Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  “We’re friends.”

  “Friends? No.”

  Fred planted a hand on her hip. “Why can’t we be friends?”

  “The When Harry Met Sally theory aside, how about the fact that he’s in love with you?”

  “He’s not!”

  “Oh, please. I saw him looking at you. Be honest: Do you call him when you’re lonely? Stay up nights on the phone together? Does he drive you to Fairway in Red Hook for groceries?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “You’re dry dating him until someone better comes along. It’s unkind. No one wants to be a backup plan.”

  “This from the girl dating American Psycho!”

  Now they hung in Marjorie’s room, each in defense of her questionable relationship. Marjorie finished drawing a black liquid line across her lids and turned around. The dress was a Pickles castoff: short, tight, black Lanvin. “How do I look?”

  “Better than your date deserves,” said Fred, without looking up. But then she actually glanced over. “Wow. Smokin’! Men must love you.”

  Marjorie snorted. “Boys, sometimes. Men, never. I gotta go.” She grabbed her yellow leather Crossbody bag.

  “Have fun with the stalker!” said Fred. “Just remember: Never go to the second location. That’s the kiss of death.”

  Marjorie left Fred staring at the ceiling and considering the band name Cracked Paint.

  En route to the subway, Marjorie had felt nervous. Mac, not so much, or so it seemed.

  Toward the end of their dimly lit dinner at the Dutch on charming Sullivan Street in the West Village, he sat across from her, self-assured as ever, musing about their future: “How many children should we have? I’ve always imagined one or two, but now I’m thinking eight.”

  “Oh. I think you have me confused with your second and third wives.”

  “Right, Greta and Paige.”

  “Paige. That’s it. She’s the one with the childbearing hips.”

  “Any flesh is good flesh as long as it’s not wrinkled. That became my motto at eighty-two years old, when I married her.”

  “Hmm. But that raises the issue of how to dispose of me.” Marjorie tossed back the dregs of her martini. “Divorce? Tragic death? Suicide?”

  “Depends on the prenup. Did we have one? Or were we so in love that we believed it was forever? Because, without one, I might have to murder you.”

  “Alas, no prenup. You refused to listen to advice from your parents and lawyers! And, as a gold digger, of course I egged you on. Poor Paige may have had six of your eight children, but she gets none of the cash.”

  “Poor Paige!”

  “Poor Paige? Poor Greta née Pippi West End!”

  “Pippi West End?”

  “Greta’s stripper name.”

  “Of course.” Mac nodded.

  “Greta thought she’d found her ticket out of ‘the life,’ when this dashing middle-aged gentleman stumbled into her Vegas club and fell in lust. But she was a mere stepping-stone out of heartbreak hotel after the crushing end of his first marriage to the brilliant and magnificent Marjorie Plum!”

  “Marjorie O’Shea.”

  “Well, that,” said Marjorie, sliding her cocktail’s olive off the toothpick and onto her tongue, “is up for debate.”

  “I like it. Good story.” Mac considered her from across the table. “You’re insanely hot, you know that? I have no idea how you kept me at bay for all these years. Let’s get out of here and start on kids one and two.”

  “Oh, May and Milo! So adorable, those sweeties, in their matching tennis whites…”

  Marjorie thought maybe she should let the make-believe marriage game drop. This was Mac. She’d trained herself never to believe a word he said and now she was taking him seriously? Same repartee, different outcome. Normally, after a similar exchange, she’d have watched him slither into a cab with their waitress (a pretty aspiring actress, who kept asking—without subtlety—if he wanted “anything else?”).

  “I am not naming my child Milo, but I’ll let May pass if we leave for my apartment now and make up for the other night’s chaste peck. I’m still having nightmares.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “Gotta seal the deal before you remember I’m despicable. You ready?”

  Marjorie did want to go home with Mac. To her surprise, she would have attacked him right there, over sliced five-grain baguette and extra-virgin olive oil. But she was leery. The stakes were higher now. Last time seemed like an isolated mistake that she’d pay for in mild embarrassment. Now he was sucking her into his vortex, getting her good and addicted to feeling wanted and … special.

  “You look unsure.” He reached over and toyed with the slim rose gold bangles encircling her wrist. “Okay. You win. Milo it is.”

  She returned his gaze over the Syrah-stained white tablecloth. “I’m ready.”

  He didn’t move. “This isn’t like before, Madge. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. We can do whatever we want together: have stupid adventures, fly to the Amalfi Coast or Tokyo for no good reason, Milo and May, and whatever the hell else. That can be our life.”

  Suddenly seized with fear, Marjorie fought the urge to run from this new intense and sincere Mac—the future sounded so permanent. Was she ready for him every day? When she had the flu, when she was feeling down, when he was eighty-two years old? Did she want this life of cocktails hours and red eyes? And, jokes aside, would he be able to pass up Greta and Paige? The questions felt oppressive.

  She forced herself to stand, flashing her best come-hither smile. “Let’s blow this joint,” she said, pushing past the “what if’s.” And they did.

  She needn’t have worried, at least for the night. Back at the loft, awkwardness dropped away. They lounged on the bed, as she made fun of how few of his books he’d read. Somewhere in the midst of it, he kissed her and, the rest, as they say, was not so ancient history.

  This was the first of many nights they would spend together over the next weeks, as their coupledom and shared stories began to replace memories of each other as friends. A blur of events included a party reintroducing his sister Natalie into “civilized society” postrehab—or so his blotto mother put it at the sober function. The O’Sheas were a cold brood and, though they had known Marjorie for years, they sniffed around her like bloodhounds, suspicious of her new role in Mac’s life.

  Still, soon enough, for Marjorie, the smell of his Old Spice deodorant and musky sheets and the straying of his naked leg to her side of the bed ceased being strange. Shuffling to the bathroom in her underwear, the bearskin rug sprouting between her toes, became the norm. She grew accustomed to finding Mac and Fred debating music in the kitchen on mornings after his occasional stays in Brooklyn.

  And yet she could never quite shake the sense—after he dropped off to sleep and she lay awake listening to buses wheeze outside—that he was unknown to her. It was as if she appeared next to a new character, having missed the story’s middle.

  19

  There are few things as demoralizing as being rejected by those you only deigned to engage.

  Thirty-five résumés later, Marjorie was still unemployed. Her desk was a monument to organized chaos, strewn with printed applications. She lay on her unmade bed, refreshing her e-mail over and over again, and had just begun to imagine that the entire Internet was broken, when she received a new message:

  Hi, Girl,

  I’m e-mailing from my personal account because the Witch has been on the prowl since you left, demanding that every employee profess loyalty like she’s the Gestapo or something. Next she’ll make us wear armbands designed by Galliano. You know mine better be purple!

  She’s always looking over my shoulder to see what I’m working on, and yesterday I caught her searching Herb’s cubicle because she suspects you were friends, even though he screwed you over. She tried to fake like she lost an earring. In his file cabinet?! She’s lost it. I’m telling you. I even heard her ask sweet o
ld security guard Bill whether he’s seen you. Like you’re hanging around, waiting to strike, like you’re actually crazy like she told people. I think without you to abuse, she’s got rage constipation.

  Here’s the punch line: The Snow Lite liquor people appreciated your honest feedback. They’re changing the “flavor profiles.” So, there you go. You could probably get a job there, if you wanted. Tell them you pulled a Jerry Maguire; that’s why she called you insane. They’ll think it’s inspiring!

  But I’m really writing to see how you’re doing. The girls and I have been good. I took them to see Madagascar 3 last week; I’m a sucker for a singing lion. What else? The coffee machine broke, so Brianne bought one of those fancy Nespresso situations to curry favor. Of course, she can’t work the damn thing, so I hear her cursing at Herb about Americanos from the kitchen. Luckily, I don’t have to watch her—this was a Botox and Restylane month, and you know how creepy it is when she tries to form expressions right after the injections. It’s like her forehead is fighting her skin. Nasty.

  In the end, she did send that horrible e-mail to her entire address book like she threatened. First time that woman ever figured out how to work anything on her own. Figures.

  Anyway, keep your head up! Hopefully, you’re somewhere fabulous with your friend Pickles, licking your wounds and feeling free. Maybe you already have a new job! Either way, I know you’re on to something bigger and better.

  It’s not the same here without you. I miss our midafternoon “street hot dog breaks” (Brianne trashing sessions!) at Bryant Park.

  xoxo Tina

  Marjorie sat back, one leg dangling off the bed. The Bacht-Chit office was all-consuming. Brianne tunneled into her employees’ psyches, forcing them to think about her nonstop. Even grounded Tina couldn’t help but obsess over that psychopath’s bad behavior.

  Tina was right: Marjorie had the chance to find something fulfilling. She didn’t have to wind up working for some Tumblr-obsessed former frat boy for minimum wage (plus, free Starbucks!). She was—what had Tina said?—“on to something bigger and better.” She opened a new e-mail that had materialized from some guy named Mark at Blinter Blotters. The prospective employer—who she suspected was actually a bored thirteen-year-old boy, messing around—asked her to list her three best and worst qualities. Emboldened by her newfound perspective, she replied:

  WORST: Too hard a worker, too committed to perfection, too beloved by clients.

  BEST: Not remotely interested in this job.

  By that evening, when Marjorie arrived to see Fred perform at a pop-up music venue and art installation space in Greenpoint, she felt cheerful. She paused in the entryway: To one side sat six disemboweled toilets, either a sculpture or plumbing mishap, and tall cocktail tables were littered with flyers.

  The crowd was Fred’s usual, though some of the men were more put together with hair pomaded in a skate-rat-meets-Clark-Gable comb-over. James—a sore thumb in his Polo and loafers—saluted congenially but stayed near the stage for the best view of Fred.

  Marjorie passed the time playing quarters with Elmo’s new girlfriend, Lou. The now couple had connected over a shared love of stale Peeps at Fred’s party. And, since, Marjorie had developed her own friend crush.

  She successfully bounced a coin (she didn’t want to think how dirty) into Lou’s Dixie cup of watered-down beer. “Drink, Drink, Drink!” she chanted. Her companion’s cheeks were already flushed from alcohol, the allergy her Korean birthright. Lou brought the cup to her lips, then, instead of chugging, took a dainty sip.

  “That’s how old people like us play quarters,” Lou said.

  Marjorie laughed. “That’s right. It’s after nine P.M.!”

  “Please. I’m just glad this isn’t one of their eleven o’clock shows that really start at one. I may be too old to date a musician.”

  Marjorie smiled. It was obvious to everyone how much Lou and Elmo liked each other. “Just wait out the honeymoon period, until he’s hooked, then let him know you’re elderly.’”

  “Deception. Always a good call.”

  “That’s what women be doing.” Marjorie slouched over the table, giggling. “Bitches, man.”

  Fred’s brother appeared at their side. “What’s so funny?”

  Michael could be mistaken for vanilla by the unwitting observer. He used his sunny demeanor and appearance to his advantage, with clients, employers, women. But behind that Mayberry exterior lurked a sardonic sense of humor and an impatience with the dumb or rude. He planted a kiss on each girl’s cheek.

  “No Celeste tonight?” asked Lou, after Michael’s girlfriend.

  Lou was a filmmaker who moonlit as a Forever 21 salesperson, and had met Michael years before at a small upstate festival. He’d been impressed with her work and they kept in touch. That’s why he’d invited her to the party where—to the accidental matchmaker’s surprise—she’d fallen for Elmo, or “the Bearded Man” as Michael called him.

  “We’re leaving day after tomorrow for Italy, so she’s getting ready.”

  “You don’t have to pack?” asked Marjorie.

  “Celeste packs for me. Otherwise she doesn’t like what I wear.”

  “Rough life,” said Lou. “I wish she didn’t like what I wore.” She turned to Marjorie. “Have you met Celeste? It gets worse: She looks like a supermodel and cooks like Julia Child.”

  “Wow. Can I date her?” Marjorie took a swig of beer.

  Michael shook his head. “Sorry. I’m hoping to take her off the market. On this trip, actually.”

  The girls cooed on cue so sweetly that they moved a passerby to decide to adopt a kitten, his roommate’s life-threatening allergies be damned!

  “I thought you were going with her parents?”

  “We are. She’s really close with them, and this is like a Roots tour. They’re taking us to Taormina, Sicily, where her great-grandmother grew up.”

  “Ooh! There are amazing cliffs there overlooking the water, and cafés where famous writers hung out!” said Marjorie. “Isn’t that where they shot The Godfather?”

  “That’s the place.”

  “You’re so lucky! I almost went once from Tuscany with my friend Pickles, but we got roped into some annoying Milan fashion thing instead.”

  “Pickles? Milan? Who are you and why can’t I be you?” Lou frowned.

  “Oh, you don’t want to be me.” Marjorie chugged the rest of her warm craft brew, which she suspected was Bud Light. “Today I got rejected by Teddy’s Trolley Barn, among other prospective employers. I’m thinking I need one of those green jobs that Obama and Romney keep talking about. By green, they mean cash, right?”

  “That’s right, sweetie.” Lou raised her eyebrows in mock horror and patted Marjorie’s shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine.” She shook her head at Michael. The threesome laughed, Marjorie with less conviction.

  “You know what?” said Michael. “We need someone.”

  “We do?” said Marjorie. “For what?”

  “You know how we have this film distribution company? The one employee who was our support staff, Cleo, just left to pursue a graduate degree in star fucking as assistant to some reality TV star, which would be fine if I had time to hire anyone before my trip. That’s my responsibility, since Gus … well, Gus hates people.” He paused to consider this, deemed it apt, then continued. “It’s temporary, glorified assistant work, but we have festivals coming up that Gus will need help covering without me around. Interested?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m more than interested. I’m fascinated, intrigued—”

  “A thesaurus?” said Lou.

  “I’ll e-mail you the info. You can start Monday.”

  Marjorie’s shoulders relaxed inches with relief. “Michael. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “My pleasure! I’d been meaning to mention it. Any friend of Fred’s … well, is usually strange. But you’re welcome.” He blushed, and Marjorie thought that, as amazing as this Celeste was, she was lucky
to have such a good guy to love her.

  Just then, the lights went down, then up, then down again. Some guy in a rumpled trench coat walked out onto the makeshift stage and introduced Fred and her band, the Cracked Walnuts.

  “Here we go.” Lou smiled.

  Fred’s voice, more beautiful and sincere in performance than Marjorie had imagined, teased a soft melody that trilled into a punk shout, then wound back down, pouring itself through Marjorie’s ears like liquid hope.

  Later, with the van packed up, the group left the venue, ears ringing, in search of lo mein. Elmo’s arm was parked around Lou’s shoulders.

  “They’re in love,” said Fred, watching Marjorie watch the couple. “And you look happier?”

  “Your pipes lifted the spirit of the wretched. I was so proud!”

  “Mac couldn’t come?”

  “I didn’t invite him.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think that’s bad?”

  Fred bit her lip—and her tongue. “What do I know? I’m only the voice of an angel.”

  20

  At their regular table, Marjorie scanned Belinda’s information about the new boy at camp.

  10 Facts About Mitch

  1. His last name is Kaplan.

  2. He’s going to the Math & Science Exploratory School with me next year.

  3. He lives 10 blocks from me, but doesn’t know the neighborhood.

  4. He is really good at basketball, swimming, and soccer.

  5. He’s funny.

  6. He moved here from Seattle and says that’s why he likes outdoor sports.

  7. When we met on Taco Day at the mess hall, none of the other girls were eating hot sauce and he called me “bold.”

  8. His parents are also too overprotective to send him to sleepaway. We’re like the oldest kids at day camp.

  9. We have an overnight in a couple weeks and he asked me to sit with him at the evening activity movie. (Unfortunately, his best friend is that kid Snarls—who looks like a bulldog—and he seems less psyched about me tagging along.)