Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

by Nora Zelevansky

  “It will be funny! The image of Chloe and the dog left alone together, grumpy and resigned? I love it! It’s an unexpected twist.” Marjorie leaned over, her long hair pooling on the page. She drew a star at the top.

  Belinda beamed. “I didn’t know I was being graded, but I’ll take it!”

  “That’s big of you. To settle for being left with Snarls.”

  “Yeah.” Belinda brushed cookie crumbs from her palms. “Maybe the dog isn’t that bad.”

  31

  What the hell am I doing here?

  Marjorie watched a uniformed doorman press the elevator’s call button. (She—like every other able-bodied person—was up to the task herself, but Fifth Avenue residents paid exorbitant maintenance fees to avoid lifting a finger, literally.)

  The circular button lit up bright, like a good idea, which this was not. Marjorie tapped her foot on the lobby’s gaudy marble floor.

  She had been surprised when Pickles chose an Upper East Side apartment, blocks from her childhood home, over a more fashionable West Village brownstone. One of many expectations proved wrong.

  Tonight was another surprise: Marjorie had received the “Code Orange” alert from Pickles while packing for the next day’s trip to LA. She couldn’t bring herself to ignore the call.

  Pickles was her usual unmodulated self. “Oh, thank God! Madgesty, dearie. It’s me!”

  “I know, P. I have caller ID. Everyone in the world has caller ID.”

  “Riiiight. So true, so true. Anyway, it’s been ages. Ages.”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes. “It has, Pickles. Because you haven’t called.”

  “Oh. Did I miss your calls?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I didn’t get any messages from you either.”

  “I didn’t leave any. I also didn’t spend July Fourth with all of our friends and exclude you. Did you toast to ditching me with Vera’s Skinny Bitch margaritas?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Madge. They’re called Skinnygirl. And, yes, we drank them, but for the love of all things holier than thou, it was Vera’s birthday. I couldn’t very well invite you!”

  Right. Vera’s birthday is July 3rd. Marjorie had completely forgotten. She was shamed into dumb silence.

  Pickles was not one to hold a grudge. “I’m sorry, Doodlebug. You know I love you forever.”

  “But you never called to see how I was doing either … after everything.”

  “Sweets, I don’t even know what happened! You disappeared off the face of the earth, moved and didn’t tell me where! Even your mother was cryptic with mine. Ramona called raving about how you might be in Rikers, Barbara was being so tight-lipped.”

  Marjorie was touched at the image of her mother, handbag poised at the ready, protecting the details of her whereabouts.

  “Fair enough,” Marjorie grunted. Fair enough? She never used that expression. Where had she picked it up? Mac? Ugh, no. Gus.

  “Anyway, we have bigger fish to fry. And I mean fry. A crisis demands your attention.”

  “‘We’ as in you and me?”

  Pickles cleared her throat. That spelled trouble. “Me and Vera actually. Well, just Vera.”

  Seriously? “What could she possibly want from me?”

  “There’s a bit of … an issue. With Brian.” Pickles dropped her voice to a whisper. “Madge, she’s sitting on my bed, sobbing. You know I’m no good in these situations. I can barely comfort my kids when they fall on the playground. She needs you.”

  “Pickles. She called me ‘trash’ last week. Never mind what her boyfriend said.”

  “Oh, dear.” Pickles sighed. What was with these people? “Well, under the circumstances, I’d say Brian is now a nonissue.”

  “They broke up?”

  “Something like that. Involving another girl.”

  Marjorie sat cross-legged on the floor, surveying the leaning towers of clothing that surrounded her. Her half-packed suitcase gaped. She still had a lot to do but felt a pang of—responsibility, sympathy, being right? “She must be sad.”

  “She is. She’s doing that thing where she cries silently, then suddenly heaves like a rhino. I mean, it’s terrifying. Like watching Animal Planet!”

  So up Marjorie trekked to 81st Street to confront the rhinoceros in the room.

  Vera had been wailing for hours. Pickles’s husband, Steve, was hiding in the panic room (or den), clutching his iPad like an emergency flashlight as he waited out the storm. He received Marjorie with a wicked smile, whispering “Good luck!” in disbelief.

  Vera was slumped against the guest room bed’s headboard in a hooded Dartmouth sweatshirt and yoga pants, a tear-stained pillow tucked under her arm like a teddy bear. Her eyes were puffy from ugly crying; her bob was pulled severely back in a headband; her lips were chapped and pale. In this state, her features looked almost cubist.

  In contrast to the apartment, the room’s decor evoked a beach house with bleached-out wooden furniture and turquoise prints. Marjorie clocked a half-empty Felicity box set and realized this must be where Pickles escaped for alone time, her sanctum from Diaper Genies. No doubt Pickles not only wanted her friend to feel better; she wanted her space back. She stood behind Marjorie in the doorway, whispering, “It’s all you!” as if coaxing a trapped bird out the window.

  Vera sobbed into cupped hands.

  “It’s okay, Vee.” Marjorie slipped off her ballet flats, scooted onto the bed, and put an arm around her old friend’s quaking shoulders. “I know you feel awful right now, but I promise it’s not forever.”

  Vera responded with a loud sniff and a vibrato exhale. She turned into Marjorie’s shoulder, crying harder. Marjorie could smell Vera’s fruity shampoo and the familiar scent of her Coco Mademoiselle perfume.

  She’d comforted Vera like this before: When girls at school said she looked like a witch, when her crush kissed Katie Brandwin, when the School of American Ballet’s rejection letter arrived. Marjorie had witnessed her lows.

  Vera took deep breaths, looking up through watery eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening. How could I be so stupid?”

  “You’re not stupid, Vee.” Marjorie brushed stray hair from Vera’s face and tucked it behind her ear. “You love him.”

  “But you knew and tried to tell me. Why didn’t I listen?”

  “I didn’t know. I suspected and wanted you to make the best decision … for you.”

  “Then I called you and was so awful, I said—I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry about that now. We’ll hash it out another time.” Friendship issues would have to wait.

  Vera wiped ineffectually at her cheeks and came away with a moist hand. Marjorie grabbed a Puffs Plus from a porcelain tissue case on the nightstand, a box inside a box, and handed it over. “Did Pickles tell you what happened?”

  “No.”

  “I found a text from someone named Stacy on his cell. It’s his birthday next month. I wanted to buy him golf clubs, but I don’t know anything about the lame-ass sport. I was looking for his brother’s number to ask for help. I’m such a fucking idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot for expecting him to act like he’s in a relationship.”

  She nodded. “I called him on it. He admitted that they met up once. He kissed her and claims he’s been tortured about it ever since.”

  “Well, he didn’t deny it. That’s good, right?”

  “He had to tell me. Even if I hadn’t seen the text. Jen Bradley saw him with the girl, and he knew it. Jen fucking Bradley. I’m sure the entire city knows by now.” The whimpering recommenced. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  Jen Bradley had been their high school’s information trader, a tan, spoiled, rotund girl with a “pretty face” (never a more backhanded compliment did exist), who collected details about her peers in exchange for simulated friendship. Everyone lived in fear of awakening the beast, as her vendettas ended in humiliation and tears. Not that Marjorie had ever seen Jen behave anything but kindly to the face
s of her enemies. She’d smile, then “accidentally” tell the entire class about your parents’ divorce, your mother’s affair, and your unfortunate case of crabs (“Poor thing!”)—then she’d remind everyone about how you wet your bed at a sleepover in third grade. (Jen had the world’s longest memory too.) She delivered all this with a mournful head shake and tongue cluck, as if spreading your personal information was a show of concern rather than a cynical mind game, designed to protect herself. (She, in fact, had parents who divorced because her father was getting nasty with his young male assistant.)

  If Jen Bradley knew, everyone knew. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. He should be.”

  “At least it was just a kiss,” said Vera.

  Marjorie doubted that. A skilled liar offered enough information to mimic a confession, as the lesser offense might allow for redemption. When does a guy call “Stacy” with the intention of only swapping saliva? Surely other fluids were involved. Marjorie shook the image of Brian’s no doubt pimpled and dimpled ass from her head.

  Pickles flopped onto her stomach on the bed, propping her chin on both hands. “How goes it, girls? Anyone feeling a teensy bit better? I know I am.”

  Vera gave a weak nod, yes.

  “Good. Let’s not do this whole ‘ignoring each other’ thing again. It cramps my style.”

  Vera laughed faintly. Marjorie pretended to readjust the coral-colored pillow behind her. This makeup session was a bit quick.

  “Okay! Now, let’s get the 411 on Mr. O’Shea, from our Madge,” continued Pickles. “I’ve heard some salacious rumors about commitment and, dare I say, coupledom?”

  Marjorie looked at Vera in question. Do you really want to hear this? At the same time, she wondered, Do I really want to share? This girl had said such hateful things only days before. Marjorie suddenly felt protective of what she had with Mac.

  Vera nodded. “I’d appreciate the distraction.”

  Pickles patted Vera’s knee, then turned to Marjorie. “Ready, set, dish!”

  Marjorie shrugged. “What is there to say? I made what I thought was a stupid slip-up with him that night—after you left DIRT, Vee. He didn’t call. Not surprising. But then he stalked me until I agreed to give him a chance, and has been trying to convince me he’s ‘boyfriend material’ ever since.”

  “Look who harpooned the White Whale.” Pickles giggled. “How’s he demonstrating this so-called dedication?”

  “Dinners, nights in alone. He picks me up from work, keeps my almond milk in the fridge. You know.”

  “How very plebeian! How positively run-of-the-mill and domestic!”

  Vera nodded. “Word is he means what he says to you.” Marjorie flinched; she didn’t need confirmation from some outside source. “He’s professing his affection all over town. It’s disgusting,” she joked, though Marjorie caught an edge of bitterness. “It would be our Madge who snagged Mac O’Shea by accident.”

  When Marjorie left hours later, after take-out sushi and two escapist reruns of Friends to calm Vera, she realized that neither girl had asked about her life beyond Mac, about where she lived or how she was surviving. Instead, she had struggled to show interest in their chatter about longtime acquaintances and elaborate upcoming weddings.

  Still, as she nodded good night to the doorman and stepped out into the warm night, she told herself that she was glad to have her real friends back. And she fought to ignore those lingering question marks.

  32

  A chorus of chimes erupted as the plane coursed onto the runway at LAX and passengers groped for and then resuscitated their smartphones.

  Marjorie and her fellow passengers had boarded toting caloric snacks, trashy novels, and tabloid magazines in blue plastic shopping bags from airport newsstands. There is a silent understanding that, thirty thousand miles above the earth, normal rules of respectability don’t apply. In this limbic state, reading about some starlet’s DUI is acceptable, even culturally responsible.

  The New Yorkers wore blazers, determined expressions, and the occasional colorful accent to nod to LA. They battled for overhead compartment space and, when deplaning hours later, aisle position. Once in California, they would merge into threatening freeway traffic in their Chevy Malibu and Honda Civic rentals, grow panic filled, then arrive at outdoor macrobiotic cafés to wax—with revisionist abandon—about how relaxing the experience was compared to the East Coast bustle, how soothing the sun, how wrong their tailored black clothing.

  The Angelenos, on the other hand, were on their way home and, boy, were they ready. They loved New York; they did. They were so New York at heart. But during the visit, they’d pushed too hard, drunk too much, stayed up too late, eaten too much cheese, and collected grime and blisters navigating the urban sprawl. They’d expended so much energy feigning nonchalance. Now, in soft James Perse uniforms, they anticipated their cars’ leather interiors and spacious Spanish-style homes, radio songs to which they could sing along sans judgment—“Free Falling,” “Bohemian Rhapsody,” “Firecracker”—and This American Life–filled Saturday morning drives. They craved hemp milk, algae and cacao smoothies, fish tacos, fresh sushi, and juice cleanses. They ached for the yogic stench of stagnant sweat and essential oils, the daily, almost competitive game of star sighting, hikes past well-preserved women in bedazzled sports bras.

  Meanwhile, Marjorie had spent the flight inwardly raging against the pushy middle-aged Long Island woman to her left who insisted on leaning against Marjorie, spilling pretzel crumbs onto her thigh. And though her acrylic warm-up jacket kept slipping onto Marjorie’s seat, she remained unapologetic, even snide, shooting angry looks as if the world should cater to her.

  Marjorie was ready to escape. As she shoved her book back into her bag, Gus popped up from in front of her, leaning an impressive forearm against the top of the seat. “Welcome to LA … dude. That’s what we call people here.”

  Marjorie shook her head at the lame joke but smiled. “Thanks, bro.”

  Gus had insisted on picking her up in a town car—the seedy kind with cracked leather seats and copious legroom—en route to their flight. She’d been nervous about spending a travel day alone with him, but conversation was smooth from the get-go. By the time they’d checked her bag with mild teasing (“Is there a dead body in that enormous thing?”) and cleared security, Marjorie was learning about Gus’s childhood, about the guitar lessons that stuck and the piano lessons that did not, about his dog Radicchio and his cat Matilda. (Marjorie did note that he barely mentioned his mother.) In fact, they were so engrossed that they realized only while boarding that they weren’t seated together. The sharp-featured stewardess in pancake makeup at the desk would not help, even when Gus flashed her that rare, winning smile.

  He shrugged at Marjorie. “Not my demographic. Too young.”

  “Older women like you?”

  “Older women love me.”

  Other passengers refused to trade, too relieved to finally be sitting to switch designated rows. Marjorie offered her aisle seat to the dark-haired woman in the middle next to Gus, but she declined. She was afraid of flying and preferred to sit beside a strong man (especially one who looked like him). Apparently, he had more than one demographic.

  Now Marjorie jostled for exit position and escaped the plane’s claustrophobic innards, as Gus allowed every man, woman, and child off before him, pulling their monogrammed suitcases and FAO Schwarz shopping bags from the overhead compartments for them. He finally emerged into the gate area, shaking his head. “Where’s the fire?”

  They made their way toward Baggage Claim C. “So you’re one of those,” he continued.

  “Those?”

  “The rude ones.”

  “No! I just hate being trapped on the plane.”

  “Like I said. Rude.”

  Marjorie sighed. “Whatever, dude.” With Gus, it was one step forward, one judgmental step back. For the rest of the walk—on a maze of escalators, past kiosks selling groat-filled neck pillows and La Brea Ba
kery bread—Gus pointed out elderly people whom Marjorie might like to push over for better position. “You’re so annoying!” she snapped. He made it impossible for her to behave like a professional.

  Once at their destination, Gus moved toward the automatic doors. “I’ll go get my car from long-term parking, then come get you.”

  Marjorie was incredulous. “So you help strangers off the plane, but I’m on my own pulling my suitcase from the conveyer belt?”

  He paused, looking her up and down until she felt stripped bare. “Yeah.”

  Gus left Marjorie there, crowded by vaguely familiar fellow passengers. The morning marine layer had lifted, and Southern California sun shot through the windows—the sky blue, without a cloud. Marjorie felt bolstered by the vitamin D, catching the eau de LA scent of In-N-Out Burger’s Animal Style drive-thrus, taco stands serving al pastor pork with pineapple, avocado, and cilantro, and top notes of ocean breeze, exhaust, billboard paint and celebrity perfumes.

  The giant conveyer belt belched, indelicately announcing its impending rotation. Bags began to thud from the metal ramp. Marjorie sent a quick text to her parents and Mac to announce her safe arrival.

  Her mother responded right away. “Enjoy! Don’t forget sunblock!” (It was an unnecessary reminder; Barbara Plum had beaten daily SPF use into her daughter’s head years before. Skin cancer, wrinkles, sunburns, oh my!)

  Mac was slower to respond. Marjorie had scooped him up in a cab heading downtown from Pickles’s the night before, so he could sleep at her place, and he’d been almost too reassuring. “The trip will be great. You’ll have a great time. That’s great!”

  Finally, she called him on it. “All right, O’Shea. Nothing is that ‘great.’ What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” He fell onto her bed and rested on his side to demonstrate his fineness. “I’m great.” He returned to studying his iPhone.

  “You have your head buried in that device.” She walked to the foot of the bed and peered down at him.