True Love (and Other Lies)

by Whitney Gaskell

  Date: Thursday, November 14

  It has come to my attention that not all of our Team Members are interested in participating in our office birthday parties. These informal celebrations are a wonderful way of raising morale, as well as giving the Sassy Seniors family a chance to socialize. The gatherings are not compulsory, of course, but in the future if you know you will not be attending a gathering, please let us know before food assignments are made, to ensure that all of the items we enjoy at these events are available to us.

  Thank you for your attention.

  P.S. In light of a recent non-contribution to Doris’s birthday party, we are collecting an extra $2 from everyone who is attending to pay for the cake. Naturally, Doris is exempted from this collection.

  From: Spencer, Claire

  To: Norfolk, Peggy

  Subject: Re: Birthday Celebrations

  Date: Thursday, November 14

  Peggy,

  Due to my strenuous workload, I will not be attending any birthday parties in the foreseeable future. I will, of course, let you know if this status changes.

  Cordially yours,

  Claire

  From: Claire Spencer

  To: Madeline Reilly

  Subject: ?????

  Date: Thursday, November 14

  You never got back to me . . . did you call Jack? What happened?

  From: Jack Harrison

  To: Claire Spencer

  Subject: sorry . . .

  Date: Thursday, November 14

  Sorry I didn’t get a chance to call you last night. Got tied up at a work thing. Was famished when I got home. Are you going to be around tonight?

  From: Claire Spencer

  To: Madeline Reilly

  Subject: Are you there?

  Date: Thursday, November 14

  Where are you?????????????????

  “Oh, good, you’re there,” Jack said, when I picked up the phone.

  It was the third time he’d called that week. I was used to men who said they were going to call either not calling at all, or waiting two weeks to pick up the phone and then pretend that this was an acceptable way for a mature adult to act. Almost daily phone calls, from across the Atlantic, were unprecedented.

  “I can’t imagine what your phone bill must look like,” I said, but then worried that I sounded shrewish, and quickly added, “Not that I’m not glad to hear from you.”

  Actually, what I wanted to do was interrogate him on whether Maddy had called him, and if so, what she had said, and how he’d responded. And since Maddy’s e-mail announcing she was going to call Jack the night before coincided with the first night that he hadn’t called me since I’d returned home, I was a little freaked out about what might have happened. I didn’t know what was worse—the idea that Jack might disclose our ongoing flirtation, or that Maddy might tempt him back. Either way, I was screwed. But since I couldn’t figure out a tactful way to bring it up, I resigned myself to stewing in my own anxiety.

  “How was your day?” Jack said. It was always the first thing he asked, and unlike anyone else who asks this question, he actually seemed interested in my answer.

  “Hmm, let’s see. I turned in the revisions on my San Antonio column, after editing out all of the humor, interest, and color, so my editor should love it. And I’m apparently on the outs with everyone at the office since I took a stand and am no longer attending any of the staff birthday parties.”

  “Like Elaine on Seinfeld,” Jack said.

  “What?”

  “Elaine did that, when she was working for J. Peterman. Remember? She refused to attend the daily office party, but then she needed to find a way to get her late afternoon sugar fix, so she ate that fifty-year-old piece of wedding cake,” he said.

  Why are men able to retain this kind of information? Every man I meet, no matter how intelligent he is, or how demanding his job may be, is able to recite every episode of Seinfeld and The Simpsons line for line. I wondered if the President did this, if while reviewing his State of the Union address, he chuckled to himself, reminded of some wisdom Homer Simpson once put forth.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, hoping that Jack wasn’t going to start thinking of me as Elaine, who I’d always thought was kind of mean. “So . . . that was my day. How about you?”

  “Boring stuff, mostly. We’ve been talking about acquiring a German pharmaceutical company, but there are all kinds of roadblocks in the way, so I’ve been knee-deep in it, trying to sort it out, see if it’s at all feasible,” Jack said. “Thrilling stuff, really.”

  “It sounds like it. I always fantasized about having an important job like that, being a whiz at finance and corporate lingo, but I’d be fired for incompetence my first day out. I can never even understand what language people are speaking when they start talking about takeovers and things like that,” I said.

  “I’m sure you’d be great at anything you tried, but why would you want it? You have the world’s greatest job, traveling and eating out for free,” Jack said.

  I snorted. “Ah, yes, the glamorous life of working for Sassy Seniors,” I said.

  “Maybe you should change magazines,” Jack suggested.

  “Easier said than done,” I sighed. “It’s not exactly like there are just dozens of glossies out there with empty column space throwing money at me. The truth is, I’m lucky to have my current job, although I can never seem to remember that when I’m antagonizing my boss.”

  “What’s he like?” Jack asked.

  “He’s your typical hippie wannabe. Far out, man, and all of that. He’s terrible. And he hates me,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because he hates my writing style, and actually, to be fair, I guess I can’t really blame him. I don’t write for our readership, I write the kind of articles I would want to read,” I said. “I know I should be more compliant.”

  “Why should you? You should be able to write what you want to write. You just need to find a place that will embrace your style,” Jack said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

  “Well, now that you mention it, I have been besieged with phone calls from all of the magazine publishers who read my thrilling piece on ‘Disney World’s Best Bets for the Senior Set,’ who are now dying to lure me away so that I can write similar cutting-edge stories for them,” I said.

  “Is Disney World a big vacation destination for seniors?” Jack asked. “I could see kids digging it, but I thought that was the kind of place that adults without young children avoided.”

  I sighed. “How should I know? I just write about these things. I don’t claim to have any actual knowledge of them.”

  “Well, you never know. Maybe something will shake loose soon. I wasn’t looking for a job when I ended up switching over to Brit Pharm. A headhunter contacted me, and I just spontaneously decided to go on the interview, and look how that turned out,” Jack said.

  “Um, I hate to tell you this, but I’m not a hotshot attorney at a top law firm, so headhunters are not exactly banging down my door,” I said.

  “You never know,” Jack said again.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those insanely cheerful glass-is-half-full people. I just couldn’t bear it,” I said, although I made sure to keep my voice light so that just in case he was that kind of a person, he wouldn’t take offense.

  “So I suppose you don’t want me to tell you to ‘seize the day’?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “How about if I just recite some bleak and fatalistic Irish poetry instead,” Jack suggested.

  “Okay, go ahead,” I said.

  “Um . . . okay, I don’t actually know any bleak, fatalistic Irish poetry,” he admitted. “Not off the top of my head. I do know a few off-color limericks, though. The Brits love limericks; in fact, they use them as a form of torture h
ere. They force you to drink warm beer, and then make you memorize crass rhymes.”

  I laughed, and snuggled back into the corner of the couch, resting my head against the soft cotton fabric. “Okay, tell me a limerick,” I said, and despite myself, I felt the grouchiness that always followed me home from work dissipate yet again, as it so often seemed to do when I talked to Jack.

  From: Max Levy

  To: Claire Spencer

  Subject: Shaken, Not Stirred

  Date: Tuesday, November 19

  Three words: You. Me. New Bond Movie Tonight. (ok, 6 words).

  Levy. Max Levy.

  P.S. Please come. Daphne refuses to go to the movies with me . . . something about the evil corporations behind them, blah, blah, blah.

  From: Claire Spencer

  To: Max Levy

  Subject: Re: Shaken, Not Stirred

  Date: Tuesday, November 19

  Can’t tonight. Maybe Friday?

  From: Max Levy

  To: Claire Spencer

  Subject: lame ass friends

  Date: Tuesday, November 19

  Sigh . . . whatever. Just tell me you’re not ditching me just to talk on the phone to Mr. Smoothie.

  From: Claire Spencer

  To: Max Levy

  Subject: Re: lame ass friends

  Date: Tuesday, November 19

  XXXOOO

  From: Claire Spencer

  To: Madeline Reilly

  Subject: Are you still alive?

  Date: Wednesday, November 20

  Okay, I’m starting to worry. You haven’t returned my

  e-mails or my phone calls. Please call me ASAP. Really, I’m worried.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Maddy! God, where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for a week,” I said.

  Okay, I wasn’t really all that worried about her—we frequently went that long without speaking—but my anxiety over the Jack situation had been steadily rising until I felt like I was a steam engine ready to blow at any moment.

  “I know, I’m sorry. Work’s been a nightmare, and I’ve been trying to get out at night so I won’t just sit around and sulk,” she said, sighing.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Terrible. God, Claire, I had no idea it would hurt this much. I’ve been through dozens of breakups—literally dozens—and I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like I’m going through some kind of drug withdrawal. I can’t sleep, I’m shaky, I can hardly concentrate at work,” Maddy said.

  She sounded awful. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice, and she was missing her characteristic sparkle. My heart squeezed with sympathy and guilt.

  “I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time,” I said, feeling like the world’s biggest hypocrite as the words left my mouth.

  “I know, thanks, sweetie,” Maddy said, and she sighed again.

  “Um . . . so what was it you were talking about in your e-mail last week? You said something about Ja . . . Harrison being angry at you?”

  “God, I don’t think I can bear going into it right now. Mind if we talk about it later? It’s just a long, sordid story, and, well,” Maddy said with a little laugh, sounding tired, but more like her old self, “I don’t come off all that well in it, and I don’t think I could bear your disapproval right now.”

  “I wouldn’t be disapproving,” I said.

  “Oh, I just don’t feel like talking about it now. I promise, I’ll tell you later, ’kay? Anyway, I called Harrison last week—I know, you said not to, I should have listened—and he really didn’t sound angry. Just . . .” She paused. “Final. As far as he was concerned, everything was over, and that was that.”

  “Gosh,” I said, having nothing better to contribute than this insightful comment. I was still intrigued over this apparent point of contention between Jack and Maddy, but I knew not to push her. She’d tell me in her own time, when she was ready, but until then she’d remain slippery on the subject.

  “Yeah. I’m still not giving up, though. I think all he needs is time. Isn’t that what they say about men? They may leave, but they always come back,” she said.

  Actually, I’ve never heard that philosophy before, unless it was being applied to married men leaving their wives and kids for another, younger, firmer woman, and then later having buyer’s regret and missing their family. And I’m not even sure how common those reunions are.

  “Um, well, I suppose that could happen,” I hedged. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, why do you call him Harrison?”

  “It started as a joke. We were playing tennis, and he started to call me Reilly—you know, in a jokey way, the way guys always call one another by their last names when they’re playing sports—so I called him Harrison, and after that, it just sort of stuck. It was our thing, our couple thing, you know?”

  I did. It may have been a while since I’d been in a relationship, but I did remember the couple thing. Sawyer and I used to read the luxury home section of the Sunday New York Times and fantasize together about being able to buy an estate in Sag Harbor or Southampton. That was our “thing.”

  “So what was it you wanted to tell me?” Maddy asked.

  “What?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “In your message, you said you had something you needed to tell me. Don’t you remember?” she asked.

  “Oh . . .” I said, trying desperately to think of what to say.

  I had, in a fit of guilt, decided to confess all to Maddy, figuring that honesty was the best policy, and that I owed it to her to tell her the truth. But now I couldn’t remember why I’d ever thought that was such a good idea. After all, once I did tell her, two things were sure to happen—(a) she would get really pissed at me, and (b) I’d have to promise not to talk to Jack anymore, and neither consequence was all that appealing. Besides, I couldn’t wait to talk to Jack that night and tell him about my latest offensive maneuver at work. I’d set the radio at my desk to the local conservative talk radio station, and when Robert had walked by and heard what I was listening to, he’d developed a facial tick and started muttering under his breath about right-wing fascists. It was truly a stroke of brilliance on my part.

  “I can’t remember what I was talking about, so I guess it was nothing important,” I said. I was going to tell her eventually. Of course I was.

  Just not quite yet.

  Chapter 9

  A few days later, I had lunch with my friend Jane Swann. Jane had been a student intern at Sassy Seniors the first year I worked there, but had since graduated from NYU and landed a job at Runway, a newish fashion-and-celebrity-voyeurism magazine that was quickly becoming one of the hottest titles in the industry. I tried not to hate her for this. She only held the lowly position of Assistant to the Assistant Beauty Editor, but I knew how talented she was, so it was only a matter of time before she started to climb up the ranks. Since that hadn’t happened yet and she was still stuck in a job that was slightly worse than my own, I could still bear to see her, especially since she was as miserable slaving under the tyranny of her boss as I was under mine.

  “Bavmorda the Evil One made me give her a pedicure last week,” Jane said. Bavmorda—who was the malevolent queen in the movie, Willow—was her not-so-flattering nickname for her boss, who had a notorious reputation for being a hard-to-deal-with diva. “She was going on the Today show to plug a new article about beauty bargains, and was determined to wear her new open-toed Manolos on the air, but didn’t have time to get to the salon. So she made me sit on her office floor while she waved her stinky feet around, and I had to file and paint her toenails while she made phone calls to her friends. Not even business calls . . . she was inviting people to a cocktail party at her apartmen
t. And she didn’t even invite me. Can you believe that?”

  I shook my head. “That’s disgusting. You would have been well within your rights to say no.”

  Jane snorted, and mutinously stabbed at her coleslaw. “Yeah, right. Do you know how many people would kill for my job, who would happily scrape the corns off her feet if it meant having an in at the magazine?”

  “Please, don’t talk about feet, I’m eating,” I begged.

  I have a thing about feet . . . they revolt me. I know it’s a little strange to have a phobia over a body part, but I can’t help it, and the very thought of stinky, calloused feet was a little more than I could handle over lunch.

  We were eating at a deli on Broadway that was equidistant between our two offices. As I’m on a permanent diet, I was making do with a rather bland turkey-and-yellow-mustard-on-whole-wheat, with a soggy pickle on the side. Jane, on the other hand, is one of those high-metabolism people and remains elegantly slim no matter what she eats. She was tucking into an enormous Reuben sandwich dripping with melted cheese and Thousand Island dressing, along with a mountain of french fries, a tub of coleslaw, and a giant full-sugar Coke. There are United States Marines who eat fewer calories per meal than Jane. I’d spent my entire life believing in the calories-in, calories-out approach to weight control, so I found this phenomenon—a woman who eats three times the amount of her caloric requirements on a daily basis yet stays as thin as a reed—to be fascinating. Where did all of the calories go? Did she have some kind of a superhero power not to absorb them? Did she make a pact with the devil?

  “How can you eat all of that?” I asked, amazed. I asked Jane this every time I had lunch with her, and she had yet to give me a satisfactory response.

  “Dunno.” Jane shrugged, so unconcerned about her ability to pack it away like a defensive lineman that I couldn’t help but say a little prayer that she would suffer a reversal of fortune, and all of a sudden—overnight, if possible—she’d wake up as fleshy and rotund as a sumo wrestler. It would be as gratifying as the time when the beauty queen of my high school washed peroxide through her hair once too often and it all turned green, like oxidized copper, and began falling out in clumps.