32AA

by Michelle Cunnah

  No. The apartment was quite nice, but I refuse to share with three jock types who think I am the answer to their domestic cleanliness problems.

  Perfectly nice, if small. But I’d still have to share a room with Denise, and I think Denise quite fancies me. I have nothing personally against her, or any other lesbian for that matter, because I know some very nice lesbians. Denise is a very attractive blonde girl and I wonder for a moment if I should become a lesbian, too. Life would be much simpler. No more need for men, for a start. Hmm…But try as I might, I cannot imagine wanting to kiss her (or do anything else with her, either). Sorry, Denise. I’m just not a lesbian.

  I really should think about the job problem, too. I flick through the Times’ Sunday classifieds. There are quite a few openings for admin assistants/secretaries but the money is similar to what I’m already getting—by that, I mean pitiful.

  It’s not that I’m ecstatic in my current job, as you know, but at the moment I can’t face the task of job hunting—this rates even more highly on my stress scale than apartment hunting. No, I’ll solve the apartment problem first, and then everything else will fall into place.

  “No! My God, I don’t believe it!” David laughs. “A foursome. So what did you do?”

  I groan. Tish is telling the tale of last night’s near-orgy. Rachel, however, looks like the cat who got the cream. She’s seeing Marco again on Tuesday night…wonder if he’ll take Tony and Steve along…

  “I think I’ve solved it,” Tom confides. “You know, Katy being so tired. Our main problem is that we just never get any time alone. So I’ve arranged time off from work and I’ve booked a trip for the three of us to go to Disneyland. We can spend time together as a family, and Katy and me can spend time alone in the evenings. So what do you think?”

  “Tom, I think that’s a great idea. When are you going?”

  “End of this month. A week from Thursday, for five days. I can’t really take off any more time than that.”

  “Have you told Katy yet?”

  “No. It’s our wedding anniversary next Friday so I thought I’d surprise her.”

  What a lovely man. If Tom were single, I’d marry him in an instant. Actually, much as I love Tom, maybe not. He just doesn’t give me that—you know—zing.

  “Ma mère,” Sylvester hisses to me. “She is coming to visit for two weeks. Zis, I don’t need.”

  “But your mom’s great,” I tell him.

  “Yes, but not now. Not wiz…you know,” he says, glancing across at David. “I follow him zis week. He goes to Greenwich Village to see Simon. He is zere two hours. Two hours. Merde! I told you he’s having an affair….”

  “No, I’m sure it’s not that,” I say, hoping that I sound more certain than I feel.

  Could I have been wrong? Is David having an affair with his designer friend, Simon? God, I hope not.

  “I’m not putting up wiz it,” Sylvester says. “Now I go check on the dessert, non?”

  “Here,” David tells me as he motions to refill my wineglass.

  “No, none for me,” I say. I need to stay sober, just to keep up with all the intrigues going on around me. Obviously, I don’t say this. I’m dying to ask David about Simon.

  I wonder how I can broach the subject of Simon.

  “So, Sylvester tells me Hélène is coming for a visit.”

  “Yeah, he’s like, totally freaked out about it. It’s really not like him at all. I love his mother. She’s so—so French. You know.” David leans closer to me after glancing around to make sure that no one is listening to our conversation. “He’s acting kinda weird generally. He’s, like, totally off sex.”

  Oh, boy. Here we go. I grab the wine bottle and refill my glass. I feel I need to anesthetize myself before I hear any more.

  “He’s like a friggin’ prima donna in the kitchen. I mean, I just can’t say a thing without him overreacting. Has he said anything to you?”

  How to phrase this with delicacy and diplomacy? Hmm…

  “Have you been doing anything differently lately?” I ask. This is very discreet of me. “You know, any changes to your normal routine?”

  “Well actually.” David leans even closer. “I have been working on something special. No! No,” he says, raising his hands, “I can’t tell. Won’t be a surprise if I tell you. I still think it’s the forty thing. He’s trying to pretend it’s not his birthday in October. He doesn’t want a party or anything. I mean, you can’t turn forty without a party, can you?”

  “Maybe he’s a bit, you know, worried that he’s too old for you.”

  “That’s, like, so dumb. It’s only eight years. What’s eight years? I don’t care how old he is.”

  “I know that. But maybe you should tell him—you know—to reassure him.”

  “He has said something to you. I knew it. Come on. Spit it out, girl.”

  Oh, God. What do I say now?

  “Well, he hasn’t exactly said…”

  “Emmeline, don’t tell me porkies, now.” David folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat.

  I’m obviously not going anywhere until he’s extracted information from me—David is very good at extracting details about anything from anyone. He should have been a spy. But maybe I should tell him…I don’t want David and Sylvester to part company just because I’m too anal about keeping secrets, do I?

  “Okay,” I say. “I think he’s a bit worried about you disappearing in the afternoons. Not that he thinks you shouldn’t have time to yourself or anything,” I add, because I don’t want to make the situation worse. “I think he’s just a bit worried that you’re—”

  “I knew it! He’s worried I’m planning him a party. Well, I am. Oh, but you must promise to keep it a total secret.”

  “Oh,” I say, totally taken aback.

  And relieved. No affair, just a surprise party. This is very good. I take a good gulp of wine. This is very good.

  “I’m not saying another word on the subject,” David says. “I’m planning something really spectacular with Simon. You’ll find out soon enough.” And then, “He thought I was having an affair, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, no,” I say quickly. “Not that. Hahaha. Can’t imagine anything more ridiculous than either of you having an affair…. hahaha…”

  “God, he is such a queen.”

  It’s getting late. After we’ve eaten Sylvester’s petits fours, it’s time to go (stagger) home.

  But Sylvester pulls me to one side. Rather obviously, actually.

  “So what did he say to you?”

  “Sylvester, I promise you he’s not having an affair with Simon. He’s crazy about you.”

  “Thank God. Zat is a relief. Zank you, Emma, zank you.”

  “My pleasure.” I preen, pleased with myself.

  “But zere is a secret, non? Yes zere is. Come on, you tell me.”

  “I…” Oh, God. “I can’t. I promised. It’s a surprise.”

  “I knew it. He’s planning a surprise party for me. Oh, zis is so exciting!”

  “I thought you didn’t want a party.”

  “Non, but is much better zan David having an affair, n’estce pas? Anyhow, I say I don’t want ze party, but he knows I love parties.”

  Sometimes I think I worry too much, I really do.

  I give up. I’m going home right now.

  At least, I’m going back to Tish’s sofa.

  Tuesday, July 23

  I am so whipping Lou’s ass!

  Y-e-s!

  You see, for the past week and a half, I have been perfecting my strategy (with help from Angie, who is actually quite nice when you get to know her—not like Cruella at all, she just has unfortunate facial muscles).

  After the debacle with the Burgoyne report (me leaving on time, for once, Friday before last, and not actually doing the report, because Lou should have done it), Adam called me into his office. Lou smirked at me all the way across the office as I followed, like a lamb to the slaughter.

&n
bsp; “Emmeline, I asked you to help Lou any way you could. What’s going on? Why isn’t this report ready?” Adam asks, waving the folder at me. “Why hasn’t this research been done?”

  “Oh, hasn’t it?” I say, feigning innocence.

  “Of course it hasn’t. Lou tells me he asked you to do it, but you had to leave early on Friday because of private plans. This isn’t good, Emmeline.”

  The injustice of it all sticks in my craw. This is so petty and grade school.

  “Adam, I left at five on Friday. Along with the rest of the secretarial staff,” I tell him. “And of course I’m helping Lou as much as I can. But technically, he needs to do the research himself, doesn’t he?”

  “Technically, yes, but—”

  “It’s not really within my job description, is it? Doing the account manager’s job, instead of the account manager doing it himself. I mean, I’m only a secretary.”

  Have I mentioned to Adam that I am only a secretary enough times, do you think? The words hang in the air between us.

  “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? I thought we’d cleared the air between us. Are you deliberately trying to sabotage this campaign?”

  “Of course not.” Yes. But I don’t say that.

  “Have you had any ideas for the campaign yourself?”

  “No.” Yes. But I don’t say that, either. He has six other account managers. Surely they can come up with something between them? Grady Thomas is usually pretty solid. And what about Adam? He was brought in to give the company some new blood. He has a list of prior achievements as long as your arm.

  “Emmeline, Emmeline.” Adam sighs and leans back in his chair. “You’re not helping yourself.”

  “I’m doing a good job,” I tell him, indignantly. “I’m a really efficient secretary.”

  “Y-e-s. But I expect more from you. You’re a very intelligent young woman. I want you to do the research. That’s an order, okay?”

  I slink back to my cubicle. I do not look across the office at Lou, who I think is still smirking.

  But I am not defeated. Oh, no. Lou may have won this round, but one battle does not win the war. After all, I am named after a famous suffragette. I’ll do the research, since I can’t avoid it. But that doesn’t mean it has to be good, does it?

  And so I do it. In between getting coffee and food for Lou, and actually doing my own work, I find the kinds of photos Lou wants. I stick exactly to his outline. I do not add any improving suggestions of my own. I list the photos, the web sites where they can be found, and the costs. But I’m sloppy. I don’t worry about the expense or the quality of the photos in the same way that I would if it were my project.

  Oh, and because I’m so tied up doing Lou’s work, I can’t possibly do all of Adam’s stuff too. Every time he asks “where’s this, where’s that?”, I produce urgent work that Lou has assigned to me. I think Adam’s honeymoon with Lou is quickly reaching its end.

  And I know Stella hated the report. I don’t think she liked anyone else’s ideas, either, because she stormed out of the meeting last Friday. Take that, Lou Russo! And I hope Stella and Adam had a shit weekend, too, because I still haven’t found anywhere to live. Come to think of it, Adam’s not been in a very good mood for the past couple of days…Maybe Adam’s honeymoon with her is waning, too…

  Wishful thinking.

  My telephone rings and it is Rachel. I am expecting her to call, because she had a second date with Hugh last night. He waited nearly two whole weeks before asking her out again, despite her flirting and brushing against him at the office, so I’m dying to know what happened.

  I immediately hang up and call her on my cell phone from the restroom, as per her instructions.

  “Motherfucking bastard!”

  Oh, so it was that bad, was it?

  “Okay,” I sigh. “What happened?”

  “He virtually fucking accused me of sexually harassing him at work.” Another string of curses follows this statement.

  “Oh dear. Maybe you shouldn’t, you know, brush up against him. I suppose if a man did that kind of thing—”

  “So you’re on his side, are you?”

  “No, of course not. I’m totally with you,” I hastily reassure her.

  I do not want a repeat fall-out with Rachel.

  “Well anyway, I got my revenge.” Rachel laughs. It is not a pleasant laugh. “After we do the dinner thing, and he tells me that I have to show more restraint at work, he only friggin’ makes a move on me.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. It was magnificent. We’re at my front door, and he’s kissing me—”

  “With tongues?”

  “Yes, with tongues. Will you let me finish?”

  “Sorry.”

  “So we’re getting pretty into each other, and then he asks if he can come in.” She pauses, for dramatic impact.

  “And?”

  “Hey, who’s telling this story? Patience, sweetie, patience. So anyway, there we are, and he’s all over me like I’m the best thing since the cure for smallpox, and he’s really hot for me. So I open the front door, push him away, and tell him not to sexually harass me anymore. My God, you should have seen his face just before I slammed the door on it.”

  “My God, you’ve got balls.”

  I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Hugh, and I’m wondering if Rachel has painted a subjective, warped picture of him. Not that she’d do that, of course….

  Rachel chuckles, and something occurs to me.

  “Did he actually use the term sexual harassment?”

  “Not exactly, but that’s what he meant.”

  “Oh.” Maybe he just likes you, I don’t say. “So how are things at work today?”

  “He’s learned his lesson.”

  I’ll bet.

  “He won’t be bothering me anymore.”

  “No, that’s for sure,” I agree. If I were Hugh, I’d avoid Rachel at every opportunity.

  “What? Don’t you think I’m attractive? Don’t you think he wants me? You think I’m a, and I quote, ‘hardhearted, callous bitch,’ don’t you?”

  “Rachel. Stop jumping to conclusions. I never said that. Anyway, I thought you didn’t want him. So if he leaves you alone from now on, well that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” she says. But she doesn’t sound sure. “Look, I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow night for pizza?”

  “Sure. Have a good time with Marco tonight.”

  When I get back to my cubicle, Adam is waiting for me.

  “Do you need to spend so much time in the restroom, Emmeline?”

  “Yes, I do. Urinary infection,” I lie.

  Adam does not say another word, but hands me a cost report to type. I’ll start it after I get Lou’s doughnut.

  “Adam,” I say around the door of his office. “I’m getting Lou a doughnut. Do you want one?”

  15

  All Packed Up with Nowhere to Live

  TO DO

  Purchase new Robert Plant CD to prepare thoroughly for Robert Plant Night.

  Purchase new (but casually grunge-chic) outfit to prepare thoroughly for Robert Plant Night.

  Get hair done (also casual grunge-chic) to prepare thoroughly for Robert Plant Night.

  Wednesday, July 24

  Robert Plant Night. Y-E-S!

  6:30 P.M.

  Right—I’m just about ready for my evening with Bob (and Norbert). My hair is casually grunged with wax, courtesy of Tish. I’m wearing Calvin Klein faded jeans, with a peasant-style black top (don’t want to be overdressed) and I’m looking pretty babelike, in a Courtney Love kind of way. My lips are pouty and red, my lashes are long and flirty in case of fluttering-eyes-at-Bob opportunities (thanks to Tish’s lash-thickening mascara).

  This is a really great “Bob groupie” look for me.

  You know, I’ve been thinking about Norbert rather a lot over the last few days. Maybe I’ve been a bit unkind to him in the past. Maybe I just haven’t given him a chanc
e, and have dismissed him because he doesn’t conform to society’s ideals re: the perfect alpha male. And let’s face it, I know all about not conforming to society’s ideals. I’m not exactly perfect myself.

  How shallow am I? To make assumptions about someone without getting to know them properly. I think I’m going to really try to dig deeper and seek the inner Norbert tonight.

  Ah. Telephone. It’s probably Norbert again—he’s called me three times this week already to make sure I’m still going to the gig with him. How insecure is that? Bless him, he’s obviously had such a hard time with women that he automatically expects rejection. I think that all he needs is the love of a good woman.

  Not that I’m ready to love again yet, of course, because I am (obviously) still getting over Adam. It’s only been a few weeks, after all. Actually, I don’t feel broken-hearted at all, but I must be, mustn’t I? But in time, after our friendship has deepened and we’ve gotten to know each other as individuals, maybe our love will grow.

  Plus, Norbert hasn’t mentioned small breasts at all recently, which is a good sign. Maybe he was just using the small breast thing as a way of making conversation—he is a plastic surgeon, after all. Of course he wants to discuss implants—it’s only part of his job. Better pick up the telephone…

  “Hello,” I say, in my best “I am a caring person, you can talk to me” voice.

  “Hi there! This is Hal, how’s it going?”

  I don’t know anyone called Hal. And no one called Hal knows me, either. Maybe it’s one of Tish’s new men.

  “I’m calling on behalf of the Mothers Against Sexual SPAM Hoboken group. You’ve probably heard of us, we’ve been pretty active. You may have seen our march on Independence Day? Anyway, my call tonight is to tell you more about us, and our efforts to raise money to help fight our campaign against the ruthless companies who…”

  Well, Hal isn’t giving me any opportunity to be mature and kind here, is he? I mean, he’s hardly drawn breath and is now telling me that the bronze donation starts at thirty dollars. Thirty dollars! I can’t believe another bastard telemarketer has caught me unawares. I didn’t know the MASS mothers were into this kind of thing. God, I hope Katy won’t have to do this.