“George sends his love,” Julia says. And then, “So I suppose she’s younger than you, this new fiancée? I bet she’s some young, twenty-year-old cheerleader.”
“Actually, she’s fifteen years older than me.”
“Oh.”
This is a bit of a sore point for Julia, because George is ten years her junior and I think she worries about it sometimes.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with older women,” I tell her. “It’s just that Adam didn’t finish with me before he proposed to her. He was stringing me along until something better came along…” I feel myself sinking back into self-pity.
“Now come on, Emmeline, self-pity is so self-destructive,
and also shows lack of moral fiber,” she tells me in her no-nonsense voice. “At least you didn’t marry him, then discover he was having affairs. You should thank your lucky stars you had such a close escape.”
So much for motherly concern. I don’t feel lucky, but know that this is just Julia’s way.
“So tell me, did you get the information from the relief angency about your herd of goats?”
“No,” I tell her glumly. “My mail’s being redirected to Tish’s apartment and it hasn’t found me yet.”
“Well, cheer up, darling.”
“I will. Julia?”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I know that, dear. Me too.”
I sigh, and dial Peri and Dad’s number.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, how’s my little girl? Can’t wait to see you on Thursday. You are coming, aren’t you? Peri and the boys are really excited—they’re out at some party at the moment so I’ve got the house to myself for a change. My God, you wouldn’t believe how tiring those boys are. So how’s that handsome boyfriend of yours? He popped the question yet?”
“Actually, Dad, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. We’ve split up and I’ve moved in with Tish. I just wanted to give you my new address and telephone number.”
I figure that the less information I reveal, the better. Let them think it was a mutual decision, so they won’t be sorry for the poor dumpee, me.
“Oh. Bad luck, honey. But these things happen. Plenty more fish out there waiting to be caught. Especially by a little cutie pie like you.”
Ahh. My dad can be so lovely.
“Yeah, Dad. Thanks. Have you got a pen and paper?”
After he writes down my number, he comes up with a bright idea. This is not a new idea. It is the same one he came
up with last Christmas, and last Thanksgiving, but I do not tell him this.
“Say, have you met Norbert Boyle, my junior partner?”
“Yes,” I sigh, knowing what’s coming next.
“He’s still single. Very eligible young man—well established, own home, nice income. He’d make a great catch for some lucky girl. I can’t understand why he’s still alone.”
Oh, I do. I do not want to be the lucky girl who snags him. Norbert is completely obnoxious, and I perfectly understand why he’s still single.
“I’m not looking for anyone else just yet. But thanks, Dad,” I add, because I know he has my best interests at heart.
“So we’ll see you on Thursday.”
“You bet.” I’m actually looking forward to seeing them now, because a girl needs her family around her at times like this. I’m even having warm thoughts about Joe Junior and Jack Junior…
“Shall I get Peri to give you a call? You need to have a womanly chat with her?”
“Er, no. Really. I feel fine. Tell her I’ll see her Thursday. Bye, Dad.” Much as I love Peri, now is not the time to “share” with her.
Wednesday, 7:45
A
.
M
.
Tish has gone to meet Rachel at the gym. I, of course, cannot go with them on account of Rachel’s bitchy comments to me yesterday. But I do not tell Tish this. Instead, I plead a headache.
But I don’t have a headache. In fact, I feel quite good today. Very cheerful, in fact. You see, fifteen minutes ago Adam called me and he really made my day.
This is what happened.
“Hello,” I say, ready for another bout of telemarketer torture. These people really are outrageous—calling a person at 7:30 in the morning before they head off to work.
“First my sofa and rug, and now this. It’s just so childish,” Adam says. He sounds very angry. “I can’t believe you’d do this. What the hell were you thinking? Today I’ll torture Adam with a herd of goats?”
“Calm down,” I tell him, “Don’t overreact.” Oh dear…
“Don’t overreact?” He splutters. “How would you feel if some guys turned up at your apartment with a herd of goats? Oh, you’re such a flake you’d probably keep the damned goats and let them eat the rugs and the drapes.”
And I know instantly what has happened. Julia’s birthday gift has been delivered to Adam in Manhattan, instead of the Msoze family, in Uganda.
This is great. This is amazing.
Though not, obviously, for the goats. Or the Msoze family.
“I want them removed from my property this instant or I’ll, I’ll…I’ll sue you.”
“Get a grip,” I say, and I can’t help laughing.
“This is not funny.”
Oh, yes it is. Am I really a flake?
“Emma? When you’ve finished laughing, perhaps you’d better speak with the delivery guy?”
“Why should I? I didn’t order any damned goats.” I hear them bleating in the background. “For all I care they can live with you and Stella in Trump Tower.”
Revenge is sweet!
“Good-bye, Adam,” I say, and hang up the telephone.
When he calls back, which I know he will, I pick up because I am very sorry for the goats.
“What do you want?”
“The goats are addressed to you. At this apartment. The delivery guy won’t take them away until you speak to him.”
“So what do you want
me
to do?” I will not make this easy for him. He doesn’t deserve it.
“I want you to tell the delivery guy to take them away.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What’s the magic word?”
Adam sighs, but then complies. This is even more fun than a telemarketer.
“Please,” he says.
“Sure. I think I know what’s happened. Put the guy on the phone.”
Muffled voices and bleating goats as Adam passes over the telephone.
“Yeah?”
“Hi, this is Emma Taylor. I understand you have a delivery of goats for me?”
“That’s right, ma’am.”
“What’s your name?”
“Gus, ma’am.”
“Well, Gus, let’s see if we can sort this out. These goats were ordered by my mother, but they were supposed to go to Uganda. From me. For my birthday. To the Msoze family.”
“Your mother buys goats for someone else for
your
birthday?”
“Yes—she’s a very unusual person. The thing is, Gus, the goats won’t be happy in Manhattan. You got the paperwork on you?”
“Sure.”
Seconds later, after much rustling of paper (and more bleating of goats), Gus comes back on the line.
“Looks like a clerical error from the administration office. They put the wrong delivery address on this. You were just supposed to get the receipt.”
“Oh, good. So you’ll take the goats away, then, and make sure they get on their way to Africa?”
“I don’t know about that. This guy here, he ain’t exactly been polite about the whole thing. Me and the boys carried these crates up to his apartment, too….”
Aha. I completely understand what this is about, now.
“I understand,” I tell Gus. “How about Mr. Blakestock gives you a hundred dollars for your trouble, and you take the goats away?”
“Sure. Sounds good to me.”
“Great.” Although I don’t want Adam to get off the hook so lightly, the goats deserve better. “Put him on, will you, so I can explain our agreement.”
“Well?” Adam growls.
“All fixed,” I say. “They had the wrong delivery address, that’s all. Now if you’ll just give them a hundred dollars for their trouble—”
“What? Are you out of your mind?”
“Okay, bye, Adam. Enjoy the goats.”
“No, wait.” And then, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Good. Have a nice day now,” I tell him and hang up.
Y-e-s!
TO DO
I am strong.
I am, as the song says, invincible.
Because
I am Woman.
For my journey into the deepest, darkest depths of New Jersey to spend the day with Dad, Peri, and the terrible twins, I have chosen only music with a positive message. Last night, while Tish had her second date with John (just like the previous evening, she met him in O’Malley’s—I hope he develops a taste for Guinness), I spent two hours carefully taping each track. On this occasion, I have forgone my gods of rock, Led Zeppelin (although I do have
Houses of the Holy
for
the return journey tomorrow morning), and am listening only to strong, invincible women.
As I listen to Aretha Franklin singing about respect, I sing loudly along with her. And I actually feel quite good. Not exactly happy, but not totally in the pit of despair, either.
As Rachel says, there’s nothing wrong with being a single woman of independent means. Well, at least Rachel used to say this, when we were friends. The thought of Rachel casts a dark cloud over my day. I’ve been thinking about our argument, and she
did
have a point. I will call her tomorrow and eat some humble pie, because we have, after all, been friends for sixteen years and you don’t throw away that kind of friendship for a few ill-chosen words.
But anyway, this is the twenty-first century, and just because I’m thirty and don’t have a boyfriend or husband, this does not mean that there is something wrong with me, no. It means that I can’t find a man worth giving up my freedom for. This is, after all, the day for being independent (although I’m always a bit confused whether or not to celebrate—being half American and half English can be a problem on days like this).
Yes, an independent woman. That’s exactly it.
And that is what I’m going to say to explain Adam’s nonappearance with me.
“We split up because I am an independent woman,” I say aloud.
This doesn’t sound convincing.
I’ll have to think of something else. I ruthlessly push aside thoughts of Adam and concentrate on my new swimsuit, which is safely tucked in my overnight bag.
It’s black, with high-cut legs, and is artfully padded around the breast area. Not
too
padded so that I look
too
different, you understand, because that would be tantamount to admitting defeat and saying to the world, “hey, I know my boobs are too small,” but just enough to squeeze together what I have got, and push it up into amazing cleavage.
Amazingly
small
cleavage, but cleavage nonetheless.
It cost an absolute arm and leg, but David assured me it was worth every penny. Actually, it didn’t cost an arm and a leg because I bought it from an up-and-coming new designer. That’s one of the benefits of having gay men friends. They always know where to go shopping for whatever it is you happen to want. And David’s friend Simon is so up-and-coming that no one has actually heard of him yet, but boy does he know how to dress women! And which is why he gave me a great deal. Plus he actually raved about my smallness, and how great I’d be as a mannequin.
Can you imagine it? Me, the next supermodel. Naomi, Chandra, and Kate will be my new best friends. Jean-Paul Gaultier will design lovely bustiers for me à la Madonna, and pop stars will want to date me!
Armed with this daydream, plus riding in my lovely daffodil yellow Beetle always makes me feel good, I happily while away the journey imagining exotic locations, and men with bulging biceps drooling over me. When I’m in London, Guy Ritchie and Madonna will invite me to dinner, along with Sting and Trudie Styler…
Didn’t quite manage to ask David if he was having an affair, though…It’s not something that comes up easily in conversation. I will have to figure out a way to broach the subject. But if he is having an affair, it’s definitely not with his designer friend Simon, so that’s good, isn’t it?
My newfound bravado deserts me as I pull up the drive in front of Dad and Peri’s ranch house. I thought this was going to be family only, but there are several extra cars parked on the drive (all of them Mercedes or BMWs).
I nearly turn my car around and head back down the drive when the front door opens and out trots Peri, resplendent in a pink and yellow flowered bikini and matching sarong.
“Darling, you’re here,” she tells me as she squashes me in a huge bear hug, before taking my face in her hands. “I’m just so
pleased
to
see
you.” She plants kisses all over my face
as if I am her favorite teddy bear. Peri is the human equivalent of a Labrador puppy—enthusiastic, overenergetic, but basically loving and friendly.
“Daddy was starting to worry you’d had an accident—you know, because of being depressed about Adam and not paying attention to the Jersey drivers. Oh, you poor darling,” she says, pulling me back against her bosom. “Daddy told me about Adam. You poor,
poor
girl. He’ll come around, you’ll see. He’ll be back begging you to marry him by the end of the month.”
Peri, ever the optimist. Fat chance of that. No one will ever want to marry me.
“Come on.” She grabs my arm and leads me into the house. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Norbert’s here and he can’t
wait
to see you again.”
But I don’t like Norbert, I don’t say, because he is a pompous, sexist ass who talks continually about his money, his belongings, his past girlfriends, and his prowess in the bedroom. God knows why Peri likes him!
“He’s still single. You know, I don’t
get
it. He’s rich, attractive, successful…and he’s really fond of you, you know. Come on.” She pauses momentarily to draw breath. “Let’s get you into your birthday bikini, then you can join the party. It’s just the usual crowd, including Uncle Derek, Norbert, Gracie and Lou, oh, and you’ll never believe it. Uncle Derek’s got a new girlfriend—Kaylie—she seems like a nice person and he did do a great job on her implants, but he’s still stressed out from the divorce…”
“Actually, I have a new—” swimsuit. I nearly manage to say it, but before I do, Peri foils me.
“Darling, go on up and change—I’ve left your new bikini in your old room. As soon as I saw it I thought of you, you are just going to
love
it. It’s so
cute.
”
Peri is lovely, but fashion is not her forte. I anxiously eye her pink and yellow flowers.
“Go on, up you go,” she urges me. “The boys are dying to see you in it. They helped me choose it.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see them, either,” I lie, trying to imagine what this bikini is like, having been chosen by three-year-old demons who take great delight in tormenting me.
What a horrible person I am.
Not only do I
not
want to see the boys, I
don’t
want to wear Peri’s bikini. What sort of mean, selfish person am I? If I don’t wear the bikini that Peri has especially chosen for me, I will hurt her feelings. Would it kill me to make Peri happy? Besides, all Peri and Dad’s friends won’t care how I look, will they?
This thought holds me until I put it on.
It is truly ghastly.
The lime green, itsy-bitsy bikini leeches the color from my skin. It has a halter-neck top, with two tiny triangles of fabric that literally leave nothing to the imagination and show off my small, but at least firm, breasts. I nastily hope that all of the other women are at least forty, with drooping boobs, and will be jealous of my neat little perky 32AAs.
But how likely is that? Most of Dad and Peri’s friends are plastic surgeons and their wives have absolutely no reason to have droopy breasts or flabby thighs.
I glare at myself in the full-length mirror, and anxiously fiddle with my pixie-short blonde hair. It is the only thing about me that looks well nourished (thanks to Sylvester’s hairdresser friend, Jason, who introduced me to this new, super tea-tree conditioner for fine hair).
Maybe if I tie my sarong around my boobs and don’t get into the pool, I’ll be able to get away with it.
“Emma, what are you doing up there?” Peri calls to me, and I realize that I have been up here for at least twenty minutes.
“Come on, darling, everyone’s dying to say hello to you.”
Oh, God, the sarong (black, to match my lovely new swimsuit) looks like a tent. It was supposed to be tied around my hips, to make them look a little wider. Instead, I tie the knot just above my breasts, which gives me the appearance of having
one boob right in the middle of my chest.
But it
is
an improvement on the lime green, so I sigh and leave the room after slyly hiding my purse and my car keys under the loose floorboard that hopefully the twins haven’t discovered yet. I used to hide all my private things in here during high school, when I lived with Dad.
As I step self-consciously onto the terrace, Peri shrieks in delight.
“Look, everyone, here’s Emma.”
I feel like a freak exhibit in the zoo as all eyes turn towards me.
“Darling.” Dad kisses me. “Sorry about…er…your guy. Very sad. You all right?”
“Yeah. You know.”
He pats my shoulder without saying a word. He’s not the most vocal of people when it comes to affairs of the heart, so the pat is worth a thousand words and I appreciate it. I appreciate his next words even more.
“Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes—something deadly would be nice.”
“Something with vodka.” He winks at me, then turns back. “Oh, Norbert’s here.”
“Oh, good.”
Oh God.
“Emma.” Uncle Derek, pink as a lobster, his stomach hanging unflatteringly over his swimsuit, plants a kiss on my cheek. “Heard about your disappointment with Adam,” he addresses my breasts. “Single again! I dunno what it is with modern women, you just can’t seem to stick with one guy.”
“Ha ha.” I feebly attempt a laugh, to avoid conversation. I don’t want to mention his three ex-wives, because this would be mean of me.
“You really should give more thought to getting implants. Men like a woman with curves.”
And women like a man who is not desperately in need of liposuction and hair implants, but I do not say that, either.
“Emma.” Gracie air-kisses me. She is Peri’s best friend. Although a bit of a ditz (in a very nice way) she has the un
canny ability to memorize complete trivia and regurgitate it at inappropriate moments.
“So sorry to hear about you and Adam. We never did get to meet him, did we? Well…Norbert’s here.”
“Yes, so I hear.” I force myself to smile. I do not understand why everyone seems so determined to throw Norbert at me.
“Oh, you’ll never believe what Gracie saw in the newspaper on Tuesday,” Peri tells me. “It’s such a coincidence.”
Oh God.
“Yeah,” Gracie says. “There was a photo of that rich woman toilet-paper magnate—you know the one I mean? Oh. What’s her name, Peri?”
“Can’t remember. Sheila or Susan something.”
Stella
bitch-man-stealing
Burgoyne. But I don’t say this.
“Whatever, but she has great taste in clothes. She was wearing this really great Oscar de la Renta dress. Did you see it in
Vogue,
Peri? Completely fabulous.”
I plaster the smile more firmly to my face because I know what’s coming next.
“Well anyway, she’s worth a
fortune
and she’s just got herself engaged to this younger guy.”
“Gigolo,” Peri announces, wrinkling her nose. “He’s, like, ten years younger than her—he
must
be marrying her for her money.”
Peri tends to forget that she is sixteen years younger than my dad.
“But you’ll never guess,” Peri says. “He’s called Adam Blakestock, too. What a
coincidence.
I mean, like, I’d never have remembered that your Adam was called Blakestock if Gracie hadn’t reminded me.” Peri laughs, and I feel the color drain from my face.
“Obviously not
your
Adam Blakestock, but don’t you, like, think it’s a strange coincidence that there are two guys with the same name living in Manhattan?”
“How
weird
is that?” Gracie giggles.
“Oh, we shouldn’t have mentioned his name. See what we’ve done, Gracie? We’ve reminded her about her breakup with
her
Adam Blakestock.”
“No, it’s okay. Really…”
“Oh.” Gracie puts a hand to her mouth. “I’m
so sorry,
Emma, Lou’s always telling me to think before I open my great big mouth. I’ll, er, just go see if he needs help with the barbecue.”
Peri drags me around to say hi to everyone, and I narrowly avoid getting stuck with Norbert. For the moment, he has a captive audience by the name of Kaylie, Uncle Derek’s date. He’s amazing her with trivial details about his five trillion million–dollar sports car. Fascinatingly enough, his new car has fifty cup holders.
Imagine that!
And just when I think I can escape Peri and find a quiet corner, preferably with a large, extremely alcoholic drink, she calls out to Joe Junior and Jack Junior, who are splashing around in the pool.
With Jack Senior.
Jack Senior, or just plain Jack, is Peri’s younger brother. And let me make something very clear.
We do not like each other.
This is because of what happened at Dad and Peri’s wedding, nine years ago, when I was a sophisticated graduate of twenty-one and Jack was a varsity jock—a mere boy of nineteen.
“I told you we had a special guest,” Peri tells me. She fondly imagines that because Jack and I are related by marriage, we must be the greatest of friends.
“Emma,” the terrible twins cry my name in unison, and it sounds more like a threat than a greeting. Within seconds, they are out of the pool and attached to my legs like leeches as they tug at the sarong. The sarong duly complies and slithers down to reveal the lime green bikini.