Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

by Lynda Curnyn

  Add to that the fact that I had a free pass to the hottest party in town this weekend. I didn’t even mind that the bulk of my Friday night would be spent alone in my apartment. In fact, I rushed back from Ricky’s planning on pampering myself with a full-body scrub using the new peach exfoliating creame I had purchased along with a fresh tube of Bedhead styling gel. I even gave myself a pedicure in Just Do Me Red, a new shade I had bought at the encouragement of the salesclerk, who seemed to sense my newfound sexiness. The four walls of my apartment couldn’t intimidate me tonight, housing as they did an address book with the carefully inscribed phone number of a certain budding screenwriter whom I hoped couldn’t get me out of his mind. He might even call again if he happened to be in on a Friday night, all alone and remembering just how desirable I am.

  Once my skin was scraped baby smooth and my toes shined alluringly, I nestled down in my freshly laundered bedsheets with a good book. I was feeling so content, so utterly worthy of male attention, that I briefly considered calling Derrick. I did have his number, after all. But then I realized I had talked to him less than a week ago, and that in order to dial him up—on a Friday night, no less—I would need some pretext.

  My mind roamed over the possibilities. I could call him to rant about the Rebecca situation, but all that work-related angst seemed so removed from me now. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil his image of me as the highly promotable editor capable of “greatness.” Then I remembered that I hadn’t told him yet about my mother’s upcoming nuptials. That was certainly phone-call-worthy. But as I reached for the phone, I hesitated. It would be so much more satisfying if he called me….

  Suddenly the phone rang, causing my heart to nearly burst out of my chest. Was it possible Derrick and I were connected by some spiritual bond that allowed him to feel my need for him even from three thousand miles away?

  “Hello,” I answered on the third ring, hoping my voice sounded sufficiently subdued and raspy.

  “You’re home?” my mother’s voice barked back at me in disbelief.

  All hope drained out of me in one swoosh. “Yes, I’m home,” I said with exasperation.

  “Oh,” she replied, backing off.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine, Mom, just fine. How are you? Did you go for your first fitting yet?”

  “Oh, no, no. It’s too soon,” she protested. “Besides, I have a few pounds to lose, though Clark, bless his heart, thinks I’m just perfect the way I am.”

  Oh, brother. “You look fine, but if you want to wait, I’m sure it’s not a big deal.”

  “Yes, I think I’m going to wait a bit. Besides, there are so many other details to attend to. Like the cruise ship. I booked us some rooms, like I said I was going to.”

  “So I guess I’m sleeping with Grandma Zizi, huh?” All hope of scoring a date to drag on this wedding cruise from hell fell away. Even a cruise ship romance seemed like an impossible dream now.

  “Well, actually, I got you and Grandma Zizi connecting rooms—that way you could be close by if she needed help, but you could also have a little privacy, if you, uh, need it. You know—after all Betty’s talk about available men on cruises.” She giggled girlishly.

  Now I felt even worse. It seemed my mother’s hopes for me had dwindled to the level of cruise-ship romance. “Or I might have a boyfriend by then, who knows?”

  “Oh, Emma, wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  Maybe it was the wistfulness in my mother’s voice. Maybe it was the hopeful little message light blinking beside me, reminding me that I wasn’t without prospects, but something made me blurt out, “I had a date just last night. With a lawyer. A partner, actually, in Richard’s firm.”

  “A partner! In Richard’s firm? Alyssa’s Richard?” I heard a deep intake of breath. “Oh, Emma, that’s wonderful. I mean, that Richard—he’s quite a catch himself.”

  Tell that to Alyssa. “Yeah, well, he was a nice guy and all.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Uh, Henry. Hank, actually. Hank Burke.”

  “Nice-looking?”

  “Well…”

  “What am I saying? That stuff doesn’t matter to you anyway. I mean, look at Derrick.”

  “What about Derrick?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I just didn’t think he was attractive enough for you. I mean, you’re beautiful—”

  “Derrick was good-looking!” I protested, full of disbelief that anyone would question the beauty in those eyes I’d stared into for two dreamy years, those heavenly lips…

  “I don’t know, Emma, he seemed a bit of a…nerd. But what do I know? I’m fifty-nine years old!”

  “Well, Jade thought he was good-looking. And so did Alyssa,”

  I argued childishly, desperately trying to remember if they’d ever commented on Derrick’s looks.

  “Oh, Emma, what’s the difference now?”

  “What’s the difference?” I said, my temper having spiked in Derrick’s defense. “The difference is that I love Derrick!”

  A concerned silence greeted my declaration. And suddenly I realized I had revealed way too much.

  “Now, Emma, I don’t think it’s healthy—”

  “Please,” I begged, “don’t give me that self-righteous self-help drivel now.”

  Again silence, but this one seemed filled with hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I backpedaled. “I didn’t mean that. I just—can we talk about something else?”

  “That’s fine with me. I mean, somehow we went from your great date with a successful lawyer to, to…Derrick!” she said, not bothering to disguise her distaste for the very sound of his name. “Why don’t you tell me about this Hank Burke? When are you going out again?”

  I glanced at the blinking light on my message machine, resolving to erase Hank Burke from my life as soon as I got off the phone with my mother. “We’re not.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t, Mom. I’m just…not interested.”

  “Oh, Emma.” Then there was another silence, and I felt her struggling not to go places I didn’t want to go. Finally she said, “I swear this is the last thing I will say on the subject of Derrick, but it needs to be said.”

  I sighed. “Go ahead.”

  “You need to forget about him, Emma. You need to move on with your life.”

  As if I didn’t know that, somewhere deep down inside. But I couldn’t tell Mom that. After all, no girl should ever admit to her mother, of all people, that she’s hanging on against all hope to a man who’s living another life, three thousand miles away. Without her.

  Confession: A woman doesn’t need a man, just a loftlike space and lots of disposable income.

  The next day I woke up with the sound of my mother’s warnings still ringing in my ears. As if on autopilot, I clicked off the ringer on my phone and scrubbed down my kitchen until it shined. By the time I was done, I’d resolved to banish all thoughts of Derrick and have a good time with Jade tonight. I even imagined that I might meet my next Mr. Right Now, which was good enough for me, as I also realized that I had banished, along with Derrick, all dreams of Mr. Right.

  But once I had donned my swingy new skirt, paired with the reliable all-purpose black tank top that I kept at the ready in my top right-hand drawer, I had an attack of nerves. I realized I was about to plunge myself into one of the hippest scenes going on in NYC tonight, and I hadn’t even taken the time to update my lipstick. Thank God for my sexy little slides and newly painted toes, I thought, eyeing my feet in an attempt to summon some courage. As I studied my freshly made-up face and carefully blown-out hair, I cursed Sebastian and his newfound inner peace. What I would do for a few highlights right now. Maybe I should just say the hell with it and seek out a new salon. What did I stand to lose, except a month’s worth of groceries?

  Popping my most fashionable shade of red lipstick into my most minuscule bag and grabbing my
keys, I headed out, determined to blast through my last-minute crisis of faith. I was meeting Jade at her apartment, as her Soho loft was on the way to Envy. As usual, I was running a little early, and when I buzzed her apartment, she begged me to come up, which usually meant I would spend the better part of an hour watching Jade put the finishing touches on her makeup and hair.

  But when the elevator opened up on her apartment—yes, Jade could afford one of those lofts—she was lounging on the sofa, crystal flute in hand. “You ready?” I asked, as the elevator door slid closed behind me.

  “Yeah, yeah. But we’re early. Come in, sit down. Have a glass of champagne.”

  “Champagne?” I said, plopping my bag on the kitchen counter and spying an opened split of champagne by the sink. “What’s the occasion?”

  She hopped off the couch, cruising toward me in a little black dress and bare feet and looking almost tiny against the background of her soaring ceilings, “Jade got laid,” she said, stopping before me.

  “You’re kidding,” I replied, but I knew she wasn’t by the satisfied grin on her face as she opened a cabinet, pulled me down a champagne flute and filled it.

  “Nope. And Enrico was everything I dreamed he would be. More, in fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not only does the boy have a nice package, but he knows how to use it.”

  “I never doubted it. I still don’t know how you’re able to size up a guy’s equipment from five hundred feet.”

  “Yeah, well. You can tell by the forearms. And the attitude. A guy with a big dick always has that extra edge. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he’s only twenty-two, in terms of sheer stamina at least. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve had sex no less than five times. Three last night. Two this morning.”

  “Here’s to youth,” I said, clinking glasses with her.

  “To youth,” Jade said, a dreamy expression on her face as she sipped.

  “So where is our fine young stud tonight? Is he coming with us?”

  She slurped down the rest of her champagne. “Please. It took me all afternoon to get rid of him.”

  “Get rid of him?”

  “Yeah, I told him I had plans tonight, and he was getting all possessive again. Even more so now that we’ve had sex. I actually had to resort to lying to him. Told him you and I were doing dinner and a movie. No boys allowed.”

  Leave it to Jade to be irritated by a guy who actually wanted to be with her all the time. “I suppose it’s better than the usual scenario. Guy sleeps with girl. Girl waits by the phone. Guy vanishes into thin air.”

  “Oh, he’s not going anywhere after last night, that’s clear.”

  “So enjoy it, Jade.”

  She looked at me funny. “Oh, I plan to. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to walk away from a guy who is ready, willing and able.” She rolled her eyes. “Especially now that I know what a rare commodity they are.”

  “Good.”

  “Don’t get all gooey-eyed on me, Em. I’m not after what you’re after. I don’t want a relationship. If I did, why would I be dating a twenty-two-year-old?” She placed her empty glass in the sink, and with a glance at the art deco clock on the wall next to her fridge, she said, “I’m gonna just get my shoes, my bag. Then we’re out of here.”

  I studied Jade now as she headed for her bedroom in her Calvin Klein dress, probably in search of an equally expensive pair of shoes, and wondered how she managed to maintain such an aloof distance from the diseases of the mind caused by men. And as I glanced around her spacious apartment—the walls lined with stunning black-and-white photography by a colleague she admired, paintings she picked out over years of gallery hopping and tasteful retro furniture, I realized it was probably because Jade didn’t need a relationship. Why would she, with her closet full of killer clothes and enough disposable income to satisfy her taste for vintage furnishings and expensive, exquisite meals at all the hottest new restaurants?

  And as she came back down the hall again in a pair of Dolce and Gabbana slides, her red tresses spiraling perfectly around her clean yet exotic features, I realized that maybe it was my own personal impoverishment that might be motivating me to immediately seek out soulmate 2. Maybe if I had a Soho loft, a closet full of fashionable threads and a personal budget that allowed for major furniture purchases on a biyearly basis, I wouldn’t give most men a second glance.

  “Ready?” Jade asked, rubbing her lips together to even out her lipstick.

  As ready as I’ll ever be, I thought, as I headed for the elevator down to a world I had neither the apartment nor the income to truly belong to. But what the hell? I was living Jade’s life tonight. I was a woman in charge.

  Confession: My previous incarnation as a Girlfriend has made me unfit for the club scene.

  After a short cab ride Jade insisted we take, despite my protest that we were within walking distance, we arrived at Envy. From the moment we stepped past the bulked-up bouncer with the ingratiating smile and into a low-lit room pulsing with music and barely heard conversations between scantily clad women and hulking men, I realized there was only one way I would be able to survive this kind of scene.

  “Let’s get a drink,” I said to Jade, who had already spotted a tall, incredibly striking man she apparently knew and was about to walk over to before I was sufficiently lubed to be her charming companion.

  “Sure,” she said, forgetting the hottie for the moment and following me to the long bar lined with a new crowd of women thin enough to bare it all and the men who loved them.

  When we finally managed to slither our way through the hordes to a spot at the bar just wide enough to accommodate both of us, I pulled out a twenty and began waving it, knowing it was the only way I’d be able to tear the little blond bartender in the tight tank top away from the pack of fawning men at the far end of the bar.

  “What can I get you?” she said, once she finally caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye and came over.

  “Tequila Linda?” I said to Jade, naming the Cuervo, ginger ale and Rose’s Lime juice concoction that Jade herself had invented during her short stint as a bartender during college.

  She nodded, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces or hot new prospects, I couldn’t tell which.

  I ordered us drinks, and once they were promptly poured and paid for, I took a long, soothing sip.

  “You forgot to toast,” Jade said, just touching her glass to her lips as she eyed my drink, which was already a third of the way gone.

  “Oh,” I said, momentarily embarrassed. But I saw Jade had already forgotten my transgression and was sizing up a spectacular specimen clad in the tightest pair of leather pants I’d ever seen.

  Turning her attention to me, she held up her glass. “To well-blessed men,” she said, using a term we had both learned from Grandma Zizi, who had felt a pressing need to inform us of the finer points of selecting a mate when we both turned sixteen.

  “Amen,” I said and drank again, alcohol coursing through me like newfound courage.

  And thank God for that courage, because before I knew it, the most incredibly beautiful man had planted himself in front of us. I was momentarily speechless until he opened his arms around Jade and enveloped her in a hug, complete with two-cheek kiss. “How are you sweetheart?” I heard him shout above the music that throbbed around us.

  With something like relief that I was momentarily saved from being sized up by a prospective date, I realized he was gay. I couldn’t think of a heterosexual in my dating history who would call a girl sweetheart with that kind of lilting cadence.

  “This is my best friend, Emma,” Jade said, once her acquaintance had finished gushing over how great she looked. “Emma, this is Davis. He and I used to work together when I was styling for Vogue. Davis was the man behind the makeup palette on that first layout I did for them. But now he’s moved on to bigger and better things.”

  “Oh, stop. You’re making me blush,” Davis said, and I found myself amazed, a
s I always was, at how this kind of comment coming out of an otherwise striking man could make him suddenly seem so unattractive, on a sexual level at least. I mean you really couldn’t call a man who was tall, broad-shouldered and as pretty as Cindy Crawford exactly unattractive.

  “I’m not saying anything that isn’t true,” Jade said. Then, turning to me again, she continued, “Davis does makeup for network TV nowadays. You are looking at the man responsible for making Heather Locklear look so utterly fuckable on Melrose Place.”

  “Please,” Davis protested with a roll of his eyes, “Heather doesn’t need me to look fuckable. She’s gorgeous.”

  “So what is the secret to making a woman look fuckable?” I asked, deciding to take my beauty tips straight from the master.

  “It’s all in the lips, sweetheart,” Davis said. “All in the lips.” Then he barked out a deep laugh, his teeth gleaming in the lights flashing our way from the dance floor. When he recovered from this burst of hilarity, he looked at me with new interest. “So what is it that you do, Emma?”

  Ah, the moment of truth. That predictable question one could always count on when surrounded by people richer and more successful than you were. As I began to sputter my usual I-am-an-editor-for-Bridal-Best-yes-that-Bridal Best-isn’t-that-a-riot? speech, Jade cut me off with, “Emma’s a writer. And a damn good one.” Then she clinked her glass into mine with a wink. “Let’s drink to that.”