She was having fun. “So you’re not going to destroy Dad’s life, after all?” I asked.
“Well, I didn’t say that, dear,” she said with a laugh. “Oh, there’s Sasha now! Sash!” she called. “Hold on, dear, and I’ll bring her over and introduce you.”
Like a fool, I let her go. She disappeared into the crowd and never came back. Ten minutes later, she called my cell phone to say she had to run to her yoga session and that she’d call in a few days. She was fine, she said again, and added her customary Toodles, dear!
“Don’t worry, Zoe,” Daniel said, slinging an arm around me. “We found her once, we’ll find her again. Your mother has always been incredibly predictable.”
“For everyone but me,” I said.
“C’mon. Let’s go get a late-afternoon margarita.”
And with one eye peeled for a fifty-year-old woman in a Britney Spears video outfit and a faux-fur leopard-print coat and knee-high boots, I let Daniel lead me away.
“My mother’s beginning to look less like Morgan Fairchild and more like Michael Jackson,” I said as Daniel returned to our little table with two frozen margaritas and a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa. “She’s had so much plastic surgery I can’t even recognize her anymore.”
Daniel laughed. “She looks good, though. I have to say, she really does look like she’s in her late thirties.”
“But she’s not. She’s fifty. And what’s the point of trying to look ten or twenty years younger when you’re not?”
“If it makes her feel better, why not?” he said. “One day, she’ll come to her senses. Or she’ll meet a new man who’ll like her just the way she is. But right now, this is what she needs to do. People do this kind of thing all the time. They go crazy because they have to, and then a couple of months later, they’re themselves again and telling anecdotes that conclude, ‘Do you believe I did that?’ I think she’ll be fine, Zoe.”
“It just makes me feel so…I don’t know. So out of control myself, I guess.”
He looked at me, then stood up and pulled his chair around the table right next to mine. “I’ll catch you,” he said.
If he hadn’t stuffed a tortilla chip laden with salsa into his mouth at that moment, I might have kissed him on the lips.
“Daniel, that is so immature,” Joy snapped, her eyes darting around in embarrassment. “Stop it.”
As I sat at the bar at Favia Lite, an Italian restaurant near Bloomingdale’s that served very good low-fat food with the calories and fat grams printed right there on the menu next to the prices, munching my “personal pizza for one” and eavesdropping on what Daniel feared was his last date with Joy, I realized what the real problem was between them. Daniel was very funny, and Joy was devoid of a sense of humor. It wasn’t just that she didn’t appreciate his humor; she was truly lacking a funny bone.
Which made me wonder why he liked her so much. Yes, she was very pretty, as women who sold cosmetics in Bloomingdale’s invariably were, and, yes, she had a great body, but she was stiff and boring and—
And I was jealous.
Oh God, I was jealous of her. Because Daniel liked her, was crazy about her, spent his waking hours fantasizing about her and his sleeping hours dreaming of her.
But why would he like someone so unlike him, someone so not funny, so not fun?
And why would I be jealous, anyway? This was Danny Marx from high school, class clown, king goofball. And yet, as he sat there with Joy, those puppy-dog eyes of his on her, I wanted to pick up her chair, carry it back to Bloomingdale’s and come back and take her place. I wanted to be sitting across from Daniel, the object of all that energy and intensity.
I wondered what he was like in bed.
I looked at Daniel; he was alone at the table. I glanced toward the rear of the restaurant, and there was Joy, heading into the bathroom. Touching up her heavy makeup, most likely. Meow, I thought. Your claws are coming out, Zoe.
Daniel walked over to me and ordered two bottles of Bass Ale for his table. “This is going as bad as can be,” he whispered. “She’s in the bathroom. I have about five minutes to save the relationship before she makes an excuse to leave and then never returns my phone calls.”
“Well, maybe that’s not the worst thing that can happen, Daniel,” I said.
“It would be from where I sit.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why do you even like her, Daniel? She’s not particularly nice. She has no sense of humor. She’s critical of you. What’s to like?”
“Whoa, Zoe, judgmental much?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying. And I think it’s a good thing these critiques are on the house, because I’d probably want my money back.”
“Daniel—”
“Look, you’re done with your pizza, so why don’t you just save yourself the agony of watching the rest of the date?”
“Daniel, I didn’t—”
But Joy was coming out of the bathroom.
“Just go, Zoe,” he whispered, and headed back to his table with the two bottles of Bass.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
As he sat down, he pulled his chair so that it was facing away from me and blocking my view of Joy.
I paid for my pizza for one and left and promptly burst into tears the second I hit the air.
Midnight: Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn
Saturday, 9:00 a.m. to Sunday, 11:00 p.m.: Called Daniel. Got machine. Left message (four, to be exact).
Sunday, midnight: Figured I’d blown it.
“I wanted to throw little pebbles at your window so you’d come out and talk,” Daniel said, “but I didn’t know which was your bedroom window and I didn’t want to wake up your sisters.”
God, it felt good to hear his voice. I clutched my cell phone against my ear and tiptoed out of my bedroom and into the walk-in closet in the hallway. I sat down on a cardboard box and moved the tail end of a long sweater off my head.
“I’m sorry about calling so late,” he added, “but I didn’t want another day to go by. You know you’re not supposed to go to bed angry, and I’ve gone to bed angry for the past three nights.”
Mrs. Guttleman would approve.
“I’m glad you called, Daniel. I’m so sorry about the other night. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have—”
“Ah, forget it,” he said. “You were right. I just didn’t want to hear it.”
“No, I had no right—”
“Actually, you had every right. I think we’ve become really good friends, Zoe. And that’s what I’d want a friend to do—tell me the truth.”
Friends.
What the hell was wrong with me? Now that wasn’t enough? When I didn’t necessarily want more, either? I’d spent the weekend driving myself—and my sisters—crazy trying to figure out my feelings.
“Go to his apartment,” Sarah had suggested when I’d come home from the restaurant in tears.
“No—she shouldn’t throw herself on him,” Ally insisted—and she repeated it twice the next day. “She’s called and left too many messages as it is.”
“Sometimes a little groveling is good,” Sarah had pointed out as we were getting ready for bed last night. “What I would do for a little groveling from Griffen.”
“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Ally said. “She told him the truth. If he can’t take it, oh well and who wants him anyway?”
I did.
So why did that feel so strange? Did I want to be Daniel’s girlfriend? Did I like him because he was unavailable? Did I like him because he used to like me and now liked someone else?
We might as well have been back in high school for all I was acting and thinking like a thirteen-year-old.
“And, anyway,” Ally had said as she rubbed body lotion on her elbows, “what’s the point? He has a girlfriend.”
Deep sigh.
“Yeah, but a girlfriend who doesn’t like him!” Sarah pointed out.
“And that’s why he likes
her,” Ally said. “Because she doesn’t like him. If Ms. Unfunny did like him, he’d have told her long ago to develop a sense of humor and then get back to him.”
“Why do we do this?” I’d asked. “Why don’t we like who we’re with? And why are we with them in the first place if we don’t like them?”
“Because sometimes we’re just with the wrong people and it takes a while to figure it out,” Ally said very quietly.
Sarah and I had looked at Ally then, waiting for her to say something about herself and her husband, but she didn’t.
I’d been with Charlie for over a year when he wasn’t the one. I’d known all along, but something had kept me with him. Because it was safe? Because I got to have a boyfriend who couldn’t hurt me?
I was giving myself a headache.
Once Sarah and Ally had fallen asleep, I had lain awake staring at the ceiling. I’d crept out of bed to take But I Don’t Know How To Be Pregnant! off Sarah’s chest (she was on the last chapter), and I pulled Ally’s law journal out from under her cheek and put it on her bedside table.
Neither had stirred when my cell phone rang. Ally and Sarah could sleep through anything.
“So what happened with Joy?” I asked Daniel. “Did you break up?”
“Yup. It was pretty ugly.”
“Oh, Daniel, I’m really sorry.”
“Nah, it’s for the best,” he said.
“So how’d she do it?” I asked. “Did she make some bad excuse and leave?”
“Actually, I broke up with her.”
“You broke up with her?”
“Zoe, the woman has no sense of humor. I can’t date someone who doesn’t watch Seinfeld reruns.”
I laughed. “I love Seinfeld.”
“I know. It’s too bad you’d never go for me. We’d make quite a good couple.”
“Why don’t you think I’d ever go for you?” I asked.
“Zoe, I already told you—I have self-esteem. You don’t need to build up my ego. I know full well you wouldn’t go for me. I’m not your type.”
“What’s my type?”
“George Clooney. Brad Pitt.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m their sidekick, the funny one who never gets the girl.”
“Actually, that’s the one who always gets killed.”
“That’s right.”
Tell him how you feel. Tell him how you feel.
But I couldn’t. Because if I let myself feel what I felt, I’d be in trouble. A few months down the road, once he got to know me or once he was used to me, comfortable, he’d see me for who I was, see all my flaws, and a few months later, he’d be gone and I’d have my first broken heart—at the hands of a boyfriend, anyway.
“So when are you leaving for Thanksgiving?” I asked, dreading the thought of him flying home to L.A. for a few days. I felt as though I’d just gotten him back, and now he’d be gone again next week.
“Actually, I’m not,” he said. “I have to work on the Friday after Thanksgiving, so it’s a Swanson’s turkey TV dinner for me.”
I smiled. “Or you can have Thanksgiving in the Zone,” I said. “No stuffing or potatoes, but all the turkey you want.”
“Ooh, I get to meet the famous and infamous Solomon sisters? Can’t wait,” he said.
Me either.
13
Sarah
“Impromptu staff meeting!” called Astrid’s assistant.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Usually our staff meetings were at 3:00 p.m. I thought I’d have a good hour or two to work on story ideas before my ultrasound appointment.
The editorial staff of Wow Woman magazine, six of us in all, sat around the scarred wooden table in the conference room, waiting for Astrid. Danielle sat directly across from me, as she always did. It took me a year to figure out she did so in order to spy on my reactions. Finally, Astrid swept into the room and announced that she’d killed two stories in the February issue and two articles had to be written overnight.
“All right, everyone,” Astrid said, snapping off her eyeglasses. “In the next five minutes, I want two great story ideas and volunteers to write them.”
“How about an article on how to tell if you’re pregnant?” Danielle suggested.
Astrid slowly moved her gaze from her watch to Danielle’s gauzy maternity shirt. She stared at the crocheted neckline. “Danielle, the Wow Woman reader isn’t interested in a full feature article on pregnancy. That’s what Power Pregnancy magazine exists for. If you’d like to write something up on pregnancy, feel free to suggest it for our Health Page’s sidebar.” Astrid then went on to reiterate for the hundredth time Wow’s mission statement and promise to our female readers and asked if anyone had any relevant ideas for emergency article replacements.
Wait a minute. Why wouldn’t the Wow reader be interested in the signs of pregnancy? What if Lisa hadn’t been so obsessed with taking pregnancy tests? I’d been so sure it was simply PMS I had. Not that I’d ever thought about it, but I was sure I would have figured that pregnancy means no period and therefore no PMS symptoms. Who would have thought the symptoms would be so similar?
There had to be countless young women who’d benefit from some basic information. After all, there was article after article about sex. And one of the potential outcomes of sex was pregnancy.
“People,” Astrid snapped. “We’re down two articles. Get your thinking caps on!”
I was about to back up Danielle, but then realized I could potentially give myself away. I wasn’t willing for anyone to even think I might be pregnant, or I could forget about the promotion. I had to cough up something good.
“Um, Astrid, have you ever heard of the Dating Diva?” I asked.
“The Dating Diva? Why does that sound familiar?”
“She was written up in L.A. Magazine last year. She’s a relationship guru who critiques people’s dates for a living. She gets paid like two hundred bucks an hour to tell people to stop talking about politics or their mother on their first dates, stuff like that.”
Astrid’s eyes lit up. “That’s fabulous! I love it! Sarah, find out who her agent is and see if we can get an exclusive—”
“Astrid, she’s my sister,” I said.
Danielle looked like she wanted to murder me.
Astrid’s eyes lit up even more. She even clapped, three times fast. “Fabulous!” she said again. “Absolutely fucking fabulous! Have her call me and we’ll talk. I’d love her to do a series of articles, even a column.” Astrid froze. “If she can write. Oh hell, who cares. We’ll do an as-told-to or have someone do a profile if she can’t write.”
“I’ll have her call you,” I said.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I had no idea if A) Zoe could write. And B) if she’d be interested. I had a feeling, though, that she would be.
“Fabulous,” Astrid said again. “Okay, people,” she snapped. “We’re still down two articles!”
“How about ‘How To Tell If It’s Too Soon in a Relationship for Sex,’” I suggested. “I could write the article and do a fun sidebar list of ‘If he does this, it’s too soon.’”
“Great, Sarah!” Astrid exclaimed.
I glanced at Danielle. Now she looked like she wanted to cry.
“I’m very impressed with you today, Sarah. Very impressed. I want the article on my desk by 9:00 a.m.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. The great was great and the very impressed even better, but between the ultrasound appointment today and then a trip to a bridal salon with Giselle and a family meeting tonight to choose between bow tie number two or number five, I’d never be able to research and write up an article by nine tomorrow morning.
Then again, how much research did I need to do? It’s too soon to have sex if you get pregnant and the father of your baby says to call if you need anything….
Astrid’s assistant came up with “How To Handle Your Meddling Mother,” and we were dismissed.
I stopped in Wow’s tiny kitchen for a much-needed caffeine
boost, then remembered I could have only dull decaf.
“I should report that fucking bitch to HR,” Danielle whispered to her friend, a copy editor. She was standing by the coffeemaker. Her friend nudged her, and she glanced up at me with worried eyes, then turned around and grabbed a filter.
“Didn’t hear a thing,” I assured her. “I’ll make a pot of decaf. I’m too wired for caffeine today. I’ll bring you a cup when it’s ready, if you want, Danielle.”
She stared at me for a moment. “Okay. Thanks.”
She wouldn’t report Astrid. It wasn’t something you did. What you did was what Astrid said or you got sacked. Granted, WowWoman wasn’t Vogue or Elle or Glamour, but it was reasonably popular and had been growing in ad revenue ever since Astrid took over as editor in chief in 1998.
When I stopped by Danielle’s cubicle with two mugs of decaf, I found her trying to hide the fact that she was crying.
“I am going to report her!” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. “That bitch just stopped by a minute ago to hand me back an article I wrote—my own pregnancy journal. She says it’s not relevant for Wow and then stared at my bare feet and asked me to ‘please put on your shoes.’ She has no right to treat me like that. Women would be interested in an article about pregnancy, and what the hell does she care if I don’t wear my shoes in my cubicle?”
“I agree,” I said.
She tucked a lock of her short blond hair behind her ear. “Give me a break, Sarah. My loss is your promotion.”
“Not if I’m pregnant too,” I whispered.
She stared at me. “Really?”
I nodded. “And you know what I think we should do? I think we should write an article about how pregnant women are treated in the workplace, interview a bunch of recent moms, really do it up. We can offer it to Astrid, and if she won’t take it, we’ll submit it to the competition.”
The Solomon Sisters Wise Up Page 17
