by Lynda Curnyn
Confession: I don’t even like me anymore.
The next day at work, I struggled to concentrate on the nightmare project I had gotten stuck with all because of my glib comments in the editorial meeting last week. What the hell did I know about the first-time older bride? Heck, I’d be lucky if I even made it to that category, at the rate I was going. Maybe I should be working on a Senior Brides issue. That was more my speed. With a sigh, I tried to picture Patricia, who had married well into her thirties, looking demure while her future husband got down on one knee. But all my mind conjured up was a vision of two people seated at opposite ends of a negotiating table, each armed with lawyers as they carefully negotiated the terms of what they would and wouldn’t give to the person they intended to share their life with. Who could blame me? After all, it was common knowledge around the office that Patricia herself had devised a pretty hefty prenup. And the word was her groom-to-be had presented her with a contract just as massive. The romance of it all was almost too much to bear.
I sighed and looked at the clock. It was already two o’clock, and I had wasted half a day on this proposal, letting all my other responsibilities pile up and my life become even more miserably busy. Patricia wanted to see something on this in less than a week, and I had barely put together two sentences on the beauty and wonder of being a first-time bride pushing forty. Where was the magic? I wondered.
Shoving aside my scribbled notes, I picked up the phone and dialed, not even questioning what I was doing. He was probably home, after all, with the irregular hours he kept now that he was living my dream life as a writer. Probably home and just ignoring the fact that I had called him more than twelve hours ago and left a message.
“Hello?”
“Derrick,” I said, my nerves singing with relief at the sound of that voice I knew better than my own.
“Hey, Emma, what’s up?” he replied, a smile in his voice.
He was glad to hear from me! But then suspicion filled me. “I tried you last night. Left a message, in fact. With a…a woman who answered?”
“Oh, Carrie didn’t tell me you called.”
Bitch. “Carrie?”
“My roommate. She’s a little…ditzy sometimes.”
I smiled inside. She was definitely not Derrick’s type. Of one thing I could be sure—he never went for ditzy. “Oh, yeah? Well, I guess what can you expect in a roommate, after all. It’s not like they really care whether or not you get your phone messages. Or even what kind of day you’ve had.”
“Nah, Carrie’s great. In fact, she’s an excellent cook. And since she weighs about ninety pounds and cooks like she’s going to feed an army, I reap the benefits. She has so many leftovers, I may never have to cook for myself again.”
Oh God, he was a goner. “So…how did you find this, uh, roommate? Carrie?” I asked around my tight throat.
“Actually, someone at the studio sent her my way, knowing I was looking for an apartment and she was looking for a roommate. She’s an actor. You might even have seen her on TV. She does a lot of commercial work. In fact, she’s in a toothpaste ad right now. Close-Up, I think. You know the one where the girl runs into the guy in the elevator?”
“Uh, no. Don’t think I’ve seen it. So you two must be pretty close by now.”
“Close? Well, we’re getting to know—” He stopped suddenly. “Emma, what’s going on?”
“Going on?”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Then he laughed. Actually laughed.
“I am not!”
“Okay, you’re not.” He chuckled again and changed the subject. “So what’s up with you? Get that promotion yet?”
I looked down at the sprawl of magazines on my desk, pulled from every magazine rack within a five-hundred-yard radius of the office, and all purchased with the idea that they would inspire me to belt out a promotion-winning proposal. Eventually. “Uh, I’m working on it,” I replied, while my mind frantically scrambled for a way to steer the conversation back to the hateful subject of his thin, and probably beautiful, actor roommate. “So, I bet it must be nice living with a woman this time around.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. Hey, did I tell you I got the thumbs-up on the first script I doctored? Some crazy horror film, but I had fun with it.”
“That’s great, Derrick.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not the same as hearing my own script is going into production, but, hey, I’ll take it. I mean, at least until I get some word on what’s happening with the screenplay I sold. But I was happy to get some good feedback.”
“You must have celebrated your success, huh?” I said.
“Yeah, well. I had a couple of beers with Carrie when I got home.”
My heart sank, and suddenly I wondered why I had fought so hard to get back to a subject that could yield me no comfort. “That’s, uh, nice.”
“Yeah. In fact, I hate to cut you short, but I’m on a serious deadline. Can I call you back some other time?”
“Uh, yeah,” I replied, even more miserable. “If you want to.”
“Of course I want to, Em. Hey, is everything all right?”
“All right?”
“I mean you seem a little…down or something.”
“Me? No, I’m fine. Just fine,” I replied. Nothing that a few tubs of Ben & Jerry’s wouldn’t cure. Or worse, a few drinks. Maybe even some meaningless sex.
“Good, good. Listen, we’ll talk soon. I want to get done before Carrie gets home. She’s always so distracting, I can’t get anything done. What are you gonna do, right? Roommates.”
“Right.” I laughed weakly, and after a few more parting words and empty promises that we’d “talk soon,” I hung up, my chest feeling like it had all but caved in at the spot where my heart once was.
And just in case I wasn’t miserable enough, moments later Rebecca turned up in my cubicle. One look at my face and her bright smile faded. “What’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down in my guest chair, her face sympathetic.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, “Just talking to Derrick.” Then, remembering she didn’t know the state of my life, I amended, “Uh, you know. He was being your typical guy. So busy with work he doesn’t even have time…to…to have dinner with me tonight. No big deal.”
“Yeah, well, I know how that is,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Last week I had to remind Nash that my birthday was coming up. I mean, I think he would have forgotten entirely last year if I hadn’t dragged him to Bloomingdale’s to show him what I wanted.” With another roll of the eyes, she continued, “If I hadn’t tipped him off, I might never have gotten my Bulova.” She held up her arm to show me the diamond-encrusted watch she knew I coveted.
Suddenly I found myself admiring Rebecca. Here was a woman who clearly knew how to get what she wanted. I could learn something from her.
“I don’t think Nash forgot my birthday this year, though,” she continued. “In fact, when I brought it up last week, he told me on the phone just now he was going to try to get us a reservation at Le Colonial.”
“Wow, pretty snazzy. When are you going?”
“Saturday—my birthday, of course,” she said with surprise, as if she had expected me to remember the day.
I cringed at her next words.
“I think it’s going to happen this time.”
“Happen?”
“Well, Nash is going to propose, of course! I mean, why else would he be taking me to one of the best restaurants in town? I mean it is my birthday, but it’s not like it’s my thirtieth or anything.”
Noting painfully that she said “thirtieth” as if it were a dirty word—Rebecca was still a youthful about-to-turn-twenty-nine—I said, “Well, I suppose anything’s possible.”
She seemed disappointed in my lack of enthusiasm for her prospects. And then, as if she hoped to take her revenge, she asked, “So how’s the proposal coming along?” I saw her eye roam over the stacks of magazines, the doodles I had made on my notepad, the half-eaten Twinkie on my desk.
“Mine?” she replied with eyebrows raised. “Oh, mine is done. I just want to proofread it before I hand it in,” she said, patting the side pocket of her suit, where, I noticed, she had placed a packet of carefully folded pages.
Inwardly I wanted to scream. Would I ever win at anything? I wondered with sudden sorrow.
“Well, guess I’d better run off. I have a meeting with Patricia this afternoon. She said she had something important she wanted to talk to me about.”
Apparently I wouldn’t, I realized as I watched Rebecca all but skip away with my hopes and dreams neatly tucked into the side pocket of her designer suit.
Confession: I discover monogamy means never having to say you’re sorry.
When Alyssa finally returned my call late that afternoon, she cut off the lengthy speech I had prepared on Richard’s virtues with the words, “Meet me at the gym at seven-thirty.” When I had tried to protest, she simply replied, “Look, you need to work out. And I really need to talk.”
Now, as she stood above me on the bench where I lay, spotting me as I pushed two weights above my chest in an exercise that promised to keep my breasts pointing north for a few more years, she blurted out, “I’m going to sleep with Jason.”
My arms released and I dropped both weights to the sides.
“What?”
“You’re not going to talk me out of this, Em,” she said quickly as I swung my legs around and sat upright to face her.
“I am so going to talk you out of this. Alyssa, do you realize what you’re doing? You could potentially jeopardize the most important relationship in your life all because of…of…raging lust.”
She folded her arms defensively. “It’s not raging lust. It’s…it’s more than that. You should have seen Jason when I met him for coffee the other day. I mean, the fact that he agreed to meet me when his office was closed because he didn’t want me to spend the rest of the weekend worrying about Lulu just shows you what kind of man he is.”
“A martyr?”
“No, compassionate. And sensitive. I can’t remember the last time Richard gave a thought to what I might want or need.”
“Alyssa, I happen to know that Richard cares a great deal for you. You should have heard the worry in his voice when I talked to him on the phone the other day. He loves you.”
She looked away, her eyes momentarily glassy before she blinked away her tears, along with any doubts she might have had. “I can’t think of him now. I need to think of me. Everything is coming down on me right now. Lulu…” Her voice cracked. “Lulu needs surgery.”
“Oh, no. What’s wrong?”
“Well, one of the scans showed a cyst on her bladder. Jason says it could be benign, but it’s what’s causing her so much discomfort. He doesn’t think the surgery will be major—the cyst is small. But Lulu is fifteen and—” she shut her eyes, squeezed back tears “—anything could happen.”
I stood and put my arms around her in a hug, which she accepted gratefully until my next words. “I think you should let Richard be there for you during—”
She pulled out of my arms. “Stop it, Emma. Please. And don’t you dare think you have the right to judge me if I want to take a little…a little comfort from someone I feel a strong connection to.”
Though I didn’t think “comfort” quite described what Alyssa might get out of sex with a guy as hot as Dr. Jason Carruthers, I swallowed my biting retort and said, “All I’m saying is that you should just think about what you stand to lose. Richard and you have a lot of years together. And you could very well have a life together.”
Alyssa folded her arms across her chest defensively. “Would it be fair for me to enter into a lifetime commitment with him if I had doubts?”
She had a point there. Suddenly I wondered what I would do if I were in this predicament with Derrick, whom I was having serious doubts about ever since our last conversation. Could you ever really know the person you loved until you broke up with him? I mean, I never saw Derrick as actually befriending, much less falling in love with, some bimbo actress.
Still, I wasn’t ready to let go of my belief that some people, at least, were absolutely meant to be together. “We all have doubts, Alyssa. But we choose to forgo them if we want to have a life with someone…with someone we love. How else are we supposed to get married, have children? Commit ourselves to a life with another person?”
She sat down on the bench with a sigh. Pressed her towel into her chin. “I’m beginning to think commitment is overrated. You know, human beings are one of the few species that mate for life.”
“Oh, brother. Is this the kind of line a veterinarian-on-the-make feeds to his prey?”
She looked up, as if shocked I would think of her beloved veterinarian in such a manner. “Jason is not on the make. God, I wish he were.” Her brow furrowed. “No, in fact, maybe I like him precisely because he isn’t on the make.” She sighed. “The funny thing is, I don’t think I would like him as much if he were the type to put the moves on a woman who was practically engaged to someone else. That’s why I haven’t told him about Richard.”
“Oh, terrific. Let’s protect the good doctor’s innocence—at least until you find yourself beneath him on a bed at some Motel 6.”
“There is no Motel 6 in NYC.”
“Alyssa, you are not considering cheating on Richard on his own turf! At least, go through the Lincoln tunnel and get yourself safely in New Jersey.”
“You’re crazy. What does it matter where I sleep with him—”
“Look,” I said, picking up the weights and thrusting them into her hands. “You are talking to someone who doesn’t want you sleeping with him at all.”
“That’s not an option,” she said, taking the weights from me and lying on her back along the bench, her resolve showing in the jut of her chin.
“Could you at least promise me one thing?” I said, standing above her as she positioned herself to begin the exercise.
She looked at me, waiting for whatever outrageous request she imagined I might come up with.
“Could you at least wait until after Lulu’s surgery?”
She smiled. I think she was almost relieved I hadn’t asked something else. Like that she refrain from penetration or something. “That’s seems manageable. Lulu is scheduled for surgery next week. I think I can last that long.”
I looked at her determined face as she pushed the weights upward, and firmed my own resolve.
One week. I had one week to convince Alyssa that she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
Confession: I discover a fat-free substitute for despair.
I am always amazed at how many little tasks I can get through while procrastinating on something infinitely more important—like the proposal I had yet to hand in to Patricia. I started my day composing a clever list of “Top Ten Reasons Why Sex is Better With The Man You’ve Lived With for Five Years,” which I promptly e-mailed to Alyssa. Then I felt a sudden inspiration to do my filing, which I had kept piling up in a carefully hidden place between my desk and the cubicle wall. Rebecca dropped by that afternoon to inform me that Patricia absolutely adored her proposal for the second-marriage issue and had even asked her to start assigning articles. Then she had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to do a piece on my mother’s third marriage. I, of course, promptly declined. After all, I told her, I would probably be preoccupied with putting together my issue on Older Brides. I didn’t tell her that I had yet to even draw up the proposal.
Once she left, I realized I needed to get cracking if I truly wanted to compete with Rebecca. But a glance at my watch told me it was close to four and way too late to get started on such a huge project. So I dialed Jade’s office, hoping to get her take on the whole Derrick/roommate situation, now that I knew Derrick’s roommate was not only female, but thin and beautiful enough to do ads for Close-Up, which was clearly one
of the sexier brands of toothpaste on the shelves, at least from a marketing perspective. I had already filled Alyssa in on the situation as we showered at the gym the night before, but she had been unable to offer any consolation other than that I should consider therapy. “Not on any sort of permanent basis,” she had said when she saw the alarm in my face. “Just to help you get through this. Get over him.”
I, of course, quickly discarded this advice by informing her that she was the last person who should be recommending therapy. Let’s just say there was an abrupt change of subject after that.
“Hey,” came Jade’s cheerful voice on the other end. Clearly sex on a regular basis was doing wonders for her state of mind, I thought, feeling a bit guilty for heaping more Derrick angst on her. But after we exchanged greetings, I couldn’t help filling her in on how Derrick was cozying up to his new roommate. I knew it was wrong, but I needed something to make my life seem a little less miserable than it was. Even if that meant tearing into good old Carrie, who seemed like the kind of woman Jade and I normally took great delight in attacking. Thin. Distracted. Blond—this last part was my assumption. After all, she did live in California.
“Oh, and get this,” I said, warming up, “she’s an actor. Derrick claims she’s starring in a Close-Up ad, of all things.”
“I think I saw that ad,” Jade replied mirthlessly. “Girl runs into an elevator. Bumps right into this tall, handsome guy.”
“Oh God. What a cliché. And I’ll bet she’s a cliché, too. What did she look like? I’ll just bet she was your basic blond anorexic.” I said, waiting hopefully for Jade to confirm my assumptions.
“She had nice…teeth,” was Jade’s only comment.
Feeling vaguely nauseous, I rushed her off the phone, claiming I had to do some urgent errands on my way home. What I really wanted was to take refuge in my apartment and bury myself somehow. Find some way to relieve myself of the burden of painful truth: Derrick was moving on. While I…I was doing a breath-stealing jog…in place.
