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“I think you should make a clean break of it,” Tom tells me quietly. “Don’t let him hurt you anymore than he already has.”

“Hey,” I say, and glance across the table at Katy, who is chatting animatedly to Rachel and Tish. “You guys are okay, aren’t you? I mean, this PPPTA thing. It’s just Katy’s way of trying to fit in. She really loves you, and you really love her, don’t you?”

“Of course I love her. But you know, I’m just so tired of coming home every day and finding the house overrun with Marion Lacy and the PADD or MASS mothers. Katy doesn’t have to do all this stuff to prove what a great mom she is—all you have to do is look at her with Alex. With all the trouble at work, sometimes I just want to come home and veg out in front of the television. It’s tiring, constantly trying to save the world. And it’s wearing her out. She needs to take it easier. She needs to stop beating herself up over this stuff.”

“Your job isn’t in any danger, is it?” I ask, because Tom works for a major financial institution on Wall Street and things are not exactly rosy at the moment.

“I don’t know, Emma,” he says, and I notice, again, how tired he looks. “More redundancies are due. I don’t think I’m in the firing line but we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Oh, God, Tom, I’m so sorry. Does Katy know?”

“No. Not yet. She has enough to worry about these days,” he says, morosely gazing into his brandy.

“You should tell her.”

“I don’t know. She’s so stressed out with the bitch woman Marion. I think she’s maybe suffering from postpartum depression, too. Do you think you could talk to her?”

He’s so lovely to worry so much about Katy. And she’s so lovely to try so hard to be the perfect mom.

“But…but wouldn’t it be better from you?” Much as I appreciate his faith in my mediating skills, I do think that
he
should be the one to talk to Katy.

“It would be better coming from another woman,” Tom says firmly. “Thanks for doing this, Emma.”

I’m flattered that he’s so certain I can help. Now that I’m a lonely spinster again, I
should
try to help others more…

“I zink it is good zat you make Adam suffer,” Sylvester hisses in my ear. And then he adds, darkly, “I zink zat David is having an affair.”

Oh, God.

“No. Not David,” I tell him. “You must be wrong.”

“But he is so secretive. I try to talk to him, but you know, if I’m wrong, always he will remember and zink zat I don’t trust him.
Mon Dieu,
then he get sick of me and leave me.”

Sylvester lowers his head to the table and I pat his shoulder. David, who is chatting to the yuppie couple in the corner (the guy is very attractive), is happily oblivious.

“But why do you think he’s seeing someone else?”

“He sneaks off in ze afternoon sometimes and never tells me where he goes.”

“Have you tried asking him? Subtly, of course.”

“No,” he wails. “If he wants me to know, he tell me,
n’estce pas?
Obviously he is hiding something. Emma, can you speak wiz him? You are a good person, you will do zis,
oui?
”

“I…” I don’t know what to say.

Sylvester is obviously wrong, because I’m sure David would never do anything to hurt him. He can be such a drama queen.

“You are
ma belle diplomate,
” he tells me, planting a kiss on both my cheeks. “I know I can rely on you.”

What can I say to that? Despite not wanting to get involved, I am flattered that my friends are able to come to me with their innermost problems. Immediately, I fall into daydream mode, reinventing myself as a wise counselor for friends’ personal problems.

TO DO

1. Pack.
   
2. Leave.
   
3. Call lawyer to check likely jail time I’d serve for wanton destruction of Adam’s apartment.
   

8:30
P
.
M
.

Monday. The telephone rings and I lunge for it. “Out of area.” Excellent.

“Hello,” I say, with such sparky merriment that cheerleaders across the nation would envy me.

“Good evening. Am I speaking with Emmeline Taylor?”

“Indeed you are,” I say cheerfully, as I hike up
Led Zeppelin II
to full blast. I have the telephone positioned right next to the music center, and I hold the receiver down to the speaker before putting it back to my ear.

“Sorry,” I yell. “Can’t hear you. Nope, no good, can’t hear a word.” And I crash down the receiver.

8:50
P
.
M
.

Telephone rings again. “Out of area.”

Yes!

“Yes,” I say.

“May I please speak with Emmeline?”

“Do I know you?”

“No, ma’am, this is Chuck. How are you this evening?”

I do not believe this.

“Actually, Chuck, I’m really terrible this evening. I just had an expensive nondinner with my cheating boyfriend so that he could tell me he’s leaving me for another woman. And that they’re engaged! So I have to find somewhere to live, and I have to find a new job, on account of this being his apartment, and did I mention he’s my boss? Yes, I know it’s a cliché, Chuck. So I’m having a really shit day. And Chuck, this may come as a surprise but I’m not exactly in the mood to chat. Did you get all that?”

This guy is slick. With barely a pause in the conversation he beams his little ray of sunshine right down the telephone line at my undeserving self.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am. Thank you for your time. May I just say that I love your accent? You have a great evening, now.”

God. I am such a bitch.

Easily amused, I am spending my evening taking revenge for Adam’s betrayal by inventing new ways to torture telemarketers. This is not kind, and I am now starting to feel extremely guilty. I imagine that Chuck is a very nice medical student, working the telephone to earn extra cash to put himself through medical school.

As you may have guessed, my earlier dinner with Adam was awful…

Monday evening, 6
P
.
M
.

I am strong. I am empowered (ohm). Yes I am. I am
so
not a girly wimp (ohm). I am so going to kick Adam’s ass, yes I am.

Actually, I don’t feel strong or empowered at all. But at
least I look good. Yesterday’s outletting trip yielded a pastel, flirty skirt and a baby blue top. Pastels are the new black this year, apparently. And the baby blue top, so Rachel and Tish tell me, brings out the creamy bloom in my cheeks (okay, so the bloom in my cheeks is the result of clever makeup) and enhances the baby blue of my eyes (dark shadows under eyes cleverly hidden by concealer).

After all, one should always look as good as possible when being dumped by one’s boyfriend, and under different circumstances, this would be a great look for me.

“Emma,
carissima,
my poor darling.” Luigi—otherwise known as Steve from Brooklyn but he thinks Luigi fits better with the rustic Italian ambiance of his restaurant—takes my hands and kisses my cheeks. “Sylvester called me and told me all about it,” he tells me, shaking his head. “I have the perfect table for you.”

Everyone knowing your business is one of the downsides of Sylvester and David knowing every gay (and straight) restaurateur in Greenwich Village. I make a mental note to have a word with Sylvester about this.

As Luigi leads me to a secluded corner, my empowerment shrivels just a bit more at the thought of the forthcoming confrontation with Adam.

The table is very private, because apart from being at the far corner of the restaurant, Luigi has artfully arranged very large potted plants all around the area. This is a very sweet thought.

“Mario is your waiter for tonight,” Luigi says. “He knows all about Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam, so he’ll be watching out for you in case of trouble.”

Rachel’s theory about men seems to be catching on.

“Emma.” Mario beams at me. “No worries. One false move from him and I’ll beat him to a pulp.”

Adam, as you may have gathered, is not the most popular of people on account of being rather condescending to the wait staff. Plus, he does not tip generously.

“Thank you, Mario, but I can handle it,” I tell them both with more courage than I feel. “Just don’t use the best china in case I get the urge to throw something. Hahahaha.”

“Brava.”
Luigi nods approvingly as Mario places a basket of bread and a bowl of olive oil on the table. “Here, eat something. You need to keep up your strength.”

“Compliments of the house.” Giorgio, the wine waiter, flourishes a bottle of very expensive wine and pours me a glass. “For stamina and courage.”

Does everyone in this place know about Adam? I really must speak to Sylvester and David about this…

But anyway, back to Adam. He’s late. And that’s odd, because he hates lateness. God, you should have seen the way he behaved last month when I was a bit late meeting him at the theater. We went to see
Rent
—free tickets from a happy client. Perfect Pantyhose, I think. Anyway, he hated the show, but I
loved
it. Also, I think the theater wasn’t posh enough for him, on account of not actually being on Broadway but on a side street. Plus, it was full of tourists. Adam is not keen on tourists. (Now I think about it, Adam isn’t very keen on many people.)

He was so red-faced by the time I
did
arrive I thought he was going to explode. In fact, he was so pissed he barely spoke two words to me the whole evening. I was only
ten
minutes late, on account of having to stop at an ATM machine to get some extra cash. You see, I needed the money to pay for the expensive supper we’d planned for later. But my credit card was maxed out so I couldn’t use that, obviously, so I had to have the extra cash.

Adam totally believes in equal rights, so equal shares of the check. Which, now I come to think of it, is very mean when one of us makes six figures (plus lovely bonuses) and the other makes just over thirty thousand…I thought that was fair, at first, on account of not having to pay rent. At least now I’ll save a fortune on expensive dinners…

Oh, why didn’t I see him for what he was? A mean, hard-to-please ionic bonder…

I went to see Jacintha Bridges in Human Resources this morning. Obviously, I can’t continue working with Adam. So I’m working for Jacintha starting next Monday. I didn’t mention Adam’s name at all, and neither did she. She’s very diplomatic, as well as psychic. Yes, I think I can make human resources my thing, rather than advertising.

Angie (Cruella) was very nice to me today, now that she’s getting my job. I showed her what to do, and told her about Adam’s likes and dislikes re: coffee and sandwiches. She laughed and raised her Cruella eyebrows, as if to say, “You gotta be joking.” I feel, somehow, that she won’t be the fetch-coffee-go-get-lunch type of secretary.

6:15
P
.
M
.

No sign of Adam. Oh, God. Not only is he cheating on me, he’s standing me up for my own break-up scene!

“Drink more of the wine,” says Luigi from behind a potted plant. “Build up your courage.”

6:25
P
.
M
.

Every time I take a sip of wine, either Mario, Luigi, or Giorgio fills my glass to the brim. It’s nice that they’re so concerned about me, but I don’t really want them hiding in the potted plants all evening.

“He’s here,” Mario hisses at me.

Oh, God.

“Oh, good,” I say, as my stomach lurches with nerves.

“Don’t forget,” Giorgio says. “One false move and we’ll surround him.”

What do they imagine Adam will do to me? Or maybe they’re more concerned about what I will do to him…

Oh. Here he is.

My courage falters badly at the sight of him. Gorgeous and tanned, he’s wearing his deep blue cotton shirt and stone
chino pants. I’d forgotten just how handsome he actually is…How can he wear my
favorite
outfit? I bet he did it on purpose, you know, just to add agony to insult.

“Adam,” I say evenly, as I take another sip of wine.

“Hello, Emma.” He smiles a little uncertainly at me as he waits for Mario to pull back his chair. But Mario has receded to a place behind the large palm, because as I spot him peeking between the leaves he flashes me a thumbs-up. Adam will just have to learn how to sit down without assistance, I think, biting back the urge to giggle hysterically.

“I see you’ve already ordered a bottle of red.” Adam inspects the label and I want to tell him to forget about the bloody wine. “Hmm—good vintage. But I think I’ll have white—I’m in a fish kind of mood. Waiter.” Adam snaps his fingers very rudely. “Bring me the wine list.”

He’s in a
fish
kind of
mood?
How can he be hungry at a time like this?

“You look…great.” Adam flashes his perfect teeth at me.

“Well, what did you expect?” I ask. “Sackcloth and ashes?”

But my comment falls on deaf ears as Giorgio brings the wine. Adam tastes the Chablis, scowls, and sends it back, which is another annoying habit of his. There is probably nothing wrong with the wine.

“Let’s not bother with the first course,” Adam tells me. “Let’s head straight for the main course. I’ll have the wild salmon.”

I know that I’ve hardly uttered a word so far. Where do I begin? How can he even think about food? So I order the same, even though I’m not sure what the difference is between normal salmon and wild salmon. Probably the wildly inflated price we (Adam) will be paying for it.

Luigi winks at me from across the restaurant and I take a deep breath. The sooner this is over the better.

“So, Adam, don’t you have something to tell me about Stella?” There. I said it.

“I was going to wait until we’d eaten,” he begins, pausing to reach over the table and squeeze my hand.

I flinch and pull away. But he hardly seems to notice.

“It’s such a relief to have it in the open. I hated sneaking around behind your back. Stella told me to tell you, but I really didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Good old Stella,” I say. “How thoughtful of her.”

“Yes, she is a very thoughtful person,” Adam tells me earnestly, and I want to cry. He is so engrossed in Stella that my sarcasm is lost on him.

“The thing is…I can’t tell you what a tower of support you’ve been for me. Over the past few months you’ve helped me get over Sabrina’s rejection. You’ve been so sweet and kind. My recovery is all due to you, Emmeline. I really appreciate your friendship and encouragement. You’ve made me see that it is possible to love again…”

Oh God, this is more than I can take. Come on, Adam, spit it out.

“I never meant to fall for Stella. I suppose because we’ve been working together so closely, it just sort of crept up and swept me away before I knew what was happening. I just can’t
believe
she feels exactly the same way about me.”

And because I am so totally shocked that I am sitting here with my tongue glued to the top of my mouth, Adam takes this as a sign of encouragement and continues to wax lyrical about the joy of his new love.

“Stella could have been designed for me. She seems to know exactly what I’m thinking before I think it. Do you know what I mean?”

I cannot believe this.

“But…but…Why didn’t you
tell
me all of this
before?
We
live
together.” I finally find my voice. “How can you propose to another woman when I’m still sharing your bed? That’s…that’s despicable.”

“Emmeline, you’re a really sweet girl.” He sighs.

And then I wait for the
but.

“Really sweet,” he reasons with me. “But let’s face it, we both knew that what we’ve shared isn’t love.”

“
I
didn’t know that.”

“More a question of mutual need at a certain point in our lives,” he continues, as if I haven’t said a word. “And I’m sure you’ll meet the right guy for you, just as I’ve met the right girl for me.”

At this point, our wild salmon arrives. And instead of thinking of all the clever, biting things I should say to Adam, I find myself wondering about it. It is delicately broiled, and beautifully garnished with lemon wedges and parsley sprigs, and I wonder how wild a life it led before it found itself on my plate.

I imagine a heavily tattooed salmon dude, complete in red bandanna, swimming upstream with his wildly partying friends. They all have cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, and are swigging back neat whiskey as if it were soda. I wonder if the trout ever complain about the noise these party salmon make? I imagine that Harry would be a good name for this salmon, and now that I’ve given him a name, I cannot possibly eat him. It would be like cannibalism.

“Of course, you must take as much time as you need to move out of my apartment.” Adam pauses to fork salmon into his mouth, and I just don’t get how unbelievably cool and callous he can be.

“I’ll be staying with Stella in Trump Tower for now, but we don’t really want to live together until after we’re married. She’s very old-fashioned about that.”

Oh, if only I had been as old-fashioned as dear old Stella,
I think nastily. I should never have moved in with him. He thinks I’m
easy!

“I’m not sure if we’ll keep my apartment or not. We don’t really need two apartments in New York City. Although Stella did suggest that we rent my place—real estate prices are going up all the time, and it’s in a great location.”

Adam has totally forgotten that I am here, so wrapped up is he in his Stella fantasy.

And then comes the final blow.

“As a sign of our friendship, I brought you this,” he tells me, pulling a small, ring-sized box from his pocket and placing it on the table. Obviously, it is not a Tiffany’s box because that one was for Stella, not me.