s a very unusual person. The thing is, Gus, the goats won’t be happy in Manhattan. You got the paperwork on you?”

  “Sure.”

  Seconds later, after much rustling of paper (and more bleating of goats), Gus comes back on the line.

  “Looks like a clerical error from the administration office. They put the wrong delivery address on this. You were just supposed to get the receipt.”

  “Oh, good. So you’ll take the goats away, then, and make sure they get on their way to Africa?”

  “I don’t know about that. This guy here, he ain’t exactly been polite about the whole thing. Me and the boys carried these crates up to his apartment, too….”

  Aha. I completely understand what this is about, now.

  “I understand,” I tell Gus. “How about Mr. Blakestock gives you a hundred dollars for your trouble, and you take the goats away?”

  “Sure. Sounds good to me.”

  “Great.” Although I don’t want Adam to get off the hook so lightly, the goats deserve better. “Put him on, will you, so I can explain our agreement.”

  “Well?” Adam growls.

  “All fixed,” I say. “They had the wrong delivery address, that’s all. Now if you’ll just give them a hundred dollars for their trouble—”

  “What? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Okay, bye, Adam. Enjoy the goats.”

  “No, wait.” And then, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. Have a nice day now,” I tell him and hang up.

  Y-e-s!

  10

  Independence Day

  TO DO

  Drink many worm-infested drinks before next visit to family, because hangover will be so bad, won’t remember visit to family.

  Drink many worm-infested drinks before next show Jack my breasts. Hangover will be so excruciating, won’t remember Jack seeing my breasts.