Love being thrown out the window for practicality’s sake? Is this really happening? Love conquers all. Doesn’t it? For someone who’s been in a relationship for five years, with someone she truly loves, to pick up and leave is just crazy, right?
“Are you sure you shouldn’t just give him another chance?”
“I’ve given him a million chances,” she says, slurping her black coffee like it might save her life.
“Well, I’m sure you guys were just caught up in the moment, saying things you both didn’t mean. Why don’t you stay with me tonight and cool down. I’m sure it will be better in the morning.”
“Thanks, Lane. I’d actually love it if I could stay with you tonight. But I’m sure nothing will be different in the morning. Thank God I’ve got my career and such a great friend. Otherwise I’d really be left with nothing now. I can’t imagine what it’s like to break up with someone and realize you’ve thrown away your whole career and lost touch with your friends like some people do. That’s why I’m always so proud of you, Lane. No matter how lonely you’ve been, how melodramatic, no matter who you’ve gone out with—as crazy as you’ve gotten with some of them—I always know where I stand with you. You’re like a sister to me. I know I don’t say it a lot, but I’m proud of you. Lane.”
“You complete me,” I say, moved to try it out.
“That’s from Jerry Maguire. Don’t be a dork.”
Hmmph.
“Anyway, as I was saying. I’m proud of you. You’ve never lost sight of your career goals, no matter what kind of drama you’ve caught yourself up in.”
Until now. I feel my face burn. You know—she’s right. I’ve complained my fair share. Sure I have. And I’ve procrastinated a bit in the past. But in the end, I always pick myself up and keep pitching and giving my all to those boring, meaningless articles that I’ve been assigned. People are always complimenting me on how I push myself, and I never really pay attention. You wake up and you work, I’ve always thought; nothing special in that. But it’s true. How many people have the discipline to wake up and throw themselves into it when no one and nothing encourages them to do so—often with no assignments and no hope of one on the horizon? I really have invested a lot of effort into my career. And it’s always been so important to me.
Is it possible I’m taking too big a risk throwing this article away for Liam? I’d always thought that Joanne and Pete were the perfect couple. They were always embarrassing me at restaurants, smooching and whispering. They spent every night together. This all seems so bizarre. What if Liam and I don’t work out? What if I wake up one day, having thrown my Cosmo assignment, and with it my career, out the window, and Liam and I break up?
It cannot happen. It simply cannot happen.
I’m suddenly glad I haven’t sent that e-mail to Karen. I will make this article work. I’ll find a way. I’m a resourceful woman. I can find a way. But first things first—Joanne.
We spend the rest of the day doing the things you do when your best girlfriend is mourning a breakup (unless of course, that girlfriend is me and you’re sitting on your couch crying your way through Cindrella). We drink lots of wine. We make fun of the bad things about Pete—he wore bikini underwear; he drooled on his pillow; he couldn’t go to sleep without calling his mommy to say good night.
When this method of entertainment wears thin, we go for pedicures and gossip about the celebrities in the magazines. I suggest a wickedly caloric meal, but Joanne doesn’t believe in such things (her parents were hippies and raised her on organic sprouts and couscous). So we settle for Chinese take-out and watch mindless high school movies—Bring it On, 10 Things I Hate About You, She’s All That, while the leave-in conditioner works its magic under our shower caps.
“We should do this more often,” I mutter as Joanne smoothes a green mask over my face.
“You know what would be really fun?” Joanne asks.
“What’s that?” I inquire, tasting, by accident, a bit of green mask.
“If we went outside like this, went into the deli, and just acted totally normal—as if we didn’t have green crud all over our faces.”
I’m so glad Joanne is taking this so well that I’d probably go outside naked if it would keep her smiling.
“Sure! Why not?” I say, tossing caution to the wind and spinning my key ring around my finger as if I’m cool as a cucumber about walking outside my apartment looking like a cucumber.
In the childish spirit we’re in, we opt for the stairs and race down. Joanne wins (only because I let her, of course—you know-to raise her spirits) and I’m pretty breathless by the time we reach the front door of the lobby. People walk by. Oh, I hadn’t thought of them, had only considered the guys in the deli, who already know my style from my regular pajama expeditions. A couple approaches hand in hand, staring at Joanne and me like we’ve left our minds somewhere in the paint jar. Right as they cross our path Joanne turns to me. “Do I have anything on my face?” she asks coquettishly. I totally lose it, snorting and everything, and by the time we get to the deli there are skin-colored streaks of laughter-induced tears running through my otherwise green face.
The idea is to keep a straight face, but every time one of us tries to open our mouths, we start cracking up.
The guy behind the counter tries to be funny. “My, you guys are looking kind of green.”
This isn’t very original, but we fall crouching to our knees all the same, holding our stomachs, unable to catch our breath from laughing too hard. Forgetting I have green on my face, I rest my temple against the side of the white counter, and when I remove it there’s a green print.
“Oops,” I say, looking at the splodge. Joanne’s trying to say something, pointing at the mark, but it’s as if she’s given up on language altogether; there are a couple of incomprehensible shrieks and moans, and then she goes laughing again.
“You spit on me!” I exclaim. This is the final straw. I’m laughing even harder and louder than Joanne, doubled over in front of the breath mints display.
“Testing out the new color for fall, Ab Fab?”
Did somebody say Ab Fab? There’s only one person who calls me that and there’s no way he’s just seen me in my pajamas, crouched over the Tic-Tacs like a pickle in a shower cap.
Joanne looks up first, and with the boldness that surges after you’ve just changed your entire life with one decision, she stands, reaches her hand out, and says, “Great to see you again!”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” he assures her, looking down at me as he speaks. I can see him out of the corner of my eye. His gaze is steady and so finally I give in and turn his way.
“Hi, Tom. What are you doing here?” I ask, rising, and smoothing down my top, since it’s the only thing I can think to do to improve my appearance.
“Well, I just went to see a movie at that theater down the street and I remembered you raving about the bagels here. So I came to check ‘em out. You know me and the carbs.”
I hadn’t even remembered telling him about my deli. I guess I’m like EF Hutton—when I talk, people listen.
He’s wearing nicely-fitting jeans, in a distressed finish. Jeans are really idiot-proof. And without a heinous tie, jacket, and collared shirt he’s actually rather striking in a crisp white T-shirt.
“So did you go to the movie with Whitney?” I ask, looking around for her. But there’s no one here aside from the guy with three shopping carts parked at a corner table loudly gargling Vanilla Coke. I can just hear Whitney’s voice as she enters a place like this: “Daahling, you really should hire a new assistant. Anyone who’d frequent a drab place like this isn’t really the type of person you want to be associated with.”
“Whit—oh, no. I, um, went with a friend but he had to go meet someone right after the movie. Left before the credits even rolled.” Tom scans the room as if his “friend” might magically pop up, lets out a deep breath, and looks back at me.
“I see,” I reply, wondering why he’s being
so odd, I mean, aside from the obvious reason: conversing with a girl in pajamas and a shower cap, with green goo on her face, a girl who just happens to be your assistant, and now—from the looks of it—insane.
While Tom and I were talking, Joanne had picked two Heinekens from the fridge, which the cashier obligingly uncapped and slipped into paper bags. She hands me one.
“If I haven’t told you already, Ab Fab, this is a fantastic look for you. Fabulous.”
“Vogue’s calling it Military-Schlump-Shower-Cap-Chic!” I exclaim as I wave good-bye and push through the door.
‘“Too bad Tom isn’t single,” Joanne states as we turn the corner.
“What?” I ask, blinking my eyes in the most forceful way I can muster. I know he looked sort of nice in his casual attire, and he’d obviously just had a fresh haircut. And his cologne did smell like a fresh spring day…. But still—this is Tom we’re talking about! Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Boss Man. Not Mr. Hottie Man.
“I just think he’s cute is all. And obviously he has no problems holding down a job. What did you say he is? A vice president?”
“A managing director actually. But never mind! He’s totally not your type. And anyway, he does have a girlfriend. You met her, remember?” I’m not sure why I’m screaming, since Joanne is right next to me and I’m supposed to be comforting her.
“All right, all right. It was just a thought. But you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you like him—ooh!” she says, and pinches my butt.
“Yeah, I love him. We’re gonna get married and live happily ever after. Happy now?” I mock like I’m making out with my paper-bagged beer. “Ooh, Tom. Oh, don’t touch me there. Tom Baby, is that a cucumber in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
I’m mid-smooch, soaking my paper bag with saliva when I hear, “Bye ladies, Have a nice night.”
Tom. Great.
“He definitely didn’t hear,” Joanne assures me in a way that makes me think he did.
“There’s no way he could have, right?” I say, wiping away the possibility with my hand.
“No. I could barely hear you with your tongue all up in that paper bag.”
I convince myself she’s right. It’s much better than the alternative: that my boss thinks I was kissing a paper bag and pretending it’s, him, right?
We get back upstairs and I’m peeing with the door open while Joanne is finishing her beer and I’m pretty sure I hear a sob.
“Are you crying, honey?” I ask. It was bound to happen sometime. You can’t very well break up with the person you thought you’d spend your whole life with and not shed a few buckets of tears. Even if you happen to be stoic, logical Joanne. In fact, each and every one of the day’s distractions was an intricate part of a strategic plan to get Joanne to clear her mind from being so strong and wear her down to get it out. You’ve got to get things out. It’s the only step to really getting down to how you feel. Otherwise you’ll live in a constant state of denial.
When I come out she’s shaking and there’re no tears coming out, but they are definitely on their way if the lakes forming over her eyeballs mean anything. Her mouth is so contorted she can’t control the drool beginning to drip onto her knee.
“Oh, poor baby,” I say, rubbing her hair.
“It’s just, I wish he would be more practical for once.”
There’s that word again! I don’t want to argue with her at this point, but I think I really need to interject.
“Joanne, you know, with some people, love isn’t about practicality. It’s about romance and sweetness. And that’s how Pete sees it.”
She lifts her head, tears now falling, and places a firm palm in my face. “Lane, do not start with this shit now.”
I remove her hand from my face and start rubbing it, softly, and say, “Just hear me out here for a second.”
And I don’t know where I get this insight from, but it really sounds professional. I explain to her that maybe that very impracticality is what she loves about Pete. And yes, it can be annoying when he’s not getting much work, and having no money obviously sucks—especially with the warm weather coming and all of those adorable peasant blouses to choose from this season, and the beaded sandals and the dangling earrings. But, I remind her, he loves his music, and his passion for that is what made her fall in love with him in the first place. I go on to say that she is the practical, rational one in their relationship, and that’s what makes them so perfect together. They complement each other. He allows her to enjoy the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-ness that she never allows herself. And he gets brought down to earth when he needs to by her strength and logic.
“He’s probably at home right now thinking about how much he wants you back,” I finish with authority, and cross my arms, pleased with the promising outcome I’ve stumbled across. “The phone’s over there,” I say, pointing to my desk.
“Lane Silverman,” she says my name as if shocked this sort of advice has actually come from me, “that just may be the most logical thing you have ever said on the topic of love. Maybe you’ve learned something in spite of yourself. Now, if only you’d throw out your damn checklists and follow your own advice, maybe you’d be okay.”
But Liam and I are different, I think as Joanne makes her way to the phone. We don’t need to concern ourselves with such trivialities. Our love makes everything work perfectly. Even the fact that we aren’t together right now. It’s not sorrow, it’s sweet sorrow—even our separation feels like part of our love. We’re on the edge; we’re Bonnie and Clyde. We would never discuss doing the dishes. We’d toss them all and get a whole new set if they were ever an issue. When you’re both equally romantic souls, the whole equation is different.
My doorbell rings while Joanne is draped over my bed, mid-conversation with Pete. “No, I’m sorry,” she’s trilling. “No, you shouldn’t be sorry. It’s my fault. No, it is. Yes. I love you, yes, yes. No, no. Yes.” It pulls me from the thought I’m silently mulling over: that other people’s love, when not serving to make you depressed on account of no love of your own, is just plain boring. But for the moment I don’t let that get me down because I’m glowing with the idea that my favorite people are reuniting. I figure it must be Chris, since he is my only building friend, and outside visitors have to buzz to be let in the building. So, I decide to get one last kick out of the now very dry, tight mask.
I yank the door open and scream, “Raaahh!”
I’m jumping up and down like a wild animal when I see it is not Chris.
It’s Liam.
Surely this is not happening. I mean I have worn mud masks in front of old boyfriends. But Liam and I don’t exactly have the mud-mask sort of relationship. Lane! Stop being so silly! Of course this won’t change anything. Everyone has beauty rituals to maintain!
“Have you seen Lane?” he asks.
“Liam!” I say in a sweet, high-pitched voice as if I don’t look anything less than sexy. I go to kiss him, but he pulls away.
“Maybe I should come back when you’re back to normal,” he says, and I’m pretty sure he is not kidding,
“Don’t be silly! Joanne is just leaving,” I say and pull him into the apartment and run into the bathroom to wash the mask off. “How are you, Liam?” she asks as she hangs up the phone.
“I’m okay,” he says. “I hadn’t realized I was walking into a sorority house, but I’m okay.”
Joanne is giddy and I can’t see what she’s doing, but I hear Liam scream, “Gross! Stop!” When I walk out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel around my face, I see her squishing him in a huge hug, nestling her green face on his blue polo shirt.
“It’s the sorority ritual,” she says. “All the guys who enter have to go through it.”
I know this act. Joanne is testing Liam, and with that tone she’s taken on, I can tell I’ll be getting an earful tomorrow. God help the man who doesn’t pass Joanne’s test. Or rather, God help me if that man happens to be dating me.
I never t
hought they’d like each other too much. They are very different people. I, myself, am a totally different person with each of them. Joanne and I talk about, well, everything—stomach problems, work problems, how big Mariah Carey’s ass has gotten. But with Liam there’s no need to be negative or share things that are so commonplace. When we’re together we normally talk about our love, or we spend hours going through the different homes he owns around the world, and what it will be like when we visit each. It’s just the natural course of conversation. Besides, it’s much better that way. Why do I need to bring up such trivialities with Liam when I’ve got Joanne to share them with?
Two hours later, Liam Kampo (last name mystery solved) and I are once again in my bed doing wonderfully devilish things that are far more interesting than discussing Mariah Carey’s tush. And to make things even better, Samantha calls me, feeling chatty, because it’s Sunday and you know how that goes, and I get to say that I can’t speak because I am busy giggling and cuddling—and I swear—I’m crunching microwave popcorn as I say this into the phone.
See Miss Smarty-Pants Samantha—he’s here and we’re having a wonderful time together! I’m sure she’ll apologize for what she said the night before, but instead she screams, “Forget about Liam!” and hangs up the phone. I remember what it’s like to be the lonely one on a Sunday, and so I don’t get angry at her hostility. It’s actually quite romantic, Liam and I beating the odds together, surprising all the naysayers.
Thirteen
Playing Dress-Up
I’m wearing my Liam confidence on my face as I enter the office on Monday, which serves as a fantastic enhancement to my black dress and faux pearls. I’m glowing as I hang my overcoat up on the doorway to my cubey.
“How was your weekend?” Tom’s voice asks from my telephone. It’s become habit for him to call me, rather than walk five steps out of his office into my cubey.
I think he prefers this because it’s easier to be a different person when you are on the telephone than it is face-to-face, and he sometimes likes to act like he is a powerful boss man, rather than the sweet down-to-earth man he actually is. (Or maybe he is madly in love with me and can’t bear to see me, knowing in his heart that I must—being so radiant these days—owe my heart to another? Hah!)
Diary of a Working Girl Page 18