Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  While managing to reveal little more than a roll or two, I quickly slid my oldest—and only—pair of gym shorts on, along with one of the few T-shirts I owned that I didn’t consider office attire. At first I had packed an old concert jersey with the sleeves cut off in my bag, but as the soft fabric slid through my fingers I suddenly remembered that it was Derrick’s jersey—and one of the few remaining articles of his clothing I had left. So I had carefully tucked the T-shirt in a bottom drawer, along with a printout of every e-mail he’d ever sent me, a dried-up rose—a momento from one of our early dates, a cartoon he drew of us watching a movie—written and directed, as the screen happened to reveal, by Derrick Holt, and various other tokens of our ill-fated two years together.

  Once dressed, I turned to find Alyssa, who had donned a well-shaped sports bra and a pair of color-coordinated running shorts, waiting for me. “Ready?” she asked, a determined smile on her face.

  “Be gentle,” I said, following her meekly to the stairs after my request to take the elevator was firmly denied.

  When we got to the third floor, ominously labeled Cardiovascular Training, I was greeted with rows and rows of gleaming machines manned by rows and rows of sweating-and-motivated-by-God-knows-what men and women.

  “We should stretch first, then do a little cardio warm-up before we hit the weight room,” Alyssa said, heading for some mats in the far corner of the room.

  “Isn’t that a lot for my first workout? I don’t want to overdo it. I mean if I ache too badly, I won’t be able to come back to the gym for a while, and that will sort of defeat the purpose, won’t it?”

  She just rolled her eyes at me and sat down on the mat. “Come on, Emma. You’ll like this part.”

  And I did, I realized, as I sat beside her, legs outstretched as I pulled my upper body from side to side. I almost fell asleep during the lower back stretch, until Alyssa prodded me into action. I got up and followed her to those dreadful-looking machines. “Jade told me she’s going out with that waiter guy,” I began, hoping to distract her.

  “She is?” Alyssa asked. Even though I encouraged her to get his number, I thought it was all a joke. “I mean, he seemed a bit young, didn’t he?”

  “I guess. But he works in a bar. Don’t you have to be at least eighteen to serve alcohol? Jade doesn’t mind them young, as long as they’re legal. I mean, she doesn’t want to get arrested or anything.”

  Alyssa laughed. “When Jade first started hitting on him, I didn’t think he even knew English, the way he was stammering.”

  “Just barely,” I said. “His name is Enrico, and I don’t think he’s been in this country too long.”

  Despite my efforts to detain or distract her, Alyssa stopped right in front of the most torturous-looking machine in the room. The StairMaster. Not that I’d ever tried it, but I’d heard scary stories from the few people in my office who had attempted it in the past.

  “You know, I think this one might be redundant for me,” I said, “seeing as I live in a fourth floor walk-up. Maybe I should try something I don’t normally do.” I glanced around frantically and, spying a girl on a stationary bike with a book propped in front of her on a reading stand and not a bead of perspiration on her brow, I said, “Like that one.”

  “Just try this, Em,” Alyssa said. “It gets you the most results. My butt lifted at least an inch when I first started doing it.”

  Eyeing Alyssa’s butt, which I’d always thought was rather perfect and probably a key factor in her year-round girlfriend status, I stepped on the machine and waited while Alyssa punched in a few keys to start up my workout. Once she was done, I started moving, legs going up and down in the kind of rhythm I normally dreaded whenever I came home and faced the four flights up to my apartment. I smiled meekly at Alyssa, who had stepped onto the machine next to me.

  Before five minutes was up, I was so winded that any hope for an irresistible rear end was replaced by the fear that I would surely die of a heart attack at the tender age of thirty-one. I let my stairs sink to the floor and stepped off. “I can’t…go—” I puffed out to Alyssa, who was still stepping away, not even a tiny bit breathless.

  She looked down at my reddened face with concern. “The pace of this one is hard to get at first. Why don’t you try something else for now?”

  Something else? Like the shower maybe?

  “The treadmill is also good,” she said, gesturing behind her to a row of people running on what looked like some sort of conveyer belt. I suddenly thought of the hamster I had growing up. “Do they have a pool?” I asked, thinking I might be able to brush up on my water-squirting skills. Because if Derrick ever did return, I was going to douse him good for putting me through this particular hell.

  “No. Not at this location,” Alyssa replied. “Try the treadmill. You’ll like it.”

  Yeah, right, I thought, walking past the treadmills and discovering, much to my delight, that they were all occupied. For Lys’s benefit, I gave an ostentatious sigh. Then I headed for my novel-reading, sweatless role model who was still pedaling away effortlessly next to a fortuitously empty bike. I grabbed a women’s magazine from the magazine rack conveniently located on the wall next to the bike machines. Once seated comfortably, I opened to the article that had beckoned to me from the cover as I made my selection, “Ten Sure Signs that He Is In Love With You.” Choosing a preset workout course of rolling hills that seemed leisurely enough, I began to pedal and read.

  Hoping his heart is in the right place? the article began perkily. Read on to discover if your man is exhibiting signs that he is hopelessly devoted to one special woman—you! Pedaling ruthlessly, I scanned the list, which was bullet-pointed with little red hearts.

  He buys you flowers, for no particular reason.

  I smiled as the memory of that dried-up rose in the Derrick Drawer came back to me.

  His friends like you—more than likely because he’s always telling them how wonderful you are!

  A vision of Ed Riley, Derrick’s best friend, popped into my head, filling me with disgust. Ed had a way of always inviting Derrick out for events that suspiciously never included me. Hmm…

  You are the first person he calls when he gets the big promotion.

  Well, I was at Derrick’s apartment the night his agent called with the news that he’d sold the screenplay. The moment Derrick hung up the phone, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me soundly. Hugged me like he’d never let me go.

  He thinks you look beautiful, morning, noon, or night—and even without a hint of makeup!

  My mind rolled over a memory of Derrick and me, lying in bed on a Sunday morning, The New York Times laid out before us on the rumpled bedding. I remember feeling suddenly aware of my tangled mop of uncombed hair and my makeup-free face when Derrick reached over to graze my bare leg with his long fingers. I also remember the wolfish smile he gave me before he proceeded to pull off my ratty T-shirt as if it were some gossamer gown, stroking my face, and then my body, as I were the most desirable woman in the world.

  A lump thickened in my throat. I pedaled harder.

  He goes away on a business trip and calls you every night just to tell you how much he misses you.

  The page blurred before me, and I was suddenly breathless. Slamming the magazine shut, I discovered that the preset course I’d chosen indicated I was about to traverse a hill I was not physically—or emotionally—ready for. I stopped pedaling, grabbed my towel from where I’d draped it on the back of the seat and headed straight for the StairMasters and Alyssa.

  “Hey,” she said, her cheeks pink, making her eyes look bluer than ever, as she continued stepping relentlessly.

  “I’m gonna hit the showers,” I said, dabbing my face with my towel and hoping to hide any inner turmoil written there. “I didn’t realize this would take so long, and I have things to do at home.” Like bawl my eyes out.

  She let her steps sink to the floor and got off. “The weights will only take about a half an hour.” As she
studied my expression, I knew she was somehow seeing into my emotional distress. “You’ll feel better for it,” she continued. “I promise.”

  After I stammered through a few more lame excuses, I found myself reluctantly following Alyssa to the weight room, where at her instruction, I pitted every bit of misery, anger, anxiety and utter despair I felt against great concrete blocks of weight designed to make me, somehow, a better, stronger and ultimately trimmer person. I pushed. I pulled. I sweated and I cursed. And once we were back on the mats doing our final stretches, I discovered Lys was right. I felt better. Much better.

  “I’m going to be working out Saturday morning if you want to come,” she said, as we glided into a final stretch. “But earlyish. I have to take Lulu to the vet afterward. I told you her medication wasn’t working?”

  Uh-oh. “I’m coming with you.”

  “To the vet?” Alyssa said.

  “Yes. I think Lulu needs the support. And you need a chaperone.”

  Alyssa rolled her eyes, but she smiled and I thought I saw something like relief in her eyes. Maybe she was just as scared as I was that she’d do something that might just destroy whatever happiness destiny had in store for her and Richard. “Okay. It’ll give you a chance to check out Jason anyway. And then maybe you’ll understand how I got myself in this dilemma.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You and your dilemmas. A great guy at home. Another one in the wings. I’m having a real pity party for you.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I have a man in the wings for you,” she said, standing up and wiping her face with her towel.

  “What?”

  “Remember that lawyer you imagined might be your next Mr. Right? Well, I have someone for you. Or Richard does. A guy from his firm—Henry Burke.”

  “Henry?” I asked, realizing the only “Henry” I knew was my mother’s neighbor on Long Island—a short, balding man with a rounded belly who leered at me whenever I happened to see him standing in his yard, bare-chested and feverishly watering his lawn.

  “He’s a very nice guy. I met him at Richard’s Christmas party last year.”

  “Does he ever go by Hank?” I said, standing up and trying to wrap my mind around the idea of dating a man named Henry. What did you do last night? Well, Henry and I went bowling. I didn’t even think I could cry that name out in the height of passion.

  “What difference does it make?” Alyssa asked, heading for the steps down to the locker room. “He’s very sweet. And—” she turned to look at me “—he seems like he’s looking to settle down.”

  “I’m not ready,” I said, glancing down at my sweat-damp body and realizing one workout did not a beauty queen make.

  “What are you talking about? You asked me for this.”

  “That was before I realized I was a strong candidate for the ‘before’ photo in a Jenny Craig advertisement.”

  “You are not fat,” Alyssa protested as we made our way into the locker room, and I was surrounded, once again, by the next generation of lean and limber supermodels.

  Tell that to Henry Burke when he finds himself feeling like a sucker for agreeing to give a fat girl a night on the town, I thought, wondering just how many of these adventures in self-torture it would take until I was truly ready to join the single world.

  Confession: Selling out is easier than I thought.

  The next morning I awoke with a vague sense of purpose, though it wasn’t until I had perked myself a cup of coffee that I remembered today was the day I faced Patricia. With the help of Alyssa the night before, I had reconstructed my résumé to show that I was not only ready and willing to be the senior features editor, but that, with the long list of carefully delineated skills I had acquired during my four years as contributing editor, I was more than qualified. It amazed me how, with Alyssa’s guidance, I had managed to turn four years of regurgitating the same wedding planning wit and wisdom, of oohing and aahing over layouts I couldn’t care less about and of writing headlines designed to capture the attention of the anxiously altar-bound, into the kind of diverse and exciting experience great editors are made of.

  This morning I had even discovered a long-forgotten gray skirt to pair with my trusty black blazer. Though I was horrified to discover that it fit, since it had been purchased during a previous bout of flabbiness, I realized that it had stayed in its time capsule in the back of my closet long enough to meet the new knee-length, A-line style requirement for the current season. At least according to Jade, whom I called for a wardrobe consultation.

  Now all that was left was to meet with Patricia. And since ours was a fairly informal workplace, all that required was a short walk down the hall to her corner office to see if she was available. I already knew she was in today, having memorized her schedule and obsessed over when the best moment to pounce on her might be. I had decided that a prelunch visit was in order. After all, I didn’t want her too carbohydrate-laden and sleepy to see how perfectly suited I was to the position.

  “Is she in?” I asked Nancy, her admin, who, aside from an eyebrow piercing that lent her the air of the illicit, seemed like just the kind of capable, no-nonsense type to keep Patricia’s otherwise hectic life in order.

  I tried to ignore the fact that both brow and earring raised at the sight of me in a blazer and skirt before her. “Sure,” she said with something that resembled a smirk on her lips.

  She always looks like she’s smirking, I told myself as I stepped daintily past her—with my new jacket-and-skirt combo and sore-yet-seemingly-firmer frame, I felt almost dainty—into Patricia’s doorway.

  I knocked softly, and Patricia looked up from a document she had been poring over at her desk. Seeing me, her eyebrows raised in question.

  “I wondered if you, um, had a few minutes,” I said so softly I could barely hear myself.

  “Of course. Come in. Sit down. Give me a minute, though, while I finish this up.”

  I slithered in and carefully sat before her desk, staring at the side part in her honey-blond hair, which was pulled back into the usual soft French twist, as she bent her head over the paperwork before her. My gaze shifted to the photo she kept on the shelf behind her, of her and her husband on their wedding day. Patricia’s wedding was legendary in the office, taking place at it did in a romantic villa in the South of France and featuring Patricia in a $17,000 Vera Wang dress, holding a flowing bouquet of lush and exotic orchids she’d had imported from South America. The only bizarre thing about Patricia’s marriage was that once she’d wed her husband, a successful trader on the stock exchange, he’d virtually disappeared. Not one appearance at an office Christmas party or even the fund-raisers Patricia—who came from old money and had a standing invitation to such events—attended frequently. Once I had even seen a picture of her in the society section of The New York Times, looking stunning in some designer concoction but essentially alone. It was as if she’d hired groom-to-be Lawrence Landers along with the five-star French chefs she’d had cater the event, and then promptly dismissed him along with the rest of the hired help once the last crème brulée had been cleared away. The only thing that assured her loyal staff that she was, in fact, still married, was the 2.5-carat emerald-cut diamond that sparkled from her left hand. Some of the staff speculated—Marcy Keller chief among them—that Patricia was a lesbian who had only married to save face. After all, how could the editor-in-chief of Bridal Best not spend two years’ salary and eighteen grueling months planning her own wedding day? Hell, we devoted a whole issue to her big day.

  Now, as she looked up from the document she’d been reviewing, a serene smile spread over her smooth, almost plastic features, and her navy-blue eyes looked expectant. “What can I do for you, Emma?”

  Amazed that she even remembered my name, I took the plunge. “Well, I don’t know whether Caroline mentioned it to you or not,” I hedged, starting off in an unplanned direction and mentally cringing. Don’t mention Caroline, an inner voice chided. God knows what kind of interesting preview she might have gi
ven Patricia. “That is, I would like to apply for the senior features editor position that will become available shortly.” I swallowed, then went on, shifting into autopilot as I began my rehearsed speech. “Over the past four years, I’ve been a solid contributor of articles for both the Style and Beauty sections of the magazine. I even contributed to the Travel and Honeymoon section, when that section was short-staffed six months ago,” I continued, showing, as Alyssa had instructed me, how I had come through for Bridal Best when the magazine was in a pinch. “In addition, I worked with Production on layouts for the anniversary edition last year, and I am often instrumental in the development of headline text, as well as copy for special promotions.” Having really warmed to my subject, I began to wax poetic on my knowledge of the market, my ability to lead and inspire others, and my indispensable talent for spotting trends. By the time I was done, not only had I convinced myself of my promotability but, judging from the look on Patricia’s face, I had convinced her as well.

  “Well, Emma, you’ve presented a strong case for yourself,” Patricia said with a smile. “Truth be told, I have noticed your work. Your piece on undergarments was wonderful, and Caroline has often mentioned how instrumental you are in the development of headline copy.”

  Encouraged, I handed over my folder, bulging with the clips I’d obsessed over all week, as well as my carefully tailored résumé. “I hope these will help you to review my qualifications for the position.”

  “Wonderful.” She took the folder, then stood, signaling the end of our meeting. “I will certainly take these things into consideration. Thanks for coming in, Emma. I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I’m delighted you’re interested in pursuing a career with us.”