Pieces of Happily Ever After

by Irene Zutell

  “I’m sure it’s someone you don’t even know,” Claire says. “That’s what these magazines do. They’ll talk to anybody. It’s probably someone you’ve never even met. Or maybe the reporter made it up for the story. I’ve heard lots of the reporters at People do stuff like that.”

  I study Claire hard. Could she be the snitch?

  “What? What?” she says.

  No, she wouldn’t stoop that low. Right now she feels like the best friend I’ve ever had.

  Alex and Rose didn’t talk to anyone for the story. Rose’s publicist wouldn’t even confirm the romance. “She’s busy shooting in Toronto. No comment.” However, there were a few pictures of the “happy couple” having lattes at Coffee Bean on Sunset, standing in front of her red Porsche Roadster, walking down Melrose with shopping bags.

  I’m a publicist. My job is to spin stories in my client’s favor. I can do it for myself. The photographs prove nothing. Rose is in Toronto, so the photos are weeks old; and they’re not even touching each other. Besides, she’s got to be screwing Colin Farrell by now. Alex and Rose weren’t quoted in the story. Even her publicist didn’t confirm the romance. The sources close to the couple are typically people who don’t know anything. Next week there’ll be a correction.

  “The story about an alleged relationship between Rose Maris and Alex Hirsh was false. Hirsh is madly in love with his wife, Alice. Maris was recently seen canoodling with Colin Farrell.”

  That night I can’t sleep. Every time I drift off, I get smacked in the head with a People magazine. To put it out of my mind, I think about George. We’d gone out the last two years of college. We’d been friends since freshman year, ever since we took a class on William Blake together and spent hours interpreting such things as “the eye altering, alters all” and “the road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”

  Then the first week of junior year, George showed up at my off-campus apartment, tanned, newly buffed, and very nervous. He blurted out that he’d been in love with me since the first time he saw me at an orientation weekend before freshman year. He even remembered what I was wearing—jeans, a green Fair Isle sweater, and brown suede clogs. He said he saw me on line to sign up for the William Blake class, so he figured he would, too. He said he didn’t want to be friends anymore. He wanted to be my boyfriend. And, after a weeklong dramatic soul-searching complete with confabs with college friends, I realized I loved him, too.

  I thought this was the zenith of romance. There’d never been a more romantic couple in the history of romantic couples. No one could ever love me more than George. And we had a plan: After graduation, we’d work for newspapers in small towns. After we amassed some clips, we’d find work in the same town and get married. We’d name our daughter Gabrielle. Our son would be—time to cringe—William, or was it Blake? Don’t judge me. I was only twenty.

  I thought he was my soul mate. The love of my life. If we’d stuck to the plan, Gabby and William/Blake would be teenagers by now. We’d live in a Cape Cod–style house in the suburbs of Boston or New York or D.C. We’d have a black Labrador. I’d know nothing about celebrity. Rose Maris would just be another star of another movie we would never see. We’d work at the same paper. I’d be a general assignment reporter. George would cover politics. He’d always be faithful.

  But what happened? We graduated from college and spent all of July backpacking through France. Then I went back to New York, rented an apartment with three college friends, and got a job in publicity. I was going to do it for a few months until I could find something in journalism. But the jobs at small newspapers paid less than half what I was making. And I couldn’t imagine giving up the city life for some rural town. In short, I was having too much fun.

  George wrote for the Quincy Patriot Ledger in Massachusetts. We had a long-distance relationship. We tried to see each other on weekends, but George never had weekends off. I’d go to Quincy and hang out in his apartment while he raced around town to car wrecks and board meetings. His editor was a sadist. It seemed whenever we had a few minutes to ourselves, the phone would ring with another assignment. After several weekends of this, I stopped visiting. We both figured that after a few months, George would start getting better assignments, along with weekends off.

  Did I mention I was having a lot of fun? Lauren, Maura, Dawn, and I lived together in a two-bedroom, five-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. We’d come home from work, blend up some frozen drinks, and then head to the bars right down the street. We became regulars at O’Malleys, Insomnia’s, and Hi Life. We drank too much. We stayed out too late. We met too many cute boys. And hey, I was only twenty-one.

  I’d come home to messages from George. I’d call him back.

  “I mish you.”

  “Ally, it’s four in the morning.”

  “Shorry. I shust wanted to shay I luff you.”

  “You’ve been drinking again.”

  “Jush a little.”

  This continued for a while. Resentment escalated. George was annoyed that I wasn’t chasing my dream. I was angry because George kept reminding me that I wasn’t chasing my dream. He worked his butt off. I partied my brain out.

  And then one night, he visited me, to talk things over, decide our future, I suppose. It was a surprise visit at 10 P.M. Of course I wasn’t home. I didn’t come home until noon the next day. I smelled of cigarettes, an annoying habit I’d picked up when I drank too much. George was asleep on my bed.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was out late. I stayed at a friend’s.”

  “A friend’s?”

  “Mary Ann. You remember her from college? She lives in this great apartment in—”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Is Mary Ann the one who gave you a hickey, too?” George’s eyes watered. “God, a hickey. You are pathetic.”

  George jumped out of bed, grabbed his duffel bag, and headed for the door. I put my hand on my throat.

  I didn’t know that Sean had given me a hickey. Actually, I didn’t remember much at all of the night before. My head pounded and my stomach churned—a much too common state during the last few months. I ran after George.

  “It didn’t mean anything, George. I promise.”

  “This is over, Alice. I can’t take it anymore. Who are you anyway?”

  “George, George, I love you. Please. Don’t go. I’ll do anything. I can’t lose you.”

  He was out the door. I chased after him, galloping down five flights of stairs. “George, George!”

  I pounded on the windshield of his beat-up Saab as he revved the engine.

  “You better move or I’ll run over you,” he spit out, his face bright red.

  I threw my body on the hood. “Don’t go,” I screamed like a kid having a tantrum. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw a small crowd gathering.

  George pulled open the car door, picked me off the hood, and carried me to the apartment stoop. I held on tight, but he untangled me and dropped me to the ground. Then he got back in his car and floored it. I chased him for a block. I nearly reached his car—it was stopped at an interminable red light. But the combination of nicotine, alcohol, and this exertion was too much. I bent over and threw up to the soundtrack of honking horns. I always wondered if George saw that. If that was his last memory of me as he cruised on to a new life.

  For weeks I called. Most of the time I got the answering machine. When George did pick up, he barely spoke. “I can’t talk to you,” he’d say.

  “George, don’t hang up,” I’d plead. Then I’d talk and talk, until he’d say, “I’ve got to go now.”

  Click.

  I drove to his apartment in Quincy. Someone else opened the door. George had moved on to another paper in Colorado, a mutual friend informed me.

  I drowned my sorrows. I struggled to move on. I went on a ton of first dates, but lacked the follow-up skills. Most guys bored me. They’d talk too much about their tedious desk jobs, their c
ars, their football teams, their frat days, the money they were amassing. They’d call for second dates. I’d let the machine pick up and never call back. If I saw them at a bar, I’d grab my friends and we’d head down the street to another bar and another, until I’d lose them. Or I’d flirt a bit, let them buy us drinks, and then I’d head to another bar and lose them. Yes, I was a bitch. Sometimes, after many drinks, I’d call George, just to hear his groggy hello. Then I’d hang up. Good boy, I’d think. He’d been sleeping. He didn’t have a social life, I imagined. All he did was work.

  Yeah, right. About a year later, I read in the alumni newsletter that he was engaged. A year after that, I read that he got married. Two years later, I met Alex. I fell in love.

  I never should have let George get away. That guy never would have cheated on me. Read the e-mail. After all these years, he still thinks about me. He’s still in love with me.

  I dream about George. We are backpacking through Europe. He tells me he loves me. We kiss by the Eiffel Tower. A director yells cut. We are on the set of a movie. The cameraman thanks me. His assistant grabs my arm and moves me off to the side.

  “I want to stay,” I say.

  “You’re only a stand-in,” the cameraman says.

  There’s commotion and applause. George beams. Rose Maris stands where I was. George puts his arms around her. “I love you,” he says. They kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower. I race over to it and knock it down. The Eiffel Tower is made of cardboard.

  I am sitting next to Dr. Phil. We are watching the scene in front of a studio audience. They applaud when the Eiffel Tower collapses.

  “Alice, these displays of violence are not healthy. You must look inside yourself for answers. You must take ownership of your problems.”

  I think about my dream as I sit at a coffee shop a few blocks from Gabby’s kindergarten. I sip a nonfat latte and peruse the mail from Gabby’s cubicle. She’s only been in school a few days and already she’s invited to three parties. There’s a party for Nathan at a place called Chuck E. Cheese. There’s a princess party for Sophia at a place called Princess For A Day. There’s a Bob the Builder party for Beowulf at his home. Beowulf?

  Gabby and I will attend all these parties. I will mingle with everyone and make friends. I will organize playdates and moms’ nights out. I will acclimate to my new life. I will find the real mom behind the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt. I will not judge. I will bake chocolate chip cookies with Gabby. I will keep every painting she creates.

  I am finally getting to know my daughter. I haven’t spent this much time with her since my three-month maternity leave. I had no idea she could sneak up on butterflies and they’d alight on her tiny index finger. I didn’t know she had memorized all her fairy tales so if I used a wrong word or skipped words because I was preoccupied, she’d correct me. I just found out she could cartwheel and do handstands. She was learning all this while I was sitting behind a desk pretending to care about the opening of a client’s restaurant.

  I look up from my latte and Gabby’s invites. My eyes settle on a black-and-white photograph on the wall in front of me. It’s a sleeping newborn baby on its mother’s chest. All you can see of the mother are her lips and chin. The lips are slightly parted, but you can feel the relief on the mother’s face. It’s clear this woman has just given birth to the child and is holding it for the first time. She was in labor for hours and hours and now is relaxed and euphoric. I read the caption: “Baby, Five Minutes Old.”

  The waitress comes over. She smiles at me.

  “That’s amazing,” I say.

  “Isn’t it? It really says everything there is to say about giving birth and being a mother. It’s painful and scary and wonderful all at once.”

  I order another latte and sit there looking at the other photographs on the wall. It’s the first time in years that I’ve just lingered anywhere. There’s a whole series of mothers with children. There are also a few landscapes. I stare into the photos. Even though my life is crumbling around me, I feel peaceful, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I take a deep breath and savor the moment.

  That is, until I notice a fellow coffee drinker staring at me. She’s reading the latest People magazine.

  5

  Jingle Bells and Moans

  I’m getting Gabby ready for Nathan’s Chuck E. Cheese party when there’s a knock at the front door. I peek out the window. It’s my neighbor from just around the corner whose name I’ve forgotten. She’s a fifty-year-old over-Botoxed realtor with sparkly spandex outfits. She has the look of someone who plays the slots at Vegas a lot. I take a deep breath, certain she’s about to complain about the paparazzi, my unmowed lawn, my daughter’s late-night temper tantrum yesterday, or just the general chaos surrounding my life. I’m shocked when she greets me with a big smile and an outstretched hand.

  She shakes my hand. “Hello, Ally. Sherri Gold, from number 2804 Delacroix.”

  “Of course, Sherri. How are you?”

  “Just peachy, Ally. Just peachy. I know it’s been a crazy time for you,” she says, smiling and running her eyes over me. She squeezes my hand. “I’d love to get together and chat over coffee one of these mornings. But today I’m going house to house with a reminder.”

  “A reminder?”

  “Today is September tenth. You know what that means? It’s never too early to start planning.” She smiles hard, like she’s about to burst with some kind of incredible information.

  I quickly take inventory. A neighborhood association fee is due? A block party? Elections for a street president? Time to mow my lawn?

  “Ummm, I really don’t . . .”

  “I’ll give you a little hint,” she says. Then she starts singing: “ ‘Jingle Bells. Jingle Bells. Jingle all the way-ay-ay.’ ”

  I’m baffled. This crazy woman has come over to hum Christmas carols in September? I stare at her blankly.

  “You silly goose. It’s three months and fifteen days ’til Christmas,” she blurts out.

  “Oh, right,” I say, deciding that Sherri Gold is completely out of her mind.

  Gabby comes to the door wearing her brand new Cinderella gown.

  “Gabby, what happened to the dress you were wearing? You can’t wear that to the party.”

  “That dress wasn’t beautiful. It doesn’t have any pink in it. And it definitely doesn’t spin. I need a dress that spins.” She twirls around.

  Sherri smiles hard at her. “Aren’t you adorable.”

  “Listen, Sherri, I have to drive my daughter to a birthday party. But thanks for reminding me. Does the neighborhood do Secret Santas or something?”

  Sherri opens her mouth wide and guffaws. “Oh, honey, you don’t know, do you?”

  “Know? Know what?”

  “About our neighborhood. I know your . . . your . . .” She looks panicked as she gropes for some word. “Well, your, um, husband? He knew. Your realtor had to disclose this information. I’m . . . Well, surprised you don’t know.”

  Gabby stomps her feet. “Mommy, I am not changing my outfit and that’s final.”

  Sherri smiles at Gabby as if she’s the sweetest child she’s ever seen. I know what she’s thinking—Make a good impression and when they have to liquidate their assets and sell this house, they’ll use me.

  “You look just like a little princess, sweetie. Who are you? Snow White? Sleeping Beauty?” Sherri offers.

  “Cinderella, duh,” Gabby says, her voice lilting like Angelica Pickles’.

  “Gabby!”

  Sherri forces out a tight smile and clears her throat. “Anyway, at the holidays, this street, along with some streets to the north and south, is turned into North Pole Way. Everyone gets their homes all decked out. It’s a tradition that’s been going on for years and years. Everyone knows about it. People come from all over California to see it. The streets are backed up for miles with traffic.”

  I must have looked confused. She studies me and frowns.

  “Are you Jewish? Becaus
e North Pole Way is nondenominational. You can do something that incorporates your faith, like blue lights and a Menorah. I know the Sussmans down the street are moving. You know, Tracy and Daniel? They’ve been doing a Rugrats-themed holiday for years. One of the Rugrats holds a dreidel and another has the Star of David. It’s very tasteful. You could probably buy their display.”

  “Mommy hates the Rugrats,” Gabby says, twirling in her dress. “She calls them Rug Brats.”

  “Oh.” Sherri puts her hand on her chest and smiles. “Well, in that case, I’m sure there are other Hebrew characters.”

  “I’m not Jewish,” I say. “Don’t worry. We’ll string some lights.”

  Sherri’s eyes bulge. She nervously chortles.

  “String some lights?” She spits this out like it’s toxic. “You can’t just string some lights. This is North Pole Way. It’s over the top. Everyone must participate. If you, well, don’t feel like decorating because of your, um . . . present situation? I can give you the name of the company that does it for me. They’re wonderful. Last year I had an Aladdin Christmas. Jasmine floated on a magic carpet in between my palm trees. I had fake snow covering my lawn.” She smiles at Gabby. “You would have loved it, sweetie. Anyway, we’re going to have a neighborhood meeting next Wednesday, just to make sure no one overlaps. Last year there were three SpongeBob displays. It was a disaster.”

  I promise to attend the meeting and Sherri finally leaves.

  “God, that lady was so stupid,” Gabby says.

  “Gabby, don’t use that word.”

  “You say it all the time when we’re in the car.”

  “That’s to cars, not people.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gabby says, rolling her eyes. “But that lady is stupid. Doesn’t she know Jasmine lives in the desert? There’s no snow there.”

  “Well, maybe the genie cast a spell and—”

  “Ohhhhhhh!”

  It’s a moan from the mansion nestled right on the hill above us. Gabby cocks her ear to the sound.