by Beth Orsoff
My father just congratulated me and wanted to know how much money I would make. I didn’t want to burst his bubble, so I told him I didn’t know yet because my new status wouldn’t take effect until the following year. After lecturing me about tax consequences and the benefits of saving early for retirement, he put my mother back on the phone. It was the longest phone conversation I’d had with them in years.
* * *
Despite my new status, the moment I pulled into the office parking garage Monday morning I was overcome with depression. Nothing had changed. Rosenthal could call me a partner, but I was still a worker bee and he was still the queen.
After checking my e-mail, playing on the internet, and reading the trades, I made my first call of the day to Mark Parsons. I told him again that I appreciated the offer, but my answer was still no. He said he was disappointed, but that he understood. He also told me they were thinking of calling Susan, the other woman from Hollywood Tonight, to see if she was interested in selling her story. I wished him luck with a pang of jealousy. I hadn’t changed my mind, I just didn’t like the idea of being so easily replaced.
* * *
I made it through the rest of the week without incident. No dates, no crises, just work. By Friday afternoon I was practically wishing for a minor calamity just to break up the monotony.
My big event for the weekend was taking Kaitlyn and Steve to the airport. Kaitlyn was flying home with Steve for Christmas to meet his family. The first stop on the road to marriage. I knew the ring was coming. It was only a matter of time.
They’d probably thank me at the wedding. Steve would make a toast and tell everyone that if he’d been interested in another date with me, he never would’ve met Kaitlyn. All the guests would laugh and I would stand there, embarrassed, in another hideous bridesmaid dress. It would be my eighth. Maybe I should start looking for a date now.
Since our Christmas bonuses were less than everyone had hoped, Rosenthal attempted to short circuit a mutiny with extra days off on Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. I spent my Christmas Eve at home with Elmo. We read back issues of People magazine, ate not quite stale Christmas cookies, and watched How The Grinch Stole Christmas three times in a row on television. Actually, I was the only one who ate the cookies. Elmo just read over my shoulder and watched TV.
New Year’s Eve day I decided to treat myself to a few hours of pampering at one of those fancy salons in Beverly Hills where all the celebrities go. I wanted to start the New Year looking my best and in better spirits. A day of beauty was the quickest way to a positive attitude, at least according to Singles magazine.
I left with manicured nails, pedicured toes, and a new hair style. I wanted a facial too, but all the facialists were booked, so I bought some overpriced creams and scrubs and figured I would try it myself at home.
I came home to one message on my answering machine. “Julia, it’s Mommy.” I hit STOP. Last New Year’s Eve my mother left me a message saying that her New Year’s Resolution for me was that next year I wouldn’t be alone. I’d just spent $300 improving my attitude; I didn’t want it destroyed by a ten-second phone message.
I let my finger hover over the DELETE button, but eventually I hit PLAY again. Even with my new attitude, I wasn’t one of those people who could just delete a message without listening to it, no matter how much I wanted to. “I called to wish you a Happy and Healthy New Year,” my mother’s voice continued, “and to tell you to have a good time at the wedding.”
Maybe she’d spent $300 improving her attitude too. A good omen for the New Year.
That night, after two hundred crunches so my stomach would be flat in my gown that night, I slipped an Andre Bocelli CD onto the stereo, lit an aromatherapy candle, and soaked myself in a bubble bath. After I’d loofahed every dead skin cell off my body, I started on my face. I wrapped myself in my fuzzy blue moon and stars bathrobe, covered my hair with a shower cap to keep it clean, and lathered on my new facial goo.
The instructions said to massage the cream into the skin and wait ten minutes. When it hardened into a crusty paste, I was supposed to rinse. Under no circumstances was I to leave the cream on my skin for longer than twenty minutes. Piece of cake.
I laid down on the living room floor, face up, with my head resting on a pillow. I checked my watch every two minutes while I flipped through the pages of the January issue of Vanity Fair. After ten minutes had passed, I went into the bathroom and checked my face. The goo was pasty, but not crusty. I decided to wait another few minutes.
I’d just repositioned myself on the pillow when the intercom buzzed. I got up, pushed the TALK button, and said hello. No one answered. It was probably just someone who’d accidentally reached the wrong apartment. It happened all the time, but I never buzzed anyone in. This was supposed to be a security building. I wasn’t going to buzz a stranger inside. I sat back down on the living room floor.
I hadn’t even gotten comfortable yet when the intercom buzzed a second time. Again I pushed the TALK button, and again no one answered. When it buzzed a third time, I ignored it and went to check my goo. It was almost crusty, but not quite. I checked my watch. It had only been thirteen minutes. I’d give it two more minutes, then rinse.
I’d just gotten the pillow in exactly the right spot under my neck, when I heard someone playing with the lock on my door. At first I was too stunned to move. As far as I knew, I was the only person with a key to my apartment. But when I saw the knob turn, I recovered fast and ran into the kitchen. The person from downstairs must’ve found someone to buzz them in and now they were breaking into my apartment!
My chest was pounding so hard and so fast I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I wanted to call 911, but the phone was still in the living room. Instead I pulled a steak knife out of the butcher block on my kitchen counter and waited. I may be smaller than the assailant, but at least I would have the element of surprise.
I heard the door open, then someone called out. “Julie, are you home? It’s Mrs. Klein.”
I breathed. It was only my landlady. I put the knife down and walked back into the living room. The barely five-foot-tall Mrs. Klein was standing in my doorway with a man beside her. The man was Joe.
Chapter 69
Looking My Best
“What are you doing here?” I asked Joe.
It was Mrs. Klein who answered. “I’m so glad you’re okay. This nice young man said he kept buzzing you, but you didn’t answer. He thought your intercom might be broken, so he buzzed me.”
“I think it is,” I replied. “It buzzed three times, but every time I picked up, there was no one on the other end.”
“I tried calling you,” Mrs. Klein said, “but all I got was a message that your number had been disconnected. I started to worry, so I came up to check.”
“I just switched to an unlisted phone number. Sorry, I forgot to give it to you.” I found a pen and pad by the phone and wrote down the new number for her.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” she said. “But what’s that you’ve got on your face? You look like your skin’s about to crack.”
Oh shit. I touched the goo and it was hard as a rock. I picked up my watch. It had been twenty-two minutes. I ran into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, but the crusty stuff wouldn’t come off. Shit! Shit! Shit!
I picked up the container and read the warning label. It said not to keep the cream on the skin longer than twenty minutes, but it didn’t have instructions for what to do if you didn’t follow the instructions. I turned the water to hot, wet my towel under the sink and began scrubbing my face. Ten minutes later all the crusty stuff was gone. My face was sore from all the rubbing, but I didn’t think there was any permanent damage.
I went back out to the living room. My landlady had left, but Joe was sitting on the couch playing with Elmo. Elmo was telling him he loved being tickled.
“All better?” Joe asked.
“What are you doing here?”
He held u
p a suit bag and a pair of dress shoes. “I came to take you to the wedding. Assuming, that is, you still need a date.”
“I thought you had to work?”
“I did. But I got to thinking about it after you called and decided I’d rather spend New Year’s Eve at a wedding with you, than serving drinks to a bunch of drunk assholes at some Hollywood party.”
“Couldn’t you have told me this a little sooner?”
“I didn’t want to say yes until I knew I could make it. I almost didn’t. I just found someone to cover for me this morning. I tried calling you, but….”
I’d forgotten to give Joe my new number too.
“I also left you three messages at your office, but you never called me back. I didn’t know what was going on, so I finally decided to drive over here and talk to you in person.”
“I can’t believe you did this for me, Joe. That’s so nice.” He’d just scored major points.
“I keep telling you, honey, I’m a good catch.” Then he stood up and kissed me. It was long and sweet and I would’ve stayed there forever if he hadn’t pulled the shower cap off my head and said, “What the hell is this?”
I grabbed it out of his hand. “Nothing, I was trying to keep the goo out of my hair.”
“You probably should’ve kept it off your face too. You look a little red.”
I put my hands to my cheeks. They felt hot and puffy. I ran to the bathroom mirror and screamed. I looked like a sunburned chipmunk.
Joe ran into the bathroom too. “What’s wrong?”
“Look at me,” I shouted.
“What? So your cheeks are a little red. You just look like you’ve been out in the sun too long.”
“I look like I fell asleep under a sun lamp for twelve hours and then got stung by a bee!”
“No you don’t. Maybe your face is a tiny bit swollen. But if you hadn’t pointed it out, I would never have noticed.”
I appreciated the effort, but he was lying through his teeth. I looked hideous.
Joe glanced at his watch. “What time is the wedding?”
“Who cares,” I said. “I’m not going.”
“What do you mean you’re not going?”
“I can’t go looking like this.”
“You look fine,” he said. “Just put on a little makeup and no one will ever know.”
“Joe, I can’t cover this up with makeup.”
“Why not?”
What a man! “Because there is no makeup in the world that can unswell my cheeks and turn my skin back to normal. I think I’m having an allergic reaction to something in that face cream.”
“Then I’ll go to the drugstore and get you some medicine.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. I certainly didn’t have a better one.
“Sit tight,” he said. He grabbed his keys, kissed me on the forehead, and was just about to close the door behind him when he stopped. “This time you are going to buzz me in, right?”
I promised I would and he was gone. I laid down on the couch with cold compresses on my face and waited. Joe came back twenty minutes later with a tube of hydrocortisone cream and a package of Benadryl.
I swallowed two pills, rubbed the cream on my face and then applied my makeup. I didn’t look good. But I was presentable enough to leave the house. I gave Joe the bathroom so he could change into his suit, and I went to the bedroom to get dressed. At least this time I wasn’t a bridesmaid, which meant I could wear an attractive evening gown.
My dress was long, black, and strapless with a slit up the back that ended mid-thigh. I could barely walk in my four-inch heels, but they made my legs look thin, so I bought them anyway. I donned a faux diamond necklace with matching earrings and walked into the living room.
Joe was wearing a black suit with a gray shirt and tie. The wedding was black tie, but the suit would do. It would have to.
Joe gave me an appreciative whistle. “You look spectacular.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You clean up well too.” He really did.
Chapter 70
Another Wedding
Joe drove us the six blocks to the Four Seasons Hotel. We were fifteen minutes late, but the wedding started half an hour late, so we didn’t miss anything.
Simone looked beautiful, the ceremony was mercifully short, and the reception was amazing. Joe and I and the other three hundred guests dined on a seven-course meal, while being serenaded by a twelve-piece band, in a room filled with thousands of white roses.
Or at least that’s how it was described to me the next day. I remembered the ceremony, the flowers and the cocktail hour. After that it got hazy. I didn’t find out until I was on my second martini that Benadryl is a sedative and shouldn’t be mixed with alcohol.
* * *
I woke up late on New Year’s Day. I was alone in my bed, still wearing my bra and underwear. My gown was hanging on the back of the closet door, my shoes and purse on the floor beneath it. I didn’t know where my pantyhose were. Knowing me, I’d probably torn them off in the bathroom the night before.
I heard noises coming from the other room, so I donned my bathrobe and went to investigate.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” Joe said. He was standing in my kitchen, barefoot, wearing his jeans and T-shirt from the day before. He was stirring something in a mixing bowl I’d forgotten I even owned. He bent down to kiss me, but I turned away.
“Don’t,” I said. “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”
“That reminds me, I borrowed one of your extra toothbrushes. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Consider it a gift,” I said and headed towards the bathroom. I still had mascara smeared under my eyes, but most of the swelling on my face had gone down and the red had faded to an attractive shade of pink.
I brushed my teeth, washed my face and combed the bed head out of my hair. I went into the bedroom and traded my bathrobe for pajama pants and a clean T-shirt, then I joined Joe in the kitchen.
I sat at the table and watched him spoon the batter from the mixing bowl into a muffin tin, then place it in the oven. He pulled an orange juice container from the refrigerator and poured me a glass.
“This seems a little familiar,” I said. “Although I believe the last time we dined al fresco.”
“I can assure you this time the outcome will be different.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve hidden my car keys someplace you’ll never find them.”
“We’re at my house this time. How do I know you won’t steal my car?”
Joe turned off the oven and took the glass of orange juice from my hand.
“Trust me,” he said.
Then he kissed me. Slow and seductive.
We had those blueberry muffins for dinner.
The End
Note to Readers:
In deference to the many fans who e-mailed me to say: “But it just ended! What happens next?” I’ve written an epilogue, which you can find on my website: www.bethorsoff.com. Enjoy!
Table of Contents
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Table of Contents
Title page