Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  For a while there, I was doing just fine as the disgruntled, passed over contributing editor. In fact, a strange calm had settled over me. A calm that allowed me to compose articles and develop captions and savvy headlines in a more timely and efficient manner than I ever had before. It was as if I had become indifferent to the impact my work would have on others, and this attitude, oddly enough, made my job easier to do. It was like sleepwalking during a hike up Mount Everest. Though I would probably never make it to the top, I would somehow manage to get by, as long as I didn’t open my eyes and see the jagged cliffs below.

  Then Caroline went and stirred things up. I was sitting cross-legged in my cubicle, meticulously renaming all my file folders as part of my newfound desire to see myself as one of the holy organized few, when I felt Caroline’s now very pregnant presence in my doorway. As I greeted her cheerfully, I saw a look of concern in her expression that I wondered at, until she asked me to meet me in her office for “a chat” when I had “a free moment.”

  Naturally I was worried. Had someone overheard me mimicking Patricia’s soft-spoken speeches about the magic of Bridal Best? Did Marcy let out that I was the one responsible for the decapitated bride layout that was hung anonymously on the lunchroom wall?

  I dropped everything I was doing and hurried after Caroline. Though I was not really ready to face my fate, I was clearly unable to live with the unknown.

  By the time I reached her doorway, Caroline had already seated herself among the mounds of paper that filled her office. Despite the fact that she was on the verge of leaving for three months on maternity leave, she seemed just as unfazed as ever by the endless deadline pressure and general insanity of life at Bridal Best. She even looked serene as she bent her head over the layout before her. I almost ran away, suddenly not wanting to disturb her, when she looked up, blinking at me in surprise. “Oh, Emma. You’re here already. Well, come in,” she said, gesturing to the seat across from her. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  I obeyed, sitting anxiously while she finished reviewing the spread before her. When she finally looked up at me, I saw the same concern I’d seen earlier still creasing her brow.

  “How’s everything going, Emma?” she asked.

  So determined was I to wipe that worry from her brow that I immediately launched into a relentlessly cheerful speech about how wonderful everything was, how focused I was lately, how organized I was becoming. How my desk was so clean and well maintained that I could perform surgery there, if necessary—this last said with my usual token laugh.

  Caroline was not amused. “That’s all well and good, Emma. But I want to know how you’re doing.”

  Suddenly I knew what was coming. Caroline was that kind of touchy-feely boss who likes to make sure on a regular basis that the employees in her care are feeling happy and loved. And since I had so recently exhibited signs of despair, I felt sure she wanted to get to the bottom of things with me.

  I stifled a sigh. “I’m great. Life is great.”

  “How’s the writing going?”

  “Good, good,” I replied. After all, I had handed in my last two articles on time and after little toil. Suddenly I worried that maybe my lack of toil was resulting in lackluster writing. If that was the case, then I needed to know. “Uh…has there been…I mean, have you had some negative feedback on me, uh, recently?”

  “No, no. Not at all,” Caroline said, shaking her head in denial. “I was just concerned, that’s all. I thought you might have been…distracted by recent events in this office.”

  I knew the “events” she referred to. Rebecca’s promotion. My downfall. Since the subject could no longer be avoided, I launched into it. “Well, to be honest, Caroline, things have gotten…easier for me since the decision to promote Rebecca was made. I’m concentrating better on my writing. And everything is just going…easier.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  I smiled back, relieved to have reestablished my position as a contented employee with Caroline.

  “The truth is,” Caroline continued, “I was surprised you ever wanted the senior features editor position at all.”

  This took me aback. What did she think I was doing here, anyway? Did she expect me to be some sort of corporate slave forever, endlessly belting out copy on the magic of happily-ever-after and all the nightmarish preparation that went into planning for it?

  As if she read my mind, Caroline continued, “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. It’s just that I’ve always seen your writing as your strength. It’s one of the reasons I wanted you on my team as a contributing editor. Truthfully there’s very little writing involved in the senior features position. Mostly management stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “I should know.” Then she smiled. “I don’t know if I ever told you this, but I used to fancy myself a writer. Right after college I wrote a lifestyles column for a newspaper back home in Ohio. Of course, that was before I met my husband and his job brought us to the East Coast and me to Bridal Best. When I first got here, I was the reigning writer on the staff, until I got offered a spot in management and spent more time assigning articles than actually writing them.” She smiled. “You know, when you came on board, I saw a little of myself in you.”

  Now I was really shocked. Caroline, Miss Perfect Wife, Mother and Manager, saw herself in me?

  “Of course, I could have kept up the writing on the side, but a lot of other things got in the way of my pursuing that dream,” she said. “All good things, of course. Miles and I bought the house, and it needed so much work to make it a home. Then Sarah came along, surprise, surprise.” She chuckled.

  Surprise, surprise, indeed, I thought. Up until now, I had always believed Caroline had carefully orchestrated every moment of her life, from puberty on. First boyfriend, first husband, first cozy Connecticut farmhouse and then three perfectly behaved and beautiful children.

  “By the time my second child was born,” she continued, “I was up for a management position. How could I turn down that money when my family needed so much? When my husband and I wanted so much for our kids?” Her face suddenly took on a wistful expression, and my heart leaped out to her. I had always seen Caroline’s life as a dream-come-true—not as something that might have stifled a dream.

  As if she read my mind again, she said, “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret the choices I made. My life with my family is good, and it gave me great satisfaction to build it with my husband. The writing—that will come someday, in its own time.” Then her gaze focused on me. “But for some of us, that time could come sooner, if we don’t let ourselves get sidetracked by…misplaced ambitions.”

  I swallowed, hard, ever ready to deny that I had any ambitions other than to be one of the best at Bridal Best. But I knew Caroline wasn’t looking for my pledge of allegiance to the company. She was looking for something more. Like my hopes and dreams. Things that, for reasons I didn’t want to look at, were a lot harder to pledge my allegiance to.

  By the time I eased myself out of her guest chair, Caroline and I had moved on to other, safer subjects, like my thoughts on the layout she was currently reviewing. But before I left her office, she had jotted down the name of an editor friend of hers at the magazine Today’s Woman, encouraging me to contact her if I ever had an idea for an article that might not fit within the scope of Bridal Best. I knew by the smile behind her words that she was referring to my passionate though misguided proposal on women who said no to marriage. But I didn’t take it the wrong way. Suddenly I felt as if Caroline was on my side. Rooting for me, even.

  It was a good feeling, for the most part. Especially when I sent off a query letter two days later to Caroline’s editor friend, proposing an article on, of all things, breaking up with the love of your life. Clearly I had struck a chord with the senior editor, because a week later she called to offer me a thousand-dollar advance to write the piece for the Relationships section in their fall issue. I was both thrilled and shocked, and called Jade and A
lyssa immediately to tell them my good news.

  Jade couldn’t help giving me an “I-told-you-so” attitude.

  Alyssa proposed a minicelebration the following Saturday night. Dinner and drinks. Just us girls. “Besides,” she said, “it’s been so long since the three of us got together.”

  By the time Saturday night arrived, our minicelebration had turned into a megacelebration. For Alyssa showed up at Miracle Grill on Bleeker, our chosen restaurant, with the most beautiful engagement ring I had ever seen and the sparkle of pure love in her eyes. She insisted she didn’t want to upstage me, and ordered a round of drinks to toast my success as a writer, but as we waited for our food to arrive of course, Jade and I demanded all the details of the proposal scene.

  It seemed Richard had gone for true romance. First he asked Alyssa to meet him at Central Park after work on Friday night for a free concert on the Great Lawn. As Alyssa stood waiting to meet him at the Seventy-second Street entrance, suddenly out of nowhere Lulu came running toward her. Alyssa admitted she was confused at first, until she saw Richard in tow, a picnic basket in hand. Though he calmly explained that Lulu “seemed lonely at home,” Alyssa was naturally suspicious. Even more so when he led them away from the Great Lawn and toward an alcove of trees further in, which Alyssa immediately recognized as the place where they had carved their initials into a tree in the weeks after they had moved to New York together to share their first apartment. Richard claimed he thought they would have a private little dinner before the concert, but by then, Alyssa’s heart was thrumming with anticipation. And once the blanket was laid with Lulu perched on the edge as if she knew exactly what was going on, Richard got down on one knee and told Alyssa just how much he loved her, how much he hoped to make her his wife.

  Even Jade had tears in her eyes by the time Alyssa was through. “More drinks!” she immediately announced, gesturing to the darkly handsome waiter at whom she barely batted an eyelash as she ordered us another round.

  “How’s Ted?” I asked, after we had sufficiently toasted Alyssa’s engagement and settled in to contemplate just how good life was.

  “Ted is perfect,” Jade said. Then: “But he’s trying to get me to quit smoking.”

  “Good for him!” Alyssa said.

  “Yeah,” I chimed in, “you really do have to quit, Jade. Smoking is just so passé.”

  “Listen to you,” Jade said, “the hip new writer for Today’s Woman magazine.”

  “Yes, I can’t wait to read your article!” Alyssa said, “What’s it about, anyway?”

  I smiled as I lifted my glass, “Getting over your ex-boyfriend.”

  Jade and Alyssa lifted their glasses. “I’ll drink to that,” Jade said.

  And we banged glasses yet again. But the merriment surrounding us at the moment didn’t stop Alyssa from doing a little check on my emotional state.

  “So how are you doing, anyway? I mean, I haven’t asked because I didn’t want to bring up the D word, especially since things have been going so well for you,” Alyssa said.

  “I’m fine,” I replied, my token response. “Though I have to say, when I got the offer from Today’s Woman, I wanted to call him up and tell him.”

  “Have you heard from him?” Jade asked.

  “No, not since I bit his head off for having a good life without me.”

  They were both silent for a moment, which made me suddenly feel bad. As if I should be feeling worse about the fact that Derrick hadn’t called. To be honest, I did feel sadness, but the kind of sadness that comes when you’ve shared your everything with someone for two years and now didn’t even dare speak to him rather than the sadness of someone who knows she’s lost the great love of her life.

  “I guess I’m doomed to be that angry girl he left behind in New York,” I said, trying to muster up some humor about the situation. “The Eternal Ex-girlfriend.”

  Jade put down her glass with a thud. “Emma Carter, you are no longer an ex-girlfriend.”

  I looked up at her, both confused and hopeful that she had found some better definition for me.

  Then she smiled. “You are officially a Single Woman. And believe me, that’s not such a bad thing.”

  And with another bang of our glasses, we drank to my new incarnation.

  Thirteen

  “Being blond isn’t everything. But it helps!”

  —Sebastian Yeager, lapsed Beauty Queen

  Confession: I am an ex-girlfriend’s best friend.

  Now that I had moved on to the next phase of my life, I was able to let go of a few things. Like my anger. I even relented on my noncompliance with Rebecca’s stance and managed to belt out a pretty damn good article on my mother’s upcoming marriage to husband number three for Rebecca’s special issue. Of course, our newest senior features editor was thrilled to receive it, and I was proud of my efforts. Still, I couldn’t help feeling, with a certain amount of resignation as I watched her slip my article into her shiny leather satchel, that there were just some women who got everything in life. The great job. The great man. And others, like me, who didn’t. And even as she promised me a quick read that evening as she headed out the door, all I could think about was Rebecca curled up in front of a fireplace reading my article while Nash looked on adoringly, just waiting for her to finish up so he could carry her off to bed for a full-body massage followed by a thorough review of the kind of engagement ring she wanted. For I knew that would come in a matter of time. Just last week Rebecca told me that Nash had been at Tiffany.com. Not that she was snooping, she said, she just happened to notice that address line on his home computer while she had been surfing, signifying he had recently visited the site.

  The next day, anxious to get her take on my article, which I’d fretted over for some reason the night before, I hovered by her new office, wondering desperately where she was. Rebecca was always on time, and it was nearly nine-thirty already. I had even managed to convince myself that she’d called in sick in order to avoid telling me how bad my piece was, when I saw her storming down the hallway toward me, gripping her leather satchel in front of her, her eyes downcast. I stumbled toward the water fountain near her door, not wanting to seem too anxious, and proceeded to fill one of the paper cups there. When she saw me, sipping nonchalantly, she lifted her gaze to mine and I was struck by the well of sorrow I saw in her blue eyes. “Can I talk to you?” she practically begged, her mouth curling dangerously, as if she might even cry.

  “Sure,” I said, crumbling my now-empty cup and tossing it in the wastebasket nearby. I followed her into her new office, and she immediately exercised her prerogatives as a senior features editor by shutting her brand-new door soundly behind us.

  Then she dropped her leather satchel on the floor and sat down, gesturing to the guest chair across from her desk so that I would join her. She sighed, then—looking me straight in the eye—declared, “He fucking dumped me.”

  So thrown off was I by the sound of an obscenity coming out of Rebecca’s pretty little blueblood mouth, I asked dumbly, “Who?”

  “Nash!” she all but shouted at me, her eyes bulging. “Who else?” And then, as if saying his name caused her great pain, her lower lip began to tremble.

  “Ah, Bec, I’m sorry.” And I was. I couldn’t bear to see anyone—not even Rebecca—suffer over a man. Especially after my own recent experience, which still stabbed at me painfully whenever I allowed myself the liberty to torture myself over it. “What happened?”

  Her watery gaze sharpened suddenly, bolstered by a new, more satisfying emotion. Anger. “Well, last night he took me to Lutèce, which he knew I’d been dying to go to,” she began, swiping a hand under her eye to dash away the tear that threatened to fall. “He had the reservation since last week, and I’m thinking, this is it, he’s going to ask me to marry him.” She smiled tremulously. “I was even going to tell you about it, but I was afraid of jinxing myself, you know? But I was so sure. I mean, he’d just been to Tiffany.com, confirming his order—or so I th
ought. Apparently he’d only gone to check out a pen to buy for his boss’s retirement gift!” Swallowing back the surge of anger that admission had so obviously caused, she continued, “What else was I to think? I mean, I had practically wallpapered his apartment in ads featuring their Lucida-cut diamond, which is Tiffany’s newest style. You know the one I’m talking about, right? Square-cut?”

  I did have a vague memory of some stunning, square-shaped diamond in a Tiffany ad I’d seen in a recent layout we’d done, so I nodded my head once more.

  “Pretty amazing stone, huh?” she said, eyebrows raised.

  “Beautiful,” I agreed, recognizing in her the kind of engagement-ring lust that drove women to marry lesser—albeit wealthier—men.

  “Anyway,” she continued, harnessing her anger once more, “he takes me to Lutèce, and we’re sitting across from each other at the most beautiful little table.” Her eyes welled up at this point, and though I was curious as to the kind of emotions the memory of silverware and expertly folded napkins could conjure up, I grabbed a Kleenex from the box on her desk and handed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking it and giving her delicate little nose a rather indelicate honk.

  “So we’re sitting there, freshly poured glasses of Bordeaux before us, and I’m looking at him and he’s looking at me and I’m thinking this is it, he’s going to ask me. I mean, he even looked nervous, and idiot that I am, I’m thinking, isn’t that cute? He’s nervous. Maybe he’s afraid I might say no!” She tossed her crumpled tissue onto the desk before her with leashed fury. “So I reach across the table encouragingly and say, ‘Darling, you look so nervous, relax.’ So he smiles and says, ‘Oh, there are just so many things I need to say to you tonight.’ Now my heart is beating so fast, I’m thinking I’m going to have a heart attack before he pulls out that ring, so I say, ‘Oh, darling, you know you can talk to me about anything. Ask me anything. We love each other, after all.’” This last came out on a squeak as Rebecca’s tears sprang free and she practically howled with a mixture of sadness and bitterness. There was nothing I could do but reach over and grab her hand in heartfelt sympathy.