“Of course I didn’t sleep in my car,” I say, but I know that I’m blushing just a bit because my face is hot. “I stayed with Jack. In fact, I’m moving into his house tomorrow.”
There is an incredulous silence. I may as well have told them I’m moving to Venus.
“But you hate Jack,” Tish says.
Sunday, August 18
You know, living with Jack is okay. It’s weird, I thought we’d be at each other’s throats all the time. But over the past three weeks we’ve settled into quite a nice routine. No real flies in the ointment.
Apart from the telephone.
I think he got really pissed about that, actually. It’s not my fault, is it, if I have such great friends and family who need to speak to me continually? Anyway, this came to a head last weekend. I was scrubbing the shower along to Led Zeppelin IV when Jack called me to the phone. As I took it, he gave me a very pointed, disgusted look.
“What can I say?” I ask him. “I’m a popular girl with lots of friends. Hello?”
“Hi, Emma?”
“Yes?” I don’t recognize this person.
“How are you today? My name is Greta and I’m calling on behalf of—”
A telemarketer! I don’t believe it! Will these people never leave me alone? What do I have to do? How do they find me? How?
Anyway, after I get rid of Greta, who wants to be my new best friend, plus she wants a minimum fifteen-dollar bronze donation for her very worthy charity, I am not happy.
“That was cruel,” I tell Jack, after promising to send Greta my money by return mail. “You could have said I was out or something.”
“Hey, can I help it if you’re popular? Everyone loves Emmeline,” he says, whistling as he heads back to varnish a floor.
Anyway, we’ve resolved the issue. Or rather, Jack has. On Wednesday night after he got back from the gym, he handed me a piece of paper with a telephone number scrawled on it. Plus a plain, brown box.
“Here. Give this number to everyone you know. Please. For my sanity. And my social life.”
“What’s this?”
“Your new line. And your new telephone. There’s an outlet in your room.”
How nice is that?
Well, during the week, I head straight for the gym after work (to work off the Adam/Lou-induced angst—but to be fair, they’ve been okay just recently), arriving home around eight. I make myself something to eat. And okay, so I make enough for Jack to stick in the microwave when he comes in. Yes, I know this is very domesticated of me, and I shouldn’t be doing the me-woman-me-cook thing. But I don’t mind. I need to eat something other than noodles, and if I’m just cooking for myself, I can’t be bothered with anything more complicated than grilled cheese. So it’s good, cooking for two, see?
Actually, I’ve been very good, foodwise. I’m drinking the shakes and eating healthily, and I’ve put on three more pounds—my face is filling out, and my muscles are definitely improving.
This is a very good look for me.
Jack finishes work much later than me. He’s working on some big warehouse conversion project at the moment, so they’re all under a lot of pressure. He goes to the gym around eight to get his workout, then arrives back at the house around ten. As he’s arriving, I’m taking a shower so that I don’t get in his way in the mornings, after which I head to bed with some herbal tea and a good book. So you see, we hardly see each other.
Friday nights are a bit different. I meet Tish and Rachel after work for coffee and a general catch-up on the week’s news (despite the fact that we speak at least once a day on the telephone), so I get to the gym around eight. Which, coincidentally, is the same time as Jack. So we work out, and then we go for a Thai meal.
It’s not like a date or anything, we just have to eat. So we may as well eat together, see? Plus, Jack says that he wants to feed me once a week, because it’s only fair on account of me cooking for him. And you know, it’s nice—he’s not quite the jerk jock I thought he was. Although he is still an ionic bonder. I don’t think he dates (sleeps with) the same woman more than once.
Saturdays, after yoga class with Tish and Rachel, I do chores. Laundry, food shopping, cleaning. And Jack works on the house. I didn’t realize what a skilled craftsman he is—he’s doing most of the renovations himself. Saturday night is Jack’s hot date night, and my hot-movie-at-home-by-myself night. This is lovely. This is good. Tish and Rachel are both pretty vague about how they’re spending their Friday and Saturday nights at the moment, because I suspect they don’t want to make me feel jealous by admitting they’re having lots of sex, and I’m, well, I’m not having any sex.
Sunday nights, of course, I meet my lovely friends at Chez Nous and Jack usually has another hot date. So all in all it’s working out pretty well. It’s a bit like having a husband, but without the sex. Or the rows.
I miss sex, though. Although I know Adam is a bastard, I kind of miss him…But I think it’s maybe time for me to start dating again. Not only for the sex. Next week is Cougan & Cray’s annual Colleague of the Year dinner, and it would be great if I could find a boyfriend before then. You see, Bastard Adam is the Colleague of the Year.
It’s very formal. Everyone talks about it the whole year around. It involves new gowns, manicures, pedicures, facials, hair—the works. Most of the women take at least the afternoon off work to be beautified before the evening’s revelries (food and drink all free). I have my invitation. But I’m not going.
I refuse to go alone, a sad, dateless spinster, while Adam and Stella make nice with each other. Object of Pity is not my style at all, and I’d rather eat Thai with Jack than eat humble pie…Still, if I could magically produce a good-looking guy to take with me, I think I’d go just to spite them.
Anyway, tonight I’m looking pretty hot. I’m wearing a long, floaty skirt that skims my ankles, and a sheer, pale blue, peasant style blouse. The tiny silver stars on my (very slightly padded but only a bit) bra glitter through the sheer material of the blouse. My skin is glowing with good health and my hair is gleaming with highlights (went to the salon yesterday morning after yoga with the girls). Pity I’m not likely to meet any eligible men in Chez Nous.
I slip into pale blue sandals, grab the matching purse and walk down the stairs, imagining I’m Cinderella making an entrance at the ball. I smile, and float elegantly down, sliding my fingers along the newly finished banister rail.
It is then that I notice Jack watching me from the hall.
So I stop graciously waving to imagined throngs of admirers and clomp down the rest of the way. Some things we do are just not meant to be witnessed by others.
“Wow, baby,” he tells me, shaking his hand. “We are lookin’ hot!”
“Shut. Up.” My face is very hot. Actually, Jack looks pretty hot too, in black Calvin Klein jeans and a white DKNY T-shirt.
“Wave to me, princess, wave to me,” he says, falling to his knees in mock James Brown style, raising his hands to the ceiling.
“Behave yourself, idiot,” I say, pausing to check my makeup and hair in the hall mirror. “See you.”
“Hey, you got a hot date tonight?”
“No. It’s Sunday. I’m meeting friends for dinner.”
“Oh,” he says, then gives me the little-boy-lost look. I know he’s just teasing.
“Have a good time,” he adds. “Don’t, you know, worry about me being home alone.”
“Don’t tell me macho man has no date tonight?”
“Nobody asked me. Nobody loves me. Nobody cares. Guess I could order pizza and watch the news.”
I know he’s manipulating me for an invite. I just know it.
“What about Laura? Or Susan? Or Ann?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Nah.”
He really is an ionic bonder. But at least he doesn’t string them along like Adam strung me along…And I’m not taking him to meet my friends.
Definitely not.
But it does seem mean. He’s spoken to them all
frequently on the telephone, anyway.
“Okay,” I say brightly as I head for the door. “Have fun.”
“You’re a hard woman, Emmeline Taylor.”
“It’s the new me.”
Actually, they’re all dead curious to meet Jack. But I sort of don’t want them to meet him, because then it will make him like a—a friend, or something.
“Well, say hi to everyone for me. Tell Katy to keep up the pressure with Marion Lacy. And tell Sylvester not to worry too much about the wrinkles.”
He knows about these things? He spoke to them like once or twice and already they’re best buddies?
“I really miss them since you got your own line.”
I am going to regret this. I just know it.
“Okay,” I say. “But if you mention the napping-in-the-car business, you will be a dead man.”
“Hey, I can be discreet.”
“Emma.” Tom kisses my cheek. “Thanks,” he whispers. “Whatever you three girls said to Katy, it worked.”
“No, we didn’t really do anything,” I tell him. “It was all Katy.”
“She was great, you should have seen Marion Lacy’s face when Katy laid into her,” he says, beaming with pride.
This is the first time we’ve seen Katy and Tom since their trip to Disneyland. Obviously, they sorted out their problems because we think they’ve spent the past few Sunday nights in bed. They certainly look fuck-drunk, and although I’m delighted for them, I can’t help but feel a bit jealous.
“I like your Jack,” Tom says, as he heads back to Katy and kisses the back of her neck.
But he’s not my Jack. He’s just a friend. I don’t want anyone thinking that I like him, or anything.
“Wow,” Tish whispers to me as she glances across at Jack. He is talking to Rachel. I think that she and Jack look really good together. Really great together. He’s gorgeous, she’s gorgeous…
I am a bitch. How can I feel jealous of my best friend?
“You never told me he’s hot—sort of like an older Heath Ledger with dark hair.”
“Shut up,” I say. “He’s not a bit like Heath.”
“He seems really into you.” Rachel joins us, sipping on her Chardonnay.
“No he’s not,” I protest. “He’s into any woman under fifty. But he loses interest after one fuck.”
“Yeah, but it would almost be worth it, don’t you think?” Rachel says.
Oh God. I hope she doesn’t have any ideas for Jack. It’s not that I want him, of course, but I’d rather he didn’t sleep with all my female friends. That would be really icky.
“I’d really prefer it if you didn’t…” I start, very uncomfortable with the idea of Rachel and Jack in his king-size bed.
“Not me. I’m fixed up in the fuck department,” Rachel says, a little coyly. And she blushes, which is completely odd, and I wonder what’s going on.
“I mean you,” she says, artfully turning the attention away from herself.
“No. Bad idea,” I say, my cheeks flushing because I can’t help but wonder what Jack looks like minus his clothes…“Really bad idea,” I insist. “He’s my landlord. It would be like sleeping with my boss. Done that, got my heart broken. Anyway, who are you sleeping with these days? Is it still Marco?”
“No.” Rachel flushes even more. “It’s…kinda early to talk about it. I just want to see how it goes.”
My God. She’s in love.
“My God,” Tish says, “Rachel’s in love. You are, aren’t you?”
“Shhh,” Rachel hisses. “I—I don’t know—”
“How the mighty have fallen,” Tish crows. And then, “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t be so smug and superior about it.”
“Why not? I can’t remember how many times I’ve been smug and superior with you two girls. You crow all you like.”
“Who is he?” I ask.
“Can I tell you another time? It’s not that I don’t want you to know, I just don’t want to jinx it.”
Wow, this sounds serious.
“Anyway, back to Heath.” Tish grins. “He’d be perfect to take to the dinner. Tell me you wouldn’t love it. All the women drooling over him, all the men green with envy. Adam green with envy.”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not going to do this. Promise me neither of you will suggest it, or I will be your ex-friend.”
“I think the lady’s protesting too much,” Rachel says. “What do you think, Tish?”
“Definitely.”
“Promise me.”
“Okay.”
“Darling,” Katy calls to me across the table. “Who are you taking to the dinner on Friday night?”
Rachel and Tish smirk, and I make a mental note to cross them off my Christmas-card list. Trust Katy to remember!
“What dinner?” Tom asks, and David tells him (and Jack) about Colleague of the Year. I drink my Chardonnay more quickly than is good for me, and cough so badly that David has to slap me on the back.
“I’m not going,” I say, after I’ve recovered my breath.
“Chérie, you have to go to show Bastard Adam zat you are a desirable, beautiful woman. Because zat’s what you are. N’est-ce pas?” Sylvester turns to Jack for agreement. Oh God.
“Sure.” Jack grins at me. “Emma’s a complete sex goddess.”
I know he’s only being nice. After all, he’s seen my breasts. Oh God, why did I have to remember that, now?
“If you don’t go, what will people think?” David asks. “They’ll think you’re a scaredy-cat. Adam’s the Colleague of the Year,” David adds to Jack.
“I’m so not a scaredy-cat,” I say, flushing. “I just don’t want to go.”
“She doesn’t have a date,” David tells Jack. “We need to get her a date. What are you doing Friday night, Jack?”
“No!” I say.
“Why not? I scrub up real nice. I look good in a tux,” Jack says, and my heart skips a beat. Which is ridiculous, because I’m so not interested in him that way.
“I’ll just bet you do,” David says, giving him the once over. “But not as handsome as you, darling,” he adds, to Sylvester.
“But—” I say.
“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” Katy says. “Don’t you all think it’s a great idea?”
There is a general consensus of head nodding and yesses and I know that I’ve been outvoted. Seems I’m the only one who doesn’t. Besides, I don’t have anything to wear.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” I say. Yes, I know this is pathetic.
“Don’t be pathetic, sweetie. You have four shopping days before Friday. We’ll find you something to wear,” Rachel says. She is enjoying every minute of this.
Everyone loves Jack.
As we leave the restaurant, he is thronged with invites to come back the same time next week. And every following Sunday night. This is not fair. This was supposed to be a once-only thing. I want my Sunday nights with my friends. I don’t want Jack complicating things.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell Jack as we walk home. “Really. My friends mean well, but they really put you in a corner there.”
“You turning into a wimp on me?”
“No, I’m so not a wimp. I just don’t want to go to the stupid dinner, is all.”
“Liar.”
17
32AA
TO DO
Do not sleep with Jack.
Forget Jack and concentrate on new role as intelligent, perceptive, wise, great advice–giving goddess.
Do not even think about sleeping with Jack.
Friday, August 23
God, I’m nervous. I check myself in the full-length mirror one more time and fuss with my hair.
The black tank and skirt I found at the Calvin Klein outlet are fabulous, although I had to seriously ravage my savings account. (But Tish and Rachel assure me they are well worth it.) The tank has three straps on each shoulder that graduate down to the top of my (beautifully defined, thanks to t
he gym) arms. The skirt is long and flowing, skimming my ankles. I’ve clipped tiny, glittery barrettes in my hair.
And I’m wearing my Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’m so glad they could be repaired!
“Emma,” Jack calls up. “Cab’s here.”
With a final glance at myself, I drape the chiffon wrap over my arms and pick up Rachel’s Dolce and Gabbana evening purse.
Time to go.
I hope I look all right. What am I obsessing for? I know I look all right because this is a—
“Wow. That’s a gorgeous look for you.” Jack smiles at me as I reach the bottom stair, and I gasp, because I can’t believe he’s just finished my thought.
“You look beautiful, Emma,” he tells me, and I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach because he’s eating me with his eyes.
“You look beautiful yourself,” I tell him, because he does. In fact, he’s looks so good, I’m getting the strangest urge to ravish him right here, on the hall floor. I must stop doing this. I concentrate on the suit instead. I’m pretty sure his tux is Versace.
“Come on, princess, let’s go dazzle them,” he says, holding out his arm. His smile dazzles me, and tugs at my heartstrings.
As we ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan, I force myself not to keep looking at him. Not Jack. I can’t be harboring illicit thoughts about Jack, for heaven’s sake.
God, but he smells so good…
Cocktail hour is in full swing by the time we arrive, and the foyer is full of glittering gowns and black tuxedos. I see Lou Russo chatting to two of the secretaries. He looks about ten years old—but I wish him well, because for once, I can’t muster the emotion to be mad at him. I’m too intoxicated by Jack. But then Lou sees me, and gives me a funny sort of half wave, so I smile. I can afford to be generous. And then Lou glances at Jack in disbelief, then back at me again. This does not make me feel good, and I start to worry that I’ve chosen the wrong outfit.
“Relax,” Jack tells me. “You look fabulous, just enjoy yourself.”
So I do relax. And I do start to enjoy myself. As we wander toward the far end of the foyer, we stop and chat to people I know, and Jack is the perfect date. Charming, witty, attentive. Completely fuckable…
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