Think of really convincing line to explain single status. I am single because: (a) ?, (b) ?, (c) ? Why am I single again? What’s wrong with me?
I am strong.
I am, as the song says, invincible.
Because I am Woman.
For my journey into the deepest, darkest depths of New Jersey to spend the day with Dad, Peri, and the terrible twins, I have chosen only music with a positive message. Last night, while Tish had her second date with John (just like the previous evening, she met him in O’Malley’s—I hope he develops a taste for Guinness), I spent two hours carefully taping each track. On this occasion, I have forgone my gods of rock, Led Zeppelin (although I do have Houses of the Holy for the return journey tomorrow morning), and am listening only to strong, invincible women.
As I listen to Aretha Franklin singing about respect, I sing loudly along with her. And I actually feel quite good. Not exactly happy, but not totally in the pit of despair, either.
As Rachel says, there’s nothing wrong with being a single woman of independent means. Well, at least Rachel used to say this, when we were friends. The thought of Rachel casts a dark cloud over my day. I’ve been thinking about our argument, and she did have a point. I will call her tomorrow and eat some humble pie, because we have, after all, been friends for sixteen years and you don’t throw away that kind of friendship for a few ill-chosen words.
But anyway, this is the twenty-first century, and just because I’m thirty and don’t have a boyfriend or husband, this does not mean that there is something wrong with me, no. It means that I can’t find a man worth giving up my freedom for. This is, after all, the day for being independent (although I’m always a bit confused whether or not to celebrate—being half American and half English can be a problem on days like this).
Yes, an independent woman. That’s exactly it.
And that is what I’m going to say to explain Adam’s nonappearance with me.
“We split up because I am an independent woman,” I say aloud.
This doesn’t sound convincing.
I’ll have to think of something else. I ruthlessly push aside thoughts of Adam and concentrate on my new swimsuit, which is safely tucked in my overnight bag.
It’s black, with high-cut legs, and is artfully padded around the breast area. Not too padded so that I look too different, you understand, because that would be tantamount to admitting defeat and saying to the world, “hey, I know my boobs are too small,” but just enough to squeeze together what I have got, and push it up into amazing cleavage.
Amazingly small cleavage, but cleavage nonetheless.
It cost an absolute arm and leg, but David assured me it was worth every penny. Actually, it didn’t cost an arm and a leg because I bought it from an up-and-coming new designer. That’s one of the benefits of having gay men friends. They always know where to go shopping for whatever it is you happen to want. And David’s friend Simon is so up-and-coming that no one has actually heard of him yet, but boy does he know how to dress women! And which is why he gave me a great deal. Plus he actually raved about my smallness, and how great I’d be as a mannequin.
Can you imagine it? Me, the next supermodel. Naomi, Chandra, and Kate will be my new best friends. Jean-Paul Gaultier will design lovely bustiers for me à la Madonna, and pop stars will want to date me!
Armed with this daydream, plus riding in my lovely daffodil yellow Beetle always makes me feel good, I happily while away the journey imagining exotic locations, and men with bulging biceps drooling over me. When I’m in London, Guy Ritchie and Madonna will invite me to dinner, along with Sting and Trudie Styler…
Didn’t quite manage to ask David if he was having an affair, though…It’s not something that comes up easily in conversation. I will have to figure out a way to broach the subject. But if he is having an affair, it’s definitely not with his designer friend Simon, so that’s good, isn’t it?
My newfound bravado deserts me as I pull up the drive in front of Dad and Peri’s ranch house. I thought this was going to be family only, but there are several extra cars parked on the drive (all of them Mercedes or BMWs).
I nearly turn my car around and head back down the drive when the front door opens and out trots Peri, resplendent in a pink and yellow flowered bikini and matching sarong.
“Darling, you’re here,” she tells me as she squashes me in a huge bear hug, before taking my face in her hands. “I’m just so pleased to see you.” She plants kisses all over my face as if I am her favorite teddy bear. Peri is the human equivalent of a Labrador puppy—enthusiastic, overenergetic, but basically loving and friendly.
“Daddy was starting to worry you’d had an accident—you know, because of being depressed about Adam and not paying attention to the Jersey drivers. Oh, you poor darling,” she says, pulling me back against her bosom. “Daddy told me about Adam. You poor, poor girl. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He’ll be back begging you to marry him by the end of the month.”
Peri, ever the optimist. Fat chance of that. No one will ever want to marry me.
“Come on.” She grabs my arm and leads me into the house. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Norbert’s here and he can’t wait to see you again.”
But I don’t like Norbert, I don’t say, because he is a pompous, sexist ass who talks continually about his money, his belongings, his past girlfriends, and his prowess in the bedroom. God knows why Peri likes him!
“He’s still single. You know, I don’t get it. He’s rich, attractive, successful…and he’s really fond of you, you know. Come on.” She pauses momentarily to draw breath. “Let’s get you into your birthday bikini, then you can join the party. It’s just the usual crowd, including Uncle Derek, Norbert, Gracie and Lou, oh, and you’ll never believe it. Uncle Derek’s got a new girlfriend—Kaylie—she seems like a nice person and he did do a great job on her implants, but he’s still stressed out from the divorce…”
“Actually, I have a new—” swimsuit. I nearly manage to say it, but before I do, Peri foils me.
“Darling, go on up and change—I’ve left your new bikini in your old room. As soon as I saw it I thought of you, you are just going to love it. It’s so cute.”
Peri is lovely, but fashion is not her forte. I anxiously eye her pink and yellow flowers.
“Go on, up you go,” she urges me. “The boys are dying to see you in it. They helped me choose it.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see them, either,” I lie, trying to imagine what this bikini is like, having been chosen by three-year-old demons who take great delight in tormenting me.
What a horrible person I am.
Not only do I not want to see the boys, I don’t want to wear Peri’s bikini. What sort of mean, selfish person am I? If I don’t wear the bikini that Peri has especially chosen for me, I will hurt her feelings. Would it kill me to make Peri happy? Besides, all Peri and Dad’s friends won’t care how I look, will they?
This thought holds me until I put it on.
It is truly ghastly.
The lime green, itsy-bitsy bikini leeches the color from my skin. It has a halter-neck top, with two tiny triangles of fabric that literally leave nothing to the imagination and show off my small, but at least firm, breasts. I nastily hope that all of the other women are at least forty, with drooping boobs, and will be jealous of my neat little perky 32AAs.
But how likely is that? Most of Dad and Peri’s friends are plastic surgeons and their wives have absolutely no reason to have droopy breasts or flabby thighs.
I glare at myself in the full-length mirror, and anxiously fiddle with my pixie-short blonde hair. It is the only thing about me that looks well nourished (thanks to Sylvester’s hairdresser friend, Jason, who introduced me to this new, super tea-tree conditioner for fine hair).
Maybe if I tie my sarong around my boobs and don’t get into the pool, I’ll be able to get away with it.
“Emma, what are you doing up there?” Peri calls to me, and I realize that I have
been up here for at least twenty minutes.
“Come on, darling, everyone’s dying to say hello to you.”
Oh, God, the sarong (black, to match my lovely new swimsuit) looks like a tent. It was supposed to be tied around my hips, to make them look a little wider. Instead, I tie the knot just above my breasts, which gives me the appearance of having one boob right in the middle of my chest.
But it is an improvement on the lime green, so I sigh and leave the room after slyly hiding my purse and my car keys under the loose floorboard that hopefully the twins haven’t discovered yet. I used to hide all my private things in here during high school, when I lived with Dad.
As I step self-consciously onto the terrace, Peri shrieks in delight.
“Look, everyone, here’s Emma.”
I feel like a freak exhibit in the zoo as all eyes turn towards me.
“Darling.” Dad kisses me. “Sorry about…er…your guy. Very sad. You all right?”
“Yeah. You know.”
He pats my shoulder without saying a word. He’s not the most vocal of people when it comes to affairs of the heart, so the pat is worth a thousand words and I appreciate it. I appreciate his next words even more.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes—something deadly would be nice.”
“Something with vodka.” He winks at me, then turns back. “Oh, Norbert’s here.”
“Oh, good.” Oh God.
“Emma.” Uncle Derek, pink as a lobster, his stomach hanging unflatteringly over his swimsuit, plants a kiss on my cheek. “Heard about your disappointment with Adam,” he addresses my breasts. “Single again! I dunno what it is with modern women, you just can’t seem to stick with one guy.”
“Ha ha.” I feebly attempt a laugh, to avoid conversation. I don’t want to mention his three ex-wives, because this would be mean of me.
“You really should give more thought to getting implants. Men like a woman with curves.”
And women like a man who is not desperately in need of liposuction and hair implants, but I do not say that, either.
“Emma.” Gracie air-kisses me. She is Peri’s best friend. Although a bit of a ditz (in a very nice way) she has the uncanny ability to memorize complete trivia and regurgitate it at inappropriate moments.
“So sorry to hear about you and Adam. We never did get to meet him, did we? Well…Norbert’s here.”
“Yes, so I hear.” I force myself to smile. I do not understand why everyone seems so determined to throw Norbert at me.
“Oh, you’ll never believe what Gracie saw in the newspaper on Tuesday,” Peri tells me. “It’s such a coincidence.”
Oh God.
“Yeah,” Gracie says. “There was a photo of that rich woman toilet-paper magnate—you know the one I mean? Oh. What’s her name, Peri?”
“Can’t remember. Sheila or Susan something.”
Stella bitch-man-stealing Burgoyne. But I don’t say this.
“Whatever, but she has great taste in clothes. She was wearing this really great Oscar de la Renta dress. Did you see it in Vogue, Peri? Completely fabulous.”
I plaster the smile more firmly to my face because I know what’s coming next.
“Well anyway, she’s worth a fortune and she’s just got herself engaged to this younger guy.”
“Gigolo,” Peri announces, wrinkling her nose. “He’s, like, ten years younger than her—he must be marrying her for her money.”
Peri tends to forget that she is sixteen years younger than my dad.
“But you’ll never guess,” Peri says. “He’s called Adam Blakestock, too. What a coincidence. I mean, like, I’d never have remembered that your Adam was called Blakestock if Gracie hadn’t reminded me.” Peri laughs, and I feel the color drain from my face.
“Obviously not your Adam Blakestock, but don’t you, like, think it’s a strange coincidence that there are two guys with the same name living in Manhattan?”
“How weird is that?” Gracie giggles.
“Oh, we shouldn’t have mentioned his name. See what we’ve done, Gracie? We’ve reminded her about her breakup with her Adam Blakestock.”
“No, it’s okay. Really…”
“Oh.” Gracie puts a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Emma, Lou’s always telling me to think before I open my great big mouth. I’ll, er, just go see if he needs help with the barbecue.”
Peri drags me around to say hi to everyone, and I narrowly avoid getting stuck with Norbert. For the moment, he has a captive audience by the name of Kaylie, Uncle Derek’s date. He’s amazing her with trivial details about his five trillion million–dollar sports car. Fascinatingly enough, his new car has fifty cup holders. Imagine that!
And just when I think I can escape Peri and find a quiet corner, preferably with a large, extremely alcoholic drink, she calls out to Joe Junior and Jack Junior, who are splashing around in the pool.
With Jack Senior.
Jack Senior, or just plain Jack, is Peri’s younger brother. And let me make something very clear.
We do not like each other.
This is because of what happened at Dad and Peri’s wedding, nine years ago, when I was a sophisticated graduate of twenty-one and Jack was a varsity jock—a mere boy of nineteen.
“I told you we had a special guest,” Peri tells me. She fondly imagines that because Jack and I are related by marriage, we must be the greatest of friends.
“Emma,” the terrible twins cry my name in unison, and it sounds more like a threat than a greeting. Within seconds, they are out of the pool and attached to my legs like leeches as they tug at the sarong. The sarong duly complies and slithers down to reveal the lime green bikini.
I think I hear titters of amusement from the gathered party as the twins run off, firmly clutching my sarong.
“Now boys, be nice to Emma.” Peri descends after her flock, leaving me to Jack’s tender mercies.
“Jack,” I say, blushing at my vile green, near-nakedness. “What are you doing here?” I ask, and I know that my voice sounds harsh and unfriendly. “I thought you were in Helsinki. Or Honolulu.” At least, somewhere beginning with H. I should remember because Peri keeps me up to date on Jack’s life. But I usually stop listening when she starts, because I really don’t want to hear about his amazing career, the latest architectural award he’s picked up or which girlfriend he’s currently dating. Jack dates a lot.
“Nice to see you too, Emma. Hong Kong,” Jack tells me.
He looks fabulous, damn him. He’s obviously been working out.
“Fabulous bikini,” he lies, giving me the once up and down. “You haven’t changed an inch.”
I know that he is referring to my bust size, and I blush even more brightly. This is not kind, so I respond in a similar way.
“How’s the knee, James?” I ask, smiling sweetly.
You see, his real name is James. James Brown. His parents had a strange sense of humor, as well as a deep, abiding love for the music of Mr. Brown. And, like his namesake, Jack has problems with his knees. One knee, actually. Not from falling to them on stage, but he tore a ligament during a Varsity football game. It was the end of his football career. Which was a tragedy, apparently, because according to Peri he showed great promise.
“I haven’t had any complaints about my passes.” He smiles, smugly.
What a slut he is.
“Well…interesting to see you again,” I say, choosing my adjective with care.
“Sure. Maybe we’ll bump into each other in another couple of years if we’re unlucky.”
“Not if I see you first, hahaha. Just my little joke.”
“Yeah, you said it. Oh, heard you got dumped. Sorry. Happens to us all.”
I scowl at his disappearing (but amazingly muscular) back, and head off in search of a large towel and the liquid refreshment Dad has promised me.
You see, I once nearly made the mistake of sleeping with Jack. Nine years ago at Dad and Peri’s wedding. Thank God, I didn’t,
but I would have if I hadn’t overheard him bragging to his friend Chip.
This is what happened.
I was twenty-one. I’d drunk too much champagne, because I was just legally old enough to consume alcohol so I made the most of the occasion. Jack and his college pal Chip (completely sober or so I thought, on account of being nineteen) spent the whole of the reception flirting with me, dancing with me and generally making me feel that I was the most beautiful girl in the world. It was so—so wonderful, that two attractive young men should compete for me.
And I, in my drunken haze, lapped it all up. Although the fuchsia bridesmaid dress (carefully but inappropriately chosen by Peri) was terrible, after a couple of glasses of champagne I truly considered myself on a par with Grace Kelly.
I was beautiful.
I was desirable.
Handsome young men were flirting with me! And I was having the time of my life!
Plus, I really went for Jack in a big way. Tall, lean, dark-haired, with the most amazing chocolate brown eyes and a kind smile. Chip was okay, if you go for the “I’m God’s gift to women” type, but basically an overbred idiot with an eye for anything in a skirt.
After a trip to the restroom to freshen up (and to brush my teeth in case of kissing opportunities), I decide to cool off on the hotel patio, and this is when I see Jack and Chip. They are smoking cigarettes and drinking underage beer, and I am just about to go and join them when something stops me.
They are laughing and talking. About me.
This is what they say.
Chip: “The titless blonde’s really up for it. Christ, you’d think she’d get implants or something. Can you believe her father’s a plastic surgeon?”
Jack: “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Chip: “Well she’s not my usual type, my friend, but beggars can’t be chosers.”
Jack: “Yeah.” Followed by laughter.
Chip: “But she’s the only vaguely decent chick at this wedding—the only single chick at this wedding. You got a coin? We’ll toss for her.”
I don’t stay to listen to any more. Suddenly, I am completely sober, and flee back to the restroom. The full-length mirror, which only minutes before told me I was beautiful and desirable à la Grace Kelly, is now harsh and unforgiving in the glare of the light.
32AA Page 13