by Jill Kargman
“What is the fucking matter with you?” she said forcefully, not half an hour into our visit. She was holding her wine in one hand and flipping through my Us Weekly with the other. “This is not you. Why are you such a stress case? Yes, you’re living in this dump, but that’s temporary! And so what if your mother-in-law is a beeyotch, take a number! You have husband and a baby, shut up.”
“I know, I know. It’s just that with a kid here, there is a whole new set of stresses—”
“Puh-lease. How about wondering if my shithead boss is ever going to tell anyone we’re together after doing me for nine months? How about wondering if I’m going to die alone with my cat eating my face off ’cause there’s no one to pour the Purina? I love you to death, but get a fucking grip.”
Like I said, there’s no one like Leigh. We greeted the sitter, Amber, a student from Barnard (I had discovered the college agency in the book CityBaby, which had become my overnight bible). We kissed Violet good-bye and walked down the street to Primola, a cozy restaurant nearby. As we strolled in the warm summer air, I felt bad for having bitched about my worries. After all, Leigh was right; yes, I had my own issues being new here in a sea of perfect, preened übermoms, but at least I wasn’t out there; the recollection of that gut-churning time wasn’t pretty.
After college I fell madly in love with Luke, a coworker at a dot-bomb, just before the millennial Internet implosion. Once the company melted down, I went back to grad school while he took a job in a tiny shitbox office at a little start-up called eBay. After three years together, living together, traveling all over, he wanted to get married. And something in me was…scared. It wasn’t a fear of commitment, it was simply a pit of not being sure. Everyone thought we were the perfect couple, but deep down I was feeling like the rest of my life was a long time. So I confessed my doubts, and Luke and I split up. But not before he looked me in the eye and said, “Hannah, just so you know, you will never, ever get anyone as good as me to love you.”
Ouch. He meant it to sting and it worked. But not nearly as much as it did when I heard, six months later, that he was engaged to a blond chick he’d met on a hike. A hike! Like me, he hated the outdoors. Their betrothal was a whirlwind that culminated in a majestic San Francisco wedding four months later, and there I was, single, lonely, and wondering what crack pipe I’d been smoking to let a great guy like him go. The next two years were a crushing, miserable montage of heinous dates and ill-fated relationships. The guy whose mom had him lick chocolate sauce off her finger at a fondue restaurant (ew, check, please!), the dude who tried to push my head down to blow him on the first date (you must be kidding), and even the guy who told me—deadpan—that he didn’t have a sense of humor. Huh? Doesn’t everyone, even un-funny people, think he or she has a sense of humor? Apparently not. Taxi!
And then there was Paul. The guy I thought I would marry. He was a blond stockbroker who played lacrosse in college (quote unquote lax) and we basically moved in together after a month of zero-to-sixty intense dating. He was almost the biggest crush I’d had in my life, second only to Tate Hayes, my college thesis adviser. Paul and I were like those creepy conjoined twins on that A&E documentary, attached at the heart. Despite his slight penchant for drinking, I woooorshipped him and was beyond smitten. Then one day, I came home to find him throwing a lacrosse ball at the wall and catching it and “cradling.”
“Hi, cutie!” I said, going to kiss him. “Happy six-month anniversary!”
“Listen, Hannah…we have to talk.” Nota bene: anything that begins with “listen” or “look” equals chiming death knell of your relationship.
Lump in throat. “About what…Is everything okay?”
Interminably long exhale. Second worst forecast of doom after “look” or “listen.”
“No, actually. I came into work this morning and Nathan said, ‘How’s your wife?’ and it just…” (lax ball thrown at wall, cradle, cradle), “I don’t know, it just really wigged me out. I’m just so not ready to get married and it just made me realize, ya know, like…” (ball thrown at wall, catch, cradle). “I just want to take it easy and I think we should…” (cradle, cradle in the fucking macramé basket on that long stick in that dumbest sport ever), “maybe see other people and maybe cool down a little.”
Cool fucking down?
Yes. I was dumped whilst lax ball was hurled at tapestry-covered Sheetrock wall by a Patagonia-fleece-wearing white-baseball-hat preppy motherfucker. To say my shocked sobs flooded the Bay would not be far from the truth. Hysteria.
Over the next few days (during which I had to write a massive term paper, lucky me) I shut down and literally had a full-on Princess Buttercup I shall never love again melodramatic emotional seal-off. Could I ever really know anyone again? I was stunned. Shocked. Gutted. I knew it was “character building” to be dumped, and after a couple sob-filled weeks, I almost found solace in the fact that this was a rite of passage for me; suddenly I was in on the Top 40 lyrics about heartbreak. Now I knew what all those dumb happy people didn’t—there’s a whole subworld of the miserable out there—and it’s so much hipper! I blared the Smiths. I pored over my childhood Edward Gorey collection. I brooded. The darkness was making me grow, and hey, everyone probably has one big heartbreak, right? Now mine was out of the way. I could play loud music and hate his guts and the world would be on my side ’cause, hey, everyone favors the dumpee. But that didn’t make it much easier. Thank God, though I didn’t know it at the time, Josh Allen had just moved around the corner and we would meet two months later.
Leigh and I walked into the restaurant and plopped into a corner banquette. I remembered the worries of my days alone and I felt horrible for even thinking of complaining to her about my dumb issues, especially because we were older now and that stress of being single compounds with age. I made a pact to myself to zip it about stupid motherhood stresses—I could vent to my best friend in California, Jenny, though the time diff was getting to be a challenge. And my parents, well, they were great and so understanding, but now that my dad had retired they were on this whole adventure travel kick, trotting the globe (currently on a four-month backpacking trip in New Zealand) and I felt like the rest of our posse was scattered, busy, and so when we talked I wasn’t about to unload my problems. Leigh was the one I told everything to—aside from Josh (all three of us were only-children)—but Leigh was right, I was blessed to even have a kid, to have sweet Josh, and even though things people go through are all relative, I kind of had no right to complain. Here Leigh was, the coolest, most amazing, drop-dead-gorgeous woman, and it seemed that all the great guys were taken. I felt so lucky to have found Josh, but in my head, I always identified more with single gals than married ones—the whole couples-dinner thing and “There’s this great couple you should meet” seemed forced to me. That’s why I would never be a Bridget Jones “smug married”: being lonely and miserable was not too distant a memory for me, and I’d never shove marriage in the face of someone single, since I myself could have easily missed Josh by minutes the night we met, and been freaking just like Leigh. She dated a ton but never met the right guy, and she was starting to get depressed. So she did the big no-no and started effing her boss.
“So,” I started cautiously, as she knew damn well where I stood on her relationship, “how’s Craig?”
Exhale. “Ugh. Totally in denial,” she replied, shaking her head. “At first I thought the secret work fling was hot and it was totally sexy to have this clandestine affair, banging in the staircase, et cetera. Now I think it’s just creepy,” Leigh said, sipping her cocktail. “I feel like time’s a-ticking, I mean what the fuck am I doing? I’m thirty-one. Cobwebs will start forming in my uterus in exactly five years.”
“No they won’t. It’s 2005, and that woman had twins at fifty-three. I don’t think you should worry about that. But I do think you’ve got to get out of this Craig thing, Leigh. This is bad. You deserve someone who will worship you and want to shout it from the rooftops, not this snea
ky shit.”
“I know, I know.” She looked out the window at the twinkling lights.
“Hannah?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re in New York!”
I laughed as she leaned in to give me a huge hug and we cackled like giddy winners on the Price Is Right showcase showdown.
“I mean, have we not been dreaming of this for years?” she said, glowing. “I am so happy you’re here I can’t even tell you. And little Violet. I have missed her so much, precious lamb.”
“She missed you, too.”
Leigh looked at me, fully scanning my insides, Robocop-style.
“Hannah, I know it’s hard to move. And I’m sorry to wig about your problems with everything. Of course you’re entitled to have issues. I know it’s all relative.”
“No, you’re right. I can’t complain.”
“So? Are you okay?”
I exhaled, not wanted to go into everything that was haunting me. But Leigh was already a New York expert and I still felt overwhelmed. “I just feel like there’s such a scene here—”
“Here’s what you have to learn, right now,” said Leigh sternly. “There is no ‘scene.’ The scene is in your head. I mean, it is there, of course, but it is one of a trillion scenes. It’s not like Seattle, where your mom knows everyone. You can do anything here—learn trapeze, take Finnish, start a sewing circle, anything! There are infinite ways to find new pockets of eccentrics and meet new people.”
“I can’t meet new people,” I said lazily. “The friendship vault is closed.”
“What?” she laughed, almost spitting out the olive she’d popped in her mouth. “What friendship vault?”
“There’s no room. I’m closed for business, shut down,” I said, shrugging. “I have no time! I’m exhausted and mushy-brained and also so not…myself. I’m such a zombie. How could I ever make new friends?”
“Well I know at least one person who will want to see you…” she taunted with a raised eyebrow.
“Who?”
“You know who,” she said, giving me a sly look. “Professor Hayes.”
Just hearing the name gave me chills.
“Leigh. I am a married woman. I’m in love with Josh, remember?”
“You’re married, you’re not dead! It’s not like anything really ever happened with him! Plus he’s married with two kids now, so it’s like…safe to call him.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No way would I call him.”
“Why? I told you, when I bumped into him last year he asked all about you. And now you’re both living in New York! You guys were, like, really tight.”
“We were close. But…obviously I was obsessed with him and it’s probably not a good idea. I mean, what would be the point, anyway?”
“You were inseparable back then,” Leigh whined, trying to entice me. “There’s good stuff there—a real friendship that excited you.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled the thought, shaking my head. “I’m not seeking him out, it’s too nerve-racking. It’s so weird he’s at Columbia now. He’s the youngest tenured professor in the department…” I could hear my voice trail off as I caught Leigh staring at me with a mischievous face. She had heard me spill way too many guts out over him way back when. “He was like my idol for so long, I almost don’t want to see him.”
“You guys look like a couple of gossiping teens in the cafeteria,” Josh interrupted, as he put his briefcase down by the door and came toward our booth.
“Josh!” Leigh ran to the door and hugged Joshie, who looked thoroughly wiped out but beyond adorable with his tie loosened and his suit slightly rumpled from a marathon workday. He came to kiss me. “Amber told me you two were here. Hi, love. You look hot. Is this a yummy mummy or what, LeighLeigh?”
“Delish!” she said, smiling, putting her free arm around me, pressing us into a triumvirate hug.
“Please. You could fry an egg on my face I am so greasy right now,” I complained. “Want to order something? Ugh, sweets, I am the worst wife. I haven’t made one dinner for you since we got here.” Not that I’m any great shakes in the kitchen, though I do make a mean grilled cheese.
“Hey, we’re in New York,” he said, smiling, wrapping his arms around Leigh and me. “The only thing most wives have to make for dinner is reservations.”
AND IN BEE-LAND…
Instant Message from: BeeElliott
BeeElliott: So you’re coming to the trunk show tom?
Maggs10021: Totally! It’s my fave one, gonna do some SERIOUS damage w/ my AmEx.
BeeElliott: Me too. Let’s go shopping after, I want to hit Christian Louboutin and Michael Kors for my outfit for the MoMA party.
Maggs10021: I have pers trainer, can’t…What abt day after tom?
BeeElliott: Can’t, have Pilates.
Maggs10021: You’re doing so much Pilates these days. Addicted?
BeeElliott: Gotta get down to 108 bef we start trying for baby #2. Park’s dyyyying to get me preg right now but must lose last 3 pounds.
Maggs10021: You = stick, Bee! Crazy.
BeeElliott: Anyway, must go; Giorgio is here to do my highlights—see u tom. Oh—and don’t forget, that Hannah Allen is coming too, but let’s ditch her bef we hit Madison.
Maggs10021: Deal.
Seven
The next morning, newly empowered from my evening with Leigh, I put Violet in the stroller and headed to the nearby Pierre Hotel to meet Bee and Maggie. I had unearthed a few cool outfits from my dusty U-Haul boxes and felt way more stylish than I had the day before, when I had looked like such a recent San Franciscan import—i.e., sans edge.
I got to the grand hotel and walked in the gilded double doors. Maggie was inside fanning herself with her Fendi clutch.
“Uck, could it be any hotter out there?” she said with Chandler Bing sarcasm, delicately blotting her ever-so-slightly-misted brow. Her blond bob looked recently blown out and, like most moms I’d spied in the ’hood, she was using her huge Jackie O. sunglasses as a headband.
“I know, I hate summer,” I said.
“What?” said Bee, who walked in, snapping her cell phone shut. “Did you just say you hate summer?”
I know it sounds so weird and almost call-the-cops criminal, but yes. I hate summer. I always feel slow and lethargic and dirty. Everyone else always slims down and perks up, but I just go into ice cream and nap mode, and the smell is so horrendous in the city that it should have those cartoon vertical squiggle lines over everything to connote stink, like that smelly kid on Charlie Brown. I’m more of the dark-hair, nontanned ilk, so grody pastels make me look recently exhumed from a grave. I love crispy cold invigorating air and turtlenecks and dark afternoons. The San Francisco weather suited me, even in the rain.
“It’s just so humid and sticky and I just feel gross and uggles,” I said, shrugging. They looked at me like I was certifiably insane. I sheepishly added, “I guess I’m a sort of fall-winter kinda gal.”
“I can see that,” said Bee, looking me over. “You have that Wednesday Addams thing going on.”
When we got off the elevator, a sign stood in front of us, reading Little Duke and Duchess Trunk Show, suite 2415. The clothing company was founded by an actual duchess. Well, a New York girl who had married the French Duke of Burgundy. Lucky for him, as Bee explained, the duchess was a multibillionaire whose grandfather had invented velvet ropes. Talk about being born an insider. As we walked into the grand room, I beheld hordes of immaculate mothers selecting stunning clothes for their tots, who were all at home, presumably with uniformed nannies while their moms bought clothes for the following winter. I hadn’t realized I would be the only one with a kid on hand.
“Mommy,” said Violet.
“Yes, muffin?”
“Uppie, uppie!”
“Okay, sweets.”
I unharnessed Violet from her stroller to let her run amok in the lavish space, which was a huge six-room salon with a sprawling buffet of tea sand
wiches, cookies, Perrier poured in crystal tumblers, and coffee in huge silver pots.
“Okay, honey, you can play here, but stay right in this area, okay?”
“’K. Mommy, Mommy?”
“Yes, Violet love?”
“Ruv youuuu.”
I almost melted. I knelt down to give her a massive hug. When I looked up, Bee and Maggie were looking on. I assumed they were touched by the tender moment, but when I came over, Bee said, “Hannah, what are you going to do about help?”
“Oh, you mean babysitting?”
“Yes, are you looking into a nanny?”
A tall bejeweled South American–looking woman with an alligator Hermès bag was listening. “Oh, do you need a governess?” she interrupted with a shady pan-Euro accent.
“A governess?” I asked, almost laughing. “Like the Family Von Trapp?”
“I know one who’s in search of placement. Live-in,” she replied.
“Oh, no thanks, I’m not looking,” I said. “But thank you anyway.”
She drifted off and Bee turned back to me. “Ugh, Flora de Manteva, she’s the worst. She added the ‘de’ to her name. Anyway, forget governesses. You need to get a nanny, how are you doing this all alone? I would die.”
“Well, I would love to have some free time, for a few hours, maybe a couple times a week—”
“Well you’ll never find that,” said Maggie. “The good people all want guaranteed schedules. You must call Mrs. Brown’s Agency. They have the best people. They all have impeccable references and work for the best families in New York. Mine used to work with the Bronfmans.”