I’m almost thirty-three. A good portion of my life is over, and what have I actually accomplished with the years I’ve been given? Dr P. asked me to write a ‘who am I’ essay. The better question is, ‘who am I without my store?’ And I don’t know. I just know this can’t continue. I can’t continue. Not like this. Maybe I really am the Basket Case. At this moment I can definitely relate. I pick at my nail.
No, forget it; if I were Allison, aka the Basket Case, I’d be chewing on my nail, not just randomly messing with it. Bender said if she kept chewing on her hand she wouldn’t be hungry at lunch, and she spat it at him. I mean, God, like I’d do that. So, I’m holding on to Claire. Yeah, I’d rather be Claire because she kissed Bender and – well, Ollie’s Bender.
‘Libby?’
‘Sorry?’ I snap to attention. I know this is where I need to be, and yet I’d rather be anywhere else, and it’s obvious. It’s like I’m in detention for real.
‘I asked about the who am I essay? Did you bring it?’
‘Nope; I haven’t finished it yet.’ Haven’t even looked at it. ‘I did meet with the Criminal, not that it was a date. He’s a work colleague of Finn’s, and trying to help sort the must-move-my-store debacle. I told you about him.’
‘And?’ Dr P. leans back, rocking his chair by flexing his feet as I explain in detail the latest non-developments.
‘I just can’t find anything to work within my margins, and the attorney doesn’t feel an extension is possible. He’s recommending I sell – can you believe it?’
‘Libby, if it’s not feasible to move, and you must vacate, and this attorney feels there may be an interest to purchase the store, why not consider it?’
All rational and good points, but the question lances through my heart. How do I explain it’s not just a store? That it’s my life, my life support. The minute I sign it away, it’d be like authorizing them to pull the plug. There’d be nothing left of me. If it’s gone, I was never here.
I don’t answer. When it’s obvious I’m not going to, he changes the subject. ‘Is there a date tonight? Am I remembering that correctly?’
I just want to forget. ‘It’s tomorrow; the Princess. I did have one with the Athlete, though.’ I regret the words the minute they leave my mouth.
‘How’d that go?’ He rolls his neck and straightens in his chair, ready for my story.
‘OK, so . . .’ I don’t disappoint, launching into Version One: mini man, monster truck, majorly annoying.
Dr P.’s laughing.
But then I explain Finn’s version: mad woman, mayhem, majorly judgemental. ‘I tried to make up for it with my apology gifts, including Bluebeard, but he still hasn’t called me back.’
‘So you still have the parrot?’
‘Not exactly.’ I explain how I was practically forced to take him with me to meet my attorney, and left him in the car. ‘With the window cracked,’ I say, to make sure he knows I was being responsible. Regardless of how irritating the dumb thing was, I have a soft spot for animals. ‘So he was really OK and the meeting wasn’t that long, but . . . he talks and does siren sounds and, well, he disturbed the diners.’ I leave out how I bribed the parking attendant due to the rare bird flu disorder and need of life-saving meds, which explains (in my hypothetical world) why the vehicle simply had to be in close proximity to the restaurant at all times.
‘So what happened to the bird?’
‘Seth kind of loved him, so Bluebeard has a new home, but now I’m wondering if I made a mistake. Seth is kinda, I don’t know, questionable. He probably won’t take good care of him, or clean his cage enough, or give him the treats I bought. Oh God, what if he gives him to one of his kids? I bet he does . . .’
My mind is racing round the imagined scenario. They would come by for a visit and be so impressed with Bluebeard’s tricks that Seth would hand him over, feeling like the part-time-dad hero. They won’t take care of him. I just know it. My insides are guilt-stricken. Poor Bluebeard. What have I done? Instead of a pretty lady, I’m pretty lame.
‘Libby?’ Dr P. has a half-smile plastered on his face. ‘I’m sure this Seth Merriman—’
‘Merriweather.’
‘Merriweather is capable of caring for a parrot. You should try and have an open mind. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Is he someone maybe you could see yourself dating?’
My face says it all, which is good, ’cause what do I say to that? I compress my lips and swallow painfully.
‘So, that’s a no?’ Dr P. shakes his head. ‘Can you think of one date you’ve been on in the last five years where the man didn’t have major flaws?’ His hands interlock and fold over his middle.
I scratch my head as my mind churns through anyone and everyone I’ve gone out with. ‘Keith. He was fun, although he had a gap-toothed smile that went way beyond signature or sexy, so . . .’ I look up and to the left as I scroll through the last few years. ‘Oh – no, he was divorced twice. That’s problematic, times two. And Terry was nice-looking and decent, he just, I don’t know, everything was football; and he smelled of cheese.’ I pull a face.
‘What about your friend, the one you mentioned works with you?’
‘Jasper? He smells nice, actually.’ I knew that wasn’t what he meant, but . . .
‘Would you date him?’
‘He’s asked several times, but he’s probably not serious, and no, we work together. Plus, I consider him one of my best friends, so I don’t want to ruin that.’
‘Why would that ruin your friendship?’
‘Because things are great. He’s super-clever. You wouldn’t think it by looking at him, but under the grunge is a really great guy. And if we dated, I might find out he’s annoying, or worse, not all that bright.’
‘Or what if he got to really know you and changed his mind?’
I shrug, still undecided how to change the conversation effectively into something else.
Dr P. does it for me. ‘I’m curious: have you ever told Oliver how you feel?’ Using his toes to push against the floor, he swivels the chair back and forth like a cat’s agitated tail.
My chin lowers. ‘Sure, I guess.’ I flip my hand in the air, dismissively. ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’
‘Have you ever told anyone how you really feel? Even once?’
‘I can tell you I don’t feel like talking about this. Does that count?’ My gaze falls to the chair arm and I pick at a loose thread. The off-white jacquard pattern could unravel with just one firm tug.
He stretches and leans forward. ‘Libby, I have no doubt you had and still have very real feelings for Oliver, but that may be the problem. He’s moved on, and you haven’t.’
My tongue scrapes the front of my teeth, pushing out my lip temporarily. I get what he’s implying, but anger wiggles under my skin, making it crawl. My toes tap inside my Chuck Taylor high-tops, trying to pacify it.
‘I think you hide behind a barrier of humour and sarcasm. That way, no one can see your vulnerability. And yes, I understand it’s a survival mechanism; but when is it off?’ After a beat, he lifts his chin. ‘So I have some homework for you. I’d like you to really try and get to know this next date. Let your guard down.’
Is everyone in on this? I stab a glare in his direction. He’s seriously grating on me. I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to leave.
Dr P. lowers his voice. ‘I’m not attacking you.’
I tut. ‘Really?’
‘Really. I said come in ready to work. Well, it’s time to work. And I’m going to be frank with you, put it out on the table, because I want to make sure you understand what you’re dealing with—’
‘I get what I’m dealing with, trust me.’ I fall back into the chair with a huff, somewhat peevish and uncomfortable in my own skin. It’s tight from restraining the emotional bloat.
‘Yeah?’ That’s all he says. Dr P. kicks his head back and looks to the ceiling, lowering only his gaze to fix it on me.
‘Yeah,’ I say, clipped, somewhat shar
per than intended. Again I readjust my feet.
‘So you’re angry with me? Ollie? Your friends? Who?’
‘I’m not angry, I’m—’
‘Angry. That’s what the feeling’s called.’
I’m back up again. ‘I don’t care what it’s called. I don’t wanna feel it, OK?’
Dr P. sits forward, too, motioning with his hands. ‘You feel it because the ineffective crutch you’ve created in Oliver is being pointed out. You feel it because the one thing you honestly have a sense of accomplishment in, your store, might slip away. You feel it—’
‘I don’t care why I feel it. I want it gone.’ I wave my hand. ‘And you don’t know everything, OK?’
‘So tell me.’
‘Why?’ I lean back, staring at the wall. ‘It just gets worse. We talk and everything gets worse. That’s what happened before, so maybe starting up again is a huge mistake.’ There, I’ve said it, and in this moment, I mean it.
I’m ready to quit. Him, me, everything.
‘That’s the process, Libby, and I promise you, it works.’
My gaze slides back to his. ‘Yeah, well, the process sucks.’
‘It does. Yes. You’ve heard the saying, if you’re going through hell, keep on going? Well, don’t stop now, ’cause it’s about to get good and hot. But you’re the one who has to do it. I’m only a tool to help you. This is all you.’
I glance at the clock, wondering if he knows how pretentious he sounds. This is all you, Libby. As if I don’t know that. I mean, duh.
He wets his lips. ‘I want to try something different, but I need your commitment to be here Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, no exceptions.’
There’s a sharp silence. The pause is pregnant, further along than Dora and carrying the Thompson Twins.
‘So, do I have your word?’
‘Sure,’ I say, meaning maybe.
His eyes are locked onto mine, cutting through my nonsense. ‘I need you to promise, Libby.’
That does me in. Trust is everything to him. We spent an entire session talking about it. I rub the back of my neck, already hating this. ‘Yeah, fine, OK. I promise to be here. But three days in a row? Is that really necessary? I have a lot on my plate right now.’
‘It is. And with everything going on, it’s perfect. You’ll have to trust me on this. I’d like to try something called EMDR. It stands for eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.’
I cringe. ‘That sounds painful.’
‘It’s not.’ He tilts his head. ‘Well, not physically, anyway. But if we do it right, it’ll allow you to release the emotional kind. I’m hoping this will help unlock some repressed memories. Make sense of those bits and pieces that are surfacing. The things you’re refusing to deal with.’
Goosebumps speckle my arms at his words. There’s nothing I can say, so I’m silent.
‘OK, we start Wednesday.’
God.
CHAPTER 13
The Princess
It’s less than a week until my party. My birthday’s chasing me down, sprinting in brand-new running shoes, and I’m a bit out of shape, practically wheezing with side stitches as I try and stay ahead.
The first two dates were disastrous – and yes, I’m now openly claiming some of the responsibility. And while the Criminal one wasn’t really a date, it was equally uncomfortable and even more disappointing. He looked nothing like Judd Nelson. At least Dr Theo did look like the Brain, Anthony Michael Hall; and Nigel was a jock and short like the Athlete; so what happened to Seth? And tonight is the Princess? Although if he looks like Molly Ringwald, I’m done. I’m not going out with anyone prettier than me. At that, I draw the line.
Since this is Finn’s choice again, he made me promise to behave. And I’m trying, really. I’m not even overdoing my Eighties vibe to prove a point. But holy hell, I’m failing miserably. I used the salon’s styling goop, and I’ve utterly screwed it up. It’s slicked, shiny and stiff, but only at the sides. I swooped it back, and the top flopped forward in a cascade of curls, and it froze like that.
Froze.
I’m the lead singer of A Flock of Seagulls, and my date is going to run, run so far away if Dora can’t fix this. She’s currently en route to my apartment.
Taking a sip of wine, I stare down at my wardrobe choices: leather skinny pants, which take at least fifteen minutes to get on and another ten to shimmy out of; a linen shirtdress in pinstripes that’s too tight, which Dora said was the point; and yoga pants that pair with the lightweight sweater. Or maybe the shirt goes with the skinny trousers in grey. And why’s everything skinny? I’m not skinny.
The buzzer rings. Finally. I swing open the door.
‘Oh God.’ Dora’s expression drops. She turns to Finn. ‘She has wings. Literal wings.’
‘Why is he here?’ I ask Dora, who ignores me while eyeballing Finn. But I already know the answer. Dean couldn’t make it, and probably insisted she didn’t travel alone in her condition. She also can’t drive due to her growing belly. Dora’s short, so she has to pull the seat up close, and her baby bump is starting to get in the way of her steering. It’s kind of funny, but inconvenient. I suggested she rig up some pedal blocks. She suggested I reel in the commentary.
Finn rushes past Dora, mouth agape, phone in hand. ‘Oh, honey . . . no, just no.’ Snap-flash. He’s laughing, leans close, gives an open-mouthed smile next to my cheek and clicks one of us together. Snap-flash.
Dora’s shaking her head. ‘Shower. You absolutely must start again.’
‘And what’s she wearing?’ Finn says to Dora, as if I can’t hear him.
‘I was in the middle of changing, so . . .’ I say and turn, moving to the kitchen. Forget it. I look around, forgetting why I came in here. I grab my glass of wine and regard Finn. ‘Have you talked to Seth?’
He perches on my couch arm. ‘Did you like our smooth Criminal?’
‘Not so much, but he has Bluebeard, and I’m worried.’
‘He has a blue beard – what?’ Dora forehead-bunches, confused. She has one shoe off to rub her swollen ankle. ‘Is this another men’s movement thing?’
Finn snorts a breath. ‘Hardly. Are you ready for this? Bluebeard’s a parrot. Our dear Libby gave Seth a parrot.’
‘So did you talk to him or not?’ I ask, ignoring their side conversation.
‘Wait.’ Dora holds her hand up. ‘I thought you killed the parrot, and that was with the Athlete. Why does the Criminal have a parrot too?’ Dora looks back and forth between us. ‘Seriously, what’s up with all these parrots?’
Without answering, I disappear to de-wing. I’m determined to make this date count. And maybe make myself a sandwich, since I have no idea if dinner’s included. Oh yeah, that’s the reason I went into the kitchen.
Inside the cab, I fidget with my handbag, a bit nervous for what we could possibly have in common. I mean, look at him. At least I think Adrian’s a he – the name does in fact go both ways. But as I explicitly expressed to Finn, I don’t.
Although I can see why Finn pegged him as a princess, Adrian’s a bit androgynous and either a pretty ‘he’ with feminine qualities, or a ‘she’ with unfortunate ones. There’s a five o’clock shadow. There’s also blue eyeshadow and eyeliner, so I’m utterly confused. I also like the shade: a bright robin’s-egg combo is hard to find these days.
‘That’s a great replica,’ Adrian says, glancing over.
‘This?’ I hold up the small Fendi baguette, the one item I didn’t update. ‘It’s actually vintage.’
‘Oh, brilliant.’ His face brightens at the discovery of common ground. ‘I love searching for retro treasure, where’d you find it? No. 6 in Little Italy? Amarcord in SoHo?’
‘Oh, it was a while ago, so I don’t really remember.’ I smile with a head-shake. I don’t mention it’s because it wasn’t vintage when my mom purchased it in the Eighties. I loved raiding her closet as a teen.
At least he has taste. We’ll call that . . . what’s the oppo
site of Strike One? Should I give gold stars? See? I’m thinking positive, and looking for the good instead of a way out. One shiny lucky star it is for us both.
We turn onto Washington Street in the Meatpacking District of Manhattan and pull alongside the curb.
‘Here we are.’ Adrian pays the cabbie, then reaches over to pop the door. I step out and . . . my newly cheerful disposition spirals. Hip twentysomethings are gathered in front of a bright red building. This isn’t a restaurant. ‘This is Cielo’s,’ I say, turning to face him.
He quirks an eyebrow with a nod. ‘Right. This is where I dance.’
Where he dances? Has Cielo’s incorporated poles? I’m either going to learn if Adrian prefers Jack or Diane, or –
‘Finn mentioned you like to shake a tail feather?’
‘Sure, but it’s usually at Culture Club.’ Culture Club is a midtown venue owned by Debbie Gibson that plays Eighties music I’m familiar with; but in truth, I haven’t been there since the reopening in 2011.
Adrian begins chatting up the bouncer, who could be Nigel’s younger and much taller brother, while I consider my moves. I can ‘Walk Like an Egyptian’, ‘Bust a Move’ or drop and wiggle the worm. Ugh – my stomach crawls like one. We’re waved right in. Great.
Immediately I’m assaulted by the techno beat and flashing lights. The bass thumps against my ribcage and the matching strobe blinds me. Well, now I can see – nope, dark again – oh – ‘Sorry,’ I say, running into a girl. I think that was a girl; the lights are gone again.
The lasers overhead flash different colours, revealing a massive wave of reappearing gyrating movement to a song I vaguely recognize. But how do you dance to this? It’s not even music. I squint to focus. Is that even dancing? I think it’s a sampling of Janet Jackson’s ‘Rhythm Nation’, and they need some ‘Control’, ‘cause this ‘Escapade’ is a sexcapade.
‘What?’ I turn back to Adrian, but he’s not talking to me; he’s chatting with Boobzilla and her friend, Forgot-my-skirt. This places him firmly in the he department for sure, which is a good and positive development.
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