Emma Knows All
Page 5
"Okay, sure." Harriet was clearly trying to be brave about this again. "Sounds great."
"And ... that's a wrap." They collected their things and turned to go. Harriet lifted her hand and waved towards someone in the corner. The boy in the paint-stained clothes waved back, eagerly.
"That's Bobby," said Harriet. "He's a friend of mine. Not from work; he paints signs for the city ... he just came by for moral support." Bobby shot her a thumbs-up before going back to his open book — he was hunched over a graphic novel, Em realized, something with a comic book cover.
"He knows about this?" Em said.
"Oh, yeah. I had to tell someone. I couldn't tell anybody from work. Not yet —" she blushed, furiously, at this point, "— but I guess they'll find out. Eventually. I was just hoping it would be after I was kind of ... you know. Better."
That wasn't on film. Em was grateful for that. She felt herself softening as she laid her hand on Harriet's arm.
"I'm sure they would want to support you, if they're really your friends," said Em. "But, in the meantime, we'll be discreet when we're around them ... and we'll hope they're not fans of In the Moment's debate forum." She smiled with this last part, feeling sure there wasn't much danger of a youthful office crowd tuning in, unless they got wind of Harriet's involvement through her social media.
For the first time, a real smile almost appeared on Harriet Smith's face.
Harriet's apartment seemed like a classic setting for What Not to Wear, or, maybe, Plain Jane — Em had seen more than her share of reality makeover shows during cold and flu season. An unmade bed displaying a crowd of throw pillows and stuffed animals against its footboard, the garments packed in the closet all hand-me-downs from friends and relatives, Em suspected. An oversized green plaid button-down, a pair of worn leggings, jeans so baggy that both Harriet's legs could fit into one side alone.
"I'm so sorry about the mess," puffed Harriet, stuffing garments into drawers and collecting nappy wool pullovers and gym socks from the floor, hastily.
"I'm messy, too," said Em, with a conspiratorial smile. She wasn't, but it was better to comfort Harriet than worry about little details like that at the moment. Harriet stuffed a pair of worn sneakers and a pile of leotards under the bed, then yanked the rumpled comforter towards the headboard.
"That's better," she said, gasping for breath.
The cameraman was shooting the living and kitchen area combination, where Colin was studying Harriet's short row of photos. The dual room showcased secondhand furniture and posters of flowery fields and French cafes. The scant row of photos featured Harriet posing with coworkers at an office birthday party, an office Christmas party, and an office barbecue. A photo of Harriet with her cat, a photo of her and her mother at an amusement park.
"I just don't take many photos," said Harriet. The kitchen counter was stacked with pyramids of canned goods, the front burner occupied by a recently-washed saucepan.
"Do you cook?" asked Colin.
Em was tempted to ask him if that was the best way to a gentleman's heart, but refrained from it. Harriet's flustered look had returned when he spoke to her.
"No. I mean, I cook chili con carne sometimes, when friends come over. And my mom's cabbage soup. But I'm not what you'd call an experimental gourmet cook or anything."
"What hobbies do you have?" Colin set the photo of Harriet and a female coworker carefully in its place again.
"I used to knit. I made hats and scarves for people I knew...and I journal. I love journaling. And scrapbooking. Then there are mementoes that won't fit in books, so I make special memory boxes to keep them in. I use decoupage." She opened a narrow coat closet in the corner near the door, revealing a top shelf stacked to the ceiling with collage-covered shoeboxes.
"Mm. I see." He hadn't cracked a smile since entering the apartment.
Harriet now attempted to retrieve her cat, a wispy-tailed white long-hair mix that scurried off into the bedroom as she pursued it. Vic followed — maybe hoping to get a shot of the cat, giving it up to take stock footage of the tidy, less personal parts of the girl's room.
"I'm kind of a romantic," admitted Harriet, with a blush. "I just love the idea of Paris. And Valentine's Day. You know? I've always hoped the guy of my dreams would propose to me on that day in Paris. Near the Eiffel Tower. In the rain, maybe." The cameraman wasn't listening, busy taking a shot of the satin and velvet heart pillows piled on the windowsill of Harriet's bedroom. 'Only Yours' and 'True Love' embroidered on them, framed by the frilly lace border.
"You see what we're up against," muttered Colin. "It's the room of an eleven-year-old girl going on thirty. Miss Smith is due for a quarter-life crisis when she wakes up and realizes how far her real world is from her fantasies."
"Because she has stuffed animals?" Em answered, keeping her voice low. "And a few romantic notions about relationships? I hate to burst your bubble, but so do most women."
"What about this photo collection?"
He had her there. Harriet's smile was clearly the most sincere in all of these pictures, featuring the same small group of people. And it was a painfully, deliriously happy smile that seemed wildly out of place among those smirks, lip quirks, and limp grins. Even the cat had a feline frown.
"There's nothing wrong with her life per se," hissed Em. "She has a place of her own in a city teeming with possibilities for meeting people and pursuing new interests. Just because her life is small doesn't mean it has to be empty, pointless, or unhappy."
"But Miss Smith's is all three," he hissed back. "That, or she's mentally unbalanced."
"Is that your university degree making the judgment?" The snark in Em's voice didn't match the innocent look on her face. Colin's expression had only a breath of time to grow cold before Harriet reappeared.
"Um, guys, I have to go," she said. "I only took a half-day off from work ..."
"No. Great," said Em. "We'll come and see your workspace. Vic can get a quick shot of it for the video journal and we'll be on our way." She did not add the part about this being a discreet chance to observe Harriet in her element.
More stuffed animals with plushy hearts decorated the cubicle where Harriet worked. A 'Paris is Forever' pencil mug with the Eiffel Tower and a pink heart, an alien stress ball that was obviously an office gag gift. Harriet put her purse in her desk drawer as Vic dutifully took a few footage shots of these items.
"Okay ... so I guess this is it for now? Or do you guys have some more questions?" She glanced from Em to Colin, then back again, quickly. Obviously, she wasn't ready to tell her coworkers about them — Em wondered if it was because she hoped her workplace crush would notice the 'new her' first.
"Not now." Colin closed the folder he had been perusing. "We'll be seeing you again —"
"Wednesday," supplied Vic.
"On Wednesday. And we'll begin helping you evaluate your life circumstances."
"We'll be helping you find the real problem, Harriet," said Em. "And helping you work towards fixing it so you can have the best life possible."
Harriet looked less confused after this reply. "Sounds great," she said. "I should go." She grabbed a memo off her desk and hurried away. Em saw her talking, briefly, to a young, blond man from one of the photos, and a dark-haired girl with a loud laugh. She wondered what Harriet was telling them about her three visitors, only one of whom was in business clothes.
"That's it for me," said Vic. "See you two docs next Wednesday noon at her place." With a grin, he pocketed his camera and walked away. Em half-expected Doctor Colin Ferris to correct the obvious error of her title, but he didn't.
Outside the building, Colin descended the steps at a swift pace, hands in his pockets. "To help Miss Smith —"
"Harriet," supplanted Em.
"Harriet. Forgive me. To achieve the outcome the producer so desires, we'll have to change her demeanor completely, you realize. The metaphorical equivalent of a personality transplant, with the amount of time we've been given."
"Listen. You know the psychology of her potential dates, right?" Em continued. "The psychology of the modern, romantically-inclined male, which ones are candidates, which ones are players — and what they need to see in Harriet to like her. Who better to go on a date with Harriet than a chivalrous gentleman you've helped select?"
Maybe this honeyed compliment soothed him to silence. "As for me," Em added, "I'll do what I do best."
"Which would be the role of the soothing voice which tells her all will be well, I gather?"
"Yes," conceded Em. "And helps her realize that being the girl next door doesn't mean being desperate and clingy, or being the constant hanger-on in the social group."
"That's a great deal to cover in six weeks," said Colin. "You'll have decimated her world and half her friendships by then, in this quest to get her a single date. We'll likely do more harm than good."
"It's not as destructive as you make it sound," said Em. "But at the end of six weeks, we will agree on enough helpful maneuvers to help Harriet Smith as a person and as a potential girlfriend."
"I can hardly agree with the methods this project will demand," answered Colin. "But there's nothing better I can suggest for the moment, so we'll have to bite the bullet and go through with your suggestion."
"I'm so glad you surrendered this gracefully," answered Em, sarcastically. "I was afraid you might be rude about resisting this whole project after you signed on."
"What other choice do I have?" he asked. "But it's against my every professional fiber to do this, you realize."
"You'll have the chance to air that grievance at our first debate," Em replied. "Along with many more, I'm sure."
Chapter Five
"Oh, Emmy, we are all in an uproar here! Where have you been?! Why haven't you returned my calls?"
Em's phone had rung at six in the morning, buzzing gently across her nightstand. Her hand had crawled from beneath the blanket and snapped it up, answering it before she had time to read the number on the screen. An evident mistake.
"I've been busy at work, Mama. What's the emergency?"
"What's the emergency? Your sister Jane is unemployed, Emmy! She's lost her job, and now she's likely to lose her place and end up here again! What on earth are we going to do?"
"Mama, Jane has lost her job before. She'll be fine." Em's older sister had unfortunate employment luck, it would seem. Nevertheless, she trusted Jane's resilience more than her mother's fears.
"But she's almost thirty-two, Emmy! Who's going to hire her? She's far too old for this sort of thing to happen to her anymore."
"Mother —"
"And there's not a sign of a boyfriend to rescue her by marriage, of course. Now she'll end up some haggard old maid that no man will want. Jane's got such a fragile side, she's liable to fall about in the end."
"I think that's hardly likely. Besides, I've been single for more of my life than Jane, and I'm not losing my mind."
"It's your own fault that it's taken you so long to find someone," her mother snapped. "It's your personality, Emmy — it puts men off."
Em wanted to retort that Frank didn't find her off-putting, but held her tongue. When she first began seeing him, Em's mother had told her that Frank was too good-looking for her.
"Jane doesn't have that, although it hardly matters. She's unemployed straightaway while your bosses overlook your flaws. And what are we to do, Emmy? What will happen to your sisters?"
So Jane had been helping them with the bills again. Did her father know about this? Em released a long sigh.
"They'll be fine," said Em. "Mary still has her scholarship, and she's not likely to lose it, is she?" Her younger sister Mary hardly had her nose out of a book, a somber, frog-voiced teenager with a love for libraries last time Em had been home, now a Philosophy and Religion major at a state college.
"What if she gives up school to get a job and support us all? Think of Lydia, who's not even in college yet — and Kit might as well forget about it. She'll probably have to take a job at the grocery store, like as not, to help pay the bills."
"Why Kit?" asked Emmy. Kit was a high-school senior who was supposed to start her freshmen year at the local college, an event for which her parents had actually saved a modest amount of money for tuition. "Why can't Lydia get a part-time job? It's not as if she has any extracurricular activities in high school — unless you count boy-watching at the football field as a sport."
"Why are you so hard on your sister? She's much more popular with her classmates than Mary ever was, or even Kit. It wouldn't be fair to steal the last of her childhood before she's off to some distant college where we'll never see her. Besides, it does Kit more good to get a job. It will teach her a few lessons in responsibility before she goes off into the world."
Her mother defended Lydia in everything, no matter what the accusation, which explained why Em's youngest sister was spoiled, wild, and completely immature. Even the all-night party incident hadn't put a dent in her mother's pride for Lydia's so-called 'popularity.'
"Be that as it may..." began Em.
"Not that it will do Kit any good to learn responsibility if she's stuck here working to cover the next doctor's bill! Do you realize the high cost of medicine, Emmy? We've had a bill for four hundred dollars for my prescriptions alone! And there's your father, always letting them give him some newfangled drug for his heart, when all he needs is exercise! It's my nerves that can't be helped, Emmy. My blood pressure and chronic fatigue that make do with the bare minimum in treatment. Not that I'm complaining, since I'm used to suffering in silence..."
"Mama. Mother. Listen. I will send something to help you both, all right?"
"Send something? Certainly. Of course. That's all you ever think of doing, sending something, when you know that Jane will probably be on our doorstep tomorrow with all her belongings and no money of her own, and us barely able to cover the electricity bill with your father's latest check —"
"Put Papa on the phone, Mama. Please."
"What good will it do to speak to him?"
"Please, just let me talk to him."
A moment later, her father's dry, gravelly voice was on the line. "I'm sure she's given you an earful, Emmy. It's not so bad as that."
"It's the usual, I take it?"
"In a nutshell. Don't worry, I won't let Kit spend her freshman college year working eight hour days at the A&P market, and I won't let Jane starve."
"I know, Papa." Em smiled. "It's all right. Just look after yourself."
"I always do."
Her father's generous early retirement package from his financial firm ought to be substantial enough for the Benton family, but Em's mother had a tendency to spend it on everything but the essentials. Her mother's indulgence was compulsive shopping, whereas Em's father tended to indulge his poor health, making doctor's appointments and weekly runs to the drugstore. Em was no longer sure if it was prompted by her father's heart condition — which was the reason for his early retirement — or if his constant health fears were merely an excuse to get out of the house.
She made a mental note to send a check to her mother this week. She would call it a present, in order to pacify her father.
Em threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Switching on the bathroom light, she saw her reflection in the mirror — messy, dark hair, dark pink lips, a lavender cami and drawstring pajama bottoms — before turning on the tap and plunging cold water over her face.
She was the opposite of her sister Jane, who was a tall, leggy blond with graceful curves and an easygoing nature. Em was shorter, darker, and with a little bit of temper which their mother never failed to find whenever she called. Whenever Em went home, she could still hear the squabbles from her adolescent years, echoing in the halls of her family's
once-spacious-and-attractive, now in-need-of-paint-and-redecorating home. Now, however those voices belonged to her adolescent sisters, who were keeping alive the battlefield tradition of the Benton household.
When Em was dressed, she carried her coffee onto the short patio behind her rented house. This was the luxury her show's success had produced — a lawn instead of a window box, albeit a plain square of green compared to her neighbor's.
He was outside early this morning. George Knightly was a passionate fan of roses, spending hours cultivating them in great hedges and tangled vines across their dividing fence and his lawn's borders. She and George had become good friends over the past year. Good enough to loan each other books, recommend restaurant dishes, and say honest things that only friends can say to each other.
"Your mother phoned this morning," he said. He glanced up once from shearing through his hedge's overgrowth — Em could hear the snip, snip of his shears.
"How did you know?" she asked, amazed.
"Because that's the only time you come outside with your coffee. You're trying to tell yourself that you've accomplished something by looking at your little piece of Paradise. That you've built something out of your life, regardless of what others think."
"You should really be a psychologist," she said. "You have an amazing talent for reading people."
"I'd rather be a lie detector," he answered. "Imagine all the fun secrets you'd find out." He paused, resting one hand on the fence's picket edge. "So what's the matter?"
"With my family? Or my life? Because they're both just peachy, thank you." She took a sip from her coffee. "No need to complain."
"I heard about your upcoming face-off with the author of Relationship Realities."
"How?"
"I watch In the Moment."
"Oh. Well, don't congratulate me. As debate opponents go, he's a little mean."
"You should be fine. You're a little mean yourself. I've seen the vicious way you treat lawn weeds."