by Ashley Pullo
“Of course.” Zoe bobs her head while taking a step closer to the pair. “I used my connections to get you an invite to the Balmain underground trunk show, so natch, I rushed down here to surprise you.”
Sneering, Meredith drones, “Fantastic. I’ll have Travis put it on my calendar.”
“Actually, I received two invites, so I was thinking I could come with you,” Zoe chirps.
Meredith rocks forward on the balls of her suede booties and elongates her petite torso. With an intimidating voice, she asserts, “I work alone.”
Nodding, Zoe replies, “Okay, no problem. You’ll need a snapchat account for the show. Do you know about snapchat?”
“Yes, I use it all the time, duh,” whines Meredith, one insult away from sticking out her tongue.
Breaking the tension, Julia blurts, “How incredibly creative!” Turning toward Meredith and using the secret eye language all friends share, she adds, “Mere, we really need to get to our appointment.”
Meredith relaxes her shoulders and tugs at the hem of her russet-colored, suede blazer. “Yes, we should hurry to our very important meeting with relevant people.”
“Sorry! Don’t let me keep you.” Zoe tucks her brown curls behind her ears and adds, “Oh, Julia, congratulations on your column’s national syndication.”
Caught off guard by Zoe’s comment, Julia shakes her head and stutters, “Oh, um, that hasn’t been announced yet.”
Wanting desperately to escape the wrath of Zoe, Meredith grabs Julia’s arm and pulls her closer to the exit. “Buh-bye.”
“Bye,” Zoe replies, bouncing back toward the bank of elevators.
“She’s completely insane,” Meredith snarls. “It’s like, I look at her, and all I see is a series of hashtags.”
Pushing open the gilded door and joining the sea of Midtown pedestrians, Julia says, “She’s ridiculously annoying, but Zoe’s trying to find her place in a dying business. And we’re not that much older than she is.”
“What, five or six years? But at least we understand the importance of humility.” Meredith hunkers over pretending to wobble, and then lowers her voice to shaky rasp. “Back in our day, we used twitter to communicate.”
In fact, when the two Columbia graduates started their internship seven years ago, it was everything but hip and glamourous. With massive school loans and very few job offers, Julia and Meredith moved out of their cozy 115th Street college housing and into a one-bedroom apartment in Inwood – a neighborhood a few blocks north of the Manhattan bubble. As fate would have it, the friends were chosen, out of thousands of applicants, to partake in the New York Herald’s internship program.
Referred to by their last names, or hey, you, the girls were newspaper grunts working eight hours, six days a week. They would schlep around the Midtown office like personal assistants, gaining some experience, but mostly praying they would survive the internship. Money was a major issue, so Meredith worked on weekends as a hostess at an Italian restaurant, and Julia walked three dogs every day at five a.m. and then again at ten p.m. Meredith’s Nana offered to pay for some of their expenses until they were both employed, but the girls ultimately chose a diet of ramen and Tang, and clothing from the Salvation Army.
During their first year living outside the safe haven of college, the two suffered a major setback with their friendship. Previously known as the wild and optimistic journalists of the Columbia Daily Spectator, Julia and Meredith were rapidly becoming bitter and angry. Often confronted with the reality of living as single women in New York City, with no money, no boyfriends, and a slight tendency to become competitive at work, their hopes and dreams were dissolving as fast as Tang powder in a gallon of water. They fought constantly – over work assignments, rent, men, and the cable bill. That year was tough, but they stuck it out, and eventually, Julia and Meredith were placed on the Herald’s payroll – affording them a fresh start in a shitty apartment in the East Village.
In the early days at the Herald, Julia and Meredith had very unclear job descriptions, because the world was changing, mocking their educated voices with trending viral journalism – amateur reporting filled with hashtags, celebrities, and filtered photography. Julia and Meredith didn’t get their own bylines for months, because most of their days were spent showing the older generations how to use writing software, or explaining the intangible idea of “cloud storage.”
“Jules, you have to admit, Frank is the only reason we even watch that garbage!” Meredith exclaims.
Continuing their brisk walk along Fifth while recapping the recent episode of How to Get Away With Murder, the two women stop at a favorite luncheonette that serves soup and gourmet sandwiches.
“I’d like to know his backstory, but yeah, he’s my ABC eye candy,” she replies.
By habit, Julia files in line while Meredith hovers near a sidewalk bistro table, shaming the diners that have finished their meals, yet continue to loiter under the warm, October sunshine.
Standing in line behind a couple communicating in baby-talk, Julia rolls her eyes and then finishes an email to her editor. “Mere, do you want lobster bisque or chicken tortilla?” she asks, eyes glued to her phone.
Surveilling the table like a CIA operative and carefully calculating the occupants’ next move, she replies, “French onion?” Meredith keeps her eyes fixed on the female companion, inching closer when she drops a napkin on her sandwich plate.
“No French onion today.”
“Lobster then.” Making her move, Meredith slides into the chair at the exact moment the man stands. She crosses her legs and turns toward the young busboy coming from the kitchen. Unbuttoning her suede blazer to reveal a tight cashmere sweater, she arches a brow and waves him over to the table. “Thank you,” she gushes, enamored by his strong body balancing a commercial bus tub with such masculine grace.
Wiping the table, the busboy runs his eyes over Meredith’s legs. “Enjoy your lunch,” he offers with a lopsided smile before walking back to the kitchen.
Checking out his ass, she whispers, “I will.”
“He’s like eighteen,” Julia announces, sitting in the chair across from her friend. She places a red plastic number in the middle of the table and asks, “Do you have an age preference?”
Uncrossing her legs and scooting under the table, Meredith pouts. “I found a gray hair over the weekend.”
Julia squints her eyes as she surveys Meredith’s glossy, sable hair. “Where? I don’t see it.”
Leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand, she declares, “My cells are literally giving up and dying. We’re old, Jules.”
“We’re not old – we’re classically charming.”
“Wow. You sure know how to spin the lies.”
A waitress carrying a tray of purple Fiestaware soup bowls, and a basket of fresh sourdough bread approaches the table with a haggard expression. “Tortilla with avocado and chipotle salsa,” she says, placing the bowl in front of Julia. “And lobster bisque with a side of parmesan chips,” the waitress adds, setting the other bowl and a small plate in front of Meredith.
“Yada, yada, yada,” Meredith rushes.
Offended, the waitress clips, “I’m sorry?”
“Oh, she’s just quoting Seinfeld,” Julia explains while frowning at Meredith. “Every time. Every single time you have bisque, you make that joke.”
Placing her napkin in her lap, Meredith demands, “Then play along!”
“Did you order drinks?” the waitress asks, removing the plastic number from the table.
“Yes. Two Diet Cokes,” Julia answers.
“Let me grab your sodas and some extra napkins.”
When the waitress leaves, Julia stirs the salsa into her soupy broth and takes a bite of the avocado. “Where were we?”
“Oh, we were discussing my impending departure into the old lady abyss. Men call me ma’am and acknowledge my intelligence! What the fuck?”
Laughing, Julia says, “What about Bradley?”
“Jules, the wedding stress is killing our mojo. Last night, I ate a bowl of Cheerios on the sofa while Bradley stayed in the bedroom watching baseball and reading government policy procedures – from an actual book.”
“That’s really romantic,” Julia mocks.
“Romance is overrated – you should know that.”
The waitress returns with two Diet Cokes and a stack of paper napkins. “Enjoy, ladies,” she offers as she dashes back to the kitchen.
“Speaking of false expectations, I read a submission essay this morning from a couple in their forties – the bride wants a romance contract signed by her fiancé before the wedding.”
“What does that mean?”
“Like scheduled dates and romantic gestures. Flowers maybe?”
“Nah, oral sex is the most romantic thing a husband can offer – or doing the dishes.”
“Ha!” Inserting a straw in her soda, Julia says, “The submissions are becoming progressively intolerable. It’s not even the contracts or the cheesy stuff that bothers me, it’s the need to impress me - me! Why me?”
“Because you write the color-commentary on falling in love. You’re basically Fitzgerald writing the new American dream.” Lifting the spoon of bisque to her mouth, Meredith adds slyly, “If readers only knew how the couples are chosen for the feature articles.”
“Cha-ching, cha-ching.”
“I’m assuming my wedding won’t have a gilded spotlight,” she says.
Scrunching her nose, Julia replies, “Probably not, Mere. Spring weddings in New York are like the Academy Awards, but trust me, you don’t want your private life in the paper.” Smiling, she reveals, “I wrote your engagement announcement for next Sunday’s edition, though!”
“Really? I’ll need to read it.”
“I’ll email it tonight. What Pulitzer-worthy piece are you working on this week anyway?”
“A fashion editorial focusing on a twenty-year-old designer from Denmark,” Meredith replies while sipping her soda.
“Holy shit! That’s really young.”
Eyes dancing, Meredith grabs her spoon and waves it in the air. “She’s a freak, Jules. I met Goya at a loft in the Meat Packing District yesterday, and get this,” Meredith pauses to wipe the spilled bisque on the side of her bowl. “Goya was wearing roller skates – I fuck you not! The chick was wearing a velvet leotard and roller skates.”
Smiling, Julia asks, “Goya? Like the beans?”
Meredith tilts her head. “I told you she was wearing roller skates and the only thing you find odd is her name?”
“I bet there’s a story there – write the real story Meredith. The editor position will be yours for sure with this type of editorial gold.”
Meredith laughs while glancing at the large gold clock on the nearby Chase bank. “Crap, I need to get going.”
“Where to?”
“H&M on Broadway – new maternity line.” Meredith spoons out the last few chunks of lobster meat and then sets them aside. She then lifts her bowl to her mouth and slurps the creamy broth.
Shaking her head, Julia scrolls through the emails on her phone. “How can you drink soup?”
Placing the bowl back on the table and wiping her mouth with a napkin, Meredith smirks. “Believe me, the texture of lobster bisque is very easy to swallow. Remember Danny Maloney?”
Proceeding with caution, Julia looks up from her phone and quietly replies, “From senior year?”
“With the goatee,” they say in unison, tapping their chins.
“Maloney Bologna!” Meredith squeals. “Danny tested my gag reflexes.”
Julia holds up her hand and shudders. “Stop right there!”
Biting the inside of her cheek and grabbing her phone, Meredith mutters, “I should Google him.”
Ditching work early, Julia takes the 2/3 train downtown to Wall Street, giving tourists directions to the 9/11 Memorial, and advising them not to buy a photography booklet from anyone of the street. Wandering along Maiden Lane, she stops by a market and buys a cup of caramel apple cider. She cuts across the street, disappearing into an old alley hidden by scaffolding.
Reaching a break in the darkness, she continues her commute to Gold Street under the warm, late-afternoon sunshine. She chucks her empty cup in a trashcan, and then crosses the street to her building. It’s a modest abode on a narrow street, but Julia loves her hidden gem. Black scaffolding hides the historic façade, and there’s no full-time doorman. The elevator runs on a system of bungee cords, and the lobby reeks of stale cigarettes mixed with cinnamon air freshener. But the six-floor building is reasonably priced for the location, and the co-op board allows one small-breed pet per rental with access to an amazing roof.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor, Julia catches her breath and then knocks on the door across from her apartment. The low bark of Fletch, her two-year-old Boston terrier, rumbles through the steel door like a colicky infant. Shamefully, as per Manhattan standards, Fletch is not a rescue dog, he’s a champion-bred Boston from a small breeder in Connecticut. But even the snotty comments and pious glances can’t deter her from loving him any less, though on occasion, she will pretend he’s a rescue just to feel like one of the cool kids.
Their union was definitely an insta-love romance, and the snuggling and long walks were exactly what Julia needed when she moved into an apartment for the first time by herself. But it was difficult to attach a name to describe that love – so the Oreo-spotted puppy didn’t have a name for six weeks. And then, after sharing a plate of waffle fries while watching a late-night viewing of Fletch Lives, Julia named her puppy after her favorite fictional journalist, Irwin Fletcher.
As the door opens, Fletch darts out to greet Julia – first by nudging her leg with his flat, wet nose, and then prancing around in a circle attempting to wag his stubby tail.
Julia bends at the knees, petting Fletch as he sneezes in excitement. “You miss me?”
“Of course we missed you, Jules.”
“Good to know,” she says, standing to address her neighbor. As usual, Julia’s stomach tightens, and her knees shake, the second Theo Barnes flashes a smile. But his crooked grin isn’t just a gesture of politeness or an impish expression, his mouth is a passageway for naughty hypotheticals.
“Why are you home so early?” he asks, glancing at his watch.
“I have two deadlines, and it’s easier to work from home,” she replies.
“Ah, well, come in – Fletch and I were getting ready for a walk.” Theo props open the door with his knee and waves her inside his apartment.
“I’ll take him to the roof,” she offers, as Fletch runs past her and jumps on Theo’s couch, gnawing on the head of a Robin action figure. “Fletch!” she yelps, yanking it from his mouth.
“Chill, Jules. It’s only Robin.” Theo cups his mouth and whispers, “Although you may want to check his poop later – I can’t find Robin’s cape.”
“Ew.” Grabbing his leash she commands, “Off the couch, Fletch.”
“Let’s go for a walk – I’m jonesing for some bubble tea. And for real, I have to step away from this project.” He grabs a navy hoodie draped over the desk chair and yawns. “Bohhh-ring.”
Julia runs her eyes over the coding jargon taped to his three monitors, and the yellow Post-it notes stuck to every available free space. “What are you working on this month?” she asks, eyeing a note with her name.
“Believe it or not, an impenetrable personal verification code for a porn site. And I’m still working on that security program for a Japanese bank.” Theo zips the sweatshirt over his snug T-shirt and laughs. “I call it Yoshi Yin Yang, buy they don’t find it funny.”
Julia hooks the leash onto Fletch’s collar and orders him to the floor. “Bankers have no sense of humor,” she agrees. “Hey, I found another doggy daycare on Broadway – I’m taking Fletch there tomorrow for a test run.”
Theo crosses his arms and furrows his brows. “But Fletch is my bro, Jules. I don’t min
d having him here during the day.”
“I can’t ask that of you – and you know my schedule is crazy inconsistent.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to admit this, but truth is, Fletch is a chick magnet.”
Kiss me, she thinks, staring at his bubblegum lips.
Fact: Julia is attracted to more than Theo’s charming personality – like his I-don’t-give-a-shit messy blond hair and lazy weekday stubble. And his hazel eyes that don’t give a fuck if they’re classified as greenish-brown or yellowish-green. Or like his sculpted, lean body that can trick Julia’s mind into wanting a friendly embrace one second, and then wild, kinky sex the very next. Theo is the perfect specimen of understated sexiness – disguised as a tech geek with a collection of vintage action figures.
But he’s also the humble guy next door that would never believe his gorgeous, intelligent friend would find him irresistible.
Sometimes, modesty can make even a smart man clueless.
“And then we had dumplings at the Smorgasbord in the Seaport . . . Jules, are you even listening to me?”
“Yeah, totally,” she lies. “And what a brilliant plan – using innocent little Fletch as a wingman.”
Moving closer and eliminating the space between them, Theo innocently shrugs his shoulders. “Hey, he got you into my apartment, didn’t he?”
“When I was a teenager, I was obsessed with the movie, Father of the Bride. The silly mishaps and the quirky wedding plans were everything I thought I wanted, even the sparkly sneakers! But a few months ago, after I saw him on Broadway, I realized I have a major lady boner for Steve Martin.”
Chapter Two
Bradley Gilmore, 33, and Meredith Rice, 30, are happy to announce their engagement. A professor at New York University, and a fashion columnist for the New York Herald, the couple plan to wed in the spring of 2016.
Pouring milk into a mug, Bradley asks, “Babe, can you pick up the dry cleaning?”
Meredith closes her laptop as he places a cup of coffee in front of her. She stares blankly while sniffing the steaming beverage. “What the hell is that?” she barks.