“You’re right. I
am
tired, I
am
washed out, I
am
on a short fuse. You see, I’m pregnant. It’s playing havoc with my hormones.”
Oh God.
I hope she gets the hang of child-rearing with the twins before the new baby makes an appearance.
“Oh. Does Dad know?”
“I haven’t told him yet. How will I cope when I have the new baby? I can hardly manage now,” she says, and I stuff a tissue in her hand.
“Well, you could always get a nanny. And a cook,” I add, because she should eat more vegetables if she’s pregnant.
“Well, I don’t know…”
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so tired if you had help with the twins.”
“I wouldn’t want them to feel like I’d abandoned them.”
“But you wouldn’t be abandoning them,” I tell her firmly. “It would just mean that you get some time for yourself. And for Dad,” I add. I think that was very nice and subtle of me. Bringing Dad into the equation.
“I miss him.” Peri sniffles into her tissue.
This is good. This is very good.
“And he misses you, too,” I tell her. And then, “So, you’re going back to Dad, then?”
“Don’t worry.” She gives me a watery smile. “I wasn’t planning on destroying your lives forever. I think I should give Daddy a call.”
“Good plan.” And she’s calling him Daddy again, which is a good sign.
Peri uses the phone in the living room, so that she can talk privately to Dad. I hope it goes well.
“When
did
you get to be so smart?” Jack asks me from the hall door.
“You heard all that?”
“Yeah.” He grins at me, and pours himself some wine. “I liked all that stuff about boundaries. So tell me Emma, how do you set
your
boundaries?”
I think
new Jack
is rearing his head. And while I’m happy to help Peri in any way I can, I do not want to apply my advice to myself.
“These are yours, Madonna,” he says, as he sits down opposite me and hands me my Life Goals.
“George Michael? Jon Bon Jovi?”
“Hey, you read them?” I feel so stupid. I should have thrown these out. I try to remember what I wrote just before my thirtieth birthday, and then I cringe, because the closest I come to achieving any of my goals is having great friends.
“Only by accident when I was clearing up. I loved the slut-in-the-bedroom part.”
“You are such a—such a
guy,
” I tell him.
“I do a great Jon Bon Jovi. Did you know I play guitar?”
Oh, the doorbell. Thank God!
“I’ll get that,” I tell Jack, happy to escape. “It might be Dad.” Yes, I’m a coward. I admit it. I’m happy to escape Jack, but don’t want to think too closely about
why
I want to escape Jack.
When I open the front door, it’s not my dad at all.
It’s my
mother.
Who is supposed to be three thousand miles away in London.
“Mum,” I say, because I’m—well—because I’m completely shocked to see her. “Julia. What are you doing here?”
“Emmeline, darling.” Julia kisses my cheek. “It’s nice to see you, too. Can’t a mother come and see her daughter without a reason?”
“They don’t usually fly three thousand miles to do it. Where’s George?”
“George and I are not attached at the hip,” she tells me.
“Just because we
live
together does not mean we have to spend every waking moment of every day together.”
I think they’ve had a fight.
“You’ve had a fight, haven’t you?”
“Of course we haven’t had a fight,” Julia tells me the next day as we wave off Peri and the boys for their reunion with Dad.
“Peri is so right for Joe, isn’t she? Neurotic, ditzy—suits him perfectly. Sorry, Jack, I know she’s your sister but it has to be said.”
Julia is very proud of how she gets on well with her ex and his second wife. In fact, she treats Peri more like a daughter.
“Hey, I’m right with you. I love my sister, but God I don’t want to live with her,” Jack says. “Anyway, I’m going to finish painting the trim in the bedroom, now that I can do it without the twins wanting to help me.”
“It didn’t scar you for life, did it?” Julia asks me in an unusual display of uncertainty. “Joe and I getting divorced before you were born?”
“Of course not. I had a great childhood. You two have always gotten along.” Which is true, but I think having the Atlantic Ocean between them helped. “Why are you worrying about that now?” Because, let’s face it, they’ve been divorced for longer than I’ve been alive.
“Oh, I don’t know. All the nasty divorce cases I handle, all those poor children—I see how hard it is on them. They’d rather have their parents together, and miserable, than happy and separated. I think marriage should be outlawed. It’s far more sensible to live together.”
“You
have
had a fight with George, haven’t you?”
“George and I are perfectly fine.”
I know this is a lie, because George has called three times today asking to speak to Julia, and she won’t take his calls. This is not the Julia I know. This is not the Xena Warrior Princess I grew up with.
“We never fight,” she says. “We just agree to differ on certain subjects. Anyway, I haven’t come all this way to talk about George. Let’s have a girly day in Manhattan. We’ll go somewhere nice for lunch and catch up.”
Unfortunately, Julia’s idea of a girly day does not include any girly shopping. We spend our day visiting the Metropolitan and Guggenheim museums. Although I’m fond of art, by six in the afternoon I’ve had enough culture to last me until Julia’s next trip.
Finally, we call into a café near Grand Central Station for subs and coffee.
“Did I tell you?” I say to Julia. “Rachel’s getting married.”
“What?
Rachel
Rachel? No, I don’t believe it.”
Thought this would interest her. Mum loves Rachel—she’s exactly like Mum wanted me to turn out.
“Yeah. You’ll meet Hugh tomorrow night. He’s great—the way they are together remind me of you and George.”
Okay, so I had ulterior motives for telling Mum about Rachel, but I think I managed to turn the conversation to her and George with great subtlety and diplomacy.
“Honestly, Emmeline, you’re so transparent,” she says, putting down her coffee. “All right, since you’re determined to keep this up I’ll tell you. We
have
had a disagreement. George asked me to marry him.”
Oh. But that’s lovely.
“But that’s lovely,” I say to her, because it is. It must be great to have someone love you enough to want to propose to you, mustn’t it?
“No it’s
not.
Don’t you see? I don’t want to get married again. We’ve been living together for seven years and I’m perfectly happy with our arrangement. Why does George need a bloody piece of paper? Why does he need to fix something that isn’t broken?”
Sunday night, Chez Nous
Julia is flying back to England later tonight, so I’m not drinking because I have to drive her to the airport. I’m glad I brought her here—my friends are so nice. We’re having an impromptu engagement party for Rachel and Hugh who, fortunately, is a great hit with everyone. Even Julia is impressed with him. She had a long chat with Rachel, and she’s just been in the kitchen to call George, which is good.
“You know, maybe I should marry George,” she tells me after consuming two glasses of champagne. “I
do
love him. And if he needs a piece of paper to make him happy, then would it hurt me to do it?”
“Julia, that’s great,” I tell her, hugging her.
“Don’t get excited,” she tells me. “No big wedding. Just me, George, and two witnesses. No fuss, no party.”
I’m glad some things don’t change. Alas, I am the only one not drinking champagne.
“But how did you know that Rachel was
the
one?” Jack asks Hugh, and I lean closer to listen to his reply.
“I guess it’s all to do with diffusion,” Hugh tells us. “You know, the spontaneous mixing of the particles of two substances caused by their random motion. Our particles just mixed, and that was it.”
I completely understand why they’re together. He speaks the same language. I wonder why Jack asked him that question? Has Jack met someone, or is it just curiosity?
“So when’s the wedding?” Katy asks. “Because I’d love to help organize it.” And then, “Don’t worry, Tom, I won’t turn it into another of my crusades.”
“Darling,” he tells her, affectionately kissing her cheek. “You’re my maid in shining armor, you crusade all you like—just remember to be home for dinner.”
“Thanks, Katy, but my mother’s taken charge of the whole thing,” Rachel says. “Trust me, you do not want to mess with her—she’s been waiting for this her whole life.”
Rachel’s mother is planning a huge wedding, with white dresses and tiered cakes, the lot. The only stipulation Rachel made was that Tish gets to dress the bride, the bridesmaids, and matron of honor (coincidentally enough, that would be me, Tish, and Katy). This is a relief, because Tish will not torture me with something fluffy and vomit colored, with bows and frills everywhere.
It’s funny. Out of Rachel, Tish, and me, I never would have guessed that Rachel would be the one getting married first. But then I thought she’d never get married at all. All it took was the right guy, and the rest has fallen into place. I hope she still rants occasionally, but not too much…
“Did you see
The New York Times
yesterday?” Rachel asks me.
“No. Should I have?” I was too busy admiring art with Julia and clearing up after Peri and the twins. Hope Peri and Dad will be okay. I think they will be. Dad was over the moon about the new baby. He called me last night—he loves the idea of a nanny and cook, and he tells me that the boys haven’t been
quite
as bad as usual. Oh, well, Rome was not built in a day.
“There’s a picture of Stella Burgoyne at a charity event with William Cougan,” Rachel says.
“Oh?” That
is
interesting.
“Yeah, I thought you might find that interesting. I wasn’t going to mention it, but I thought it would be better if you found out from me, rather than at work.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t go doing anything stupid,” she tells me. “I know you, Emma Taylor. You leave that man alone.” And then, “I hope she dumped him, I hope she broke his ionic-bonding heart to fucking pieces.”
Me too, I think, but am distracted by the lovely picture Jack and Tish make. As Tish talks, Jack smiles and is hanging on to her every word. I wonder if he asked Hugh all those questions because he’s in love with Tish? He
can’t
be in love with Tish. Tish cannot do this to poor Rufus. Rufus will be broken hearted.
Not that I’m jealous, of course. Because it’s horrid to be jealous of one’s best friend.
I am still distracted by the thought of Jack and Tish, and poor broken hearted Rufus, as I drop Julia outside the departures gate.
“Darling,” Julia says, hugging me across the stick shift. “It’s been lovely. You must come to London more often.”
“I’ll try,” I say. “Good luck with George.”
“Oh, I don’t need luck,” she says, smirking. “Just a bottle of wine, a couple of candles, and an early night.”
Okay. This is depressing. Even my mother, who at fifty-three is more beautiful than ever, is having more sex than me.
“Just a word of motherly advice before I go.” She pauses as she’s climbing out of the car. “Do yourself a favor and sleep with Jack.”
TO DO
Saturday, September 7
Thank God everything is back to blissful normalcy!
When I say normal, I mean me-and-Jack normal. Since I dropped Julia at the airport last Sunday, we’ve had the house back to ourselves. And we’re back in our old routine—Jack is completely
old
Jack, my
pal
Jack. Actually, I can’t remember when he stopped being just Jack and turned into pal Jack. When did I start liking him? Anyway, pals is good. Pals is what I want. (Although I can’t stop thinking about what Julia said. You know, about having sex with him.)
Anyway, the only change in our routine is that he’s not working late anymore. His team hit their deadline, so for now he can ease off a little. Several times this week we’ve bumped into each other at the gym, then come back home together for dinner.
It’s nice to cook for two, and it’s also nice not to eat alone. Last night, Friday night, we met at the gym as usual. And went for a Thai meal at our usual restaurant. So that’s good, isn’t it?
Peri and Dad are fine. They call regularly to give me updates on the nanny/cook situation.
Dad contacted an agency first thing Monday morning, and they’ve already met with a nanny they like (apparently she can cook, too). I think Dad’s working fast so he can present Peri with a
fait accompli
before she can change her mind.
Julia and George are getting married in three weeks’ time. Julia’s booked Marylebone Registry Office in Westminster, which is a lovely, impressive, old building. Lots of pop stars get married there, apparently, and it just happens to be Julia and George’s local office. She hated having to list herself as “spinster of the parish,” because it sounds so awful.
In England, that is how an unmarried woman is described when completing marriage paperwork. I think it appears that way on the marriage certificate, too. Hmmm. Well, George gets to be “bachelor of the parish,” and Julia, apparently, kicked up a fuss and insisted that she wanted to be “bachelorette of the parish.” The registrar was not amused, but
spinster
is such an awful word, isn’t it?
Anyway, Julia insists she’s wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt for the happy occasion, because she doesn’t want to conform to society’s stereotypical expectations of a bride. Especially an older bride. But George has other plans. Unbeknownst to Julia, and with the help of the Internet and a credit card, he’s taking her to Barbados and they’re going to be married on the beach there. How romantic is that?
Meanwhile, Adam and Stella have definitely broken up…
Yes, it’s true. I got it from Angie, who got it (naturally) from Tracey in Human Resources. I’m dying to say something to him, but obviously I can’t, because that would be cruel and insensitive. Although he broke my heart, and although he is an ionic bonder, I have been sensitive and caring with Adam all week. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for
him. I wonder if he’s still doing her advertising campaign? I wonder if Stella kept the twenty-five-thousand-dollar ring?
Anyway, he doesn’t appear heartbroken. I suppose getting Colleague of the Year has softened the blow of personal rejection. He’s been rather flirty, actually. But I’m not falling for that old routine again.
Definitely
not.
Rachel and Hugh are immersed in wedding plans. Tish has moved in with Rufus…
Yes, it’s true. She finally told us about their blossoming romance yesterday. Since I spotted them flirting madly in Rufus’s deli, Tish has not said a word about him, so neither have I. Didn’t want to be too nosy. And Rachel didn’t mention it either, so I wasn’t sure if she knew.
I’m so relieved she’s not in love with Jack.
But it all came out yesterday when I met them for coffee at Tish’s apartment after work. We don’t go to the Spanish café anymore, because Tish doesn’t want to run into Julio. Apparently, he was heartbroken when he realized she was just using him for sex. That is definitely a downside of sleeping with waiters. Sooner or later you’re going to run out of coffee shops and restaurants to frequent.
Anyway, we have coffee these days because neither of them has time to go to the gym.
Traitors.
No, I don’t really think that. I’m truly happy for them both. Anyway, back to Tish and Rufus.
This is what happened.
“How about Vera Wang?” Tish asks, pointing to the picture in
Vogue
magazine. “Very chic, but entirely practical. Very New York. You could get it dyed after the wedding and wear it again. I see you in Vera Wang.”
“Sure,” Rachel says, taking a bite of her cheesecake. “Whatever.”
“Come on, you have to be more interested in your wedding gown. It’s the most important day of a girl’s life,” Tish says, shocked by Rachel’s lack of interest.
I’m a bit shocked myself, but not altogether surprised. Don’t get me wrong, Rachel likes fashion and outletting, but weddings are not really her thing.
“Look, sweetie, I appreciate what you’re doing,” Rachel says. “But this wedding thing isn’t really me. Just choose what you think would look good. Really, I trust you.”
I wish I were getting married. I wish I could wear a beautiful Vera Wang dress. Or Stella McCartney would be good, too…I wonder if Tish and Rufus will get married…
“How goes the world of polydating?” I ask Tish in an attempt to subtly turn the conversation to her love life.
“Oh, I’ve given that up since I moved in with Rufus,” she says.
Rachel chokes on her cheesecake. If I were eating cheesecake, I would choke, too. Instead, I just sit there with my jaw hanging open in a very slack, fly-catching way.
“Oh,” I say, after recovering control over my jaw. “So you’ve moved in with Rufus. Well, that’s nice, isn’t it?”
“You sneaky bitch,” Rachel says, taking a gulp of her coffee to wash down the remains of the offending cheesecake. “You kept that one quiet. How did you get from adoration from afar to the bedroom, Miss Tish? And how come you didn’t tell us before?”
“I’m telling you now,” Tish says, flushing. “I wanted to be sure of him before I said anything to you both. I didn’t want to jinx it. I didn’t want any I-told-you-sos.”
“We wouldn’t have done that, we’re your best friends,” Rachel says. And then, “Okay, maybe just a little. So come on, give us the dirt, girl.”
“I just did what you both said. I just turned up by myself at O’Malley’s, looking totally hot and babelike. I plied him with Guinness, took him home and seduced him. Life’s too short. You have to go after what you want, or it’ll pass you by.”
“Wow. That’s terrific, Tish. It really is,” I say, envious. “But
how can you live with him? You’re a Catholic. The Pope will choke on his false teeth. If he has false teeth.”
“Since when were you so interested in the Pope’s dental arrangements?” Tish asks. “The Pope won’t know. Anyhow, Rufus is Catholic too, so I should think the Vatican will be delighted. I haven’t told my mother yet.”
“But—but aren’t you getting married?” Tish has always wanted to get married.
“God, I hope so, in time. But Rufus has to get used to the idea of me living with him first, before I ask him to marry me. I don’t wanna scare him away before we get to third base.”
“What will you do with your apartment?” Rachel asks, ever the practical one.
“I don’t know. Keep it, for sure. Maybe I’ll rent it.”
“Good plan.” Rachel nods. “It’s a good investment. Something to fall back on if the living together doesn’t work out.”
“Hey, don’t be such a pessimist,” I say. “Of course it’ll work out. Rufus and you are meant for each other.”
“Thank you, honey. So what’s going on with you and Jack?”
“Yeah, have you slept with him yet?”
“No. Of course not. It’s not like that.”
“Sweetie, it’s
so
like that,” Rachel tells me. “The man eyes you like a juicy bone. You froth at the mouth whenever he’s in the room.”
“I do not.”
“The sexual tension is really getting to us all.”
“Oh.”
They’ve obviously been talking to my mother. Naturally, being a coward I just change the subject and ignore their pointed stares and grins.
Anyway, talking about back to normal, tonight is Jack’s usual hot date night, and my hot-movie-at-home-by-myself night. I’m wearing my favorite old ratty robe, my pizza’s just arrived (large, thin crust, extra cheese), and I’m just about to
settle down to watch
Chocolat,
tonight’s viewing choice. I love Juliette Binoche—she’s so beautiful, so chic, so French…Plus, Johnny Depp is hot.
“Hey,” Jack says, coming into the living room.
I’m a bit surprised, because he’s wearing cutoff jeans and a ripped old T-shirt. He’s still covered in paint.
“Hey, yourself,” I tell him, through a mouthful of pizza.
“So what you up to tonight?”
“The usual.” I bite into more pizza. “Movie, pizza, wine.”
“Oh pizza, great,” he says, grabbing a slice.
“Hey, that’s my dinner,” I say, but I don’t mind because I know I won’t eat it all tonight. But I do like it cold for breakfast. I’m just complaining out of habit, really.
“Little thing like you can’t eat a huge pizza like this.” He grins at me. “You want more wine? I want some wine.”
“I do
so
need more pizza. I need to consolidate the good work—just two more pounds and I’ll be happy.”
“Did I tell you how refreshing it is to live with a woman who is actively trying to
gain
weight?” he says, demolishing the rest of his slice of pizza. “How about I get dessert? I have chocolate-chip ice cream in the freezer. Seems only fair to share.”
“Won’t you be late? Why aren’t you getting ready?”
“For what?”
“It’s your hot date night. You always go out on Saturday nights.”
“Not this Saturday night. Oh, good.
Chocolat.
Juliette Binoche. What a babe. Mind if I watch it with you?”
Oh. Actually, I like the idea of Jack staying home with me.
“It’s your house,” I tell him, passing him my glass. “I’d love more wine.”
It’s nice. Just the two of us. Jack smells really good. He looks really good, too, despite the paint spots. And you know, maybe he isn’t such an ionic bonder…Wonder if the love of a good woman could turn him into a covalent bonder? Do I care? Who am I kidding, I really can’t stop thinking about sleeping with him.
It’s time I forgot Adam and moved on. I will Zen myself into Jack’s bed. Maybe I could Zen myself into his heart, too?
Sunday, 7
A
.
M
.
Oh, I fell asleep on the sofa. I wiggle into the cushions to get more comfortable, and then I realize that the reason I can’t wiggle any further into the cushions is because Jack is at the bottom of the sofa with my legs on his lap.
He looks so sweet and vulnerable, asleep. And I don’t think him being two years younger than me is a problem, is it? It’s only two years. I quite like the idea of being the older woman. Seems to work for Julia. But how to let him know subtly that I have changed my mind? I will have to flirt with him more, send him Zen vibes…Oh, he’s waking up.
“Oh, hi,” he tells me, stifling a yawn with his hand.
“Hi yourself.” I smile my most alluring smile, and then put my flirting into practice. “We didn’t make it as far as bed last night.” I try to flutter my eyelashes, for maximum flirt effect. I wonder if that is a little too obvious.
“No,” he says, looking a little puzzled. And then, “I’ll go put on a pot of coffee.”
And then he gently moves my legs to one side, and stands up, stretching his arms up to the ceiling. He’s definitely hot, I think, yearning to squeeze his biceps. He catches me watching, so I smile and flutter my eyelashes some more.
“Emma, have you got something in your eye?”
“No!”
“Only you’re blinking a lot.”
Okay, so maybe my sex-kitten look needs more work. My morning hair is not a pretty sight, and my ratty old robe is definitely not alluring. No wonder he didn’t get it.
Tuesday, 9
A
.
M
.
I’m ready to go.
Today I am wearing comfortable black pants and a white T-shirt, proudly emblazoned with the words
DON
’
T FORGET YOUR CONDOMS
. And for once, I do not check myself in the mirror to see if this is a good look for me or not.
In the grand scheme of things, how I look is totally unimportant and trivial.
Today, Sylvester and David are hosting their annual AIDS fundraiser. Some of their closest friends have fallen foul of this terrible disease, and this is their way of fighting back. They’ve given the kitchen staff the day off so we’re all helping out, either by cooking (under Sylvester’s hawk eyes and sharp tongue—I would never work for him full time—not for a million dollars) or serving their multitude of customers. Apart from the entire gay community of Manhattan, they seem to know every one else on the island, too. Which is good, because it means lots of dollars for the fundraiser.
When I say we’re all helping out, I mean Rachel and Hugh, Katy and Tom, Rufus and Tish, me. And Jack.
Yes, Jack. Since Sunday morning I’ve been working on my sex-kitten approach, but I don’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’ve tried everything—full makeup at breakfast, complete with slinky robe at breakfast (tastefully arranged to slip over my shoulder in an alluring fashion), but Jack doesn’t seem to have noticed. Either he’s (a) blind, (b) not interested, or (c) I’m just not cut out for this slut-in-the-bedroom thing. I think (b) and (c).
Anyway, Jack and me are working the breakfast and lunch shift with Rachel and Katy. The others are coming down later to work the evening dinner shift. And we’re busy. Rufus
has brought mounds of his mouthwatering muffins, plus wonderful organic food supplies.
6
P
.
M
.
The restaurant is full of drag queens and laughter and noise. And condoms. All kinds, all colors, blown up as balloons and hung from the ceiling. There are goody bags (donated by a pharmaceutical company) filled with condoms of every description. Everywhere I turn, there are constant reminders of my lack of sex. Everywhere I turn, Jack is right behind me reminding me constantly of my lack of sex. And the fact that I want to have sex with
him,
of course.