She’s shot all right. “Maybe it was just animal magnetism drawing him to you—because you smell like Charley!” I call out to her. “And I’m not self-righteous, Kim. I just don’t find being drunk a positive attribute for you. You’re going to have a headache the size of the Golden Gate tomorrow. You can’t afford Starbucks every day, you know.” I’m assuming straight-boy paid for her drinks tonight. It’s the next day that presents her with the financial problem when she pays to fend off the results.
Kim’s chattiness dissipates, and she slinks back down on her bed, kicking the silk screen partition over with a bang. Her bedroom now completely lacks privacy. “Nate made me espresso. He so wantsh me,” she says as she cuddles up with her pillow. Tonight, I could use a dose of Kim’s reality. It would be nice to believe someone wanted me. Judging from Nate’s hasty exit, it appears my luck with men hasn’t changed. And, see? It was right after I found him attractive. It’s a curse!
“I need a spa weekend to recover from my spa weekend.” I’m talking to the espresso machine when our phone rings. “Hello.”
“Hey, baby, it’s Jason.” Slimy and yet oh-so-smarmy.
I’m assuming Jason is hot, cute, straight-boy, and I can’t help myself. “I told you not to call me here. What if my husband answered? I mean, he’s on patrol tonight, but he could have been home already.”
Click.
One problem solved. Only 861 more to go. I start to clean up the dishes Kim has left over the weekend, and I realize: something has got to change. There is not one thing in my life that I’m proud of at the moment. Besides my friendship with the Spa Girls that is, but Poppy lives forty miles away in Cupertino, and Morgan runs with a crowd who would rather entertain Paris Hilton’s chihuahua than me.
chapter 7
Iam fired. It has such a David Copperfield feel, doesn’t it? Sara didn’t want to hear my excuses. She didn’t want to hear my goals, my dreams, or what I planned to do with myself. She just wanted me out of the office without any of her equipment, even a ball point pen. I went without so much as a cardboard box to remember my years there. I didn’t even have the forethought to grab the classifieds. Kim was fired too. For insubordination when telling Sara what an idiot she was to fire me, but Kim thought that was cause for celebration, and laughingly left the office with a friend’s Starbucks card.
I’m unsure of my next move. Right now, I’m sitting on a wood beam at the edge of the Embarcadero Pier, under the Bay Bridge. Luxury cars and eighteen-wheelers, all with places to go are overhead, and I’m down here. With the roar of traffic, the scent of salty sea air, the bark of sea lions, and the call of the gulls, I am aimless. But I feel slightly giddy. I did it, I think. I stood up to my Nana and Sara Lang. I feel like I could do anything!
Fashion is a tough business. I always knew that, and maybe I set my hopes too high by working for Sara Lang and listening to the reviewers about my work. You know what they say: you’re never as bad or as good as they say you are.
A big Beemer drives onto the Pier, right under the large “No Parking” sign, and Morgan emerges in a pale pink suit and stilettos to die for. “I got your call, Lilly. Came as soon as I could. Woo-hoo! You’re fired; let’s go play!” She rushes towards me, and we giggle. I have no job, but like Morgan’s hero, Scarlett O’Hara, I’ll think about that another day.
“This so sucks,” I say, still slightly in disbelief that Sara had the nerve to fire me. “My designs have made her in the last year. I feel like such a complete loser. I just couldn’t get onto Muni and prove it to myself further.” I didn’t want to quit. I wanted to stay and glean what I could from Sara’s brilliant use of color, but it wasn’t enough for Sara. I didn’t show complete and utter submission to the queen.
“Sara’s the loser. You’re going to make it, Lilly. But you go ahead and wallow in it; it will make the success all the sweeter when it comes.”
But I’m probably not going to wallow, and I might not even succeed. I’m going to go home, scan the want-ads for a finance job, and sew in my spare time. Just like I used to do.
Seeing Morgan’s deep blue eyes filled with sorrow, I realize I’ve really messed up. “I forgot to ask Sara about your dad.”
“It’s no big deal about my dad, Lilly. I’m sure I don’t want to know anyway.”
“So, what now?” I ask, looking for a little direction in my life, thankful Nana and Sara aren’t here to give it.
“So we’ll go out to a fabulous dinner, and you won’t have to get up in the morning and schlep on Muni to Union Square. Look at the bright side.”
I look out over the San Francisco Bay and see the myriad of sailboats and ferries bustling back and forth. “Even those boats have purpose, and they’re not even human. A Christian girl’s purpose should really include more than trying to avoid bad smells and keeping her hair in line, shouldn’t it? I mean, those skills don’t exactly bring up the whole salt-and-light feeling, do they?” I look at Morgan, and she rolls her eyes at me.
“Are you done now?”
“I guess.”
“Who has worked in the children’s Sunday school since she was thirteen?”
“Poppy.”
“Oh, right. Okay, who has worked at the soup kitchen, even though the smell of the meals made her sick?”
“You know, that doesn’t really make me sound all that charitable. I know you’re trying to help, but getting sickened by the smell of the food at the soup kitchen? You can’t make me sound better than that?”
“At the moment, no I can’t. You’re ticking me off, Lilly.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve got a good one. Okay, who is thrilled to get the latest giveaways from Estée Lauder when I buy make-up?”
I look at her, confused.
“You’re content with a little, Lilly.”
“Oh, yeah. I am, huh?”
“You are! Oh wait, wait. I have a better one.” Morgan flips back her blond hair with her manicured nails. “Who takes care of her Nana and helps her with rent, even though she’s mean as a pit bull?”
“I do!”
“That’s right, Lilly, you do! And anyone who has a heart for that woman? Well, I’m just sure God has something special planned for you.”
We both start to giggle when a policeman pulls up behind Morgan’s BMW. “This your car?” he asks while stepping out of his patrol car.
“It is, officer,” Morgan purrs. “I’m here to pick up my friend. Oh my, there’s a No Parking sign there! Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. We’ll get out of here right away.” Morgan yanks me toward the car, and the officer waves back at her.
“It’s all right, miss. No harm done.”
We get into the car, and she backs it up onto the Embarcadero. Cars start honking, and Morgan just keeps on pulling out. “Morgan, you’re going to get us killed!” I say, looking back at the busy street and the angry members of car society.
“Oh come on, like it’s going to hurt them to stop for a second while we back out.” She continues to pull out, and I just slink down in my seat. She pulls forward, finally, and looks over at me. “Let’s go shopping.”
“Morgan, you usually don’t celebrate losing a job by going shopping.”
“Actually, I have found there isn’t a lot in life that can’t be solved by a very good shopping trip.”
I roll my eyes.
“Can’t we at least go to lunch?”
“Fine, but not one of those expensive places where I’ll feel ashamed to be dressed in denim, okay?”
“Those jeans are awesome, Lilly. You have to make me another pair. Oh my goodness, they’re like my secret weapon. I love them!”
“I’m sure I’ll have the time on my hands now. I’ll see if there’s any denim left in the apartment.” We drive to a little hole-in-the-wall café that Morgan likes, and for the first time in a long time, I realize I am free. Granted, my rent is not, and a job search is imminent, but this is what faith is about, right? God will provide. He cares for the birds of the air;
how much more a daughter of the King with really bad hair?
chapter 8
I, Lilly Jacobs, have two desires in a husband. One, he must be Christian. Two, he’s got to be bald by age twenty-eight, because that is the only genetic combination I’m willing to consider, should I procreate. I will not put another generation through a lifetime with this hair. It’s in that freshly-straightened phase where it hangs around my face like a wet Afghan dog. So attractive.
I should be over it. I’ll grant you that. I’m almost thirty and I’m reliving junior high every day, but in the finance world it’s so important to conform. That’s where I got in the habit of straightening it. And like any addiction, now I’ve got to have it.
Kim walks up behind me in the only mirror we own. “It’s a wonder you have any hair left at all, the way you obsess over it.”
“I can fling it today!” I answer excitedly. I hold up my palms. “What else do I have to be excited about today?”
“My sister’s a hairdresser, and she says it’s better to have too much than not enough.”
“You have a sister?” I turn around and face Kim, and it dawns on me how little I really know about her. I inherited her as a roommate, and since our social circles don’t exactly collide, other than the occasional after-work get-together, we tend to keep a shallow relationship outside the office. I thought I knew everything about her by osmosis.
“A half-sister,” Kim corrects.
“Where are you going?” I ask, seeing she’s dressed in what you might call “hoochie festive” this time.
“I’ve got a date. Remember that guy I met in the bar? He called the wrong number, but he text-messaged me. I told him I lost my job,” Kim shrugs. “So we’re going walking out on Angel Island and then to dinner. Should be fun.”
“How are you going to hike in those boots?”
Kim looks down. “Oh yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“Jeans would be good,” I say, hoping to send a message like any teenager’s mother would.
“I’ll never wear denim again after that nightmare with Sara. Why can’t she just go out and buy a Mercedes convertible, like most disgruntled socialites? She has to put half her employees out of business?”
I’m still fixated on the miniskirt. “Aren’t you a little worried about Angel Island being too remote? You’ve only just met this guy, and it’s a tad isolated out there. What if you miss the last ferry coming back?”
“There’s a reason I don’t live with my mother.” Kim strips herself of her boots and miniskirt and searches for something more appropriate. It’s always amazing to watch her dress, because she’s colorblind, yet can match things perfectly because she’s learned to deal with it. Amazing testimony to the triumphant human spirit. If only she didn’t think “flesh” matches everything so well.
“So, does he have a job?” I ask, waiting for her to bite my head off.
“He does, Mom. He’s in sales.”
“Sales of what?”
“It’s complicated, he says. I’ll find out more on our walk.”
Lord, have mercy.
Back to daydreams of my future husband before I was so rudely interrupted by visions of Kim in her hiking mini. Nate has a friend, Michael Sloan, who’s trying to get back into the dating field after his divorce. Not bald, not Christian—not an option for life. But he’s available tonight and wanting to try out his gentlemanly manners and a trendy new restaurant. How wrong can it possibly go? Since I’m jobless, and an expensive (but free to me) meal is not completely unpalatable, I’m throwing caution to the wind and going anyway. It will expand my horizons, which isn’t too hard since I have no windows through which to have horizons. I go behind the screened partition to dress and pass Kim, now in capris and a halter top.
“Don’t worry. I’m putting a leather jacket over it.”
Yeah, that’ll help. “I didn’t say a thing!” I exclaim before opening my closet, an unfinished armoire from Ikea.
Kim’s watching the news when I come out.
“This guy’s actually picking you up? That’s a good sign.” I’m a little impressed. Kim never manages to meet men who think anything more than honking the horn is necessary.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks me.
“You don’t like it?” I’m fingering the light summer wool jacket I made for myself. It has big, boisterous buttons all the way down, is cut short at the waist, and I have a darling peasant shirt hanging out. Very cute!
Kim shrugs. “It just doesn’t really say anything. It looks like something you’d wear out with your dad.”
By this I’m guessing she means it doesn’t say, Here are my “attributes” for your perusal. “Well, Kim, how do you say, ‘I’m here for the free meal’? Maybe a necklace that says, ‘Feed Me’?”
“You are a designer. I just thought you might want to make a statement on your date out in the real world. It’s not like you have all that many, and if he’s taking you somewhere nice, someone might see the outfit.”
“Oh, right,” I say, sorry I snapped at her. “I like this jacket, and it’s not really a date. It’s more of a test-drive, really, and I could get a date if I wanted one. Need I remind you of Robert?” Was it not me who had the most recent boyfriend?
“Right. Big-spender Robert, who worried that if he went out, his wallet might explode on impact with air? That date?”
I purse my lips together. “You don’t have to get nasty about it.” I could tell her of hot, cute, straight-boy calling here in the middle of the night, but then I’d have to admit my getting rid of him. Well, I thought I’d gotten rid of him.
Kim rolls her eyes and flicks on the VCR. “Have you seen this Dr. 90210? Nate taped it for me.”
I look at the television to see them cutting into human flesh. “Eww, what is that?”
“It’s this plastic surgery show.”
“Can they do anything for hair?” I sit down next to her.
“Only if you’re losing it. Hair transplants. Saw it on Extreme Makeover.”
“See, that is so unfair. If you’re losing it, you can wear a wig, but if you have too much, there is no way to cut it that looks good without balding yourself. Layering makes it stick out farther, having it long makes you look like Shaggy on Scooby Doo. You either thermal recondition and straighten it to straw, or you live with it—and I’d like to have some curl.”
Kim focuses back on the TV. “This girl’s getting butt implants.” Kim points the remote at the TV.
“No way! They do not make butt implants.”
“Seriously. She wants to be like J.Lo.”
I think I’m going to be sick. “I told Sara the other day, when she was designing jeans with pockets, that no one wants a bigger backside. I hope she doesn’t see this.” I flinch at the sight of this poor girl on television. “That is disgusting. Can you imagine how that must hurt?” I’m squirming in my chair. Feeling my hair, I’m thankful I can sit for five hours in a salon and temporarily solve my problem without surgical additions or removals.
“She’s Hispanic. Says it’s important in her culture.”
“I’ll buy that she wants more bum, but cultural? This world is way too politically correct if we’re blaming weird plastic surgery on culture. Maybe we need a new culture.” As I’m watching, it dawns on me. “Kim, we could make jeans that solve her problem. This is a fashion dilemma, not a surgical dilemma. Just sew a little rubbery material in the right places and—”
“You really need a job, Lilly. This girl wants to be naked in a magazine,” Kim informs me. “Jeans aren’t going to take care of her problem.”
I hold my hands up. “Right. I’m really doubting she can blame that on the Hispanic culture.” I’m disgusted with the show and get up before I get sucked into seeing the end results. When I want to look at a girl’s “after” in that region, I’ve got more problems than I need.
The doorbell rings, and Kim and I stare at each other. “It must be for you, Lilly. My date isn’t d
ue for another half hour.”
“Please let him look like that guy on Alias,” I say out loud.
Kim opens the door, and behold: Michael Moore in a suit. She can barely contain her giggles. “Lilly, your date’s here!”
“Hi,” I say with way too much enthusiasm as I click off the obscene television show.
“Lilly,” he holds out flowers. “I brought you some lilies.”
Okay, nice gesture even though they represent DEATH in the Asian culture. I’ll let this one go. It is my name.
“Michael, it’s nice to meet you.” As soon as the name Michael is out of my mouth, Kim breaks into loud laughter again. The thing is, Robert sort of looked like a bald Michael Moore, so you might think this is my type.
“Are you ready?” Michael asks me without the hint of a smile.
“Oh yes, let me put these in water.” I grab a Big Gulp cup out of the cabinet and fill it with water, thinking this is probably not the best way to go about impressing a guy, putting his death flowers in a plastic tumbler. But my options are limited. This was nice of Nate, I keep trying to remember. I’m going to help Michael with his manners, and then say goodnight. No difficulties there. I am the Miss Manners of the dating world.
As we walk out the door, I know Kim will be on the phone immediately to Nate to tell him her impression of my date. I’m supposed to get back to Nate and give him a score on Michael and whether he’s ready to be back in the dating world again. Somehow, I like the power this affords me. It makes me forget there could be reciprocal scoring here.
We get to Michael’s car: a Buick LeSabre that any grandfather would be proud to own. It smells of leather, maneuvers the road like a barge, and boasts big dashboard numbers for those nearly blind consumers. It probably has its own zip code as well.
“We’re going to Entrée,” Michael says, in a voice that sounds lower than a limbo stick. He’s got to be making that voice up.
“How’d you manage to get a table there?” I ask, trying not to sound overly impressed. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve eaten a salad? One that wasn’t a few wilted pieces of iceberg drowning in the house dressing? I can feel my mouth salivating at the thought of a real meal, and at the same time hoping I don’t get used to it.
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