Sometimes I think I worry too much, I really do.
I give up. I’m going home right now.
At least, I’m going back to Tish’s sofa.
Tuesday, July 23
I am so whipping Lou’s ass!
Y-e-s!
You see, for the past week and a half, I have been perfecting my strategy (with help from Angie, who is actually quite nice when you get to know her—not like Cruella at all, she just has unfortunate facial muscles).
After the debacle with the Burgoyne report (me leaving on time, for once, Friday before last, and not actually
doing
the report, because
Lou
should have done it), Adam called me into his office. Lou smirked at me all the way across the office as I followed, like a lamb to the slaughter.
“Emmeline, I asked you to help Lou any way you could. What’s going on? Why isn’t this report ready?” Adam asks, waving the folder at me. “Why hasn’t this research been done?”
“Oh, hasn’t it?” I say, feigning innocence.
“Of course it hasn’t. Lou tells me he asked you to do it, but you had to leave early on Friday because of private plans. This isn’t good, Emmeline.”
The injustice of it all sticks in my craw. This is so petty and grade school.
“Adam, I left at five on Friday. Along with the rest of the
secretarial
staff,” I tell him. “And of course I’m helping Lou as much as I can. But technically, he needs to do the research himself, doesn’t he?”
“Technically, yes, but—”
“It’s not really within my job description, is it? Doing the account manager’s job, instead of the account manager doing it himself. I mean, I’m only a secretary.”
Have I mentioned to Adam that I am only a secretary enough times, do you think? The words hang in the air between us.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? I thought we’d cleared the air between us. Are you deliberately trying to sabotage this campaign?”
“Of course not.”
Yes.
But I don’t say that.
“Have you had any ideas for the campaign yourself?”
“No.”
Yes.
But I don’t say that, either. He has six other account managers. Surely they can come up with something between them? Grady Thomas is usually pretty solid. And what about Adam? He was brought in to give the company some new blood. He has a list of prior achievements as long as your arm.
“Emmeline, Emmeline.” Adam sighs and leans back in his chair. “You’re not helping yourself.”
“I’m doing a good job,” I tell him, indignantly. “I’m a really efficient
secretary.
”
“Y-e-s. But I expect more from you. You’re a very intelligent young woman. I want
you
to do the research. That’s an order, okay?”
I slink back to my cubicle. I do not look across the office at Lou, who I think is still smirking.
But I am not defeated. Oh, no. Lou may have won this round, but one battle does
not
win the war. After all, I
am
named after a famous suffragette. I’ll
do
the research, since I can’t avoid it. But that doesn’t mean it has to be
good,
does it?
And so I do it. In between getting coffee and food for Lou, and actually doing my own work, I find the kinds of photos Lou wants. I stick exactly to his outline. I do not add any improving suggestions of my own. I list the photos, the web
sites where they can be found, and the costs. But I’m sloppy. I don’t worry about the expense or the quality of the photos in the same way that I would if it were
my
project.
Oh, and because I’m so tied up doing Lou’s work, I can’t possibly do all of Adam’s stuff too. Every time he asks “where’s this, where’s that?”, I produce urgent work that Lou has assigned to me. I think Adam’s honeymoon with Lou is quickly reaching its end.
And I know Stella hated the report. I don’t think she liked anyone else’s ideas, either, because she stormed out of the meeting last Friday. Take
that,
Lou Russo! And I hope Stella and Adam had a shit weekend, too, because I still haven’t found anywhere to live. Come to think of it, Adam’s not been in a very good mood for the past couple of days…Maybe Adam’s honeymoon with
her
is waning, too…
Wishful thinking.
My telephone rings and it is Rachel. I am expecting her to call, because she had a second date with Hugh last night. He waited nearly
two whole weeks
before asking her out again, despite her flirting and brushing against him at the office, so I’m dying to know what happened.
I immediately hang up and call her on my cell phone from the restroom, as per her instructions.
“Motherfucking bastard!”
Oh, so it was that bad, was it?
“Okay,” I sigh. “What happened?”
“He virtually fucking accused me of sexually harassing him at work.” Another string of curses follows this statement.
“Oh dear. Maybe you shouldn’t, you know, brush up against him. I suppose if a man did that kind of thing—”
“So you’re on his side, are you?”
“No, of course not. I’m totally with you,” I hastily reassure her.
I do
not
want a repeat fall-out with Rachel.
“Well anyway, I got my revenge.” Rachel laughs. It is not a
pleasant laugh. “After we do the dinner thing, and he tells me that I have to show more restraint at work, he only friggin’ makes a move on me.”
“No.”
“Yeah. It was magnificent. We’re at my front door, and he’s kissing me—”
“With tongues?”
“Yes, with tongues. Will you let me finish?”
“Sorry.”
“So we’re getting pretty into each other, and then he asks if he can come in.” She pauses, for dramatic impact.
“And?”
“Hey, who’s telling this story? Patience, sweetie, patience. So anyway, there we are, and he’s all over me like I’m the best thing since the cure for smallpox, and he’s really
hot
for me. So I open the front door, push him away, and tell him not to sexually harass me anymore. My God, you should have seen his face just before I slammed the door on it.”
“My God, you’ve got balls.”
I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Hugh, and I’m wondering if Rachel has painted a subjective, warped picture of him. Not that she’d do that, of course….
Rachel chuckles, and something occurs to me.
“Did he actually use the term
sexual harassment?
”
“Not exactly, but that’s what he meant.”
“Oh.”
Maybe he just likes you,
I don’t say. “So how are things at work today?”
“He’s learned his lesson.”
I’ll bet.
“He won’t be bothering
me
anymore.”
“No, that’s for sure,” I agree. If I were Hugh, I’d avoid Rachel at every opportunity.
“What? Don’t you think I’m attractive? Don’t you think he wants me? You think I’m a, and I quote, ‘hardhearted, callous bitch,’ don’t you?”
“Rachel. Stop jumping to conclusions. I never said that.
Anyway, I thought you didn’t want him. So if he leaves you alone from now on, well that’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she says. But she doesn’t sound sure. “Look, I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow night for pizza?”
“Sure. Have a good time with Marco tonight.”
When I get back to my cubicle, Adam is waiting for me.
“Do you need to spend so much time in the restroom, Emmeline?”
“Yes, I do. Urinary infection,” I lie.
Adam does not say another word, but hands me a cost report to type. I’ll start it after I get Lou’s doughnut.
“Adam,” I say around the door of his office. “I’m getting Lou a doughnut. Do you want one?”
TO DO
Wednesday, July 24
Robert Plant Night.
Y-E-S!
6:30
P
.
M
.
Right—I’m just about ready for my evening with Bob (and Norbert). My hair is casually grunged with wax, courtesy of Tish. I’m wearing Calvin Klein faded jeans, with a peasant-style black top (don’t want to be overdressed) and I’m looking pretty babelike, in a Courtney Love kind of way. My lips are pouty and red, my lashes are long and flirty in case of fluttering-eyes-at-Bob opportunities (thanks to Tish’s lash-thickening mascara).
This is a really great “Bob groupie” look for me.
You know, I’ve been thinking about Norbert rather a lot over the last few days. Maybe I’ve been a bit unkind to him in the past. Maybe I just haven’t given him a chance, and have dismissed him because he doesn’t conform to society’s ideals re: the perfect alpha male. And let’s face it, I know all about not conforming to society’s ideals. I’m not exactly perfect myself.
How shallow am I?
To make assumptions about someone without getting to know them properly. I think I’m going to really try to dig deeper and seek the
inner Norbert
tonight.
Ah. Telephone. It’s probably Norbert again—he’s called me three times this week already to make sure I’m still going to the gig with him. How insecure is that? Bless him, he’s obviously had such a hard time with women that he automatically
expects
rejection. I think that all he needs is the love of a good woman.
Not that I’m ready to love again yet, of course, because I am (obviously) still getting over Adam. It’s only been a few weeks, after all. Actually, I don’t feel broken-hearted at all, but I must be, mustn’t I? But in time, after our friendship has deepened and we’ve gotten to know each other as individuals, maybe
our love will grow.
Plus, Norbert hasn’t mentioned small breasts at all recently, which is a good sign. Maybe he was just using the small breast thing as a way of making conversation—he is a plastic surgeon, after all. Of course he wants to discuss implants—it’s only part of his job. Better pick up the telephone…
“Hello,” I say, in my best “I am a caring person, you can talk to me” voice.
“Hi there! This is Hal, how’s it going?”
I don’t know anyone called Hal. And no one called Hal knows me, either. Maybe it’s one of Tish’s new men.
“I’m calling on behalf of the Mothers Against Sexual SPAM Hoboken group. You’ve probably heard of us, we’ve been pretty active. You may have seen our march on Independence Day? Anyway, my call tonight is to tell you more about us, and our efforts to raise money to help fight our campaign against the ruthless companies who…”
Well, Hal isn’t giving me any opportunity to be mature and kind here, is he? I mean, he’s hardly drawn breath and is now telling me that the bronze donation starts at thirty dollars.
Thirty dollars!
I can’t believe another bastard telemarketer has caught me unawares. I didn’t know the MASS mothers were into this kind of thing. God, I hope Katy won’t have to do this.
I instantly forget my caring-person voice and decide on tonight’s method of getting rid of this irritating person who is trying to extract cash from me. And let’s face it, my feelings towards the MASS mothers are not exactly friendly at the moment. As Hal continues to drone on at me (bearing in mind he hasn’t stopped talking since I picked up), I can’t help it. I know what I’m going to do.
“Ich habe eine grosse Bitte an dich,”
I say (no, I am not calling Hal a big dick, although I am sorely tempted to call him something very rude, indeed).
“Say, what was that? Do you wanna do the silver option?”
Do you know what? I’m really not in the mood to do this tonight. I mean, how childish is it, torturing poor Hal just because I can’t stand Marion Lacy?
“Or do you want to go for the premium gold option of ninety dollars? You can give me your pledge now, we’ll get the paperwork in the mail—”
That’s it.
I’ve had enough. I’m so glad that Sylvester spent a year in Austria as a pastry chef.
“Und nun verpiss’ dich endlich und lass’ mich in Ruhe.”
Okay, so I couldn’t resist it. I have just told Hal to fuck off and leave me alone.
10:30
P
.
M
.
I am in
love.
Robert Plant is totally
sublime.
And I know
exactly
how to
solve all of my problems—I have a completely
great
plan. I just have to (a) quit my job, (b) give away all my possessions, and (c) become a groupie and follow Bob around the world.
Also, I’d never have to see Norbert ever again.
Our evening has not gone well. This is what happened.
When I arrive at the great new wine bar where we have arranged to meet, Norbert is not alone. He has already started making friends and influencing people—two people, in fact. Two very attractive twentysomething girls.
“Emma, good to see you,” Norbert says. “Meet Shelly and Nicole. We just kinda got talking.”
“Hi,” Shelly and Nicole tell me, checking me out thoroughly. And then they return all of their attention to Norbert, as they giggle and fawn all over him.
Although I try to be interested in the conversation and make one or two attempts to join it, they really are not interested in me. More in what surgical procedures Norbert thinks they would benefit from. But they’re lovely, for heaven’s sake. Why would they
want
to do anything to themselves? I’m happy for Norbert, though. I really am. Because this will give him the self-confidence he needs to
overcome
his
insecurities.
“Take Emma, here,” Norbert tells Shelly and Nicole. “I’ve been sayin’ to her for ages that she should get hers done. It really gives a woman the confidence she needs to
overcome
her
insecurities.
I see it all the time.”
“Oh, you’re so lucky,” Nicole or Shelly giggles to me.
“I’d love to date a plastic surgeon,” giggles the other Shelly or Nicole. “Someone just like Norbert.”
“Oh, we ain’t dating,” Norbert tells them. “We’re old pals, me and Emma. I work with her dad.”
“Oh,” they both say, then forget about me.
Anyway. I’m forgetting all about Norbert for now. Apart from the fact that he has left me alone all evening to flirt with other women, Bob is just starting to sing “Whole Lotta Love.”
Truly, truly sublime.
“Emma,” Norbert yells in my ear. “Do you wanna go now? I mean, Plant’s not what he was, is he?”
No, I do not want to go. And he is right about Bob.
“You’re right,” I tell Norbert as I watch Bob. “He’s like a fine wine—just gets better with age.”
“Oh. Well, we gotta go soon. Only I got five ops tomorrow and I need to get my sleep.”
I don’t make it to the stage door. I do not get to make eye contact with Bob, and he does not sweep me away in his limousine.
Instead, Norbert sweeps me away as soon as Robert finishes his encore. As the cab pulls up outside the apartment, I wonder how I can get out of kissing Norbert good-night. I really hate this about first dates. To kiss or not to kiss. Especially when you know you’re not going on a second date with them.
“Emma, don’t take this the wrong way,” Norbert says, just as I am bracing myself to endure. “But I don’t think it’s gonna work between us. I mean, there’s just no chemistry.”
“I was just about to say the same thing,” I say, relieved.
“You’re a nice-looking chick, and all,” Norbert continues. “But you just ain’t the right type for me. Sorry, Emma, but you just don’t do it for me, babe.”
Oh God. I’m old and ugly and unattractive.
Thursday evening
Girlie night in Tish’s overcrowded living room. The video of choice tonight is
What Women Want,
because, apart from the fact that Mel Gibson is hot, it is Tish’s favorite movie and it’s her turn to choose. Plus I think they’re sick of hearing about Robert Plant, and how wonderful he is, and how fabulous the planet would be if
all
men were Robert Plant.
Mel is just about to try on pantyhose when the front door
buzzer buzzes. I have a mouthful of four-cheese pizza, but am also the nearest, so I pick up.
“Hewow,” I say, chewing madly.
“Emma?” It’s Katy.
“Yef.”
But I thought you were on your way to Disneyland,
I nearly say, but I don’t because (a) my mouth is full, and (b) she obviously isn’t on her way to Disneyland. But I press the buzzer to let her in.
“I hope nothing’s gone wrong,” Tish frets. “I wonder where Tom is? Do you suppose they had a fight and now the whole vacation is off?”
Oh no. Surely it hasn’t come to that, has it?
“Marion Lacy better not be involved,” Rachel says, taking a hefty swig of her wine. “That woman is a public menace.”
God, if Tom and Katy split up because of some stupid, pushy, arrogant, bitchy broad, what will happen to poor Alex?
“You should have heard me, girls,” Katy says as she comes into the room, her face flushed and triumphant. “I was great. I was empowered. Boy, did I kick ass. Can I get some wine?”
“But why aren’t you on vacation?” Rachel asks. “You’ve had a fight with Tom, haven’t you? I
knew
it. You
have
had a fight with Tom.” And she’s off in full rant mode. “You are so lucky to have him,” she continues. “Not only is he supportive and kind, he’s also intelligent, which is rare for a guy. I can’t believe you’d be so
stupid.
”
This stops us all in our tracks. Is this really Rachel speaking, or has her brain been hijacked by aliens?
“What are you talking about? Tom’s a complete angel,” Katy says. “Why would you even
think
I’ve had fight with Tom? After he planned such a wonderful surprise for our anniversary? We’re leaving in half an hour. I just had to stop by and tell you about my fight with Marion Lacy.”
Oh. That takes the wind out of Rachel’s sails. And out of mine and Tish’s, too.
“It was great,” Katy says, pouring some wine. “Marion came up with a fundraising plan. She expected me to spend
the
whole weekend
calling strangers and asking them for money. Can I get a slice of that?” she asks, stuffing pizza into her mouth. “I mean, can you believe that?”
“But you’ve never said no to her before,” Rachel reminds her.
“I know.” She pauses midchew. “I was a wuss. What can I say? But I’m not anymore.”
“Yes, but what actually happened?” I ask. “Get back to the story.”
“Okay. Well, she dropped by unexpectedly this afternoon so I made Tom answer the door.” She blushes just a bit and then pushes on.
“I know that was weak of me.
Weak.
But when Tom told her I was unavailable this weekend, she really laid into him. Right on our own doorstep.” She pauses, then pulls a face. “Okay, I was hiding in the living room so I heard every word.”
“I’d hide, too, if Marion Lacy came knocking on my door,” I tell her loyally. Because it’s true.
“Thanks, hon,” Katy says. “I appreciate the support.”
“So how exactly did you kick ass if you were hiding?” Rachel prompts her.
“I’m just getting to that. You see, it was when she laid into Tom about how he dominates me, and how controlling men are in general that I got real mad. How could she pick on Tom? That was the final straw. I came out, all guns blazing, and told her what a cold, interfering bitch she was and what she could do with her PPPTA and her MASS mothers.”
“Atta girl,” I tell her.
“Wow. I wish I’d been a fly on the wall,” Tish says.
“Fucking fabulous, darling,” Rachel says. And then, “Speaking of flying—you’d better go. Much as we all love you, and this may come as a shock, the airline doesn’t feel the same way about you. They have flight schedules to worry about.”
“Thanks.” Katy hugs us all on her way out of the door. “You’re such good friends.”
Friday night
I’m pumping iron in the gym. I’m not doing the fat-burning aerobics, because I don’t want to burn fat—I want to encourage it as much as I can. In a nation obsessed by obesity, we thinnies tend to be forgotten—I mean, how often do you hear people
bragging
about how many pounds they gained over the vacation? Personally, I think a little extra weight on women is lovely. I’d love to be a nice, curvy size ten.
And the disgusting shakes and the exercise are starting to work. I put on three pounds this week, which means I’m no longer officially underweight, according to my body mass indicator. So that’s good, isn’t it?
But I
am
officially homeless for the weekend, which is not good.
Last night, Tish ordered me out of her apartment. Actually, she didn’t order me out at all. She very sweetly and kindly asked if I’d mind spending this weekend at Rachel’s instead, because she wants to invite Julio back for breakfast in bed. They’ve already been on four dates, so it’s time to progress to the next stage.
“I know you’re allergic to Rachel’s cats, but it’s only for two nights,” Tish tells me. “Sorry, Emma, I wouldn’t ask, but we can’t go to Julio’s because he lives with his uncle. I should have mentioned it earlier this evening, but with Katy and her kicking-Marion’s-ass story, I forgot.”
“Course I don’t mind. Stop apologizing,” I say, wondering how much allergy medication I have left. “No problem.”
“Oh, sorry, but would you mind storing some of your stuff at Rachel’s too, to make some space in the living room? Maybe you could take the huge plant?”
So I call Rachel straightaway and ask if I can store some stuff in her storage room for the weekend. Before I ask if I can store
me
on her sofabed for the weekend too, she interrupts me.