32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  “I’ll just have to face up to her, won’t I? I just don’t get it. How could I let her run my life like this? And poor Tom—he’s working such long hours at the moment, I don’t want to worry him. But what do you think I should do?”

  Saturday night

  Despite wanting to stay in and mope, Tish and Rachel decide that we will hit the hip Hoboken bars because, after all, we are hip young women. And this is what hip, happening young people do on Saturday night. Plus, they are deadly serious about the polydating thing, and are determined to meet as many men as possible (I think they may have made a bet with each other). Unfortunately, it seems they cannot meet men unless I accompany them.

  “It won’t be the same without you,” Tish wheedles.

  “You’re coming, okay? Because we’re your oldest, closest friends and we will never speak to you again if you don’t,” Rachel says, leaving me no option but to comply.

  I could argue if I really wanted to. But I also don’t want to mope alone. I prefer to mope in packs, so I’ll just do it in the hip bars instead of at home.

  It is definitely a casual night, and I am wearing khaki pants and a black tank. Tish has done something spiky-but-hip with my hair, and something dramatic with my makeup. (Also hip—how come I can’t manage this look when I do it myself?)

  This is a fab look for me.

  So while I feel like an emotional punching bag, I know that I look good. Man, am I hot!

  But I’m still worried about Katy.

  “But what do you think she should do?” I ask, as I glug down my wine.

  “Will you stop obsessing?” Rachel tells me. “Katy is a strong, sensible woman. She has to stand up to Marion herself. And she’ll do it, too, when the time’s right.”

  “You know, I think it’s the stress of having children,” Tish says thoughtfully. “I mean, Katy’s stuck at home all day with Alex, and delightful though he is, it must be hard for her. She used to be so career-minded. You can’t just switch off all that ambition when you stay home to have a family. I mean, where does it all go?”

  “Remind me never to have any brats,” Rachel says, wrinkling her nose.

  “Don’t think anyone needs to remind me,” I add, glumly envisioning my future years of man-free, baby-free spinsterhood.

  “Remind me never to get married, either.” Rachel drains her drink. “Men have it all ways. They get to have careers and families, without any disruption to their little routines. And what happens to their wives?” she asks rhetorically.

  Tish and I have more sense than to actually answer this, because after a significant pause, she’s off again.

  “I’ll tell you what happens to these unsung heroines of domesticity. Twenty years down the road they’ve sacrificed their promising careers in favor of child-rearing. They’ve cooked, cleaned, soothed, wiped shitty asses, cleaned up vomit. And what do they have to show for it?” Rachel, after a couple of drinks, is once again in full rant mode.

  “I’ll tell you what they’re left with,” she says. “Stretch marks, bags under their eyes, and cellulite. Unless they happen to be married to a plastic surgeon, which is even worse, because then they’re all getting face lifts and liposuction, and pandering to society’s ideals. But my point is, all they’re left with is an ungrateful fucking spouse, who more often than not leaves them in favor of a younger fucking model, and they don’t even have a 401k to show for it. Remind me to send my mother some flowers. Another fucking round, girls?”

  “Whew.” I grin at Tish. “I thought for a moment there that we were about to get the ‘why women should rule the world’ speech again. Not that women shouldn’t rule the world, because I do believe it would be a better place—”

  “So tell me again,” Tish says.

  “Well, she’s basically going to tell Marion that she needs to spend more time with Tom and Alex—”

  “Not Katy. I mean Rufus.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  We’ve done this at least ten times already, but I expect we’ll do it another hundred so she can extract every possible nuance of meaning from his words.

  “Not that I’m interested in him anymore,” she lies.

  “Course not.”

  “Come on. Quick, while Rachel’s getting drinks.”

  So I launch into another telling of what-Rufus-said-next, but remember not to include the part where I get asked to move in with him.

  “I can’t believe you know more about him than me. I didn’t even know he owned that building.”

  “Yes, Tish,” I tell her patiently. “But you don’t speak to him. If you want him, go in for muffins and coffee and just speak to him. Ask him out. Take him on a date, then sleep with him. See? It’s simple.”

  God, I’m so good at giving advice, what a pity I don’t listen to myself more often.

  “I told you, I’m not interested,” she says, blushing slightly because we both know this is not the truth. “He’s missed his chance. I’m seeing Julio again on Tuesday.”

  “The café guy? Nice pecs. Nice body, generally.”

  “Yup. Oh, but don’t call him that. He’s very sensitive about being classified as a waiter. He’s a biology student, he just works in his uncle’s shop to earn extra money.”

  “Well, if he’s a biology student, I suppose that means he must know his way around the female anatomy,” I say.

  “That’s what I thought.” Tish giggles. “So, I figured I might even get as far as four dates with him. It’s been too long since I had sex.”

  “Well, you can always borrow my mechanical friend, if the need takes you. Talking about sex, take a look over at Rachel. I think she’s solved her Saturday night no-date problem.”

  Rachel is happily flirting with a dark-haired guy in Ralph Lauren. I just hope she remembers to order our drinks. Thinking of drinks reminds me that I really need to fight my way through the crowded bar to the restroom.

  The music is loud, but this is a great bar. Maxwell’s, on Washington, is the hip place to be on Saturday night. It is heaving with packs of beautiful young things, all out to have a good time.

  And as I fight my way back through the packs of beautiful young things (of whom, thanks to Tish, I am one), a familiar hand grabs my arm. Jack, of course, because I can’t seem to move these days without bumping into him.

  “Hi,” he shouts above the din. And he seems so pleased to see me that for a moment I forget that this is Jack. Plus several glasses of wine have added to my general euphoric do-you-think-I’m-sexy frame of mind.

  “Hi yourself. You having a good time?”

  “Sure. This place is great. Can I buy you a drink?”

  It’s not every day of the week that attractive young men dressed in black Calvin Klein offer to buy me a drink, so I am just about to say yes, and to hell with the consequences, when he adds a disclaimer.

  “You know Kelly, don’t you?” He points toward the bar, where the brunette from last night’s gym encounter is pointedly waiting for him to return. She is also pointedly sending me daggerlike “get your own man, girl” glares.

  “Actually, I’m here with friends,” I say.

  For a moment he looks disappointed. At least I think he does, but then he smiles his Jack-the-Wolf smile.

  “Okay, Emma. Maybe another time.”

  When hell freezes over, sure, because I can think of nothing I’d like better than to play third wheel on one of Jack’s dates.

  “Sure. See you.”

  I decide not to say anything to Rachel or Tish about Jack, because I’d only have to introduce them to him, and that would complicate things, wouldn’t it?

  When I get back to our table, Rachel has returned with our drinks, plus her handsome guy. Plus his two handsome friends. Marco, Steve, and Tony. Tony, it seems, is for me (on account of being the shortest, but still very handsome—all dark and Italian). Tony is dressed in black Calvin Klein and he’s bought me a drink.

  Hel-lo.

  Unfortunately, Tony’s conversation does not match
up to his looks. After we have done the “hi-it’s-nice-to-meet-you-do-you-come-here-often” thing, his next line is not promising.

  “So, you’re British?”

  “Yeah, kind of.” Explaining about my mother and father, and how they got divorced before I was born, but my mother is an equal opportunities parent so she made sure I spent equal amounts of time living and studying in America so I’d know my dad, is complicated. I usually save it for at least the third or fourth date.

  “So, have you ever, like, met Tony Blair? Hey, I’ve got the same name as him, what a coincidence.”

  God. How many men in the world are there, do you think, who are called Tony? I ask you! This guy is definitely arm candy, but I get the feeling he’s not the sharpest knife in the kitchen. And I really hate this particular question. Trust me, I have been asked this several times before because men think it’s a really funny chat-up line.

  Now I could be mean and say, (a) “Well, Tony, the population of London is, according to the National Statistics Office, about seven point four million at the last count, so the chances of my having bumped into Tony Blair are pretty slim, don’t you think?” Or (b) “Of course, and I have tea at Buckingham Palace with the Queen every time I visit London.” Or I could say (c) “Of course! I went to school with him.” You see, I did go to grade school with a snotty little kid who just happened to have the same name. Or I could even say (d) “No, but my mother knows Tony and Cherie.”

  Because she does actually know them. I’m not sure how it happened, but shortly after Tony was elected for his second term of office, she got invited to tea at Number Ten Downing Street (along with a gaggle of other top-left-wing barristers).

  Anyway, while I’m pondering my reply, I glance across at the bar and see Jack watching me. As I catch his eye, he gives me a huge grin and winks, so then my answer is sealed. It’s got to be either (c) or (d).

  “Actually, I went to school with him,” I tell Tony.

  “Get outta here.”

  Yes, I would like to get out of here.

  “No, really.” I bat my eyes at him and launch into the tale of how it was all just a big coincidence, and before I know it I am in full flirt mode. I can’t have Jack thinking I’m some loser spinster without a sex life, can I?

  Later, much later, after several more glasses of wine, Rachel has disappeared back to her apartment with Marco. Steve is walking Tish home, and Tony and me are following several paces behind them. The wine has definitely made Tony more attractive, intellectually speaking, because my brain has definitely taken a vacation at this point.

  When we arrive at the apartment, Steve and Tish are kissing goodnight. So Tony and me kiss goodnight. And although Tony is not exactly Einstein, he certainly knows how to kiss. And just as things are getting more than a little heated, he pauses.

  “Can I come in?”

  Now, although not a prude, I’m with Tish on the four-dates-before-a-fuck principle.

  “Not tonight,” I say. “Tish and me share a very small apartment. No privacy.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem,” he says, kissing me again.

  God, can he kiss. It’s ages since I just had a good old make-out session, with no more expectation than tongues, and hands on my butt.

  “Me and Steve, we’ve done this before.”

  “Hmm?”

  Kiss me more, I think.

  “You know. A foursome. It’s kinda sexy, you know?”

  14

  Misery Loves Company

  TO DO

  Drink less.

  Get Caller ID for Tish.

  Become a lesbian? Would certainly remove need for larger breasts (unless lesbians also prefer women with bigger boobs). Would also avoid kinky foursome suggestions from men named Tony (unless lesbians also like foursomes).

  Sunday morning, 8 A.M.

  Heath Ledger is about to dehorse the bad guy, win the tournament, and kiss the girl (this would be me, on account of this being my dream).

  “Kiss me, Heath, kiss me,” I tell him, as he gathers me in his arms and lowers his head. Mmmm…

  And then I’m rudely awakened to the reality of my hangover by the ringing telephone.

  God, I wish I hadn’t drunk so much wine last night. God, I wish Tish had an extension in the bedroom, so that she could answer it. God, I wish even more that she had Caller ID. She’s been in this place six weeks and hasn’t even arranged for voicemail yet. Maybe I should do that for her as my way of saying thanks for letting me crash here.

  I drag myself off the sofa, careful not to move my head too much on account of all the large hammers banging on my brain, and pick up. As I do this, I stub my toe on the end table, but manage to save the lamp, which is good.

  “’Lo,” I croak, carefully steadying the mock Tiffany lamp.

  “Hello, dear,” says the older, feminine Irish voice on the other end. “Would this be Miss Emmeline Taylor I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

  “Yeah. Whosis?”

  “Emma, dear—oh, is it all right if I call you Emma?”

  “Sure.” I yawn, wondering if this is part of my dream, because if it is part of my dream, it is very rude of her to interrupt before I get to properly kiss Heath. I am also thinking that at this time of the morning she can call me anything she likes.

  “My name is Sister Mary Immaculate from the Convent of St. Staples. How are you today?”

  I am immediately overcome with waves of guilt, because I am speaking to a woman of God, and am wearing only a pair of panties and a tank. And what is more, last night’s wine has turned my blood to alcohol. I’m truly sorry for all the blasphemous oh God thoughts I had just seconds ago, too. Just as well Tish and me didn’t have a foursome with Steve and Tony last night…

  Euch! The very thought of it increases the acid buildup in my stomach.

  “Er, I’m fine, Sister,” I tell her, straightening, because although she cannot see me, and although I am not a Catholic, I am very respectful of nuns in general. “And how are you today?”

  “Well, it’s very sweet of you to ask. I can tell from your voice that you’re a very kind young lady. And actually, apart from the trouble with me arthritis, I’m grand.”

  “Er, well that’s very good to hear. Er, what can I do for you?” I make a mental note to stop preceding everything I say with “er”—sounds so like I have no brain cells. Actually, I probably don’t have many of those left on account of the alcohol. Oh, God, I need some water. Oops. Another blasphemous thought. Concentrate on the nun, I tell myself.

  “Well, Emma, it’s more a case of what you can do for God. We at St. Staples are having a wee problem with our roof fund, and were wondering if you might see your way to helping us raise the money by pledging your support.”

  It takes a few moments for her words to sink in.

  I do not believe it.

  I have been here for only two weeks and the telemarketer crowd have tracked me down. My mail hasn’t even found me yet! And what’s more, after all the times I have been rude to them, they are punishing me with a nun.

  I can’t be rude to a nun!

  “Er, actually, Sister, it’s a bit of a difficult time for me at the moment—”

  “Oh, but St. Staples needs you, dear. You see, if we don’t fix the roof, we can’t have all the poor, homeless, battered wives sleeping in the vestry. You do have a roof over your head, don’t you, dear?”

  “Yes,” I say, very quietly.

  “And no abusive husband?”

  “Nope. No husband of any description.”

  “Well, then.”

  She doesn’t prompt me any more, she just waits for my guilty conscience to kick in. Which of course, it does.

  “Well, I could manage five dollars…”

  “Actually, Emma, our bronze donation, the minimum donation, starts at fifteen. Would that be all right, then? And if you like, we can even do it now, over the telephone. We take Visa and Mastercard, and any other major credit and debit cards, so if you could just
give me your details…”

  At this point my guilt begins to seep away. I have just offered, of my own free(ish) will, to donate five dollars to her charity. But is my five dollars good enough? Oh, no. Because the minimum acceptable donation is fifteen dollars. Plus, giving out credit-card information on the telephone to unknown third parties is stupid. Even if it is to a nun.

  “Er, sorry, Sister, my credit card is maxed out.”

  It’s very embarrassing to confess this to a nun.

  “Oh, well, I’m very sorry to hear that. You know, ’tis the Devil’s own influence, persuading young women to spend money they don’t have. You must be more careful in future, Emma.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “So I’ll send you the details through the mail, and I can rely on your check for fifteen dollars by return?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie. And cross my fingers.

  “You have a lovely day, now.”

  “Definitely a scam,” Tish tells me as she gets ready to go to the gym. I could do with a good workout myself, but I have to look at more apartments.

  “I’ve never heard of nuns canvassing for money on the telephone. Anyway, see you tonight,” she tells me, then pauses at the door. “So you really think Rufus might be kinda interested in me?”

  I throw a pillow at her.

  My morning is not a success. I have targeted the lower-budget apartments, which seem to be occupied by students. I have seen four apartments. This is my impression of them:

  Dungeon. Basement bedroom, shared with another person. No window. Communal kitchen, communal living room, communal shower to share with three other girls. It is dank, smelly, and the three other girls have nose rings, belly button rings, and eyebrow rings. I wonder if they are forming a cult.

  Prison. But it would be my own prison, as I do not have to share the six-by-six room with anyone, thank God. However, the three other occupants of this very undelightful apartment interviewed me very carefully, and will let me know next week if I am the lucky applicant. I don’t think they liked my answer to “how do you feel about alcohol?” I said, “Oh, definitely favorable. Actually, I could use a drink now to cure my last-night hangover. What have you got?” I feel, somehow, that they won’t be calling me.