What little sleep I get.
I officially reached panic level two days ago, which is when Max, Brice’s accountant, e-mailed me with the joyful news that, despite his having gone over Fanning’s books several times, it seems Brice had dipped into a couple of accounts he shouldn’t have—probably fully intending to redeposit the money before payroll was due—but the upshot was, he got bumped off before he could do that and basically, there’s no money. Not at the moment. Max assured me—as did Brice’s lawyer when he called yesterday—that as soon as the assets were liquidated and the creditors paid, the staff would get what was coming to them, but there wasn’t anything anyone could do right now. Especially as the police hadn’t yet released the property.
This news, on top of everything else, has made me just a hair on the testy side, which is why the creep currently sidling up to me on the midtown subway platform should really think twice before doing whatever it is he thinks he’s going to do. I mean, come on, do I look like a tourist, what?
My feet are killing me from running twenty blocks in heels in the sweltering heat between job interviews with two different design firms, both of which were impressed with my portfolio but not hiring (which led me to wonder why the hell they made the appointments to begin with), and now I’m on my way to see yet another apartment that, if it’s anything like the last six I’ve seen, will undoubtedly make me puke. And I’ve missed lunch.
I can sense, more than actually see, that the guy is taller than I am, slender. The platform isn’t crowded at this time of day, but it isn’t empty, either. And I’m standing within sight of the ticket booth, too far from the edge for some loony to push me onto the tracks. So if this creep is out to mug me, he’s got cojones the size of basketballs.
I glance over, notice the size Huge skateboard shoes, black and red, new, closer than they were ten seconds ago. My heart rate kicks up just enough to keep me alert as my right hand fists around my purse strap, straddling my torso as usual. But I’m also carrying my portfolio case today, which dangles from my left hand. My grip tightens around that, too.
The guy closes the gap between us; I decide I do not want to play this game. So I turn, startling the kid, for that’s all he is, by looking him dead in the eye, then head back for the turnstile.
A second later, I feel a hand land on my butt.
A second after that the kid is sprawled on his back on the platform, grabbing his arm where my portfolio made unerring contact.
“Bitch!” the kid bellows, too late realizing the attendant in the booth is watching with great interest.
I smile at the applause that follows me back through the turnstile and up the stairs. No matter how bad things get, it’s moments like this that make me realize why I love this city.
Unfortunately, my euphoria doesn’t last. The apartment was, as Terrie would have so succinctly put it, a shithole. And Annie’s going to be back in less than a week now. Six days, actually.
I plop me and my accoutrements on a park bench somewhere in Washington Heights, too tired and dejected to move. I check my watch: six-thirty. There’s actually something resembling a breeze stirring, although it’s still hot enough to roast a hot dog. Gee. My wedding would have been—I frown, counting—sixteen days ago. Greg and I would have been back from our honeymoon and ensconced in our little—okay, so not so little—Scarsdale love nest for more than a week already. I try not to dwell on the fact that I could have been serving a lovely dinner al fresco right about now. Or getting boffed in an air-conditioned bedroom—
A droopy-drawered teenager ambles by, rap music pulsing from a boom box.
—to Mozart.
I sigh.
To add to my good humor, a funeral cortege crawls by. My first thought is to wonder if the apartment’s available.
Well, this will never do. I haul myself off the bench, trying to remember where the subway stop is. Like a dog, I lift my face, decide it’s that way (at this point, I don’t know from east, west, or whatever). So off I hobble, feeling much like whatever that was that Geoff barfed all over my rug this morning.
After limping along aimlessly for several minutes, I finally run across an old, peanut-size Jewish man out walking his even older cocker spaniel. His yarmulke bobby-pinned to his three remaining strands of white hair, the old man is kind enough to tell me, in heavily Yiddishized English, where the subway stop is. I catch him sneaking a longing look at my legs as I walk away.
I turn the corner at the appointed intersection. The street stretching before me is almost unbearably clean, as if a batallion of elves pour out of the light-bricked, Art deco-era buildings every morning to sweep. And it’s incredibly quiet.
Windowsills bloom with bright flowers in planters. Somebody’s had a baby: a bright banner yells It’s A Girl! from a first-floor window. On the corner, a pair of middle-aged women, their heads wrapped in scarves, exchange gossip. I hear an excited “Mazeltov!” as I pass. One of them gives me a tentative smile. An Asian couple, the woman protectively cradling a tiny baby with a shock of black hair against her chest, laughingly argues on how to set up a recalcitrant collapsible stroller.
I’m charmed.
So when a fifty-ish Hispanic man pops out of one of the buildings, I hear myself asking if he knows, by any chance, whether there are any apartments available.
He studies me, caution simmering his dark eyes—hey, I’d be cautious of me too, the way I look—then nods.
“A one-bedroom on the fourth floor. I’m the super, I can show it to you if you want.”
My heart leaps.
“What’s the rent, do you know?”
He shrugs. “Twelve, maybe fifteen hundred a month, I’m not sure. Plus utilities. It’s a nice apartment. Lots of light. Good closets.”
I swear I hear a choir of angels burst into song. I grin.
“Can I see it right now?”
He shrugs again. “Sure, why not?”
“You sure there’s nothing wrong with the place?”
Two days later, Randall is sitting on my sofa, sorting through a pile of CDs I decided this morning I no longer want, while, a few feet away, I am piling endless books into one of a dozen cartons I begged off the Kinko’s around the corner. A chore that is a true delight, even in the sweltering apartment. Yeah, I thought I’d loved this place—and I did, I really did—but my new apartment…
A rush of pure joy zips through me.
“Rand, it’s incredible. The living room is huge, and it faces south so it’s light all day long, and there’s a whole bedroom with a huge walk-in closet, and a separate kitchen…and all for twelve hundred bucks a month!”
“I don’t get it.” He holds up a stack of CDs. “I’ll take these, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, whatever.”
“There’s gotta be something wrong with it. For that price?”
“Well, there sure wasn’t anything that I could see. It was just painted, and the refrigerator is relatively new. The stove’s on the elderly side and the wood floors are a bit scratched up, but I can deal with that. I can even see the river if I lean out of the living room window far enough.”
Randall rolls his eyes. “And it just happened to be available why?”
“That’s the remarkable thing. The previous tenant had just moved out a couple days before, broke his lease or something, I didn’t get the whole story. Anyway, they’d just gotten it fixed up but hadn’t listed it with a broker yet. And that’s not all my good news. I got a job, too.”
“No shit? Where?”
I name one of the city’s largest department stores.
“They had an opening?”
“They did. I start on Monday. Of course, it will take a while to get my commissions perking again, but I’m going to call some of my clients as soon as I get this move done, tell them I’m back in business.”
Of course, to tell you the truth, I’m not as thrilled with this turn of events as I sound. For one thing, I vowed never to work in a department store, catering to little old ladies who ju
st want new miniblinds for their kitchen. But the store’s furniture buyer seems on the ball, and one can always special order. And if I can get back my clients, it’ll be okay. Besides, a job is a job.
Or so I tell myself.
I get up to yank another box out of the pile teetering by the front door, nearly tripping over the dog. I frown. Despite the resolution of the food issue, Geoff is still not a happy camper. I don’t think he’s sick or anything, but he’s not exactly brimming over with joie de vivre, either.
“I think he misses Brice,” I say. “Hard to believe, considering the way the jerk treated the humans in his life, but I guess he was nice enough to his dog.”
“Some people are like that.” Randall gets up, looms over the dog, who rolls his eyes up at him. “You ask me, I think he’s just pissed. You know, because his life has been turned upside down.”
“Just what I need. A dog with issues. Hey,” I say to the dog, gently nudging his rump with my bare toes. He grudgingly lifts his head, blinks at me. “If I can cope with all the upheaval in my life, you can too. You never heard of adaptability, survival of the fittest and all that crap?”
With a soulful sigh, Geoff lets his head fall back to the floor.
“This could spell the extinction of your breed, you know.”
Randall tilts his head to one side, surveying Geoff’s posterior. “Honey, I hate to tell you this, but this mutt’s propagation days are history.”
“I know that. It’s the principle of the thing. Besides, I hate to see him so unhappy. I can’t help but think it’s my fault, somehow.”
Randall looks at me. “You know, I’m not sure which one of you needs therapy more. Him or you.”
“Well, since I can’t afford it for either one of us, looks like we’re both just gonna have to tough it out.” I bend down, scratching Geoff’s chest. He seems to struggle with his conscience for a moment or two, then laconically lifts one paw to afford me better access. “I just can’t help thinking, though, he’s not going to be a whole lot happier with whatshisname.”
Turns out the only thing Brice left to anybody was the dog, to some young honey I remembered seeing flitting around the place a few years ago. I mean, after living across from Randall and Ted, who have women making futile plays for them all the time, this guy was a shock. Nice enough guy, I suppose, if a bit rough on the nervous system. I have no idea why he and Brice broke up, let alone why Brice left him the dog. Which is all in theory, at the moment, since the lawyer hasn’t been able to get in touch with this Curtiss person, anyway.
I can’t quite tell whether I’m going to be happy or not about giving Geoff up. On the one hand, this animal is as demanding as a whiny three-year-old. On the other, he is a good listener. There’s something to be said for having someone who doesn’t care if you bitch to them first thing when you walk in the door. And he doesn’t torment me with well-meaning advice.
Of course, I don’t think Geoff really cares. Yes, he listens, but his heart’s not really in it, I can tell.
So why the hell am I becoming so attached to him?
“So,” Randall says. “You tell your mother yet you’re moving?”
I get up, move back to my box, surveying the piles of my life teetering all over the apartment. I had virtually nothing when I moved in. Now look at all this crap. Ted’s right. I am a packrat. “Are you nuts?”
“She’s gonna figure out something’s up when she comes over and you’re not here.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t ever going to tell my mother I’m moving. Although the idea is tempting. Once I’m in, then I’ll tell her. No way am I going to give her a chance to try to convince me to move back in with her.”
“You know, that might not have been such a bad idea. Until you get back on your feet financially, I mean.”
I look up, shoving a hunk of hair out of my face. “Would you move back in with yours?”
He actually pales. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Then I’ll consider moving back in with my mother just as soon as you tell yours you’re gay.”
Randall glowers, giving me a glimpse of the little boy he used to be.
“Speaking of which,” I say because I’m sick to death of talking about me, “when’s your brother coming to stay with you?”
“Friday night.”
“And just how have we decided to handle…things?”
“The old-fashioned way. By lying through our teeth.”
I straighten up, my hands on my hips. “And if that’s not the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.”
“Well, nobody asked you, did they, missy?” he says. I snort. “Look, Ginge, it’s just for a week. Al’s going to go stay with her mom. Ted’s going to sleep in her room, I’ll stay in ours, Davis will sleep on the sofa bed in the living room. He’ll think we’re roommates.”
“Like hell he will. Ran, Al’s room definitely looks like the domain of a twelve-year-old girl. Which will not give the impression you’re looking for if you want to pull the wool over your brother’s eyes. Which I think is a dumb idea, anyway.”
“You already said that.”
“Well, it’s worth repeating.”
Randall sighs. “We’re not stupid, Ginge. We’ll put all the girl stuff away.”
“Ran—her walls are pink.”
“So we’ll keep the damn door closed. It’s not like he has any reason to go into Ted’s room anyway, right?”
“Did I mention I think this is a dumb idea? However,” I say over his groan, figuring this is as good a chance as any to spring this on him, “not only is it really none of my business—”
“Thank you.”
“—but since your brother’s going to be here anyway, he can help the two of you help me move.”
A frown smushes down Randall’s brows. “Say what?”
“I’ve got it all worked out. I’m renting a U-Haul, see, and I figure if you and Ted can move the big stuff, Terrie and Shelby and I can do the boxes and what-all. I mean, how long can it take to empty a studio apartment? And if your brother’s here, it’ll go that much faster.” I smile winningly. “One of you drives, right?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, but…”
“Great. I’ll provide all the food and drink you can consume, you help me move. It’ll be fun.”
“You know,” Randall says after a moment, “ten minutes ago, I was thinking how much I was going to miss you.” He opens the door, steps out into the hall. “I take it back.”
I stretch up to peck him on the cheek. He just rolls his pretty black eyes.
Saturday arrives. And with it, the first rain in a month. I haven’t been listening to the news lately, so I totally missed that we were in line to get clobbered by what was left of Hurricane Betsy or Becky or whatever the hell the thing’s name is. Damn storm churned right up the coast, stalling out over Long Island.
Today.
And Terrie called at 6:00 a.m., which was not a problem because I’d been up all night packing anyway, to say she had to go into work this morning, to give her a call when we were leaving and she’d meet us at the other end to help unload.
Somehow, she didn’t sound all that broken up. And I know how much she hates having to go into work on Saturdays.
Then there’s this neurotic dog, who’s been cowering in a corner behind the sofa and whimpering for the past three days. Maybe he thinks I’m going to pack him up, I have no idea. Poor guy. I’ve tried several times to explain to him what’s going on, but I guess he just can’t get past his adaptability hang-up.
Now, having never moved anywhere but within Manhattan, I really have no idea what it’s like anywhere else. I assume the chore is not a pleasant one, even in the best of conditions, like sunny weather and being able to back the moving van right up to the door. Here, however, one has to deal with several obstacles not encountered in suburbia, the most crucial one today being that the closest Ted could park the van was down the block. A long, crosstown block. So we decide Shelby—w
ho for some unaccountable reason thought it would be fun to bring Corey and Hayley, her two kids—can stand guard while we move everything down to the lobby, which fortunately is a good four times the size of my apartment. Once my worldly possessions are amassed, then we can cart everything to the van, like a line of ants. With any luck, the rain will have let up by then and/or a parking space closer to the building will open up. Not that I’m holding my breath, but where there’s life, there’s hope.
But first, we have to get all the stuff down to the lobby, which brings us to Obstacle Number Two: the elevator. Which a) holds four people comfortably, six in a pinch, and b) moves at the speed of a ninety-year-old woman with a walker.
For some reason, other tenants don’t take kindly to having to wait while some idiots on the eighth floor load a million boxes onto the elevator, especially when they discover there’s no room for them when it gets to their floor. People who before either ignored you or mumbled greetings to you in passing are now out for blood. You realize once you leave, you will never be able to return.
But the best part of all this is the discovery that my sofa bed, which weighs seven million pounds, will not fit in the elevator, even on its end. So the guys—including Davis (who is one serious hottie, by the way)—have to carry it down the stairs.
All eight flights of them.
I mentally calculate just how much pizza and beer it’s gonna take to make amends. I doubt there’s that much beer in all of Manhattan.
Panting, sweating and occasionally swearing, they’ve made it to the fifth floor. We’re all wearing T-shirts and shorts in varying degrees of disrepute, humidity and sweat having long since plastered fabric to bodies. In this weather, my hair is doing a Medusa number around my head, bobbing annoyingly as I follow the guys down the stairs, directing them around the two landings between each floor. I know it’s just a sofa, but it’s mine and I love it. Besides, I can’t afford another one.
“Watch out!” I shriek for probably the tenth time as the sofa back comes perilously close to impalement on a metal newel post. My voice, not the most dulcet at the best of times, reverberates in the stairwell like a kid banging pots with a spoon.
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