by Mary Carter
“Now that’s a woman who knows business,” Josh says. “I’d love to have dinner and go over your portfolio. We’ll save the trek to—Keansburg, did you say? Another time.”
“Why don’t we all meet at my place?” Greg chimes in. “I’ve been dying for an excuse to entertain.”
“You just had a huge party last week,” Tommy points out.
“And there’s still plenty of food left over,” Greg says.
Tommy wrinkles his nose.
“Sounds great,” I say, hoping nobody will notice that my voice is cracking like a prepubescent boy.
“Perfect,” Josh says, heading for the door. “See you tonight, Melanie,” he says over his shoulder. “I can’t wait to see those clocks.”
Josh Hannigan takes his leave, but Trina and Greg remain rooted to our living room floor. Trina is obviously not happy about the turn of events.
“Josh Hannigan is an extremely influential man,” she says. “He’s not someone you want to play with.”
“What are you talking about?” Greg asks.
I find his naiveté endearing and repulsive at the same time.
“He wouldn’t take kindly to being played for a fool. If there’s anything you’d like to confess, I’d do it now,” Trina continues, ignoring Greg. “Before it’s too late.”
“There is something,” I say pleasantly.
“I thought so,” Trina says, sitting down. “What is it?”
I smile. “I have to confess I never thought you’d be willing to help me out like this,” I admit. “I don’t know how to thank you. I really think this is going to be my big break. Now if you’ll excuse me,” I say to her gaping face, “I have work to do.” I excuse myself and make a dramatic exit into my room, but not before I hear Greg exclaim, “Hey, I have a penguin exactly like this.”
When I venture out half an hour later, I find Greg still taking up residence on our couch. There is no sign of Trina, but Kim is perched on the other side of Greg, yakking away in a giggly voice. Not just any giggly voice either. This was her man-catching voice. “You’re still here,” I say to Greg while glaring at Kim.
“It’s my fault,” Kim giggles. “I begged him to tell me about Side Court TV.”
“Kim tells me you’ve been watching the show,” Greg says.
“Absolutely,” I say. “You’re doing great.”
“Do you mean it? Because if I’m not, give it to me. I love her honesty,” he says, turning to Kim. “Melanie tells it like it is. It’s so refreshing.”
“Like an icy peppermint patty on a windy tundra,” Tommy says from the kitchen.
“Do I get a sneak peak at your portfolio?” Greg teases me.
“I’d like to take a look too,” Kim says.
“Me three!” Tommy yells from the kitchen.
“No sneak peaks,” I say. “We’ll see you tonight Greg. I’m kind of in work mode right now.”
“Are you sure?” Greg says. “I thought I could stay and give you a ride over.”
“I’ll keep him company,” Kim says, sliding onto the couch.
I want to yank her blonde hair until she’s bald. Friend or not, I’m not leaving the best last-person-sex candidate I’ve ever had alone with her. “Please. I’ll never be able to focus if I know you’re out here,” I say to Greg in my sexiest voice. It works. His face lights up and he even blushes.
“Okay. Get to work, sculptress. I’ll see you soon.”
I kiss him passionately in front of a dumbstruck Tommy and Kim. I take advantage of their shock by ushering Greg out the door and then locking myself in my room before I have to answer any questions. I glance at my watch. I have four hours to put together a portfolio. I pray to the Saint of Putting Off Your Homework Until the Night Before. Help me, I beg. Help me.
Chapter 26
I owe my life to Adobe Photoshop. I carefully copy pictures of clocks from the Internet and save them to wonderful, beautiful, glorious Photoshop. So far I have a grandfather clock, a large round Ikea clock, a square clock, and a cuckoo clock (head intact). I plan on using these prototypes and, with a little help from my friend Photoshop, creating at least three different designs for each type, giving me a total of twelve clocks.
Kim and Tommy are in the kitchen playing with the blender when I hurry in to show them my first Photoshop clock sculpture.
“Hmm,” Tommy says, sucking on a mudslide. “Do you really think that’s going to work?”
I don’t answer—I’m stung. I love the picture. I had taken the large round Ikea clock and painted the inside red and the outer rim orange.
“I call it Fire Clock,” I say proudly. “Do you think I should find a picture of a hunky fireman and paste him at noon?” I add.
“Definitely,” Tommy says, lighting up. “Definitely.” He smiles at me and then glances at Kim. They share a pitiful glance that you would accept from siblings taking care of a psychotic aunt.
“You go ahead and do that,” Kim says. “We’re going to stay in here and get really drunk.”
The hours fly by. I was really getting into this. I had the Fire Clock with a hunky half-naked fireman at noon, a Cinderella clock with a pair of high heels that I envisioned tapping together at midnight, an Eiffel Tower clock, a tie-dye clock, a coffee table clock, a clock with steel pipes arranged underneath it like stairs, a clock where the hands were flowers, a cuckoo clock with a barking dog instead of a bird, a pair of clocks—one male, one female—like the symbols on a public restroom, a tango clock, and an art deco clock. God I was good.
“Hmm,” Tommy slurs as he turns the pages of my portfolio.
“They’re great,” Kim shouts. She always shouts when she’s drunk.
“What do you think?” I press Tommy. He cocks his head and stares at them again.
“They don’t look real,” he finally admits.
“That’s just because you know I did it in Photoshop,” I sulk.
“I know. You should make some kind of studio background,” Kim shouts.
“I see what you mean,” I say. “Hold that thought.”
So it’s back to the cutting screen. I find pictures of an artist showcase with concrete floors and a black cloth background. I superimpose my clocks onto the background and once again print twelve copies in different sizes. Just for fun, I print a few in black and white. Despite the criticism from the drunken peanut gallery, I think I’m in business.
“We’re pissed,” Kim says, interrupting my work.
“I know,” I reply.
“You’ll be too drunk to go to dinner,” I admonish.
“She doesn’t mean pissed drunk,” Tommy laughs. “Although we’re that too. She means pissed, pissed off. We’re pissed off!” he slurs.
I take my hand off the mouse and swivel my chair to face them. “Okay,” I say slowly. “What are you so pissed off about?”
“You!” Kim yells. “You haven’t even thanked us for sticking our necks out for you.”
“Yeah,” Tommy chimes in. “Why are we lying for you?”
“Because you’re my friends?” I suggest.
“Don’t you forget it,” Kim shouts at me.
“I won’t,” I say and turn back to the computer. Tommy puts his foot on my chair and whirls me around again.
“Not so fast, Missy,” he drawls. “You have some s’plainin’ to do.”
“Yeah,” Kim joins in. “Why does Trina think you’re a clockmaker?”
“You explain something to me first,” I say. “Why did you assume I wasn’t?”
“Huh?” Tommy says. “You two just assumed I must have lied to Trina about the clocks, right? You didn’t even consider the alternative?”
“What alternative?” Tommy asks.
“That I’m a clockmaker,” I retort. “I could be, you know.”
“I think I’d know if you’d been trekking out to a meat-packing plant in New Jersey to make clocks,” Kim says. “Wouldn’t I? I mean we’re friends, aren’t we? You tell me everything, don’t you?”
I pray to the Saint of Little White Lies before answering. “You’re right,” I say, reaching out for Kim’s hand. “Of course I tell you everything.”
“But you didn’t tell me this business about the clocks?” Kim counters.
“What else haven’t you told us?” Tommy asks.
“Nothing,” I assure them. “It’s just a little white lie that got out of hand that’s all,” I say. “If you’re pissed at anyone you should be pissed at Trina. She’s the one making a whole mess of it.”
“Then what about this?” Kim says, whipping out my stolen silk pillow.
“What?” I say, stalling for time. I’m waiting for her to nail me on the baby shower comment, but instead she says. “It’s a two-hundred-dollar pillow, Melanie.”
“Mama Mia!” Tommy says. I really wish he would stop attending Broadway musicals.
“So what?” I say. “I decided to splurge.”
“With what?” Kim says, shaking the pillow at me. “You still owe me seven hundred dollars for the rent.”
“I’m still expecting checks from Fifth Avenue and the Food Mart,” I say.
“But Melanie,” Kim protests, “if you’re so broke—”
“I charged it okay? It’s for you.”
“What?” Kim looks horrified.
I feel bad, but it doesn’t stop me from going on. “Didn’t you wonder why I was sneaking it in under my coat?” I say.
“I wondered,” Tommy says helpfully.
“It’s for me?” Kim says, straightening it out from the shaking she had given it. “It’s beautiful.”
“I guess I could have just asked for a cash advance from my credit card instead of buying it,” I say. “But I intend on paying you back everything I owe you, and in the meantime—I wanted to thank you.”
“I’m so sorry,” Kim says. “Tommy, we owe her an apology.”
Uh-oh. I glance over at Tommy who is gesturing wildly at Kim to shut up.
“We have to tell you something but you have to promise you won’t get mad at us,” Kim continues.
I sigh. I hate this type of setup. “Ask away,” I say, crossing my fingers underneath the desk.
“Promise first,” she demands.
“I promise I won’t get mad,” I lie.
A moment goes by. Kim and Tommy look at each other. Finally, Tommy nods his support. “We were starting to think you stole Trina’s pearl soap dish,” Kim says, looking me in the eye. I look at the floor. I look at the beheaded cuckoo clock. I fold my arms. “You’re mad,” Kim says. “You promised.”
“I’m not mad,” I answer in my mother’s voice. “I’m just very disappointed.”
“You did lie about the clocks,” Tommy says quietly. “And Trina’s convinced.”
“So you believe her,” I say coldly. “You believe Trina Wilcox over me.”
“We didn’t say that,” Kim says. “But the truth is—we’ve never even asked you. Maybe it was a stupid prank, you know. You were pretty drunk the night of the party.”
“Maybe you don’t even remember taking it,” Tommy adds. “Maybe we could look for it.”
I propel myself out of my chair and throw my arms up in the air. “Why don’t you frisk me,” I shout. “Maybe I’m hiding the soap dish on my person. Better yet—let’s search the house. Where could it be?” I march over to the couch and start pulling off the cushions. “Everything ends up hiding in the couch cushions,” I say dramatically. “Maybe the soap dish is under here.”
“Melanie,” Kim says.
“No, no, no,” I continue. “You two take the kitchen. We’re going to turn over every inch of this place until we find that soap dish!”
“Stop it,” Kim says. “Just stop. Look, Melanie. Why don’t you just buy her another soap dish? Tell her you’re sorry she thinks you stole it and you want to bury the hatchet. I mean, keep the price tag on it and all so she’ll know you just went out and bought another one—but at least she’ll know you’re making a sincere effort.”
“Why do you care so much about her soap dish?” I yell.
“I don’t,” Kim says. “But Melanie, you don’t know Trina like we do. Once she digs her claws into something she doesn’t stop until she scratches it to bits. And right now, she’s got her claws into you!”
“You’re like a scratching post!” Tommy chimes in, scratching the air with his hands and arching his back.
“Where am I supposed to buy another soap dish?” I shout. “She said it’s a family heirloom. Besides, if I buy her a new one it’s like admitting I stole it. And in case my sarcasm flew right by you—let me tell you—just this once in no uncertain terms. I did not steal her pearl soap dish. I don’t know why she thinks I did—but obviously if she could prove it she would have by now. And you should be horrified—absolutely horrified—your friend is being accused of such a ridiculous thing. It’s a soap dish for God’s sakes. Maybe if she were accusing me of stealing something of real value I’d be a little more forgiving. But a fucking scum-filled soap dish? She has some nerve.”
“We’re sorry,” Kim says. “Mudslide?”
I shake my head, gather my clock pictures, and disappear into my room. Tommy and Kim stand outside the door for a few minutes murmuring encouraging words, but I ignore them. I’m too busy imagining all the ways in which I could kill Trina Wilcox with a mother of pearl soap dish.
Tommy and Kim are passed out in the living room by the time I sneak out of the house for Greg’s dinner. I drape blankets on them and feel a twinge of guilt when I notice Kim is hugging her new silk pillow. I silently vow to make it up to her by really buying her something in the near future. I have my clock pictures arranged in a thin black photo album; it is the closest approximation of a portfolio I could come up with in this amount of time.
I put on a black cocktail dress that accentuates my breasts and hide my hips and thighs underneath a black spandex body shaper. It takes me twenty minutes to pull them on, and they make me walk like a nutcracker, but they’re worth it for the good three inches they suck in. I’d have to find a way to stand most of the evening however, since sitting would be extremely uncomfortable. I resent thin women every time I pull them on, and the resentment makes me want to eat a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. I guess I still have a ways to go on that front. But the results in the mirror are that of a beautiful, artistic woman. No one will ever know that underneath the façade lies a curvy thief. I step out the door to hail a cab.
Jimmy whistles at me as I step outside. “Thanks, Jimmy,” I say smiling, wishing he would go away. I don’t want to answer a million questions about where I’m going and I don’t want to have to think about how long it’s probably been (if ever) that Jimmy has cleaned up, dressed up, and gone out for the evening. I don’t know why the world is so unfair and I don’t know what to do about it. But Jimmy is smiling anyway, and he doesn’t seem to be fixating on his plight the way I am—in fact his grin is ear to ear. “You lookin’ good Ms. ZZZZZZZZeitgar. You lookin’ real good.”
“Thanks, Jimmy,” I say again. “It’s just a business thing.”
As I’m making a mental note to bring him home dinner, a large white limo pulls up to the curb. “That your ride?” Jimmy asks, heading to the passenger door.
“No,” I say, reaching out to stop him.
But Jimmy goes straight to the door and pulls it open. The back seat is empty except for a dozen roses lying on the black leather seat. “Melanie Zeitgar?” the driver says.
Jimmy winks at me and motions for me to get in.
“Are you sure this is for me?” I ask the driver.
Jimmy pats his pocket. “It better be. Your boyfriend gave me a Ben Franklin just to open your door.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Tall blond guy. Real style. Don’t screw this one up,” he adds with a wink. I slide across the cool leather seats while Jimmy shuts the door. For a moment I allowed myself to enjoy it. For a moment I pretend I deserve it.
By the time I reach Greg’s Upper West Side
digs, I am thirty minutes late. The door to his place is propped open and I step inside.
“I suspected as much,” I hear Trina Wilcox say. “Some people even think Melanie is making up this whole business about clocks.”
“Now why would she do that?” Greg shoots back. From my vantage point in the hall, I can see Greg and Trina sitting opposite each other on his couch drinking martinis. Trina has her legs crossed and she’s hiked up her dress as far as she can without being completely naked.
“Melanie has always been—shall we say—the wild card of the group. I’m not saying she’s pathological or anything—and I’m sorry to say this—but she isn’t always truthful. In fact—oh, never mind, I shouldn’t say anything.”
“You might as well,” Greg prods. “Finish what you start.”
Trina doesn’t need any more encouragement. “She claims to be an actress but she’s never in anything—”
“Wasn’t she in Everything in the Garden,” Greg interjects. I could kiss him.
Trina furrows her brow and ignores him. “She tags along with Kim everywhere she goes—and she’s a bit of a man chaser.”
“Oh really?”
“A friend of mine went out on a couple of dates with her. He says she became a little stalkerish.”
It takes everything I have not to storm in there, throw myself on her, and pummel her to death. I have to hold onto a side table in the hall to keep myself back.
“And then there’s the night of my party,” Trina says.
“I hope you aren’t going to bring up the picture of her and the spoon thing again,” Greg chuckles. “She blames you for that, you know.”
“Which is ludicrous,” Trina says. “A lot of people think she staged the picture herself for the attention. I’m telling you she’s not stable. No, I’m afraid she may have taken something of mine. Something very valuable.”
“That’s a pretty serious accusation,” Greg says. “If you’re spreading that kind of statement—”
I wait for Trina to elaborate about her precious soap dish, but to my surprise she cuts him off.
“Never mind,” she says “I’m just saying I’m not surprised she’s standing us up—”
