Slightly Single

by Wendy Markham

  “Oh, Billy. He’s nice.”

  Her disappointed, expectant expression says, Is that all? So I try to come up with a new adjective. Something other than arrogant.

  “Cute, too.” I am nothing if not articulate. “Very cute.”

  “Yeah, he is cute,” Kate agrees readily.

  “What’s up with you and him?”

  “How did you know something is up with us?”

  “Because I’m psychic, why else?”

  She smirks.

  “So what’s happening with you guys, Kate?”

  “We hooked up last night. We all went out to this club, and…well, you know. Not that there was any privacy when we got back here. We’re all three to a bedroom, and there are twelve people staying here—thirteen, including you. So, you know, things didn’t really…advance,” she says demurely.

  “Meaning, you didn’t have sex.”

  “Of course not! I just met him, Tracey.” Her Southern accent is more pronounced than usual, which is what always happens when she’s doing her best to act offended and ladylike.

  I happen to know she bedded her last fling—a Boston blueblood visiting New York en route to grad school on the West Coast—the night she met him at a happy hour at some wine bar in the East Forties.

  But hey, if she’s in the mood to reclaim her virtue, who am I to burst her bubble?

  “How do you like it out here?” I ask her as she shows me the way up a flight of stairs and down a hall to the room we’ll be sharing with two other women. I’m dragging my bag up step by step. Thump, thump, thump. It weighs a ton.

  “I love it out here. It’s great,” Kate says, and stops to look down over her shoulder at me. “What do you have in there? Bricks?”

  “Just some shorts and a bathing suit,” I tell her innocently.

  Actually, I also brought several potential outfits for tonight, not knowing what people wear to clubs in the Hamptons and hoping skimpy isn’t in. I don’t do skimpy.

  Plus—just in case I somehow finish The Grapes of Wrath—there’s that hardcover edition of The Great Gatsby. Yeah, it’s set on the North Shore rather than in the Hamptons, but it seemed a logical literary choice for a Long Island weekend.

  Makeup, sunscreen, shampoo, conditioner and a hair dryer.

  Sneakers, sandals and two pairs of black flats, one dressy, one not.

  Oh, and a six-pack of Diet Raspberry Snapple Iced Tea, just in case there’s none at hand and I’m tempted to indulge in something more caloric.

  “Next summer I want to do a full share,” Kate says as we head down the hall past several closed doors. “I can’t believe I can’t come out here every weekend. But we’re all trying to work it out so that some of us can come out on our off-weekends if we don’t mind sleeping on the floor in the living room.”

  “You? Sleep on a floor?”

  “I know, it doesn’t sound very comfy, does it?” She bobs a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. “But Billy has a full share, which means he gets a bed every weekend, so you never know, Tracey.”

  “But Kate, y’all just met!” I do a perfect imitation of her drawl.

  “Yeah, but we’ve got the whole summer ahead of us, if you know what I mean.” She grins and opens the door to our room.

  The two twin beds are unmade. The queen-size one is neatly made up, and I recognize the pink-and-green flower-sprigged Laura Ashley comforter on it.

  “That has to be yours, Kate,” I say, going over and sitting on the edge. “I didn’t realize you had to bring your own bedding.”

  “You don’t, but I can’t sleep without my comforter.”

  “So you’re dragging it back and forth every weekend?”

  “Every other weekend,” she amends, “but no, I’m not. I bought a new one for my apartment.”

  This strikes me as incredibly indulgent. So typical of Kate. “So what are you going to do with identical comforters after the summer?” I ask her.

  “I’ll give one of them to you,” she offers.

  “That’s okay. My futon isn’t queen-size.”

  “By then maybe you’ll have a big-girl bed,” she says in a mock-Mommy tone.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  What she doesn’t know is that by then, I’ll be moving into a new place with Will.

  Okay, it’s not as though my heart is set on it, but let’s face it, that’s the logical next step. I mean, how long can a level-headed, committed couple live in two separate studio apartments, me in a borderline dangerous neighborhood and he with a borderline dangerous—if only in the temptress sense—roommate?

  “The bathroom is in there,” Kate says, nodding toward an adjoining door. “Why don’t you get changed, and we’ll go down to the beach?”

  The moment of truth.

  I knew it was coming, yet now that it’s here, I feel as caught off guard as I would if she’d just told me I’m going to be driving the getaway car while she knocks over a bank.

  But the sun is shining and the ocean is yards away, and all I can say is, “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

  After all, I’ve lost five pounds. Maybe it won’t be so bad—me in a bathing suit, I mean.

  Kate goes over to stand in front of the mirror on the back of the closet door, unfastens her ponytail, and starts brushing her hair.

  I start lugging my boulder-filled bag toward the bathroom door.

  “Why don’t you just grab your suit out of there?” Kate asks around the bobby pins sticking out of her mouth.

  “Oh, I need to dig for it—it’s buried. Plus I need to find my cover-up.”

  Cover-up.

  Only a painter’s drop cloth will do, and unfortunately, I’ve brought along everything but.

  The closest I can come is an oversize T-shirt in a weathered khaki green that looked flattering when I bought it at Eddie Bauer last summer, but now—at least in the yellowish light above the sink in the windowless bathroom—makes me look even more washed-out and pale than I really am.

  But at least it hides my bathing suit, a hideous black getup designed for “full figures,” with a bold purple vee down the stomach, supposedly an optical illusion to slim the waist. The high-cut legs are supposed to do the same thing for my thighs. How, I have no idea, since common logic says that if you want to camouflage something, you show less of it, not more. My thighs are fully bared in all their dimpled glory, sagging below my gut that seems to defy confinement in this delightfully girdle-like memory fabric, or whatever the salesgirl called it way back when I bought it.

  There’s no full-length mirror in the bathroom, which I’m not sure whether to consider a blessing or a curse. I have no idea how I look in this thing.

  Actually, I have an idea. Hence, the tent-like green T-shirt. I throw on a pair of shorts for good measure, along with the only pair of sandals I own: black Teyvas that seem like they’d be more at home on a desert trek than in this chi-chi beach community.

  I emerge from the bathroom to find Kate standing there waiting for me in a cute little terry-cloth cover-up. Her bare legs and feet are evenly “tanned,” and her toenails are polished in a pink that perfectly matches her new bikini. She’s Southern California perfect: blond and toned and pretty, from the tousled, sun-streaked hair she’s casually pinned on top of her head to the gold ankle bracelet she’s fastened around one slender ankle.

  It’s the ankle bracelet that gets me.

  It’s so slinky/sexy—so right on Kate. And Kate is so right in that outfit, in this place.

  My first thought is that I would give anything to be her.

  My second thought is, Thank God Will isn’t here.

  I wouldn’t want him to see me looking like this.

  Nor would I want him to see Kate looking like that.

  The funny thing is, Kate doesn’t even find him attractive, and Lord knows she would never do anything about it if she did.

  But there’s no question in my mind that Will would find this scantily clad, beach bunny Kate attractive. Any red-blooded man would. Nex
t to her, I’m woefully inadequate.

  The last bit of lingering pride over my five-pound weight loss trickles out of me, replaced by utter despair.

  “All set?” Kate asks sunnily, picking up a straw beach bag that’s as right as her outfit and her—well, her self.

  It’s hard not to hate her right now; it really is.

  It’s harder still not to hate myself.

  We grab a couple of folding sand chairs from the deck. As we make our way down the sandy path toward the wide expanse of beach, I remind myself that I’m already making progress toward my goal. That by this time next year, I, too, will be a goddess.

  But it doesn’t help.

  For one thing, I’m not convinced I can successfully diet and exercise my way down to true goddess status.

  For another, I want to look good now…not next year, or even next fall, or next month.

  “There’s everyone,” Kate says, pointing to a cluster of people straight ahead.

  “Everyone?”

  “My housemates. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  There’s nothing for me to do but walk over to the half-dozen or so people who are just as attractive as Kate. Well, not all of them. There’s one weasly-looking guy, Kenny, with glasses, kinky black hair and a knobby body. But he’s sharing a blanket with Shelby, a gorgeous redhead who turns out to be his girlfriend—and Kenny turns out to be filthy rich.

  He’s not staying in the beach house; he’s staying at his parents’ place in South Hampton. So is Shelby. But they’re here for the day visiting Lucy and Amelia, friends of Shelby’s. Lucy lives in Kate’s building, which is how Kate hooked up with this crowd in the first place.

  Lucy is as pretty and skinny as Kate and Shelby, but I’m relieved to see that Amelia looks like she’s consumed her share of chips and beer—both of which are in her hands as she lounges in a sand chair, not looking the least bit uncomfortable to have her cellulite on full display in front of these bathing beauties and Chad and Ray, the two hottie guy roommates who are basically drooling over everyone but me and Amelia.

  I sit on my sand chair facing the water, keeping my knees bent because my upper thighs don’t seem to look quite as flabby that way. I refuse to take off my T-shirt, telling everyone that I forgot my sunscreen and I don’t want to risk a burn.

  “You can use mine,” Kate offers graciously, tossing me a bottle of Clinique SPF 30.

  “I’m actually allergic to this,” I tell her.

  “Nobody’s allergic to Clinique, Tracey.”

  Uh-oh. Really?

  “I am,” I lie. “I have to use special sunscreen. My dermatologist prescribes it. I have ultra-sensitive skin.”

  “So do I,” Kate says, frowning. “I never heard of—”

  “Really, Kate, I’m fine,” I say, shooting her a look.

  Maybe she gets it then, because she shuts up.

  For a while, we all sit there and talk and drink beer, and I’m much more relaxed. But the sun is directly overhead now, and I’m sweating profusely in my T-shirt.

  Billy shows up with a cooler, and a couple of other guys, Randy and Wade. Once he’s there, Kate pretty much abandons me. I’d be irritated if it weren’t for Amelia, who turns out to be friendly and not the least bit snobby, unlike Lucy and the others.

  I marvel at how she can sit there in her bright yellow one-piece, a good forty pounds overweight, and not seem the least bit self-conscious about how she looks or what she eats. She downs half a can of Pringles—the full-fat kind—and at least three beers.

  She also admits that she can’t swim, for which I’m grateful, because I don’t have to sit here by myself when everybody else goes into the water.

  “Can’t you swim, either?” she asks me, rubbing coconut-scented lotion on her chubby, freckled arms.

  “Not very well,” I lie. “Besides, the water’s too cold at this time of year.” I wipe a trickle of sweat from my hairline.

  “It doesn’t seem to bother them,” she says, motioning at the splashing group out in the water. I hear Kate shriek as Billy tries to dunk her under.

  I decide I don’t like him. He’s too cocky.

  “He’s such an ass,” Amelia says, and I think she’s talking about Billy until I see her pointing at Wade.

  “Really? What’s up with him?” I glance at the square-jawed dark-haired guy who’s good-looking but shorter than me. He seemed really quiet while he was sitting here.

  “He’s a user. When he gets drunk, he’s all over anything that moves. I stupidly fell for his big act last summer, but I won’t do that again. Stay away from him, Tracey. Trust me.”

  “Oh, I have a boyfriend,” I tell her.

  “Really?”

  I tell her about Will.

  “I went out with an actor, once,” she says. “Actually, we’re still friends.”

  “How long ago did you break up?”

  “Three years ago. We were in college. He realized he was gay. Now he and his lover live two blocks away from me, and we all hang out.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. It sounds awful.

  I try to imagine me and Will broken up yet still hanging out. There’s no way. Especially not if he had another lover—even a male one.

  Not that there’s the slightest chance Will is gay, no matter what Kate suspects.

  “He’s always trying to fix me up,” Amelia goes on. “But I keep telling him, I don’t want to go out with any more actors. They’re all too self-absorbed—I mean, not all of them,” she adds hastily, for my benefit, “but the ones I’ve met have been. I’m sure your boyfriend isn’t….”

  “No, he’s not self-absorbed,” I assure her.

  But the truth is, he is.

  It’s not as if I’ve never noticed before.

  But I find myself suddenly angry at Will, noticing how many times it’s all had to be about him. How it’s never about me.

  Whose fault is that? a tiny voice asks in my head.

  I’m the one who puts up with Will’s ego. I’m the one who never demands anything for myself. Why?

  Because everyone has their faults.

  And because I love him.

  What’s wrong with that?

  “Are you okay?” Amelia asks, and I turn to see her watching me. “You look like you’re suddenly upset about something.”

  “It’s just…my boyfriend. I miss him. That’s all.”

  “Maybe you can visit him.”

  “I’m definitely planning on it.”

  But suddenly, I’m not at all anxious to see Will in his new environment. I don’t want to see the cast house and meet Esme and see how much fun he’s having without me.

  I just want him back in New York, where he belongs. I want everything to be back to normal.

  It’s only been a week since he left.

  How am I going to survive eleven more?

  Ten

  “Tracey, it’s nice to see you again,” Milos says, meeting me in the reception area of his brownstone apartment that doubles as headquarters for his catering business, Eat Drink Or Be Married.

  I’ve only met him once, when I stopped by with Will, who had to pick up a paycheck. But Milos clasps both my hands in his, as though we’re old friends.

  He’s a tiny man. Basically, I dwarf him. Yet there’s a commanding sense about him anyway; a charisma and confidence that manage to impress but not intimidate me.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back right away. I was out on Long Island all weekend, and I didn’t get your message until Sunday night.”

  “It’s all right. I appreciate your coming over to meet with me,” he says in his Slavic accent. “I know you’re on your lunch hour, so let’s get down to business right away. Will says you’re an experienced waitress.”

  I nod, hoping I don’t have to go into detail.

  “Have you ever French-served?”

  Huh?

  “No,” I tell him.

  At least, I don’t think I’ve ever French-served. Who knows what
that even means?

  He raises one dark eyebrow. “Have you ever worked for a caterer before?”

  “No, I actually…I worked in a restaurant.”

  “Here in the city?”

  “Back in my hometown. But I’m a fast learner. I’m sure I can catch on.”

  He looks reluctant, but he nods. “I’m short-handed. Will said you might be able to fill in. I’m doing a cocktail party Tuesday night on Central Park South…can you make it?”

  Tuesday? That’s tomorrow. I’m still exhausted from my weekend in the Hamptons—too much drinking and dancing, and only an hour and a half of sleep, not counting my snooze on the Jitney on the way home yesterday afternoon.

  But I can go to bed early tonight to catch up, and I can definitely use the money, considering what I spent over the weekend.

  I ask Milos, “What time do you need me? I usually don’t get out of work until—”

  “If you can be there at seven so that I can have somebody show you what to do, it would be good. We’ll be there doing setup.”

  “Seven is fine.”

  “Good. The party starts at nine.”

  Nine? That means I won’t get home until late, and I have to get up for work Wednesday morning.

  “Basically, all you’ll be doing for this event is circulating trays of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres,” Milos tells me.

  Oh, so that’s what he meant by French-serve. I can do that.

  “You’ll learn to French-serve before I need you to do a formal affair, like a wedding,” Milos informs me.

  Formal affair? Wedding? Clearly, he has big plans for me. Clearly, French serving has nothing to do with passing hors d’oeuvres.

  “I’ll have you take our three-hour training course at some point in the near future,” Milos promises, “but for now, you’ll wing it. It won’t be hard. We’re in the midst of a ragout craze.”

  I nod.

  “Any questions?”

  I shake my head no. What the hell is a ragout craze?

  “Okay. Good. Now it’s back to my croquembouche.”

  Mental note: Ask Will ASAP what the hell Milos is talking about.

  Five minutes later, I’m on my way back to my office with a pale-gray Nehru jacket tucked under my arm. That’s the top half of my catering uniform. Milos said I should wear black slacks and flat black shoes with it. At least my lower half will be in slimming black.