I feel sick. I have to leave now, before I cry or puke all over Harry-the-salmon. And then I know what I’m going to do.
I stand up, inadvertently sending my chair crashing backward, and the whole restaurant pauses mid-conversation to try and peer through the potted plants. Mario and Giorgio are not even pretending to hide now. They have brazenly listened to every word Adam has said and look like they might commit violence.
“Adam, you are a bastard,” I tell him. “You sit here calmly telling
me,
your live-in girlfriend, that you’ve fallen in love with someone else. You’ve actually
proposed
to the other woman, but you didn’t want tell me sooner because you didn’t want to
hurt
me? And now you’re trying to placate me with some
stupid friendship gift?
What a terrible trick that is.”
“Now, Emma—”
“Don’t you dare ‘Now Emma’ me, you bastard ionic bonder. Let’s see how you like this trick.”
Before I can think about it I grasp the edge of the crisp white tablecloth, and yank it. The old pull-out-tablecloth-from-under-crockery trick. The entire contents of our table fall into Adam’s lap, and crash to the floor in a mess of broken crockery, smashed glasses, and food.
“Oops,” I say, into the complete silence of the restaurant. “That trick didn’t work either.”
Luigi begins the clapping. Then Mario and Giorgio join in. And then the diners add their support, and the crescendo builds.
To the cries of
“Brava”
I swirl on my heel and head toward the restaurant door.
“Brava.”
Luigi kisses my cheek.
“Brava.”
“Sorry about the crockery,” I tell him. “Just send me the bill.”
“Are you joking? It was worth it just to see Adam’s face. And besides, I used the second-best china.”
10:30
P
.
M
.
“What a
bastard,
” Tish tells me for the hundredth time as we take a last look around Adam’s apartment for anything I’ve missed.
As soon as I called to tell her my tale of woe—between heartbroken sobs—after poor, hapless, possible-medical-student Chuck I couldn’t even be bothered to torture any more telemarketers—she immediately called a cab and came straight over. And she is angry. More than angry, she is completely furious with Adam, which at this point is much better than sad and depressed because she is not crying. If she were to cry, I would cry, too, and I’ve pretty well cried myself out over the past few hours.
But not once has she said “I told you so.”
My eyelids are so puffy and red that my eyes have been reduced to bloodshot slits. And my head aches. This really is not a good look for me. But it
is
appropriate. I look
exactly
like a woman who has just been right royally shafted by her significant other.
“I just can’t
believe
it,” Tish tuts, “I mean, what a complete and utter
bastard. Scumbag.
Ionic bonder fucking
bastard.
”
“You’re getting very good at cursing,” I say, as I stuff the last of my CDs into a tote bag.
“Yeah, I’ve been driven to it by the idiot, bastard men in this godforsaken place. It’s therapeutic. And cheaper than a shrink. God, this place is still too clean. I want to dirty it. We should throw a leaving party and invite everyone we know. What do you say?”
“Tempting. But you know what I want to do? I want to follow through on my threat to redecorate it with really
disgusting colors and trashy furniture. He’d really hate that.”
I look around at all the creams and whites and shiver. It really is cold and hard, just like Adam’s heart. I shiver again and rub my arms. If I’m honest, it never really has felt like home because everything in here is Adam’s.
“I saw this show about avenging ex-girlfriends and wives,” Tish says. “It was really good. There was one woman—really pretty fortysomething—and her husband of twenty years ran off with his bimbo secretary. I mean, how clichéd is
that?
” Tish stops midrant and puts her arms around me. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I don’t mean
you’re
a cliché.”
But I am. I am a cliché in reverse.
My boss has left me for an older wife.
“Anyway, her husband tried to hide bank accounts, stocks and bonds—any material assets so he could screw every last penny out of the divorce. So you know what she did? She waited till her husband and his slut were out and broke into his apartment. Then she cut all his expensive suits to shreds. She was
so
cool—she splashed his Mercedes with paint. And then she smashed his expensive wine collection—you know, it was worth hundreds of dollars. Man, was he
pissed.
It was
great!
”
“How much jail time did she serve?” I ask, as I nervously imagine Tish running amok with Adam’s wardrobe and a pair of scissors.
“Oh, hardly any at all. She pleaded diminished responsibility. Six months, maybe. But it was worth it, don’t you think?”
I am too sad to think about revenge. Too disillusioned to care about getting even.
“What I really want to do is just leave and never come back,” I say sadly. “I think I have everything.”
All of my belongings are packed into my yellow Volkswagen Beetle, which is illegally parked on the street below. It is stuffed to the rafters with my clothes and shoes, my toiletries
and knickknacks. Not much to show, really, for thirty years on the planet.
It’s completely impractical, having a car in the city. And outrageously expensive. But I love this car—I’m so glad that I didn’t give it up when I moved in with Adam. At least I won’t have to pay exorbitant Manhattan garage fees anymore.
“No, I
know
we’ve forgotten
something.
” Tish marches into the kitchen so I follow her.
“But none of the kitchen stuff is mine.”
“Adam owes you,” she says, checking out the wine rack. “These should do it.”
Oh, God. The thing with Rufus has sent her over the edge. She’s going to smash his wine collection.
“Listen, Tish, let’s not do anything too hasty here,” I tell her.
She pulls out six bottles of his most expensive wine and I cringe.
“Oh, we’re not going to smash them,” she tells me with a sly grin. “We’re going to drink them. Call it therapy.”
TO DO
Total Humiliation.
Complete, utter, total, abject humiliation.
I will
never
be able to hold my head up high, ever again. Instead, I will bow my head in shame and despair. Everyone I know will learn of my demise over the next twenty-four hours.
There it is, in black and white, for the whole world to see. The news of Adam and Stella’s engagement is in today’s newspaper. Along with a very flattering photograph of the happy couple.
The photograph was taken
last night
at some posh charity event. I mean, I just can’t believe it!
Last night! Merely
hours
after he dumped
me.
I mean, I know that I have to tell the rest of my friends and family about Adam’s defection at some point (if, in fact, David and Sylvester haven’t done this already), but I was rather hoping for a few days’ grace before I have to face them.
My
God,
but the man is a fast mover. No wonder he only wanted to eat the main course at dinner with me. Was he working from a timed agenda, or what? I can just imagine how he planned it out.
All the while he was with me, he must have been
counting the seconds
till he could escape back to
Stella.
All the while he
was explaining his new love to me, he was watching the clock!
But they do look lovely together. It’s not fair! Adam, all tall and handsome in the black tux. And Stella, tall and dark-haired, with her C cups lovingly encased in a glamorous Oscar de la Renta evening dress that I saw in
Vogue,
and covet wildly. She may be forty-five, but even
I
have to admit that she is truly stunning. After torturing myself with the happy smiles on their faces, I scan the article below.
A Marriage of Public Convenience?
Stella Burgoyne, CEO of Burgoyne’s Fine Papers, arrives with her new fiancé, Adam Blakestock. Previously a wunderkind at Sezuma Advertising, Mr. Blakestock is now the wunderkind Director of Advertising at Cougan & Cray.
When spotted earlier at JFK wearing a delicious Tiffany’s engagement ring, Ms. Burgoyne confirmed that Mr. Blakestock had popped the question during their romantic weekend at the Bahamas holiday home of William Cougan, CEO of Cougan & Cray.
The couple met when Ms. Burgoyne approached Cougan & Cray after their wonderful success stories with Perfect Pantyhose and Kitty Crunch.
“I’m looking for a whole new concept in toilet paper,” Ms. Burgoyne told reporters. “I think Cougan & Cray have the right blend of artistic foresight for my company.”
The couple plan to marry in late October, but would not reveal details.
The
bastard.
I wonder if he kept me in reserve, just in case she refused. And now, after this (and table-contents-in-lap trick) I have to go to work and face him.
I feel fresh tears springing to my eyes, but I ruthlessly
squash them. I will not cry on a packed PATH train as it speeds under the Hudson River and into Manhattan.
But why am I going to work today? Why am I torturing myself this way? Why didn’t I just stay in Tish’s sofabed and call in sick? Because Tish
made
me.
“Come on, Emma, you have to get out of bed and go to work. You have to show Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam that you don’t care.”
“But I do,” I wail, clutching the pillow to my face.
“Out,” Tish tells me, pulling at the comforter. “You
are
going to work. Don’t you see what he’ll think if you play hooky? He’ll think you’re heartbroken and that you can’t face him.”
“He’d be right. I feel terrible. I want to die.”
“No you don’t. You are a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman and you will
bounce back to love another day.
”
“Have you been reading those pathetic self-help books again?” I grumble. “You sound like a quote. And anyway, if we’re such strong, beautiful, intelligent women, why are you still avoiding Rufus? How come
you
get to hide from
him
and you won’t let
me
hide from
Adam?
”
“It’s different with me and Rufus,” she says, but still has the grace to blush. “We were never an item. And now that I can see he’s never going to ask me out, I have
put him behind me
and
moved on.
”
“You sound like you’re speaking in italics. You’ve definitely been reading self-help books.”
“Okay, so maybe I have. Just one—
Your Ex: How to Behave in His Presence
—and it really, you know, really
speaks
to me. Emma, you have to face your fears before you can have closure and move on. It’s the only way.”
“Oh, so we’re not boycotting the deli anymore, then?”
“Of course we are.”
“But that’s not fair. If I have to face my fears, you have to face yours, too.”
“No one ever said life was fair,” she says, smoothly changing
the subject. “I think you should wear the white Donna Karan silk dress with the matching jacket. Cool, crisp, elegant.”
She riffles through my clothes, which are neatly hung on the portable clothes rail in the corner of her living room, and I know that she is right. Much as I want to pretend that I have vanished off the face of the planet, I do have my pride.
“Go get in the shower and I’ll do your makeup. Your eyes still look terrible, but we can fix that.”
When the PATH train stops at 23rd Street, I leave my newspaper on the seat and scramble off before the doors close.
Thank God I only have to put up with Adam for another few days before heading off to Human Resources.
It is only 10
A
.
M
. and I am already having the most shit day imaginable. Adam is not happy about Cruella replacing me as his secretary, as I found out when I arrived at work (ten minutes late but I couldn’t rustle up the emotion to worry about it). Angie is sitting at her usual place at reception. She glares at me without even bothering to disguise her hostility, and I wonder what happened to the temp who’s been booked to be her temporary replacement. Angie’s scowl is so ferocious, I don’t ask.
“I’d like to see you in my office right now,” Adam tells me from his office door as soon as I reach my cubicle, and I get the impression that he has been hovering there waiting for me to arrive.
So I follow, my heart leaping with angst as I wonder if he’s going to fire me. He’s probably going to ask me for half of last night’s dinner check. Or to demand that I pay for his clothes to be cleaned.
“Right,” he says from behind his desk. “Please explain why Angie was sitting at your computer when I arrived this morning.”
“She’s my replacement,” I tell him. “I’m switching departments.”
“But
I
wasn’t consulted about this. Who agreed to this?”
I thought he’d be happy about this, given the circumstances. Apparently not, but I can’t imagine why.
“I decided it was time to take a sideways transfer, since I’m obviously not making any progress in this department,” I tell him, pleased that my voice sounds firm and completely unapologetic. “I went to see Jacintha Bridges last Friday. I’m moving to Human Resources at the end of the week, so I’ll have plenty of time to train Angie before I go. I’m sure she’ll work out very well for you. She has a world-class typing speed.”
“I can’t believe you did this behind my back. Emmeline, this is so petty,” he says.
Me? Petty? A case of the pot calling the kettle.
“Just because we’re not personally involved with each other anymore doesn’t mean that we can’t act like mature, intelligent adults at work. We’re a good team. You know that.” He pauses to flash me his best charming smile, but all I feel is ice around my heart.
And I don’t get it.
Why on earth would he want me to stay here working for him? Does he want me to stay because he’s pissed I went behind his back, or does he want me to come up with more great ideas so he can steal them? Possibly both.
“And I’m sure that if you stick with this department, and concentrate on helping with some high-profile accounts, you’ll get your promotion. You’d be wasted in Human Resources.”
This is rich, coming from him. I feel the bile rising in my throat.
“Adam, I know you didn’t recommend me for promotion,” I tell him.
“That’s a lie,” he lies, and I can’t help but admire his expression of outraged indignance.
“But I saw your memo to William Cougan,” I tell him.
“You forgot to close your personal e-mail before you took off for your romantic weekend. You should be more careful. You never know who might walk into your office when you’re not around.”
“Okay,” he tells me, segueing smoothly into a different counterargument with barely a pause. “I admit it. I don’t feel you’re ready for your own accounts yet, but just wait six months and gain more experience—”
“And frankly, I’ve lost interest in advertising,” I interrupt before he can spin me the line. “I feel that human resources would be a good challenge for me.”
“I’ve spoken to Jacintha,” Adam tells me bluntly. “You’re staying right where you are.”
Bastard.
He already knew about my transfer but wanted to put me on the spot and explain myself to him. Was he always like this?
“Maybe I should take this to Mr. Cougan,” I say, with false bravado. I do not want to tell William Cougan that I’ve been sleeping with Adam—the fewer people who know, the better.
“William,” Adam says, placing emphasis on the fact that they’re on a first-name basis, “is already aware of the situation between us, and he doesn’t see a problem with our continuing to work together.”
Oh, God. I will never be able to look William Cougan in the face again.
“So you see, the matter is closed. You’re staying exactly where you are.”
I stand to leave because I can’t think of a damned thing to say. Adam has burned my bridges. The only way I can escape this is to leave the company. I am tempted to quit right this moment, but I’m not sure when I’d be able to get another job and I certainly won’t get a good reference from Cougan & Cray if I just desert them.
“Emmeline,” he says, as I reach for the door handle. “Look.” He runs a hand through his hair and I feel a pang of
longing because he is so handsome. I
know
he’s a bastard, but I can’t help myself.
“I’m not doing this to make life difficult for you, you know,” he says, more gently. “I’m thinking of you and your future. I’d hate to see such talent wasted because things didn’t work out between us personally.”
“Maybe you should have made it clear from the start that you just wanted to fuck me to get over Sabrina.”
I didn’t mean to let that slip out, but right now I figure that I am entitled to be marginally bitter.
“This is business, Emmeline,” he says, and then, “By the way, I do hope that you’ll be picking up the check for last night’s debacle.”
“If you have the money to buy expensive Tiffany’s engagement rings, you can afford to pay for last night,” I tell him.
His eyes narrow as he considers my words, then he glances at his computer screen and he knows that I know about the huge bonuses he received.
I do not say another word.
I just leave the office with visions of smashed wine bottles and slashed suits dancing before my eyes.
10:10
A
.
M
.
I pick up my ringing telephone.
“
Chérie,
we just saw ze newspaper,” Sylvester says. “I know you can’t talk, just say yes or no.”
“Okay.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Luigi told me about your performance last night.
Merveilleuse.
”
I’m surprised there isn’t a photo of Adam and me in
today’s paper after our scene in La Trattoria last night, given the fact that the whole of Greenwich Village knew about it in advance.
“Shall we come and meet you for lunch?”
“No,” I say. I
am
okay, because I am fueled by my anger with Adam. But if I meet Sylvester and David for lunch I will collapse in a fit of self-pity because of their kindness and concern. It’s lovely of them to consider deserting Chez Nous at lunchtime just for me.
“We understand.” And then,
“Non,”
Sylvester says to David, “she doesn’t want to. Okay. David says to come here straight after work. We’re zinking about you,
chérie.
”