It’s not my best look. The parrot didn’t help.
So, yeah, the strange looks were understandable.
‘You can’t leave the bird,’ Body by Jake said when I waddled in. ‘No one’s here after five, and—’
‘But he’s a gift.’ I hoisted his cage up higher, which was no easy task. The bird doesn’t weigh much, but the cage is at least ten pounds, what with its multi-tiered ladders, bells and bottom pull-out tray. ‘Oh, and he talks. Say hi, Bluebeard.’
He whistled a loud catcall, causing several fit women to turn and look at Jake, who then smiled.
‘See? He likes you,’ I said hopefully, really needing to put everything down. Between the oversized cage, bird and gift bag, my arms were shaking.
He shook his lug head. ‘Lady, you can’t leave the bird. I’m sorry.’
‘But he’s no trouble, and I brought all the stuff. Nigel doesn’t need to get anything.’ I’d spent a small fortune on food, toys, even a ‘how to care for your parrot’ book. ‘Look, I know for a fact Nigel really, really likes parrots. Please, just take him.’
‘Wait . . .’ His eyes pinched, then went wide. ‘You’re the bird killer?’
‘What? No. Well, yes, but that one was fake.’ Does everyone know about this? ‘And see? I’m trying to make it up with Bluebeard here, so come on, whaddya say?’ I shook the cage, causing the bird to catcall again and laugh, which sounded freakishly human and evil. Who in the world taught him that? This again caused looks, and not in a good way.
‘Yeah . . .’ Blockhead scowled. ‘You both gotta go.’
So I left the other stuff, and I still have the bird.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
‘Hi, yourself,’ I mumble back.
In the small office at the back of my store, I sit hunched over my computer, waiting for Seth. Boxed merchandise is stacked near one side of the door, almost blocking the entrance. Paper towels and office supplies purchased in bulk are stacked near the other. The space is cluttered and could use a good sorting, but the desk is large, and I have more than enough room. Plus, I rather like the seclusion and quiet.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
Well, I did. I eyeball Bluebeard as he head-bobs, and sigh.
Online, I scour the internet for locations, but nothing lines up. I just can’t imagine Pretty in Pink anywhere else. This is my store. My whole life is wrapped up in these walls. How is any other site going to feel like home?
Well, at this rate, I won’t need to worry about that. I can’t find anything. Everything’s the same: major build-out costs, common area fees and high rent. The far and away districts have some move-in-ready lease options, but even those are double what I pay now. I swallow hard and glance at the financials that are spread on my desk.
What I need is a hot bath, a bottle of wine and a new life – or no life, because if Pretty in Pink goes under, so do I. Rubbing at the side of my neck, I try to release the taut muscles, to no avail.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
‘Hi,’ I say back half-heartedly, and continue browsing.
‘Karma Chameleon’ is cranked through the speakers, and the song’s fitting. I’m getting my karmic justice for everything. If Nigel doesn’t call, I’m returning the bird first thing, come morning.
The overhead fluorescents flip on with a blinking buzz. I jump, and the bird gives a bloodcurdling shriek.
‘Sorry,’ I call out. It’s Jasper, in his normal attire of frayed jeans and concert T-shirt. Maybe going deaf is another thing I should tack on my ‘crap things to look forward to’ list. I didn’t even hear him come in, and after the bird’s shrill scream, I may never hear again. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Have some work to catch up on.’ Jas tosses his keys onto the filing cabinet. He looks from the bird to me. ‘I thought you killed the bird. Don’t tell me you whacked the pirate king instead?’ His lips are curled in a dangerous smile.
‘Of course not.’ My head jerks back. ‘Wait . . . how do you know about the bird?’
‘Finn called earlier, looking for you.’ Jas leans in the doorway, eyeing my clothes. ‘So if not the bird, who died?’
I look down at my outfit self-consciously. ‘Funny.’ Just as I’m about to launch into a full blow-by-blow of the disaster date, I stop myself, remembering yesterday’s scolding. ‘The bird is a gift for Nigel, the Athlete. Turns out he’s a decent enough date. Even if I wasn’t.’ The last part’s mumbled.
‘I heard about that, too.’ Jas’s face screws up. ‘So you bought him a bird?’
‘Not one of my better ideas.’
My phone vibrates on the desk. ‘Hang on.’ I glance down. It’s Seth. ‘Hello?’
Jas watches me curiously.
‘OK, sure.’ Now he wants to meet for dinner? ‘No, no, I’ll meet you there, it’s fine . . . Yeah, I know where it is.’
‘You have another date?’ Jasper asks in a whisper.
‘Sounds great. See you in about an hour?’ I disconnect and regard him. ‘I didn’t. We were supposed to meet here to go over the lease stuff. That was the attorney from Finn’s firm. He’s also the Criminal.’
‘Wait.’ Jasper makes a face as if he’s tasting something bitter. ‘The Criminal’s your attorney?’
‘I know . . .’ I roll my eyes. ‘He works with Finn. I’m hoping he’ll have some good news about the shop.’
‘You think they’ve changed their mind?’
‘No; I said hoping.’ I motion to the screen. ‘I’m looking, but really, nothing fits. I need to either convince the attorney to convince them, or we need to think outside the box. Like mall kiosks or something; I don’t know.’ My stomach drops just saying that option out loud. I don’t care if it’s doable; it’s a cart, not a store.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
I glance at Bluebeard, then back at Jas.
‘No,’ Jas says, already knowing what I’m about to ask. He’s shaking his head. ‘Forget it, Libbs.’
‘Then what am I supposed to do with him? I have cats, the pet store’s closed, and I can’t just leave him here alone.’
Jas shrugs. ‘Take him.’
‘Take him where? On my date?’
He scoffs. ‘I thought this wasn’t a date.’
‘It’s not, I’m officially done with the Eighties intervention thing, but . . .’ I lean back, distressed.
‘You’re done?’ Jasper shakes his head. ‘Libbs, you have to be willing to put yourself out there if you want the big gesture.’
‘Big gesture?’
Jasper smiles crookedly, but it’s only half-cocked. ‘Ya know – the big gesture, when they do something so huge, so out of character, that you know it’s sincerely from the heart. But you have to meet them halfway. Give ’em a chance.’
‘Oh, and they’re gonna give me a chance?’ If my words weren’t clear enough, my screwed-up expression is.
‘Look, just be yourself, and they’ll either adore you just as you are—’
‘Hi pretty lady.’
Jas stifles a laugh. ‘Or they won’t.’
God.
Parked outside the River Cafe in my car, I take in the view and try not to worry about what I can’t help worrying about: Oliver, my stupid birthday, the shop, the Eighties intervention and what the heck to do with this blasted parrot. I bribed the valet to let me park myself (most likely illegally) near the front. I explained, quite dramatically, that the bird was endangered and rare and required a special life-saving medication, so I would need easy accessibility in order to check on him. When he asked what was wrong with it I said ‘bird flu’ without thinking, then quickly recovered by stuffing a few more bills in his hand.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
Bluebeard’s cage is beside me, secured with the seat belt. Tilting back, I glance round. It really is lovely here. The restaurant’s waterfront location offers indoor and outdoor dining with full views of the East River and the Manhattan skyline. Lights dot the far horizon in fuzzy colour blobs and dip mindlessly beyon
d the Brooklyn Bridge.
My nerves are in a tizzy and nausea overwhelms me, so I roll the window halfway down to feel the breeze. There’s something different about wind coming off of water. It’s dewy and scented and because we’re at summer’s end it carries the crisp promise of fall. I inhale deeply, comforted by the scent, and enticed by the ones coming from the restaurant. At least I get to eat this time round.
‘Hi, pretty lady.’
‘Bye, annoying bird.’ Time to move. ‘The window’s cracked and I won’t be long,’ I tell Bluebeard, as if he understands. He head-bobs his response.
I slide out, lock the door and try to take another calming, deep breath, but my ribs are constricted. The pinched puff-sleeved jacket cuts into my air supply. Walking in this getup also proves to be a challenge. The skirt’s tight around my knees so my thighs can’t separate. Good thing we won’t be walking, I just need to get inside and strike a pose.
I regard my reflection as I approach the restaurant’s double doors. I’m Joan Collins in Dynasty. I’m Julia Sugarbaker from Designing Women. Hell, I’m Tess in Working Girl. Just like them, I’m independent and strong.
The door sticks, and I can’t pull it open. Maybe not that strong. With both hands, I lean into it and work it open an inch at a time.
‘I’m meeting Seth Merriweather?’ I say to the lithe blonde greeter behind the hostess stand. It comes out sounding like a question.
She’s wearing a face that shows she’s trying to put me with him, or him with me, and it’s not matching up. Or maybe she’s constipated. Same face. ‘Right . . . ah, this way, please,’ she says at last.
I totter behind the prune-deprived woman with mini knee-bend steps, trying desperately to match her brisk pace. My black ensemble is a bold contrast to the sea of stripped serenity, and everyone turns as I shuffle past.
Raising my chin, I smile slightly. Stay confident, stay focused, stay upright. My bowed ballet flats are slippery on the restaurant’s wooden floor. Thank God I wasn’t foolish enough to attempt heels.
She motions to the small linen-clad table, the one with the man facing the other direction, and turns to leave me to it. OK. This is it. I move so I’m in sight and give my brightest, razzle-dazzle, please-have-good-news-and-save-my-store smile.
‘Seth?’
‘Libby?’ Seth stands. ‘You must be Libby. Finn described you perfectly.’
Really? He said I’d be in a too-tight black-poly suit? Too bad Finn didn’t describe him as anything other than ‘throwback’, which I took to mean he’d resemble the criminal Judd Nelson from the Eighties. He did get the decade right, I’ll give him that much.
Seth Merriweather is Phil Collins. The groovy kind, with straggly mullet and reverse-horseshoe combover. And maybe there’s No Jacket Required . . . But Seriously, an appropriate shirt is. Why is he dressed for ‘Another Day in Paradise’? He’s in a loosely buttoned, monochromatic Hawaiian shirt with a gold chain proudly displayed in the collar. Well, I guess it is the weekend, but still.
I do my best to maintain my smile, because really, it doesn’t matter. ‘I Don’t Care Anymore’, because I’m ‘In Too Deep’ and I need his help with my store, even if it is ‘Against the Odds’.
He smiles, the kind that’s held long after the initial reaction, and motions for me to sit. I wedge myself into the chair across from him. There’s a rip. The cool sensation of vinyl against the back of my thighs confirms it. The skirt’s just split in back.
This is supposed to be a work meeting to discuss my financials and options, but it’s been thirty minutes of Seth talking about his ex-wife and how they have a decent relationship for the sake of the kids. How he tries to see them every chance he can, and thinks he’s a better dad now than when they were all living under one roof as a dysfunctional family unit.
I’ve heard that one at least a dozen times. My observation is this: when the parents are together, lots of dads are present for the important things like soccer and football games or choir concerts, but they aren’t present in the everyday. The quantity isn’t quality. On their own, the time spent with their children is scheduled. It becomes a manageable priority, a compressed block of time with a clear beginning and end.
Does it make them bad fathers? No, of course not. It just means they perform better in the 100-metre dash than cross-country. And truthfully, most of us do. The endurance needed for day-to-day relationships is exhausting. This is exhausting.
While Seth gabs, I’m politely bobbing my head because I’m, well, eating: wild North Atlantic halibut with roasted mushroom and green peppercorn sauce, garden peas and pickled spring onions. ‘So good,’ I say, dabbing my mouth with a napkin. We have yet to discuss my store, so I’m confused, but I’m also hungry. I can’t remember when I last ate, or ate so well. The food is incredible.
With a final swallow, I take a drink of tea and ask, ‘How many children did you say?’ Then I take another bite while he answers. Seriously, so good.
‘ . . . the oldest, Marcus, is sixteen, and the youngest, Ruth, is twelve. Rand’s in the middle at fourteen. They’re a good group, somewhat mouthy, but weren’t we all?’
‘Yeah, teenagers.’ I say this like I know, which I don’t. I mean, I was one, I’m around them at the shop, I still feel like one . . .
‘What about you?’ He takes a few short, fast nibbles of his yeast roll.
‘Am I mouthy?’
He half-laughs after thinking about it. ‘No, I meant do you have kids?’
Rupert comes to mind. Our messy separation and divorce, the custody battle over the Great Dane that I never wanted but now must have, and all the other vivid tales of our fictional life; but I stop myself. He knows Finn. ‘I never quite got around to kids – or, really, marriage, for that matter.’ I add the last part because I know that’d be his next question and I don’t want to get into it. I shrug. ‘I have enough to handle with my business.’
‘Oh right, the business.’ He taps the table with his knuckles as if he only just remembered. ‘That is, after all, why we’re here, isn’t it?’ He smiles sheepishly. ‘And here I am just going on and on about personal matters. Forgive me, Libby, you’re so easy to talk to. I should only bill you half.’
Or not at all. ‘So, did you discover a loophole that allows us to stay?’ Say yes. Please say yes.
‘I thought Finn informed you,’ he says, chin dipped. ‘The eviction’s legal. Your lease doesn’t hold up. It dissolved with their bankruptcy, so the property must be vacated next week.’
Finn may have informed me, but that doesn’t mean I’ve accepted it. I take a minute to readjust my tactic. ‘I can’t move the store. I’ve looked. Everything’s overpriced with tacked-on fees, so . . .’
He shakes his head incredulously. ‘Surely something’s available.’
‘Surely you can find a way for us to stay.’ I set my fork across my plate to signal my ravenous appetite’s now exhausted. In fact, the bloat in my gut is making me uncomfortable. ‘Look . . .’ I reach into my bag and pull out my financials, desperate to show him the healthy bottom line and how it sickens with the new adjustments.
He quickly takes them and begins thumbing through. Flipping to the profit and loss, his eyebrows hike. They climb high into his missing hairline. ‘Oh, yes, OK then.’ After a moment they drop, slanting heavily. ‘Mmm . . .’
‘Mmm? What does that mean?’ A strong, unsettling prickle crawls over my skin as I watch him.
‘Another tea?’ the waitress asks, peering into my near-empty glass.
‘Only if it’s a Long Island.’ I pull a face to show I’m serious, because I am.
She collects a few plates, then disappears. I can’t stand the wait any longer. ‘Do you see what I mean? My expenses are so low that—’
‘They are.’ Seth glances up. ‘Do you mind if I take these? I mean, if I know your bottom line and exactly how much wiggle room you have, maybe I can help. I have a few resources I could tap for possible quick and ready move-in opportunities.’ His
face opens with the suggestion.
Mine opens with hope. ‘Yes, of course. If you think they may be able to find something in such a short time, that’d be utterly fantastic.’ I’m grateful for the offer, but it’s short-lived and my mood deflates as I realize there most certainly has to be one. I must, without question, relocate Pretty in Pink.
In a week.
God.
‘Or maybe you can ask for an extension?’ I try one last-ditch effort. ‘More time would be helpful.’
‘I’m doubtful they’ll concede to that, but I can try. How about I get back to you sometime tomorrow, or Tuesday at the absolute latest?’ He stacks my financials neatly and places them inside his satchel. ‘Oh, and as I mentioned to Finn, there may be some interest from the property owners to purchase if you’d con—’
‘It’s not for sale.’
‘But it might—’
‘Not for sale.’ I hold his gaze to hold my ground.
‘To be honest, Libby, I don’t think they’ll grant an extension, and if my realtor connections don’t come through, then selling is your only option.’ With just a twitch of his brow, his entire demeanour shifts from groovy to gangster, instinctively causing my insides to bristle.
‘Excuse me . . . someone’s alarm is going off. Excuse me.’ The hostess is running from table to table, inquiring to guests. ‘It’s an older grey sedan with a bumper sticker that reads, ah . . . “What if Stacey’s mom was Jessie’s girl and named Jenny?”’ She doesn’t have a clue what that means.
And I don’t have an alarm.
Bluebeard.
God.
CHAPTER 12
‘Tainted Love’
Soft Cell, 1981
Tainted life
It’s Monday, and although I called to reschedule tomorrow’s appointment with Dr P., he somehow convinced me to come over immediately, saying I sounded stressed. Well, yeah, so here I am back at his office. Same dim lamp on the same dated end table. Same story. Mine. And I’m sick to death of it.
Holding Out for a Hero Page 12
