Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series)

by Moondi, Romi

  My friend Eleanor was one such female hottie. Even in gloomy April, when the breeze brought a chill and the rain beat hard against the restaurant window, she looked gorgeous. Not even a single strand of her long brown curls was out of place. To think this was her low-effort “office look.” Luckily she was smart and hilarious too, which was the reason we could actually be friends. She draped her coat over her seat and sat down, smiling at me as I struggled to remove my own (my own fault for wearing too-tight coats because I’m always afraid of looking “boxy”).

  “So how was your birthday off work?” she asked.

  As exhilarating as my birthday had felt, a story about editing a book and then going to the museum would bore any human to tears. So I chose my words carefully. And briefly. “Productive and inspiring. Now let’s eat!”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Hold on...you started the final re-write of your book yesterday. This is a BIG deal, so stop glossing over it!”

  I sighed and looked out the window, replacing the rainy scene with a fantasy where I wound up selling millions of copies. Then I remembered reality. “This won’t be a big deal until people start reading the book, leaving reviews, telling their friends...and all of that assumes I will actually find a few readers!” I frowned. “Anybody can self-publish, but telling a story that people care about?” I shook my head. “We’ll see.”

  “We WILL see,” said Eleanor. “I have a feeling about you.” She smiled at me knowingly, while Amy tossed her menu at the table’s edge.

  “I already know what I want,” said Amy. “Tons of food and to go back to work as late as possible!”

  I nodded. “Ugh, I know. Having a day off work in the middle of the week blows. Sucks being back...” My voice trailed off as my face disappeared into the menu.

  “So what if you’re back at the office?” said Amy. “At least you got promoted!” She punched my shoulder in a way that would leave a mark. Ouch! Amy may have come in a small package, but with two years of boxing classes she could take down an army of ninjas. At first glance you’d never guess it, with her warm inviting smile, soft brown hair to her shoulders, and matching big brown eyes. But it was there, always bubbling underneath the surface.

  I’d actually been missing Amy’s abuse, since I’d moved two floors away from her and Eleanor, the result of my recent promotion. It didn’t seem like a big distance, but different floors were like different time zones at our office. Now we would only see each other on scheduled coffee breaks. Tragic. How I’d convinced the higher-ups I was actually doing a good job was a new accomplishment in bullshitting. It also meant a lot more responsibility in planning weekly promotions, and a brand new boss I was having some trouble figuring out. Maybe if he actually showed up for work more than twice a week...

  For now I was simply glad that my employer was clueless to my far-fetched dream: save all my money, take a year off, and move to Paris to write my next book. And maybe run into James while I’m there. Like every weekend or so. Whatever. The only thing I had to figure out was not running out of money in the first two months. And not having my strict Indian parents kill me, for embarking on a coming-of-age adventure that was clearly ten years too late. The last thing they wanted was their unmarried daughter going off on a Parisian adventure. In fact, the only adventure they wanted me to have was the one where you get married to a nice Indian man, and constantly give birth to sons. A sweat-shop birthing factory, specializing in infants with penises. My poor ovaries.

  I focused my attention back to the menu, and ordered the worst thing you could have on a diet and the best thing you could have on your (belated) birthday: a mountain of pasta in a thick cream sauce.

  I took a sip of water and glanced at Amy, her big inviting smile in perfect place. It seemed a bit odd considering her recent break-up.

  “I’m so impressed with how well you’re doing!” I said.

  She slowly pushed her hair behind her ears. “With what?”

  Eleanor snorted. “I hope I can be that relaxed when I break up with my boyfriend.”

  I snorted back. “If you ever LET someone be your boyfriend.”

  Amy completed the snort cycle. “You’re one to talk! How’s your overseas dude who’s not even your boyfriend?”

  I blushed, knowing full well that the long-distance scenario would always lose this game. Another reason to ban foreigners until I move to Europe. “Nicely played. But seriously, how are you not sad? You were with him for two years!” Her expression darkened for a brief moment. “I mean I don’t WANT you to be sad.” I quickly added. “But I need to make sure you’re okay. Are you?”

  She smiled and it seemed genuine. “He wanted things I didn’t want, and I can’t handle being tied down so that was that. And now I can actually talk to guys in clubs!” She closed her eyes and started dancing with her hands, striking awkward poses that would have horrified Madonna.

  It wasn’t her horrible hand-dance that stunned me most, but her virtual lack of emotion. Had her obsessive, emotional girly-gene been removed? And if so, how fast could I sign up for this medical procedure myself? It’d be a perfect fix for all my lingering thoughts about James.

  “You’re such a dude,” said Eleanor.

  Yes, Amy was part-dude, and I needed some of that “dudeness” to rub off on me...

  ***

  About a month later, as the thrashing rain of April now gave way to a warm May breeze, my parents returned from India, bringing back what seemed like half the country’s textile industry. My parents had started visiting India every year now, with their snowbird retirement home now built, along with the friends that came with it. These visits were my ticket to drunken late nights out, now that my parents and I were back to living under one roof (as was custom in the pathetic lives of unmarried Indian-Canadians). This latest visit to India had been entirely focused on buying every textile, jewel and shoe for my older sister Neema’s wedding and the events preceding it.

  My sister was a master of deception, as she’d secretly dated her husband-to-be Anil for over a year, with my parents blindly believing their upcoming marriage was arranged. In addition to being sneaky she also liked to be in control, which was why she’d tagged along on my parents’ India trip (to have veto power over every outfit she’d be wearing). For an Indian tailor Neema was a dream, with her long skinny arms and accompanying stick body. As for me, five-foot-seven and slightly curvy by Indian standards, I was the unmarried sister of the bride. It didn’t matter what I wore, as long as I didn’t steal the spotlight.

  Neema and I now sat in my parents’ room, waiting for my mother to distribute the goods. The first bulging suitcase flipped open, and every smell and memory from India I had was released. The honking horns and scary driving on the rural two-lane highways, the truck stops where they’d serve you hot tea and fresh roti at four a.m, sweaty high noon at the Golden Temple, where you and a thousand others were waiting to make the pilgrimage...it was all seeping out of that suitcase.

  “Take out my dresses first before they get ruined!” my sister cried. There was a whole six weeks to go before the wedding, but my sister was already well on her way to unleashing her inner “Bridezilla.” This did not bode well for me.

  Unfazed by my sister’s “crazies,” my mother crouched down on the floor, and at her own comfortable pace, started pulling each item out of the suitcase. My mother was the sort of person who with her stout figure and two bad knees really shouldn’t have been crouched on the floor at any time, but her control-freak demeanour kept us from ever questioning these things.

  I always felt uncomfortable in my parents’ bedroom, not because I was afraid to imagine anything that had ever gone on in here (yeah right, I came from a stork), but because it was all so formal. Nothing ever seemed used or had a speck of dust on it, and the mirror/dresser combo was the biggest I’d ever seen. Was this a room for giants? It was creepy and looming and cold.

  “Give it to me!”cried Neema. I was startled by her bratty voice, but quickly realized
what her hissy-fit was all about. Wrapped in plastic and glimmering from within...was her wedding dress.

  This bright pink half-sleeve blouse, long wide skirt and head-covering would be worn during the Sikh wedding ceremony in the morning. The reception dress would be a totally different and stunning affair.

  My sister carefully removed the dress from its plastic cover, and in an instant I was blinded. The bright pink fabric was all lit up by the most intricate fake-jewel-encrusted embroidery I’d ever seen. I reached out to touch the material but she slapped my hand away. “Don’t even think about it.”

  This big reveal outfit showcase was suddenly becoming very boring if I wasn’t going to be a part of it. I rose to leave but in that very moment, my mother tossed a package in my direction. I barely caught it by the edge but when I did I understood: my saree for the reception.

  “I found it for you on the last day,” said my mother. My sister seemed suddenly curious, like she hadn’t been involved in the decision.

  I peeked inside and was startled by the level of embroidery. It was a pink and gold saree that in non-Indian terms would be a horrific colour combination, but in Indian-party terms would be perfect. Neema would be wearing white and purple for the party, so there was no need for her to feel upstaged. Even so, I folded the package back up and kept it out of view.

  But Bridezilla was already on it.

  She snatched the package and pulled out the saree carelessly.

  Her expression changed from surprised to nonchalant to a sneer.

  “Whatever,” she said. “Don’t even think about wearing big earrings.”

  “They won’t be as big as yours, but they’ll be big.”

  She glared at me. “We’ll see about that.”

  In that small moment I realized that in the weeks to follow, Bridezilla would make my life a living Hell…

  ***

  A week later, over afternoon tea with the family, we all poured over the calendar of events.

  “Are we getting the videographer for the mendhi party?” my sister asked. I was actually excited for that, since getting henna painted on our hands would result in a lot of curious looks when I went back to work. And boy did I love attention.

  My dad seemed confused. “You never told me to book a cameraman for that. That’s a whole extra night!”

  Smoke started escaping from my sister’s ears, as my mother calmly poured some more tea. My younger brother Sonny as always tried his best not to smile, since to him family conflict was utterly amusing. He pushed his greasy mop of hair to one side and smirked in preparation for the outburst.

  “How many times in your life does your daughter get married?!” she cried. “We are not going cheap!” Was this the same sister who’d been afraid to say “no” to my parents’ arranged marriage set-ups? These outbursts were building some vicarious courage in me, and I liked it.

  “What are we going to do for your sister then?” said my father, his exasperation quickly rising. “Have her wedding reception at home in the basement?”

  Excuse me?

  Not that I was in any hurry to get married, but the basement was also where my cat Tommy’s litter box was. Let’s be serious.

  I consulted the rest of the calendar, and one by one, I noticed all the events that were labelled with my name. In fact, my name was listed on almost every day in June. And were they even really “events”? It was more like a snapshot of the hired help’s summary of tasks. From decorating, to arranging hundreds of parting gifts, to cleaning up the yard (which my brother wouldn’t do since he was useless), to making a slideshow “life summary” for the couple, to taking care of all the guests when they arrived the week before...would I even have time to attend the wedding?

  I pushed the paper away and glared at Neema. “You know I’m going to be working this whole time...right?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and took a sip of tea. “You’ll have plenty of time once you come home from work.”

  I just about growled as my rage bubbled over, but at the last second switched it to a cough. Calmer now, I cleared my throat to speak. “I got promoted last month and this job’s not that easy. I could be working late like twice a week...or maybe more.”

  “Then learn how to multi-task,” she said casually, as my fists tightly clenched into balls.

  I exhaled as slowly as I could, to expel this latest cycle of rage. And that’s when I had an idea, as my eyes suddenly filled with hope. “You should get a wedding planner!”

  This was somehow the best punch-line ever, as my sister started laughing like one of those really loud drunk women in the audience of a comedy club.

  My mother, sitting at the table now and frowning as usual, was kind enough to do the translation. “Wedding planning is a waste of time! Everything is planned for free, IF the bride’s sister does a good job.” She nodded in my direction. “It’s a sign of respect.”

  I almost spit out my tea as my father nodded in agreement. Sonny wasn’t even trying to hide his laughter, as he sensed my forthcoming demise.

  All I could do was stare at the calendar hard to the brink of watery eyes, hoping all those blocks would somehow blur into nothing. When that didn’t work, I wiped my eyes and noticed one free block of time, which would quickly come and go in the next two weeks.

  Time for an emergency vacation...

  Chapter Three

  I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the planes take off.

  Feeling a bit nervous, I rummaged through my bag until I pulled out a chocolate bar.

  Then I went to town on it.

  My best friend Laura was sitting across from me in the departure lounge, next to her tanned and luscious boyfriend Dave. Laura and I had survived our first jobs together after graduation, high up on the seventieth floor of a ruthless corporate monster. The only other things that could’ve brought us any closer would’ve been war...or lesbianism. At the moment my non-lesbian Laura watched me inhale the chocolate with a look of concern. “Romes, it’s nine a.m.”

  “I’m stress-eating,” I said between bites.

  Laura’s blonde curls and petite curvy body were the perfect match for Dave’s cropped dark hair and muscled frame. They were the cutest Italian-Canadian couple this side of Toronto.

  They were also wearing matching blue T-shirts and jeans.

  It was cute and revolting, actually.

  Laura continued to look disturbed by my now half-eaten chocolate bar. “Look, I know it’s not the best destination,” she said. “But you didn’t even give me two weeks notice. And I already had this planned!”

  I crumpled up the wrapper and squeezed it in my hand. “I honestly thought I could handle it...but now we’re just hours away and I’m not so sure. I mean NEW YORK? That’s me and James! I should’ve just gone somewhere alone.” I sighed.

  Laura nearly leapt from her chair and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Like where? Hawaii?! Where were you going to go with ten days notice? And how much money would you have blown when you’re supposed to be dreaming of Paris? Hmm?” Oh right, I forgot about that pipe dream. “Instead you’ve got four solid days in New York, with Dave’s company paying for the hotel.” She smiled. “AND you’ve got me. So maybe you don’t have James right now, but this can be our no-man trip!”

  She retreated back to her chair but I frowned. “But YOU brought a man,” I said. “Dave’s wang is a direct violation of the girls’ trip code.”

  Dave, looking slightly embarrassed, quickly rose from his chair. “I have to use the bathroom.” He walked away at a more hurried pace than his usual swagger.

  Laura shook her head at me disapprovingly. “Don’t forget that his ‘wang’ is attached to his business trip and your free accommodations.”

  I nodded sarcastically. “Yes, yes, bow to the wang!” All I knew for sure was that this trip would need some serious memory-numbing alcohol.

  New York, my new nemesis...

  ***

  A ninety-minute-and-counting delay later,
we were still waiting around in the departure lounge. Dave had tuned out the world with his headphones, while Laura’s head was buried in the latest Hollywood gossip mag. Meanwhile I flipped another page of “Eat Pray Love” with a snort. “Yeah, ‘cause you just waltz into Bali and magically find your soul-mate.”

  Laura looked up from her magazine. “Isn’t that a true story?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Wildly embellished, I’m sure.”

  Laura’s expression suddenly changed. “So what did you tell your parents about this trip? It was pretty out of the blue and all.”

  I smiled. “I said it was a business trip, like usual. This time they didn’t even blink; too much craziness and arguing over wedding preparations.”

  “Looks like Bridezilla’s helping you out then.”

  “Yeah...for now. Once I get home I’ll be her twenty-four-hour slave. Which means I better find a way to enjoy this trip.” I sighed. “Did I mention we’ll be needing alcohol?”

  The intercom bell softly dinged, and a voice with a disturbing amount of cheer now called for us to board.

  As we gathered our things, Laura leaned in close to me when Dave wasn’t looking. “I want you to know you’re not a third wheel,” she whispered. I couldn’t tell if there was pity in her voice so I let her continue. “Seriously, he’s gonna be in meetings half the time, so what would I do without you? You’re helping ME out!”

  I could tell it was real so I smiled. “Either way, I know I’d never be a third wheel,” I calmly said. “I mean come on; you guys get four whole days of full access to this.” I waved my hands around my face and boobs and crotch as she laughed.