by Jackie Rose
Remorse and embarrassment churned in my stomach. It’s a good thing my self-esteem isn’t founded in my job, or else I probably would have tried to jump out the window right then and there. But what was I thinking, asking for a raise? Pruscilla was right—I was, for the most part, a professional failure. She didn’t have to be such a bitch about it, though. That was for sure. I wanted to walk out the door and never come back.
Do you think people actually show up here every day because they’re delighted by figuring out new ways to bilk bored housewives out of their husbands’ hard-earned money? Do you think anyone with any sense of right and wrong would actually consider buying American-made, mail-order makeup in bulk? Do you think anything we do here makes one bloody bit of difference in the long run? Well, I don’t need you! I can do better than this. Because I’m destined for greater things than being your lackey. Take this stinking job and shove it up your ass, you petulant cow!
Well, that’s what I thought, and if I had any courage at all, I would have said it, too. I may not be the best little worker bee in the hive, but I surely didn’t deserve to be humiliated either. And was I really the only one with the problem? If I was still incompetent after working here for so long, then surely Kendra White and Pruscilla should share some of the blame for their complete failure to motivate or inspire me. Well, there was no way I was going to let Pruscilla and her personal attacks make me feel lucky to have this shitty job. At the very least, I should have told her that nobody, no matter how incompetent, ever deserved to feel violated and abused in their own workplace, and that I wouldn’t stand it for another second.
Instead, I mumbled “Fine. Sorry for asking,” and skulked out.
“Mom, Bruce and I want to meet Albert.” It had been a couple of weeks since she told me about him, and I was getting a little impatient.
“We’ve only been seeing each other for a month, Evie. Isn’t that too soon to meet each other’s kids?” She sounded very concerned. “Maybe I just don’t know how things are done nowadays. But it seems soon. And he hasn’t introduced me to his kids yet. I don’t want to be the first. Why should I be the first?”
His kids? Suddenly, I had the distinct and unpleasant feeling my life was about to change. A montage of Christmas dinners at Albert’s house and baby showers for evil step-siblings flashed before my eyes. I had to nip this thing in the bud and fast.
“It’ll be casual, Mom. We’ll just come over for dinner.”
“We’re taking things slowly,” she said. “We agreed not to rush into anything.”
“Don’t get hysterical. Meeting me and Bruce doesn’t mean he’ll have to marry you. I promise.”
“Don’t talk like that Evelyn. You shouldn’t joke about such things.”
“I’m not joking. But I really think this is important.”
“Fine, fine. We’ll talk about it later.”
“You can count on it,” I said.
“Ahhh…” she sighed dramatically.
“What now?” I asked.
“It’s nothing.”
“Fine, then I’ll speak to you later.”
“Well, I don’t want to trouble you, but there something else I’ve been meaning to ask you. Could you maybe ask Bertie to stop calling me?”
“She’s calling you?”
“All the time. I wouldn’t mind, but she’s dropping a lot of hints that I should be paying for things. Wedding things. And I don’t know what to tell her.”
That bitch. “Don’t worry, Mom. She won’t call you again.”
“Don’t be rude to her, Evelyn. She’s going to be your mother-in-law. Just please maybe have Bruce explain our financial situation to her.”
I was outraged. It was obvious Bruce wasn’t living up to his end of the bargain. And if he couldn’t keep his mother in control, then I certainly would. I didn’t care if it made things tense. I was so sick and tired of everybody pussyfooting around her for fear of setting her off. She needed to be put in her place once and for all. Why? Because nobody has the right to humiliate my mother except for me. It was the final straw.
After I got off the phone with Mom, I called Bertie and left a message on her machine.
“I just wanted to let you know that I don’t appreciate the horrible things you’ve been saying to my mother. She’s very sensitive, and you’ve made her feel terrible about not being able to contribute more. I think you owe her an apology as soon as possible. So if you have a problem with money, call my grandmother or me, but do not call my mother again. I hope you’re happy that you’ve taken some of the joy out of this experience for her. To be frank, since you’re always so concerned about doing the right thing and not insulting people, I’m surprised that I have to call and tell you this. You really should know better. That’s it for now.”
“Nice, Evie,” Bruce said. I didn’t know he’d been listening.
Saturday afternoon after the gym, I met Kimby, Annie and Nicole for lunch. Although my time was at a definite premium lately, these were my bridesmaids, after all, and they deserved my full attention (Today’s Bride, Fall/Winter: “Keep It Cool: How To Stay Yourself Through All the Fuss”).
“Did you bring the pictures?” I asked them. They were supposed to have snapshots taken in their dresses at the fittings so I could approve the final looks.
“Why does Morgan get to wear black and we have to wear champagne?” Nicole whined. I don’t think she really had a problem with the color, she was just trying to find a way to vent her jealousy. Since the engagement party, I’d only seen her once, at Theo’s birthday dinner in February, so I think she was pretty shocked to see how much I’d lost since then.
“She’s the maid of honor,” I explained. “She’s allowed to look different. You’re one of six bridesmaids, so you’re not. Just for the record, I think I deserve some thanks for choosing only the fabric for your dresses and not the style—some bridesmaids get stuck wearing the exact same thing. But I didn’t think that would be fair, since we all have very different body types.”
Nicole rolled her eyes and exchanged a knowing glance with Annie and Kimby.
“What?” I asked. “What is it?”
“Tell me you don’t really expect us to thank you for that,” Nicole said. “Like we should be grateful we don’t have to wear burlap sacks or something.”
“No, Nicole,” I snapped defensively. “It’s just a figure of speech. My point was that it could be a lot worse for you.”
Nicole threw her hands up in exasperation and shook her head. “I know you, Evie—I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking the worse we look, the better you’ll look. Gee, what fun!”
“Quit it, Nicole,” Kimby said. “Evie, maybe you should think about this a little more from our perspective. This whole bridesmaid thing was supposed to be fun for us, remember? And for you, too!”
I could feel myself getting huffy. “Well I’m sorry if this has been such a miserable experience for you so far, not that anyone’s actually done anything yet.”
“I’m having fun,” Annie assured me quietly.
“Yeah, but weren’t you kind of pissed when Evie stiffed you the day you were supposed to go to the seamstress together?” Nicole reminded her.
“A last-minute thing came up with the caterer and I had to go with Bertie and sort it out. Annie, you didn’t mind going alone, did you?” I asked her.
“No,” she said thoughtfully, “but we could have rescheduled and gone together. It would have been nice.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” I told her. “You should have said something.” But I knew it wasn’t really her responsibility. I should have gone with her. We’d had the whole day planned.
“Yeah, well, it’s a little late for that,” Nicole said.
“Frankly, Nicole, it’s none of your business, so keep it to yourself.”
“C’mon, guys, stop it,” Annie pleaded. “It’s fine.”
“Oh, she’s just crabby because of her diet,” Kimby said.
“Which one,
Nicole or Evie?” Annie said with more wit than usual.
Kimby laughed. “I meant Evie, but come to think of it…”
Poor Nicole. She’d gained back almost all of the weight she’d lost before Christmas. Of course she was reluctant to go out and have a dress made—she probably felt like crap. And I wasn’t helping things by being unavailable.
“Look, guys, I’m sorry,” I said. “I have been a little preoccupied lately, I can admit that. I promise I’m going to try and stay in the loop a little better. And if anyone wants to back out, I’ll totally understand.”
“Just try and keep it together, okay?” Nicole said. “Or we just might.”
“Okay. So you reserve the right to mutiny. Fair enough. Now let’s see the picture. I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
Nicole made a “yeah, right” face and reluctantly slipped a Polaroid out of her purse and slid it across the table.
It was pretty bad. She looked like a toasted marshmallow wearing a belt.
“I told you,” she moaned.
“Are you crazy?” I said. “It looks amazing.”
“You look gorgeous, Nic,” Annie agreed, squinting at the picture. “It’s a really cool dress. It’s just not finished yet.”
“It’s really not that bad at all,” Kimby agreed. “I was there for the second fitting and I thought it was very flattering.”
“You’re just saying that because you both look beautiful in yours,” she said, eyeing their pictures. “A skinny blonde and a skinny redhead. I don’t want to stand next to them, Evie. Or Bruce’s sisters. Any of them. Please don’t make me. Please!”
“Oh God, Nicole,” Kimby sighed. “Are you PMS-ing or something?”
She was near hysterics, and the last thing I needed was an uneven number of groomsmen and bridesmaids (Bruce had five groomsmen—assorted friends and cousins, plus Theo). (Martha Stewart Weddings, Spring: “Symmetry and the Art of the Perfect Processional.”)
“Don’t worry, Nic,” I said in my most comforting voice. “You’re going to look fantastic. Now I know we may have our differences sometimes, but you’re a really good friend and it means a ton to me and Bruce that you’ll be walking down the aisle for us. And I am not lying when I say that I think this dress looks really good on you already. But you don’t even have to worry about it yet. It’s only the end of April—there’s still three and a half months to go, so if you lose a few pounds before the wedding, they can take it in.”
Appeased, Nicole ordered a burger and fries. Really, what the hell did she expect, eating crap like that? It was hard to feel sorry for her sometimes.
After lunch, the three of them ordered dessert and I lit up a cigarette.
“What are you doing? You don’t smoke,” laughed Kimby.
Aside from a few years in college, it’s true I was never much of a smoker. But it was a habit I was trying to take up temporarily in order to drop the last few pounds (Cosmopolitan, April: “The 10 Worst Ways To Lose Weight”).
Annie coughed and waved the smoke away from her face with her hands.
“I have to sing tonight, Evelyn. Would you mind putting that out?” she said.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I guess it’s not the best habit.”
“And what does the infamous Jade have to say about you smoking?” asked Kimby.
“Oh, he has no idea—he’d kill me if he ever found out.”
“Good,” said Annie. “It’s disgusting.” No wonder she didn’t get called back for The Vagina Monologues. She was such a priss.
“Who cares about him, what about Bruce? He’s your fiancé, remember?” Nicole pointed out.
“Obviously, he doesn’t know either,” I said.
“Don’t you ever kiss him?” she asked.
“I try not to. He’s been a huge pain in the ass lately. But today’s his birthday, so I’ve got to be nice to him.”
Annie’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “It’s his birthday? Why aren’t you with him?”
“I had plans with you guys, remember? Come on, don’t worry about him—he went to have lunch at his parents’. He’s happy as a pig in shit right now. They’re probably all sitting around making fun of my mother. I’ll tell you one thing that pisses me off, though. Instead of just hopping into one of the four cars sitting on their driveway and coming to see him, his parents make him take the train all the way there and back and waste three hours of his birthday. I swear, I think Bertie’s afraid to come into the city. She stays holed up in her Connecticut compound like Martha Stewart.”
“Only she can’t cook,” added Nicole.
“I feel sorry for Bruce,” Kimby sighed.
“Don’t,” I told her. “We’re going to have a grand old time tonight. We’re going to Luna.”
“Ooh, your special place,” said Annie. “How romantic.”
“I meant because he’s turning twenty-nine,” Kimby said. “That’s, like, only one year away from thirty. I’ll probably have a nervous breakdown.”
“I’m twenty-nine,” Nicole grumbled.
“Sorry to break this up, girls, but I gotta get back to work,” said Annie.
“It’s fine, actually. I have to go, too,” I told her. “I haven’t even thought about what to get Bruce for his birthday.”
The three of them looked at me as if to say, you bitch. You horrible bitch.
Thankfully, there was one of those Discovery Channel shops just up the street from the restaurant. As a notorious last-minute shopper, these stores have saved my ass more than once; I recommend them highly to anyone who’s either in a hurry or simply uncreative. Nothing appears you’ve given a birthday gift more thought than something like an executive magic kit or a telescope. And Bruce loves all that gadgety sciency stuff.
It didn’t take long to find him the perfect thing—night vision goggles. It was either that or the robotic dog. But since Bruce is allergic to real dogs, which is a major point of contention in our relationship, I decided the goggles would be a less confrontational choice. Plus, they were in the final sale bin, but only because there was no box, the salesgirl told me. And since Bruce was so uptight about our spending, there was no reason to feel like a cheapskate just because I’d only spent $12.99. If it’s something you think someone will like, it’s okay to spend a little less than you normally would have (Glamour, February: “Love on a Budget: Valentine’s Gifts for Your Man That Won’t Leave You Broke”). You see, not getting something simply because it’s on sale is the height of snobbery. Bruce would kill me if I ever did anything like that.
I was mulling this over when a deep voice from behind asked, “Are you going to take that?”
I spun around and saw a very handsome man, maybe forty years old or so, standing there in an expensive suit, probably Hugo Boss. There was nobody else around.
“Are you talking to me?”
He laughed. “Yes. I’m sorry, but I wanted to know if you’re going to take those.”
“Uh, yes. Sorry,” I told him, and squeezed by him toward the counter.
“Too bad—they’re a great gift. For your little brother?”
“No—my fiancé,” I said.
He sighed. “Too bad. I guess the pretty ones are all spoken for.”
“Pretty goggles?” I asked. What the hell was this guy’s damage? He probably had some sort of weird eyewear fetish. If he thought I was going to let him have the goggles, he had another think coming.
“No,” he said quietly and leaned in close to my cheek. “I meant all the pretty women.” He smelled faintly of soap and D&G cologne.
I couldn’t help but grin. He was trying to pick me up! A stranger was trying to get into my pants. And he didn’t seem like a loser or a pervert, either. I couldn’t remember the last time something like this had happened—probably never, to be honest—and I admit it felt pretty good.
“Sorry,” I said, flashing him my most demure smile. “You’re too late.”
“That’s the story of my life,” he said, turning to leave, then a
dded, “Your boyfriend’s a very lucky man.”
At that moment, it struck me that this sort of thing probably happens to Bruce all the time. In a city swarming with single, young women, a cute guy like Bruce probably can’t go into a public place without being accosted at least once or twice. I wondered what he said to them, if he blushed, or flirted with them before letting them down easy. Maybe he was so scared that he didn’t say anything at all.
Another reason not to feel bad about Bruce’s gift, I reasoned, was that part of his birthday present was my agreeing to go for Italian food (Shape, May: “10 New Reasons To Cut Those Carbs!”). We hadn’t been to Luna all year, and tonight was just the right occasion. It didn’t take a marriage counselor to notice that we desperately needed to reconnect on an emotional level.
“My mother wants to send the invitations out in two weeks,” Bruce said in between mouthfuls of lasagna.
“In the middle of May? That’s absurd. Two months before the wedding is plenty early. Tell her not to send them out a day before June 18. People will lose the invitations if they’re delivered that soon,” (Martha Stewart Weddings, Fall: “The Only Wedding Timeline You’ll Ever Need”).
“But they’re ready and they’re just sitting there. She says eight weeks isn’t enough time to give people. A lot of her friends and my dad’s colleagues go away in August, and she wants to give them enough warning so that they can plan their summers properly.”
“So they’ll either rearrange their golf games or they won’t come,” I said, pushing my linguini around the plate. “And it’s not like your mother hasn’t told every single person on her list exactly when and where it is a thousand times. Now can we talk about something else besides the wedding please?”
“Sure, Evie. Whatever you want. What’s on your mind.” He said it like he was doing me a favor.
“If you must know, I’m worried about Mom and this Albert guy. I think maybe he’s after her money.”
“She doesn’t have any money, Evie.”
“But he doesn’t know that.”
“I’m sure he does.” Bruce poured himself another glass of wine. “Don’t you think he’s ever been to her apartment?”
