High Tea & Flip-Flops

by Linda Cassidy Lewis

I stare at her until she gives me a look that questions my intelligence. I close my gaping mouth, but I’m breathing fire through my nose at this British bimbo for daring to tell me the man I love is her fiancé. But then, logic triumphs. It’s Mr. Jeremy Fucking Liar Pearce I should be angry with.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’ve met him. He lives in 2A.” Without thinking, I point to his terrace.

  “Thank you,” she says to me, and then to herself, “What could he be thinking?”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  Her eyes narrowed, she appraises me. “It’s 2A, you said?” Not waiting for an answer, she walks away.

  When she starts to climb the stairs she reaches toward the railing but then draws back her hand and wipes it on her skirt like she’d dirtied it by hovering within six inches of something the commoners use. I hate this woman. And here I thought Jeremy was the snooty one. Then again, if he asked a snob like her to marry him, I guess I judged him right the first time.

  Well, fuck you, about-to-be Mr. and Mrs. High Tea. Who needs you?

  Gathering what’s left of my dignity, I march to my apartment, already dialing Gabi. By the time she answers her phone, I’m boohooing my head off.

  “My God, Chelsea, what’s wrong? Is it your mother?”

  “No.” I wipe my nose on the hem of my tank top and try to breathe.

  “Are you hurt? Oh God, Chels, where are you? Did you call 911?”

  “He’s … engaged.”

  “What? Wait. Who’s engaged?”

  “Jeremy.”

  Dead silence. Then she screams, “I’m going to kill you for scaring the hell out of me like that.”

  “But, Gabi, he’s engaged.”

  Another silence. Then, slowly she says, “Chelsea? Are you in love with Jeremy?”

  “No. No, of course not.” Sniff. “Well, not really.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I mean, I thought we might be headed in that direction. Sometime. In the future. You know?”

  “Even though you understood the sex was just a benefits thing.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Did you tell him you love him?”

  Yes. You made a fool of yourself. You let him make a fool of you.

  “No, I didn’t tell him. Why?”

  “I thought maybe you had, and he brushed you off saying he’s engaged.”

  “That’s not what happened.” Sniff. “I met her.”

  “You met his fiancée?”

  “Yes. And boy is she a bitch.”

  “Hold on.” Gabi muffles the phone—I hear her talking to someone but can’t make out what she’s saying. “Chelsea? I’ll be there in ten.”

  I’m on the sofa, lying on my stomach, trailing my fingers over the carpet, touching the spot where the pizza sauce stain used to be. Jeremy’s gone from my life, just like the stain. I start crying again.

  Above, his patio door rumbles to a close. If I’d come straight in and gone to my patio after she went upstairs, I probably could have heard them talking. Lucky me. I missed eavesdropping on their joyous lovey-dovey reunion. I feel sick.

  The next thing I know, Gabi’s thrusting a triple-scoop chocolate marshmallow fudge sundae under my nose and ordering me to sit up and eat.

  “I want you to know I had no idea he was engaged,” she says. “But I also didn’t realize you were totally in love with him.”

  “I’m not. I told you—”

  “Bull. You’re talking to me, Chelsea. You think I’m going to believe you’re a total basket case because you lost a friend?”

  I take two more bites before I speak again. “You know what’s funny? At first, I thought you were my rival.”

  “Me? Where did you get that crazy idea?”

  I gesture out the patio door with my spoon. “The way you two were laughing together, and then he looked you up at work and took you to lunch, and—”

  “We were laughing because he’s a funny guy—in that droll kind of way—and he didn’t look me up at work, he was just shopping in The Village and stopped in to say hello. And I am engaged to Matt, you know.”

  “I know. Hey, when you and Jeremy talked over lunch he never mentioned her?”

  “Not even a hint. In fact …” She bites her lip.

  “In fact what?”

  “Well, when I invited him to the softball game, he wasn’t too interested until I mentioned you’d be there.”

  For a moment, the ice cream tastes sweeter … and then I remember that his fiancée looked at me like I was dog crap on her precious Louboutins. If that’s the kind of woman he likes, I never really had a chance.

  “I guess he just wanted me for booty calls.”

  “The jerk.” Gabi looks murderous. “It’s better that you found out about her now, though. Right?”

  I nod. “You should see her.”

  “I did.”

  I stab the spoon in the last scoop. “What? When?”

  “On my way in here. They were leaving.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so. But she saw me and then looked right through me.”

  “Figures. You should have seen her when she got out of the taxi. She looked shocked. Like she’d been dropped off in the middle of a ghetto or something. Seriously, she thought she had the wrong address. And she wouldn’t even touch the handrail on the stairs. No joke.”

  Gabi sneers at such blatant snobbery. “Actually, Jeremy didn’t look happy as they were walking to his car.”

  “Really?” I set the ice cream dish on the coffee table. “What do you think that means?”

  “Well …”

  “Maybe he wasn’t happy to see her.”

  “Or maybe he was just lost in thought.”

  “Or maybe he was about to break their engagement, and then she shows up at his door.”

  “Or maybe he just had a headache.”

  “What the hell, Gabi? You’re supposed to be on my side. You’re the one who fixed me up with him in the first place.”

  “I didn’t exactly fix you up with him. It was supposed to be a group thing.”

  “A double date.”

  “Not really. But none of that matters now. Right? Now we know he’s a lying, cheating, SOB.”

  “But—”

  “Chelsea. He’s engaged. To be married. Forget him.”

  I wrap my arms around a throw pillow and sulk. For thirty seconds. “But what if he still looks unhappy when they come back? That would tell us something, right? Oh! Maybe he drove her straight back to her hotel and told her to fly home.”

  Her gaze slides away from mine. “I don’t think so.”

  I toss the pillow on the floor and grab her by the shoulders. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Did she arrive here with luggage?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Well, when they left, he was carrying a leather duffel.”

  “Crap.” I slump in the corner of the sofa again.

  “I’m sorry, Chelsea. But it’s better that you found out now.”

  I shrug.

  “His loss,” she says and holds my hand while I cry again. She senses when my sorrow switches to anger and pulls me to my feet. “Let’s go hit the 7-Eleven and buy all the Slurpees, chips, and candy bars we can carry. My treat.”

  As a best friend, Gabi tops the charts.

  Sugar can only do so much. Gabi, assured that I wasn’t suicidal, went home hours ago. Now I’m alone. Alone. That word has a new meaning tonight. No Jeremy above my ceiling. And definitely no Jeremy lying beside me. Ever again.

  He didn’t come right back. He didn’t come home at all. He’s gone somewhere with her. I’ve been lying here in the dark searching my memory for anything that should have clued me in that he’s a “lying, cheating, SOB” like Gabi said. Why didn’t I at least overhear a lovey-dovey phone call? Or catch a glimpse of an email or text? Something.

  Oh. Different time zones.

  Or, because I wanted him so badly, did I
purposely blind myself to the signs Jeremy had another life? We didn’t spend all our time together. He made and received phone calls and emails I knew nothing about. And she was way over there in England. Actually, he didn’t even have to try very hard to hide the truth, did he?

  I knew he was hiding things. How many times did he start to say something then stop? And I never pressed him about it. I respected his privacy. Stupid me. I actually felt sorry for him because of his problems with his father. Was any of that even true? He played me for a fool all along, didn’t he? If I could stand to see him again, I’d rip his face off.

  My phone sounds a text notification and my traitorous heart leaps. But it’s only Gabi.

  Try to sleep.

  So she’ll think I am sleeping, I don’t respond, but she texts again.

  I’m here for you. Always.

  I know. TTYL

  I’m going to hate how I’ll look in the morning after crying myself to sleep, but I can’t help it. Who’s going to see me anyway?

  By eight o’clock the next morning, I’m showered and dressed but don’t know what to do next. Do I still have a job? Am I supposed to continue what I’ve been doing for Chancing Press? I grab my laptop and check my email—nothing from Jeremy. Then I sign in to the Chancing Press account successfully. He hasn’t blocked my access. That’s a good sign, right?

  “But seriously, Chelsea, could you keep working with Jeremy after this?” What a ridiculous situation I’m in. “This is why workplace romances never work, idiot.”

  Not to mention friends with benefits. Jeremy and I aren’t exceptions to the rule after all.

  I pick up my phone and tap the clock to check the current time in London. Evening. Dinnertime. Wait. Maybe they never went to London. Maybe they’re still here in her hotel room. Good thing I saw the letterhead. I order my phone to give me the hotel’s number, and ten seconds later I’m dialing it. But I end the call before anyone answers because I realize the room won’t be registered in Jeremy’s name. It would be in that bitch’s name, which I don’t know and never want to hear.

  “And why are you calling him anyway?” Oh, wow. I’m talking to myself way more than usual. That’s not a good sign.

  The phone ringing in my hand startles me so badly that I throw it away from me. Fortunately, it lands safely on the carpet. My mother’s face is on the screen when I retrieve it. Damn. Gabi is certainly living up to her nickname.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hey, sweetie, are we still on for lunch?”

  A knife in the heart. I forgot Jeremy and I were supposed to meet her. Nothing in her voice tells me she knows he’s gone, so I lie. “Jeremy can’t make it today. He … has to Skype with his editor.”

  “Oh, shoot. Well, we’ll just have to take him to Mama Mia’s another time. Do you want me to pick you up?”

  “No, I’ll meet you.”

  “At noon.”

  “Of course.” My mother insists on eating at peak hours. Why would she offer to drive all the way over here to pick me up when Mama Mia’s is two minutes from her house? She loves me, that’s why. Crap. More crying.

  *

  I barely make it to the restaurant in time and then have to drive around the block twice before I find a parking spot. Mama Mia’s is my mom’s favorite restaurant. We’ve been coming here for as long as I can remember. Luisa, the owner, has to be pushing seventy, and though she’s lived in this country for half her life, she still has a strong accent. She’s practically a relative—a loud, plump, loud, lovable, loud, grandma. Did I mention she’s loud?

  My mom’s seated at her favorite table. Luisa, who’s talking to her, spots me as I approach. I prepare myself for her vigorous greeting, which is always the same whether I’ve seen her one week or six months ago.

  “Let me look at you,” she cries, squashing my cheeks with both hands. “So beautiful, this one.”

  “Thank you, Mama Luisa.”

  “So sweet, this one,” she yells into my ear as she crushes me in a hug. “Isn’t she sweet, Marie? You sit. I bring the wine.”

  As Luisa walks away, I take the chair opposite my mom’s. There are no menus on the table. Since Luisa counts us among her special customers, she serves whatever she wants us to eat. It’s weird, but I’m used to it.

  “I hope she’s serving something light today because I don’t think my stomach can handle a heavy meal.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I know I’ve stuck my foot in it.

  “Are you sick?” my mom asks.

  “No. I just—”

  She gasps. “Are you … you know?”

  Pregnant. She means pregnant. “No. Of course I’m not.”

  “Well, it can happen. Even when you’re careful.”

  “Hence the six-year gap between me and Scott.” I was trying to make a joke, but my mother frowns and reaches across the table to pat my hand.

  “You may have been a surprise, Chelsea, but you’ve always been loved.”

  “I know, Mom. I love you too.”

  She smiles. “Anyway. I’m not stupid. It’s obvious that you and Jeremy are—” She makes a gesture with her hands so vague that no sane person could figure out what it means, but she glances around, blushing.

  “No, we aren’t.” And then it hits me that I’m not lying. We’re not—anymore. Luisa arrives with a bottle of prosecco just as I burst into tears. “Jeremy’s …”

  “Jeremy?” Luisa says.

  “Her boyfriend,” my mom tells her.

  I shake my head. Through my sobs I manage to say, “He’s … engaged to … someone else.”

  “Christo santo!” Luisa crosses herself, then fires off a string of Italian—which sounds nothing like a prayer—before switching to English. Did I mention Luisa’s voice gets even louder when she’s angry? “Her boyfriend is engaged to another woman!” she calls out, which serves as an explanation to all the other customers who’ve stopped eating and are staring at me.

  The men cringe as women’s voices erupt around us. With them all speaking at once, I can only make out a word or two, which is just as well because it seems they’ve taken Jeremy’s betrayal personally. Luisa strangles me with a badly aimed hug. She’s still speaking in Italian, but I recognize Jeremy’s name a couple of times, and I think I heard the word vendetta in there.

  My mother rescues me by grabbing the bottle of wine and filling a glass to the brim. Luisa snaps back into hostess mode, simultaneously freeing me and handing the glass to me. “Drink. Drink to you, not to that bastard.”

  Her accent strikes me as funny, and that’s how I end up laughing and crying and being cheered on as I guzzle sparkling wine for lunch the day after the love of my life turns out to be a bastard.

  Surprisingly, my mom says very little during lunch, other than to urge me to eat something because I’m drinking so much wine. And, yes, I get a little drunk. So as we leave the restaurant, she takes my keys.

  “I’ll drive you home in your car,” she says.

  “Mom, please, just get me a taxi.”

  “And then you’ll have to take another taxi to come get your car tomorrow.”

  “But—” I forget what I was going to say. I start giggling. She opens the passenger door of my car and forces me in. As she drives, I close my eyes and enjoy the buzz. The next thing I know, she’s shaking me awake in the apartment parking lot.

  Inside, I lie on the sofa while she makes a pot of coffee. “I have to start looking for another job.”

  “Jeremy fired you?” she calls from the kitchen.

  “Mom. I can’t believe you’d expect me to keep working with him.”

  She doesn’t respond until the coffee’s ready. “Here, sit up and drink this.” She sits beside me. “In the first place, you haven’t explained why you think Jeremy is engaged to someone else.”

  “Think he’s engaged?” I don’t need the coffee now. I set down my cup and get up to start pacing. But my legs are still a little unsteady, so I just stand. “You think I made this up?”

>   “Of course I don’t think you made it up. I think you misunderstood.”

  “Misunderstood?” Okay, I can’t remember what I said in the restaurant. Maybe I didn’t give her all the facts. “Mom. I met his fiancée. What did I misunderstand?”

  “You met a woman who said she’s his fiancée. Jeremy didn’t confirm that.”

  “Yeah, Mom, I think he did. He packed his clothes and ran off with her. That’s a pretty clear confirmation.”

  “Have you talked to him since then?”

  “No. He hasn’t called me. Or texted. I’m sure he hasn’t given me a single thought.”

  “You could call him.”

  “And say what, Mom?”

  “Start with, where are you?” She pats the cushion beside her, and I sit back down. “I think that question is a perfectly valid one to ask him. After all, he left without saying a word to you.”

  “He didn’t leave. He ran off because he didn’t want to face me. I know who he’s with. It doesn’t matter where.” Crap. Here come the tears again. “I don’t know why you’re not furious with him too.”

  She hugs me. “I am furious with him for upsetting you, sweetie. I just don’t think we have the full story.” She dials her phone, requests a taxi, and then sits with me until it arrives. “I’m sorry I have to leave you like this, but maybe it’s best. Go take a nap.”

  I nod. She opens the door and then turns back. “Call him.”

  Ohmygod. Really?

  CHAPTER 21

  Almost twenty-four hours later, I finally dial Jeremy’s phone. I don’t care what time it is wherever he is. I have a legitimate business matter to discuss with him. But the call doesn’t go through. It rings and rings and then nothing. What the hell? Did he reject my call? What a chicken shit.

  How could he do that? The official publication day for the first California novel is five days away. The book’s already for sale on Amazon and should show up on the other vendor sites today or tomorrow. Then our promotion campaign is scheduled to move up a level. It’s crunch time, and he’s run off “on holiday” with Snooty Bitch.

  “I care more about this book than he does,” I tell my laptop. And then it hits me how much I really do care. I’ve worked hard setting up a marketing plan—not to mention all the research and editing I did before that. Our trip up to Carmel was going to be for research, but it was also supposed to celebrate this book. “Thanks for ruining everything, Jeremy.”