Me Times Three

by Alex Witchel

  “Thank you, Grace,” I said. “I hear you have the key for estate jewelry.” She smiled and said yes though Sherrie was making hideous faces, warning her not to get involved.

  But Grace didn’t notice until it was too late. To her credit, though, she unlocked the case and, in her most professional manner, asked what the gentleman was interested in seeing. Paul picked out a few pieces, which she placed on a velvet tray for closer inspection, but she never once looked at him and, though she continued to question the gentleman, directed all of her conversation to me.

  “Paul, do you like any of these?” I asked, but he shook his head, frustrated. “It’s no good,” he said too loudly, as if he were someone’s deaf grandfather. He was right. It was second-rate, gaudy stuff.

  “We’ll try somewhere else,” I said.

  Grace put the jewelry back in the case, and I turned toward her. “Thank you for your help,” I said. She smiled feebly toward my elbow, apparently exhausted by the terrible effort of not looking at Paul, and I got behind his chair and wheeled him back to the parking lot. He was crestfallen.

  “What am I going to do now?” he asked repeatedly. Phil swung around with the van as soon as he saw us and got Paul back inside. With great effort, Paul recalled a marketplace—something like a bazaar—where he’d once seen something beautiful, and with Phil’s help we found it. All three of us went in this time, Paul’s financial security concerns apparently forgotten. We stopped at the first counter we saw, and the salesman could not have been nicer. He removed every tray from the case, and Paul immediately sensed the change in atmosphere and enjoyed himself now, very lord of the manor, holding up pieces of crystal and marcasite and inquiring after prices.

  “Phil, I think we should take a look around while Paul shops,” I suggested, and Paul shot me a grateful glance. By the time we returned from a leisurely tour of the stalls, his purchase was wrapped in pink tissue paper, though the clerk was nice enough to undo it and show us an exquisite scrolled necklace that looked like an heirloom from the heroine of a Victorian novel. Understated, yet intricate. Beautiful.

  “You have the greatest taste,” I said as, flushed with victory, Paul got back into the van. After we drove a few blocks, I thought I recognized the neighborhood and asked, “Are we near Nate ’n Al?”—the one good delicatessen in Los Angeles. “Maybe we can get some chicken soup.”

  But Paul’s mood had abruptly changed. “We have to go home,” he said dourly. Neither Phil nor I asked why, just rolled down the windows.

  When we reached the apartment, Sally disappeared into the shower with Paul, and though Phil stayed awhile, we didn’t have much to say to each other. Before he left, he helped Sally bring Paul out to sit on the couch, newly bathed and changed. Sally had a jar of Nivea cream with her.

  “Paul’s feet hurt, and sometimes massage helps,” she said to me. “Do you want to do it while I make some lunch?”

  “Sure,” I said, looking at his swollen feet. “Just tell me where it hurts so I don’t go there.”

  “It hurts everywhere,” he said. “Don’t press hard.”

  I started slowly and, after he made a face or two, adjusted the pressure to a version of what we used to do in camp: “Tickle My Back.” One girl would lie on her bed, facedown, and someone else would make feathery circles along her skin, and then they would switch. I was relieved to see Paul actually smile at my efforts and relax back onto the pillows. Even his color seemed better now.

  At lunch he drank two shot glasses of his milk shake and ate a piece of smoked salmon, which Sally cut into tiny pieces so he was able to slide them past the roof of his mouth with minimal pain. He seemed elated, and so was I.

  I was so eager to grab any moment in which I could see my friend, still in there, however diminished, that I declared, “I’m cooking dinner tonight.” They both looked at me. “I’ll make chicken breasts and pasta for Sally and me, and for Paul, I’ll do what my mom did when I had my tonsils out, and put the chicken in the blender with some applesauce. It’s incredibly good.”

  He agreed, and Sally looked relieved to relinquish a chore, though she insisted on doing the shopping, saying she’d been cooped up inside all day. After she left, I sat at the end of the couch and offered to do Paul’s feet again, but he said no. I could see that there was something on his mind, but after living with Sally, he seemed to have learned her reticence for initiating a difficult conversation.

  Maybe she had told him about bringing me to his house and telling me the truth, and he wanted to explain. He would know how I’d take being lied to.

  “Sandy, there’s something I have to tell you,” he said at last.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Remember that weekend when we were in Palm Springs?”

  I nodded.

  “And we were looking at Bob Hope’s house with the ceiling that slid open so that his family could sit in their living room and look at the stars?”

  “Yes, I remember,” I said.

  He took a breath. “That wasn’t his house.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No. I mean, I knew Bob Hope lived in Palm Springs, and I had heard something about a sliding roof, but I honestly didn’t know if that was his house or not.”

  He looked scared. I squeezed his hand as gently as I could. “That’s okay, Paul,” I said. “We both wanted it to be his house, and we wanted his roof to slide open. So it did.”

  “Yes.” He smiled sweetly, gratefully, then turned his head and fell fast asleep.

  And that was enough.

  I got back to New York on Sunday night and was relieved to find that my roommate was not in residence. I went through the mail and checked my phone messages. Incredibly, Susie Schein hadn’t called. But Mark had.

  He had handed in his piece earlier in the week and—big surprise—it was great. I had made very few suggestions, the main one being that he needed to draw more of an emotional connection between his activities today and how he remembered them from his childhood, and he took the criticism remarkably well. I also shook up the order of events so that it wasn’t completely chronological, and suggested he add a joke or two in the midst of the arty stuff (completely selfish, I assured him, so I didn’t fall asleep). He returned it promptly and called to thank me. I thought the piece the best we’d ever recieved, and I had passed it along to Susie without a second thought. Mistake.

  “Um, hi, Sandy, it’s Mark,” the voice on the machine said haltingly. “I have to admit I was surprised when Victoria got a call from Susie Schein saying she had problems with the piece, especially after you and I edited it and everything seemed okay. I wanted to touch base with you first, because Victoria is thinking of yanking it and taking it elsewhere, since the changes Susie wants don’t make any sense. But I felt badly, since you gave me so much help, and I wanted you to know what was going on. Sorry to leave this for you at home, but I was told you were out sick, so maybe if you feel better by Monday you can give me a call and tell me what’s happening. Thanks.”

  I would seem to be the last one who knew what was happening, I thought, dumping the contents of my bag into the hamper. How dare Susie do this behind my back and then expect me to fix it? I sighed. Well, what else was new?

  I wasn’t actually surprised that Mark had called again; he’d called plenty since Philadelphia. Neither of us had mentioned how the weekend had ended, but he seemed to be having second thoughts about it.

  As had I. A veritable epiphany, in fact, once I’d managed to get up off that hotel room bed: No more men.

  They simply were not worth the trouble. There wasn’t one alive who merited the time and energy he demanded—even one who knew everything about art and seemed to know everything about kissing—so I was going to get on with my life solo. And if I made it to forty and felt I absolutely had to have a child, I would adopt a perfectly behaved Asian orphan who would grow up to be Midori. I would travel the world listening to her play, applauding her genius, and eating everything in sight. I would b
e enormously fat and wear silk muumuus. Bliss.

  But wouldn’t you know it? They had radar, all men did, and no sooner had I made this decision than Mark started calling me in earnest. He had a question about the piece, or he wanted to check a fact with me (one he could have easily checked elsewhere). I wondered about his sudden exit, but until the piece had gotten by Susie, I couldn’t ask. So I was polite and professional, and one night, when he wanted to know if I felt like grabbing dinner, I thanked him but said I was deluged with copy.

  On the other hand, Sandra, I reasoned now, what is the shelf life of this big epiphany? It had been great for the train ride home from Philadelphia, but enough already. All along, you kept saying that when the work was done you’d see him. So what are you going to do now? Punish him for taking you at your word and finishing the piece without you? The Midori track was fine in theory, but did I really want to become one of those self-sabotaging women who live in New York, who get chance after chance to find happiness and then, if the chance isn’t six feet tall or didn’t pull up in a Rolls, dismiss it? You’re just too young to turn into such a pathetic type, I decided. You wanted to have dinner with Mark? Well, you’re in luck. He wants to have dinner with you, too. I would call him tomorrow.

  When the phone rang a few minutes later, I jumped. I was certain it was Susie Schein, tracking me down to dump the Mark problem back into my lap so I could placate the understandably irate Victoria Segal. But I was the one who was irate: The fact that Susie had gone ahead and called Mark’s agent without even waiting to discuss the piece with me remained unacceptable.

  The hell with her, I decided after the third ring. It was still Sunday; tomorrow was soon enough for this nonsense. I let the machine pick up, increasing the volume so I could hear the onslaught.

  “Hey.”

  I stiffened. It was Bucky.

  “Sandy, are you there? Sanny?”

  It felt as if he was in the room with me. I stepped away from the machine.

  “Sandra, listen, I have to see you,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “I know you haven’t heard from me, but I want you to know that I have not stopped loving you for one minute. I miss you so, Sanny, I can’t believe how much. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  He hung up.

  14

  I most certainly did not call Bucky. Nor did I sleep that night for more than five minutes at a time, expecting the phone to ring again at any moment—which it did, finally, at 7:15 in the morning.

  “Sorry I missed you, Sanny, I’ll get you later, at the office.” His tone was cheery, casual, as if we had just spoken and he’d forgotten to tell me to pick up some milk.

  I left the apartment early and, on the subway to work, reviewed the draft of Mark’s piece, trying unsuccessfully to spot problems. His tight, well-written sentences built a narrative that was exactly what had been assigned: revisiting a special place from childhood and reassessing it through grown-up eyes. Susie’s change of heart in this instance surpassed her usual capriciousness—it was bile, pure and simple. And for what? I couldn’t see how she could execute her customary torture with someone of Mark Lewis’s stature, or why she would bother trying. This was a real writer, whose income and résumé did not depend on the whims of Jolie!

  But when I got to the office, steeled for the big showdown, Susie’s door was shut, and much of the staff was gathered in a cluster near the coffee machine. I headed for Pimm, my usual contact in an office crisis.

  “Marti Lyons quit,” she said, seeming as befuddled as everyone else. That was news. Marti was considered the top beauty writer in women’s magazines. It was no small achievement to be able to write six witty paragraphs about eyeliners, making each one sound like a brand-new adventure and a surefire way to change your life. And the manufacturers appreciated her efforts. She was forever being flown to places like St. Barth for weekend junkets, so she could better appreciate the newest shades of blush by the light of an island sunrise. Because she kept so many advertisers happy, Marti was one of the best-paid staff writers at Jolie!

  As everyone buzzed about the news, Pascal came in. Flummoxed not to find Pimm or Coco in their office to receive him as usual, he peevishly inquired as to what was going on. “Marti Lyons quit,” Pimm repeated. Pascal half shrugged and quickly retreated to his desk to call Papa in unanticipated privacy.

  “Would Coco know why?” I asked Pimm.

  “Coco only knows the frog gossip,” she said.

  “Where is she, by the way?” I asked.

  Pimm leaned in close to whisper. “She went to London for the weekend with a Brit she met at Nell’s,” she said. “He’s in some sort of bank training program, and he was going home for a house party—and a fox hunt, I think. Coco thought that sounded like incredible fun.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Can she even ride?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?” Pimm answered. “Anyway, she’s called in sick,” Pimm said, “and Susie can’t know. She won’t be back till tomorrow.”

  Just then, Buffy Parks appeared, poured herself a cup of coffee, and stowed a container of tuna salad in the fridge. She listened to the twittering and, flipping her hair assertively, announced, “I know why she’s leaving,” which prompted a wave of noise before everyone fell silent, mouths open, waiting. She preened at the attention.

  “Well, all I can say is that over the past few weeks, Marti Lyons has been seen being just a bit too chummy with … Norma Wilder!”

  Hoots and hollers were followed quickly by shushing. Of course, Susie’s love affair with Norma Wilder, the editor with whom she frequented the downtown clubs, was openly speculated about in the office, and every once in a while a blind item in a gossip column appeared that seemed to be about Norma Wilder, mentioning “the other woman” with the dead giveaway of “nondescript.” But maybe Norma Wilder had finally figured out that she too was entitled to some color in her life.

  And Marti Lyons was color—funny and smart. I knew that she was gay because, unlike Susie, she was open about it. I remember one rainy afternoon when we were supposed to be closing the magazine and were sitting around talking instead. Marti admitted she was lonely and wanted a girlfriend and had decided to join the health club around the corner to get in shape. She looked fine to me, but she was embarrassed, she said, about taking her clothes off in the locker room.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “No one will look at you twice.”

  “I know,” she said morosely, and we both started to laugh. It hadn’t occurred to me that the one place I could escape sexual scrutiny would be the opposite for her.

  “Anyway,” Buffy Parks went on importantly, “I heard that Susie found out about it and told Marti that if she didn’t stay away from Norma she would be fired, and Marti said her private life was private and she would quit first. So she did.”

  “Who saw them where together?” I asked.

  Buffy gave me her customary disgusted look. “Pandora’s Box, where do you think?” she said, naming a lesbian bar.

  “Did you see them there?” I asked innocently.

  Buffy turned red. “Of course not,” she squealed. “I’ve never been there. What do you think I am, a dyke?” “Not until it’s fashionable,” I said.

  Everyone laughed, and Buffy turned on her heel and stalked off.

  “She’s being extra-obnoxious even for Buffy, isn’t she?” I asked. One of the assistants nodded. “She’s been interviewing at Glamour for a big fashion job, and it’s between her and another girl,” she said. “Miss Belladonna killed both her shoots in last month’s issue, and she’s furious.”

  I took my coffee and went back to my office. Turnover was typical at magazines, I knew. Every once in a while there would be a mass exodus, but usually it would be connected to a change at the top—a new editor bringing in her own people. Jolie!, though, had taken on an air of desolation. Its novelty had worn off. Enemies had been made, too: designers who felt snubbed, writers who were treated badly. I knew now that if Buffy Parks ever di
d go to Glamour and anyone there wanted to hire me, she would assure them I was awful.

  “Sandy, Susie wants to see you,” her assistant announced, suddenly at my door. I stood, Mark’s copy in hand, ignoring my ringing phone. On my way out, I asked someone else’s assistant to pick up my calls. Ever since I’d moved into my own office, I’d been promised help that had never materialized. I would gladly have given up the whole promotion charade and moved back in with Pimm, Coco, and Pascal—just for the company—but Miss Belladonna had hired someone to track down food stories and she had taken my desk. She was an older woman who spent most of her time on the phone cooing to the French pastry chef she was sleeping with—he was featured in the June issue—when she wasn’t making appointments for manicures. Pimm and Coco made fun of her airs, while Pascal tuned her out altogether. He seemed increasingly disenchanted with the Jolie! financial-aid plan for starving novelists.

  The assistant who agreed to give me a hand had worked briefly for Susie—which authorized her as an expert in human misery. “After being out Friday, I’ll be swamped today,” I told her. “And the truth is, I’ve got an old boyfriend on my trail at exactly the wrong moment and I need to duck his calls.” She smiled and nodded. After Susie, I was a picnic.

  Unfortunately, none were in store for me. I entered Susie’s office and noticed that her face was even grayer than usual. Marti Lyons, I had heard, had stormed out of Susie’s office and left the building. I knew not to mention it.

  “The Mark Lewis piece is a problem,” Susie said peremptorily. “There’s not enough about art in it.”

  I tried to regroup. Of all the complaints I had anticipated, “not enough about art” had not been one of them. “But, Susie, you said the whole point was for him to revisit a special place from childhood and see it through adult eyes,” I protested.