When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  I’ve been taking peoples’ advice and getting out of the apartment when I can. My moods are up and down, obviously Andrew’s heavy on my mind, but I’m trying to get out. I haven’t really found a job yet…haven’t really started looking, actually. But I am getting out. And I did technically start the redecorating project with that globe I bought.

  The trouble with getting out is, when you’re low on cash there’s a limit to how a girl can entertain herself. I tried to get my fake ’n bake on yesterday, bored out of my mind with nothing to do. It looks like I’ve really been letting myself go with the whole depressed-about-Andrew thing—my not-so-blonde roots are starting to show, my pixie haircut not exactly so pixie-ish anymore, and my lovely orange glow is—oh the humanity!—starting to fade away. I figured it was high time I pulled myself up and out of bed and get my glow back on. But when the girl at the salon told me that my tanning package had run out, I panicked.

  “But isn’t it on some auto pay or something?” I asked in a whirl of anxiety.

  She blew a big bubble of gum, shook her head slowly and dramatically, and said, “Looks like the credit card was denied. Do you have another one we can use?”

  Defeat. Flashback to Eres in Paris. If only Andrew had viewed my fake ’n bake sessions just as essential to my mental health and well-being as my therapy sessions with Dr. Pierce and put them on some auto-withdrawal from the bank, then I could be bronze and all coconut-scented right about now.

  “Jackie,” Lara whines in a high-pitched way over the phone. “My date’s still kind of going on.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Worth’s still here.” She whispers this part, as if it’s something to be ashamed about.

  “So!” I bark. “You can still talk. Where are you? Your place?”

  “Yes,” she says through a moan. “But please don’t come racing over here. He’s here and I’m tired—”

  “Don’t worry.” I grab my bag from the second lounge chair where my feet are propped and root about in it. “I’m not going to come over and crash your love fest.”

  I’m looking for my cigarettes, but I can’t find any. I dig deeper, pushing past way too many lipgloss tubes and lipsticks, a compact I forgot I had, scads of receipts and crumpled pieces of paper and notes. “I just want to know if you asked him.” I give up my search and plunk my bag back down. “Ugh, I so need a pedicure,” I say in a hushed tone.

  “What? Jack, please, I’m going to go now.”

  “No,” I say in a demanding way as I jump up. “Tell me quick—did you ask Worth about Nikki and Andrew?”

  “Yeeees.” She sounds annoyed, drawing her speech out.

  “And?” I duck inside the apartment and begin to go through Emily’s kitchen drawers in search of any cigarettes or loose tobacco. Emily doesn’t light up as often as I do—obviously doesn’t need the sudden calm a good smoke provides when especially frazzled or anxious—but she usually has some loose-leaf tobacco or a spare pack of Marlboros or something lying about in the event she gets the social smoke craving.

  “What’d he say?” I press Lara for information. “Is that slut screwing my husband? She is, isn’t she?”

  “Actually,” Lara says, still whispering. “Worth said he doesn’t really interact with Andrew much. They don’t work in the same department.”

  “Yeah, well, great! That so does not help me.” I slam various drawers, growing frustrated as I come up empty one drawer after another.

  “Worth said, though, that Andrew does seem preoccupied, lately.”

  “So he does see Andrew?” I stand upright, waiting on tenterhooks for the next piece of gossip. “And?”

  “Well, yes they see each other,” she says in an obvious manner. “Not all the time, but they do interact.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Andrew seems out of it, Worth said. Preoccupied, down, not himself. Like he’s got something heavy on his mind.”

  “Okay…”

  “Worth thinks it’s the stress of the job or the big Cayman’s thing they’ve been working on right now.”

  “Great!” I say ironically. I lean in a deflated way against the counter.

  “Worth obviously doesn’t know anything about your marriage details, Jackie. Not exactly office chat. It makes sense that he thinks it’s just the demands of work.”

  “I guess…”

  “Here’s what I think, though. Just a sec.” I can hear shuffling in the background, then muffled whispering. Lara’s voice comes back on the line at last, this time at regular volume. “Okay, I didn’t want to wake him. He’s had a long week at the office and he needs some re—”

  “Come on!” I screech. “Spill it! What do you think?”

  “It’s just my theory.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “If Andrew was really seeing Nikki, then he’d probably be all smiles, happy as a lark, running around the office all proud and stuff,” she explains.

  “Nice,” I say, seeing where she’s going with this. I return to my search for a smoke.

  “But if he’s as down and out as Worth says he is,” she continues, “then maybe he really is just depressed as hell over your guys’ fight. He’s obviously distressed over your separation.”

  “That’s great!” I yank open the last drawer and search madly.

  “Jack,” she says through an even-tempo laugh, “I wouldn’t call that great.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean.” Unable to find any cigarettes or tobacco, I pound my way out of the kitchen, frustrated and seriously craving a nicotine fix. “Lara? Can you lend me some cash?”

  “Did you buy groceries with the cash I gave you?” Her tone is taking that maternal one she often has.

  I smile and return to the patio. “Did one better than that. You’d be so proud.” I tell her about the globe purchase I made with Emily in mind—my first piece of my project to spruce up the apartment.

  “I’m glad you’re doing something,” she says. “You really should buy yourself some groceries, though. That’s why I gave you that cash.”

  “Oh!” I say, suddenly remembering. “I’ll just take it out of the mason jar money Em left. It’s for apartment stuff, so she owes me for the globe.”

  “Not that I’m even awake yet and ready for a conversation.” Lara yawns. “Have you given any more thought to working at The Cup and the Cake?”

  “Actually,” I say proudly, “I have, thank you very much. I’ll give it a try, if Sophie’ll have me.”

  “Oh, she will. Swamped to her eyeballs with work, and not enough people around to help.”

  “Don’t know how long it’ll last, but I desperately need cash to get some smokes and, oh—my tanning package!” I let out a loud, low groan. “Lara! I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m in dire need of a pedi,” I catch sight of my fingernails, “mani-pedi, correction. I so need to be able to go out and pay a club fee, be able to buy myself a drink… You think it’d be kind of slutty to get a guy to buy me a drink now, don’t you? I mean, I’m still technically married and all.” I roll my eyes. “Who knows when Andrew’ll send over that damn divorce lawyer.”

  “Jack,” Lara interrupts. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to get back to bed.”

  I lean my head against the lounge chair and close my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. You get back to your hottie boyfriend,” I say in a jesting tone.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she replies in earnest.

  “Not yet he isn’t.”

  “Whatever. I’m not jumping the gun and ruining this one. I really like him.”

  “Then hop back in bed, woman!”

  ***

  The following day I stop by the gas station nearest Emily’s apartment before leaving for The Cup and the Cake. I grab a fresh pack of Parliaments I’m in desperate need of and fuel up with what’s left of the fifteen bucks Emily owed me before I head onto Aurora Ave for a slow, gas-conscious drive.

  I’m still nervous about working with Sophie, even though when
I talked to her yesterday she said she was more than ready for any help I would offer. She admitted she was worried how it’d be with me not exactly having much work experience and my working habits not being all that impressive—she doesn’t want our employee-employer relationship to hinder our friendship.

  I love Sophie, honest I do, but we have very different personalities, so I can understand. I like to get down with my wild self, have a blast, and not really bother with regrets or questions until after the damage has been done. Responsibility just isn’t my thing.

  Sophie, however, is so well put together. She’s got her own business, for heaven’s sake! She runs that thing like a well-oiled machine, and if one cupcake is too sweet, a scone too dry, she’s all-hands-on-deck with damage control. The girl’s got some serious integrity and major goals, and I love her for all her silly OCD antics, but working with that? For that? God help me.

  But she needs the help, and I desperately need the money.

  I keep telling myself the income is necessary, and as Lara and Dr. Pierce continue to remind me, and as Emily said in her email a few days back, the getting out of the apartment and doing some work will be really good for me. It’s just the medicine I need (paired with the Prozac) to help me manage life sans Andrew.

  “Hey,” I say in a sugary voice as I enter the café. “Here’s your new helper!” I spin three-sixty, my pink and white polka-dot sundress billowing around like an opening rose.

  Sophie looks up from her job at the espresso machine and is glowing with delight. “Excellent!” She aggressively wipes it down. “I’ll meet you in the back. Give me one sec.”

  As I head into the kitchen I pass Evelyn, the sweet, quiet, brown-haired girl who’s been the only thing keeping Sophie from blowing her lid from too much stress.

  “Welcome aboard,” Evelyn says in her chipper voice. She pulls a notepad from her apron pocket, flashes me a white smile, and makes her way to the front of the café.

  Evelyn is a nice enough girl, and she really knows how to help run the place. Soft-spoken and always seeming to say something positive or pleasant, nothing gets Evelyn’s dander up. She’s probably just the calm Sophie needs right about now.

  I can also see why Chad would be interested in her. She’s pretty, with her light dusting of freckles across her nose, gently tanned skin, blue-green eyes that would go with any color blouse—totally gorgeous. She’s slender, on the short side, and has long, silky hair. Come to think of it, minus her stature, she could pass as Sophie’s sister.

  “All right,” Sophie says to me a minute later. “Time to teach you the ropes!”

  In record speed Sophie teaches me how to manage the basics of the kitchen. She shows me where all the dish-cleaning supplies are and how she prefers the pots and pans to be washed and put away. She shows me how to fold the take-away boxes; where to stock the delivery of dry goods—flour, sugar, and other things I’ve already forgotten—that will be coming in tomorrow morning, which I’ll be helping with. She shows me where all the spices are and says they could use reorganization, an emphasis on the alphabetizing of them; I learn where the broom and mop are, as well as all of the necessary cleansers and sponges I’ll apparently need when I clean the kitchen; and then I learn how to manage the ovens and timers and make sure things are taken out promptly and put in just as promptly.

  When I ask when I’ll get to do the slightly more fun stuff, like taking orders, making coffee, even trying my hand at baking a few things myself (not that I’m all that keen on the last one), Sophie just stares at me, face nearly white, and finally giggles.

  “Oh, Jackie, honey,” she says as she leads me to one of the large, stainless steel refrigerators. She hands me a big yellow sponge and a bottle of organic cleanser. “That’s advanced stuff. Everyone starts with the jobs no one wants.” She yanks open the refrigerator door. “But you do get to take on the job of cleaning this. Do this, and then we’ll talk about the spices, kay?”

  “But Sophie…” I watch her in dismay as she crosses the kitchen, heading back up to the front.

  “Jack,” she says, spinning on her heels. “You said you wanted to work, and I warned you it wouldn’t be fun.”

  “I know,” I whine. “But this?” I wave the cleanser and sponge about.

  “Welcome to the workforce, babe.” She smiles and turns around. “Help yourself to the scones and fresh fruit set out on the corner table. I’ll be up front if you need me.”

  I look at the refrigerator, the rather clean refrigerator, might I add. There doesn’t seem to be anything needing cleaning. Okay, maybe I can organize some of the things inside, make all the labels face frontwards and stack the butter just so, put the milk cartons in neat rows, but only because that’s Sophie’s style. Honestly, the refrigerator looks fine.

  I consider setting the sponge and cleanser aside and taking my first break of the morning. I mean, she did say I could help myself to some snacks.

  As soon as Lara and Emily’s voices sound in my head, their faces coming into view, all disappointed and warning, I think better of a premature break. I set down the cleaning products and begin to pull items from the top shelf of the refrigerator.

  “This sucks,” I huff. “This just totally sucks.”

  It’s at this moment in time when I feel my anger and resentment towards Andrew boil and brew more intensely than I’ve felt in weeks.

  What has happened to my life? I think, slamming down onto the counter a carton of milk, which, as would only be appropriate right now, bursts open and gushes a stream of liquid about the countertop, on down the cupboards and onto the floor.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I don’t want to do it anymore, Em, I type on my computer.

  I count my lucky stars that I chose to grab my laptop before I fled to Paris. Had I not, keeping in touch with Emily would be even more difficult a feat. Of course, I’ve only gotten a couple of emails from her since she left for Australia, since she and Gatz are traveling all over the country and New Zealand before his classes start next month.

  I think Sophie’s right, I type. Our friendship could be damaged if I work with her. How the hell did you do it?

  I look at Bella, who’s sitting snuggly on the sofa next to me. I give her head a pat.

  It’s not her or her demands, really, I type. I guess it’s just the work. It’s so boring. Not at all what I pictured. I’m cleaning things! I’ve had a housekeeper for years. It’s not my fault I no longer really know how to clean.

  I titter to myself, the irony of my words clicking. Emily would probably say I never knew how to clean, since I’ve always been kind of a slob. I survey the messy living room. It’s not as bad as the bedroom, where clothes are kind of strewn about.

  It is something to do, though, I return to the email. And I appreciate Sophie wanting to help me. Evelyn’s really stepping it up, though, and I think my cleaning’s helping a bit, as dull as it is.

  But dish-cleaning isn’t exactly the best way for me to get my mind off of things. I think about Andrew every day, especially when I’m miserably working, sweating…cursing him for bringing me to this state. Then, oddly enough, I begin to miss him. I miss him a lot, Em. That sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I’m convinced he’s having an affair. He kicked me out of the house, I’m living like a peasant, and I actually miss him? I guess that’s normal? I mean, I still love him.

  I heave a sigh and cast about the living room once again. My eyes fall on the papier mâché globe atop the dining table, and my spirits raise slightly.

  On a happier note, I started to redecorate your place, I type. Okay, it’s not much, and only one thing, but I think you’ll like it. It’s a great start. You didn’t exactly leave me much money, so I’m doing my best. I add in a smiley face, close the message with Xs and Os, and send the email.

  As the rest of the week unfolds, one dish after another spick and span, oven-timers set and floors and countertops mostly clean of crumbs and spills, I’m rewarded with my first paycheck. I’ve been at The
Cup and the Cake every day this week, and while the work isn’t getting any more fun, it is at least getting me out of bed. It is giving me some sense of purpose, and that helps numb the ache the Prozac, sessions with Dr. Pierce, and girl talk can’t.

  However, when I see the total sum paid of my first paycheck, I’m completely thunderstruck.

  How can this be? I think, clapping a hand to my forehead. I’ve been working so hard, and for two, three hours a day! One day even a full four-hour shift! I know Sophie pays a hint above minimum wage for my work, but this?!

  Sputtering on fumes, the damn needle of my gasoline gauge permanently hovering over empty, I quickly speed-dial Lara from the car’s dashboard.

  “This is total bull!” I holler right when she picks up, answering in her business-tone, “Lara Kearns.”

  “Hey, Jackie,” she says loosely as I slow at the yellow light. “What’s up?”

  “Total BS, Lara, that’s what’s up!” I come to a complete stop and throw the car into park.

  Reaching for my handbag on the passenger’s seat, I say, “I don’t know why I even bother!” I find the fresh pack of cigarettes I bought this morning with just a little of Em’s borrowed cash (I’ll pay her back, I promise), and light up, my nerves instantly calming. “It’s such a waste of my time!” I pull long and hard on the cigarette.

  “Calm down. What’s wrong?” Lara instructs.

  “My job.” I roll down the window and flick some ashes away. “I’m slaving away in there, and for what?” I pick up the pathetic excuse of a paycheck and scoff. “One hundred and sixty-four dollars? One week of work, and a hundred and sixty-four lousy bucks? I made more at that jazz bar!”

  Lara sighs and says, “Where you worked many more hours. Even then I know you weren’t making that much more.”

  “Ugh!”

  It’s true. Lara did have to pick up a couple of my bills, even when I was employed at the jazz bar years ago—the longest-standing job I ever held.