Champagne Life

by Nicole Bradshaw

  The front door slammed shut. He was gone.

  Naomi

  I walked into the immaculate downtown Philly office building of McIntyre, Roth and Associates. The spacious lobby was contemporary in design, containing two plush butter-colored leather sofas on opposite ends, one leopard-print lounge chair and an art deco style glass table situated in the center. The paintings on the walls featured different countries around the world. One I recognized as Paris, another, Venice, Italy. A third painting was of a Caribbean location, maybe Aruba or Jamaica.

  I was nervous as I headed toward the receptionist’s desk. My nude-colored heels clicked against the black and gray expensive-looking checkered tile floor.

  I hated wanting something so badly, but the truth was, I needed this position. This job would mean more money, but most importantly, it meant future career growth, something I was lacking working at the bank. It was rare that a smaller company, such as McIntyre, Roth and Associates paid employees to go back to school, but if the company was willing, so was I.

  “Good morning.” I smiled at the receptionist at the front desk. She was a young, neatly dressed black woman, wearing a tight, stylish high ponytail. From her formal style of dress, I was glad I’d chosen my black knee-length pencil skirt, that hugged my hips, and my tan blouse I’d purchased on sale from Nordstrom. I’d opted to spike up a few strands of my cropped cut and purposely had chosen gold-studded earrings and a matching necklace to complement my skin as well as bring out the subtle bleach-blonde highlights in my hair.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer. She had a friendly smile as she asked if she could help me. That’s when I noticed her hair color. She somehow managed to match her makeup with the red streaks in her hair. Her nails were short but well-manicured. I glanced down at my own, wishing I had taken the time to, at the very least, polish them up with a clear gloss.

  “I’m here for a noon interview with Mr. Roth,” I told her. The silver accented name plate on her desk read, Stephanie Merchand.

  Stephanie began furiously typing on her keyboard. When she stopped typing, she ran her finger down the screen, stopping halfway. That was when I checked out the band on her ring finger, a diamond white gold eternity wedding band. That ring cost a fortune, at least, two-thousand dollars. The band was accompanied by a one-and-a-half-carat diamond engagement ring with accented micro pavé diamonds in platinum. Her ring was the exact same engagement ring I had yearned for; only DeShaun and I couldn’t afford it. Stephanie Merchand must have married very well.

  I decided that if I got this job I would treat myself to a nice ring, exactly like the one Stephanie wore.

  “Ms. Knowles?” Stephanie said. “They’re ready for you now.”

  I stood up and smoothed down my skirt.

  I felt completely confident. This position was as good as mine; I could feel it. It had to be, especially with DeShaun and me in the position we were in, financially as well as emotionally.

  Naomi and DeShaun

  “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

  “It was only a couple of days,” DeShaun said. “We needed to cool things down a bit.”

  DeShaun took a seat in the antique Bergère armchair I had purchased on one of our many excursions into the city. I loved that chair. With its gilded shine and the flower pattern upholstered back and armrest, it reminded me of the chair my grandmother used to have in her house in Garner, North Carolina.

  I took a seat across from him on the couch and propped my feet up onto the matching footrest. I took a long, drawn-out sip from my glass of wine and allowed the liquid to slide down my throat and warm up my body, putting me in a more relaxed mood.

  “In any case, I’m glad you’re back.” I took another sip. “You sure you don’t want another glass?” I asked, holding up my wine.

  He shook his head. “I’ve already had three.”

  I swirled the remaining contents inside the glass and then downed the rest of the wine in one giant gulp. I reached over to the coffee table for the bottle and poured another glass. “You sure? Last chance.”

  “I’m good. Thanks.”

  I tipped the bottle and poured out the last few drops into my glass. “How about a cookie then?” I lifted the plastic container with the cookies inside. “They’re your favorite, chocolate chip.”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  He didn’t seem the same this evening. “You sure you’re okay?”

  He nodded. Even though DeShaun was back home, things were definitely tense between us. I got that he was upset, but I felt as though that discussion—or argument—needed to happen eventually.

  I sat back and took another sip. “So, how was that party the other night?”

  “More of the same. When rich people get drunk, they get crazy.”

  “Uh-oh. What happened this time?”

  I had come home from work late in the afternoon and found DeShaun, snoring like a wild boar on the couch. He was fully dressed, laying in bed with his shoes still on. Normally that drove me insane, however, at that point, I was just glad he was home.

  Within the course of several hours, he had grown massive stubble on his upper lip and chin area. When I found him on the couch, he was sleeping in the same clothes he had on when he left the night before. His untucked, unbuttoned, white shirt hung loosely and his jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped, exposing his Fruit of the Loom blue and white striped boxers. I had watched him sleep, feeling a twinge of guilt for making him hurt, the man that I had vowed to love forever.

  He stretched out his legs and rested his head against the arm of the couch. “I’ll tell you what happened. It was more of the usual, rich drunk people dressed in casual designer duds, stumbling around the party barely able to stand. That’s what happened.”

  “Really? Did the Countess hit on you again?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about Mrs.—?” I thought for a moment. “The one that gets drunk at every party and throws herself at you, what’s her name?”

  “Liana Edison?”

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Marcia Nicholson?”

  “Sheesh, how many women hit on you?”

  He shrugged. “Comes with the territory.”

  I took another sip of the wine, allowing it to slide down my throat and relax me. “I cannot remember that one chick, the one who was dirty dancing with that British dude at that party for that rich couple.”

  “That could be anybody.” He furrowed his brow and thought a moment. “Ohhhh, you mean Jennifer Herjavec.”

  “Is that the one with the husband who’s an arms dealer for the DOD?”

  “That’s her.” DeShaun shot up from the chair and headed for the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open and seconds later, I heard the sound of him removing a cap from a beer bottle. “You want a beer?” he yelled from the kitchen?

  I reached over, grabbed the bottle of wine and emptied the remaining droplets into my glass. I downed that in one point five seconds flat and then said, “Sure.”

  He returned with two beers in hand and a bag of sour cream and onion chips. He handed me one bottle and placed the other onto the table along with the bag of chips. “Be right back.” He disappeared back into the kitchen. As I sipped on my beer, I listened to the drawers, cabinets and refrigerator open and shut. A few minutes later, he returned with a six-inch turkey sub on a paper plate. “I cut it in two in case you wanted half.”

  I wrapped my mouth around the sandwich and took a colossal bite. Breadcrumbs dropped from my mouth and onto my shirt. The combination of turkey, ham, cheese and lettuce with a touch of mayo tasted like heaven on a paper plate. The only thing that would make the sandwich better was crunched-up sour cream and onion chips stuffed in the center. One thing you couldn’t say about me was that I was a dainty eater.

  I eyed the bag on the table but before I could grab for them, DeShaun reached for the bag and handed it to me.

  “Go ahead. Mess up your
sandwich like you always do.”

  “You know me so well.” I crunched up a handful of chips and strategically placed them onto my sandwich.

  DeShaun grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies and shoved them into his mouth. “These are really good.” He shoved in another mouthful of cookies. “What were we talking about?”

  “The slut who keeps hitting on you at the parties.” I could barely get the sentence out with my mouth full of lunchmeat potato chip bliss.

  “Oh yeah.” He took another swig from his bottle of beer. “Mrs. Herjavec was so drunk, at one point, I thought I was going to have to escort her out of the party. She was stumbling around and even tripped a couple of times. I can tell you, she will definitely have a major hangover tomorrow.”

  “Wow,” I said. “So, the rich actually get drunk to that point, huh?”

  “I’ve seen it all.”

  He gave me a few more horror stories about the lifestyles of the rich and famous, during which, we shared another quarter sub, which would technically only make that a half sandwich, so I didn’t feel like a total pig. Between the both of us, we had almost two bottles of wine, which was mostly me, and four beers, which was mostly him.

  After feeling more relaxed, DeShaun moved from the chair and sat next to me on the couch. He gently ran his fingers up and down my arm. The sensation tickled.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to us, Mimi. Why are we always fighting so much lately?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re both under a lot of stress. You lost your job and I despise mine.”

  “Even before I lost my job, we were fighting over small things.”

  “We’re under tremendous financial stress, I guess. When the other smaller issues pop up, it pushes us over the edge.”

  I was sounding like my mother, who was an expert at diagnosing situations. The truth was, I had no idea why we were picking at each other so much. One evening, after hearing Mom and Dad argue, I saw her in the bedroom, crying. I would never forget what she told me, a ten-year-old little girl, at the time.

  I had innocently asked if she was going to be okay. Her initial response was to reassure me that all was well. As I was about to leave the room, feeling satisfied that Mommy was going to be all right, she called me back, sat me down on the bed and told me something I would never forget.

  “Mimi, honey, you will find that perfect man who will love and trust you with his life. You’ll feel the same way too. Always remember that marriage is something that is constantly evolving and the dynamics of that union will change several times throughout the course of that union. The person you marry is inevitably going to change. So are you. Sometimes those changes are minor and you won’t even notice them. Other times those changes define the course of your marriage. Changes are due to external as well as internal factors. As the marriage evolves, so must we.”

  I listened to my mother, but at ten, had no idea what she meant. I did remember leaving the room and rushing to the dictionary to find out what inevitably meant.

  I was feeling those changes.

  DeShaun shook his head. “I can’t keep doing this, Mimi.”

  “I know. I can’t either, but what should we do? How do we fix this?”

  “I don’t know. I guess we keep on trudging along, hoping something will give. That’s what we’ve always done.”

  “That’s my point,” I said. “Trudging along and doing nothing is exactly what has gotten us nowhere. It seems like we keep trying to get ahead but keep getting knocked back further and further, until we find ourselves scraping to get back to position we were originally in, which is the position we were trying to get out of in the first place. Does that make sense?”

  DeShaun nodded. “I feel that way, too.”

  “So what do we do?”

  DeShaun shook his head. He didn’t have an answer either. I didn’t tell him about my interview with the law firm. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, but now may have been the best time to expose a little bit of that proverbial light at the end of the long, dark tunnel.

  “I had an interview with a law firm. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to get our hopes up and then have them smashed to the ground again.”

  DeShaun nodded, knowing exactly what I was referring to. A week ago, he was in a position to become the manager of a restaurant and making more money. Days after that, we found ourselves scrambling around trying to decide which bills we could put off. At this rate, showering at the gas station around the corner was becoming more of an option.

  “It went well.” I attempted to downplay it and conceal my optimism. “It’s a decent company and if I qualify, they’ll pay for schooling. I could even take paralegal courses or get my Masters. It’s a good option.”

  “That sounds great,” DeShaun said. “In the meantime, I’m looking for work. I even got a tip about a catering company from M.J. He’s worked for them as a side gig a few times. I’m going to put in an application next week. Plus, there’s that party Mr. Herjavec is having for his wife. That should pay pretty well.”

  “So we’re on the right track. Maybe you’ll make more contacts at the Herjavecs’ party and one of them will use you for another party.”

  “True, true,” DeShaun said. “And if that doesn’t work, I can always become Mrs. Herjavec’s escort for awhile.”

  “Don’t forget about the Countess.” I playfully swatted his backside. “Those women would love that and I bet both would pay triple for a piece of your sexy self, probably triple what you and I could make an entire week combined. Not to mention, you’d be able to hit all the high society parties. Those people were always having parties, or is it called a soiree when you’re rich?”

  “Parties?” DeShaun said. “Mrs. Herjavec probably wouldn’t let me out of the bed long enough to go to any of those parties.”

  “Yeah, and you’d come home sore and with bruises on your body from swinging from the chandeliers. But, hey, it would be worth it to have these damn bills paid.”

  “Speak for yourself. You wouldn’t be the one needing a hip replacement at forty.” He stood up and limped around the couch, feigning like he had a bum leg.

  We both laughed so hard, our sides hurt.

  “By fifty, I’ll be in a wheelchair,” he said, making another lap around the couch.

  “And I’ll push you around.”

  He came around and plopped down onto the couch next to me. “Oh, man,” he said, out of breath. “I do love you, Mimi. I just don’t want you to stop loving me.”

  “Are you serious? That could never happen. Sure, we have our issues, but we’ll find a way to deal with this. We always do.”

  He stretched out his arm around me and then leaned in to kiss me. “You’re right.” At first, his kiss was a quick peck, but then he leaned in again. This time his kiss lingered as he rubbed his hands up and down my back. He pulled my shirt over my head and I pulled down his jeans. I slid off the couch and onto my knees. With my teeth, I pulled down his Fruit of the Loom boxers and went to work. When I finished, he scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom. Gently, he laid me down onto our bed and stepped out of his jeans and boxers bunched around his ankles.

  “Now, I’ll do you.”

  Naomi

  I woke up and performed the daily bare minimum. By that, I meant I showered, brushed my teeth, unwrapped my hair and threw on a pair of black pants and a pink silk blouse. I skipped the moisturizing, skipped breakfast and skipped the gas station on the way to work, which I would probably regret when I was sitting at the gas pump with every other nine-to-fiver. I even skipped calling in to the supervisor when I realized I was running late and wouldn’t be there in the next ten minutes. Bare minimum.

  The fact that I had to go to work now more than ever stabbed me right in the gut. I needed to before, but at least in previous circumstances, I was able to fall back on the standby that DeShaun was working and pulling in a salary too.

  For the past few days, DeShaun had been searc
hing for a job and had even followed up on that catering tip his ex co-worker, M.J. gave him. Two days ago, he called the company and they had yet to return his call. I urged him to call at least two more times after that, treading dangerously into stalking waters, but the bottom line was; we were desperate. A few days ago, we received an overdue notice via mail from the power company. That really pissed me off. Three months back, we had overpaid them and it took two billing periods to get a measly fifty-six dollars returned. Now that we were four days late, PECO was sending notices and calling, asking for their money like a pimp would his whore. Dang! I got that they wanted their money, but three calls in under an hour? If I didn’t have the money the first time, chances were, I probably wasn’t going to have it forty-five minutes later.

  When I arrived at the bank, thirty-seven minutes late, Percy, the security guard, opened up the door for me. In his usual fashion, he gave a pleasant good morning, nodded and then tipped his security hat.

  I wished I loved my job half as much as he did or, at the very least, could fake like I did.

  I ignored the who-does-she-think-she-is, sideways glances from the other tellers and headed for the back room. I dropped my purse onto the floor of the employee closet and went straight for the bathroom.

  I looked into the mirror and studied my reflection. Instead of looking like I was in my early thirties, my reflection screamed that I looked like I was at least forty—and not one of those gorgeous forty-year-old women who kept themselves up. I looked like that forty-year-old woman with three pain-in-the-ass kids, all under the age of six, that whined all damn day long and sucked the little bit of life I still had right out of me.

  Hell, with the bloating that was popping up in my mid-section from all the late night stress snacking and the period that was due in a couple of days, I looked like a beat down, pregnant forty-year-old hag.