These Girls

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “My purse,” Renee said, working the words around her tongue, which felt thick and uncooperative. Her bag had flown a few feet ahead of her, and the contents were spilled out onto the sidewalk.

  “I’ll get it for you. I’ve got a daughter your age,” he said, as if she needed added incentive to trust him. Renee almost laughed—if he was a thief, he’d probably be sorely disappointed by the crumpled five-dollar bill and coupons in her wallet—but then pain hit her in a wave that pushed nausea up into her throat. Her knees were scraped, one of her ankles hurt, and all of her joints ached, as if she’d simultaneously sprawled across the sidewalk and across time, suddenly arriving at eighty years old.

  The man tossed her things back into her purse: her sunglasses and wallet, tubes of makeup, a tampon in its unmistakable white plastic sleeve, and her bottles of pills. His hand hesitated, and she saw him bring a bottle closer to his face.

  “Did you forget to take your medicine?” he asked, coming back over to help her stand. He held up the bottle and shook it. “Do you need one of these?”

  “No, no,” Renee said. She felt unsteady and was grateful she’d changed into her flat shoes. “They’re just diet pills.”

  He dropped the bottle back into her purse. “That’s probably what made you faint,” he said. “They’re like speed, you know.”

  “I just tripped,” Renee lied. “Really. I’m fine.” She smiled brightly and took her purse back.

  He shook his head and started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. Or maybe he just didn’t have the time to talk. He handed her the purse, and, a moment later, he and his bright umbrella had disappeared into the surging crowd heading across Fifty-Fourth Street.

  Back at her desk, after she’d covered her knees with Band-Aids and repaired her makeup, Renee realized she hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon. No wonder she’d fainted. She went to the cafeteria and stared at the hamburgers and slices of pizza warming under a hot light, but she couldn’t imagine eating anything that heavy. She finally ordered a bowl of chicken noodle soup and forced down every drop. She’d have to remind herself to eat from now on.

  She rolled the incandescent thought around in her mind, savoring each word: I’ll have to remind myself to eat.

  As she headed back to her desk, Renee thought about all the time she’d wasted obsessing about food—it probably added up to actual months of her life—and the amount of loathing she’d heaped on herself for not being able to control her appetite. All those mornings kicked off by grim news from the scale, all those nights when she fell asleep beating herself up for that scoop of ice cream or big bowl of spaghetti. How different her life could have been. These skinny, happy pills were a miracle.

  She sat down at her desk, wincing as she bent her skinned knees, and clicked her mouse. Her sleeping computer screen jolted to life. A dozen new messages had popped up, including one from Becca, with a link to a flight departing Kansas City in another few weeks and flying directly into JFK. She was planning to arrive on a Thursday afternoon and stay until Sunday evening.

  Does this sound good? Becca had written. If so, could you recommend a hotel?

  Of course, Renee wrote back. She added links to a few mid-priced hotels, realizing that her share for three nights would run close to four hundred dollars. She imagined opening her front door to see Becca standing there, and thought about how they’d fill all those hours together. Would Becca want to explore the city on her own, or would she expect Renee to take off from work so they could be together the whole time? Renee had only a few vacation days left, and she needed them to go home for the holidays. Plus she was essentially doing two jobs now, with her social media campaign consuming more and more hours as she tried to blanket Twitter and Facebook and her blog. She’d have to figure something out—cut out early one day, or meet Becca for lunch. Maybe she could sneak Becca into a press conference. And she’d have to think of a list of cheap, fun activities for the weekend, like sightseeing and going to discounted off-Broadway shows, so they could stay busy in case their conversations remained as awkward as they had been on the phone.

  Renee rubbed her temples against her thrumming headache and forced herself to turn back to work. She surfed through Facebook, scrolling down Jessica’s page and noticing that, so far, she had a hundred and twenty-six friends. Jessica had written a status update this morning asking people to name the one beauty product they always kept in their purse. She had just three comments, one of which read: Vaseline, because it works really well for chapped lips. Does this help? Love, Auntie Rae.

  Renee bit her lip to keep from smiling as she imagined Nigel’s face when he read it. Poor Jessica.

  Something caught her eye toward the corner of the page. It was an advertisement with a compelling red-on-black headline in an elegant font: Beauty Obsessed? Click here.

  Renee obediently clicked and found herself on Diane’s Face-book page. She’d already collected six hundred and seventeen friends—nearly double Renee’s number.

  Renee flopped back in her chair and stared at the screen. So Diane was taking out Facebook ads. She must be buying them herself. Renee knew that Diane’s Wall Street trader fiancé had just bought a two-bedroom apartment and Diane had moved in with him. So even though she and Diane earned the exact same salary, Diane had a lot more disposable income. Renee thought back to the press conference for the fingerprint eye shadow brush, remembering how she’d seen Diane standing outside, slipping on oversize designer sunglasses before hailing a cab to go back to Gloss. Renee had watched her climb into the yellow taxi, then she’d turned the other way and walked three blocks to the subway.

  Renee couldn’t outspend Diane, or outsmart her. So she’d have to outwork her. Renee reached into her purse and swallowed a Tylenol, then another diet pill—not because she was hungry but because her brain needed a kick start. She had to come up with a fantastic blog post and a Facebook post that would conjure up a good discussion. Or maybe she should go on Facebook first and try to minimize Diane’s lead?

  If only her head would stop pounding.

  She thought about the mother she’d seen at the grocery store last weekend, who was trying to keep a struggling toddler seated in the cart while pulling her other young son away from sugary temptations. Every time the mother let go of the boy’s hand to load up her cart, he sprinted toward the candy displayed by the checkout aisle. When she ran after him, the toddler tried to stand up in the cart. The mother finally got them both contained and reached for a box of rice, knocking a half dozen other boxes to the floor.

  “Just stop it!” the mother finally yelled. She looked so overwhelmed. “Everybody stop!”

  Renee knew exactly how she felt.

  Twenty

  ABBY’S CONSCIENCE KICKED IN midway through her Thai chicken curry.

  Pete was talking about the two of them taking a vacation to the Caribbean, painting a scene involving snorkeling and sandy beaches and piña coladas at sunset, while she nodded her head mechanically and barely spoke. She couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Joanna’s face as she’d stared at Bob and then Abby in turn. Joanna clearly suspected something. Maybe Abby subconsciously wanted this to happen; she was growing restless, and she hated having to hide her feelings for Bob. If he didn’t love Joanna, he needed to make a choice. Abby wouldn’t become one of those women who clung to a married man, coasting along for years on empty promises of a future together.

  It was up to Abby to force the next step.

  “So maybe in the spring,” Pete was saying. For him, it was as if their break hadn’t even existed. He didn’t seem to want to question Abby about why she’d asked for it, or why she’d suddenly asked to see him tonight. The sense of disconnection she’d experienced with him at the movies intensified. She felt so lonely.

  “It’ll still be chilly here, and we’ll get a good deal because it won’t be as crowded,” Pete said. A dab of orange satay sauce stained his chin, and looking at it made Abby want to cry. He was a n
ice guy, and she’d treated him terribly.

  “This was good.” He leaned back and patted his belly. “Weren’t you hungry? You barely touched your food.”

  She burst into tears.

  “Whoa, honey,” Pete said. He handed her his napkin and it was stained, too, and that made her cry even harder. “Are you okay?”

  “I can’t do this,” she said, meaning all of it—going out with Pete, sneaking around with Bob, and enduring images of Bob and Joanna in bed.

  “Abby, what do you mean?” Pete asked, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “We don’t have to go away on vacation if you don’t want to.”

  “It isn’t that,” she said.

  A waiter approached to clear away their plates, took one look at their faces, and kept walking.

  “What is it then?” His eyes narrowed. “Is there someone else?”

  Abby closed her eyes. “No,” she lied.

  He drove her home, and they talked for another hour in his pickup truck as it idled in front of the house. Pete kept circling her with questions, repeating them again and again, like a prosecutor trying to trip up a witness.

  “You still love me,” he said. “Didn’t you tell me that?”

  “I’m not in love with you, though,” Abby sidestepped.

  He hit the steering wheel with both fists—lightly, but it was an angry gesture and she saw a vein throbbing in his neck. “When you called you said you wanted to see me tonight. You said you’d been thinking about me. Why did you say that?” Pete demanded.

  “Pete, I’m so sorry.” Abby felt a catch in her throat. She’d found fault with Pete because he didn’t sense her feelings, and yet here she was, tromping all over his. “I shouldn’t have called you. It was just an impulsive thing. I didn’t really think about it.”

  “Just tell me why,” he said. “Give me the reason. Do you want to get married?”

  Yes, she thought. But not to you.

  When she finally reached to open the door, he slid across the bench seat and wrapped his arms around her. She turned and let him kiss her, but she didn’t kiss him back.

  “Abby,” he said, tilting his forehead against hers. “I can’t lose you. I need you.”

  It was probably the most passionate thing he’d ever said to her, but she could smell Thai food on his breath and suddenly she wanted to gag. She reached for the handle again and tried to open the door, but he leaned over and kissed her again, his lips crushing painfully against hers.

  “Pete, stop,” she said, wrenching away.

  “Come home with me,” he said. He was breathing hard as he grabbed her hand, and she tried to pull it free, but his grip was too tight. “Just for tonight. We haven’t been together in so long.”

  Did he really think sex would solve this? Even if she hadn’t fallen for Bob, she never would have ended up with Pete. Her fingers were growing numb from his grip. “I have to go,” she cried. “Pete, let me go!”

  He looked down and seemed surprised to find that he was holding her hand. He released it, and his broad shoulders slumped. The look on his face was so dejected that she added, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  It was the worst thing to promise—she knew she should have made a clean break—but she had to get out of the car.

  “Abby,” he said. She looked back as she opened the door, but she couldn’t read the expression in his dark eyes. “If it’s another guy . . . I’ll fight for you.”

  She shut the door and tried to hurry away, but the heels of her boots sank into the soft earth of the lawn—as if it was on Pete’s side and was trying to hold her back, too. She finally made it to the front walk and followed it toward the house until she veered onto the side path leading to the basement entrance. As she did so, she looked up at Bob and Joanna’s bedroom window. She could have sworn she saw the curtains move, as if someone was standing there, watching.

  Cate leaned toward the mirror, capturing her upper eyelashes in a contraption that looked suspiciously like a medieval torture device, while she thought about the night ahead of her. She’d arrived in DC a few hours earlier for the National Magazine Awards—fortunately Nigel had come in on a later train—but he’d texted her a few minutes ago to suggest she come to his room for a “pre-event toddy.” She’d quickly written back that she’d just gotten back from the hotel gym and needed to shower.

  To tell the truth, she was already dressed in the blue-black satin sheath that had looked charmingly Audrey Hepburn-ish on the hanger. The saleswoman was so enthusiastic that Cate had ended up buying it even though she worried she might look underdressed because it was so plain. Plus—and here was something she’d never tell her magazine colleagues—she hated shopping. If she could, she’d live in jeans and soft, old T-shirts. She compensated for the dress by applying more makeup than usual, outlining her eyes in smudgy kohl, dusting a bit of bronzer on her cheeks, applying two coats of mascara to her curled lashes, and dabbing a soft pink gloss on her lips.

  She studied herself in the mirror, then used a tissue to blot away some of the eyeliner. She wasn’t a big fan of makeup, either, but she’d probably get drummed out of the magazine world if she revealed that. Or at least transferred to Home & Garden.

  She wouldn’t be able to escape from Nigel at dinner, and the ceremony was sure to stretch out for a few hours. Cate was suddenly gripped with the desire to call in sick and spend the rest of the night in her luxurious room at the W hotel, watching old black-and-white movies while she picnicked on the contents of the minibar. Cashews, M&M’s, and Humphrey Bogart had never seemed like such an alluring combination.

  But she was the features editor, and even if she was under-qualified and in over her head—especially because of those things—she needed to act professionally. She’d shake hands and mingle, collect and pass out business cards, smile and somehow get through the night. Then she’d figure out what to do about Sam’s article.

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, which made her decision even tougher. He’d left in too many statistics, but he’d also broadened the personal story of the young polygamous wife, as Cate had demanded. She might be tempted to see this version of his story as a compromise, something she could work with, except that would mean her implied forgiveness for his delay in getting it to her on time.

  The editing process would take at least another week. She wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable battles as she and Sam squared off over every tweak and cut. She should probably just kill the piece, and put in an evergreen article. If she didn’t take a stand, he’d keep trying to push her around, and he might end up shoving her out of her job.

  The problem that she could barely admit to herself was that she doubted her own judgment. She wondered if the story should have more statistics. Had the polygamous-wife angle been overdone? She hated the fact that Sam was making her question herself.

  She reached up and rubbed her neck; apparently the knot in her stomach had spawned a love child there. No matter what happened, the Reece Moss piece would be the splashiest story of the issue, and it would have to hold up the rest of the magazine. God, did she ever need Trey to come through with something spectacular.

  She sighed, picked up her beaded clutch purse, slipped into her heels, and took one last look at herself in the mirror. Her hair was pinned up in a twist, and her earrings dangled halfway down to her bare shoulders. She tucked a credit card, room key, cell phone, and her Chanel lip gloss into her bag, picked up her wrap, then took the elevator to the lobby and climbed into a waiting taxi.

  Fifteen minutes later, she was pulling up in front of the Marriott. She walked into the reception as a few photographers snapped her picture. Cate didn’t flatter herself that the pictures would ever be printed—the photographers were here to capture the certifiable stars on hand to present awards. She scanned the crowd and saw groups clustering around Barbara Walters, Brooke Shields, Aaron Sorkin, and Valerie Bertinelli. There was a big blond guy who looked vaguely familiar until Cate realized she’d just seen him on a TV
show, and a character actress she recognized from the movies. Her torrid love scene flashed briefly before Cate’s eyes. It must be bizarre to expose yourself for a role and know that everyone you met from that moment on would have the same giggly, involuntary thought: I’ve seen you naked!

  Cate kept looking around the room, feeling her shyness cover her like a cloak. So many people, and they all seemed to be locked in conversations. Two big bars, one at either end of the room, did a brisk business serving wine and martinis and Scotch, and waiters cut through the crowd with trays of ceviche shots, seared scallops, and miniature baked Bries with raspberry sauce. She forced herself to lift her chin and take a step down the stairs. She’d wander over to a bar and get a drink and hope she saw somebody she knew. Cate was at the bottom of the staircase when she spotted David, the Gloss photographer who’d pinched Renee’s behind that night at Trey’s party, back when Abby first came to town. It seemed like such a long time ago, Cate thought. She lifted a hand to wave at him, and he broke away from his group to come greet her.

  It was the first nice surprise of the night.

  The awards ceremony wasn’t nearly as bad as Cate had expected. She’d geared up for rubber chicken and speeches that were about as appealing, but her smoky chipotle crab cakes were creamy and tender, and waiters with trays of Grey Goose martinis kept circulating. True, she had to sit next to Nigel, but he was busy entertaining the big General Mills advertiser to his right, and Cate kept up a light chatter with the other staff member in between courses.

  She politely applauded as Vanity Fair beat out Gloss for the general excellence award, applauded harder as Gloss won a profile-writing award, then nearly spilled her drink when Trey’s name was announced as a finalist for the reporting category for a story on a stranded hiker who’d fallen and broken an ankle in the middle of a hundred-mile solo trek.