Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  My parents had married two days after Christmas, filled with the notion that their love was the greatest gift they could give one another. “Oh, don’t worry about me,” I said immediately. “I can always go to Angie’s for Christmas.”

  “Are you sure, Grace?” my mother said.

  “Of course I’m sure,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”

  And in that moment, I was sure I would be. In fact, I was almost relieved not to have to hike to New Mexico for the holidays this year. I love Christmas in Manhattan. And Christmas with Angie’s family was almost as good as Christmas with my own.

  Yes, I would be just fine. I always was, wasn’t I? And besides, I thought, my hand coming to rest on the swell of my stomach. I might not be so alone after all….

  7

  “I’ve got plenty of time to daydream and I’d rather daydream than do anything in the world.”

  —Jane Russell

  Some might say I had sunk into a world of fantasy. Perhaps I had, seeing as I felt no need to seek out the truth of my physical condition, which some voice sounding annoyingly like Shelley’s told me I should do. Instead, I chose solitude, wearing it like a protective shell. I spent Friday night alone and was quite content to do so. I didn’t even need vegetables to chop or bills to pay. Not even Malakai’s inquiries after my absent boy du jour could distill the comfort I had found in being alone.

  Because I no longer felt alone.

  And whether this child I was convinced grew inside me was a fantasy or not, it was something I wanted—needed—to cling to for the moment.

  So I clung, curling up on the couch in my fluffiest robe with a salty box of Chinese takeout and settling in to watch an even saltier woman. Mae West in I’m No Angel, which I stumbled across while channel surfing.

  I didn’t bother to answer the phone, letting the machine pick up instead. Claudia called first, probably looking for some affirmation that Laurence Bennett—who had followed up our meeting with a full-blown proposal for the new campaign coupled with a vague promise of cocktails—found her just as desirable as she had found him. There were also a few hang-ups, which I would normally attribute to the ex, in this case, Ethan, but I had no need to imagine desire where there wasn’t desire. One message was from Angie—and I almost picked up, as she sounded kind of desperate. But since she went on to assure me that nothing was wrong, I decided it was just Angie’s usual drama. Whatever she had to tell me could wait.

  So I waited, going to bed early and rolling into a lazy Saturday morning. I ignored the paperwork I’d dragged home, barely even glanced at the newspaper after plucking it up from my doormat. Instead, I indulged in a hearty bowl of fruit and yogurt, then took a long, hot shower, feeling for the first time in ages, a certain comfort in my skin.

  I no longer felt compelled to do anything—strive, socialize, mate. It was as if some great pressure had been lifted.

  I discovered, that very afternoon, where that sudden release of pressure had come from.

  My period.

  Never had I felt such a rush of pure disappointment. But as I let out a long sigh, I realized deep down I had been expecting it along. Did I really think I was going to get what I wanted simply because I desired it?

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” Angie complained when I finally did pick up the phone on Sunday night.

  I started to make up some plausible excuse when she cut me off.

  “Listen, I was gonna invite you over for drinks to tell you, but now it’s Sunday night and I know you have work tomorrow, and Justin and I are getting up early to scout out a location. I’m not even sure we’re going to be able to get to use it for the movie. God only knows why we have to get there at six—”

  “Angie, what’s up?” I asked. I knew whenever she started to babble like she was right now, something was up.

  She paused, then, as if finding no other way to frame it, she said, “Gracie, Friday night, Justin—that is, we’re engaged!”

  My stomach dipped and tears rushed to my eyes. “Oh, God, Angie…that’s—that’s wonderful. Congratulations!” I exclaimed, and despite my joy for her, I felt myself over-compensating. “Wow, I almost can’t believe it. I mean, not that I can’t believe it—” I stopped short, not understanding what I was feeling but suddenly flooded with a throat-clogging emotion. My God. Angie was getting married. The girl I had shared everything with since the age of twelve was going to share her life with someone else….

  “I can’t believe it either, Grace. I mean, I knew Justin and I would always be together, but now he decides to get engaged? We’re going to start shooting in April!”

  But she put whatever anxiety this clearly had produced in her aside as she proceeded to explain how he had proposed. “We’re at the movies on Friday night—we went to see the new Nicole Kidman movie. Which was excellent, by the way….”

  I had to bite back a smile as the expected movie review came. As she was just about to comment on the art direction, I said, “Angie, the engagement? What happened next?”

  “Right. Okay, so we’re walking out of the theater—you know, the AMC theater on 42nd Street? Anyway, I’m heading for the escalator down when Justin starts tugging me toward the escalator up and I don’t know what he’s doing but you know how he loves exploring buildings, so we go up to one of the top floors—you know how big that theater is, right? And then he’s dragging me through these doors outside that I’ve never seen before and I’m a little nervous, you know, because no one up is up there, but he’s looking around like we’re about to get in trouble and I realize this is because we probably aren’t supposed to be using these doors, and suddenly we’re standing on some kind of balcony. It overlooked 42nd Street and we could see the lights of Times Square in the distance and it was so beautiful. Except I don’t think we’re supposed to be out there, and I turn around to tell Justin this and suddenly I don’t see him. I mean, I do see him, but he’s no longer eye level. He’s on one knee and suddenly he’s taking my hand in his—” She broke off on a sob.

  “Why are you crying?” I said, concerned.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Gracie. It’s just that…it was like everything I ever dreamed of was suddenly happening. Like, out of nowhere. I mean I had no idea.”

  I smiled. It wasn’t exactly out of nowhere. She and Justin had known each other for five years and lived together for most of them. It was true that they hadn’t technically become a couple until a little over a year ago, but by the time of their first kiss, I imagined, they were already in love and hadn’t even realized it.

  “You should have seen my mother when we told her the news,” Angie continued once she got control over her emotions once more. “We went out to Brooklyn this afternoon as usual,” she said, referring to the weekly four-course meal her mother served up for the family on Sunday and which Angie now went to on a fairly regular basis, probably because she wouldn’t deny Justin a taste of her mother’s fabulous red sauce. “Justin was gonna wait until he had a chance to crack open the bottle of champagne we brought with us to tell them, but it was like my mother had some kind of crazy radar on. She spotted the ring from the second I stepped into the kitchen. Next thing you know, she’s crying and laughing and she and my grandmother—hell, everyone—was suddenly hugging us and screaming. It was a nuthouse.”

  I smiled, remembering that nuthouse well.

  “One glass of champagne later and my mother is really crying,” Angie continued. “She starts talking about my dad, how she wished he had lived to see his only daughter get married….”

  A tremor moved through me at her words, and I felt a sense of loss I couldn’t define.

  “But she got over it the minute Sonny and Vanessa showed up with my adorable goddaughter….”

  Sonny was Angie’s older brother—and one of my first boyfriends. He was married now to Vanessa, and they had just had their first baby girl a year ago. Sonny always had been a wiseass. Which was probably why our preteen romance had ended amicably. It was hard to get broken
up over a boy who kept you chronically breaking up with laughter. Or maybe it was because I hadn’t truly lost anything when I lost Sonny as a boyfriend. After all, I had gained a best friend—and her family.

  “Anyway, now my mother is already starting to talk about the wedding. Justin and I haven’t even set the date yet, and all of a sudden she’s putting together this list, and it’s getting bigger by the minute. I mean, I always knew my family was big, but she’s pulling relatives I never heard of out of the woodwork. Did you know I have a cousin Mildred in Staten Island? Anyway, it’s insanity! My mother was up to 150 people by the time we left, and that’s not even including Justin’s family….”

  I had nothing to say to all this. Because I suddenly realized the true source of the sadness that had pierced me the moment she told me her happy news.

  While Angie’s family was growing larger, the little family I had suddenly seemed to be fading away….

  I came to work the next morning a bit later than usual, feeling a sluggishness in my bones that made dragging myself out of bed difficult, and found a bottle of Dom Perignon on my desk.

  Not feeling particularly jubilant—and somewhat wary of whatever joyful news would be heaped on me today—I paused in the doorway. Turning to Lori, who was already busy at her desk, I asked, “What’s with the champagne?”

  “Dianne sent it over for everyone in Marketing,” Lori replied cheerfully. “Well, you and Claudia, at least,” she continued. “Apparently, Mimi Blaustein called Dianne on Friday, and Irina’s going to sign on with us for the new campaign.”

  Well, at least someone was getting what they wanted, I thought, heading into to my office. I studied the fancy label, remembered the last time I had had Dom (with Michael, on the beach). Then, as if I could will that memory away, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and was about to tuck it into my bottom drawer when Claudia showed up in my doorway.

  “I guess you heard the news,” she said, smiling crisply at me.

  “Yes, I did. That’s fabulous, Claudia. Congratulations,” I replied, my tone belying my enthusiasm.

  Not that Claudia noticed. “Don’t open it,” she said, as if that had been my intention. “She hasn’t signed the contract yet. In fact, Dianne is personally giving Mimi and her insufferable client a tour of the Long Island compound this week. Something about Irina being some kind of animal activist and wanting assurances that our facilities are on the up and up.” She rolled her eyes. “But by the look of things, we should have a contract as early as next week. In fact, we’re planning a reception for Irina here as soon as a deal is signed, to welcome her into the Dubrow family.” Another roll of the eyes, followed by a somewhat gleeful smile. “Oh, fuck it. Let’s open it.”

  I glanced at the clock on my desk. “Claudia, it’s barely 10:00 a.m.”

  “Oh, come on, Grace. Don’t be such a party poop.”

  Yes, Claudia Stewart, my supremely sophisticated boss, actually said “poop.”

  My antennae went up. Even more so when she disappeared, only to return moments later with two champagne flutes in her hands and a smile on her face that looked positively…merry. Well, for Claudia, that is. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the sight of Lori, who had been looking just as curious as I was about Claudia’s sudden uplift in spirits.

  I mean, yeah, I was sure she was relieved to have the talent practically secured for the new campaign, but it had been clear from the start that Claudia despised everything the nineteen-year-old supermodel stood for. Surely it couldn’t be Irina who brought the glow to her eyes….

  As it turned out, I was right.

  “So I reviewed Larry’s proposal.”

  “Oh, Larry, is it?” I asked, remembering how a week earlier, Claudia had been railing against the very same Laurence Bennett, who had yet to follow up on his promise of drinks with her, though his assistant had already called two times to see if we’d had a chance to look at his bid to win the Roxy D campaign.

  She ignored my implication, focusing instead on the wire at the neck of the bottle as she carefully twisted it off. “His ideas are very good. In fact, we’re having drinks on Wednesday to discuss them further.”

  “Is that right?” I said, studying her features, which were now slightly flushed. I had a feeling that flush had little to do with the exertion she was now putting into opening that bottle. “So he finally called?”

  “Actually, I called him,” she said, freeing the bottle of the wire. “You know, to talk to him about the proposal, of course,” she added quickly, as if she feared she might look like she was chasing after the man.

  “Oh, of course,” I said, studying her.

  “Anyway, we got to talking, and I told him I was passing his proposal on to Dianne for a look, and one thing led to another and he suggested we meet for drinks.”

  I stared back at her, understanding suddenly just how Laurence Bennett was about to win probably the biggest ad campaign—at least in terms of budget dollars allotted—from the usually formidable VP of Marketing at Roxanne Dubrow.

  He had hit Claudia right where she was most vulnerable. Her feminine ego.

  “Claudia, you do realize that we can’t make a decision on this until we consider other agencies.”

  She glared at me, her hands poised around the neck of the bottle. “I know that.” Then she smiled again, a bit dreamily. “But I have to say, this proposal from Larry’s agency looks very…promising.”

  The cork came flying out, nearly decapitating the cardboard cutout of Priscilla, last year’s only-25-and-now-discarded model, which I had allowed Lori to prop up against one of my walls, as I found myself unable to toss it out.

  I bit my tongue, not wanting to dispel the happiness on Claudia’s face as she filled our two glasses. Who was I to tell her how to run her campaign—or her love life, for that matter? It wasn’t as if I were any shining role model in either department.

  She held up her glass, narrowing her eyes as she carefully considered her toast. Then, clinking her flute gracefully into mine, she said, “To getting what we want.”

  Then, apparently satisfied that she was going to get all she wanted, she downed that glass of Dom in one fell swoop.

  “So what do you think of Pete?” Angie asked, as we lounged together on the couch that bordered the back wall of Three of Cups, the East Village bar that she and Justin had chosen for their friends to gather together in for an informal celebration of their engagement on Tuesday night.

  I guess I was grateful for the change in subject, as Angie had just been badgering me about contacting Katerina and my half sister. After resolutely defending my decision not to get involved, I was happy enough to turn my attention to Justin’s friend, who stood over at the bar with Justin.

  Pete Jordan was, admittedly, a good-looking guy. Lean, well-muscled, with sandy-brown hair that had that tousled, just-got-out-of-bed look. The goatee, combined with the somewhat obscure tattoo that graced his forearm, gave him the edgy look of an East Village slacker. Except Pete wasn’t a slacker. In fact, he directed most of the commercials and corporate videos he and Justin worked on at Justin’s “day job” as a grip at a production studio in Long Island City. I knew from Angie that, like Justin, Pete had ambitions to direct a feature-length film. Although Pete had yet to make a move toward that goal, he seemed to feel no resentment that Justin was just about to realize that dream this spring, judging by the way he and Justin were yucking it up together at the bar.

  “Not my type,” I said finally. Not anymore. There was a time, just after college, when I adored artistic men. Even imagined I would fuck one such man into superstardom once, when I found myself in a tangle with a particularly ambitious—and deliciously well-endowed—example of the breed just after graduation from college. But now the thought of even getting involved, of lying in bed with him, late in the night, listening while he hatched yet another great idea that likely would never come to fruition, left me, frankly, exhausted.

  “Colin seems to be pretty happy wi
th Mark,” I said, moving on to the other man Angie and Justin had invited to this little celebration. Colin, Angie’s former co-host from her days when her acting career consisted of guiding a bunch of six-year-olds through an exercise program on Rise and Shine, was happily engaged in a conversation with his lover, Mark, at a nearby table. They looked adorable together—and happy. Colin, who once pined endlessly for a child to love, had gotten it all, I realized now, remembering that Mark was a single parent and that the two spent most of their weekends playing “My Two Dads” to Mark’s son.

  “Yeah,” Angie said, her gaze softening as it fell on Colin. “Do you know, they’re even talking about getting married?”

  “Married?”

  “Uh-huh. In Toronto.” She smiled. “Now that it’s legal in Canada. So all I have to do is find someone for you….” she said wistfully, her eyes cruising the room as if she were going to pluck my future husband out of the crowd.

  “Marriage isn’t for everyone,” I said, suddenly defensive.

  As if on cue, Angie’s friend, Michelle Delgrosso popped out of the bathroom, her lips freshly glossed and her hair sprayed to new and frightening heights. Michelle was from the old neighborhood in Brooklyn. I had never cared for her myself, but somehow she had cleaved to Angie like an old piece of gum stuck to the bottom of Angie’s scuffed yet fashionably urban shoes. I think Michelle, who subscribed to the theory that any man could be brought to the altar with a little arm twisting, even took credit for Angie’s engagement to Justin.

  I watched Michelle stalk past the couch where we lingered without sparing us a glance and head to the bar where Pete and Justin stood. Except for the official engagement toast we’d made once everyone had gathered together, Michelle had spent the evening hanging all over Justin’s friend, which, I noticed, seemed to get Angie a bit miffed.

  Not only was Michelle married—for over eight years now—she had, according to Angie, been to a marriage counselor and had even recently gone on a second honeymoon to Hawaii, all in the name of preserving whatever bond had driven her to marry Frankie Delgrosso at the ripe old age of twenty-four.