32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  Ohhhkaayy. I think I’m making my point.

  “Emma, I need some help with this report for Adam.” Lou places a file in front of me. It is for the Burgoyne campaign. Oh joy.

  “We need to come up with some fresh new ideas. I thought you might be able to, you know, suggest something.”

  “Fresh new ideas—sorry, Lou, that’s just not me. That would be your department, being an account manager. If you need anything typed, or fetched, that would be my department on account of being a secretary.” I say all of this with such a sweet smile on my face, I don’t think he realizes that I’m being sarcastic.

  “Well, I’ve come up with a couple of things we can play around with. Maybe you could take a look? Read what I’ve proposed, see what you think. If anything kinda leaps out at you as you’re reading them, just let me know. Oh, I also need you to check out the on-line video libraries—I want you to track down the type of photos I’ve stipulated for my proposals.” Before I can tell him no, he strolls back to his desk.

  I open the file.

  These are Lou’s “original” ideas.

  Cute animals in funny ass-turned-toward-camera poses, with clever captions underneath (he hasn’t specified what these clever captions are; he’s just written “clever captions”).

  Supermodels dressed as puppies. They are joyfully cavorting around the house, pushing rolls of Burgoyne toilet tissue.

  As I sit here amazed by his audacity, the boy genius strolls past me, attaché case in hand.

  “See you tomorrow, Emma.”

  If he can leave at five on the dot, so can I.

  Thank God it’s Friday!

  Ten more minutes of this horrible week to go and then I’m free for the weekend.

  I have to start hunting for an apartment tomorrow, I really do. Maybe I should call at a couple of real-estate agents on my way home from work. Maybe I’ll go to the gym instead. Maybe I’ll go shopping…

  I am trying to distract myself.

  Stella has been closeted in Adam’s office, with Adam, for the best part of an hour. The door is closed, and I think I heard it click as Adam locked it from the inside. I just know they are having wild sex on his desk. Why else lock the door?

  I am still yearning for the old days when Adam was still an unknown, Godlike quantity, and Johnny was still butt-patting me when the telephone rings.

  “Emma, babe?” Norbert.

  Oh. Peri obviously gave him my work number. After the Helmut disaster, I’m not in the mood for Norbert.

  “Just callin’ about that date. You know how you said…”

  As the door to Adam’s office opens, and Adam and Stella come out looking fuck-drunk, I stop thinking about how to nicely but firmly say no to Norbert.

  “How lovely to hear from you,” I say brightly down the telephone. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”

  Adam looks across and frowns. Serves him right.

  “That’s cool, babe,” Norbert tells me. “I got Plant tickets for the Hammerstein Ballroom on the twenty-fourth.”

  Robert Plant? My God-among-men Robert Plant?

  I instantly forget Adam and Stella (and Norbert) as I fall into daydream mode. I casually wait at the stage door as he leaves (after a sublime performance, obviously). Our eyes meet across the throngs of other fans. Robert smiles at me. I smile back. Violins play in the background as the crowds disappear and Robert whisks me away in his limousine.

  “That’s great,” Norbert tells me. “I’ll call you next week, babe.” Norbert hangs up.

  I can’t believe it. I’m going to see Robert Plant.

  “Emma.” Adam pauses in front of my desk. “That wasn’t a personal call, was it?”

  “Of course not,” I lie. “I’m totally familiar with company policy,” I tell him primly, but can’t help the smug smile.

  On this triumphant note, I head for Hoboken and the gym to work off my Lou/Adam/Norbert-related stress. The apartment hunting can wait until tomorrow. Robert Plant! Y-e-s!

  I am pounding on the treadmill.

  I am wearing a washed-out tank and shabby sweat pants.

  I am totally out of breath and plastered in sweat from my exertions.

  This is not a good look for me.

  So, of course, this is the perfect time for me to bump into someone I really don’t want to bump into.

  “Emma.”

  It’s Jack.

  13

  Polydating

  TO DO

  Purchase new, sexy gym clothes.

  Ensure makeup is perfect before going to gym.

  Ensure hair is perfect before going to gym.

  “Jack,” I gasp, hopelessly out of breath but trying not to show it. “So, you’ve joined the gym? This is my gym. What a coincidence.”

  What an idiot. Babble, babble, babble. Why am I even bothering? This is only Jack. It’s not like I want to impress him or anything.

  I push back a lock of my damp bangs in a vain and pointless effort to make myself look better, and nearly fall off the damned machine, because I’ve forgotten that I haven’t mastered it without hands yet. Clumsy is not the effect I was trying for but it seems I am fated to embarrass myself in front of Jack.

  “Whoa, there.” Jack steadies me, placing one hand on my spine, and the other on my arm. Actually, that feels rather nice…Hang on just a minute. This is Jack. It must be my lack of sex…

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.” I beam back at him without slowing my pace. I am really struggling to control my breathing now, because I’m surrounded by physically perfect people who can probably run for hours on this machine without even breaking a sweat. I am so not going to pant and show myself up for the couch potato I am.

  “Because for a moment,” he says, “I figured you were so impressed with my masculine physique you were going to fall at my feet.”

  Trust Jack to assume he’s just so appealing that all women will instantly want him. But he does look really hot in black Lycra and I am not the only one who thinks this. It hasn’t escaped my notice that most of the women in the gym are eyeing him like hungry lionesses who’ve just spotted a meaty buffalo.

  And he knows it.

  “Actually, Jack, I joined the gym to get fit—not to check out the prime rib.” I know I sound prissy, but really, the ego on this man is unbelievable. “You’re not that irresistible.”

  “I have my moments,” he says, as his eyes follow the shapely brunette who is strutting her stuff for all she’s worth. As she passes Jack, she turns and smiles at him.

  “Hi,” Jack says to her, and she nearly swoons.

  I mean, really.

  “Jack, you ready for your fitness assessment?” Shelly, the pretty, blonde personal trainer, beams at him.

  “You bet,” Jack says, then winks at me.

  “God, you’re such a slut,” I tell him.

  Two women in as many seconds. How lucky is that?

  “Slut works for me every time. See you around.”

  Oh, I hope not.

  “Is that a threat or a promise?” I quip, as he walks toward the weight section.

  “Depends on your point of view,” he says.

  This is the perfect end to my day. I refuse to stay here and watch Jack charm the birdies out of the trees, so I give up on the gym and go back to Tish’s place.

  Saturday afternoon

  God, it’s so hot I can barely breathe. Humidity is high, my stress levels are even higher, and I have spent the day depressing myself by checking out apartments that I cannot afford.

  My last appointment was to view a great, but very tiny, two-bedroom apartment. It’s totally perfect for me. Nicely finished floors, close to the PATH and the ferry, close to all my friends. Light and airy, the kitchen has all new appliances. The only problem with this apartment is that I cannot afford it. The rent is more money than I make each month. And even if I could find a roommate to split the costs, I would barely have enough to pay bills, and food would be a luxury.

  This
is the same story for all of the apartments I have either viewed or seen details for. I mean, I knew Hoboken had become more expensive in recent years, but these prices are just so…so unfair!

  Oh, but I yearn for the old days when Tish and I shared the apartment upstairs from Mrs. Hocksted, our landlady. It was a perfect arrangement. Nicely situated on Park, the apartment was spacious, convenient, and most importantly, it was only eight hundred dollars a month. And that was between the two of us. Four hundred dollars each a month. I can’t believe I was so stupid to give it up completely. Oh, how I wish I’d kept the apartment when I moved in with Adam. Even paying the full rent by myself is less than half of the rent I would currently have to pay. I wish I hadn’t spent so much on expensive dinners with Adam.

  Mrs. Hocksted’s apartment was a unique opportunity, though. Dad knows her son, and Mrs. Hocksted was more interested in renting the apartment to reliable, professional, well-behaved adults than making a fortune from us. So of course, Tish and me immediately sprang to Dad’s mind. Being nearly deaf, Mrs. Hocksted thought we were wonderful, quiet girls. I wonder if she’s rerented the place? Of course she’s rerented the place, why would she not rent it at that price?

  As I trudge down Washington, I decide that I really need one of Rufus’s banana-granola muffins. I know he is The Enemy, and that Tish has declared his deli no-man’s land, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I glance around furtively to check that I have not been spotted, and duck into the cool, air-conditioned interior.

  Rufus is in his usual place behind the counter. He barely glances up from his newspaper as I approach.

  “Hi, Rufus,” I say.

  Now, although we are boycotting the deli, technically this has not been my local deli for the past three and a half months, so I don’t feel uncomfortable that Rufus might have noticed my part in our one-week boycott.

  “Emma. The usual?”

  “Yeah, please.”

  You see? This is what I want. Rufus knows my needs. He doesn’t have to be told that the banana-granola muffin with the skim-milk, chocolate cappuccino is what I want. Why can’t everything in this life be as simple?

  I sit in the corner at a table for two, and dig out my notebook and pen. I have to do some math and see just exactly what I can afford. But the main problem is just how much money I need for the deposit (usually one and a half month’s rent) and the agent’s fee (again, one and a half month’s rent), plus one month’s rent in advance.

  Okay. If I want this apartment, I need to come up with ten thousand dollars before I even get the key. Ten thousand dollars. I mean, that’s just not the kind of money you have lying around, is it? And even if I find a roommate to share the costs, we’d still have to pay five thousand each.

  Actually, there is one person I know who has this kind of money lying around. My dad. But I will not ask him, because (a) I’m too old to ask my parents to bail me out—that is just too pathetic, (b) he has Peri and the twins to take care of—orthodontic bills and college funds to pay out for, and (c) he’s fifty-six and getting close to retirement age.

  I’ll just have to figure out a way to do this by myself.

  Of course, my car will have to go. If I have to spend such a fortune on rent, car loan payments are out of the question. I really hate this idea. My car is the last symbol of my adult achievements. I have no home and no boyfriend, and my career is down the drain. But I do have my car. I love my car. If I have to sell it, I will have failed in everything!

  I lay my head on the pad and close my eyes. This is so much worse than I imagined.

  “Here,” Rufus says, placing my food on the table. “Y’okay? Only yer don’t look okay.”

  “I’ll live. Unfortunately.” I take a sip of the cappuccino and feel instantly better.

  “Not the trouble with yer man, is it? Only I saw his picture in the paper with that other one…don’t mean to intrude, just, you know…”

  I love his Irish accent. And I’m touched that he cares so much about me.

  “Thanks, Rufus, but Adam is the least of my worries,” I say. “I’m just so—so—pissed. I mean, I just didn’t realize how high rents are around here.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Mind if I sit?”

  It is then that I notice that Rufus has brought two cups of cappuccino. It seems he’s feeling chatty, and I’m curious. And let’s face it, I don’t have anything better to do.

  “Sure, be my guest.”

  We sit companionably for a few minutes while I attack my muffin and Rufus sips at his cappuccino, occasionally shaking his head with gloomy resignation.

  “It’s all the Manhattan yuppies,” he says, finally.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s why the prices are so shite high. S’all them new developments along yer Hudson River, there, don’t ye see? Easy access by PATH and ferry to Manhattan. Had to happen sooner or later.” He scowls as if it is the end of the world. “I mean, it’s good for business and all—got a lot of new customers. But it’s changing the feel of the place. Hoboken used to be like a family town, now it’s full of all the upwardly mobile types. It’s a shite deal, so it is.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a Manhattan yuppie,” I tell him. “I aspire to Manhattan upwardly mobile myself, but now it seems I’m doomed to sleep on Tish’s sofa forever.”

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean no insult to yer. I like yuppies, really….”

  “It’s okay, Rufus, I was just teasing you.”

  “Oh, right then. You staying with Tish, then?”

  “Yes.” I take another sip.

  He’s definitely interested in that piece of information. I thought he might be, which is why I mentioned it. I may be wrapped up in my own woes, but I can see the obvious when I want to. This is probably one of the longest conversations I’ve ever had with Rufus. And I know it’s not just for the pleasure of my company.

  “So she’s all right, then? Only I haven’t seen her around a deal recently.”

  “No, she’s been busy. You know, with the store and everything.”

  “Oh.” He sips thoughtfully for a few seconds. “I’ve seen her in O’Malley’s a few times.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Oh, call me sadistic if you like, but I’m loving every moment of this. It’s obvious that he’s really into Tish, and that he misses her, so that’s good, isn’t it?

  “With a guy,” he says, rather pointedly.

  “Yes. Well, she’s a very attractive woman. No reason why she shouldn’t be in there with a guy, is there?”

  “So she’s got a new boyfriend, then?”

  “No, not exactly,” I say, wondering how much to tell him without being disloyal to Tish, but enough to give Rufus a good, hard nudge in the right direction. “But she won’t find Mr. Right if she stays home every night, will she now?”

  “I suppose not. Pretty girl like her. I guess she gets asked out a lot.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, well, nice talking to yer,” Rufus says as he gets to his feet. “Take care of yerself, girl.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” Rufus adds. “I dunno if this is a good idea, but…”

  Come on Rufus, spit it out. Ask me more about Tish.

  “If yer desperate, like, I’ve got a spare bedroom in me apartment upstairs. I own the whole building, so there’d be no trouble with landlords and the like. S’probably a bad idea…”

  Now that’s one I wasn’t expecting!

  “It’s really kind of you,” I say, “but I’m sure I’ll find something.”

  “Right you are, then. But if you’re stuck—”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Well, that was a very interesting little chat. I wonder if I should mention this to Tish? Of course, that would be tantamount to admitting that I’ve ventured into enemy territory, but I could make out like I did it on purpose, just to gauge Rufus’s feelings.

  I think it best not to mention that R
ufus asked me to move in with him, though.

  But I forget about Rufus and Tish a few moments later.

  Just as I turn into Tish’s street, I see Katy, with Alex in his stroller, outside Tish’s door. Alex, oh sweet and perfect child, is sleeping under his canopy. But Katy is crying.

  “Katy,” I say as I cross the street. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Emma, I’m so pleased to see you.” She blows her nose on a tissue. “Can we go inside? I’m hiding from Marion Lacy and the MASS mothers.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she’s calmed down enough to tell me the tale. Because there’s always a tale when Marion’s involved.

  “She’s just so…so pushy,” Katy says, and I sigh. “I feel like she’s hijacked my life,” she adds, and I sigh again. “It’s not that I want to ditch the MASS mothers completely, but I do have a life. And I don’t want to spend every waking moment either planning the latest campaign or dragging poor little Alex off to his next class. I’m a terrible mother.”

  “No, you’re a great mother,” I tell her, because she is. “All you have to do is to look at Alex to see what a great mother you are.” It’s true. He’s a completely fab kid. “But…” I feel my way carefully, “but, well, maybe Marion is just a little bit intense…”

  I don’t want to say too much. I don’t want to offend Katy.

  “But Marion Lacy’s a complete nightmare,” Katy says, and I giggle with her, because she’s right.

  “Well, maybe just a bit.” I should be a diplomat.

  “You know what? She’s completely awful. Alex really doesn’t need all those classes,” Katy says.

  “Well…” I don’t want to give her the wrong impression. “I think it’s great he has so many activities to stimulate him—but maybe a few too many…”

  “He loves the art class,” Katy announces, suddenly. “I think I’ll just keep that class for him. But everything else goes. The e-mail account definitely goes. Who ever heard of a two-year-old needing e-mail?”

  My point exactly, but I don’t say this.

  “But what about Marion?” I ask instead.