The Girlfriend Curse

by Valerie Frankel

  “I think so.” It wasn’t possible that he’d run out on her again, was it?

  “He owes me for the drinks.”

  Reaching into her pants pocket, Peg found a twenty and put it on the bar. She said, “Did you hear all that?”

  “What?”

  “He said he wanted to get married, and then ran out.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Do you want another martini?”

  Peg said, “You are the worst bartender in New York. You’re supposed to eavesdrop on people’s conversations and then, if asked, be ready to offer intelligent and insightful advice.”

  The aspiring model said, “Do you want another drink or not?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Peg said.

  Paul reentered the bar. He was tugging a woman by the wrist. She was in her mid-thirties, wearing a skirt suit plucked off the racks of Strawberry’s. Tan hose, white shoes, chunky gold jewelry. Her hair was a blonde bubble, blown high and dry. Overdone makeup. Ten pounds overweight.

  They pushed their way to the bar. Paul said, “Peg, this is Bethany Bridge.”

  Peg greeted her, looking to Paul for further explanation.

  Bethany said, “So you’re the woman who transformed Paul.”

  “I am?” asked Peg.

  Paul and Bethany laughed merrily at her bafflement. Bethany said, “You’re the one who made him want to get married.”

  Paul said, “I met Bethany two months ago at a trade show.” He turned toward the blonde at his side, flashing her a Moonie smile. Bethany returned it, kissed him on the cheek, then wiped away the smear of orange-red lipstick with her thumb.

  Bethany said, “We’ve been inseparable ever since. We’re going to be married in June. But I insisted that before we plan the wedding, Paul had to thank you for what you’ve done.”

  Paul said, “Thank you, Peg.”

  Peg said, “You’re welcome?”

  Bethany said, “Don’t be so modest, Peg. Paul said that if it weren’t for you, he’d never have been ready to take the next step.”

  “I am ready, Bethany,” he said.

  “Oh, baby,” she said.

  And then they kissed, open mouths. Drool.

  Peg dearly wished their next step was off a cliff. Mustering her dignity (which she’d be proud of until the day she died), Peg said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” She gathered her jacket and bag and stood to flee.

  Bethany put a hand on her shoulder. “I was hoping you would arrange the bouquets at my wedding. Paul says you’re a gifted florist.”

  “I’m not a florist,” said Peg. “I’m an interior landscape designer.”

  “But you can do bouquets?”

  “I’m on an extended vacation,” said Peg.

  “You just said you were working at Condé Nast,” said Paul.

  “When my schedule clears, I’m going out of town. For weeks. Maybe months. I’m going to the Bahamas. The thing is,” she said. “I won the lottery.”

  Bethany clapped her hands and said, “Congratulations!”

  “Thanks,” said Peg.

  “I’m glad Paul cleared the books with you,” said Bethany.

  “If only he’d swept the ashes,” Peg said, giving him a mournful look.

  “Swept the ashes?” asked Bethany.

  “If only he’d fucked me one more time.”

  Bethany’s rubbery lips formed a red-rimmed O. Paul laughed nervously and said, “She’s kidding, honey. I told you, Peg has a bizarre sense of humor.”

  The future Mrs. Paul Tester patted Peg on the shoulder and sang, “Good luck with the rest of your life!” Then she herded Paul out of the Chez Chas.

  The bartender put a fresh martini in front of her, and said, “On the house.”

  Peg said, “You might have a future in bartending after all.”

  Chapter 2

  Ordinarily, if a man described a woman as “magical,” “transformative,” possessing “powers” that inspired him to marry, said woman would feel blessed.

  Peg Silver felt cursed. Cursed with a titanic hangover. After her free cocktail at Chez Chas last night, she had another and yet another to guarantee instant pass-out when she hauled herself to bed. It was now ten o’clock, and she had a full-frontal-lobe throb. Plus, she was late for work, and late to call in sick. When she groped her way to the bathroom to force down Tylenol, she had to confront the horror in the mirror. Crushing disappointment, humiliation and alcohol had taken their toll, making her ordinarily olive skin as white as paste.

  One glance, and she’d seen enough. Peg called work.

  Her boss, Rica Costaporta, answered, “Georgia Designs.”

  “Rica, it’s Peg”—cough. “Remember a few years ago, that insane homeless man who threw bricks at random people in Times Square?”

  “Upper West Side,” corrected Rica. “The Times Square guy stuck women with syringes.”

  “You’re right,” said Peg. “My point is”—cough—“I’ve been struck. As if by a brick. With a cold.” Even in her addled brain, Peg thought she sounded convincingly ill.

  “I gathered from the coughing,” said Rica.

  “Take pity on me,” said Peg, wishing she could tell Rica the real cause of her pathetic condition.

  “Stay home and rest,” said her forgiving boss. “Speedy recovery.”

  Peg hung up, and wondered if a speedy recovery were possible for a hollowness in all four chambers of the heart. She crawled back into bed and slept for another couple of hours, having unsettling dreams about pushing a cart uphill. The cart was loaded with tulips and apple branches. And mastiffs in tartan skirts. With chunky bangs.

  Around noon, she called Nina Pelham, thirty-one, confidante and former neighbor. Nina was Peg’s day-to-day friend, with evening phone calls, weekly dinners and weekend brunches. The only time in ten years that they’d been on the outs was during the ugly breakup of Nina and Peg’s brother, Jack. Peg had discouraged their affair from the beginning, but tolerated it for two months. When Jack pulled the plug, Nina let some of her anger trickle onto Peg. That was five years ago. All had been forgiven—if not forgotten.

  Peg and Nina didn’t bore each other with the stories about their professional lives. Their exchanges were exclusively of a spiritual nature, as in, “Dear lord, let this guy be the one,” or “That man is the devil incarnate,” or “He’s broke, but he fucks like a god.” Nina had been freshly dumped by Gary, her boyfriend of three months. He’d taken her to his sister’s wedding at the Palace Hotel, had her sit next to his great-grandmother, asked her to dance with his thirteen-year-old hormonal nephew, and then, minutes after the cake-cutting, Gary ended it because, he said, Nina “wasn’t enjoying his family.”

  “God, I beseech you,” Nina had prayed at dinner with Peg last night. “Smite Gary.”

  This afternoon, when Nina answered her work phone (she was the head of publicity at Goldenface Cosmetics), Peg moaned, whimpered and sobbed softly.

  Nina said, “It’s either an obscene call from a masochist, or Peg.”

  “I am a masochist,” said Peg. “I attract sadists.”

  “This is about Paul?” asked Nina.

  “Who else? He Called Out of the Blue—”

  “You hate Out of the Blue.”

  “He begged me to see him right away,” Peg sniffed. “So I had a drink with him at Chez Chas. It was a disaster. The emotional equivalent of an entire village of innocents gunned down with assault rifles.”

  “But you had a speech,” said Nina. “You didn’t give it to him?”

  “Not a word,” said Peg. “Not a syllable.”

  Nina said, “I can come over after work. I’ll bring apricot and almond body scrub.”

  Peg said, “Body scrub can’t save me this time.”

  “I’ll throw in a tube of aloe emollient with crushed pearl.”

  Four ounces of the stuff went for $200 retail. “You are too, too kind,” said Peg, meaning it.

  “For this quality care package,” said Nina, “you�
�d better be writhing in agony when I get there.”

  “Nina, he’s engaged,” said Peg, a hitch in her throat. “He met someone else.”

  “God smite!” said Nina. “I’ll be there in three hours.”

  She took four. But she brought Greek salads and soulvaki along with the body scrub and moisturizer, so Peg couldn’t complain. The two women sat on Peg’s king-sized mattress to eat. Peg gave Nina the blow-by-blow. Nina was an active listener, nodding, gasping, occasional shrieks of horror, eyes sharp and focused.

  “So then, after they told me how much they worshipped each other,” said Peg, pacing now at the foot of the bed, “they kissed. Right in front of me.” She paused, then asked, “When Paul and I kissed in public, did we look disgusting?”

  Nina asked, “Disgusting how?”

  “Unsavory show of tongue. Errant saliva.”

  “No,” said Nina. “You and Paul were very neat.”

  Peg was both relieved and disappointed to hear it. In private, they’d been unsightly. “When Paul and Bethany kissed, they were the only people in the world,” she said. “Everyone in the restaurant stared at them. In their private moment, they became public property. And I couldn’t help thinking, even while they slurped revoltingly, that they looked sweet. You could feel the love in the room. Palpable waves.”

  “That sounds awful,” said Nina.

  It was. “For half a second, I actually felt happy for them,” admitted Peg. “Then I crashed back to reality and wished them dead.”

  “If I saw Gary making out with another woman, I’d do more than wish him dead,” said Nina.

  With her belly full and story told, Peg grew instantly sleepy, as if hit by a tranquilizer dart. She lay back on her bed, just missing the detritus of their picnic, and closed her eyes. The comfort of a trusted friend was lulling. She let herself drift.

  As if in a tunnel, Peg heard Nina clearing the bed of foil, containers and trash. Through the web of near-unconsciousness, Peg heard the echo of Nina’s voice.

  “Didn’t Bart get engaged, too?” she asked.

  That woke Peg up. Bart was her ex before Paul. “Impossible. He equated marriage with purgatory,” said Peg.

  Nina said, “I could swear I heard that Bart got engaged soon after your spectacular breakup.”

  “To whom?”

  “Some moronic slut, I’m sure,” said Nina comfortingly. “And Harry, too. I’m positive about that one, but I kept it from you. For your emotional protection. He married the friend-of-a-friend who brought him to my party. The night you two, you know.”

  “The process server?” asked Peg. “I hope she serves him right.”

  “I hate to say this,” said Nina, “but a pattern seems to be emerging.”

  “Wouldn’t it be scary if all of my exes got married after dumping me?” Peg asked.

  Nina said, “It couldn’t be possible.”

  “Not in a million years.”

  The women stared at each other for a beat of ten. Nina broke the silence and said, “Maybe we better make sure. For your psychic well-being.”

  “My psyche could use a weekend at Canyon Ranch,” agreed Peg. “But how to begin? We’d have to track them down, ask them intimate questions. I haven’t spoken to some of them in years.”

  “How intimate is it to ask someone if and when they got married?” asked Nina. “It’s not like asking if they’ve had warts removed.”

  “True,” said Peg. “But how would we find them?”

  Peg had lost track of her exes, purposefully. Breakups were too demoralizing for her to stay in touch. Usually, she had a no-contact policy. Made a clean break. The sole exception to her policy had been Paul, and look what relaxing her rules had wrought.

  Nina said, “I can find them.”

  “This does present an interesting challenge for your networking skills,” said Peg. “But even you might not be able to pull out this rabbit.”

  “Ye of little faith,” said Nina. “Make a list. Last known address, phone numbers, whatever you’ve got.”

  “You know I don’t keep anything. I rip the page out of my address book, delete email history, erase phone numbers from speed dial. I’ve got nothing.”

  Nina nodded. “Doesn’t it say in women’s magazines that staying on good terms with your ex is a sign of maturity?”

  “Women’s magazines also advise you to lick your boyfriend’s asshole,” said Peg.

  Nina found a pad in Peg’s night table and said, “Just write down whatever you can remember.”

  Pen in hand, Peg made a list of her exes, starting with the most recent. She wrote:

  Paul Tester. Status known: the bastard who ruined my life.

  Bart Oldman. Last seen in October 2003, sneaking out of my apartment at 3 A.M. with a garbage bag full of his clothes and a dozen applications for law schools in California. No known address, since he mooched off me for six months before vanishing in the night. Employer at the time: Chez Chas. Waiter.

  Harry Slolem. Last seen in February 2002 at a Valentine’s Day party at your house. I gave him a card that said, “I’m Yours.” He read it and said, “I’m not.” Last known address: 61st and Second. Employer: Paint It Black Contracting.

  Ed Teller. Last seen in May 2000 outside the Chelsea Cinemas. We saw Miss Congeniality. I adored it, and he said, “I can’t commit to a woman who likes Sandra Bullock.” Last known address: Broadway and 26th. Employer: None. Collage artist. Showed a couple of times at the Luna Gallery on Spring Street.

  Oleg Caspiroff. Last seen in September 1999 at his apartment, paying me for landscaping his roof deck. He handed me the check, and thanked me for services. I said, “I’ll come back later for dinner.” He said, “All of your services are no longer required.” Last known address: 875 Park Avenue, penthouse. Employer: Harry Wilson Jewelers.

  Daniel O’Leery. Last seen in 1997 (winter? late fall?) at 2 A.M., crying into a shot of tequila while apologizing for his complete inadequacy as a man, an actor, a human being—and a boyfriend. Last known address: First Street and Avenue A. Employer: freelance voice-over actor for cartoon characters.

  Unlucky 7. Serge Shapiro. Last seen in April 1996, up to his elbows in fertilizer while we planted beds side by side along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. He said, to explain his reluctance to marry, “I love you, Peg. I also love Frosted Flakes. It’s just not realistic to think I’ll love either one of you forever.” Last known address: Cobble Hill, Brooklyn (forget the street names). Employer: New York City Parks Department.

  Nina perused the list. She said, “Jesus, Oleg. He was gorgeous, rich. I always had a crush on him.”

  “This could be your big chance. Imagine the meet-cuteness of it. Girl calls friend’s ex to find out if he jilted friend to marry a lesser woman and, upon finding out that he’s single and far advanced emotionally, they fall hopelessly in love.”

  “Would you have a problem with that?” said Nina.

  “Oleg likes to bite,” said Peg. “Hard.”

  “That’s a bad thing?” asked Nina.

  Every inch a publicist, Nina jump-started her cell phone like a chain saw.

  Peg said, “You’re seriously going to do this?”

  “Watch me.”

  “It’ll probably take months.”

  “Give me one hour.”

  Chapter 3

  “Peg, you haven’t changed a bit,” said Violet Masterson, sixty-seven, Nina’s assistant at Goldenface Cosmetics.

  “I saw you last Wednesday,” said Peg, leaning a hip on Violet’s desk, eyeing the closed door of Nina’s office. It was Tuesday evening. Peg had just finished work, and come directly to Nina’s Union Square office, as she’d been instructed.

  “You need to trim those bangs, dear,” said Violet. The older woman had been with Nina for five years, and an employee at Goldenface since the company was founded. She was a natural for the publicity department. Decades of using Goldenface cosmetics had left Violet with the complexion of a thirty-five-yearold. Violet was the o
ne who hadn’t changed a bit. Not since 1960.

  Violet turned her barely lined mouth into a smile and said, “I’ve been working with the investigator Nina hired. I must say, you’ve dated some interesting and successful men. I’m sorry none of them worked out.”

  Peg said, “You must have tracked down the wrong bunch of guys.”

  “We got the right ones,” said Violet. “They all spoke very highly of you. They called you pivotal in their lives.”

  Pivotal now. “They weren’t pivotal for me,” Peg said. “Just one after the other, a conga line of bad choices.”

  “Maybe the next one will be right,” said Violet, with sugar on it. “You can go in. They’re waiting for you.”

  Peg swallowed hard. She held her breath, and pushed open the door to Nina’s office, bracing herself for the stench.

  From behind her ornate mahogany desk with the hand-carved roses and vines, Nina said, “Peg, right on time.” She pointed to a buxom redhead with pink cheeks in a plush armchair and said, “This is Stacy Temple.”

  Peg nodded at the woman. To Nina, she gasped, “Suffocating. Can’t breathe. Need air.”

  Nina sighed. She got up and cracked a window. Nina was dressed, as usual, in a silk suit, this one the color of pale tangerines. Nina loved silk, and silk adored Nina, clinging to her bust, gliding across the flat landscape of her midsection and streaming down her long legs.

  The redhead was just as striking, a Technicolor wonder in shiny Day-Glo pink knee-high boots, an orange denim jacket, a yellow ruffle skirt and a pomegranate vinyl tote in her lap. Peg, in her usual jeans, T-shirt and chocolate brown suede jacket felt like a drab mouse compared to these two peacocks.

  Peg took a seat on the windowsill, and inhaled the city air. “That’s better, thanks,” she said.

  “I’m so used to it, I forget it’s there,” said Nina of the smell. So many of the Goldenface products were scented—rose, sandalwood, jasmine, lavender—and Nina had piles of samples in her closet, on the floor, on her desk. In small doses, the scents were calming and uplifting. Cumulatively, it was nauseating.