Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  “What’s up, Emma?” she said, sitting down in my guest chair.

  I immediately went on red alert. The only reason Marcy Keller would ever sit down in my guest chair to chat would be a) because she had some juicy bit of gossip she had already shared with everyone in the office and I was her last resort or, b) she had some juicy bit of gossip about me that she was coyly trying to verify.

  A shiver went through me. They knew. They knew about my recent, brutal breakup. But how?

  “So what brings you to this corner of the world, Marcy?” I asked with trepidation.

  She looked up and leaned close, her eyes narrowing to slits behind the big square black frames she wore on her sharp little hook of a nose. “Sandra quit,” she hissed at me. Then, smoothing her short, dark brown hair behind her ears, she leaned back, folded her arms over her painfully thin frame and watched her words take their effect.

  Relief swept through me, followed by a realization. Sandra was one of the three reigning senior features editors at Bridal Best and had just given up one of the few management positions a contributing editor like myself could aspire to. Now I understood why I had been chosen to receive this particular bit of gossip. Since I was the contributing editor with four years’ experience under my belt and the most seniority, I was the most likely candidate to apply. So Marcy had come on a verification mission. I decided not to give her the satisfaction.

  “Sandra quit?” I began, leaning back in my chair. “That’s wild.” I paused, pondering this for a moment to increase the dramatic tension. “Huh. And I thought she’d be a lifer. What has she been here, five, six years?”

  “Seven and a half,” Marcy said, glee in her voice at the scandal created by such a long-term employee’s leaving. “I heard that she and Patricia had it out.”

  Now I knew she was embellishing. Our editor-in-chief was soft-spoken, poised, and probably the least likely person to start a brawl at Bridal Best, the magazine that was her life’s blood. Which made me wonder about this battle she’d allegedly had with Sandra, who wasn’t exactly a brute, though she had been rumored to have a temper. “Huh. That’s hard to imagine.”

  “Yeah, well, you know Sandra. She can be a bitch when things aren’t going her way. And they haven’t been, ever since her husband left her.”

  “Her husband left her?” I asked, suddenly sucked in, in spite of myself.

  Marcy rolled her eyes behind her square frames. “That was six months ago. God, Emma, where have you been?”

  I snapped my gaping mouth shut. “Well, usually I’m too busy with work to pay attention to the gossip,” I replied, deciding now was probably the perfect time to put Marcy in her place.

  Marcy swallowed hard and began backpedaling. “Yes, you do work a lot. I’ve even seen you here late a few times,” she said, changing tactics when she realized ridicule wasn’t going to get her anywhere with me.

  “Yeah, well. Once in a while. When I’m on a deadline,” I replied, embarrassed that someone might think me one of The Devoted, some of whom had given up their lives, their dreams and, apparently, in the case of Sandra, their husbands, for the sake of getting out a monthly magazine on how to make happily-ever-after a reality.

  “No, you work hard,” she protested, gazing at me steadily and making me notice for the first time that her eyes were actually gray behind those thick black cakes of liner. “I read your piece ‘The Cinderella Syndrome: Finding the Perfect Wedding Day Shoe.’ It was amazing.”

  Now she had me. “Ah, well, thanks. I kinda liked working on that piece.”

  “I just loved the way you captured the anxiety of finding a shoe that’s both comfortable and captivating. And the fairy-tale angle was very clever. What was that line you opened with?”

  Leaning back in my chair with something close to an embarrassing pride curling my lip, I quoted, “‘Now that you’ve found a Prince Charming who’s your perfect fit, it’s time to get serious about the shoe you step into to take that long—and potentially painful—walk down the aisle.’”

  “Yes, yes!” Marcy said, sitting up higher in her chair. “That was awesome.”

  “Thanks, Marcy. Gosh, I hadn’t even realized you read the magazine.”

  “Are you kidding?” Marcy leaned back in her chair once more. “You’re good, Emma. Really good. How long have you been here now? Three and a half years?”

  “Four years and two months next week.”

  “Wow.” She beamed at me, then her eyes narrowed speculatively. “You know, you’d be a shoo-in for the senior features position.”

  “That’s nice of you to say, but—”

  “I mean, you’ve got the most seniority of all the contributing editors.”

  “I know, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “And everybody knows you’re the best writer we have on the staff,” she finished, throwing in the pièce de résistance with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

  “They do?”

  “Oh, Emma. You don’t have to be so modest with me. I mean, I just assumed you’d be going for that promotion. You are the strongest candidate, after all.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Well, now that you mention it, I had thought of talking to Caroline about opportunities within the company.” It was true that I had recently had vague thoughts about talking with my boss regarding my future. But in my fantasies I always imagined entering her office with a prepared speech, then arbitrarily breaking into a rant about how no one recognized what a huge talent I was. It was this that always kept me from initiating any sort of dialogue with Caroline on the subject. But now it seemed—according to Marcy anyway—that everyone was quite impressed with me.

  “You should talk to her.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I’ll talk to her some time next week. I mean, I’ve got this piece to finish and another one to proof—”

  “I wouldn’t put it off too long,” Marcy cautioned. Then she stood, leaning in close for the final kill. “I mean, you don’t want someone else to move in first.”

  She had a point. “Yeah, that’s true.” I looked up at her, trying to find some glimmer of camaraderie on her face, and discovered something there that resembled sympathy and goodwill, but I was too far gone to discriminate at the moment. “I’ll do it. First thing Monday morning. Then maybe she can advise me on how to approach Patricia.” Though the thought of approaching the editor-in-chief regarding the position put a pit in my stomach. I doubted Patricia even knew I existed. But it was necessary if I was really going to go through with this.

  And it looked like I was, judging from the triumphant smile on Marcy’s face as she made some hasty excuse and rushed out of my cubicle, more than likely to find someone worthy of her latest bit of news—that Emma Carter, disenchanted editor on the verge of career despair, had just put herself on the block for the highest promotion a girl with no giddiness over marriage and all its may hem could ever hope to aspire to at Bridal Best.

  Oh God. What had I done?

  I immediately sought out Rebecca, hoping that she at least might be able to offer some insight on this latest development.

  “Hey,” I said, sliding into her guest chair.

  “Hi,” she said, slowly pulling herself away from her computer screen, where she’d been typing furiously.

  “I’m not interrupting, am I?” I asked, suddenly aware that she seemed so focused on what she was doing, I was more of an obstruction than an office buddy at the moment.

  “No, no. Just wanted to tie this article up before lunch,” she said, saving her file and turning to me.

  Finish an article before lunch? When had Rebecca become so efficient? Not having the time to ponder such matters, I started in, “Did you hear about Sandra?”

  “Oh, yeah. Marcy already made the rounds,” Rebecca said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m thinking of going for it.”

  She hesitated for the briefest moment, but long enough for me to see the surprise on her face.

  “You don’t think I should?” I
said, suddenly becoming defensive. Just what was it about me that Rebecca thought wasn’t senior features editor material yet? And who was she to judge, having signed on only a year and a half ago?

  “No, no. That’s not it.” Then she smiled. “You should go for it. If that’s what you really want.”

  “Of course it’s what I want! I mean, what am I going to do? Sit around here for another four years, making the same schlocky salary? After all, it’s not like these opportunities happen every day. It took Sandra seven and a half years to up and leave that position open.”

  “That’s true.” Then she sighed. “Things haven’t been the same for her since her husband left.”

  “Gosh, I just heard about that office shocker. They only got married two years ago. Didn’t that throw you for a loop?”

  “Yeah,” Rebecca replied, “I always thought she and Roger had the perfect marriage.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Uh-huh. Sandra had Nash and me over to dinner about a year ago. She went to Sarah Lawrence, too, graduated a few years ahead of me. I guess she figured we had a lot in common. It was a fun evening. Sandra’s really down to earth, once you get to know her.”

  “Yeah…” Now this bit of news really threw me. I never would have envisioned Sandra and Rebecca as pals. Again my suspicions about Rebecca were aroused. Just how entrenched in this loony little world was she, anyway?

  I found out, moments later, when I heard her next words.

  “I think you should go for the senior features editor position, Emma,” she began, “if you feel that’s the direction you want to take.” Then she looked down briefly at her hands clasped in her lap, before meeting my eyes again. “But to be fair, I think you should know that I’ve already applied for the position myself.”

  Confession: My inner career woman has left the building.

  “Who does she think she is?” Alyssa asked, her brow furrowed in indignation as she stared at me across the table in the dimly lit restaurant. We had met for dinner at Bar Six, one of our favorite haunts in the West Village. Jade was joining us, too, though she had yet to arrive. We sat in the bar section, so that Jade could smoke once she got here, and drank cosmopolitans while I filled Alyssa in on the gory details of my newfound competition with, of all people, Rebecca.

  “She hasn’t even put in the time,” I complained. “Of course, she has put in the time with good old Sandra. Sandra probably primed her on how to get the position without even trying.” I took another slug of my drink, hoping to dull my senses and ease the irritating ache between my eyeballs. “Why does this kind of thing always happen to me?”

  “What kind of thing is happening to you now?” Jade asked, arriving just in time to hear me gripe. She quickly swooped down to embrace each of us in greeting, before sliding into the third chair.

  “Rebecca is competing with Emma for a senior features editor position at Bridal Best,” Alyssa informed her.

  Jade’s gaze swung to me, assessing. “You’re going for a senior features editor position?”

  “Yes,” I hissed at her. On the defensive, I argued, “Why is that so hard to believe? I’ve been writing and editing for the magazine for the past four years—and quite brilliantly, I might add. Just the other day my boss commended me on a piece I wrote about undergarments to wear with your gown. It was positively brilliant—I mean, for a piece on underwear. I even had this great inspiration for the title—‘The Bride Beneath.’”

  I sat back, breathing hard, as I contemplated Jade’s carefully blank expression.

  “Sounds…clever,” she said, lighting a cigarette as the waiter approached to take our order. He was young and gorgeous, as the waiters at Bar Six tend to be, with a vaguely Mediterranean look about him. I watched Jade give him the complete once-over as I retreated into myself to sulk.

  I knew what was going through Jade’s mind. She was thinking about the fact that I had suddenly pledged my heart and soul, staked my entire self-worth, on a career that up until a few weeks ago, I couldn’t care less about. But she was wrong. She didn’t know that during the Derrick Years, my role at Bridal Best had taken on epic proportions. It had become my whole raison d’être. No one knew—besides Derrick, of course. Derrick, who had always admired the fact that I was one of the lucky few who had actually gotten a day job writing, while he had done everything from waiting tables to walking dogs in order to make a few bucks while practicing his “art.” Derrick, who admired me so much, he hadn’t even called yet to let me know he’d settled into his life without me.

  When I tuned in again, I heard Alyssa calmly laying out the reasons why I was eminently more qualified for the senior features editor position than Rebecca was. Good ol’ Alyssa. I could always count on her to stand by me while I harbored my illusions. Jade, on the other hand, was a bit trickier.

  “Okay, okay,” Jade was saying now. “I see your point.” The waiter came back, carefully placing a cosmopolitan before her while she took in his forearm, his hands. Then she glanced up at us with a look that said, “Look who’s coming for dinner.” Once the waiter had safely escaped her perusal for the moment, she lifted her glass. “So if we’re going to get behind this promotion thing, let’s do it right.” When we had lifted our glasses, too, she said, “To Emma’s next incarnation—as Leader of the Stepford Editors.”

  We froze, glasses in midair. Alyssa cracked an exasperated smile. “Jade!”

  “Okay, okay. Forget it. Let’s move on to a toast I can really get behind,” she said, sending a last cutting glance in my direction. “To our waiter. For being just luscious enough to keep alive that lingering hope that I will have sex again.”

  We clinked, Alyssa laughing and me relieved that we had moved on to topics that didn’t have anything to do with my sudden touchiness over my next career move. Though Jade wouldn’t allow me to delude myself, she knew when to back off.

  “So what’s going on with you?” Alyssa said to Jade. “Emma told me you met a great guy. Ted, was it?”

  “Ted.” Jade sighed. Then, sipping her drink, she shrugged. “I guess Emma didn’t get to the part where Ted disappeared off the face of the earth.”

  “What happened?” Alyssa asked.

  “What else? He didn’t call.” She stamped out her cigarette, then gave another shrug.

  Though she carefully tried to mask it, I saw something in Jade’s eyes which made me think this particular failure somehow got her where she lived. I wondered why. Then figured it was probably because Ted had been the first guy she’d ever dated who had disappeared into that giant vacuum of Men Who Never Call. It was the kind of void that left a woman aching not with heartbreak, but a resounding why? which tended to turn against her rather than him, with responses like “Maybe I’m too fat too boring too broke too confident too insecure too aggressive too passive too happy too depressed….” But this thought was followed by the realization that this was not Jade’s normal line of thinking but mine. Still, even the strongest could waver in the face of the silent-but-deadly blow-off. Perhaps she needed another reminder that Ted Terrific was not so terrific anyway.

  “I read somewhere once that muscle size is directly disproportionate to brain size,” I began. “Didn’t you mention that Ted was pretty thick in the muscle department?”

  Jade gave a half smile. “All right, all right. I know what you’re trying to do. And no, I said that Ted was lean. Like a surfer. But that’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?” Alyssa asked, and I could see she, too, was aware of some simmering unease in Jade.

  “The point is, I thought we really had some kind of connection. I mean, we liked the same music. He was into the same clubs. And he even liked Simply Red. And you know how I feel about Simply Red.”

  “Well, it was only one date,” said Alyssa, ever the logical one.

  “One amazing date,” Jade argued. “And that doesn’t happen too often.”

  Jade had a point. If there was one thing I knew, it was that in a city this larg
e, where any sort of interaction with the opposite sex is swallowed up by the rush of time or traffic or whatever it is that keeps people from their mating rituals, one meaningful evening with a man constituted a serious beginning to something. Which was why losing Derrick, after two years of sharing everything from soulful conversation to toothbrushes, was something just short of disaster.

  “They’re all heartless bastards,” I chimed in.

  “Yeah, well, if I ever hope to have sex again, I have to figure out how to keep one of those heartless bastards around long enough.”

  “Maybe you’re focusing too hard on the end result, Jade,” Alyssa said. “Maybe you should take a more Zen-like approach to this whole dating thing.”

  “Easy for you to say when you have a live-in boy toy,” Jade said, though it was hard to envision Richard as a boy toy in his dark suits and tasseled loafers. Don’t get me wrong—with his chiseled good looks and tall, athletic build he was quite delectable. But Richard was the kind of man women fantasized about marching down the aisle with, not swinging from a rope in the Tarzan room of the Fantasy Land Motel. Then again, Jade did like to say I lacked vision when it came to men.

  “The grass is always greener,” Alyssa said, dropping her gaze.

  “Oh?” Jade countered, warming to the subject. “Let’s see about that. It’s been six weeks and four days since I last had sex—and I’m not counting Carl, because I’m talking penetration here. When was the last time you and Richard did it? And if you say last night, I will be forced to be envious.”

  Still regarding her glass, Alyssa replied, “Three months ago.”

  “What?” Jade and I said in unison.

  Alyssa looked up at us and sighed. “Well, that’s not exactly true. We did have sex about three weeks ago, but it was the kind of effort that’s better left unmentioned. All mechanics, no emotions. As if we’re just blowing off some steam after a hard day at work.”

  “What’s going on with you guys?” Jade asked.