Diary of a Working Girl (24 page)

“I’m kind of dating someone,” I reveal delicately.

She says the magic words, “Do tell,” with a smile, rather than a jealous or angry look, and so I get to spill the whole romantic saga of my current predicament and take the floor for pretty much the remainder of the evening, a state, despite my attempts at changing and bettering (since I feel like an attention-starved, self-centered bitch when I do this), is still pretty much my very favorite thing to do.

When I’m through, she surprises me with a whopper of a comment and I wonder if she is Joanne’s long-lost twin.

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“He sounds like a fuckinnasshole to me.”

I am shocked. Had I not just told her about the roses and the “I am falling in love with you” thing? Had I not told about the skipping of the underwear and the beautiful restaurants and the broken heart and the chocolate cake?

“And ‘you complete me’ is a line from
Jerry Maguire
!”

Is it?

Holy shit, it is!

But so what?

Don’t I myself blur the lines between my own fantasy life and movies all the time? I explain this just means we are kindred souls.

“Don’t you think it jussa li’l bit odd tha you ha’nt seen his aparmen? Tha you don know his lass name?”

What is it with everyone? “He’s got company righ now ann is my faul tha’ I dunno hissname. I never assed.”

Samantha’s got her head resting on her crossed arms now, and she’s shaking it back and forth. She lifts herself for a second to say,

“You juss better be careful. He sounnns way too cool for school.”

When her head bangs back down on the bar she murmers into the wood, “I think I better go ta bed.”

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T w e l v e

Practicality and the Pickle

I spend the better portion of Sunday morning putting cold com-presses on my head and downing water. I am glad to feel sick as hell because at least it serves as a distraction to those awful doubts Samantha tried to plant in my head. She doesn’t even know Liam!

Though I can’t blame her for thinking those things because he does
sound
too good to be true. But, lucky me, he is really that good. Samantha is obviously one of those women who walk around with a negative attitude about men, thinking Mr. Right doesn’t exist. I can relate to that because it wasn’t too long ago that I spent an entire day cursing fairy tales, counting couples, and entertaining the very same thoughts.

But, oh, how love can change you! If I’d upheld that negative, defeatist attitude and thrown my hopes into the trash can for a boring safe guy, look what I would have missed out on. I am so lucky to have been able to bring myself out of the dumps right in the 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 188

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nick of time. I just picked myself up, got myself a new life, and look how everything turned out. I couldn’t be happier.

I guess I’d be a
bit
happier if Liam worked at Smith Barney and therefore my article would have been a success. But I’ll be done with all of that soon enough, when I back out and then—bam!

Perfect life, here I come. I’ll pop that e-mail over soon enough.

“You complete me!” It’s actually funny how similar we are. I’m
glad
he said that. It just goes to show that we share more interests than I’d even thought before. I can picture the both of us, just watching love stories all day long, lying naked, taking breaks to make love to each other, ordering in chocolate cakes. . . .

Two gallons of Poland Springs later, a bit of regional-calling coddling from my grandmother (“poor baby!”), and I am a new woman. Joanne and I are going to the café down the block to have some coffee (and chocolate for me).

She’d called me a little while ago and said she needed my advice about something. Joanne never takes anyone’s opinions seriously, so I am very interested in seeing what this is all about.

Maybe she’s thinking of becoming a writer and she wants me to advise her on how to get started! That would be so great. We could find some really cheap office space somewhere and get cute, but cheap, Knoll knockoff furniture from Ikea, or maybe we could get an article placed about our office and Knoll would design it for free!

And then we could work with our desks facing each other and share the burden of pitching, and when editors are nasty, we will be there for each other so it won’t seem all that bad.

I wear my most intelligent, sensitive-looking outfit so that I will look the part of trustworthy friend and literary mentor. This is a lightweight powder blue cashmere T-shirt (soft and warm), a 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 189

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sweater tied about my neck (this is the editorial equivalent of a doctor’s stethescope) and vintage denim (they say I’m still downto-earth), but with no holes or anything, so they come across as chic and not just old and ratty. And even though we are just going down the street, I wear black heels, to show Joanne that you really need to dress more adult in this industry.

Now that I am not monopolizing our conversation with complaints about my love life (or lack thereof), I am free to be a better friend. I am happy to have the opportunity to help her out. I probably have been pretty bad over the past . . . eight years, or so.

This can be a whole new start for us. Joanne will look up to me and ask things like, “What’s a dangling participle?” and I could say . . . well, maybe she could ask something a little easier.

It’s a little bit overcast today, and so I don’t really need the sunglasses, but I feel like they are so elegant, and really pull the whole outfit together, so I keep them on.

“Joanne!” I exclaim when I spot her walking my way. I’m really so excited about the whole prospect of our partnership that I can barely wait for her to come out with it. I do the double air-kisses to get her into the swing of things.

But she says, “What the hell are you doing?”

These things take time.

It isn’t two seconds after she’s sat down when Joanne starts crying. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the heels or done the double air-kisses—maybe it’s too much to handle all at once. I hadn’t known she had the ability to do something as sensitive as cry.

She’s normally either bitter or happy—sadness she finds a wasted emotion.

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an end, and well, sort of disappointed in realizing this is probably not a career call after all.

“It’s Peter. We’re—we’re breaking up.”

Peter and Joanne splitting? “But you’re an institution!” I say.

“I know, I know.”

“But I’ve looked to your relationship as a standard for greatness forever! What could have possibly happened?”

“Lane, I’ve been trying to tell you for a while now. We have not been getting along at all. It’s just arguing about the loud music, the friends that are always following us wherever we go, like we’re fucking Puff Daddy and Jennifer Lopez. And look what happened to them.”

“But you’re so in love! I see the way you look at each other.”

“Love isn’t everything, Lane.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course it is!”

“Sometimes you have to be practical. Peter doesn’t have a job.

He’s thirty years old. And he refuses to go the nine-to-five route.

And while I understand having dreams, I cannot live with his would-be Moby derangements anymore. We have no money. We never get to go on vacations. We never get to eat out or do anything. I want things. I want a family. You know?”

“Money isn’t everything. I mean it’s nice to be able to go to Bergdorf right when the seasons change and buy whatever you want before it sells out, rather than pine over things and by the time you’ve saved up enough to buy it it’s gone already. But money isn’t everything! The idea of struggling together—making your own entertainment like in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
in that scene with the masks—that is so lovely!”

“Lane! Stop it! This is not a movie! This is real life! And I can’t afford to pay all the bills by myself! And neither of us has a rich patron to foot the bill.”

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She does have a point. Wouldn’t that be so nice though? A patron. I’d never considered that option before. It would take a lot of pressure off scrapping this article if I didn’t need the money.

“So how does Peter feel about it?” Peter—a second father, really.

“He said he’s never giving up on his dream. He thinks I’m too hard on him and said I should know he’s nothing without music and he can’t be with someone who can’t see that. He’s sick of the fighting, too. He said he’ll never be as practical as I am. We both agreed it’s the best thing.”

Love being thrown out the window for practicality’s sake? Is this really happening? Love conquers all. Doesn’t it? For someone who’s been in a relationship for five years, with someone she truly loves, to pick up and leave is just crazy, right?

“Are you sure you shouldn’t just give him another chance?”

“I’ve given him a million chances,” she says, taking a slurp of her black coffee like it may save her life.

“Well, I’m sure you guys were just caught up in the moment, saying things you both didn’t mean. Why don’t you stay with me tonight and cool down. I’m sure it will be better in the morning.”

“Thanks, Lane. I’d actually love it if I could stay with you tonight. But I’m sure nothing will be different in the morning.

Thank God I’ve got my career and such a great friend. Otherwise I’d really be left with nothing now. I can’t imagine what it’s like to break up with someone and realize you’ve thrown away your whole career and lost touch with your friends. That’s why I’m always so proud of you, Lane. No matter how lonely you’ve been, no matter who you’ve gone out with—as crazy as you’ve gotten with some of them—you’ve never lost sight of your career goals. I know I don’t say it a lot, but I am very proud of you, Lane.”

You know—she’s right. I’ve complained my fair share. Sure I have. And I’ve procrastinated
a bit
in the past. But in the end, I al-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 192

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ways pick myself up and keep pitching and giving my all to those boring, meaningless articles that I have been assigned. People are always complimenting me on how I push myself, and I never really pay attention. But it’s true. How many people can just make themselves wake up in the morning and work—oftentimes with no assignments and no hope of assignments? I really have put a lot of effort into my career. And it has always been so important to me.

Is it possible I’m taking too big of a risk with Liam? I’d always thought that Joanne and Peter were the perfect couple. They were always embarrassing me at restaurants, smooching and whispering.

They spent every night together. This all seems so strange. What if Liam and I don’t work out? What if I wake up one day, having thrown my whole assignment, and with it my career, out the window, and Liam and I break up?

It cannot happen. It simply cannot happen.

I’m suddenly glad I haven’t sent that e-mail to Karen. I will make this article work. I will find a way. I am a resourceful woman.

I can definitely find a way. But first things first—Joanne.

We spend the rest of the day doing the things you do when one girlfriend is mourning a breakup (unless of course, that girlfriend is me and you’re sitting on your couch crying your way through
Cinderella
). We drink lots of wine. We make fun of the bad things about Peter—he wore bikini underwear; he drooled on his pillow; he couldn’t go to sleep without calling his mommy to say good night.

When this method of entertainment wears thin, we go for pedicures and gossip about the celebrities in the magazines. I suggest a wickedly caloric meal, but Joanne doesn’t believe in such things (her parents were hippies and raised her on organic sprouts and 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 193

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couscous). So we settle for take-out from the Chinese restaurant and watch stupid high school movies—
Bring It On, 10 Things I
Hate About You, She’s All That
, while the leave-in conditioner works its magic under our shower caps.

“We should do this more often,” I mutter as Joanne is smoothing a green mask around my face.

“You know what would be really fun?” Joanne asks.

“What’s that?” I inquire, tasting, by accident, a bit of green mask.

“If we went outside like this, went into the deli, and just acted totally normal—as if we didn’t have green crud all over our faces.”

I’m so glad Joanne is taking this so well that I’d probably go outside naked if it would keep her smiling.

“Sure! Why not?” I say, tossing caution to the wind and spinning my key ring around my finger as if I’m cool as a cucumber walking outside my apartment looking like a cucumber.

In the childish spirit we’re in, we opt for the stairs and race down. Joanne wins (only because I let her, of course—you know—

to raise her spirits) and I’m pretty breathless by the time we reach the front door of the lobby. People walk by. Oh, I hadn’t thought of them, only the guys in the deli, who already know my style from my multiple pajama expeditions. A couple is walking hand in hand, staring at me and Joanne like we’ve left our minds somewhere in the paint jar and when they reach us, Joanne turns to me.

“Do I have anything on my face?” she asks in coquette-l’il-ole-me mode. I totally lose it and by the time we get to the deli there are skin-colored streaks of laughter-induced tears running through my otherwise green face.

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anything out of the norm, but every time one of us tries to open our mouths, we just start cracking up.