32AA Read online

  32AA

  Michelle Cunnah

  Contents

  Prologue

  1 Birthday Girl?

  2 Bad to Worse

  3 When Emma Met Adam

  4 The Five-Month Itch

  5 Un-Party Time

  6 The Worm Turns

  7 Wild Salmon

  8 Picture Perfect…

  9 Serially Single

  10 Independence Day

  11 All By Myself

  12 The Three-Day Week?

  13 Polydating

  14 Misery Loves Company

  15 All Packed Up with Nowhere to Live

  16 Home from Home

  17 32AA

  18 Mother Love

  19 A New Life

  20 Mixed Signals

  21 A Whole New Me

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  LIFE GOALS

  Emmeline Beaufort Taylor

  Age 13

  (after attending first George Michael concert)

  Develop breasts, like other girls. Mum says I’m a slow starter. Plus, bigger boobs are not important compared to Human Rights and World Peace.

  Marry George Michael.

  Have George Michael’s babies.

  While being perfect, glamorous, pop star wife (with adequate boobs) and wonderful mother, will also effortlessly juggle career as top businesswoman and ambassador for Human Rights and World Peace.

  Have wonderful house in Kensington, Chelsea, or similar, providing perfect setting for pop star parties (Elton John and David Bowie will drop in daily for coffee).

  Have wonderful weekend retreat near Windsor or Balmoral, or similar, so that Her Majesty (or other appropriate royal family member) and international diplomats can visit to discuss progress on Human Rights and World Peace.

  Change name. To be named for Emmeline Pankhurst, famous British suffragette of Victorian era, is depressing, as am not a stone-throwing, letter-box-burning radical. Think my name encourages Mum to have false hope. Madonna would be a good name for me. Or maybe Cher…

  LIFE GOALS

  Madonna Beaufort Taylor

  Age 16

  (during really boring class on atomic chemistry)

  Not marry Chris Stevenson, gorgeous, blue-eyed, blond-haired jock, as have just discovered that he is taking Susan Grayson to senior prom instead of me. Apparently, Chris and me are “just good pals.” Just good pals? I don’t need any more friends. I want a boyfriend!

  Stop obsessing over the fact that Susan Grayson is perfect goddesslike senior with breasts, hips, and always gets the boys that I want to date. Best friend Rachel says I should stop obsessing over lack of breasts, too—I must not feel pressured to conform to society’s stereotypical ideals of the female form.

  Change name. Madonna is not a good choice. Class peers love to joke about this and fall frequently to floor in hysterical laughing fits, after checking out my lack of boobs and un-Madonna-like physique.

  Meet Jon Bon Jovi (kind father has bought me birthday gift of tickets for concert at Madison Square Garden).

  Marry Jon Bon Jovi. Much better looking. Much kinder person than Chris. Plus, am sure my George Michael phase was just puppy love, not like true love I feel for Jon.

  Have Jon Bon Jovi’s babies.

  Live happily ever after with Jon in New Jersey (in nice part of New Jersey, obviously, as will be married to rich pop star), while (also obviously) working for Human Rights and World Peace!

  LIFE GOALS

  Emma Beaufort Taylor

  Age 29

  Get promotion and become woman of independent means with great career prospects. This will please hard-to-please, strongly feminist, but ultimately loving mother, who considers men good for only one thing (but only after you explain to them exact location of female erogenous zones). Plus, will be able to afford multiple pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

  Meet successful, perfect, handsome boyfriend, thereby pleasing capitalistic but ultimately loving plastic-surgeon father. Because boyfriend is already perfect, father and his partners will not constantly offer plastic surgery procedures as birthday/Christmas gifts for him.

  Get engaged to above-mentioned successful boyfriend, thereby pleasing self. Plus, it will prove that not only am I multifaceted, slut-in-bedroom, Martha-Stewart-in-kitchen type, but also nurturing, caring mother-of-future-children type.

  Have great apartment in SoHo, Greenwich Village, or similar, plus weekend home in the Hamptons.

  Maybe I should take up Dad’s offer to have Uncle Derek do my breast implants.

  Maybe not. Not only am I scared witless of elective surgery and dangers of implants, but also best friends Rachel and Tish have a good point. Surely a mature relationship is based on mutual attraction, respect, etc., and not the size of one’s mammary glands? Besides, the thought of “Uncle Derek” (Dad’s best friend and partner) finally getting his hands on my boobs is not attractive. Suspect he’s been after them for years.

  Do not give up best friends just because am happily ensconced in perfect relationship, thereby having no time for best friends.

  Make monthly donations (obviously need to concentrate on career to earn more money) to assist World Peace and Human Rights.

  1

  Birthday Girl?

  TO DO

  (before birthday next year)

  Stick notes on refrigerator, coffee machine and all mirrors (because that way he’s bound to get message) to remind Adam about my forthcoming birthday.

  Send Adam many e-mails to remind him about my forthcoming birthday.

  Talk incessantly and at length about my forthcoming birthday.

  Forgive darling Adam. (Tiffany’s ring is, after all, Tiffany’s ring! Y-e-s!)

  6 A.M.

  I open my eyes and blearily check the radio alarm as Robert Plant (a god among men) sings to me that he’s got a whole lotta love. Yes! It’s Friday. It’s June 28. It’s my birthday.

  My thirtieth birthday!

  Wonder what gifts I’ll get from darling Adam, lovely friends, and odd-but-caring family…Of course, gifts are not important, not at all when compared with greater issues such as World Peace and Human Rights. But still would be nice to get gifts…Tiffany’s ring, maybe…

  Anyway. Am I depressed at the onslaught of middle age? No! Am I obsessing that the best years of my carefree youth are over? Not me! Am I unhappy to see the end of my twentysomething years? Not a chance! Am I carefully scanning the mirror each day for signs of lines? You bet.

  It’s crazy, you know? But I yearn for a few mature lines around my eyes. Now that I’m thirty, people will have to take me more seriously.

  I can’t wait to start the day! Because today is a day filled with exciting possibilities. Three, actually.

  The Promotion. Should find out today. The interview, last week, went very well. I think that William Cougan (CEO) and Jacintha Bridges (Director of Human Resources) were impressed that the Kitty Krunch and Perfect Pantyhose campaigns were my ideas. Although they did seem to think that Adam was responsible. Strange…

  The Party. With Adam and wonderful friends. I’m sure they like him more, now that they know him a bit better…

  The Proposal. At least, I think Adam’s going to propose. I’m sure he’s going to propose. Yes, definitely…

  As Bob (as I familiarly refer to Mr. Plant) croons that he’s going to give me all of his love, I want to give Adam all of mine, so I snuggle back toward him. If I wiggle just a little, he’ll know I’m ready for some early-morning, birthday romance. Can’t be too obvious about it, because Adam thinks there’s nothing more of a turn-off than a woman who initiates sex. That’s men for you.

  Oh, I know that’s a bit old-fashioned,
but he’s an old-fashioned sort of guy about some things. Although his firm belief that women should always wear modest skirts is a bit unfortunate for me. Being four feet, eleven inches tall means that my legs are not very long and modest skirts turn them into six-inch matchsticks. This is not a good look for me. Although Adam does have a penchant for stockings and garter belts…

  As I wriggle further to his side of the bed, all I meet are empty spaces and no Adam. The crumpled pillow holds the dent of his head, but not his, you know, actual head. And the covers are cold. Where is he?

  Of course. He must be making me breakfast in bed! I’m a bit disappointed about the fading possibility of some early-morning sex, because he’s been very distracted and tired over the last few weeks. I wonder if he needs to go see his doctor? I hear that Viagra does wonders for the male sex drive. Anyway, after a leisurely breakfast in bed, maybe he won’t be so tired. Maybe he’ll reach over and kiss me, then…

  I sigh and dive back under the comforter for an extra few luxurious minutes before Adam returns with my birthday feast. Hmmm…I’ll eat strawberries straight from his hand, and take bites of croissant in between kisses…One thing will lead to another and we’ll have lovely, romantic sex. Adam, bathed in the afterglow of love, will magically produce a small jeweler’s box from Tiffany’s and beg me to marry him…

  Oh. Perfect! The radio station’s playing doubles. More Led Zeppelin. Bob is now telling me that I will be his!

  Hope Adam doesn’t mind that I switched the radio to classic rock, instead of the classic classical he prefers…

  7 A.M.

  Radio has clicked off and I’ve just realized that I don’t hear any noise coming from the kitchen of our small (but tastefully lovely) apartment, so I’m getting up.

  My hand lingers briefly on my ratty old bathrobe, then I spurn it in favor of the new cream silk robe Adam gave to me. Although the old robe is comfortable and familiar, it is not a particularly good look for me. No, the cream silk is definitely the right choice. I slip quickly into the bathroom to rinse my mouth with mouthwash—morning breath is so unromantic.

  Oh, God, my hair. Albert Einstein on a bad hair day! Must do something about it before Adam sees me…

  I pad over the beautifully refinished wood floor and into the living room. God, you can say what you like about Adam (all good, of course, because he’s completely wonderful), the man has great taste! Tish says his taste is flawless, and she’s an interior designer so she knows what she’s talking about.

  As I glance around at all the creams and whites in the sun-filled apartment, I shiver slightly at the coldness of the décor. But still, I’m happy to leave it to him. I really am. I mean, my idea of interior design is to buy things that catch my eye. I could be, oh, anywhere—at a flea market, walking in a street market—and something will leap out at me and I’ll immediately know that I want to buy it.

  But, as Adam has pointed out to me on several occasions, I don’t give any thought to where it would go, or whether it will fit in with the rest of the scheme. Take that beautiful lacquered Indian bureau I bought. I thought it would be the perfect addition to our bedroom—you know—give it a splash of color as a relief from all the creams and whites. But Adam was right. I mean, he did actually like it. Just not in his apartment. So I gave it to Tish for her birthday and she loves it. So that’s good, isn’t it?

  I’m hugely disappointed because the cream and white kitchen with stainless steel appliances (the latest in good taste) is completely Adamless. The coffeepot is gleaming with clean emptiness. The whole kitchen gleams with clean emptiness, not a crumb or a stray strawberry to be seen.

  Where is he?

  He can’t have forgotten…Can he?

  As my brain refuses to deal with this possibility, I suddenly know were he is. He’s just gone to get my favorite breakfast in the world—an egg and sausage biscuit! Of course! That’s it. Yes it is. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food as I reject the alternative option. That he really has forgotten.

  No. Not possible. I’ve been talking about it for weeks.

  Tonight, we’re having dinner at Adam’s favorite restaurant, La Trattoria. And after he proposes (and I am almost sure he’s going to propose—why else would he be so distant? Gotta be nerves), and after we toast each other with champagne, we’re off to Chez Nous. My friends Sylvester and David are closing the restaurant for the whole evening, just so they can host my party. How nice is that?

  But where the hell is Adam? Not that I’m worried or anything…

  As I see the white envelope propped against the toaster, the telephone rings and I grab it. Adam! Darling Adam. See? He hasn’t forgotten my birthday after all.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Good morning, my name is John. Am I speaking with Miss Emmeline Taylor?”

  Oh fuck. I really hate these people.

  I am convinced that telemarketers exist just to torture me. Whenever I move, it takes them less than two weeks to track me down. They are the bane of my existence. I wish I’d checked the Caller ID.

  However, in recent months I have developed several cunning ways to thwart their attempts to extract money from me. Adam thinks it’s childish, but I find it hard to just say no and hang up.

  I quickly decide on my strategy for today.

  “Non,” I say, with probably the worst attempt ever at a French accent.

  Why do these bloody people never ask for Adam?

  “Je viens vous parler au sujet de mon fils,” I say, with complete conviction. “J’ai vu faire cela à plusieurs ouvriers.”

  “Do you speak English, ma’am?”

  “Ja hoor. Ik neem dit.” (No, I am not calling John a whore.)

  “Is there anyone in the house who speaks English?”

  “Kde jsou toalety?”

  “Er, thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  “Obuv!”

  No, I do not speak multiple European languages, but I picked up some handy phrases from summer vacations in France, the Netherlands, and the Czech Republic. This is the translation of our conversation.

  ME : “I’m coming to speak to you about my son. I have seen several workmen do that.”

  JOHN : “Do you speak English, ma’am?”

  ME : “Yes, of course. I’ll take this.”

  JOHN : “Is there anyone in the house who speaks English?”

  ME : “Where are the toilets?”

  JOHN : “Er, thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  ME : “Shoe shop!”

  After all, it is totally necessary to be able to ask directions to rest rooms and shoe shops when visiting a foreign country.

  And the phone rings again, immediately. John and his buddies will not catch me out twice in one morning, I think, checking the Caller ID.

  Not John. Not Adam, either.

  “Happy birthday, darling Emma,” Peri, my stepmom, burbles down the telephone.

  “Thanks, Peri,” I say, trying not to sound disappointed.

  “Did you get our cards? There’s one from me and Daddy—”

  Yes, I’m thirty years old and Peri still insists I call my father “Daddy.”

  “—and one each from Jack Junior and Joe Junior—they made the cards in art class last week. Miss Zolowski says they have real talent for their age—she’s very excited about the abstract paintings they did for her yesterday, although she was a little upset when Joe Junior painted Charlene Gordon’s hair with rhododendron red…”

  I phase out Peri as she burbles on about the terrible twosome-twinsome. Call me hardhearted if you like, but the criminal antics of my three-year-old half brothers do not amuse me. On account of having been their victim on more occasions that I care to recall. I’m totally with poor Charlene Gordon on this one.

  Unfortunately, Peri believes that the path to child genius involves allowing the twins to do whatever they like. Apparently, disciplining children in any shape or form curtails their development. I don’t know if they have child prodigy qualities, but I do
know that they are the most badly behaved kids I’ve ever encountered. Of course, I do love them. They are my half brothers, after all. I just prefer to love them from a distance.

  Last time I visited them, Joe Junior peed in my purse and Jack Junior fed my car keys to the garbage disposal. The purse was ruined (was DKNY—a bargain from the outlets—okay, so last year’s fashion, but that’s entirely beside the point because it was a very nice purse). I mean, could you imagine using a purse again after it had been peed in? Fortunately, best friend Tish drove over to bring me my spare set of car keys.

  “So we’ll see you and Adam on the Fourth of July?”

  I really hope the twins behave. You see, Adam’s meeting my family for the first time.

  “And don’t worry about a bathing suit—I’ve bought you a darling little bikini from the new boutique in town. Oops, that was meant to be a surprise—don’t worry, Daddy and I have some other gifts for you—I can’t wait until you open them.”

  Oh God, I really don’t want to spend Independence Day in a chosen-by-Peri bikini. I’m practically flat-chested, you see. And skinny. And you might think that this sounds perfect. You might think I’d be happy with my Gwyneth Paltrow physique (except she’s taller and has larger breasts), but I’m not. When dressed in nothing more than underwear, I am self-consciously aware of my feminine attributes. Or rather, my lack of them.

  “We’re so looking forward to meeting Adam,” Peri says. “It’ll be great, all the family together for the holiday.”

  I wonder if I can come up with an excuse not to go? I want Adam to meet them, of course, but maybe it would be better if he met Peri and Dad without the twins first.