Marrying Up

by Jackie Rose

  “She’s not quaint,” George says. “Not at all.”

  He nods. “Yeah, well, I know that now, don’t I?”

  “Thanks, guys.”

  “Enough chitchat, ladies! Back to work. These walls aren’t going to put up themselves!”

  George groans. “My job interview’s at three and I really, really want this one. I’m already feeling a little queasy, so couldn’t I just skip out now? I need to get ready.”

  “That doesn’t take two hours.” Remy extends his hand for her to take.

  I suppose he could tell she needed some incentive, and it isn’t like he doesn’t know just how damn cute he is.

  “So what about you?” I say to Remy later that afternoon. “You know an awful lot about me but I hardly know a thing about you.”

  With George out of the house, we’re alone together for the first time, though I doubt he’s as aware of that fact as I am.

  “You know plenty about me, Holly.”

  “Not really. I know that you’re from San Diego, and that you’re probably not a very good soccer player. But that’s hardly scratching the surface, I’m sure…”

  He laughs. “What do you wanna know? And don’t ask me if I’m gay!”

  I think for a moment. “How can you afford this house if you don’t have a job?”

  “I had a job when I bought it.”

  “Did you get fired? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t get fired. I’ve never been fired. Although I bet you have….”

  “But we’re talking about you, now.”

  He puts down his hammer and cracks every one of his knuckles, plus his neck. Revolting, without a doubt, yet somehow strangely charming at the same time.

  “Okay, for your information, I did have a job. I owned my own company.”

  “What kind of company?”

  “What do you think? A start-up. In San Jose. My partner bought me out in ’99.”

  “That was years ago. You haven’t been sitting on your ass since then, I hope.”

  “Funny! But no, not exactly. I bought the house right away as a sort of forced savings. You should have seen it! It was a complete disaster! But I knew it would be a good investment in the long run and that I’d always have a roof over my head. Anyway, then I worked with my cousin for a bit, then I traveled until I was afraid I’d run out of money and have nothing left for the house.”

  “Are you sorry you sold your business?”

  “Are you nuts? I was a genius to get out when I did, or else I’d probably be living in a refrigerator box under the Bridge. As it was, I lost a ton in the market.”

  “And so now all you want to do with your life is fix up an old house?”

  “You got it!” His gray eyes twinkle impishly, as if he thinks he’s being as bad as he could possibly be.

  “So let me guess—once it’s all done, you’re planning to flip it for a huge profit. Very original. I suppose you could probably get double what you paid for it.”

  He shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care. I just want to live in it.”

  “But you’ll need a job eventually,” I say.

  “Eventually,” he agrees, and goes back to hammering. “But this is where I am for now. And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing over there….”

  I’d been sanding the same patch of old paint off an antique railing post for half an hour to avoid my next task, which is considerably more taxing: installing it. George and I have both suffered severe fingernail trauma on multiple occasions. In spite of our clumsiness, though, the first floor is really beginning to take shape. We have almost all of the framing up and yesterday, George even started working on one of the walls. Unfortunately, once Remy noticed that she’d accidentally put holes through the panels in about ten different places, he tore it all down and made her start over. Still, real progress is being made.

  “What about you?” he asks. “How long do you think you’ll be able to go without a job?”

  “Don’t pressure me—I just started looking! Something will come up.”

  “I bet you’d be happier just writing.”

  “Of course I would,” I say. “But I’ve got to make a living in the meantime. Someone’s got to keep a roof over your head!”

  He laughs loudly and goes back over to the dwindling pile of two-by-fours, shaking his head.

  “I got it!” George shouts from our living room. “Holly! I got it!”

  I run out of my room. “Are you serious? Really?!”

  Her first interview and she nailed it! This was quite literally her dream job—assistant editor at a little boutique publishing house specializing in, of all things, women’s fantasy and sci-fi.

  “I can’t believe it! It’s too good to be true!”

  “No it’s not, G—you totally deserve it. This job was made for you! When do you start?”

  “Monday!”

  “That’s in three days!”

  “They were looking for someone ASAP. God, I’m so relieved. I was beginning to get calluses. See?” She shows me her palms. “Three weeks of manual labor and I’m already a mess….”

  “Yeah, yeah, princess.”

  “I am just sooo psyched!”

  She jumps up and down for a while, spins around a few times, calls her moms with the good news, then eventually collapses onto the couch with a bag of Baked Lays.

  “You know what else this means, by the way?”

  I shake my head. “We’ll have more money?”

  “Guess again.”

  “What?”

  She leans in close. “It means that as of Monday, you and Mr. Wakefield will be working up there every day, side by side, all alone….”

  “Shut up! You are such a child!”

  “Aw, you want him, Holly. You know you do!”

  “I do not! He’s such a jock. I wouldn’t go near him if you paid me.”

  “Yeah, right!”

  “I’m serious. He’s so totally full of himself.”

  She raises a doubtful eyebrow.

  “Okay, so he’s not a complete idiot, but he’s definitely not relationship material. He has way too much of that too-cute-for-his-own-good-frat-boy thing going on. I don’t trust it. And he’s beyond immature.”

  George snorts in disbelief. “This coming from the woman who sought comfort in the arms of Jean-Jean, a guy who sleeps with a baseball hat on and carries a picture of his bong collection in his wallet.”

  “Ack!” I shriek and throw a pillow at her. “I told you never to speak his name aloud!”

  “Fine. We’ll see… But I have a feeling about you two.”

  “Me and Bicycle Boy?”

  “No, you idiot! You and Remy. If you think you can convince me for one second that you don’t badly want—and I mean badly want—the hot-bodied, quick-witted stud boy English-Major-From-Stanford who quotes Dorothy Parker and loves Kentucky Fried Chicken, then you must have me confused with somebody who doesn’t know you very well.”

  I shrug. “What you’re picking up on is a fact that I admit freely—I could use a little male attention. We both could. But I’ll remind you that we did not uproot our lives and come all the way out here to have casual flings with the unemployed.”

  “Uh, I don’t think he’s doing too badly if he owns a house like this.”

  “Yeah, but he probably has a million dollar mortgage, too.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. I’m not the one with the crush on the boy upstairs.”

  “You really hit the nail on the head, there, G—Remy’s a boy. And tempting though he may be, I need a man. A wealthy man.”

  “Still, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers…and I’m doing low-carb now!”

  “Those chips working for you, then?”

  “They’re low-fat!”

  I roll my eyes. “And therein lies the problem.”

  “One woman’s potato is another woman’s pain,” she sighs, licking the salt from her fingers.

  I steal the b
ag away from her. “You know, George, now that you mention it, we’ve wasted just about enough time screwing around here. Tonight, we’re going out to celebrate your new job!”

  “Yay!”

  “And we’ll also begin our real work, what we came out here for in the first place….”

  “I’ll shower first!” she yells, jumping up. “But don’t you dare finish those chips before I get back!”

  chapter 14

  The Ides of March

  Judging from the glowing three-page tribute in my trusty copy of The Hipster’s Guide to San Francisco, the South of Market area sounded like a promising place to meet straight young men of means. At least for now. The bulk of my research actually suggested that we’d be best off heading down to Silicon Valley itself—the string of towns southeast of the city that are home to the world’s largest conglomeration of high-tech companies—but first, I figured we might as well explore the options in our own backyard.

  “It’s nice just to be out of that damn house for a change,” George says as we get off the bus at the corner of Folsom and 11th Street.

  “Tell me about it! I feel like I’ve almost forgotten where we are!”

  The financial district’s glass-and-stone towers loom to the northeast. Were it not for the unmistakable point of the Transamerica Pyramid reminding us otherwise, in the purplish twilight, it could almost be Manhattan.

  And then a streetcar clangs faintly in the distance.

  Nope! This is definitely not New York!

  The realization courses through my veins like pure adrenaline.

  “We should have done this the day we got here!” I link my arm through George’s and we begin to walk. Here is exactly what I’d been hoping for—sleek thirtysomethings dressed in black, trendy nightclubs and restaurants housed in converted warehouses, beautiful people streaming in and out of beautiful cars. We read the names of the places as we pass. The Public, Caliente, Butter, Wish, Loft 11…

  “Look—that one doesn’t even have a name!” George marvels through chattering teeth as we walk by one particularly steely spot fronted with mirrored glass windows. The velvet rope outside suggests it might be busy later, although now there’s no crowd to hold back. Just a beefy bouncer in a leather coat talking on a phone by the door.

  “Sure it has a name. 808.”

  “That’s the address,” she explains.

  I stop and give her a long, hard stare. “George, remind me—when was the last time you were out of Buffalo before we came here?”

  “Florida! With you!”

  “Before that.”

  “I dunno,” she shrugs. “Probably three years ago. I went to Saranac Lake with my moms, remember?”

  “What about the city?”

  “What city?”

  “New York!”

  “Oh! Not since high school, I guess.”

  I grab her arm and pull her back toward the restaurant. “Then this’ll be perfect.”

  The bouncer smiles at us and pushes open the glass door. Inside, it’s actually quite busy, and the welcome heat of bodies in motion mingles with the aromas of food being prepared. A mirrored, circular bar in the center of the space overflows with patrons, many of whom are definitely dating material. Aside from a few hanging chrome lanterns, the room’s light is provided by a ring of connected backlit aquariums set into the wall.

  “Hello, ladies.” A gorgeous hostess with shiny black hair pulled into a tight ponytail teeters in front of us in thigh-high stiletto boots. “Will you be eating or drinking with us this evening?”

  “Both,” I say.

  She grabs a couple of menus and leads us to a dark booth at the back. “The coat check is over there, if you like.”

  “I think we’ve found Nemo,” George giggles after she’s left. “And get a load of that guy!”

  An enormous angelfish—bright yellow and flat as a pancake—drifts slowly past our faces and on to the booth beside ours.

  “He’d be delicious pan-seared with a little sesame oil and lemongrass.”

  “First things first!” she says, pulling my menu away. “Drinks!”

  “Okay. How about Manhattans tonight? A tribute to home.”

  “I was thinking something a little girlier, but okay,” she says. “As long as you don’t mind peeling me up off the floor when we’re done.”

  “We’re here to celebrate—you can get as drunk as you like, because starting Monday…you’re a working girl!”

  She groans. “Suddenly, I’m not so sure I want a real job. Is it too late to change my mind?”

  “Uh, yes!”

  “But I’ve never worked in an office before.”

  “I know. But it has its advantages. As soon as you get your first paycheck, by the way, we’re taking you shopping. You can’t wear that one suit every day.”

  Her face blanches. “Oh shit! I hadn’t even thought about that! I need an entire work wardrobe!”

  “Relax! That’s the best part of having a real job.”

  “For you, maybe. You have the same body as the mannequins in the store.”

  “Minus the tits,” I correct her.

  “Whatever. But I look stumpy in suits.”

  “Well, maybe you won’t have to wear a suit. It’s probably not quite so formal out here, anyway, so I’m sure business casual will be fine. Just take note of what everyone else seems to be wearing and we’ll figure it out.”

  “I better lose some weight before then,” she says and opens her menu. “Oooh—but I bet the seafood risotto is good here. Should I have that? No, I probably shouldn’t. Should I? No. But it’s probably sooo good. God, but I’ve been so bad lately….”

  “Go for it George. You deserve it. It’ll be a nice change from pizza with a cardboard crust.”

  She nods, glad for permission to continue with her eating rampage. Pizza, and occasionally Chinese takeout, is pretty much all we’ve eaten since we arrived. More often than not, it was courtesy of Remy, so we were in no position to complain, although for an unemployed bum, we couldn’t help but notice that he sure blew a lot of money on takeout and beer.

  After three delightful rounds of cocktails, the food arrives. Who knows if it’s any good, all I know is we’re having a really great time. After vanilla-bean crème brûlées, we move over to the bar and even meet a couple of cute guys (at least, I think they’re cute). Nothing really comes of it, though George and I definitely seize the opportunity to flex our flirting muscles.

  It’s freezing out by the time we finally leave, and I’m in high heels (another of San Francisco’s many good points—the end of February, and no winter boots!), so we splurge for a cab home. We fall asleep as the car lurches down Market Street, and the driver has to wake us up when we get home. George throws up her very expensive dinner in the bushes on our way inside, but she definitely had a blast, anyway. We both did.

  I curl up under my blanket and try to keep the room from spinning by counting sheep. Just as I’m about to drift off, it strikes me how for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am on my own and feeling good about it—no boyfriend, no job, no therapist, even! I’m blithely stepping on sidewalk cracks and forgetting to check the oven at night. It has been ages since I’ve recited my relaxation mantra or knocked on wood or blessed myself three times after sneezing. The other day, I walked straight past Deepak Chopra signing his new book at Barnes & Noble and went right to the fiction section instead.

  So far, this city is good. Very good.

  Of course, it doesn’t take too long for that bubble to burst. I should have known better than to think purely happy thoughts. For those of us who live in the real world, the conscious realization that things are going well should also set off a little warning bell somewhere in the back of your mind: Heads up, girl! Trouble’s a-comin’!

  And trouble—this time, in the form of absolute mortification—is exactly where I find myself not two weeks later, standing in Remy’s bedroom, completely unprepared for what has just happened.

&
nbsp; He read my e-mail?

  My cheeks burn with shame as he stands in front of me, laughing.

  “…and I can’t believe that you guys came all the way out here to find rich husbands! That’s so…so…evil. I only took one women’s studies class, but man—that has got to be wrong. So wrong!”

  “How dare you read my private correspondence!” I gasp.

  Not much of a defense, but it was all that came to mind in the horror of the moment.

  “Hey, it’s not like I went looking for it! I was just trying to check my Hotmail account but I got yours instead. You must have forgotten to log off. Genius move. Not that I have to justify any of this to you, since it is my computer, after all. And to think—I was nice enough to let you use it. Had I known you were going to pollute it with this…this…filth!” He waves his arm dramatically in the direction of the screen. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed it!”

  I know Remy is joking, but I’m in no mood for it.

  “Well, if I’d known you were going to invade my privacy so…so egregiously, I wouldn’t have bothered! I would have waited for my own to arrive!”

  “So egregiously? Ha! Are you gonna put that word in your book?”

  “You…you suck!” I shout.

  “Maybe,” he snickers. “But now I know you think I’m, like, totally cute. Actually…I believe the term you used was ‘complete hottie.’ You know, you might want to consider writing for Tiger Beat instead.”

  God. Oh, God.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Holly. I am cute. What can I say?”

  He is enjoying this way too much, so I try to hit him where it will hurt. “You are possibly the most egotistical, arrogant, amoral piece of—”

  “Amoral? I don’t think so. Egotistical, maybe. Arrogant, most definitely. But I’ve done nothing wrong—my intentions were pure! It’s my house, my computer, which means finders keepers.” He grins triumphantly and takes a swig of his beer.

  Despite his adorably messy hair and chiseled cheekbones, Remy Wakefield is suddenly very, very ugly. Outrage wells up inside me, and I seriously consider slapping him across his smug, perfect face.

  Instead, I decide to take the high road. “Finders keepers? Finders keepers? What are you, in grade three?”