She follows me to the center table on high-heeled, click-clacking, designer slingbacks.
“I’d steal one,” she points at the cookies, “but Andrew’s taking me out for dinner and dancing at the newly revamped Starlight Plaza downtown.” She dramatically clutches her flat-as-a-crêpe stomach. “I got the most to-starve-for Stella evening gown—we’re talking contour silhouette, illusion neckline, sheer organza. Totally gorg, and I am determined to fit into it.”
I laugh, unable to take my zany friend seriously. At a size zero, maybe even double zero, she has nothing to worry about. And even if she did, she’ll look stunning in whatever she wears.
Jackie has an impeccable sense of style, a closet filled with designer gems, and no inhibitions when it comes to putting an ensemble together. The flashier and more stunning, the better.
Standing at five feet tall and thin as a rail, Jackie has a body that can slip into just about anything, and she can traipse about confidently in ridiculously high heels that’d make the average-sized woman tower over everyone else.
Though Jackie is petite, she is not exactly a small package. She’s the most wild and dramatic in my group of girlfriends, believing the world revolves around her, everything must come to a halt when she has a problem, and that if something can’t be fixed by a stiff drink, a good party, and a thousand-dollar handbag, it’s not worth fixing. It’s drama overload when it comes to Jackie, but god how I love her.
I guess in the way Claire helps calm me and supplies the doses of optimism, and how Lara and Em offer wise advice and tips, and how Robin is that open ear and warm smile, Jackie is pure entertainment that helps me realize sometimes I’ve got to slow down, take a breather, and have some fun.
Yes, Jackie’s a bit of a high-maintenance friend, but I do stand slightly corrected. Since this summer Jackie has taken major strides to get her life back on track. She’d had a rough time with her husband, Andrew, and was double- and triple-timing it at her therapist’s. Recently she’s been working on turning things around—kind of letting go of the spoiled, selfish, and unrelenting Jackie the girls and I all had come to love…and become aggravated by, from time to time. Still my zany friend, she’s buckled down to get her marriage and chaotic life in order, and I couldn’t be prouder.
And not only is Jackie’s rocky marriage relocating to a more sediment-, almost concrete-like terrain, but she’s actually joined me in the ranks of becoming an entrepreneur!
It’s hard to believe, but she put her nose to the grindstone. Interiors By Jackie is her new small business, where she offers budget and high-end interior design. I couldn’t picture a more perfect job for Jackie. Her resume isn’t exactly impressive, because she’s never been able to hold down a job and work for someone else for long, and since she married into extreme wealth the whole job thing became irrelevant.
But Jackie has a real eye for fashion and design, so working in interior design is a no-brainer. She has her passion and has finally found an outlet for it. So regardless of not needing the extra income thanks to her very successful investment broker of a husband, she is finally keeping herself busy with an endeavor that means something to her, that gives her a sense of purpose, and that doesn’t come with a warning label for expectant mothers or can be labeled “for medicinal purposes.”
“I saw on the way back here that you’re nearly bone dry on cards and fliers,” Jackie says as she takes an awkward seat on one of the barstools situated near the island table. She waves a sheaf of papers secured with a rubber band, indicating the Interiors By Jackie fliers we have set on the ponywall in the café hall. “You mind if I stock up?”
“Go for it,” I say as I transfer the thumbprint cookies onto the wire cooling rack.
“Thanks a mill for offering to help me out.” She heaves her large Louis Vuitton handbag onto the vacant barstool next to her. “I think the fliers are really helping. I got four calls last week. Four! And estimates booked for all! Can you believe it?”
“Good for you, Jack.”
She scratches at the top of her platinum-blonde head, hair cut in the same pixie-style she’s worn for years. Her skin, after an extended break away from the tanning salon this summer, is slowly but surely regaining its orange glow now that she’s back to hitting the beds; her lips are glossed at a lacquer-like sheen in sparkly pink; her lashes look so long and full they must be one of her faux sets; her makeup, always on the heavy side, has been applied with a steady hand that demonstrate years of experience (probably from sorority competitions back in the day); and she’s wearing that infectious, bright, extremely bleached smile.
“Andrew’s helping me get my website up and running soon, too,” she gushes. “That’s going to be a huge help with boosting my business’s visibility, you know?”
“Oh, definitely.”
She sets her fliers on an area of the table that’s not dusted with flour, sugar, and spices, then digs about her deep handbag. “I’m just so ecstatic to be doing this, Sophie.” She flashes me a quick grin. “I should have been doing this ages ago!”
“Well I’m so glad you’re doing it now.”
I pad over to the ovens and read the thermometer on the lower one. It’s been on the fritz before and at one point completely stopped working. Luckily it seems to be working fine…for now.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I steal one of your newspapers up front, do you?” Jackie blurts, abruptly halting her gay humming while she neatly taps into order her stack of marketing materials.
I tell her of course as I search through my recipe card box for my puff pastry palmiers recipe. “You can take the Seattle Socialite, too, if you don’t already have it. I know you gobble that one up.”
“Fab!” She leaps from her seat and lands with her signature click-clack sound as her high heels hit the floor.
“All Andrew subscribes to is the boring Wall Street Journal,” she huffs, “and I so need to check what the local experts have to say about my horoscope. Haven’t checked it in days!”
I lightly laugh under my breath as my quirky little friend trots to the hallway to set out her cards and fliers.
“Hey!” she calls out, neglecting to pay attention to how her loud voice carries. “Did I tell you I heard from Em the other night?”
“Oh yeah? What’d she have to say?” I find the palmiers recipe and, scanning it quickly, proceed to retrieve several sticks of butter from the refrigerator.
Jackie reappears in the kitchen. “You will not believe where she and Gatz were last week!” she practically yells.
“Kangaroo spotting?” I can totally picture Gatz and Emily riding in a beat up old Land Rover, riding across the Outback, snapping photos of kangaroos and other native Australian wildlife.
“No.”
“Kangaroo riding?” I tease.
“No, dork.” Jackie hikes her handbag up onto her wiry shoulder, which is exposed thanks to her sleeveless espresso-colored shift dress she’s wearing despite the cool mid-October weather. “They went to a place called Shark Bay, and they swam—”
“Oh dear,” I gasp, afraid to hear the rest of the sentence. That couple’s adventurous, and knowing them they’d relish swimming with the great whites at dusk.
“—with dolphins!” Jackie’s smiling ear to ear. “Is that not awesome? And they got to surf, too! Talk about a luxurious trip!”
“Sounds like they’re having the time of their lives. Did she send over some pictures?”
“Just one.” Jackie immediately snatches her iPhone from her handbag. “Here.” She finds the photo and eagerly shows it to me. “Awesome, isn’t it?”
There Emily is, in beautiful aquamarine water, her bright red hair, obviously a new dye job from the last time I saw her with her natural auburn color, done up in thick dreadlocks. She’s got one hand rubbing the dolphin’s blubbery neck and is laughing, her mouth opened wide and eyes squeezed shut.
Next to her is Gatz, with his tousled brown curls almost fro-like, a furry, though still tamed, beard—al
so a recent look—and an equally excited expression on his face. They look, in every possible way you could slice it, blissful. In love. Happy. Perfect for each other.
“That’s cool,” I say. “They are living the life, aren’t they?”
“Tell me about it.” Jackie longingly looks at the photo for a few seconds more before slipping the phone back into her bag. Her sudden calmness suggests how much she misses having one of her closest friends around, her old roomie and forever BFF. I can totally relate.
“Hey,” I offer in a chipper voice, “how about you come to yoga class with me some time this week? If you’re worried about not fitting into your dress…”
She roots about her bag some more and cackles loudly. “Babe, you know I don’t work out! I don’t sweat unnecessarily.”
I tell her she could do a beginner’s class and probably wouldn’t sweat all that much. I know that when I’m really missing Claire or overwhelmed with life, yoga is a fine fit.
“Thanks for the offer,” She smacks out a cigarette from her pack of Parliaments, “but between my liquid diet for the next two days,” she waves the cancer stick at me, “and a few of these babies a day to curb the hunger, I’ll be wearing Stella McCartney before I know it.”
Okay, so I spoke too soon. She hasn’t exactly dismissed all things that come with warning labels.
“Jackie, you’re insane,” I say with a laugh. I begin to measure out the flour. “I love you, but you are a crazy woman.”
“Gotta run,” she calls over her shoulder as she clicks her way out. “Love ya, mean it. Later!”
***
“You doing anything fun tonight?” Evelyn asks, scrubbing down one café table after another. Before she moves on to the next table she flips the “Open” sign on the door over to its “Closed” side and double-checks that the door is locked.
“Me? On a Tuesday night?” I give a half-laugh and put the counted five-dollar bills back into the cash register. “I’m exhausted and have to run to the market tomorrow morning, get up even earlier.” I pull out the stack of one-dollar bills and count them out in my head.
“Nice sales today,” I say, calculating the sum of cash. “And what was the near two-hundred-dollar credit card order?” I consult the credit card receipts clipped to the top of the cash summary sheet.
“That’s that huge cupcake pick-up order.” Evelyn points with the damp rag in the direction of the kitchen. “The three dozen ones up on the chalkboard.”
“Ahh.” The light bulb goes off. “The reason I have to go down to the market bright and early tomorrow in prep. Nice sale, though.”
Evelyn nods as she finishes with the last few tables. I’m about to ask what she has planned for the evening when there’s a loud banging at the door. She lets out a small, startled yelp, and I suck in a breath, hand clasped to my heart.
“Dear goodness,” Evelyn cries, moving instantly to the front door.
I make out the tall man on the opposite side of the reflecting glass door. He’s now pressing his forehead to the glass, cupping two hands around his eyes and squinting into the half-lit café.
Evelyn opens the door and coos her greeting, “Hey, baby. You’re early.”
“Couldn’t wait to see you,” Chad coos right back.
I try to suppress a heavy eye roll, but the gooey show of emotion (and the convenient low lighting) is an open invitation. I make my surreptitious albeit childish expression as Evelyn tells Chad, in between pecks on the lips, that she still has some cleaning up to do before she can leave.
“No prob,” Chad replies. He gives his girlfriend a kiss, this one an actual kiss and not a tiny, lip-smacking peck.
Evelyn drops down from her kiss on her Conversed heels. She briefly rubs his thick chest and tells him to wait for her up here.
“I’m going to take care of the rest of those pots and pans, Sophie,” Evelyn says cheerfully, breezing past me in a flurry.
“Thanks,” I say. “Oh, and would you mind bringing me the broom?”
“Sure thing!” She bounces out of sight, and I give my long-time friend Chad a lazy wave.
“Hey,” he says, returning the lazy wave.
He pulls out a chair and takes a relaxed, slumped seat. He jams one hand in his black dress pants pocket and his hems rise up so high I can see he’s not wearing socks with his pair of well-worn deck shoes—shoes that absolutely do not go with the rest of his casual-dress ensemble.
“Sorry I’m early,” he says, his tone turning sheepish.
I look up only briefly from my stack of receipts, acknowledging he’s said something, but continue to order the day’s receipts from highest charge to lowest.
I understand that Chad and Evelyn will carpool on occasion. They are boyfriend-girlfriend, and they do live together, so it makes logistical sense. But when I see him here, with her, I feel a pang of something akin to jealousy.
I know I said before I wasn’t jealous of their relationship. Maybe it’s not jealousy but rather a relative of jealousy…a far-distant relative?
Whatever it is, it rises up within me, and I can feel my heart start to beat harder, my ears turn warm. Like I was telling Lara, seeing or hearing about Chad and Evelyn all gooey in love reminds me of the control I’ve lost over the situation. It was hard firing a good friend of mine and losing the needed help, but what’s done is done and had to be done, so if I agree to having lost control and move on, why am I still so frustrated?
I think part of the reason is that perhaps the real root of my discomfort is seeing someone like Chad—a guy who’s never really been one to commit, a guy who can’t possibly take a woman or relationship seriously because he doesn’t even take himself seriously—in a relationship that appears to be healthy and growing is a reminder that love is all around. It hits the least likely and totally misses the ones most craving it. I mean, why can’t I have what Chad and Evelyn have? How can he have a real relationship while I’m…dating cupcakes?
“Evelyn and I are going to see some band play at U Dub tonight,” Chad makes light conversation.
“That’s nice.”
“We’ve got to drive all the way up there, so I figured I’d be here as soon as Evelyn was ready to close up.” He pauses for only half a beat before adding that this is why he’s early.
“Mmmhmm.” I clip the last receipt into place, look up, and say, “That’s good for you guys.”
I’m worried there’s a hint of bitchiness to my tone, and I don’t intend it. I just want to close up shop and get on home. It’s been another long day, and even if I don’t have fun plans like going to a concert, I do have Nicholas Sparks, Ella Fitzgerald, and Mr. Riesling expecting me home at a decent hour tonight.
“We’ll be done as soon as we can,” I say. I zip the cash in a bag, ready to store it in the safe in the back, and give Chad a quick smile. “If you help it’ll go faster.”
I pick up the broom that Evelyn clandestinely left nearby as Chad strides over.
“Here,” I say, holding the broom out, deciding that having Chad around working (and helping us all get out of here sooner) is better than having him sit here all awkward and small-talky about Evelyn and their date.
He flicks at his obnoxious lip ring, something he’s had since halfway through college when he decided to go Hell’s Angels on us and begin collecting tattoos. He eyes the broom curiously, then cautiously grips it. “You giving me my old job back, Sophie?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tease, returning back to the cash register. I turn it off and begin to tidy up the rest of the front counter area.
“Is there a cupcake or cookie in it for me?” he asks with a satirical grin.
“There’s a date with your girlfriend sooner rather than later.”
“Fair enough.” He begins to move the broom about the floor, starting in one corner and working his way to the next, the next, and eventually spiraling into the middle, just the way I told him I liked it when he used to work here.
I can’t help but let a
small smile break out as I watch him methodically sweep, the most non-OCD person doing something in such a finely-tuned OCD kind of way. I feel myself soften a touch, and casually thank him for the quinces.
“No problem,” he says, just as casually.
I’m about to duck into the back when he says, “I knew you would know just what to do with them.” He keeps his focus on his sweeping.
I thank him once more and approach the kitchen again when he calls out, “They’re organic, you know?”
“Evelyn told me.”
He shrugs. “I know how you like all that froo-froo organic stuff.”
I playfully roll my eyes. “Yeah, well. Thanks,” I say before making my way back to Evelyn.
As we’re ready to call it a night, turning out the kitchen lights and leaving lit the chandelier in the front no brighter than an amber glow, I saunter towards the exit where Evelyn and Chad are already standing.
I have a pink take-out box in one hand, my other gripping the handles of my purse. I’m about to offer the thank-you treats I couldn’t help but pack up for Chad—it was nice of him to give me the quinces and to sweep up—when I watch as he helps Evelyn into her cherry-red peacoat. I feel kind of like a peeping Tom, standing in the open witnessing their sweet gestures. She giggles when he kisses the back of her neck as he finishes slipping her coat on.
“I like this jacket on you,” Chad tells her a hair above a whisper.
She finishes fastening the large, black buttons and gestures to his shoes. “I like your lack of fashion sense.” She titters.
“Hey.” He looks down at his ridiculous choice of footwear. “I was outside doing some cleaning.”
She steps up onto her tiptoes and plants a kiss on his seemingly-forever-five-o’clock-shadowed cheek. “Come on,” she says in a sweet tone. “Let’s get going so we’re not in nosebleed seats, kay?”
The two lovebirds simultaneously look in my direction, and I hastily wag my head, extending my hand forward, bearing the treats. “Here,” I say, just as hastily. “As a thank you.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 7
