“Don’t be pathetic, sweetie. You have four shopping days before Friday. We’ll find you something to wear,” Rachel says. She is enjoying every minute of this.
Everyone loves Jack.
As we leave the restaurant, he is thronged with invites to come back the same time next week. And every following Sunday night. This is not fair. This was supposed to be a once-only thing. I want my Sunday nights with my friends. I don’t want Jack complicating things.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell Jack as we walk home. “Really. My friends mean well, but they really put you in a corner there.”
“You turning into a wimp on me?”
“No, I’m
so
not a wimp. I just don’t want to go to the stupid dinner, is all.”
“Liar.”
TO DO
Friday, August 23
God, I’m nervous. I check myself in the full-length mirror one more time and fuss with my hair.
The black tank and skirt I found at the Calvin Klein outlet are fabulous, although I had to seriously ravage my savings account. (But Tish and Rachel assure me they are well worth it.) The tank has three straps on each shoulder that graduate down to the top of my (beautifully defined, thanks to the gym) arms. The skirt is long and flowing, skimming my ankles. I’ve clipped tiny, glittery barrettes in my hair.
And I’m wearing my Manolo Blahnik shoes. I’m so glad they could be repaired!
“Emma,” Jack calls up. “Cab’s here.”
With a final glance at myself, I drape the chiffon wrap over my arms and pick up Rachel’s Dolce and Gabbana evening purse.
Time to go.
I hope I look all right. What am I obsessing for? I know I look all right because this is a—
“Wow. That’s a
gorgeous
look for you.” Jack smiles at me as I reach the bottom stair, and I gasp, because I can’t believe he’s just finished my thought.
“You look beautiful, Emma,” he tells me, and I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach because he’s eating me with his eyes.
“You look beautiful yourself,” I tell him, because he does. In fact, he’s looks so good, I’m getting the strangest urge to ravish him right here, on the hall floor. I must stop doing this. I concentrate on the suit instead. I’m pretty sure his tux is Versace.
“Come on, princess, let’s go dazzle them,” he says, holding out his arm. His smile dazzles
me,
and tugs at my heartstrings.
As we ride through the Lincoln Tunnel and into Manhattan, I force myself not to keep looking at him. Not Jack. I can’t be harboring illicit thoughts about Jack, for heaven’s sake.
God, but he smells so good…
Cocktail hour is in full swing by the time we arrive, and the foyer is full of glittering gowns and black tuxedos. I see Lou Russo chatting to two of the secretaries. He looks about ten years old—but I wish him well, because for once, I can’t muster the emotion to be mad at him. I’m too intoxicated by Jack. But then Lou sees me, and gives me a funny sort of half wave, so I smile. I can afford to be generous. And then Lou glances at Jack in disbelief, then back at me again. This does not make me feel good, and I start to worry that I’ve chosen the wrong outfit.
“Relax,” Jack tells me. “You look fabulous, just enjoy yourself.”
So I do relax. And I do start to enjoy myself. As we wander toward the far end of the foyer, we stop and chat to people I know, and Jack is the perfect date. Charming, witty, attentive. Completely fuckable…
Reality-check time.
I must remind myself that Jack is not my real date.
“Emma,” Grady Thomas calls to me. “How lovely to see you.”
Grady and his wife are nice. I wish Grady had got dear old Johnny’s job, instead of Adam. As I chat to them, Jack goes to get us some drinks and I see Adam and Stella arrive.
They are heading straight toward me, so I cannot avoid them. After they greet Grady and his wife, their attention turns to me. Grady and his wife move on to say hi to some other people and so leave me to Adam and Stella’s not-so-tender mercies. But at least I look good, so I give them a friendly smile.
“Emmeline,” Adam says. “Good to see you.”
For once, oddly, the sight of them together does not upset me. I wait for the familiar knot in my stomach, but Adam’s beautiful smile does not make me wish for him back. I wonder if I’m over him?
“Emily,” Stella gushes, waving her ring hand at me. I swear the rock on her finger is the size of Gibraltar. “How
sweet
you look tonight,” she says, but her voice is insincere and she makes it sound like an insult.
Stella is divine in cream silk Ralph Lauren. Her hair and makeup are flawless, and if I didn’t know better, I’d place her in her early thirties. And her cleavage. Wonder if it’s natural? She’s so beautiful, so elegant, so rich…No wonder Adam prefers her to me. But I don’t care, I really don’t, because Jack thinks I’m beautiful.
“Adam tells me your father’s a plastic surgeon, dear,” she says, pointedly glancing at my braless (because I cannot wear a bra with this top) breasts. “I’d never have guessed.”
Oh. No. Not this again.
I feel my self-confidence shrivel and die, because her meaning is completely clear. Why are people so unkind? She got the man. She got the ring. She
won.
Why does she have to rub my face in it? I am just about to excuse myself and
head to the ladies’ room in search of a friendly plant to chat to when Jack comes charging to the rescue.
“Yes, that’s right, isn’t it, darling?” He smiles, placing a possessive hand on my shoulder. “Joseph Taylor’s one of the top guys in the area, so if you need a good plastic surgeon I can highly recommend him,” Jack says, pointedly examining Stella’s flawless throat for signs of droop.
Stella’s smile falters very slightly.
I love Jack’s white knight act, even though it is only an act. Isn’t it? Well, anyway, whatever it is it’s really nice.
“She’s really lucky she doesn’t need her father’s skill with a scalpel,” Jack continues smoothly. “And her skin—her skin is wonderful. So fresh, so young—don’t you agree? That’s something not even the surgeon can plastically enhance, don’t you think?”
I think Stella will have a fit, right here on the plush carpet, in a minute. I half expect her to start foaming at the mouth, because Jack’s meaning cannot be lost on her.
God, I
love
this.
Even if she does find some way to extract future revenge.
“I’m Jack, by the way,” he finishes, holding out his hand.
“Jack, er, this is Stella Burgoyne,” I say, and then, “And this is Adam, my boss.”
“Great you meet you.” Jack shakes his hand, and I think Adam is wincing. Adam is in fairly good shape, but Jack is much more broad and muscular.
“Emma’s told me all about you.” Jack smiles his wolf smile. “Congratulations on the engagement.”
“What is it you do, Jack?” Adam asks, his eyes narrowing as Jack pulls me even closer to his side.
“I’m an architect. I’m currently working on the Hendon development in Hoboken.”
“Oh, how interesting,” Stella says, her eyes flashing daggers. And then to Adam, “Come on, darling, we have to circulate. Nice to meet you.”
And then they’re gone.
“That was a really nice thing you did,” I tell Jack.
“I’m a nice guy. My God, that broad’s a bitch. I’m sure glad I’m not in his shoes. Come on,” he says, taking my elbow. “They’re calling us into dinner.”
Fortunately, we are not at the same table as Adam and Stella. They are sitting at the top table, with all the other top executives. I think Stella has had too much to drink, because she’s flirting heavily with William Cougan, and Adam looks decidedly pissed.
As we take our places, I’m glad to find myself seated next to Angela and her husband (whose black wig is obviously a black wig).
“Adam’s pissed,” Angie says to me. “Stella ain’t behavin’ herself—think she’s after fryin’ a bigger fish.”
“What? You mean William Cougan?”
“Yeah—I heard it from Tracey in Human Resources.”
This thought cheers me immensely. Although I don’t want Adam back (at least I’m pretty sure I don’t), it would serve him right to have the tables turned.
“Glad you’re at our table,” Angie says. “Some of the pricks at our place make me sick.” And then she adds in a whisper, “Who’s the gorgeous hunk?”
“Just a friend,” I whisper back.
“Wish I had friends who looked like that.”
“Jack, this is Angela and her husband, Morrie.”
“Delighted,” Jack tells them, and we exchange names around the table.
As we eat the first course of salad and pâté, the blonde from Marketing on Jack’s other side flirts madly with him. And of course, I’m not jealous, because he’s just here as my friend. If he meets someone, then that’s great, isn’t it?
As we eat the main course, Blondie is all but ready to climb into Jack’s lap. My God, would you just look at her makeup? She’ll need a hydraulic drill to get all that stuff off her face…
Angie, who I’d thought quiet and morose, talks at me non
stop, so I don’t get the chance to interrupt the tête à tête between Jack and Blondie. Not that I want to, of course.
“Grab your favorite partners, all you rock ’n’ roll fans,” the band leader announces. “We’re gonna heat up this place with Van Morrison’s ‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’”
I love to rock and roll. I wonder if Blondie will ask Jack to dance?
“Come on,” Jack says, tugging at my arm. “Let’s show them what we’re made of.”
“You dance?”
“Sure. I’m a man of hidden talents.”
“Obviously.” And I want to know what they are, I think, but obviously don’t say. “Don’t you want to dance with your new friend?” I ask instead. Which is pretty dumb of me, because it sounds like I’m jealous.
“Heather? No. Why, do you
want
me to dance with her?” He smiles at me. “You jealous?”
“Of course not. What’s to be jealous about?”
“Okay,” he says. “Glad we got that sorted out. So can we dance now?”
Surprisingly, Jack is a great dancer, and as he whirls and twirls me around the dance floor with panache and grace, I am having a lovely time. The party is lovely. Jack is lovely. As the music moves into an eighties medley, we dance and shake our stuff, until finally, to accompany the dessert course, the band slows to a soft, romantic song.
“You game for this?” Jack says, holding out his arms.
I’d love to, but I daren’t. I’m liking Jack far more than I should. There’s nothing I want more than to be held by him, just to see what it would be like, of course. And so I mustn’t.
“Actually, I’m beat from all the dancing,” I lie. “I’m gonna head back to the table. I want my dessert.”
“You sure?” he asks, and I don’t know if I’m just reading too much into this, but I almost think he looks sorry that I don’t want to slow-dance. I’m so tempted.
“Sure,” I tell him, before I throw myself at him. “I need my sugar fix. Maybe Blondie likes to slow dance.”
Why did I say that? That was dumb. Jack lets go of me and drops his arms to his sides, as if I’ve just slapped him in the face.
“Maybe I’ll ask her,” he says.
And then it happens.
As we make our way back to our table, just as we are nearly there, just as we are in full view of our fellow diners, Lou Russo stumbles into me with his drink. In slow motion, the glass tips toward me and his white wine empties onto my breasts. As the liquid soaks the fabric of the top, it clings to me and the outline of my nipples are jutting clearly against the fabric. I might as well be naked.
“Whoa, there,” Lou tells me, smirking. “Sorry about that, Emma, accidents will happen. You need to watch where you’re going.”
As I glance down at myself in disbelief, the two secretaries giggle. All conversation at the table stops as everyone looks at me. Blondie tries to hide a smirk as she looks at my non-breasts, but she doesn’t quite manage it.
“Don’t worry, Emma,” Lou says. “One of the good things about having no breasts is that you look the same wet or dry. No one’s gonna notice.”
And I know that Lou is just a juvenile, idiot boy, but I cannot help it. I am transported back in time to Peri and Dad’s wedding and the unkind comments of two other juvenile, idiot boys.
“Do you have a problem?” Jack, the idiot boy, says, stepping up to Lou. He towers over Lou by at least six inches, and Jack is so angry that I think he’s going to punch Lou. I don’t want this. I don’t want to make a scene.
“Leave it, Jack,” I say, grabbing my purse and clutching my wrap in front of me. I turn on my heel and head for the restroom, hoping that not too many people will notice my dripping clothes in the dim lighting of the ballroom.
For a while I just stand inside the locked cubicle with my forehead pressed against the cool plastic of the door, tears streaming down my face. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sick of all the comments about my breasts. Why don’t people say nice things about my intellect, about my kindness? Why are men obsessed with breast size?
“Emma? It’s me.” Angie. “Come on out of there, honey, that little dick ain’t worth it. He’s just sour because he knows a girl like you will never date a prick like him.”
I open the door and Angie clucks over me like a mother hen, which is really comforting.
“Come on. Let’s fix your face and get you back to your man. He’s outside the door waiting for you. He’s really worried about you, honey.”
“Jack? But we’re just good friends,” I say, as she wipes away my smeared mascara and expertly applies more.
“Sure. Tell it to the Pope.”
“No, really…”
“Trust me. I know these things. There. All done. Not a tear left in sight. You okay now?”
“Yeah. You go back to Morrie. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay. Don’t keep Jack waiting too long.”
I can’t stay in here forever. The restroom is thankfully empty. I take a really good look at myself in the mirror, hating my small breasts, and then I pull my wrap around my shoulders, holding it in front of me to hide my 32AAs. Cinderella has turned into a pumpkin and it’s time to go home.
“Emma, are you in there?” It’s Jack. “Emma, I know you’re in there. If you don’t come out, I’m coming in.”
I don’t want to see Jack. I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes, because just for a while there, I thought it might have been desire. But I think it was just pity. Take the poor, dateless, jilted, breastless girl to the party.
“I mean it. I’m coming in right—”
“I’m here,” I say, opening the door. I don’t look at him.
“You okay? Man, that kid’s a jerk.”
“Yes,” I say, staring at the floor.
I hope Lou’s impotent and can’t get it up. I hope his penis is three inches long. I hope all his girlfriends poke fun at his tiny little penis.