“Come on,” she urges. “I want to hear it again, your story!” She digs out a hard scoop of dough.
Chapter Fourteen
“Come on,” Jackie pleads, tugging on the hood of my grey UDub hoodie. “Please, let’s go now.”
I flip to the last page before the close of the book’s chapter. “One more page,” I say, not lifting my eyes from the magical world that I’m swept into by The Great Railway Bazaar, armchair traveling across three continents.
“Oh, God!” Jackie gives my hoodie one more tug, forcing my head back a bit, but my eyes stay focused. “Fine. I’ll go set out your clothes,” she grumbles, stalking off.
“Something that says available, but not easy,” I call out.
“Available, but not easy?” She makes a cackling noise from my bedroom. “How in the name of God is that possible?”
I’m tempted to dive into the next chapter of my book, intriguingly entitled “The Local to Rameswaram,” but if I do, Jackie will have my head. I promised her we’d go out tonight, and I’m actually really in need of a night out. I’ve been so busy with The Cup and the Cake, and work’s kind of dragging at the magazine. My latest assignment is to photograph the old totem poles that are dotted about Seattle. After about two or three, they become kind of boring. They’re really neat, and they’re important cultural pieces, but, like I said, after a couple of them you start to feel like you’ve seen them all.
“Where are those stiletto boots of mine?” Jackie’s voice sounds from what I think is the depths of my closet. “The white ones? From Milan? Pretty sure I left those puppies here.”
“You look fine, Jack.” I bookmark my page with a wrinkled Post-It. I pull myself up from the futon, but in doing so tear a small hole at its side’s edge. The clasp of my Moroccan necklace is entangled in a web of threads, and now there’s a small tuft of white batting protruding from the new hole.
“Aww, poop,” I say under my breath.
“Not for me, you goober!” Jackie cries, her voice still very muffled. “The boots are for you!”
I remove the gold necklace, a wad of thread wound about the clasp now. I poke the futon’s batting back into the hole and look around the room, searching for a quick solution for the damage.
“I’m not wearing those boots, Jack,” I answer absentmindedly. “And like I’ll ever get my calves in those skinny things of yours.”
“They’re way hot, and they’ll totally get you laid!”
I meander into the kitchen. I pull open a few drawers, not quite sure where I’ve stashed the tape. “I’m not looking for a one-night stand, thank you very much.”
“Don’t object to the idea.”
I find a roll of silver duct tape in the third drawer I try and bite off a piece. “Lara said she’s pretty certain she’s going to hook me up soon, anyhow,” I say, my voice garbled as I talk through the biting and the tape.
“Got ‘em!” Jackie flies from the bedroom, a tall, shimmering, stark-white stiletto boot in each hand. “These babies are so hot! Andrew’s done me every time I wear these.”
“Eww,” I say. “I do not want to picture that. And, moreover, I do not want to wear those boots. In fact,” I grab a plastic sack from under the kitchen sink and hand it to Jackie, “take those babies home. I don’t want them here. Gross.”
“Oh, please,” she groans. “Well, if you won’t wear these, then you’ll definitely wear those little gold shoes I have, with the kitten heel. When I wear—”
I hold up a hand, a piece of duct tape on my index finger. “If there’s any hope of me wearing those shoes, then you will not finish that sentence.”
Jackie clamps her mouth shut and dashes back into the bedroom, squealing along the way. “Oh!” I can hear her call as I attempt my shoddy patch job. “You are going to look smokin’ hot, Em!”
***
“This Nikki girl,” Jackie says, swaying to the jazz-ish tunes playing overhead.
We’re at Vogue, a place we used to come to all the time. Now it’s one of the many joints the girls and I will hit up sporadically. The music tonight is pretty tame, and the dance floor actually quite empty. It might not be a “get your dance moves on” kind of deal, but we’ve got all the ingredients for a fun and low-key night out on the town.
Jackie’s been complaining a little more than usual about this Nikki chick. “Andrew’s bimbo secretary,” as Jackie puts it. I guess the latest is that she texted Jackie that Karl Lagerfeld was down at Nordstrom doing some big appearance and signing. Jackie was in the middle of a spa treatment when she apparently tore herself from the table and madly dashed all the way there, only to be served a hearty helping of disappointment. The Nordstrom people said they had no idea what she was talking about, and when Jackie confronted Nikki about it, all Nikki said was that she didn’t know what was going on, because her best friend was just down there, getting autographs and pictures and everything.
I think the whole dramatic ordeal is childish and kind of dumb. I don’t know why Jackie is running around town chasing department store bargains and fashion designers, and why she’s even giving Nikki the time of day. Why Nikki is having Jackie run all over Timbuktu for stupid things like this, I can’t quite get my brain around, either.
“She’s just a bitch,” Jackie says. She gently touches her faux eyelashes, depressing the rim of one. “These damn things don’t like to stay on sometimes.” She depresses a little harder, then makes a long blink. “There. Better.” She looks to me. “She’s just a bitch, Emily. That’s all that it comes down to.”
“I really don’t understand why you bother with her,” I say. “Why not just call Andrew directly? Bypass the whole calling-the-office mess?”
“Ugh!” she groans loudly. “Because Andrew doesn’t like me calling his cell when he’s at work. Besides, every now and then I try his number anyway, but he’s got it set not to disturb him so…” She blinks extra long and hard now, mouth slightly open. “I’m his wife but I can’t ring his cell. Seriously.”
“Well, I also don’t know why you haven’t already learned that this is apparently some twisted game to Nikki. Lying to you.”
“Because sometimes it’s true! Sometimes there really are sales; sometimes Andrew really is at the deli she says, or taking a coffee break downtown; sometimes she does deliver the right messages, Em.” She touches her eyelash again. “Sometimes she’s right, and I totally love her for it. I mean,” another touch of the fake lash, “I got some vintage Chanel pumps for dirt cheap because of Nikki.” She shapes her mouth into a small O as she blinks long and slowly. “Vintage pumps, Emily. From Chanel! I owed the girl about a third of my soul for that tip.”
I still don’t understand…any of it, really. But maybe this is Jackie’s world. It’s not like she has a career, or even a job, and I honestly don’t think she has any hobbies. Not unless you count shopping, collecting shoes, and, evidently, getting mango and seaweed mud masks and wraps.
I’ve tried to get Jackie to come to my book club with me, but when she asked if the book she could choose for the list could be Cosmopolitan or Vogue, I kind of backed away from the topic, telling her magazines weren’t usually considered books. I stepped into that one. What was her reading suggestion then? The Kama Sutra, naturally.
“Jackie, honey,” I say, taking her bony hand in mine, “just block her calls or something. Ignore this Nikki girl. She only gets you flustered.”
“I wish,” Jackie groans. She takes the toothpick out of her empty martini glass and pulls off the olive, dropping it into the bottom of the glass. She pushes the glass to the edge of the bar. “She’s Andrew’s secretary, though, and I can’t really avoid her. Also, like I said, sometimes she is helpful.” She sticks the toothpick in the side of her mouth. “She’ll reserve our tables for dinner, or opera tickets, or things like that. Andrew would be livid if he heard I went and put her on my blocked calls list.”
“Then listen to that stuff,” I say as the bartender whisks Jackie’s glass away in a f
lurried movement. “As for the rest, take it with a grain of salt.”
“The part that really bothers me, though,” she says, as if not hearing a thing I’ve just said, “is that sometimes, when I call Andrew’s office, she’ll tell me that I’ve just missed him, that he’s down at some deli or coffee shop or something.”
“Yeah.” I bite the olive from my toothpick.
“And he’s not there.” Jackie breathes a heavy breath. “That pisses me off. When she says he’s at a coffee shop and he’s not! I mean, seriously. What’s that? And I know she’s lying, because sometimes I’ll go there to meet him unexpectedly, and he won’t be there!”
“Maybe you’ve just missed him,” I suggest.
“Maybe.” She moves the toothpick about for a minute, in silence.
Then all of a sudden she bounds from the high barstool. “Come on, let’s blow this place.” She totters a bit on her really high, bright red heels. “I’m not feeling it anymore, and besides,” she grabs my hand and I trail after her, “Nikki suggested Vogue to me, as if I didn’t know about this place.” She lets out a high-pitched laugh. “As if I didn’t know about this place. My luck she’ll be here tonight. Ugh! Let’s scram.”
I turn back to the bartender, realizing we need to pay our tab, when Jackie yanks me towards her.
“Come on, girly,” she says imploringly, prancing her way across the middle of the sparse dance floor.
“The tab,” I call, looking back again.
“Oh!” Jackie drops my hand and spins around. “Jason! Put it on my charge, will you?”
Jason gives an affirming wave, and before I can say another word, Jackie’s dragging me back into the Seattle night, ready to hit another bar.
***
I’ve just finished talking with the editor of Seattle Outdoors & Sports about the “Seattle-Area Birds” spread. I got some spectacular shots this week, and I’m delighted the editor is pleased with my work. He said he was worried I wouldn’t be able to get as many varied shots of the different breeds given the season, but when I laid my work out for him, he was taken aback. He even alluded to a full-time position with the magazine, or something more permanent. I was flattered, but kind of moved the meeting along. I love my gig with the magazine, but a big part of its appeal is that it’s freelance and part-time.
I deposit my handful of quarters into the bus’ meter and find a seat in the practically empty bus. I open up the text message from Robin that I’ve been itching to read ever since I received it, right as I was going into my meeting with the editor.
Robin said she was planning on calling Brandon today. I wonder if she’s already gone through with it? If she actually got through to him?
The text message reads: Call me ASAP! Got news!
I bring my thumb to my mouth and start to chew on my nail.
Omigod. I wonder what’s happened!
I chomp down harder on my thumb and consider calling Robin right away. I’m at least four bus stops, maybe even five, from my transfer point, and I don’t think I can wait that long. But I don’t want to share my conversation with everyone on the bus, however few people there may be.
I’m startled when my phone vibrates, indicating a new text message.
This one’s from Lara. Got you a date! Call me to discuss. 30 min. I’ll be off work. Chat then!!
That’s it, I think. I tug on the chord overhead, indicating to the bus driver that I’ll get off at the next stop. These texts can’t wait!
I heave my camera bag further onto my shoulder, and gripping my phone tightly, hop off at the next stop.
Immediately I dial Robin, walking the sidewalk along the bus’ route.
“Pick up, pick up,” I whisper, crossing my fingers. “Pick up, pick up, pick u—“
“Emily!” Robin breathes heavily into the phone. “I’ve been dying for you to call. What took so long?”
“Work. Sorry. Okay.” I swallow. “What happened? What’s up? We talking Brandon? Baby news? Wedding plans?”
“Sorry if the text scared you,” she says in a whiny tone. “I forget I can incite a bit of panic when I’ve got Rose, and with the baby on the way.”
“It’s Brandon, isn’t it?” I hop right to it. I slow my pace and listen attentively.
“Yes,” she says with a sigh. “I called him. I actually called him.”
“Omigod! And?” I stop walking, pressing the phone firmly to my ear.
“It went really well, actually. I’m surprised at how well it went.” She pauses, and I can hear Rose faintly in the background. “I told him Bobby and I would allow for one visit. He’s not to say anything to Rose about him being her father or anything like that, not that I think she’d really understand… We just can’t cope with that kind of thing right now, you know? I’m not ready.”
“Okay, okay,” I say rationally. I start walking again.
“I told him he could see us, and Rose—five minutes, ten at most—and then he’d have to play by my rules. I call the shots.” Her voice sounds somehow both quaky and firm.
“Good for you,” I encourage. “I’m proud of you, Robin!”
“I can’t have him interfering in my life like this all the time, you know?”
“Exactly.”
“He can’t just pop around whenever he feels like it,” she says, her voice more quaky, yet still firm. “And maybe, in time, we’ll tell Rose about him. When she’s ready. When we’re all ready.”
“Good for you.” I hike my camera bag up a smidgen. “So he’s coming for a visit, I take it? He took you up on it?”
“Yeah.” Robin’s tone is very still and low. “Around Thanksgiving, when he has some time off of work I guess. He’ll fly in to visit family here and…I guess Rose, too.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
She makes a gurgling sound, then says, “I’m as okay as I can be. I do want to do this. Get it over with, I guess.” Another gurgling sound. “We all pay the price for our mistakes, don’t we, Em?”
“I’d hardly call Rose a mistake,” I say gently.
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re doing what you need to do, though.”
“I guess.” A pause. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s true. I’m doing the best I can, and I’ve got a really sweet life. Life wouldn’t be life without having something to complain about or some problem to deal with, now would it?”
“Oh, so true.” I look both ways and jog across the street.
“Oh!” Robin says in an upbeat voice. “And life gets even sweeter! Tomorrow Bobby and I have our gender reveal appointment!”
“That’s awesome, Robin!”
“I know! Oh, I can’t wait. We both think it’s going to be a boy. What do you think it’ll be?”
“Could be either,” I say. “The ring test predicted both, evenly.”
Robin laughs.
“Could be twins maybe.”
“Don’t you even!”
“I’m happy for you, Robin. That’s a bright spot of news, indeed.” I cross another street, this one residential and not far from the bus line that will take me straight to Lara’s neighborhood.
I can hear Rose’s voice again in the background, but this time it’s louder.
“I gotta go,” Robin says phlegmatically. “Bobby’s at the driving range with Chad, Conner, and that guy from the café—”
“Gatz,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “Rose is going to have my head if I don’t blow bubbles out back.”
I arrive at the bus stop right as Robin and I disconnect. I take a seat in the shade of the awning and send Lara a text letting her know that I’ll be over at her place shortly. With the Brandon update, I can definitely use some uplifting news in person. I just hope Lara’s blind date is nothing like Rick Reynolds.
Chapter Fifteen
I’m an hour into my date with Hugh Chadderton, Lara’s blind date set-up, and so far so good. I know I said that about Rick after the initial meet and greet and early conversatio
n. Things do seem to be much more promising with Hugh, though. I’m a pretty easy-going and open-minded woman, and I’ve dated the colors of the rainbow—all different backgrounds, cultures, ethnicities, interests, careers—a melting pot of guys, some great, some not so great. Hugh seems to be somewhere in the middle of the blend of the rainbow. He’s the green in ROY G BIV, I guess you could say. Not very outgoing, but not ridiculously shy; not very talkative nor engaging, but not really quiet and aloof; not smoking hot, but not a total turn-off—very average-looking. He doesn’t seem to be obsessed with his career (which is a small wonder, because, judging Lara, it seems that being a workaholic is a requirement to achieve employment at her advertising firm). Hugh also doesn’t seem to be too passionate about any hobbies, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ll go with the green, the G, in the rainbow—the even-keeled type. I mean, I don’t think I could handle someone who’s super passionate about collecting Star Wars memorabilia any more than I could handle someone whose greatest hobby or ambition was to reach comfortable retirement.
No, Hugh seems to be an all-around nice guy, and his green eyes and auburn hair, freshly trim and quaffed business-like, aren’t rough on the eyes. He has a slight southern drawl on account of being raised in Atlanta, and when he smiles deeply, one small dimple appears on his right cheek. He has nice enough hands—not really strong-looking or anything super sexy. He wears only a Georgia State ring, doesn’t seem to be the type to have any body ink, and his clothes are well-pressed. They aren’t perfectly pressed to where it might be a little nauseating that he’s so put together (while I’m sitting here in a very wrinkly skirt—but it’s supposed to be that way). Just enough so you know he’s a businessman who cares about his appearance, but one who doesn’t check himself out in every mirror he passes.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 13
