Oh God, what lovely friends I have.
10:15
A
.
M
.
Phone rings again.
“It’s me.” Katy. “I just saw today’s paper. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, you poor,
poor
girl. What a cheap bastard, leading you on like that. It’s positively
disgusting,
the way he’s used you and all the time he was cheating on you with that woman—”
Katy is so upset on my behalf. I appreciate her concern, but if she continues I
will
cry.
“—it’s outrageous! Rachel told me all about him stealing ideas from you. You should sue him for professional misconduct, and for leading you on by dangling the matrimony carrot in front of you. Sylvester and David told me about your dinner with Adam last night—my God, what an exit.”
“Yes,” I say, as William Cougan approaches my cubicle.
Oh God, now he will catch me in the middle of a personal conversation when I am supposed to be working. He does not approve of personal calls at work, and I do not want him to think worse of me than he already does.
“I’ll certainly tell Mr. Blakestock you called, ma’am,” I tell Katy, hoping she’ll get the hint.
“Oh, you can’t talk?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, you poor,
poor
girl. You can’t talk because you’re at work, and if you talk about it you’ll cry. I understand. I really do. You know, I saw a show about girlfriends and ex-wives whose partners had cheated on them, and what they did to get revenge—”
“Yes, ma’am,” I tell her. Am I the only person who didn’t see this show? “Thank you again, ma’am,” I tell her, because William Cougan is now right in front of me.
“Can I help you, Mr. Cougan?” I ask with a false smile, as I put down the receiver.
“Everything all right, Emma?”
“Yes, sir.” This is so embarrassing. “Did you want to speak to Mr. Blakestock?” God, I hope he hasn’t come here to speak to
me
.
“Yes, I can see he’s free. No need to see me into his office. Emma?”
“Sir?” Oh, no.
Here it comes.
“Keep up the good work.”
“Of course.”
Whew.
10:40
A
.
M
.
My phone rings again. Thank goodness William Cougan has gone.
“Emma, it’s me.” It’s Rachel. I’m surprised she didn’t call earlier because she eats the paper from cover to cover by the end of her morning coffee break. I’m also a little apprehensive, because I didn’t call her last night when I called Tish. I just couldn’t face her telling me that she knew all along what a jerk Adam is, and how right she is.
“I know you can’t talk,” she says. “Hang up and call me
from the restroom on your cell phone. Call me on my cell phone, not my office phone. Can you get away?”
“Yes.”
Five minutes later, after checking that the restroom is empty, I speed dial Rachel.
“Christ,” she says. “That man is a fucking idiot! A complete, utter, bastard,
fucking idiot!
”
It’s nice that she feels so strongly on my behalf.
“You would not believe the crappy day I’m having,” she says.
Her and me both.
“Do you know what he did? Do you know?” she rants, and I realize that we are not talking about Adam, but about Hugh.
“What did he do, sweetie?” I ask, pleased to be cast yet again in the role of wise confidante counselor friend. But I am a bit surprised, because I expected her opening gambit to be something along the lines of “I told you it would all end in tears but would you listen to me?”
“Bastard.
Fucking bastard!
”
She is so upset she can hardly speak. This must be really bad.
“Sweetie, take deep breaths and then tell me what’s wrong,” I tell her.
“After he cross-examines me about the list of supplies I’ve specified for the project—my God, what a cheap bastard—he tells me he wants me to
compromise
and order
cheaper, generic
materials. How cheapskate is that? So when I tell him
exactly
what I think of his despicable, stingy cutbacks, he asks me on a
date,
” she says, before dissolving into a longer string of curses. “Can you believe it? He actually asks me out to
dinner.
”
Oh. I don’t know just what it was I expected, but it wasn’t this. Hugh must be either very brave or exceptionally stupid. But how nice is that? Because it
is
nice, isn’t it, when someone likes you enough to ask you for a date? But the way Rachel said it, you’d think Hugh had asked her to dance naked in a pit of scorpions. I mean,
really
…
“What a
bastard.
He actually asked you on a
date?
” I say, and she is so mad that she doesn’t hear the irony in my question. “So what did you say?”
“I couldn’t think of anything
to
say.”
I can’t believe it. Rachel may be many things, but
speechless
is not a word that comes to mind when I think of her.
“So I just walked out of his office and now I’m in the friggin’ restroom.”
Well, that makes two of us.
“I mean, it’s so fucking
ridiculous!
What do you think he wants? He must have an ulterior motive. Maybe he wants to lull me into a false sense of security, then trounce me with some bad news. Maybe my project’s been canceled. Maybe I’ve been replaced by some stupid putz who doesn’t argue back.”
“And maybe, just maybe he wants to eat dinner with you,” I point out. “Maybe he feels you got off to a bad start and wants to get to know you—you know—to oil the wheels of your professional relationship.”
I am just about to congratulate myself on my sensitive handling of the situation when Rachel decides to take my advice the wrong way.
“So are you saying that he’s not asking me out as a woman? Do you mean that he can’t
possibly
find me
attractive
and want dinner with me for the
sheer pleasure
of my
company?
”
“No, you weren’t listening to me. Don’t put words in my mouth. Rachel, will you stop obsessing. I never
said
that. I’m sure he finds you completely fuckable.”
“Oh, so I’m obsessing now, am I?”
“Just a little, yes.”
“So it’s not like you obsess about Adam all the time? God, you’d think he was the second coming the way you talk.”
“I do
not.
” Do I?
“You do so. Anyway, what if I
do
decide to have dinner with Hugh?”
“You are not serious.”
“Well, I’m thinking about it…”
“But you hate him. You can’t
stand
him. He’s a baboon.”
“Well, y-e-s…”
“And when I first started dating Adam, you told me not to date my boss because that’s the oldest cliché in the world, and that he’d screw me in more ways than just in the bedroom, didn’t you?”
“Well, y-e-s. I suppose I did. But this is different.”
“How different?” I bristle.
I just can’t
wait
to hear this one.
“Well, I’m not his
secretary.
We’re both professionals, with doctorates. And he isn’t exactly my boss—more the project administrator. So you see, it’s completely different.”
I’m
so
not in the mood to take double-standard-type crap today, and I find myself getting even more angry with her for her hypocrisy.
“Oh, so just because I’m a mere
secretary,
and you’re some high-up
doctor of science,
it makes it okay?”
“Well, yes. Yes I do mean that, now you ask. Because, as I said, Hugh is not the boss of
me.
”
This is so unfair. I know that it is anger transference, because Adam is the bad guy, but Rachel can be totally obnoxious at times.
“I think I
will
have dinner with him. Yes, I definitely will. Just to see what he wants. So how did the revenge dinner go with the Adam last night?”
Her tone is more than just a little sarcastic and I bristle before answering. She obviously hasn’t heard the details from Sylvester or David, which is strange.
“For your information, I was marvelous last night. I told him what for, tipped the food into his lap, then marched out. Then I moved out of his apartment.”
“Oh. So that was last night?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the ‘he deserves to suffer, I’m not
moving out of his apartment under any circumstances’ speech you gave us on Sunday?”
“I changed my mind. Tish came and helped me pack my stuff.”
“Oh.”
Then there is silence at the end of the line.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes, I friggin’ well am here. I just can’t believe you’d do this to me, Emma.”
“What?”
“We’ve been friends for years longer, but you called her and not me. I suppose I’m the last to find out.”
“I would have called you, but I was in such a state—”
“Sure. I understand. You couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the telephone to tell your oldest friend.”
She is furious, and I am not going to back down because she is being completely unreasonable.
“Well, you’ve got to admit that you’re not exactly the most sympathetic of people, are you? I couldn’t face any ‘I told you sos’ last night. I was going to call you later—”
“Oh, so I’m a cold, unfeeling bitch, am I?”
“I didn’t say that. But you could make an effort to be more understanding. We’re not all as perfect as you.”
“I’m hanging up now. See you.”
I stare at the cell phone and curse at myself. I think I’ve just lost my oldest, best friend.
I burst into tears and comfort myself by having a chat with Daphne the silk ivy.
My day does not get appreciably better.
When I go to the coffee cubicle to get a caffeine fix, I overhear one of the twentysomething secretaries twittering brainlessly to another twentysomething secretary.
“No. That’s completely, like, outrageous. How did you, like, find out?”
“Tracey in Human Resources told me.”
“My God, like, how embarrassing is that?”
“If that happened to me I could never come back to work again. You gotta give it to her, she’s got some balls.”
And when they see me, they stop talking so I know that it is about me and Adam. I wonder how Tracey found out about this, but then I wonder how she finds out about anything. So now my humiliation is complete, because the people at work know I have slept with the boss. This does not make me feel good, but I smile frigidly at the gossips, and help myself to some coffee.
“How are you?” Barbie, Zoe, or Christie asks me.
“You’re so brave,” says the other Barbie, Zoe, or Christie.
I escape back to my cubicle to sulk. Only an hour to go, then I can leave. I hate Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam for doing this to me.
4:30
P
.
M
.
I am extremely petty, yes I am.
But it feels
great!
You see, Stella called about five minutes ago, and although she is the least likely person on the face of the planet with whom I want to hold a conversation, on account of her getting my engagement ring, this is what happened.
“Emily, it’s Stella Burgoyne. How
are
you, dear?”
Bitch. She
still
can’t get my name right.
“Stella, I’m great,” I tell her with false enthusiasm. “Such lovely news—the engagement. Congratu-
lay
-shens.”
“Thank you
so
much,” she says. “Adam is such a dear man—what a beautiful, beautiful ring.”
Don’t go on about it,
I think, but obviously do not say.
“How can I help you?” I say instead.
“Is he there?”
“Well, actually, he’s—” talking to William Cougan. But before I can say this, she rudely interrupts.
“Put him on, will you, dear? It’s urgent. So many details to work through for the wedding, you know.”
And then I know what I’m going to do. Call me spiteful, if you like, but surely I deserve a little bit of revenge?
“Of course,” I tell her. “Just hold the line a moment.”
Now I could just use the telephone to tell Adam that Stella is on the line, but I don’t. Adam is deep in conversation with William Cougan as I knock and walk straight in.
“So sorry to disturb you,” I say to Adam. “Miss Burgoyne is on the line and insists that she speak to you about the wedding.”
“Tell her I’ll call her back.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Blakestock, but she’s really insistent.”
Adam glares at me, and if looks could kill then I’d be fried to a crisp.
“Put her through.”
Y-e-s!
Before I leave for the day, I take Adam the spreadsheets I have prepared for him, plus my leave sheet.
“Here are the projected costs for the McAdams account,” I tell him. “I need some time off,” I add. “To hunt for an apartment.”
“I need you here next week. I expect you to help Lou Russo to find his feet.”
Lou bloody Russo. Lou friggin’ Russo…
“Tomorrow and Friday,” I tell him. “Everything’s up to date. Angie can cover any typing you need between now and next week.”
“She knows where all your files are?” Adam asks, his face brightening. “And your computer files?”
“Yes,” I say, and I mentally thank Rachel for telling me to remove my personal files from the computer. If Adam thinks he’s going to find any more great ideas to steal, he’s got another think coming. And then I remember that I’ve fallen out with Rachel.
“Okay.” Adam signs my leave sheet. “And Emma?”
I notice that he hasn’t called me Emmeline.
“Yes?”
“Don’t embarrass me in front of William again.”
“Adam,” I say, dropping his apartment keys on his desk, “I don’t know what you mean.”
TO DO
“Here, hon, drink this.” David hands me a large glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. “And I guarantee you’ll feel better. Got more customers coming in—back in a minute.”
Sylvester is overseeing the preparation of something complicated which involves shiitake mushrooms and double cream. It also involves quite a lot of cursing. The kitchen is steaming with his bad language, the July heat (no air conditioning), and cooking, as he and his sous-chefs prepare the evening menu.
Beneath the silk of my dress, rivulets of perspiration are trickling down my spine. I feel crumpled, and hot, and miserable.
“Non, crétin,”
Sylvester says, which means something very rude in French, I think. “
Non, non, non!
Not like zat. Like zis.” He wrestles the wooden spoon from the poor chef. “You don’t want to curdle the cream. You see? Now you do it.”
“Sylvester, I need two orders of spinach soufflé for table two,” David calls from the door, then heads back to the restaurant.
“
Chérie,
I’m so sorry.” Sylvester sits down next to me at
the large wooden table. “We have the early dinner crowd to feed, what can I say?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” I say, taking a large swallow of the excellent wine.
“Oh, but you are so brave to go into work and face zat pig. I couldn’t believe it when I saw his picture in ze paper—I mean,
quel bâtard!
So brave…” He shakes his head at me. “Was it really terrible?”
“Worse than that,” I say, and I glumly give him the recap of my day, but don’t tell him about falling out with Rachel.
I’m feeling very bad about Rachel. I should have been more understanding. But I do think that she was out of order for speaking to me the way she did. This time she’s gone too far and I am not making the first move.
“Zat was very naughty, putting ze call from
la femme terrible
through to him while he is speaking wiz his boss. Naughty for
you,
Emma, because you are too sweet. If it were me, I would make him suffer like you wouldn’t
believe!
I would cut up his designer suits and splash paint on his car…But he doesn’t have a car,
n’est-ce pas? Non.
Then I would splash paint on the walls of his antiseptic apartment—”
“And smash his wine collection.” I prompt him, because, of course, I’ve heard this before. I really am the only person who didn’t see that show. I wonder if it will be rerun soon.
“
Sacré bleu,
not ze wine,” Sylvester tells me, shocked at the mere thought. “Zat would be sacrilege, to destroy such—such gastronomic
art!
No, I wouldn’t smash ze wine. I would
drink
it,” he says, as he takes a large gulp of
my
wine.
“Don’t worry. Tish stole six bottles of his best stuff.”
“
Très bien!
She should have stolen
all of it.
Here, drink.” Sylvester refills my glass, then leans closer to me in a very conspiratorial manner. “He did it again today. David. He disappeared for
two hours
after we’d finished ze lunchtime rush. What am I supposed to zink? Pierre,” he yells across the kitchen. “
Beat
ze eggs. Beat zem like you mean it. You are
not
afraid of zem. Zey are just
eggs.
” He shakes his head with a
mournful sigh. “I can’t turn my head for a moment—you see what I have to put up with?”
“Yes. About David,” I remind him. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Would I be worried if he had? No, I’m sure he’s seeing someone else. I’m getting too old and he’s found a younger chicken.”
Frankly, the idea that David has found someone else is ridiculous. Sylvester, a well-preserved thirty-nine, is a complete Adonis. He is also a lovely human being, despite his volatile Gallic temper. David is thirty-two, and although I love him dearly, I would not describe him as gorgeous. He’s attractive in a small, dark, skinny way.
“You must speak wiz him for me, Emma.” Sylvester grabs my arm.
“And say what? I can’t blurt it out, can I? ‘David, are you having an affair?’ just isn’t subtle.”
“You will zink of somezing,” Sylvester tells me with complete confidence, and I feel my heart sink. I can’t even manage my own relationship. I am the last person in the world to help save someone else’s.
“Sylvester,
darling,
what are you doing? Table two are still waiting for their
hors d’oeuvres,
” David says. “Come on, dear, chop chop.”
“
Zut alors,
the spinach soufflés.”
“I don’t know what’s got into him,” David tells me as he sits down and takes a gulp of my wine. At this rate, I will be lucky to get another sip of it.
“I think he’s worried about his birthday,” David says. “He’s paranoid he’s getting old, poor dear. He’s started using wrinkle cream. Oh God, that’s the doorbell. I gotta go, honey. Sorry about this. Stay for dinner and we’ll talk later?”
“No, it’s fine,” I tell his disappearing back. “I have stuff to do.”
I am so very hot. The heat of the kitchen, combined with an empty stomach and the small amount of wine that has ac
tually made it past my lips, does not agree with me. I really just want to go back to Tish’s apartment and lie down for a while in the blissful cool of the air conditioning before I have to torture myself with phone calls to my family to tell them about Adam. I don’t really want to face this yet, but if they call me at Adam’s apartment and don’t get an answer, they’ll worry…Even worse, Adam himself might pick up the telephone.
As I leave, Sylvester thrusts a package into my hands.
“You must eat,” he tells me, kissing me on both cheeks. “You are too
maigre.
I worry about you, you know?”
Yes, I know I’m too thin. Too thin, too small, too flat chested, too nice…
Too hot and sticky.
When I let myself into Tish’s apartment, she is in the bedroom getting changed, so I slink into the bathroom and slip out of the Donna Karan dress. It’s a lovely dress, and holds up well in the heat of the city. This dress is usually a very good look for me, but after a day of stress and upset, my complexion is pale and wan, and I look like a ghost. It seems all my wishes for wrinkles are coming true, because I have bags under my eyes. Now that I am yet again single, with no career prospects, I should take more care of my skin. Maybe I’ll get some wrinkle cream.
After my shower, I feel marginally better as I slip into my ratty old comfort-bathrobe. The cream silk reminds me too much of Adam and I have consigned it to the trash.
“Darling,” Tish says. “How did it go? I nearly called you to give you some moral support after I saw that appalling picture in the paper. But I thought that might make you feel worse.” She shakes her head. “I just can’t believe how callous he’s been. Still, I think he’s only marrying Stella for her money—she’s worth millions in toilet paper and tissues.”
So I repeat my day of woe to Tish. I’m getting good at this now and give her the abridged version. Of course, minus the fight with Rachel.
“I hope they’re really miserable together,” Tish tells me. “I hope her breasts droop and her face sags, and she gets cellulite round her thighs. God, am I a bitch or what?”
“I appreciate the support, honey. Personally, I hope she leaves Adam for a twenty-year-old god so he knows how it feels to be a retread. Anyway, you’re looking particularly lovely tonight,” I tell her, because I don’t want to talk about Adam anymore. Plus, she really does look lovely.
The black cropped bodice and hip-hugging black pants (Calvin Klein, courtesy of Sunday’s outletting trip) are ultra chic but casual. She’s fresh as a daisy and sparkling with enthusiasm.
“I’ve got a date,” she says. “You don’t mind, do you? But if you need me here, I can cancel. It’s nothing serious.”
How nice is that? And how quickly she’s got over Rufus, but (obviously) I don’t say so.
“No, no. I’ll be okay,” I say, and mean it. It will be a relief to have the place to myself for a few hours. I can have a good old wallow in self-pity, cry my eyes out (yet again), put Led Zepp on the CD player (but not as loud as I’d like on account of the neighbors), and spend hours playing air guitar with Jimmy. Because I am a very sad person with no life.
“I’ve got to phone round the family and give them the bad news.” I sigh, because I know I cannot put it off. “Peri will be crushed that she doesn’t have a wedding to plan and Julia will remind me how great it is to be single. No doubt—
no doubt,
she’ll quote famous feminists at me.”
“You sure? How about Rachel? Why don’t you give her a call and see if she wants to come over?”
“No, I need to be alone for a bit,” I say, then quickly change the subject. “So who’s the hot date?”
“This guy, John. Remember I redid his office on Hudson Street a few months ago?”
I do remember, because he comes into her store all the time to buy things he doesn’t need, just so that he can talk to Tish. He is not the only one. Anyway, John is thirtysome
thing, fit, balding, still lives with his mother, and is homely in appearance. A nice guy, and looks aren’t everything, are they? But I just don’t
see
him with Tish.
“He’s always coming into the store to buy
objets
and paintings for his house. Today, after he bought a lovely Chinese wood cut for his living room, we got to chatting. And he just kind of asked if I wanted to have dinner. And I know he’s no oil painting, but looks aren’t everything. And he’s
so
sweet to his mother. So I said yes.”
“Where’s he taking you?” Home to meet Mom? But I don’t (obviously) say this.
“Tonight is strictly casual—you know, no big deal. Just as friends. We’re meeting in O’Malley’s for a drink, then pizza at La Luna.”
O’Malley’s just happens to be Rufus’s local bar, and he can be found in there most evenings playing pool with his buddies. But I don’t mention this, either, and neither does Tish. Now I understand the sparkle in her eyes.
“Okay, babe,” I tell her. “Go have fun.”
I hope Rufus is ready for this.
Before I make any calls, I decide to eat. I’m not hungry, but I already resemble a scarecrow and I cannot afford to lose any weight, so I investigate the package that Sylvester gave me.
Homemade ciabatta bread, stuffed with Sylvester’s special preparation of onions, garlic, sun-dried tomatoes,
herbes de Provençe
and Stilton cheese. This is my favorite thing in the whole world and I am touched that Sylvester has made this especially for me. Hmm…heavenly, especially with a glass of Adam’s Special Reserve.
I now feel strong enough to make the phone calls. I call Julia first, because of the five-hour time difference.
“Emmeline, I was just thinking about you, darling. We had a simply splendid weekend with the Smythe-Joneses. Very
picturesque. Anyway, you’ll never believe it—I got arrested for indecent exposure, it was so exciting…”
I hardly dare ask but she’ll tell me anyway.
“Bloody Lord Farleigh-Coombs and his hunt! We blockaded his route on Sunday, to stop the wanton, cruel killing of those poor little innocent foxes. When he tried to get us to move, I asked him how he’d feel, being ripped to shreds by a pack of ravaging hounds? How would he feel, minus his skin? He made some big pathetic excuse about how humane it is, and how foxes are a nuisance, and had I ever seen a chicken coop after the foxes had been at it? So I told him, ‘That’s all very well, but does the killing of foxes really require a troop of fat old men on horses wearing silly outfits, generally enjoying the barbaric plight of small mammals?’ To emphasize my point, I stripped off my clothes. The BBC came, so it was on television. It caused quite a stir.”
“I can imagine. But won’t you be disbarred or something if the Law Society gets wind of it?”
What I
can’t
imagine is how she ever came to marry my father, even if it was extremely short-lived. She went to Harvard as a postgraduate law student—some sort of exchange trip. Anyway, she met my dad, a handsome medical student. They fell in love, got married, and three months later the honeymoon was well and truly over when she realized he was serious about specializing in plastic surgery. Which, of course, she considers abhorrent and pandering to society’s superficial standards. Shortly after her return to England, she found out she was pregnant with me.
When I’m asked what is it that my parents do, people are usually shocked when I tell them that my father is one of the top plastic surgeons in the tristate area, and that my mother is a top London barrister, specializing in battered wives, cruelty to animals, and asylum seekers. She’s also sued the occasional plastic surgeon on behalf of disfigured clients.
One thing about Julia that I really, really admire is that she never takes a client unless she knows that they are innocent—
a luxury she can well afford, because she has a trust fund so doesn’t have to worry about her income. The trust fund is not huge, but enough to keep the rambling house in Holland Park from crumbling to dust. Plus, of course, she gets her rosebushes trimmed for free. George, Julia’s boyfriend, is also fairly handy with repairs…
“Of course, I didn’t get charged,” Julia tells me indignantly. “Marjorie Smythe-Jones is very friendly with the local chief of police, so it was all very amicable, really. Lovely man, Chief Inspector Wallis. Anyway, enough of that. How was
your
weekend?”
“It was completely awful,” I tell her. “Adam dumped me and got engaged to another woman.”
“Darling, that’s terrible. But
do
remember what Lady Astor said. ‘I married beneath me. All women do.’ Typical man. Bastard typical man. You just can’t trust any of them for more than five minutes at a time.”
I hear the rumble of a deep voice in the background.
“No, George, not you.
Do
stop eavesdropping.”
George started out as Julia’s gardener, seven years ago, and by the time he’d finished landscaping the garden he’d moved into her basement apartment. He still pretends to live in the basement, but I know for a fact that he hasn’t slept down there for years.