Oh God, what on earth will I do if she wants to bring him back here to have sex? They can’t go back to his place, on account of his mother. And the walls between her bedroom and the living room are so thin. I just can’t lie here and listen to them cavorting in the bedroom. Maybe the noise from my new vibrator will drown them out…
I could call Rachel…I
should
call Rachel. I really
miss
her…
I decide to watch a video and have some more wine to build up my courage. I decide on
A Knight’s Tale,
because although Heath Ledger is (but only marginally) too young for me, he is certainly easy on the eye. Plus, the actor who plays the Prince of Wales is lovely, so I keep winding forward to the bit in the film where he makes Heath a real knight, and then to the end where he kisses his pretend actress wife. Then back to the bits where the Geoffry Chaucer character is naked, because I like him, too…Plus, this might be the only chance I will get to see a naked man ever again…
I am just about to have a good cry because Heath Ledger has been reunited with his poor, blind father, whom he hasn’t seen in twelve years, when the doorbell rings.
It’s Rachel.
“Hi,” she says, rather coolly. “I brought you this.”
It is a large ferny type of plant. I am not good with house-plants because I overobsess that they will die on me. So then I overfeed them, overwater them, and then they do, in fact, die, despite the fact that I try to place them in appropriate places, according to the houseplant book.
But it is a kind thought, and Rachel never buys flowers,
because (a) they are expensive, (b) a waste of good money, (c) they die, and (d) they look better growing in fields and gardens, where they belong.
“Thanks,” I say, awkwardly, because I know that the plant is as close to an apology as I’m going to get from Rachel.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask. “I’m just drinking the expensive wine Tish stole from Adam’s apartment…” I really want to be friends with her again. I hate confrontations.
“Sure. What else do I have to do on a Friday night? It’s not like I have a hot date or anything,” Rachel says as she climbs the stairs.
Thank God I am not alone in my Friday-night misery. And she can’t be too pissed with me if she’s bringing me gifts and saying yes to wine. I wonder why she’s dateless? She’s never dateless.
This fern is really huge. Close to tree size, in fact. Where the hell will I put it? There’s barely enough room in Tish’s living room for me.
Oh God, plants don’t photosynthesize very much at night, do they? I think they absorb oxygen when it’s dark, so this one probably absorbs quite a lot. Will it absorb my oxygen share overnight and asphyxiate me? I can just see the headlines now:
GIRL SUFFOCATED BY KILLER PLANT
. And I envisage a John Wyndham–style Triffid slithering along the floor to the sofa bed and eating me as I lay asleep and unsuspecting…
Get a grip,
I tell myself, as I drag it up the stairs.
It’s just a plant…
“God, this stuff is disgusting,” Rachel says through a mouthful of my noodles. “How can you eat it?”
“Hey, get your own disgusting stuff,” I say, grabbing back my dinner.
“Emma, you need to eat proper food. Just because Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam is stupid, and does not know a good woman when he gets one, it’s no excuse to let yourself go.
You need sustenance,” Rachel says, then disappears into the kitchen to get some wine.
Thank God. Rachel is back in normal bossy mode as if our Tuesday argument never happened. I feel quite teary with emotion.
“We’re ordering pizza—with extra cheese, because you need protein and calcium. What video are you watching? Oh,
A Knight’s Tale
—I suppose I could sit through that again,” she says, but I know for a fact that she, too, thinks that Heath Ledger is hot.
“Hey,” Tish says from the doorway. “What are you doing, guys? Can I do it, too? My God, that’s a big plant.”
“I thought you had a date,” I tell her.
“I broke up with John. He just wasn’t right for me.”
“I am not going to say ‘I told you so,’” Rachel says, looking first to Tish and then to me in a very pointed way. And then, “What pizza do you want?”
“What was wrong with him?” I ask, because I don’t understand why she dated him in the first place.
“Nothing. He’s a nice guy. But I just felt things were moving too fast.”
“You’ve only been dating for a few days.”
“Yeah, but he wants to take me home to meet his mother.”
“That’s fast. It usually takes at least a year and a shotgun to get a guy to take you home to meet his folks,” Rachel says.
“How can I meet his mother? We haven’t even had sex yet. And he didn’t want to stay in O’Malley’s the whole night again.”
“Oh. That explains it,” Rachel says.
As we are eating our double-cheese, double-pepperoni pizza, and as Heath Ledger is about to de-horse the bad guy, win the tournament, and kiss the girl, Rachel suddenly announces that she has a date with her boss.
“I’ve got a date with Hugh on Monday night.”
Come again?
I don’t say a word, because I don’t want to put my foot in
it again now that we are friends. But I just don’t believe she’s serious after all she’s said to me about dating my
boss.
“Monday night is good,” Tish says, nodding with approval. “A Monday-night date tells him that you are just so busy and inundated with other men that you can only fit him in on the most nondate night of the week.”
“Exactly.” Rachel nods her head vigorously. “And it’s not like a real date, or anything. God forbid I should date my
boss.
” She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re right about that, Emma, although you could have been a little kinder about the way you said it.” She sniffs and I decide it’s time to go for World Peace. At least, peace in my own little world.
“I know. I’m sorry. I was out of order, but then I
do
know what I’m talking about. It’s not every day your boss/live-in lover gets engaged before he ditches you,” I say. My eyes fill with Adam tears again and Tish hands me a tissue.
“I was a little hasty about the Adam situation,” Rachel says. “I didn’t see the picture in the paper until after I’d spoken to you, honey. What a complete and utter
ionic bonder bastard.
He couldn’t even wait for you to vacate his bed before asking another woman to marry him….”
And she’s off in full Rachel rant mode as she lists his varying faults, cunningly moving the conversation away from her forthcoming date with Hugh.
By this time we have all drunk a little too much of Adam’s wine.
“I think we should act like guys,” Tish says. “They don’t worry about meeting and only dating Miss Right. They play the field without getting emotionally involved, and I think we should do the same. Instead of obsessing over finding Mr. Right, we should polydate.”
“I may be desperate,” I tell her, “but I have no intention of dating parrots, or any other kind of bird, for that matter.”
This is a bad joke and they both scowl at me before Tish continues.
“I mean we should date more than one guy at the same
time. You know, a different guy for each night of the dating week. Anyway, I’ve already accepted two dates for next week. Wednesday is Greg and Thursday is Julio.”
“Julio the hot waiter from the Spanish café?” Rachel raises an eyebrow and I can see she is impressed. “Tell us more.”
“I went in there earlier to get a sandwich and I just kind of asked him. Do you think that was too forward of me?” she asks, chewing on her bottom lip.
“No,” I tell her, envying her for being so brave.
“No. You go, girl,” Rachel says. “I’ve been telling you both for years to take the bull by the horns and get out there.”
“I think we should make a pact,” Tish says, her face lighting up with the beginnings of an idea. “Tomorrow night we should, you know, hit a singles bar or something and see how many men we can pick up.”
“Count me in,” Rachel says. “I need to meet some new men—I can’t be bothered to date the ones I’ve already slept with. Too boring.”
“Count me out,” I tell them, gloomily. “I’m too depressed to date.” And then I tell them all about Norbert and Jack, but omit the part where Jack sees my boobs.
“Honey, you should think about sharing his house,” Tish tells me. “You can stay here for as long as you like, but—”
“This place is just too small for both of you,” Rachel finishes. “Darling, five hundred bucks a month is a song for Hoboken. Besides, it’s better to live with a man you don’t like—it only complicates things if you sleep with your roommate.”
“Sharing with Jack is not an option,” I tell them. “Especially now he thinks I’m some sad spinster with a pink vibrator. There must be something somewhere I can afford.”
“Pink vibrator?” Rachel raises an eyebrow. “Honey, rewind the conversation a few seconds. How did the words
vibrator
and
Jack
get to coexist in the same sentence?”
“Peri bought it for me,” I tell them, and rummage in my tote bag to show them.
They are speechless. But I don’t think it’s with envy.
“I’m seriously thinking of giving up men forever,” I tell them. “Because the vibrator may be loud, but it
is
ten inches long. And at least it won’t make me sleep on the damp patch.”
“Honey,” Rachel tells me with a steely glint in her eye. “You won’t be needing that. I’ve fixed you up with a fuck.”
TO DO
Monday, Bloody Monday.
This is never a good day for me. The first day of the working week, it is hard to muster up enthusiasm for the rat race after a long weekend of freedom away from the sewers.
I personally feel that the weekend should be extended to three, possibly four days (but on full salary, obviously), thus creating job-share opportunities and thereby eliminating unemployment in one fell swoop. It would also increase shopping opportunities, thereby stimulating economic growth. This is a
great
idea, I don’t know why no one’s thought of this before—it would be a great vote winner! I should have been a politician! Maybe I could be the first female president…
Plus, of course, it would give one extra necessary time to recover from weekend overindulgence. Our weekly dinner at Chez Nous extended from Sunday night into the wee hours of Monday morning, along with the opening of more bottles
of wine, and I could cheerfully have stayed in bed for an extra few hours this morning to nurse my hangover. Hmm…I wonder if the government
would
agree to a three-day week?
I must mention this to Katy—if Marion Lacy has another campaign to organize, maybe she’ll leave Katy alone.
We could call it Workers in Favor of Shorter Working Weeks, or WIFOSWW for short. No, not catchy. Oh, I know. How about Salaried Help Overcomes Plutocratic Predilection to Influence Nation’s Growth? Appropriately, SHOPPING for short. Hmm…maybe not. Although a catchy, memorable acronym, no one will remember what it actually stands for. I must check the dictionary for the exact meaning of
predilection
…I always associate it with prominent political or entertainment figures caught
in flagrante delicto,
pants around the ankles, handcuffed to the bedpost. In a very seedy hotel, of course, in the company of a secretary or a prostitute.
Senator X resigns after admitting predilection for kinky sex…
I’m really worried about Katy and Tom, though. Last night they both seemed tired and distracted. I must think up a way to get rid of Marion.
Also, the situation between Sylvester and David is not resolved, despite my assurances, yet again, to Sylvester that David wouldn’t hurt him for all the tea in China.
But anyway, Mondays are especially not good when you have to endure working with your very recent ex-lover. Plus the arrogant young upstart who got the job that should, by rights, have been
yours,
i.e. Lou Russo, starts work tomorrow.
I can hardly
wait.
This morning, despite lack of sleep (and last night’s excess of alcohol) and lack of time in Tish’s bathroom on account of both of us needing to get in there at the same time, I am looking spectacularly lovely, even if I do say so myself. Maybe not
spectacularly
lovely. But I do look as good as I get.
I am wearing a pale pink, flirty, gauzy dress that I bought in a chain store last year for the bargain price of forty dollars. It is my feel-good dress, and hints at curves even though I don’t have many. It is sleeveless, with a slash neckline, dipping into a slight V at the back. But not too sexy, obviously, because you should never look too sexy for work. But when faced with an ex, it is always imperative to look one’s best to (a) show him what he is missing and make him miss you even more, and (b) that you are
so
over him.
Plus, I have a date tonight. With Helmut. I still think it’s a bit early to start dating again, but Rachel got me Helmut to say sorry for our little fall out. According to Rachel he’s tall, blond, gorgeous, and completely fuckable. He’s also a scientist, so he’s intelligent as well as gorgeous. But if he’s so gorgeous, why hasn’t someone else snapped him up? Why isn’t Rachel sleeping with him? Hmm…
Anyway, just after I arrive at work Adam calls me into his office.
This is what happens.
Adam is seated once again behind his impressive desk. I am seated once again at the other side of the desk in the lower seat, so that I have to look up to him. He looks healthy and fit and relaxed, and I can’t help but wonder how much sex he and Stella had this weekend. I also can’t help but wonder if I am about to be raked over the coals for (a) ruining his sofa and rug with his good wine, (b) stealing his good wine, or (c) the goat incident. And if, indeed, I will be joining the ranks of the unemployed.
Instead of any of these nonattractive options, he does a complete about-face.
“Emmeline,” he says, flashing me a “let’s be reasonable” smile.
I don’t smile back, because to tell the truth, I feel totally unreasonable at this point.
And he’s calling me Emmeline again. Interesting. Maybe he and Stella had a fight. Maybe he
misses
me and wants me back…
No, I’m not being weak and pathetic. But it’s always good to have the chance to reject someone after
they
dumped
you
and then realize what a good thing they had after all. Of course, if he really did want me back, I wouldn’t have him.
Not in a
million.
Never.
“Did you have a good break? Family all okay?”
“Yes.” Get to the bloody point, Adam.
“Good. Good. Well, I just wanted to clear the air between us, you know, to make sure there are no hard feelings.”
I don’t say a word. I have a lot of feelings, and hard is definitely one of them.
“I think that I might have appeared to be a tad insensitive last Monday at the restaurant.”
A tad insensitive? A bull in a china shop has more delicacy. But obviously I don’t say this as I wait for the point of the conversation.
“Well, I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry if I hurt you. And that I forgive you for the scene you caused in the restaurant. And for ruining the sofa and the rug.”
Oh, God, this is awful. I’ve never received such a lacking-in-remorse apology before, and his pity is so condescending that I feel like shit. Hard feelings, inexplicably, make me think of the pink vibrator and before I realize what I am going to do, I mentally transfer it to Adam’s head.
Voilà!
There he is.
A talking penis!
“I just hope that we can continue to work together in an adult, reasonable way,” Penis Head says, and I smile.
As his mouth opens and closes, as he blathers on and on about something or other (can’t remember—too busy trying not to laugh) I imagine the vibrator pumping up and down, up and down, climaxing in a spout of verbal semen…
“So what do you think?”
“Sorry?” What did he just say to me?
“Emmeline, what do you say we scrub the past and start anew with our professional relationship?”
And then he does the strangest thing.
“Emmeline, it’s good to meet you,” he says, and holds out his hand. “I’m sure we can work very well together.”
The man is an idiot.
An idiot.
Was he always like this, or was I just so lust-crazed that I didn’t notice?
And I know, in that instant, what a lucky escape I had. What was I thinking, imagining I could be happy with such a completely self-obsessed jerk?
Stella can have him!
Monday evening
All I can say about Helmut is stinky plants and worms!
Actually, I have rather a lot more to say about Helmut than that, and as you may have already gathered, our evening together is not a success.
As organized by Rachel, I meet him in a rather charming restaurant in Little Italy. Helmut has already arrived. At first, as the waiter leads me to the table, and to Helmut, my first impression is, well, to be frank, I really
do
wonder why Rachel has set him up with
me
and is not sleeping with him
herself.
Blond, tanned, well-dressed…Okay, something is definitely wrong with this picture.
As he stands, I look up. And look up. And look up some more. Helmut must be at least
six feet seven inches
tall. I wonder what the Germans put in their water.
Okay, so he’s a little tall for someone who is only four feet eleven, but I won’t hold it against him, I think, as I crane my neck to smile up at him. I’m the last person to have sizeist issues.
He doesn’t smile back.
“You are Emma,” he says, holding out an incredibly large hand.
“Helmut?” I wince as he crushes my hand.
“Sit down,” he tells (orders) me.
So I do. And then an awkward silence descends. And then the conversation really gets off (not) to a flying start.
“Rachel tells me you’ve broken up with your boyfriend,
ja?
”
“
Ja.
I mean, yes.” I wonder what else Rachel told him. Come to think about it, she didn’t really tell me much about Helmut.
“I just broke up with my girlfriend too.”
Oh, so
that’s
why he’s so unsmily and quiet. I
must
give him a chance.
“I’m sorry.”
“
Nein,
sorry is not necessary. I am bored with her, so this is a good thing. The sex was not so good. Shall we order food?”
Instant feelings of inadequacy re: my sexual performance. I have not yet read the book about sex that Peri bought me for my birthday and worry that Helmut will find me lacking.
Hold on,
I tell myself.
Get a grip. This is a casual dinner. A first date. I have not committed myself to a wild night of complicated sex.
Food. Yes! That would be good. The quicker we eat, the quicker I can get out of here.
He orders spaghetti Bolognese. So I order spaghetti Bolognese, too, because this is a truly good way to put a man off you on a first date. Once he watches you slurp spaghetti, he’ll never want to see you again. Plus, this morning the scales told me that I’ve dropped two pounds since my split with Adam and the half-starved skeletal look is not a good one for me.
I also order a large glass of wine, because I need alcohol to cocoon me. Helmut orders tequila. Worm-infested drinks are a sure sign of Bad Things to Come. And I should know this, but instead, I try to give Helmut a real chance, and not make snap decisions about him.
“So, Helmut,” I say. “Tell me about yourself.” Yes, I know this is a boring, clichéd thing to say, but at least it will pass the time more quickly. “Do you have any hobbies?”
“
Ja.
Many interests. In fact, a friend of mine is involved in
a fascinating study. Very exciting—he thinks that they have discovered a new species of centipede in Central Park.”
“Oh? So you like insects, then?” This, also, is not a good sign. More worms.
“A centipede is not an insect,” Helmut lectures me. “They are chilopods.”
“Sorry.” I’m not really sorry at all.
“It’s completely fascinating. To discover a completely new species. Think about it! It’s thought that they came from East Asia in a tropical plant maybe a hundred years ago. They are small and yellow, with eighty-four legs and pincerlike jaws.”
At this point our food arrives, and I think a swift change of subject is in order because I do not want to discuss worms or chilopods, or any other sort of wormlike creature while eating spaghetti.
And when the waiter brings the Parmesan cheese, I nod my head vigorously (good protein) and search my brain for something else we can talk about.
“Are you going on vacation?” I ask him brightly. This is inspired. This is definitely a safe subject.
“
Ja.
I went to England in May.”
Silence descends again, so I try harder.
“And did you have fun?” I take a gulp of wine.
“It was highly interesting,” Helmut tells me, slurping spaghetti in a very unattractive way. “I go to Kew Botanical Gardens to view the flowering of a very rare plant—
Amorphophallus titanum.
”
I didn’t quite get the whole name, but the
phallus
part definitely registered. Must be my lack of sex.
“Does it look like a penis, then?” Oh, good question, Emmeline.
“
Ja
. A giant red phallus is a very good way to describe it. It’s extremely difficult to propagate, but you know the most fascinating thing about it?”
“No.” But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.
“It blooms only very rarely, but when it does, it gives off a
pungent smell. Like the smell of feces and the dead carcass of an animal. And it’s so strong you can smell it a kilometer away.”
“Fancy that!”
As Helmut goes on to tell me even more about his stinky plant, and as he shovels huge quantities of spaghetti into his mouth, I realize that I’ve lost my appetite.
Worms and stinky plants do not go well with spaghetti and stinky cheese.
After we’ve finished (and after Helmut has finished my food), we leave the restaurant and hail a cab.
Just before I climb in, Helmut turns to me.
“So now we have sex,
ja?
Your apartment or mine?”
I wonder what the German is for “not in this lifetime”?
Tuesday morning
“I hate him. I
bloody
hate him,” I hiss down the phone to Tish.
Yet again I am in the restroom. I should just move my desk in here and be done, because I’ve spent more time in the restroom over the past few days than in my cubicle. Daphne-the-ivy has become my new best friend, and the other women on my floor suspect that I either have a strange bathroom fetish, or that I am the cleaning woman. Or possibly that I’ve become a lesbian because of my disillusionment with the male sex, and am trying to meet new potential partners.
“Calm down, sweetie,” Tish says. “If you need a stronger curse, just say
fuck.
You’ll feel better—it’s so liberating, I promise. What
exactly
did fucking Adam say?”
“He’s made me Lou Russo’s fucking
nursemaid!
Talk about adding insult to injury. He’s given Lou Russo
complete
power to order me about at will.”