Diary of a Working Girl (25 page)

The guy behind the counter tries to be funny. “My, you guys are looking kind of green.”

This isn’t very original. Regardless, we fall crouching to our knees, holding our stomachs, unable to catch our breath from laughing too hard. Forgetting I have green on my face, I rest my temple against the side of the white counter, and when I remove it there’s a green print.

“Oops,” I say, looking at the splodge and Joanne’s trying to say something, pointing at the mark, but it’s as if she’s given up language all together, so she just lets out a laugh instead.

“You spit on me!” I exclaim, and here we are literally lying on the floor in hysterics.

“Testing out the new color for fall, Ab Fab?”

Did somebody say Ab Fab? Because there’s only one person who calls me that and there’s no way he’s just seen me lying on the floor in my pajamas looking like a pickle in a shower cap.

Joanne looks first, and with the boldness that comes after you’ve just changed your entire life with one decision, stands up, reaches her hand out, and says, “Great to see you again!”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he assures her, looking down at me as he says it.

“Hi, Tom. What
are
you doing here?” I ask, and rise, smoothing my top down, as it’s the only thing I can think to do to improve my appearance.

“Well, I just went to see a movie at that theater down the street and I remembered you raving about the bagels here. So I came to check it out. You know me and the carbs.”

I hadn’t even remembered telling him about my deli. I guess I’m like EF Hutton—when I talk, people listen.

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He’s wearing nice Gap-type jeans, in a distressed finish. Jeans are really idiot-proof. All men shop at the Gap; you have like, five kinds to choose from and you can’t go wrong. And without a heinous tie, jacket, and collared shirt he’s actually rather striking in a crisp white T-shirt.

“So did you go to the movie with Whitney?” I ask, not seeing anyone in the shop who looked like a possible candidate for Tom’s companion. Unless you count the guy with the three shopping carts sitting at a corner table very loudly gargling Vanilla Coke. I can just hear Whitney’s voice as she enters a place like this:

“Daahling, you really should hire a new assistant. Anyone who’d frequent a drab place like this isn’t really the type of person you want to be associated with.”

“Whit—oh, no. I, um, went with a friend but he had to go meet someone right after the movie. Left before the credits even began.”

Tom scans the room as if his “friend” might magically pop up, lets out a deep breath, and looks back at me.

“I see,” I reply, wondering why he is being so utterly odd, I mean, aside from the obvious reason of attempting to uphold a conversation with a girl in pajamas with her hair in a shower cap and green goo on her face, a girl who just happens to be your assistant, and now, possibly, insane.

Joanne had picked two Heinekens from the fridge, which the cashier had obligingly uncapped, and handed me one now in a brown paper bag.

“If I haven’t told you already, Ab Fab, this is a fantastic look for you. Fabulous.”

“
Vogue
’s calling it Military-Schlump-Shower-Cap-Chic!” I exclaim as I wave good-bye and push through the door.

“Too bad
Tom
isn’t single,” Joanne states as we turn the corner.

“What?” I ask, blinking my eyes in the most forceful way I can 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 196

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muster. I know he looked sort of nice in his casual attire, and he’d obviously just had a fresh haircut. And his cologne did smell sort of like a fresh spring day. . . . But still—this is Tom we’re talking about! Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Boss Man. Not Mr. Hottie Man.

“I just think he’s cute is all. And obviously he has no problems holding down a job. What did you say he is? A vice president?”

“A managing director actually. But never mind! He’s totally not your type. And anyway, he
does
have a girlfriend. You met her, remember?” I’m not sure why I am screaming now, since Joanne is right next to me.

“All right, all right. It was just a thought. But you know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you like him—ooh!” she says, and pinches my butt.

“Yeah, I love him. We’re gonna get married and live happily ever after. You happy now?” I mock like I’m making out with my paper-bagged beer “Ooh, Tom. Oh, don’t touch me there. Tom Baby, is that a cucumber in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

I’m still mid-smooch, soaking my paper bag with saliva when I hear, “Bye, ladies. Have a nice night.”

Tom. Great.

“He definitely didn’t hear,” Joanne assures me.

“There’s no way he could have, right?” I ask, wiping away the possibility with my hand.

“No. I could barely hear you with your tongue all up in that paper bag.”

She’s right. There’s no way. Sheesh. I’m such a worrywart sometimes! So what if my boss thinks I’m kissing a paper bag that I’m pretending is, him? (Right?)

We get back upstairs and I’m peeing with the door open while Joanne is finishing her beer and I’m pretty sure I hear a sob.

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“Are you crying, honey?” I ask. It was bound to happen sometime. You can’t very well break up with the person you thought you’d spend your whole life with and not shed a few buckets of tears. Even if you happen to be stoic, logical Joanne. In fact, each and every one of the day’s distractions was an intricate part of a strategic plan to get Joanne to clear her mind from being so strong and wear her down to get it out. You’ve got to get things out. It’s the only step to really getting down to how you feel. Otherwise you’ll live in a constant state of denial.

When I come out she’s shaking and there’re no tears coming out, but they are definitely on their way if the lakes forming at the corners of her eyes mean anything. Her mouth is so contorted she can’t control the drool beginning to make its way down to her knee.

“Oh, poor baby,” I say, rubbing her hair.

“It’s just, I wish he would just be more practical for once.”

There’s that word again! I don’t want to argue with her at this point, but I think I really need to advise her on this one.

“Joanne, you know, with some people, love isn’t about practicality. It’s about romance and sweetness. And that’s how Peter sees it.”

She lifts her head up, tears now welling up, and places a firm palm in my face. “Lane, do not start with this shit now.”

I remove her hand from my face and start rubbing it, softly, and say, “Just hear me out here for a second.”

And I don’t know where I get this insight from, but it really sounds quite professional. I explain to her that maybe that very im-practicality is what she loves about Peter. And yes, it can be annoying when he’s not getting much work, and having no money obviously sucks. Especially with the warm weather coming in and all of those adorable peasant blouses to choose from this season, and 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 198

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the beaded sandals and the dangling earrings. But that he loves his music, and that his passion for that is what made her fall in love with him in the first place. I go on to remind her that
she
is the practical, rational one in their relationship, and that is what makes them so perfect together. They complement each other. He allows her to enjoy the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants-ness that she never allows herself. And he gets brought down to earth when he needs to by her strength and logic.

“He’s probably at home right now thinking about how much he wants you back,” I finish with authority, and cross my arms, pleased with myself. “The phone’s over there.” I point to my desk.

“Lane Silverman,” she says my name as if shocked this sort of speak is actually coming from me, “that just may be the most logical thing you have ever said on the topic of love. Maybe you’ve learned something in spite of yourself. Now, if only you’d throw out your damn checklists and follow your own advice, maybe you’d be okay.”

But Liam and I are different. We don’t need to concern ourselves with such trivialities. Our love makes everything work perfectly. Even the fact that we are not together right now. It’s not sorrow, it is sweet sorrow—because even our separation is part of our love. We are Bonnie and Clyde. We would never discuss dishes.

We’d toss them all and get a whole new set if they were ever an issue. When you’re both equally romantic souls, the whole equation is entirely different.

My doorbell rings while Joanne is mid-conversation with Peter.

“No, I’m sorry. No, you shouldn’t be sorry. It’s my fault. No, it is.

Yes. I love you, yes, yes. No, no. Yes.” It pulls me from the thought I’m silently mulling over: that other people’s love when not serving to make you depressed on account of no love of your own to speak 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 199

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of, is normally just plain boring, but that this time I am glowing with my favorite people reuniting. I figure it must be Chris, since he is my only building friend, and visitors have to buzz to be let in.

And so, I decide to get one last kick out of the now very dry and tight mask (which is probably peeling my skin off right now).

I open the door and scream, “Raaahh!”

And I am jumping up and down like a wild animal when I see it is not Chris.

It is Liam.

Surely this is not happening. I mean I have worn mud masks in front of old boyfriends. But Liam and I don’t exactly have the mud-mask sort of relationship. Lane! Stop being so silly! Of course he won’t mind. It’s just once! Everyone has beauty rituals to maintain!

“Have you seen Lane?” he asks.

“Liam!” I say in a sweet, high-pitched voice as if I don’t look anything less than sexy. I go to kiss him, but he pulls away.

“Maybe I should come back when you are back to normal,” he says, and I’m pretty sure he is not kidding.

“Don’t be silly! Joanne is just leaving,” I say and pull him into the apartment and run into the bathroom to wash the mask off.

“How are you, Liam?” she asks as she hangs up the phone.

“I’m okay. I hadn’t realized I was walking into a sorority house, but I’m okay.”

Joanne is all giddy and I can’t see what she’s doing, but I hear Liam scream, “Gross! Stop!” And when I walk out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel around my face, I see her squishing him in a huge hug, nestling her green face on his blue polo shirt.

“It’s the sorority ritual,” she says. “All the guys who enter have to go through it.”

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I know this act. Joanne is testing Liam, and with that tone she’s taken on, I can tell I’ll be getting an earful tomorrow. God help the man who doesn’t pass Joanne’s test. Or rather, God help me if that man happens to be dating me.

I never thought they’d like each other too much. They are very different people. I, myself, am a totally different person with each of them. Joanne and I talk about, well, everything—stomach problems, work problems, how big Mariah Carey’s ass has gotten, how annoying my mother is. But with Liam there is no need to be negative or share things that are so commonplace. When we are together we normally talk about—our love, or we spend hours going through the different homes he owns around the world, and what it will be like when we go to each. It’s much better that way. Why do I need to bring up such trivialities with Liam when I’ve got Joanne to share them with?

Two hours later, Liam
Kampo
(last name mystery solved) and I are once again in my bed doing wonderfully devilish things that are far more interesting than discussing Mariah Carey’s tush. I am so lucky! And to make things even better, Samantha calls me, feeling chatty, because it’s Sunday and you know how that goes, and I get to say that I can’t speak because I am busy giggling and cuddling—and I swear—I am crunching microwave popcorn as I say this into the phone.

See Miss Smarty-Pants Samantha—he is here and we’re having a wonderful time together! I’m sure she’ll apologize for what she said the night before, but instead she screams, “Forget about Liam!”

and hangs up the phone. I remember what it’s like to be the lonely one on a Sunday, and so I don’t get angry at her hostility. It’s actually quite romantic, Liam and I beating the odds together, surprising all the naysayers.

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T h i r t e e n

Playing Dress-Up

I am wearing my Liam confidence on my face as I enter the office on Monday, which serves as a fantastic enhancement to my black dress and faux pearls. I am literally glowing as I hang my overcoat up on the doorway to my cubey.

“How was your weekend?” Tom’s voice asks from my telephone. It has become a habit for him to call me, rather than walk five steps out of his office into my cubey.

I think he prefers this habit because it is easier to be a different person when you are on the telephone than it is face-to-face, and he sometimes likes to act like he is a powerful boss man, rather than the sweet down-to-earth man that he actually is. (Or maybe he is madly in love with me and can’t bear to see me, knowing in his heart that I must—being so radiant these days—owe my heart to another? Hah!)

Being the master of human nature that I am (this is one of the 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 202

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blessings of a writer, along with poverty and carpal tunnel syndrome), I sarcastically take on the role of unimportant underling during these conversations, saying, too sweetly, things like, “And shall I bring you a cup of coffee, and purchase a
cadeau
for your
pe-tite amie
?”

He smiles through the phone, I imagine, but tries to retain an air of professionalism and says, “No, that is fine, just what we spoke about, please,” referring to whatever small task he has asked me to perform.