by Lynda Curnyn
After all, I had only just begun to date.
Confession: I have forgotten the art of the casual blow-off.
By the time Hank dropped me off in front of my door a couple of hours later—yes, I had gone so far as to allow him a glimpse of my hovel—I was slightly tipsy. This was probably due to the fact that I had ploughed down three spritzers on an empty stomach, in some vague attempt to keep things interesting. Why was it that you never got dinner on a blind date anyway? I wondered now. As I glanced up at Hank when we came to a stop in front of my building, I realized that it was probably because no one wanted to risk spending more than a couple of hours with a person you were utterly unattracted to.
“I had a nice time,” I said, smiling what I thought was probably a sincere smile. After all, I had had a pleasant enough time, I realized now that alcohol warmed my blood and fuzzed my brain. And it must have been that alcohol-induced blur that caused me to blurt out, “We should have dinner some time.”
Why? My brain screamed back at me silently. Why had I said those fatal words? Was it the wine? Or was it the vague fear that had filled me when I realized that within moments I would be watching Hank walk away and then would have to head up the stairs past Beatrice and on to my own lonely little existence?
As I saw Hank’s smile deepen into a confident grin, I realized the damage had been done. That grin smacked of satisfaction. He had me, or so he thought. And now I had gone and left it up to him what to do with me. “Sure,” he said now, then leaned in for, God help me, a kiss.
It was mercifully brief, a mere sliding of lips—his surprisingly soft. Then, with a wink and the famous “I’ll call you,” he was gone.
And I was worse than alone now. I was, at least in Henry Burke’s mind, waiting for him to call. Oh yuck.
Confession: I don’t need a man, just a lobotomy.
“What were you thinking?” I asked Alyssa the next morning. I had phoned her as soon as I got into the office, partly because I was curious to learn just what she thought I might find appealing about Hank, and partly because I hoped to procrastinate starting my next article, which was tentatively titled, “Managing Your Future In-laws Before You Marry Them.”
“You asked for a lawyer,” Alyssa said.
“Did I specify short and bald?”
“I thought he was a nice guy. Warm. Sweet.”
“I guess you’re right. He was nice. Maybe I’m just hooked on handsome and evil.”
“Or maybe you’re just hooked on Derrick.”
I sighed. “Well, even if he hadn’t called—”
“He called?”
Oops. Now I had to ’fess up. “Yeah, well. He did. Monday night. I think he…I think he misses me.”
“Of course he misses you.”
I felt a warm glow inside at her insistence.
“But that and a dollar fifty will get you uptown.”
I slumped inside. “I know.”
“Men are essentially selfish creatures, Emma. They only care about what they want, what they need. And it doesn’t matter whose feelings they hurt in the process.”
Suddenly I was suspicious. This wasn’t the lover of all humankind I knew Alyssa to be. “What’s going on with you?”
“Me?”
“Don’t get me wrong, but I’ve never known you to notice the evil that is man.”
She sighed. “Richard and I had a fight last night.”
Uh-oh. “About?”
“Well…in a word, sex.”
I took this as a good sign. Chances were someone wanted sex and the other didn’t. And as long as someone’s desire was at stake, there was still hope. “What happened?”
“Well, in some pathetic attempt to salvage our sex life, I planned this whole romantic evening. Candlelight dinner—the works. Afterward, we’re on the couch fooling around and we decide to move it into the bedroom. Well, I go into the bathroom to put in my diaphragm—which took exactly three minutes—and he’s out cold by the time I come out.”
“Maybe you served too many carbohydrates at dinner. You know that rice pilaf dish you once made me knocked me right—”
“Don’t you dare find excuses for him, Em. Believe me, I was trying to sympathize. I even crawled into bed and attempted to kiss him awake, only to have him roll away from me and mutter that he was too tired and couldn’t I wait?”
“Well, maybe he was tired. I mean, isn’t he trying to make partner? That’s got to be a lot of work. And the stress—”
“Emma!”
“Okay, okay. I won’t make excuses for him. All I’m saying is that there may be a reason why he’s tired.”
“Yeah, well, that reason, whatever it may be, is about to lose him his girlfriend,” Alyssa said darkly. “If Jason so much as makes a suggestion of a get-together now, I’m not going to stop myself—”
“Now wait a second here. Don’t go using this fight to justify your desire to do the very hot Dr. Carruthers. I mean, I’m pretty good at deluding myself, Alyssa, and I have to say, that’s pretty lame.”
“Well, lame or not, it’s how I feel. I’m tired, too, you know. Tired of being the one who has to keep things together all the time. I mean, why is it always the woman who’s responsible for rekindling the magic in a relationship? Someone has to do it, I suppose, if people are going to stay together, make a life together. Marriage would be a dead institution if it weren’t for our efforts. And you know what, Em? I’m starting to think we should just let it die!”
Suddenly all the fight drained out of me. I mean, if Alyssa couldn’t find it in her heart to commit to Richard, the last perfect man in all of New York City, who was I to argue? Maybe marriage was overrated. Maybe it was even…unnecessary.
Seven
“Love really doesn’t have anything to do with it.”
—Alyssa Reynolds, Girlfriend-on-the-Make
Confession: I realize marriage might best be left for the truly committed—or the mentally insane.
Alyssa definitely had a point, I realized later as I sat in an editorial meeting, listening to Patricia, who had just stood to address us, her face solemn.
“Circulation of the magazine is down,” she began. “Even with our Spring and Summer issues, when our circulation is usually at its highest, the numbers are just not there. And though we can attribute a lot of this to changes in the marketplace and tougher competition at the racks, we need to work harder to put out a product that stands above and beyond our competition….”
Maybe it was a sign, I thought now, glancing around the room at the “Marrieds” and realizing most of them—witness Patricia with her pseudohusband, for example—were not living the dream lives their illustrious wedding days promised. And marriage among the junior staff was spotty, I thought. Sure there were Grace and Penelope from the Honeymoon and Travel section, but with their sweater sets and good hair, they were practically poster children for the kind of solid WASP marriages most of us thought only existed on the society page of The New York Times. The editorial assistants were too young to worry about, and the admin…well everyone knew she was a dyke. True, most of the older staff were married, but they were almost a whole generation away agewise and really didn’t count in my informal survey of the state of the institution. Then there were the contributing editors, with two gone to the altar and holding steady and Rebecca well on her way to engaged, at least in her mind. Once through with my count, I realized that despite the fact that we were a magazine that based its whole existence on the institution of marriage, more than half of us were single, divorced or just plain indifferent.
What was going on? If the illustrious staff of the nation’s most popular bridal magazine weren’t all happily married, who was?
Suddenly my new single status made me feel…trendy.
“…Since I’d love to hear your ideas on how we might take the magazine to the next level and make it a cut above the competition,” Patricia was saying now, “I’d like to turn the rest of this meeting into a brainstorming session. So
let’s open the floor to your ideas.”
Maybe it was the adrenaline racing through me as I reached my antimarriage conclusion. Or maybe I was just yielding to some strange tendency I had to sabotage myself and my career for the sake of a good one-liner, but suddenly I found myself speaking up, skating dangerously over the silence that had descended upon the room once Patricia had finished her speech.
“Maybe circulation is down because marriage is out,” I said, then made a meager attempt at laughter as everyone simply turned to stare at me. “What I mean to say is that maybe there just aren’t as many new brides as there were before,” I continued, backpedaling in the hope of saving myself from further disgrace. “After all,” I rambled, “women are getting married later and later. Maybe the market has…aged.”
Though Patricia seemed to be gazing thoughtfully at me, absorbing my comment, I could swear that beneath her furrowed brow she was questioning the sanity of even keeping me on the staff, much less promoting me.
Suddenly another voice piped up, and I realized I was about to be rescued. And by Rebecca, of all people.
“Maybe Emma has a point,” she was saying.
If I did, I couldn’t wait to hear it.
“Perhaps we have put too much focus on the younger bride. The twenty-something woman who is going to the altar for the first time.”
I leaned forward, waiting for my idle, idiotic comments to make sense. I saw that Patricia waited, too, her gaze trained hopefully on Rebecca.
“Maybe we need an issue devoted to the older bride and her concerns. The woman who may have waited until later to marry. Or—” and she glanced warmly at me, as if there were inspiration inscribed on my blank expression “—the bride who’s getting married for the second or even third time.”
My mother’s upcoming nuptials loomed suddenly in my mind. Now at least I knew where Rebecca had gotten her inspiration. Dumbstruck, I watched as the others reacted.
“But there already is a magazine devoted to second-time marriages,” someone was arguing.
“I’m not advocating that we change the editorial direction of the whole magazine,” Rebecca replied. “Maybe just make it a feature in one issue. Or even a regular feature, so you get both market segments—the first-time bride and the older bride.”
Patricia was beaming, I realized to my dismay. Then she dropped the bomb. “I love it, Rebecca. Why don’t you develop the second-time bride idea some more—perhaps give me some ideas for approaches and potential articles. We might even be able to pull something together for our next issue.” Then her gaze fell on me, and the gleam in her eye suddenly seemed a tad malicious. “Emma, why don’t you work on some thoughts for an issue devoted to older brides—women who marry for the first time in their late thirties and forties. Let’s see what the two of you can come up with. Maybe we can do two separate issues, depending on how much material there is.”
I glanced at Rebecca, a tremulous smile on my lips as I met her triumphant gaze. Oh God, what had I gotten myself into?
Confession: I am not above the desire to bitch, bitch, bitch.
“What really pisses me off,” I said to Jade, whom I had dragged out to the Whiskey for drinks after work that night before her big date with Enrico, hoping to wash away my ills with alcohol and a solid bitchfest, “is that she couldn’t have planned it better if she’d scripted the whole thing.”
“So what are you going to do?” Jade said, reaching for her cosmopolitan and sipping gracefully.
“I have to at least try to compete with her. What else can I do? My older bride issue versus her second-time bride issue. And I’ll put money on it that she’s going to gleefully probe me for stuff about my mother’s third marriage, then get all the credit for this thing. I mean, already Patricia thinks that it was her idea.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Well, it was probably my mother who inspired it!”
Jade put down her drink, studying my expression.
“What?” I demanded, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Nothing,” she said, then picked up her drink again, eyes scanning the room. “Why do we always come here after work?”
“It’s conveniently located near both our offices?” I asked, still wondering what conclusions Jade had drawn about my work situation that she refused to share.
“Hmm. Lots of Eurotrash. I never realized it before,” she said, then turned back to face me again.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I blurted out, “you’re thinking Rebecca is more qualified for this job.”
“I did not say—”
“You didn’t have to. I can tell. You think she deserves to be promoted and I deserve to roll around in the mud for a few more years, waiting for someone to notice I’m the best damn writer they have on the staff!” I downed my drink in one swoop, setting my glass on the bar with a plunk.
“You are the best damn writer on that staff,” Jade said. “But that doesn’t always mean you get to be queen. You know as well as I do that any manager starts out as a kiss-ass. And you’re not a kiss-ass.”
“Neither is Rebecca.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a bitch. That’s the other person who gets to be a manager.”
“You’re not kidding. I can just see her kicking and screaming if she doesn’t get this promotion. She looked ready to poleax Nash when he didn’t embellish her with a big rock last weekend.”
“Oh?” Jade said, a gleeful little smile on her face.
“Yeah, apparently Rebecca misforecast her engagement. I’m starting to wonder if Nash even realizes how very serious their relationship is.”
“Yeah, men can be a little lame at figuring out whether they’re just fucking you or marrying you.”
“Hmm…” I mumbled, wondering how I felt about being tossed into the “fuck” category on Derrick’s relationship barometer. Clearly I didn’t fall into the marriage category. And judging from his phone call the other night, I could be anything from soulmate to potential East Coast screw.
“Take Enrico, for instance,” Jade continued, warming to her subject. “He thinks we’re practically engaged when I go to Fire Island for the weekend without him. Yet when it’s just me and him on the dance floor, I’m clearly the girl he’s fucking. Or I will be, if things work out that way.”
“So you’re saying it’s the old double standard.”
“No, I’m saying guys are just assholes.”
I looked at Jade as she lit her cigarette, then dragged deep. Every time she made one of those male-blasting statements—not that they weren’t true most of the time—I worried that the residue of cynicism Michael had left on her life was going to keep Jade from ever having a satisfying relationship with the opposite sex. “Why don’t you want to date Enrico seriously?” I asked.
“He’s too young. Besides, except for the killer body, he’s not really my type.”
“What is your type, exactly?”
“You know—tattoos. A bit of an edge. Kind of like…Ted.” She sighed. “But you know how that is—the ones you want are the ones who never call again.”
I suddenly wished I could find something encouraging to say on this front, but really there was nothing I could do but commiserate with her. “Yeah, well, I can almost guarantee I’ll hear from Henry Burke, considering the fact that he was short, bald and utterly unappealing.”
“Oh, man. I meant to ask you how that went. No good, huh?”
“I couldn’t even muster up enough interest to remold him. I mean there’s always Rogaine….”
Jade stubbed out her cigarette. “The last thing you need right now is a man-improvement project. Believe me, I’ve been there,” she said, and I knew she was thinking of Michael and her attempts to persuade, cajole and just plain seduce him out of his impotence, but to no avail.
“The thing that really blows me away,” I continued, “is that Alyssa picked him. She knew what he looked like and still thought I might find him remotely attractive. I’m a little…in
sulted.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the way those fix-ups are. I mean, would anyone really set you up with someone they might consider fucking themselves?”
“Alyssa has Richard. She’s not in the market for—” I stopped dead in my tracks, thinking of Dr. Jason Carruthers, doggie doctor and ladykiller extraordinaire.
Raising her eyebrows at me, Jade polished off her drink.
I signaled the waiter with a sigh. “I think another round is in order.”
“Count me in,” Jade said. “Listen, if you want to go pick up your own man, I have a couple passes for a magazine launch party for that new men’s monthly, Bone.”
I rolled my eyes. “You don’t really expect me to hook up with any man associated with a magazine devoted to the adoration of his…his…”
“Look, you don’t have to like a man to sleep with him. And I know some of the models they’re using for their first issue. To die for.”
“You know how I feel about models.”
“Emma, there will be all kinds of men there. Editors. Writers.” She raised her eyebrows at me, knowing she had me. And she did. Already visions of Derrick lookalikes danced in my head.
“Okay, okay. What time do I have to be there? And where?”
“Envy, around ten o’clock tomorrow night.”
“Well, at least I have something to wear,” I thought, thinking I could recycle the Henry Burke date outfit.
All was not lost yet, I thought. New York City was full of interesting men. Surely I could find one to distract me from my post-Derrick depression?
Confession: I discover hope—and a new exfoliating cream.
After coming home from drinks with Jade and finding a message on my answering machine from Hank, telling me what a nice time he had last night and how much he hoped we might get together soon, I had a definite attitude adjustment. Suddenly I was a Woman In Demand. I didn’t dare call him back. Not only because it was Friday night and that would be the desperate thing to do, but because I didn’t want to risk spoiling my newfound fantasy of being the much-desired woman with any sort of blah conversation or bad attempts to give him the brush-off. In fact, I was in such a good mood after his call, I even found myself standing in the lobby of my building on Friday night for a full ten minutes before I headed out to Ricky’s Beauty Supplies for a hair-product binge, charitably listening to Beatrice as she described her current dyspeptic state. I discovered I could be generous. I could be kind. After all, I had a message blinking away on my machine from an actual man. And even though I wasn’t the least bit interested in Henry Burke, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to erase it.
