32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  “Er…” Jack scratches his head and I know that he feels pressured.

  He is not alone.

  But five hundred dollars a month is really, really cheap. Maybe I should think about it…Maybe I need my head examined for even considering moving in with him. No, this is definitely not a good plan. But I think I’ll let him suffer for a couple of seconds longer before I refuse, because it’s nice to have the boot on the other foot for a change.

  Plus, I know he feels beholden to my father. You see, Dad lent him rather a lot of money a few years ago for the down payment on the house. At that time, Hoboken was just about to become up-and-coming, so he got the house for a really good price. It must be worth a fortune, now that Hoboken is awash with the Manhattan overflow, and Jack knows it’s all due to Dad. Therefore he feels guilty saying no to me.

  I feel guilty for pressuring him.

  “It’s okay, Jack, I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  “No, it’s fine, really,” he says, but his sincerity is questionable.

  “Of course it’s fine,” Peri says. “It’s the perfect solution. And besides, Emma’s family. It’s not like you’d be living together, like really living together.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” I say, looking down at my new book. It has the most amazing pictures on the front…

  “Oh, Jack, go get ready. Come on, hurry up,” Peri tells him. “You haven’t got all day.”

  “You going somewhere?” I ask Peri.

  “No, silly, but you’re driving back to Hoboken, aren’t you? Jack hasn’t got a car yet so he may as well travel with you. It’ll be nice to have company for the journey, won’t it? And it’ll save Daddy or me having to drive him later.”

  “Oh, fabulous,” I say.

  2 P.M.

  Tish’s apartment really is too small. Her living room, already fairly cramped, resembles my life.

  Messy and overcrowded with baggage.

  I am depressed.

  You see, the boys found my secret loose floorboard hide-away, and my car keys were once again fair game. No amount of coercing by Peri could persuade them to reveal the location of the keys. But this is not why I am depressed, because, for once, I am happy with the charming antics of my demon half brothers. You see, it meant that I couldn’t drive my car back to Hoboken. Which is great, because I could do with leaving it at Peri and Dad’s house for a while. It is always so hard to find parking spaces in Hoboken, and the multistory car lots are horrendously expensive, so this will save me money. Which is good.

  The other obvious benefit of having no car keys is that I couldn’t drive Jack back with me, which means I did not have to suffer an hour of his company in a confined space.

  No, the real reason I am depressed is because Jack was so glad that he didn’t have to drive with me.

  He was positively euphoric when I announced that the twins had, in all probability, fed my keys to the garbage disposal again. He smiled. He actually smiled. Because, obviously, he can think of nothing worse than having to sit in a car with me. He cannot bear to spend more than a few minutes in my company.

  Obviously, I do not have any warm feelings for Jack. And I would have to be really desperate to date him, and he is a serial dater without a conscience. But it hurts that I am so unattractive to men in general.

  I couldn’t face the torment of a ride back to Hoboken with Peri and the twins, so instead, I have spent the past four hours missing buses and getting on express trains instead of local trains, and ending up in places I definitely don’t want to be.

  I am going to the gym to get rid of my post-traveling commuter rage.

  A lonely Friday evening looms ahead of me and I feel like a freak. Only a week since my thirtieth birthday, and it’s already a bad year for me. I am drinking my second glass of Adam’s delicious wine and eating instant cup of noodles (just add boiling water, hey presto, dinner), because I can’t conjure up the enthusiasm to either (a) cook something, or (b) pick up the telephone and order something. Plus, I need to save all the money I can for a rental deposit.

  The wine makes me think of Adam, and I can’t help but torture myself with thoughts of him and Stella having wild sex and laughing about me. I can’t believe he’d be this cruel. I can’t believe how much I miss him, despite his being a bastard ionic bonder. I’m lonely, and I want a friendly shoulder to cry on.

  Sylvester and David are a no because it’s their most hectic night of the week, so they’re too busy to listen to my “poor me, why me” ramblings. I could go round and see Katy and Tom, but they need some space. Some alone time, without me (or Marion Lacy) playing third wheel. Apparently, when Katy tried to sneak home early after the MASS mothers march yesterday, Marion Lacy (and some of the mothers) followed Katy home and invited themselves to her barbecue. Something has to be done about that woman!

  Tish is out with John again (via O’Malley’s, of course). That’s three times in four days. At this rate, Tish will reach her sex limit by tomorrow night. She firmly believes that after four dates, you should sleep with a guy just so that you can check out if you’re sexually compatible, and thus avoid the need to waste time and money on more dates if the sex is crap.

  Oh God, what on earth will I do if she wants to bring him back here to have sex? They can’t go back to his place, on account of his mother. And the walls between her bedroom and the living room are so thin. I just can’t lie here and listen to them cavorting in the bedroom. Maybe the noise from my new vibrator will drown them out…

  I could call Rachel…I should call Rachel. I really miss her…

  I decide to watch a video and have some more wine to build up my courage. I decide on A Knight’s Tale, because although Heath Ledger is (but only marginally) too young for me, he is certainly easy on the eye. Plus, the actor who plays the Prince of Wales is lovely, so I keep winding forward to the bit in the film where he makes Heath a real knight, and then to the end where he kisses his pretend actress wife. Then back to the bits where the Geoffry Chaucer character is naked, because I like him, too…Plus, this might be the only chance I will get to see a naked man ever again…

  I am just about to have a good cry because Heath Ledger has been reunited with his poor, blind father, whom he hasn’t seen in twelve years, when the doorbell rings.

  It’s Rachel.

  “Hi,” she says, rather coolly. “I brought you this.”

  It is a large ferny type of plant. I am not good with house-plants because I overobsess that they will die on me. So then I overfeed them, overwater them, and then they do, in fact, die, despite the fact that I try to place them in appropriate places, according to the houseplant book.

  But it is a kind thought, and Rachel never buys flowers, because (a) they are expensive, (b) a waste of good money, (c) they die, and (d) they look better growing in fields and gardens, where they belong.

  “Thanks,” I say, awkwardly, because I know that the plant is as close to an apology as I’m going to get from Rachel.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask. “I’m just drinking the expensive wine Tish stole from Adam’s apartment…” I really want to be friends with her again. I hate confrontations.

  “Sure. What else do I have to do on a Friday night? It’s not like I have a hot date or anything,” Rachel says as she climbs the stairs.

  Thank God I am not alone in my Friday-night misery. And she can’t be too pissed with me if she’s bringing me gifts and saying yes to wine. I wonder why she’s dateless? She’s never dateless.

  This fern is really huge. Close to tree size, in fact. Where the hell will I put it? There’s barely enough room in Tish’s living room for me.

  Oh God, plants don’t photosynthesize very much at night, do they? I think they absorb oxygen when it’s dark, so this one probably absorbs quite a lot. Will it absorb my oxygen share overnight and asphyxiate me? I can just see the headlines now: GIRL SUFFOCATED BY KILLER PLANT. And I envisage a John Wyndham–style Triffid slithering along the floor to the sofa bed and eating me
as I lay asleep and unsuspecting…

  Get a grip, I tell myself, as I drag it up the stairs. It’s just a plant…

  “God, this stuff is disgusting,” Rachel says through a mouthful of my noodles. “How can you eat it?”

  “Hey, get your own disgusting stuff,” I say, grabbing back my dinner.

  “Emma, you need to eat proper food. Just because Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam is stupid, and does not know a good woman when he gets one, it’s no excuse to let yourself go. You need sustenance,” Rachel says, then disappears into the kitchen to get some wine.

  Thank God. Rachel is back in normal bossy mode as if our Tuesday argument never happened. I feel quite teary with emotion.

  “We’re ordering pizza—with extra cheese, because you need protein and calcium. What video are you watching? Oh, A Knight’s Tale—I suppose I could sit through that again,” she says, but I know for a fact that she, too, thinks that Heath Ledger is hot.

  “Hey,” Tish says from the doorway. “What are you doing, guys? Can I do it, too? My God, that’s a big plant.”

  “I thought you had a date,” I tell her.

  “I broke up with John. He just wasn’t right for me.”

  “I am not going to say ‘I told you so,’” Rachel says, looking first to Tish and then to me in a very pointed way. And then, “What pizza do you want?”

  “What was wrong with him?” I ask, because I don’t understand why she dated him in the first place.

  “Nothing. He’s a nice guy. But I just felt things were moving too fast.”

  “You’ve only been dating for a few days.”

  “Yeah, but he wants to take me home to meet his mother.”

  “That’s fast. It usually takes at least a year and a shotgun to get a guy to take you home to meet his folks,” Rachel says.

  “How can I meet his mother? We haven’t even had sex yet. And he didn’t want to stay in O’Malley’s the whole night again.”

  “Oh. That explains it,” Rachel says.

  As we are eating our double-cheese, double-pepperoni pizza, and as Heath Ledger is about to de-horse the bad guy, win the tournament, and kiss the girl, Rachel suddenly announces that she has a date with her boss.

  “I’ve got a date with Hugh on Monday night.”

  Come again?

  I don’t say a word, because I don’t want to put my foot in it again now that we are friends. But I just don’t believe she’s serious after all she’s said to me about dating my boss.

  “Monday night is good,” Tish says, nodding with approval. “A Monday-night date tells him that you are just so busy and inundated with other men that you can only fit him in on the most nondate night of the week.”

  “Exactly.” Rachel nods her head vigorously. “And it’s not like a real date, or anything. God forbid I should date my boss.” She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re right about that, Emma, although you could have been a little kinder about the way you said it.” She sniffs and I decide it’s time to go for World Peace. At least, peace in my own little world.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I was out of order, but then I do know what I’m talking about. It’s not every day your boss/live-in lover gets engaged before he ditches you,” I say. My eyes fill with Adam tears again and Tish hands me a tissue.

  “I was a little hasty about the Adam situation,” Rachel says. “I didn’t see the picture in the paper until after I’d spoken to you, honey. What a complete and utter ionic bonder bastard. He couldn’t even wait for you to vacate his bed before asking another woman to marry him….”

  And she’s off in full Rachel rant mode as she lists his varying faults, cunningly moving the conversation away from her forthcoming date with Hugh.

  By this time we have all drunk a little too much of Adam’s wine.

  “I think we should act like guys,” Tish says. “They don’t worry about meeting and only dating Miss Right. They play the field without getting emotionally involved, and I think we should do the same. Instead of obsessing over finding Mr. Right, we should polydate.”

  “I may be desperate,” I tell her, “but I have no intention of dating parrots, or any other kind of bird, for that matter.”

  This is a bad joke and they both scowl at me before Tish continues.

  “I mean we should date more than one guy at the same time. You know, a different guy for each night of the dating week. Anyway, I’ve already accepted two dates for next week. Wednesday is Greg and Thursday is Julio.”

  “Julio the hot waiter from the Spanish café?” Rachel raises an eyebrow and I can see she is impressed. “Tell us more.”

  “I went in there earlier to get a sandwich and I just kind of asked him. Do you think that was too forward of me?” she asks, chewing on her bottom lip.

  “No,” I tell her, envying her for being so brave.

  “No. You go, girl,” Rachel says. “I’ve been telling you both for years to take the bull by the horns and get out there.”

  “I think we should make a pact,” Tish says, her face lighting up with the beginnings of an idea. “Tomorrow night we should, you know, hit a singles bar or something and see how many men we can pick up.”

  “Count me in,” Rachel says. “I need to meet some new men—I can’t be bothered to date the ones I’ve already slept with. Too boring.”

  “Count me out,” I tell them, gloomily. “I’m too depressed to date.” And then I tell them all about Norbert and Jack, but omit the part where Jack sees my boobs.

  “Honey, you should think about sharing his house,” Tish tells me. “You can stay here for as long as you like, but—”

  “This place is just too small for both of you,” Rachel finishes. “Darling, five hundred bucks a month is a song for Hoboken. Besides, it’s better to live with a man you don’t like—it only complicates things if you sleep with your roommate.”

  “Sharing with Jack is not an option,” I tell them. “Especially now he thinks I’m some sad spinster with a pink vibrator. There must be something somewhere I can afford.”

  “Pink vibrator?” Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Honey, rewind the conversation a few seconds. How did the words vibrator and Jack get to coexist in the same sentence?”

  “Peri bought it for me,” I tell them, and rummage in my tote bag to show them.

  They are speechless. But I don’t think it’s with envy.

  “I’m seriously thinking of giving up men forever,” I tell them. “Because the vibrator may be loud, but it is ten inches long. And at least it won’t make me sleep on the damp patch.”

  “Honey,” Rachel tells me with a steely glint in her eye. “You won’t be needing that. I’ve fixed you up with a fuck.”

  12

  The Three-Day Week?

  TO DO

  Send Stella Burgoyne huge bouquet of flowers for stealing Adam away from me. Is the least I can do.

  Never. Again. Go. On. Arranged-by-Rachel. Blind. Date.

  Never. Again. Flirt. With. Norbert (but will forgive myself this once. Robert Plant is, after all, Robert Plant).

  Monday, Bloody Monday.

  This is never a good day for me. The first day of the working week, it is hard to muster up enthusiasm for the rat race after a long weekend of freedom away from the sewers.

  I personally feel that the weekend should be extended to three, possibly four days (but on full salary, obviously), thus creating job-share opportunities and thereby eliminating unemployment in one fell swoop. It would also increase shopping opportunities, thereby stimulating economic growth. This is a great idea, I don’t know why no one’s thought of this before—it would be a great vote winner! I should have been a politician! Maybe I could be the first female president…

  Plus, of course, it would give one extra necessary time to recover from weekend overindulgence. Our weekly dinner at Chez Nous extended from Sunday night into the wee hours of Monday morning, along with the opening of more bottles of wine, and I could cheerfully have stayed in bed for an extra few hours this morning to nur
se my hangover. Hmm…I wonder if the government would agree to a three-day week?

  I must mention this to Katy—if Marion Lacy has another campaign to organize, maybe she’ll leave Katy alone.

  We could call it Workers in Favor of Shorter Working Weeks, or WIFOSWW for short. No, not catchy. Oh, I know. How about Salaried Help Overcomes Plutocratic Predilection to Influence Nation’s Growth? Appropriately, SHOPPING for short. Hmm…maybe not. Although a catchy, memorable acronym, no one will remember what it actually stands for. I must check the dictionary for the exact meaning of predilection…I always associate it with prominent political or entertainment figures caught in flagrante delicto, pants around the ankles, handcuffed to the bedpost. In a very seedy hotel, of course, in the company of a secretary or a prostitute. Senator X resigns after admitting predilection for kinky sex…

  I’m really worried about Katy and Tom, though. Last night they both seemed tired and distracted. I must think up a way to get rid of Marion.

  Also, the situation between Sylvester and David is not resolved, despite my assurances, yet again, to Sylvester that David wouldn’t hurt him for all the tea in China.

  But anyway, Mondays are especially not good when you have to endure working with your very recent ex-lover. Plus the arrogant young upstart who got the job that should, by rights, have been yours, i.e. Lou Russo, starts work tomorrow.

  I can hardly wait.

  This morning, despite lack of sleep (and last night’s excess of alcohol) and lack of time in Tish’s bathroom on account of both of us needing to get in there at the same time, I am looking spectacularly lovely, even if I do say so myself. Maybe not spectacularly lovely. But I do look as good as I get.

  I am wearing a pale pink, flirty, gauzy dress that I bought in a chain store last year for the bargain price of forty dollars. It is my feel-good dress, and hints at curves even though I don’t have many. It is sleeveless, with a slash neckline, dipping into a slight V at the back. But not too sexy, obviously, because you should never look too sexy for work. But when faced with an ex, it is always imperative to look one’s best to (a) show him what he is missing and make him miss you even more, and (b) that you are so over him.