Rachel and Hugh are immersed in wedding plans. Tish has moved in with Rufus…
Yes, it’s true. She finally told us about their blossoming romance yesterday. Since I spotted them flirting madly in Rufus’s deli, Tish has not said a word about him, so neither have I. Didn’t want to be too nosy. And Rachel didn’t mention it either, so I wasn’t sure if she knew.
I’m so relieved she’s not in love with Jack.
But it all came out yesterday when I met them for coffee at Tish’s apartment after work. We don’t go to the Spanish café anymore, because Tish doesn’t want to run into Julio. Apparently, he was heartbroken when he realized she was just using him for sex. That is definitely a downside of sleeping with waiters. Sooner or later you’re going to run out of coffee shops and restaurants to frequent.
Anyway, we have coffee these days because neither of them has time to go to the gym. Traitors. No, I don’t really think that. I’m truly happy for them both. Anyway, back to Tish and Rufus.
This is what happened.
“How about Vera Wang?” Tish asks, pointing to the picture in Vogue magazine. “Very chic, but entirely practical. Very New York. You could get it dyed after the wedding and wear it again. I see you in Vera Wang.”
“Sure,” Rachel says, taking a bite of her cheesecake. “Whatever.”
“Come on, you have to be more interested in your wedding gown. It’s the most important day of a girl’s life,” Tish says, shocked by Rachel’s lack of interest.
I’m a bit shocked myself, but not altogether surprised. Don’t get me wrong, Rachel likes fashion and outletting, but weddings are not really her thing.
“Look, sweetie, I appreciate what you’re doing,” Rachel says. “But this wedding thing isn’t really me. Just choose what you think would look good. Really, I trust you.”
I wish I were getting married. I wish I could wear a beautiful Vera Wang dress. Or Stella McCartney would be good, too…I wonder if Tish and Rufus will get married…
“How goes the world of polydating?” I ask Tish in an attempt to subtly turn the conversation to her love life.
“Oh, I’ve given that up since I moved in with Rufus,” she says.
Rachel chokes on her cheesecake. If I were eating cheesecake, I would choke, too. Instead, I just sit there with my jaw hanging open in a very slack, fly-catching way.
“Oh,” I say, after recovering control over my jaw. “So you’ve moved in with Rufus. Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?”
“You sneaky bitch,” Rachel says, taking a gulp of her coffee to wash down the remains of the offending cheesecake. “You kept that one quiet. How did you get from adoration from afar to the bedroom, Miss Tish? And how come you didn’t tell us before?”
“I’m telling you now,” Tish says, flushing. “I wanted to be sure of him before I said anything to you both. I didn’t want to jinx it. I didn’t want any I-told-you-sos.”
“We wouldn’t have done that, we’re your best friends,” Rachel says. And then, “Okay, maybe just a little. So come on, give us the dirt, girl.”
“I just did what you both said. I just turned up by myself at O’Malley’s, looking totally hot and babelike. I plied him with Guinness, took him home and seduced him. Life’s too short. You have to go after what you want, or it’ll pass you by.”
“Wow. That’s terrific, Tish. It really is,” I say, envious. “But how can you live with him? You’re a Catholic. The Pope will choke on his false teeth. If he has false teeth.”
“Since when were you so interested in the Pope’s dental arrangements?” Tish asks. “The Pope won’t know. Anyhow, Rufus is Catholic too, so I should think the Vatican will be delighted. I haven’t told my mother yet.”
“But—but aren’t you getting married?” Tish has always wanted to get married.
“God, I hope so, in time. But Rufus has to get used to the idea of me living with him first, before I ask him to marry me. I don’t wanna scare him away before we get to third base.”
“What will you do with your apartment?” Rachel asks, ever the practical one.
“I don’t know. Keep it, for sure. Maybe I’ll rent it.”
“Good plan.” Rachel nods. “It’s a good investment. Something to fall back on if the living together doesn’t work out.”
“Hey, don’t be such a pessimist,” I say. “Of course it’ll work out. Rufus and you are meant for each other.”
“Thank you, honey. So what’s going on with you and Jack?”
“Yeah, have you slept with him yet?”
“No. Of course not. It’s not like that.”
“Sweetie, it’s so like that,” Rachel tells me. “The man eyes you like a juicy bone. You froth at the mouth whenever he’s in the room.”
“I do not.”
“The sexual tension is really getting to us all.”
“Oh.”
They’ve obviously been talking to my mother. Naturally, being a coward I just change the subject and ignore their pointed stares and grins.
Anyway, talking about back to normal, tonight is Jack’s usual hot date night, and my hot-movie-at-home-by-myself night. I’m wearing my favorite old ratty robe, my pizza’s just arrived (large, thin crust, extra cheese), and I’m just about to settle down to watch Chocolat, tonight’s viewing choice. I love Juliette Binoche—she’s so beautiful, so chic, so French…Plus, Johnny Depp is hot.
“Hey,” Jack says, coming into the living room.
I’m a bit surprised, because he’s wearing cutoff jeans and a ripped old T-shirt. He’s still covered in paint.
“Hey, yourself,” I tell him, through a mouthful of pizza.
“So what you up to tonight?”
“The usual.” I bite into more pizza. “Movie, pizza, wine.”
“Oh pizza, great,” he says, grabbing a slice.
“Hey, that’s my dinner,” I say, but I don’t mind because I know I won’t eat it all tonight. But I do like it cold for breakfast. I’m just complaining out of habit, really.
“Little thing like you can’t eat a huge pizza like this.” He grins at me. “You want more wine? I want some wine.”
“I do so need more pizza. I need to consolidate the good work—just two more pounds and I’ll be happy.”
“Did I tell you how refreshing it is to live with a woman who is actively trying to gain weight?” he says, demolishing the rest of his slice of pizza. “How about I get dessert? I have chocolate-chip ice cream in the freezer. Seems only fair to share.”
“Won’t you be late? Why aren’t you getting ready?”
“For what?”
“It’s your hot date night. You always go out on Saturday nights.”
“Not this Saturday night. Oh, good. Chocolat. Juliette Binoche. What a babe. Mind if I watch it with you?”
Oh. Actually, I like the idea of Jack staying home with me.
“It’s your house,” I tell him, passing him my glass. “I’d love more wine.”
It’s nice. Just the two of us. Jack smells really good. He looks really good, too, despite the paint spots. And you know, maybe he isn’t such an ionic bonder…Wonder if the love of a good woman could turn him into a covalent bonder? Do I care? Who am I kidding, I really can’t stop thinking about sleeping with him.
It’s time I forgot Adam and moved on. I will Zen myself into Jack’s bed. Maybe I could Zen myself into his heart, too?
Sunday, 7 A.M.
Oh, I fell asleep on the sofa. I wiggle into the cushions to get more comfortable, and then I realize that the reason I can’t wiggle any further into the cushions is because Jack is at the bottom of the sofa with my legs on his lap.
He looks so sweet and vulnerable, asleep. And I don’t think him being two years younger than me is a problem, is it? It’s only two years. I quite like the idea of being the older woman. Seems to work for Julia. But how to let him know subtly that I have changed my mind? I will have to flirt with him more, send him Zen vibes…Oh, he’s waking up.
“Oh, hi,” h
e tells me, stifling a yawn with his hand.
“Hi yourself.” I smile my most alluring smile, and then put my flirting into practice. “We didn’t make it as far as bed last night.” I try to flutter my eyelashes, for maximum flirt effect. I wonder if that is a little too obvious.
“No,” he says, looking a little puzzled. And then, “I’ll go put on a pot of coffee.”
And then he gently moves my legs to one side, and stands up, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. He’s definitely hot, I think, yearning to squeeze his biceps. He catches me watching, so I smile and flutter my eyelashes some more.
“Emma, have you got something in your eye?”
“No!”
“Only you’re blinking a lot.”
Okay, so maybe my sex-kitten look needs more work. My morning hair is not a pretty sight, and my ratty old robe is definitely not alluring. No wonder he didn’t get it.
Tuesday, 9 A.M.
I’m ready to go.
Today I am wearing comfortable black pants and a white T-shirt, proudly emblazoned with the words DON’T FORGET YOUR CONDOMS. And for once, I do not check myself in the mirror to see if this is a good look for me or not.
In the grand scheme of things, how I look is totally unimportant and trivial.
Today, Sylvester and David are hosting their annual AIDS fundraiser. Some of their closest friends have fallen foul of this terrible disease, and this is their way of fighting back. They’ve given the kitchen staff the day off so we’re all helping out, either by cooking (under Sylvester’s hawk eyes and sharp tongue—I would never work for him full time—not for a million dollars) or serving their multitude of customers. Apart from the entire gay community of Manhattan, they seem to know every one else on the island, too. Which is good, because it means lots of dollars for the fundraiser.
When I say we’re all helping out, I mean Rachel and Hugh, Katy and Tom, Rufus and Tish, me. And Jack.
Yes, Jack. Since Sunday morning I’ve been working on my sex-kitten approach, but I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’ve tried everything—full makeup at breakfast, complete with slinky robe at breakfast (tastefully arranged to slip over my shoulder in an alluring fashion), but Jack doesn’t seem to have noticed. Either he’s (a) blind, (b) not interested, or (c) I’m just not cut out for this slut-in-the-bedroom thing. I think (b) and (c).
Anyway, Jack and me are working the breakfast and lunch shift with Rachel and Katy. The others are coming down later to work the evening dinner shift. And we’re busy. Rufus has brought mounds of his mouthwatering muffins, plus wonderful organic food supplies.
6 P.M.
The restaurant is full of drag queens and laughter and noise. And condoms. All kinds, all colors, blown up as balloons and hung from the ceiling. There are goody bags (donated by a pharmaceutical company) filled with condoms of every description. Everywhere I turn, there are constant reminders of my lack of sex. Everywhere I turn, Jack is right behind me reminding me constantly of my lack of sex. And the fact that I want to have sex with him, of course.
“Emma.” Sylvester pointedly glances across at Jack and holds out a goody bag to me. “Did you get your condoms yet?”
“Like I need them,” I mutter, blushing, as I try not to look at Jack.
“Chérie,” Sylvester whispers in my ear. “What are you waiting for? You need to take zat man to bed—ze sexual tension is driving us all crazy.”
Fat chance of that. The man in question doesn’t even seem to realize I’m a girl. I flush even more from the sexual frustration that’s driving me crazy, too, and glance at my watch. Then glance at Jack, who is grating cheese. How quickly can I escape the kitchen? How can grating cheese be sexy?
“Emma,” Rachel says as she collects omlettes. “You won’t believe this guy out here. These green vibrators rival your pink one for tackiness.”
Thank you, Rachel, for sharing that with me, I think.
“Chérie, you are a dark horse.” Sylvester pauses as he whisks eggs. “Tell me all.”
“What vibrator?” Katy asks, as she starts to load the dishwasher.
God, I really don’t like Jack right at this moment. Smirking at my discomfort, he rubs the cheese up and down, up and down, up and down…I am in a very bad way.
“Just a joke present from Peri,” I mumble, getting even redder with embarrassment and longing. This is too much.
“It has to be seen to be believed,” Rachel says as she comes back into the kitchen. “Pink, long, very loud…”
“Wow. I’ve never tried one,” Katy says. “Is it any good? Maybe me and Tom could—”
“Can we just drop the subject?” I ask in desperation. I really, really don’t want to talk about sex.
As Jack goes back into the restaurant bearing bowls of garlic bread, Rachel and Katy stop what they are doing and look at me.
“What?” Do I really want to know what they are thinking? Probably not. Probably something to do with Jack.
“Jack’s great,” Katy tells me.
“Jack’s hot,” Rachel adds. “Although not as hot as Hugh.”
“And sexy—but not as sexy as Tom, of course.”
“Delicious.” Sylvester rolls his eyes. “But not as delicious as David.”
“Ohhhkaayy,” I say, holding up my hands. “So we’re all agreed that Jack is great. I get the message, guys, but he’s not interested in me. And I’m definitely not interested in him, either.”
“So why aren’t you sleeping with him yet?”
“It’s not like that,” I say, wondering what they’ve all been saying behind my back.
“Emma, you are one blind chick,” David adds his voice to the Jack fan club from the kitchen door. “Wake up and smell the testosterone, sweetie.”
I can’t help it. I have to laugh.
“This is a conspiracy,” I say. And then, “So you really think I should—?”
At that moment, Jack comes back into the kitchen with more dirty dishes so of course everyone stops talking and watches him. Very obviously.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Rachel says, smiling at me in a knowing, feminine way. “We were just talking about you.”
Oh God.
“Oh, good. Well I hope it was an interesting conversation,” Jack says, obviously confused.
“Definitely interesting,” Katy says.
“Guys,” I plead with them.
“Sylvester, dear, where are the lamb cutlets for table three?” David says, taking the hint. “They’ve been waiting fifteen minutes already. Chop, chop.”
“Voilà.” Sylvester flounces past him, plates in hand. “A work of art, of perfection, exquisite. Zese zings cannot be hurried.”
“He thinks he’s the culinary world’s answer to Monet.” David rolls his eyes, and heads back into the restaurant.
I need to get out of here for a bit. Tish, Hugh, and Tom will be here very soon, anyway.
“I’m just going to take a few minutes, guys,” I say. “I need a breather.”
I make it halfway down to the waterfront when Jack catches up with me.
“Mind if I come with you?”
Yes, I do mind. The whole idea was to get away from you. But I don’t say this, obviously.
“Sure,” I tell him in what I think is a definitely uninterested way. “It’s a free country.” I march on, quickening my pace. Endorphins will surely help me. I’m self-conscious and tongue-tied, and Jack isn’t exactly chatty, either.
“Hey!” Jack shouts as he grabs at my arm. And yanks me back from the road just as a black car squeals past, missing me by a hair’s breadth.
“Stupid asshole,” Jack yells as the car screeches around the corner. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, trembling, as Jack pulls me into his arms. I could have been killed. If I’d taken one more step into the road, I would be hurt. Or worse. And then I hear a completely pitiful whining and glance toward the pavement.
“Oh, but this guy’s not,” I say, forgetting my fr
ight as I pull away from Jack’s lovely warmth. “Jack, look. Look at this poor little dog. We have to do something.”
“Bastards,” Jack says, squatting in front of the ball of black fur and red blood. “Hit and run. Motherfuckers.”
The small mongrel whines again, then licks at Jack’s hand. Its leg is injured. The hip bone is sticking awkwardly through the flesh.
“I’ll go get my car,” I tell him. “The vet’s will be closed, but there’s any emergency animal hospital about twenty minutes away from here. I went with Rachel when she took one of her cats last year.”
“No,” Jack says, pulling off his T-shirt and wrapping it carefully around the poor creature. “You stay. I’ll go. I have longer legs. I can run faster.”
How nice is that? How lovely is he to not care about his top being covered in blood?
I try to comfort the poor creature as we wait for Jack’s return. I stroke its silky head, murmuring silly meaningless words. I think it’s a girl. I’m pretty sure it’s a girl. She has no ID tag or collar, though, which is not a good sign.
“Poor little girl,” I croon. “Such a pretty little thing. I think I’ll call you Beauty for now. Because you are one, aren’t you? And all dogs deserve a name.”
Jack pulls up and we gently load Beauty into the backseat.
It seems to take forever to get there but fifteen minutes later we hand Beauty over to the vet.
“From her general condition, I’d say she’s been living on the streets,” the vet tells us twenty minutes later. “She’s very thin—her ribs are really prominent. She’s young—about a year old, I’d guess.”
“But will she be all right?” I bite my lip.
“We’ve made her comfortable, but as there’s no owner…” the vet trails off and I know, instantly, that she means Beauty will have to be put down.
“But…” I mentally calculate the funds available to me in my savings account. Or on my credit card. Which is useless, because I know that I don’t have the hundreds of dollars required to pay for Beauty’s treatment. Tears well in my eyes and I swipe at them as I think of who could lend me the money. Rachel would. I know she would.
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