Of course, he doesn’t come. He doesn’t even call. Kate does (like fifty times), but I know that if I pick up and tell her the tears will heave up again, and I am so goddamned tired. All I want to do is crawl into bed and wake up well into next week. I pour myself a shot of whiskey left over from one of Brad’s colds, knock it back, and set my phone to silent. Then I climb into the guest bed, not bothering to take off anything but my pantyhose, and snuffle myself into a deep, black sleep.
Tuesday and Wednesday crawl by like one horrendously long day. I crank the Pixies and dump all ephemera of Brad into the darkest corner of the closet. I’d wanted to toss it all down the garbage chute, but I couldn’t get my hands to unclench when I wheedled it open with an elbow.
On Thursday, I stand in the shower, just stand there with the water pelting the top of my head, in an effort to jar myself free from the take-out, toilet, ball-up-on-couch cycle. I have one leg in an actual pair of pants when I glance at the calendar and realize the date. Tomorrow’s my birthday. Brad’s probably taking that girl to Gold! I hope he chokes on his foie gras.
I fall backwards into bed and stare through slow, soundless tears at the ceiling. I’ve got to pull myself together. I run a quick balance in my head, tally my savings against the rent, the electricity, wireless. The new and improved life of Julie Quinn has a sell-by-date of three months tops. Would Stuart write me a recommendation, I wonder? ‘RE: disgruntled exec. seeks (redemptive) role. Flight risk.’ Nah. Don’t think I’ll make that call.
My cell phone rings and I stare at it dumbly. The screen casts a vampire glow on my face. When had I turned the ringer back on? It’s a private number. I let it ring through to voicemail.
Wait--maybe it’s Brad!
I ring up the mailbox and, like a warm onrush of tide, Brad’s clipped baritone fills the stale air.
‘Baby, pick up. Come on,’ he says.
My hand unclenches subconsciously. There’s a heavy pause and then the grating sound of Brad clearing his throat.
Tell me you’re sorry! And that you’re a lying sack of Kentucky Fried shit!
Silence.
Tell me you love me. Tell me you’ll always love me.
‘Listen, if you’re around later, I was thinking I could swing by.’
He wants to talk. In person.
‘I want to grab my things. You know.’
My heart pangs dully in my chest.
So it’s really over.
I press END and ring Rad Thai’s for another round of Panang. Bradley will have to wait.
On Friday, I have big plans to stay in bed for the Bond marathon on Friday, get the kettle corn popped and the Ben and Jerry’s on standby. So much for my 30th blowout at Gold.
Just as James is seducing his first femme assassin, the doorbell rings.
‘I am so not getting that,’ I say to James and crank up the volume.
The intercom squawks once, then twice.
‘Can’t hear you.’
Whoever’s on the landing leans on the call button and doesn’t let up. I huff and drag myself to the front door.
‘WHAT?’ I bellow.
‘Julie, thank GOD! I thought you were dead!’ It was Kate. ‘Ring me up!’
‘Em--’
‘NOW!’
I push the door key and listen for Kate’s staccato step in the hall. For a reason that I can’t quite explain, the thought of making for the service elevator flashes through my mind.
‘Happy Birthday!’ Kate grabs me up in a choking embrace, smacking my back with the humongous bag of groceries slung on her forearm. ‘Where have you been? I’ve called like a zillion times!’ Kate casts a wrinkle-nosed glance around the apartment. ‘Do not tell me you’ve been here the whole time! Oh my GAWD, Julie!’ She squeezes me to her again.
‘I’m fine, Kate, really. Just taking that “me week” you’re always on about.’
‘Honey, that week has nothing to do with smelling like a foot! Come here.’ She drags me into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee. ‘Picked up your mail for you. There’s a buttload.’ She dumps a stack of letters onto the counter and peeks into the living room. ‘Brad working today?’
‘No idea.’ I try to act nonchalant as I pour our mugs of coffee.
‘Jules.’ She raises an eyebrow at me.
I open the fridge and stare in. ‘He moved out.’
‘What?!’
‘When I came home Monday. He was here.’ My mouth goes dry. Kate pulls my head out of the fridge and hands me a mug of coffee. ‘He had a girl with him.’
‘Shut the front door,’ Kate gapes.
I raise nod at her and take a sip of coffee.
‘Jesus, are you alright?’ Kate asks and squeezes my forearm.
‘I’m fine.’ Mostly. I think.
Kate squints at me, not buying the she-woman bit for a second. She nudges me out of the kitchen. ‘Get a shower. We’re going out!’
I make a face at her and plop back down on the couch with James.
‘No, ma’am,’ Kate says and hauls me to my feet. ‘It’s your birthday. I’m not taking no for an answer!’
Christ, it is my birthday. I’d completely forgotten! I plop down on the sofa. Sounding the death toll of my twenties is just about the last thing I want to do, but Kate pulls me to my feet and herds me into the bathroom. She threatens to give me a sponge bath if I don’t get in the shower. I slip out of my sweats and take an extra long shower, hoping she would take the hint and sideline the party patrol. Not a chance. She has a heaping plate of nachos, a pitcher of margaritas, and one of her just over the top mini dresses waiting for me when I shuffle back into the kitchen.
‘Bottoms up, birthday girl!’ she says and hands me a tumbler filled to the brim.
‘Really, Kate, I’m not--’
She tilts the glass toward my face. ‘Less talking, more drinking.’
Resistance, I realize, is futile, so I humor her with a glug and a thin smile. She hands me the dress.
‘No way,’ I shake my head and grab a handful of nachos.
‘No? Alright,’ Kate says with mock disinterest. ‘I wonder what Brad’s getting up to.’
I flick her across the table.
‘Come on, Jules. It’s Friday. I’ve got to get the dancing out!’
There are two things that terrify me: travelling in cars and dancing. Brad took me to a Cuban club in Brooklyn on our second date. Two minutes on the floor and he told me I danced like Steve Martin.
‘Julie.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Stop thinking about Brad, and let’s go.’
I heave a soap opera sigh and yank the dress off the counter.
‘You’ll thank me later!’ Kate trills down the hall after me.
I squeeze into the dress--skin-tight and red, brilliant--and blast my hair dry. Every movement I make seems to take an incredible amount of effort. I squint at myself in the mirror. Yep. Definitely look like a girl on the rebound.
Kate pops her head into the bathroom with a low wolf whistle.
‘I can’t do this, Kate.’
She smiles at me and riffles through the vanity drawer for a coal black eye shadow.
‘YES you can,’ she says and frames my eyes with impeccable upstrokes. ‘This is your night. No way am I letting you waste it on Bradley Scholer and reruns!’
Arms linked, we trek downtown to one of Kate’s latest instalments: an indie pop club in the village that’s already headlined the likes of Yeasayer and The Knife. A long, techni-colored line of college aged hipsters rends its way around the block to the basement doors.
‘So, I’m officially the oldest one here,’ I laugh uneasily and tug at the hem of the dress, which rides up again almost instantly. ‘Seriously, Kate. How do you wear this?’
‘You don’t wear it,’ she beams at me. ‘You rock it.’
‘Right,’ I roll my eyes.
She tows me behind her to the head of the line and gives the doorman, a gargantuan beardy Brit, a peck on both cheeks.
/>
‘Katie, pet, pleasure as always,’ he says and unclasps the rope barring the entrance.
Kate’s people skills never cease to amaze me.
As soon as we cross the threshold, we’re enveloped in a pulsing revolution of bodies and synth beats. I grip Kate’s hand tighter as she picks our way through a mesh of twenty somethings--the girls leading with their hips in a way that makes me vaguely uncomfortable, the boys clowning. I can feel my eyes bulging wide like a cornered stray, my shoulders humping, turtle like, and give the dress another tug. The crowd parts before us as Kate draws me up to the bar and orders a round of the club’s signature drink--the vodka and peach laced ‘Stipe Soda’.
‘I’ll just have an orange juice,’ I holler to the barman over the thumping bass line.
‘Screwdriver, she means,’ Kate says and winks at me. ‘You’re only thirty once!’
Drinks in hand, Kate drags me to the very center of the dance floor.
‘Everyone is looking at us,’ I yell into her ear.
‘I know!’ she shimmies in a tight arc and twirls herself on my hand.
The music cuts out abruptly, and the DJ throws a spotlight on us.
‘A very happy birthday to Julie! This one’s for you,’ he croons into the mic.
‘KATE! I’m gonna kill you!’ I screech. My face burns the same shade of deep crimson as my dress.
‘Dance with me first!’
Oh God!
The crowd erupts in hoots as the Beastie Boys’ ‘Fight for Your Right’ thumps through the overhead speakers. Little known secret: I can’t NOT dance to the Beastie Boys. They’re like lousy dancer kryptonite. I tip back the watered-down Screwdriver, toss the plastic cup aside, and join the raucous, up-jumping chorus. Kate swings me close and then darts me outward again, both of us laughing to tears, the crowd reeling along with us in a huge, electric embrace.
The song downplays into a techno mix of The Cure’s ‘Love Song’ and I throw an arm around Kate’s shoulder. Holy Hell. I’m actually having fun!
‘I’ve missed this!’ I say, breathless and giddy, almost not caring about the closeness of the crowd and the vodka’s dizzying shot to my head.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Kate smiles back at me.
Over her shoulder, a tall, Emo eyed college boy blinks at Kate.
‘Incoming.’
Kate puts on an overcooked smile and bats her eyelashes at me coquettishly.
‘One to ten?’
‘Em. Six.’
‘Pardon me, miss--’ he says in a French (Canadian) accent, a light touch to Kate’s shoulder.
‘Eight,’ Kate winks before spinning around and extending a hand. He takes it up and waltzes her a few awkward steps away. The crowd fills in the gap instantly. I’m left standing stock still in the middle of a gyrating ring of couples. I try to twist my way to Kate and Capt Quebec, but I’m hemmed in on all sides. A little blue flare of panic swells up into my chest. I try to make a break for the toilet, but a very cute, very young, dreadlocked mister cuts me off with a ten-foot smile.
‘Hell-o,’ he says.
‘Hi.’ I angle a shoulder and try to snake past him.
‘I bet you know Kung Fu.’
‘I bet you’re gonna tell me why.’
‘Cause that body is kicking my ass!’ he whoops.
Oh for the love--
I skirt past him and bolt to the ladies’.
Of course, there’s a long line of women, each one of them poised in an attitude of determined appeal. I angle into a gap at the mirror and reapply my lipstick, then dig into my bag for my phone. Kate had forbade me to check my messages, but I can’t help myself. And anyway, I don’t want to go back out into that madness--not yet. I scroll through the inbox. Not a single message.
A pair of brunettes crane over the corner sink, one in shuddering tears, the other hugging her about the shoulders. I try to ignore them, but it’s impossible the way the first is carrying on.
‘I just can’t believe he did this to me!’ the girl wails. ‘And did you SEE her?! She’s like--a cow.’
‘Total cow,’ the other girl says.
The door swings open, and the chorus of Gotye’s ‘Somebody That I Used to Know’ pulses in. The girl moans through a fresh wave of tears.
‘Oh God, I thought he was, you know,’ she snuffles into her friend’s shoulder, ‘the one!’
I catch myself staring at the shattered girl in the mirror. Had Brad been ‘the one’? I’d expected him to be, even if I’d never said it out loud. He’d said, on not one but two occasions, that I was ‘IT’ for him, but what could that mean now? Maybe that was guy speak for, ‘You I’ll marry, her I’ll keep on speed dial and make unreasonable promises to.’ I wasn’t sticking around for that. God, no. But maybe I was expecting too much. Could be a case of the infamous man vs. commitment jitters. I mean, we’d never really had the talk. I’d just assumed his boundaries were along the same rough lines as my own. But what if this slip is the tell-tale sign that Brad is a chronic cheater, someone who couldn’t be ‘the one’ because one is never enough?
I rub my forehead with the flat of my hand. Since when am I a great believer in epic, one for all time romances? If there’s only one person for every one of us, then there’s a helluva lot of fakers out there.
All of a sudden there’s a long nailed nudge at my shoulder, and I flinch. A towering, high cheeked blonde grins at me in the mirror.
‘Julie Quinn?’ she asks. ‘Ohmygod! It’s me, Cameron!’
I spin around and Cameron plants two popping kisses on my cheeks. ‘It’s been like forever!’ she says.
Sweet Jesus, not Cameron Starke?! Next to Brad, she’s the last person I want to see. In fact, I’d made an express effort to avoid her at all three of Brad’s spring gallery openings.
‘Is this your first time at this club? It’s fab, right?’ she beams at me in the mirror.
I straighten up and try to make myself look taller.
‘No,’ I say coolly. ‘I’m here basically all the time.’
‘Oh. I haven’t seen you around,’ she says.
‘I like to fly under the radar,’ I say. Unlike yourself.
Cameron had been the ‘it’ girl at Columbia. The ‘face of New York’, as the Times society section had called her after she’d graced the pages of every single glossy on the rack. She had attended all of my marketing and PR courses, and she never once missed the chance to sling a low remark at my ‘off trend’ ensembles.
‘You look,’ I say, though I hate to admit it, ‘amazing.’
She does. She always does. Her face opens up in a brilliant, white smile.
‘Stop!’ she kids. ‘I used to think it’d be a liability. Pretty face, permanent cubicle. You know how it is.’ I blink back at her in the mirror. ‘But now I’m head of the fashion department at Wilson and Partners. You’ve heard of us, of course,’ Cameron fawns.
I pale slightly.
‘You still with Markham and Associates?’ she asks as she plumps out her lips and dabs on a red matte that, on anyone else, would scream ‘I’m trying too hard.’
I shake my head no. ‘I’m actually…’
Unemployed? She’d love that.
‘Starting my own business.’
Cameron claps me on the back and then squeezes me into a full body hug.
‘Congratulations!’ she warbles. ‘That’s so awesome.’
‘It’s pretty awesome.’ And completely fictional.
‘Friend me on Facebook! I want to be the first on the invite list when you open shop!’
‘Will do,’ I say and flash a toothy smile. As soon as Cameron swishes out of the door, I slump over onto the counter. What was I thinking blabbing to Cameron, my single biggest frenemy in college, about starting my own business? I might as well have taken an advert out in the New Yorker!
Grumbling to myself, I march to the bar, heedless of crowd and hemline, and order a shot of vodka.
‘Cheers,’ I say to the barman and throw the drin
k back.
‘There you are!’ Kate skips over to me sans Canadian. ‘That is what I’m talking about!’ she laughs and orders another round.
‘You’ll never guess who I just ran into,’ I say, squinting as I suck at a lemon slice. ‘Cameron.’
‘Starke?!’
‘Mmmhmm.’
‘Shut up.’ Kate’s eyes bulge.
‘Fashionista turned Fashion Editor.’
‘Shut up!’
‘At Wilson and Partners.’
‘There goes my twenty bucks on her popping out a few kids somewhere on the east shore,’ Kate smirks.
‘And I told her I was starting my own firm.’
Kate doubles over with laughter. ‘I’ll toast to that!’ she cheers. I raise my glass shakily, and we swill down the drinks. Well, I can’t say it hasn’t been a memorable milestone. I smack the glass down on the bar and howl out laughing at myself, at the look on Kate’s face, and the fresh round the barman’s plunked down in front of us.
Our laughter trails off. We fiddle with our drinks.
‘We always said we’d start our own firm,’ Kate says.
‘We did.’ I smile dreamily at the thought.
Kate spins me round and locks eyes with me.
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 5
