The Girlfriend Curse

by Valerie Frankel

  Suddenly exhausted, Peg leaned back against the bulletin board. All her plans had gone to shit. Her farm was a disaster. She couldn’t start furnishing a house with a horde of cats inside it. The huge stretches of waiting had left her free to fantasize about Ray Quick, which only served to deepen her impatience and loneliness. She wanted to contact him. Get some sympathy. Some TLC. But she had no way to contact him. Her cell was useless. Inward Bound wasn’t in the Upper Valley phone book.

  Peg would have to rethink her course of action. Nina would give her ideas. She’d call New York on the landline in her room. Maybe she’d let Nina convince her to move back to the city. Except, how humiliating would that be? Admitting defeat after only two days? No, Peg would have to be tougher than that. She would call Nina anyway. Get some pity. She’d feel better.

  Leaning forward, her shoulders lifting off the bulletin board, Peg caught her hair on a thumbtack. Pulling the strand free, she watched a red flyer flutter to the ground at her feet. She found the tack on the ground, picked up the piece of paper and read it.

  TIRED OF REPEATING THE SAME MISTAKES?

  HAD ENOUGH OF FAILED RELATIONSHIPS?

  YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR ROMANTIC DESTINY

  TAKE THE MOST IMPORTANT JOURNEY OF YOUR LIFE

  GO INWARD BOUND

  SPOTS IN THE JULY SESSION STILL AVAILABLE

  FOR MEN AND WOMEN

  JULY 5 THRU AUGUST 3

  CALL 802-555-4089

  INWARD BOUND, INC. MANSHIRE, VERMONT

  Holy shit, she thought. Coincidence, she wondered, or was this destiny? To be thinking of Ray, frustrated not to be able to reach him, only to have the number drop from the sky (bulletin board, whatever), and land at her feet? Coincidence, she’d once read, was merely the work of synchronicity, the cosmic spheres spinning at exactly the right speed and directions at the right time. As if everything in her life—the years in New York, the move, the mice, the stay at the Inn, buying lunch at the general store—had been leading to this moment, this message on red paper in 14-point Geneva. As advertised, Dombit’s did have exactly what she needed. And Peg, a woman in touch with her needs, was not going to ignore this gift of fate.

  She raced back to the Inn, and up its steep stairway to her room. As she climbed each step, an image clicked through her consciousness like a slide show: the faces of her exes, breakup scenes, at a bar, the movie theater, over dinner, in bed. A flash to freshman English at NYU. “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go wrong. And they leave us nothing but grief and pain for promised joy,” she recited the Robert Burns poem to herself as she rushed down the corridor to her room. Each word of it was suddenly packed with new meaning (especially “mice” and “men”).

  Peg would invent a new scheme—impulsively laid, for promised joy. It wouldn’t work to just call and ask to speak to Ray. He wasn’t supposed to have romantic contacts. The Inward Bound directors might not even give him the message. No, if she was going to get close to him, she’d have to enlist. Four weeks to demouse her house. The program lasted four weeks. Logistically, it couldn’t be more perfect.

  She called the number on the flyer. She had a twenty-minute conversation with a woman on the other end. She gave her credit card number, took driving directions, packed her suitcase and checked out of the Inn.

  Chapter 10

  Ten minutes later, Peg pulled into the gravel driveway of a huge Federal brick mansion, shaped like a box, with white-trimmed windows and a red-painted door. She found it easily. Only stalled twice on the drive from the Inn. The woman on the phone, a Wilma McGrup, gave her simple and clear directions. “Take Main Street out of Manshire until you reach a stone bridge. Make a left turn—socially, environmentally and politically—to stay in Vermont. New Hampshire is to the right. The far right,” said Wilma. “Do not cross the bridge.” The rest of the way was a straight shot on River Road, about half a mile.

  Peg stalled to a stop and stepped out of her Subaru. A woman appeared in the doorway of the Federal, and waved. Peg waved back. She grabbed her suitcase from the backseat. She walked by another Subaru in the driveway (was it the state’s official car?), and up to the front door.

  “Welcome, Peg,” said the woman. “I’m Wilma.”

  Up close, Wilma’s smile seemed pinched. Just another client greeting for her, thought Peg. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, but she could have been deceptively young-looking due to all that high altitude clean living. Wilma’s blonde hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, her skin, free of makeup, was bronzed and glowing. The thighs sticking out of her cutoff shorts were unshaven, and hard as granite. She was either a hiker or biker. She pumped Peg’s hand with the grip of a man. Wilma’s tanned forearm was knotty with sinew, also unapologetically fuzzy.

  Peg said, “What, no complimentary cocktail?”

  “Complimentary cocktail?” asked Wilma, pinched smile collapsing. Even with the dour expression, Wilma was a living, breathing advertisement for effortless beauty, in a muscular, oddly sexless way. Peg could easily see her sweating and groaning on a bike, but not on a man.

  “Whenever you arrive at a resort hotel, they greet you in the lobby with rum drinks,” said Peg. “Sometimes they give you mango on a stick.”

  “We’re not a hotel,” said Wilma. “I can get you some organic apple cider.”

  “I wasn’t serious. I was just trying to be…”

  “Critical?” asked Wilma. “Demanding?”

  “Apple cider sounds great,” said Peg.

  Wilma nodded and invited her inside. “The others are waiting outside. Let’s dump your suitcase in the women’s suite first and go join them.”

  “How many others are here?” asked Peg, not realizing she’d be sharing a suite.

  “Two other women, and three men,” answered Wilma. “We had a cancellation last week. A woman. You took her spot.”

  “I got lucky,” said Peg.

  “You sure did!” said Wilma buoyantly.

  Peg had to shut her lips with her fingers. All this earnestness would take some getting used to. Accepting people’s comments at face value? Not searching for hidden meanings or making the assumption of irony? Yikes. Peg was unprepared for this kind of braintease.

  Wilma led her through the Federal’s interior, the perfectly skimmed white walls, exposed ceiling beams, low ceilings, tiny rooms for optimal fireplace heating. Doorways led to doorways, and Peg wondered if she’d get hopelessly lost in the maze. Wilma took her up the staircase to the second, then the third floor. Finally, they came to a suite of rooms. And then, into a private bedroom.

  “This was once a walk-in closet,” said Wilma. “Two hundred years ago.”

  A walk-in closet? Peg had seen smaller Manhattan one-bedroom apartments. The wallpaper—a rose, lime and cream floral—was a replay of the onslaught at the Inn. But the room was bright and airy, three windows, a bouncy bed with a white eyelet coverlet and an oak dresser with crystal pulls. Except for the wallpaper, Peg liked it. She could easily stay here.

  “Do you have mice?” she asked, just to be sure.

  “Black flies, but no mice,” said Wilma.

  “Where do the other women sleep?”

  “There are two more rooms on this floor, and a common bathroom across the hallway.”

  “Where do you and Dr. Bester sleep?” Linus Bester was the founder, organizer and head instructor of Inward Bound. Masters in sociology, doctorate in psychology, a through-hiker of the Appalachian Trail and native son of Manshire. Wilma, herself, was a doctoral candidate in psychology. She’d rattled off her and Bester’s credentials on the phone earlier. She’d also mentioned to Peg that she and Linus Bester were “partners.” Under questioning, Wilma admitted that they were “a couple,” which forced Peg to say, “A couple of what?” in a Groucho Marx voice. Wilma replied, “Psychologists.” Peg knew then that she and Wilma would not become close friends.

  Peg bounced her suitcase on the coverlet and started to unpack. The blonde watched, didn’t offer to help, and
said, “He prefers to be called Linus.”

  “Linus,” repeated Peg.

  “We sleep on the first floor, off the kitchen,” said Wilma. “Let me go over the daily schedule with you. Breakfast at 6 A.M., lunch at noon. Dinner at six. We eat every six hours for optimum functioning.”

  Peg looked at her watch. She’d get dinner in five hours. That seemed a long way off. “Are naps scheduled?”

  “Naps?” asked Wilma.

  “Put head down, close eyes?” said Peg.

  Wilma nodded. “Bedtime is early. Ten o’clock,” she said. “You’ll get plenty of sleep.”

  “Meals and sleep times are planned. Do you schedule bathroom breaks, too?”

  “You can use the bathroom whenever you like,” said Wilma.

  “Do we eat with the men?” asked Peg, thinking of Ray, his lips parted to taste.

  Wilma nodded.

  “Where do the men sleep?” asked Peg, thinking of Ray, his eyes closed in slumber. Or lying on his back in bed, jerking off and thinking of her.

  Her host wasn’t too quick to answer that. “The men sleep one flight below. But you aren’t allowed on their floor,” she said. “For obvious reasons.”

  Peg asked, “Are the men allowed on the women’s floor?”

  Wilma had had enough. “Our clients have come here to learn, not to date. If you think this is some kind of Catskills singles weekend, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  Catskills? Was that a Jewish slur? Peg said, “So orgies are out of the question.”

  “We don’t currently have them on the schedule.”

  Peg was led back downstairs. If she’d suspected some subterfuge would be necessary to get what she was after from Ray, she’d underestimated how much. But she was not one to back down from a challenge. Peg smoothed her bangs as Wilma took her through a living room with three large couches and a grand piano, out the rear of the house and onto the back porch, where two other women sat on rocking chairs, gazing at the river—or the scull of shirtless crewmen skimming by upon it. No sign of Ray anywhere.

  “Look at the guy on the end,” said the chestnut brunette. “He must be the cock swain.”

  “He has a nice stroke,” said the butter blonde.

  “Ahem,” said Wilma.

  The two women spun around. The blonde smiled hesitantly; the brunette frowned, as if annoyed by the distraction from a more satisfying diversion. Peg guessed both women were roughly her age, within a five-or six-year radius. Attractive. On the surface, neither seemed like a misfit of love. And yet here they were, paying $2,000 for a month of live-in, eat-in, breath-in romantic intervention.

  Peg introduced herself. The blonde said, “Gloria Martin.”

  The brunette said, “Tracy Ball.”

  Wilma said, “Everyone ready?”

  Gloria and Tracy rose from their chairs. Peg got a better look at both. Gloria was at least six feet tall. The only thing stopping her legs from going on forever was the porch floor. Along with her hiking boots, Gloria wore a cute little sundress, cotton, spaghetti straps, cone-shaped tits that didn’t need a bra and jutting collarbones you could put a hanger on. She was a goddess, really, a stunning figure of Nordic perfection, the arched eyebrows and glacial blue irises, pale poreless skin and fine fettled bone structure. The flame of female competitiveness flared within Peg. Couldn’t be helped. She swallowed hard, the lump of envy burning all the way down.

  Tracy was easier on the ego to look at. A busty brunette, she had curly hair and a curvy body, with dark eyes and pink lips. She could benefit immeasurably from better posture, and a few thousand sit-ups. Peg guessed she was the oldest of the group, around thirty-four or thirty-five. She wore a Lacoste short-sleeve shirt, yellow (did nothing for her), with khaki shorts and hiking boots.

  Wilma glanced at Peg’s feet. She said, “Are you comfortable hiking in sneakers?”

  Peg wore New Balance running shoes. She didn’t have appropriate footwear for hiking, so she said yes. Wilma slipped a backpack on her shoulders and pointed the women to the left. They started walking in a tight cluster toward a trail along the riverbank.

  “What about the men?” asked Peg.

  Gloria the goddess said, “We don’t do activities with them for the first week.” Hearing her speak, Peg guessed Gloria was in her early twenties.

  That would simply not do. Peg would have to figure something out. She remembered that she would see Ray at dinner. Five hours from now.

  Wilma said, “We’ll walk along the river for about a mile, and then we’ll turn up that mountain, and hike to the top.” She pointed at a low peak in the near distance. “Round-trip, it’s about six miles.”

  Peg was glad to hear it. She hadn’t been running since she left New York, and she needed the exercise. It was one of those things: With all the time in the world to go for a long jog, Peg had killed the hours in the bar of the Manshire Inn instead. Five minutes of hiking and Peg surrendered to the sensation, legs churning, heart beating. Some of the tension of the past couple of days eased as she marched. The sun shone through the trees. Peg listened to her own breathing, and the birds. The women fell into a line. Wilma, Peg, Gloria and, last, Tracy.

  Wilma said, “Tracy and Gloria have already been here for a day, Peg. They filled out a questionnaire. I’ll leave one for you in your room. If you start right after dinner, you can finish it before bed.”

  “I’ll need three hours to fill it out?” Peg asked.

  “It’s a very thorough questionnaire.”

  Peg turned and noticed Gloria and Tracy rolling their eyes.

  Wilma said, “I’d like each of you to tell the group why you’ve come to Inward Bound. Peg?”

  Peg didn’t feel like talking. She was hiking. And she didn’t think Wilma would appreciate the truth, that the combination of nowhere to live and raw lust were what had propelled her to enlist. So instead, Peg drew a thumbnail sketch of her romantic history, her serial dumpings, her Last Girlfriend–itis, her escape from New York. She concluded by saying, “I’m into change. Change of scenery. Change of mind-set. I want all the change I can get, especially in my relationships. Never thought I’d say this: I am red hot for some hard-core learning and growing.”

  Wilma said, “Tracy?”

  Peg turned toward the brunette. She was already sweating. The shine on her forehead attracted a fly. She swatted at her forehead and said, “Did you bring water? How far have we gone? Only half a mile? Jesus, I’m already getting a blister.”

  After assurances from Wilma that she had water, moleskin and trail mix, Tracy said, “I’m from Boston. Big town, tons of guys. I feel like I’ve systematically dated every single one of them. I’ve met men in bars, at clubs, blind dates, fix-ups, on the Internet, at parties, at work. I’ve used every dating resource available. I am out there. Out There. Capital ‘O,’ capital ‘T.’ I will go to my grave knowing that I exhausted every last possible means to find a man. Can we slow down, please? We’re not going to jog up this mountain. Holy shit, look at Peg. She’s hardly sweating. What is wrong with you?”

  The group shifted into first gear. Wilma wasn’t sweating much either, Peg noticed. Gloria was breathing shallowly. She was slim, but out of shape. Wilma fished in her backpack for water. She handed a bottle to each of them, and Tracy insisted on stopping to take a drink. They’d reached the foot of the mountain, with miles to go before they got to the top.

  Tracy said, “If I talk and drink and hike at the same time, I’ll get a cramp.”

  This could be bad. Tracy might complain and bitch the entire way up and down the mountain. Wilma tried to calm her. Gloria stared into the distance, seemingly in her own universe. Finally, Tracy was able to continue walking and talking.

  She said, “So I’ve dated, dated and dated some more. I’ve been on hundreds. But I haven’t had one—not one—bona fide relationship. I’ve managed to hold on to a man for a few months here and there. But never with the understanding that we were a couple, that it was ever more than a casual sexual
connection, a wait-and-see kind of thing. And even those arrangements ended prematurely. He’d say he met someone else, or was getting back together with an old girlfriend, or he wasn’t that in to me. Or I’d end it because he wasn’t worth the five minutes of my time anyway. No man has ever told me he loved me. I’ve never been in love. Never been with a man I know will be around in a month or a year, who cares about what I do all day long. Which is merchandising. I work for the Boston Red Sox organization—another losing proposition. So that’s why I’m here. In the spirit of leaving no stone unturned, I’ve come to Inward Bound.”

  She paused, gasping. “It didn’t say in the literature that we would have to hike,” Tracy managed to say. “Christ, my foot. I’m getting a hot spot on my big toe.”

  Wilma agreed to stop and tape up Tracy’s foot. While they rested, Peg sipped her water, careful not to gulp. Her thighs were warmed up, jumpy, wanting to run. The woods were quiet, except for the sounds of buzzing insects and chatty birds. Gloria leaned against a tree. The sun shining through the leaves turned her blonde hair a light shade of green. Peg and Gloria made eye contact, smiled awkwardly and looked back at the ground. Peg was struck by the inherent contradiction of the situation—the natural setting, the unnaturalness of confiding one’s fears and failings to strangers.

  Tracy was finally patched up and the women continued the hike. Gloria was asked to speak. Peg was impressed by her matter-of-fact tone. “I live in Darien, Connecticut, but I go to parties and events in New York every week. That’s how I meet dates,” she said. “My parents and their friends make introductions. I’ll find myself sitting next to a man at a dinner party on Saturday, and on Monday, he’ll send me flowers and jewelry. He’ll pursue me relentlessly for a month or two. I’m always reluctant at first. These guys never try to get to know me. They want me for other reasons. I’m aware of it, but all those Tiffany boxes and phone calls and invitations to box seats at the ballet—they can wear a girl down. And the talk, too. How much they want me, how they can’t stop thinking about me.”