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Men in Black
because it is not a romance. They fear romance will only remind me of Jack. Plus Will Smith is hot. And extremely smart.

Just as Will is about to zap Tommy Lee Jones with his forgetful beam zapper so that Tommy can spend the rest of his life with the woman he left behind to join the MIB, I remember what Jack said to me about being effusy.

“What’s effusy?” I ask Rachel, because she’s bound to know. “Only Jack said I was effusy, and that Hugh told him about it.”

Rachel chews for a moment on her extra cheese, her brow wrinkling as she tries to translate stupid-person science into intelligent-person science.

“Oh, you mean effusion,” she says.

This is not enlightening.

“Effusion. Process by which gas particles under pressure pass through a tiny opening.”

“Yes, he definitely mentioned tiny and particles.”

“But what did he mean?” Katy asks, pouring us some
more wine, and we all stare blankly at Rachel for an explanation.

“I think he means that you find an out when you’re under pressure,” Rachel says, with careful consideration. “It means that you don’t trust your feelings, so you run at the slightest sign of a black cloud. And if there is no black cloud, you invent one.”

Oh. I’m not sure I wanted to know this.

“Which is a total lie,” Rachel continues, “because you were all set and ready to marry Adam three months ago. You don’t get more relationship committed than that. You were not the effusy one. You didn’t look for an out.”

“But what if I was settling for Adam because I thought he was safe?” I ask, because I’ve been thinking about this. “I mean, I didn’t really love Adam, so I was never really in danger of having my heart broken by him, despite the fact he dumped me and got engaged to someone else.”

The three of them are looking at me in amazement, and for a few moments no one says anything.

“No,” Tish says.

“Absolutely not,” Katy says.

“Not at all.” Rachel agrees with them. “Emma, honey, you are unclassifiable.”

I think that’s a compliment, but I’m not sure.

“More like certifiable,” I add, darkly. And then, “Oh God, what if he comes to Chez Nous on Sunday night? I think I’ll stay away, just in case.”

See? I am pathetic. And effusy.

“That’s all fixed,” Rachel tells me, grabbing another slice of pizza. “I called him already. I told him if he shows up, I’ll cut off his balls with a pair of blunt scissors. We’re
your
friends. We’re on
your
side. We come as part of the
Emmeline
package, and if he messes with one of us, he messes with us all.”

“Wow. You fucking told him, you go, girl!” Tish says.

It’s still odd hearing her say
fucking.

“Oh, my,” I say, with visions of John Wayne Bobbitt. And then, “You really said that?”

“No,” Rachel says. “Yes, actually I did say that. Except with more force. I don’t think he’ll come anywhere near you again.”

I wonder what else she said. I’m too afraid to ask. I love these girls, they’re so loyal.

TO DO

1. Forget Jack.
   Do not even mention his name.
   
2. Meditate. “Ohm—I will not think about Ja-”
   
3. Let’s try this again. Repeat after me: “Ohm—I am totally focused on my career. Ohm—I have no need of a man.”
   

Saturday, October 26

Seven weeks have passed since the debacle with Ja—, and I’ve got to say, I’m doing really well. I’ve done a lot of singing along to Robert Plant and playing air guitar to Jimmy Page. And I’ve eaten buckets full of Häagen-Dazs ice cream.

Actually, a lot of the time I feel like shit. A lot of the time I think about Ja—, I just can’t help it. But sometimes I feel okay about things.

I’m good.

I really am.

I do have moments when I run the gamut of what-ifs, but every time they threaten to overwhelm my newfound source of Zen-style inner peace, I count my blessings. And lessons learned.

You know, the whole non-engagement-to-Adam and non-relationship-with-Jack episodes have really taught me a lot about myself.

I don’t need to change myself for somebody else.

I don’t need to alter my personality to accommodate someone else, like I did with Adam.

I don’t need bigger breasts to please a lover, because the ones I have fit my body just nicely. Even if they are on the small side. But
I’m
generally on the small side…

Ja—said my breasts are perf—. I hold the thought right there.

I
think my breasts are perfect for me.

In fact, one of the first things I did when I moved into Tish’s apartment was to flush the breast-enhancing pills (sorry, Sylvester and David) down the toilet.

I’m not saying they’re a good thing or a bad thing. They’re just not for me. If you are a woman who really, really wants larger boobs, then you go, girl! When I really think about it, I don’t want mine any larger. I just thought that they
should
be bigger, which is a different thing completely.

Although I’m still drinking those revolting shakes—I like me with a little extra weight. I feel better, and I look healthier.

I still go to the gym, too, except I go early in the morning these days on account of not wanting to bump into Ja—. Because it’s convenient. Nothing to do with the unmentionable man at all. I just like my muscle definition, is all. And I
love
my yoga.

But you know, Ja—. That unmentionable man
did
have a point about me being effusy, despite what Rachel and Tish say.

I
do
look for the out.

I had some opportunities to start a relationship with Jack, and each time, I found an excuse not to. Nine years ago, I didn’t give him a chance to explain about him and Chip tossing the coin for me, because I didn’t want to know that Jack was a nice guy.

Because I liked him too much.

More recently, after moving into his house, I had several
opportunities to stay and face whatever might happen between us. To
not
be that agitated, scared particle looking for a tiny opening through which to escape. Because I was afraid it might be the real thing.

But I’m not afraid anymore.

And if love comes knocking on my door, I won’t turn it away. Not that I’m looking for love at the moment. I mean, I still do miss sex and all, but I’m perfectly happy on my own.

Well, maybe not perfectly happy. Quietly content. But that’s enough for now.

Anyway, tragically, I sold my yellow Beetle just after I moved into Tish’s apartment, because it’s not like I really need a car, is it?

Plus, I needed the extra cash to make sure I could pay Tish a decent rent. Just because I’m her best friend is no excuse to sponge off her kind nature, is it? She has mortgage payments to make, and if she rented through a real-estate agent, she’d make enough. So I have to give her enough, despite her protestations.

Still, I really
loved
that car. But it’s only a
thing,
after all.

Yes, I’m really getting to grips with being a spinster of the parish of Hoboken
(spinster
is such an awful word, isn’t it? Julia’s right—bachelorette
is
much nicer). No, really,
I am.
And despite the fact that my personal life is down the tubes, things at work took a decided turn for the better.

You see, Adam left for Hong Kong fairly immediately after he announced it to William Cougan. About five minutes after. If you’re someone fairly important at Cougan & Cray, then you pretty well leave immediately, accompanied by a security guard just on the off chance you might try to accidentally take a few company clients with you. I got this from Angie, who witnessed the whole thing—I wish
I’d
been there. Grady Thomas was promoted to Adam’s old job.

I’ve always liked Grady. Actually, it was Grady who came up with the new campaign for Stella Burgoyne. (Her en
gagement to William Cougan was announced last week—I think she only does it to get expensive jewelry from Tiffany’s.)

Grady’s campaign features rugged, outdoorsy types with their rugged, outdoorsy SUVs—and of course, Stella’s exceptionally rugged, outdoorsy toilet paper.

It was a great idea, but not as good as my idea. Picture this: babies dressed in Baby Gap–meets–National Guard combat gear. Assault courses built from—you guessed it—Stella Burgoyne’s toilet paper.

But it doesn’t matter. You see, the thing is, I’m now officially a junior account manager. Lou got fired straight after Adam left, and Grady recommended me for it. And Angie got my job, which is great.

I’m only on small accounts at the moment, but I’m keen, and the pay raise was fairly significant, which is a plus. I’m currently working on a campaign for a new range of thigh-and tummy-diminishing creams, which frankly gives me a lot of scope for comic content, don’t you think?

The only downside is that I’ve already sold my Beetle. I wish I hadn’t taken it back to the dealership, but I didn’t know about my promotion at the time. Two weeks after I sold it, I went back to try to reclaim it, but it had gone. Some lucky person had snapped it up already. The salesman tried to interest me in another Beetle, but it wasn’t the same.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that it has to be the
right
Beetle, not
any old
good-looking Beetle.

Anyway. Everything is fine.

Tish and Rufus—fine. (Although Rufus wears an expression that is halfway between delight and confusion. Tish, on the other hand, is just unbearably smug.)

Rachel and Hugh—fine. (Although Rachel’s mother is driving them both nuts with menus and flowers. They’re more interested in molecules than salmon mousse.)

Katy and Tom—fine. (Actually, Katy took over the PPPTA in a rather marvelous
coup d’état
—apparently she wasn’t the
only one who felt intimidated by Marion Lacy. The other mothers were delighted to hear a voice of reason amidst MASS chaos.)

David and Sylvester—fine, in their own special way. (Although the secret preparations for Sylvester’s surprise birthday party are driving him mad with curiosity.)

Julia and George—ecstatic. (Julia called me last night—“can’t think why I didn’t marry him years ago, darling.”)

Peri and Dad and the twins—better. (The twins are still difficult, but the new nanny is definitely getting a handle on things and Peri is too stricken with all-day morning sickness to interfere with the good work.)

Anyway, tonight is Sylvester’s long-anticipated surprise fortieth birthday party at Chez Nous. I am wearing the lovely Calvin Klein tank and skirt that I bought for the Colleague of the Year dinner, because it cost me a fortune and I need to justify spending that much money on one outfit. The wine didn’t ruin it, on account of its having been white wine, so that’s good, isn’t it? Plus, I’m wearing my lovely Manolos.

I check myself in the mirror one last time before I leave. My hair, newly trimmed and highlighted, is soft and pretty. My skin glows with good health and expensive makeup.

The last time I wore this, Ja—…I ruthlessly push aside thoughts of him.

This is a great look for me,
I tell myself.

Not that I’m expecting to meet any single men, because the only single men at this bash will be gay, and will therefore be more interested in my designer clothes than me. But that’s cool. I can look great just for myself.

When I arrive, the party is already up and swinging. Oh, God, it’s karaoke. I hope no one makes me sing. The sound of my voice has been known to make grown men weep with pain.

“Darling, happy birthday,” I say, handing my card to Sylvester. I’ve bought him a gift voucher for Kenneth Cole, because he loves Kenneth Cole.

“
Chérie,
you are breathtaking.” Sylvester kisses me on both cheeks. “Come on, you are about to miss David—he’s on next.” Sylvester leans down to my ear. “You know zat time I zought he was having an affair wiz Simon?
Oui?
Well, Simon’s boyfriend is a music teacher—he’s been teaching David to sing. David did it so he can sing to me tonight.”

“How romantic is that?” I say, because it is.

The room is filled with drag queens, and all the usual gang are here.

As I join them, I am kissed and hugged, and I feel truly thankful to have such a wonderful extended family, and I settle down to gorge myself on Sylvester and David’s wonderful food, and drink too much of their wonderful wine.

“So, how’s it going with Rufus?” I ask Tish. Obviously, this is a stupid question, because she’s never looked happier.

“You know the old saying, ‘You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink’?” She smiles a very secretive smile.

“Yeah?” What does this have to do with true love?

“Well, it’s wrong. My horse just needed to be gently led to the water, so he could taste how sweet it was. Remember that day after your birthday, when Rufus went missing from the deli and I thought he’d stood me up?”

“God, that seems like a lifetime away.” And yet how things can change in four months.

“Doesn’t it? Well, anyway, he went to book a course to help him with public speaking. So he could overcome his shyness and talk to me.”

“Wow. Greater love hath no man, and all that.”

“I know. He just didn’t have the confidence to believe in himself. And I just didn’t have the courage to ask him on a date. How stupid is that? I asked other men on dates, but then I didn’t have feelings for them, so it was easy.”

“You’ve both come a long way. I’m sure you’ll be really happy together.”

“I hope so. You know, there are no guarantees in this life.
Sometimes you just have to be brave and expose your inner self to get what you want. Anyway, back to horses. There’s one over there who looks positively dehydrated,” she says, glancing across the room. At Jack.

At Jack?

“What’s he doing here?” I hiss, thinking how wonderful he looks, and how much it hurts to see him.

He’s wearing his black Calvin Klein jeans and top, and chatting to a Barbra Streisand queen. He’s very comfortable with his own masculinity, it seems.

“David invited him,” Tish says, then smiles at me. “Apparently, Jack’s been really miserable since you moved out. Tom thinks he’s missing you, and so does Hugh. Sylvester just thought it would be romantic to get you both in the same room.”

“But Sylvester’s French. He thrives on romance and drama,” I say.

“I think we should keep Rachel away from sharp objects,” Tish adds. “After what she said about Jack and blunt scissors.”

“I need to go home,” I say. Why do men always stick together?

“No you’re not,” Rachel says, joining us. “I can’t believe Hugh would be party to something so fucking outrageous. I may not have sex with him for a week. Here,” she says, thrusting another glass of wine into my hand. “Have another fucking drink.”

I gulp the wine like a condemned woman having her last taste of alcohol. But, I think, I can do this. I’m a civilized, adult person. I can cope.
I feel sick.

“Sorry about Tom’s involvement,” Katy says as she joins us. “Believe me, he will suffer.”

“No, it’s fine. Truly. I’m fine,” I say. I do not want to be the cause of disharmony, marital or otherwise.

“But he did adopt Beauty,” Tish adds. “A three-legged mongrel isn’t everyone’s ideal pet, so he can’t be all bad, can
he? Obviously he’s still a bastard ionic bonder,” she adds, when Rachel scowls.

He adopted Beauty? Oh. I didn’t know that. She had a leg removed? Poor baby. What a hero Ja—.

Stop right there.
I harden my heart. He could adopt a million desperate, three-legged dogs as far as I’m concerned. Rachel’s right. I don’t need another ionic bonder. But still…

Tish, Rachel, and Katy stick staunchly to my side like bodyguards, occasionally throwing dark glances across to Jack.

I ignore Jack completely.

I’m totally enthralled by the karaoke. I love David’s rendition of “I Only Have Eyes for You,” as he only has eyes for Sylvester. How sweet is that? I’m totally into up-and-coming-designer Simon’s Cyndi Lauper impersonation with “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” And Sylvester’s Streisand version of “Evergreen” is totally great.

Yes, all in all I do a completely great job of totally ignoring Jack, and hardly ever looking around the room for him. Even though I’m desperate for another look at his sweet face. Even though I can think of nothing but him.

It’s the next act that really brings me to my knees.

“And now, Hoboken’s answer to Robert Plant,” David announces from the impromptu stage at the front. “Please raise your hands for our very own Jack Brown singing ‘Rock and Roll.’”

I freeze. Both hands grip the stem of my wine glass with such ferocity that it’s a miracle it doesn’t turn back to sand. My mouth is dry. My legs are shaking.

And then Jack is in front of us, complete with long, blond, curly wig. And he’s dancing around the small podium playing Jimmy Page air guitar to the intro to the song. He is a complete idiot. But boy, can this man dance.

And then he starts singing. Directly to me. And my heart thumps painfully in my chest.