32AA Read online

  Slip up the back stairs (four flights, but don’t want to ride the elevator in case I’m presented with more pity smiles and comments) to Human Resources before Tracey leaves for the weekend. Find out if there are any other secretarial jobs vacant within the company. Or resign.

  Go to Chez Nous and meet my lovely, supportive friends who will pour Australian Shiraz down my throat in medicinally large quantities, and generally staunch the blood flowing from my wounds.

  4:55 P.M.

  Point one of my plan works perfectly. As it is Friday afternoon, most employees have slunk off early to enjoy the weekend with significant others and/or family, reminding me that as of now, I am yet again single and have no one to wake up with.

  When I make it up the stairs to Human Resources, thankfully without seeing another soul, I am disappointed that Tracey has also gone for the weekend. And I remember that she and Dwayne, her fiancé, spend most of their summer weekends down at the shore, and I feel like an utter, abject failure. A retread.

  This is a major blow, because (yes, I know this is unrealistic) I was hoping to arrange a quick transfer before Monday. At all costs I want to avoid sniggers and sly glances as people discuss my disappointment. But as they don’t know about Adam and me, then hopefully I will be spared that particular humiliation. Can you imagine what it would be like—everyone pitying me because my boyfriend has left me for an older woman? I mean, I always thought men left their partners for younger women.

  I am just about to slip furtively back down the stairs (this time I have eight flights to the first floor—at least it will help in building leg muscle), when Jacintha Bridges (Director of Human Resources) steps out of her office, the lovely diamond engagement ring on her finger glittering ominously.

  “Emma,” she says, smiling pleasantly. “I thought I might see you today.”

  Did she? I’ve always wondered if she’s psychic.

  “I, er, just came to ask Tracey something,” I mumble, desperate to escape any kind of confrontation. “I’ll come back Monday. Have a nice weekend.”

  “Do you have a minute? I’d like to speak with you.”

  Oh, God, why did I come up here? Jacintha, a very astute woman, is bound to guess about me and Adam!

  5:45 P.M.

  Actually, Jacintha is very, very nice. It went well, I think. I only nearly burst into tears once. But I managed not to blurt out the whole sorry tale of Adam and me to her.

  Apparently, there’s a vacancy coming up in Human Resources next week due to maternity leave. I really think I can make Human Resources my thing, I really do…

  It seems that Angie of the Cruella disposition has been waiting for a secretarial job to come up in Advertising for months—she wants to move up from reception. So she’s the obvious candidate to replace me as Adam’s secretary.

  This is a great idea.

  In fact, I’m already feeling a bit better.

  Two days of Angie and Adam will be on his knees!

  A much better plan for revenge! (And it obviously won’t include me serving jail time.)

  5

  Un-Party Time

  TO DO

  Say “no” when am next offered worm-infested drink.

  Remember to unplug telephone when am expecting to have crashing hangover next morning (caused not by excess wine, but by worm-infested drinks—see [1]).

  Do not whine incessantly to my friends about traitorous boyfriend or lack of boobs. Instead, shall be wise-woman (as am now sad spinster again) counselor and selflessly help friends with their problems.

  8 P.M.

  Lovely, fabulous party. Lovely, caring friends. Delicious miniature saumon en croûte pastries (of which I have consumed more than my fair share) and shrimp in lemon batter, lots of champagne and Shiraz (of which I am valiantly striving to drink my fair share).

  The only thing that has caused a blot on my landscape (obviously, apart from the whole Adam/Stella/nonpromotion blots on my landscape) is the cake. A traditional English fruitcake, made with all organic ingredients, specially baked by Rufus four months ago, at David and Sylvester’s request (to allow it the appropriate time to mature in a sealed container).

  During this four-month time period (quickly counting backwards in time, Rufus baked this cake a month before I took the plunge and moved in with Bastard Adam, but I push this thought ruthlessly aside), Rufus has carefully nurtured this cake. Every two weeks he has removed it from its sealed container and layer of aluminum foil, and he has meticulously poked holes in the top and spooned in brandy. How lovely of Rufus to do this for me, especially since my cheating, bastard boyfriend can’t even remember it’s my birthday.

  Although this cake is charmingly decorated with lemon and white frosting, tiny yellow rosebuds and silver bells, it is fairly obvious that a last-minute repair job has taken place.

  On the cake are the words, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA.

  And I know instinctively that it used to say, CONGRATULATIONS TO EMMA AND ADAM. Because everyone thought they’d be celebrating my birthday and my engagement.

  Not that Rufus didn’t do a grand job of changing the lettering and rearranging the “Emma” so that it covered where “Emma and Adam” used to be, because he did. Do a grand job. You’d never notice the letters had been anywhere else but where they are now. But it’s usual to say “Happy Birthday” rather than “Congratulations” on a birthday cake, isn’t it? “Congratulations” is what people say when one gets engaged to be married. Or gives birth. Or gets promoted…

  And, of course, none of those options now seem to feature in my future.

  As I slice into the cake, amidst cheers of encouragement, I feel the tears building up behind my nose. Am I really so unlovable? Am I really so boring that Adam couldn’t stay faithful to me after only five months?

  “Don’t even think about it,” Rachel hisses quietly in my ear as I pass her a piece of cake. “He’s not worth the salt of even one of your tears. So eat some damn cake, and think positive thoughts.”

  And then she thrusts a piece of the rich, moist cake into my mouth, and pours me another glass of wine. I feel instantly better. Much better.

  Kind David and sweet Sylvester, I think, as I glance around the bistro-style restaurant. All lovely silver and pink balloons everywhere and a big banner saying BIRTHDAY GIRL.

  And instead of subjecting me to the indignity of weeping my heart out and obsessing madly to a room full of people I don’t know all that well (most of them, it has to be said, are David and Sylvester’s friends—their parties are legendary), David spent an hour calling around to tell people the party was canceled.

  Instead, this is an intimate gathering of my nearest and dearest. The people who love me and don’t mind if I walk around pulling at my hair and wailing very loudly about sackcloth and ashes, and that the end is near, and blathering on about how much I love Adam…and how much I detest Adam…

  When my whining self-pity graduated to shaving my head and moving to Thailand to become a Buddhist monk (I read somewhere that the first female monk was ordained there quite recently), they decided it was time to distract me from my grief with birthday gifts.

  And this is what my lovely friends got me.

  Tish. Three-month subscription to her gym. “You’re always obsessing about your lack of muscle definition,” she tells me. “This will help. We can go together, you, me and Rachel. It’s Pilates, yoga, and kick-boxing—you’ll love it.” It’s a great gift. The only problem is that the gym is in Hoboken, which means it’s only convenient if I actually live in Hoboken. Which I don’t—I live in Manhattan. But, of course, that may change in view of Bastard Adam, as I can’t afford Manhattan rental prices. Unless some lovely godmother/real-estate agent appears in a poof of fairy dust and says those magic words—rent controlled. Still, this gift is a lovely thought. Very thoughtful person, Tish.

  David and Sylvester. A three-month supply of a natural product that promises to enhance and expand my bust. “Darling, our friend Gloria swears by it,�
� says David. “Complètement, chérie.” Sylvester nods in agreement. “She went from a thirty-six B to a thirty-six C.” But how long will I need to take this? Will it be every day for the rest of my life, like Rogaine? (Although, obviously, not hair-inducing but breast-inducing.) Apart from which, Gloria started out life as Danny, so I’m not sure about this. But again, very thoughtful. Do I really obsess all the time to all of my friends about my skinniness and lack of boobs?

  Katy and Tom (only happily married straight couple of my acquaintance). A three-month supply of a milkshake-type body enhancer. To help me put on weight and build muscle. A good thought, but I don’t want to resemble an eighties-style Iron Curtain female athlete. I make a mental note never to mention boobs or muscles to any of my friends ever again.

  Rufus. An organic cookbook. Very nice. (Although he’s not my closest, most personal friend, I did spend nearly three years having breakfast in his deli with Tish—so I suppose he qualifies as nearly being a close, personal friend. And he did make my cake, lovely man.) This is an especially nice gift, because Rufus wrote this book himself. Can you imagine it? I can now add “famous author-chef” to my list of close personal friends. And none of us knew about his achievement until tonight. A dark horse, Rufus. Much more to him than meets the eye.

  Rachel. A gift voucher for Donna Karan. (At this moment I love Rachel the most out of all my dear friends—the voice of realism amidst body enhancing chaos, because everyone knows that really good clothes can cover a multitude of sins.) “Body-enhancing shakes,” she tells me, with a dangerous glint in her eye. “Breast-enhancing pills.” She shakes her head in disgust. “You don’t need to do this, Emma, because you will be pandering to society’s stereotypical values that a woman should look a certain way in order to get a man.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say a little while later to my lovely friends, collectively seated around the table. They collectively protest, and I feel like a wimp.

  “Don’t be a girly wimp,” Katy says, offering me the salt. “Show us what you’re made of.”

  I take it and gingerly pour some onto my hand.

  “I don’t like the idea of worms in drinks,” I moan. “It’s unnatural.” It surprises me that no one else seems to mind, but apparently it wouldn’t be real tequila without the worm.

  “Come on,” Rachel urges me. “Live for once.”

  She’s right. Although this—from a woman who lives with three cats and maniacally detoxifies her apartment at least twice a day—is saying something. Still, if Rachel doesn’t mind drinks with worms in them—if she hasn’t thought about where, exactly, the worm might have gone to the bathroom for the last time in its life—then neither will I. Or is it already dead when it gets put in there? Yuck. Neither option holds any appeal.

  Time to try something new.

  So I lick my salt, throw back the tequila in one swallow and gulp madly at the lime.

  11 P.M.

  “Lovely party,” I say to David, kissing him sloppily on the cheek. “You and Sylvester are the best friends in the world. Apart from Tish. And Rachel. And Katy and Tom. And Rufus.”

  But through my drink-hazed brain I remember that Adam isn’t here.

  “Wish Adam was here,” I wail, getting ready for another major blubber. “I bet they skipped dinner. I bet they called room service instead, so they didn’t have to get dressed, because they’ve spent the whole evening having hot, screaming sex. And right at this moment they’re getting ready to have even more hot, screaming sex in some luxury hotel room…And you know what?” I slur rhetorically, not really waiting for anyone to respond. “Bastard Adam never took me to the bloody Bahamas.”

  Our sex has not been hot and screaming just recently, either, but I don’t mention this.

  “Darling girl, you must stop torturing yourself. You’ll only make yourself feel worse.” David pats my hand.

  “But it must be something I did wrong,” I wail. “I mean, what has Stella got that I haven’t? Apart from the boobs, and money…”

  “Zere’s nothing wrong wiz you, chérie,” Sylvester says. “If I were straight, I’d fuck you in an instant.”

  “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I sniffle, wondering if only gay men find me remotely attractive.

  “Although it has to be said, Adam is very attractive in a macho kind of way.” David sighs dreamily.

  Now if my significant other were to say that about another woman while I was there, I’d probably have a major anxiety attack that he preferred the other woman to me. I wonder why David is doing this? He and Sylvester are perfect together. Doesn’t he realize how lucky he is?

  Then David catches Sylvester’s glowering expression.

  “But only if you go for that sort of thing. Which I don’t, of course. You’re much better-looking, Sylvester. Adam’s a bastard ionic bonder.”

  He’s obviously been talking to Rachel.

  I drift across the room in search of another drink, leaving David and Sylvester to argue about Adam’s masculine charms, and by now I am feeling quite warm and fuzzy. I know it is the effect of all the food and alcohol I have consumed, and I search for a nice, quiet place to have a little sit-down by myself.

  “Emma.” Tish grabs me before I can reach the sofa in the corner. “Why didn’t you warn me Rufus would be here? If I’d known, I’d have worn something nicer. I should have gone home straight from work and changed,” she frets, twirling a strand of hair compulsively around her finger.

  “You look lovely,” I tell her.

  And she does. The blue silk dress hugs her curves and brings out the glossy brown of her hair. Wish I had those curves and that glossy brown hair.

  “He’s barely looked at me all night.”

  “Yes,” I explain to her patiently. “But you never get near enough for him to get a really good look at you, and he’s nearsighted.”

  “Is he?”

  She thinks about this for a moment.

  “So how come you know this and I don’t? How come he makes you birthday cakes, and gives you personally signed cookbooks? How come he’s cozying up in the corner with Rachel instead of me?”

  She’s right. I had noticed, actually, that Rachel and Rufus are getting on like a house on fire. They are very close, poring over the recipes in Rufus’s book. Rachel laughs, and Rufus smiles at her. And although Rachel is undoubtedly the Brain of Biochemistry, she also qualifies in the Miss USA category. Tall, with long blonde hair, svelte and sexy. How can Rufus resist such temptation?

  Oh God, Rachel cannot do this to Tish. Rachel is one of the most decent people I know. She has Principles.

  “Go over there and find out what they’re talking about,” Tish orders me, giving me a push toward them.

  “This is silly.” I gently disengage my arm. “Why don’t you just go across and talk to him?”

  “But what would I talk about?”

  “Have another glass of wine, then you won’t care.”

  “Look. Rachel’s gone to the bathroom. Go and talk to him for me.”

  “But I don’t want to date him,” I explain. “Just go over there and ask him about his book. That should get him talking.”

  She thinks about this for a moment, then gulps down half a glass of Chardonnay.

  “Okay, I will.”

  Atta girl!

  “But only if you come with me. Pleeeese, Emma?”

  Greater love hath no woman than me for my friends.

  So I do go with her. And, after I get Rufus chatting about organic muffins, and after I tell him about Tish’s latest interior design conquest, they start to actually exchange words with each other. I think Rufus has drunk quite a lot of Guinness, so he’s more forthcoming than usual. And then I see Rachel coming back from the bathroom so I leave them to it, to head her off at the pass.

  “Thank fuck for that,” Rachel tells me as she glances across at Rufus and Tish. “I’ve just spent the last hour bored to death, listening to Rufus blathering on about Tish and h
is recipes. But mainly about Tish. I thought she’d never take the hint and come over. The things one does for friendship.”

  I sigh with relief. Rachel is not a boyfriend-stealing bitch like Stella Burgoyne after all.

  I love my friends. They’re so nice.

  And then Rachel touches my arm and leans toward me, genuine concern written on her face.

  “So how are you doing, kiddo?”

  And ka-bam, I remember Adam. In the midst of Tish’s Rufus crisis, I’d kind of forgotten about him. Kind of. And Rachel realizes her mistake for reminding me, and tells me again what a worthless shit Adam is, and then promptly changes the subject to the pros and cons of genetic screening. I relax with this. Even though I don’t understand much of what she says, Rachel’s uncharacteristic display of concern was almost my undoing again.

  Not that Rachel isn’t kind, because she is. But her variety of sympathy is more the “pick yourself up, dust yourself off” variety, rather than the “poor old you” variety.

  “Emma, Rachel, you must both come over tomorrow night,” Katy announces as she sails full steam toward us, and I cringe, because Katy can be rather overenthusiastic in her quest to fit in with the Pre-Preschool PTA mothers (or PPPTA for short). It’s not that she’s pushy, she just tries really hard.

  “Marion and the girls are all coming over for the evening. I’m doing snacks and margaritas. It’ll be fun.”

  I’ve just changed my mind about Rachel. She is so no longer my favorite best friend because she has slipped quietly away with some lame excuse or other about getting a drink, and has left me to Katy’s tender but insistent mercies.

  Now Katy is lovely, but Marion Lacy (chairperson of the PPPTA) is a huge pain in the butt. And at the moment, Katy is trying to prove herself a caring, interested parent. Marion (and I know this because I’ve met her twice) believes herself to be the world authority on what a caring, interested parent should be, so when she says “jump,” poor Katy becomes an Olympic-style hurdle jumper.