Do or Di (5 page)

But, turns out I
am
that kind of woman. It only took a week for me to break down. It appeared that my high horse was very unstable and prone to tipping over. Jonathon did throw in some flowers and some pleading voice mails to sweeten the deal. The situation would only be temporary. Jonathon was going to leave his wife. It was more a question of timing.

I
know
every cheating husband says he will leave his wife, but I believed Jonathon meant it. It would have been perfect if we met after he left his wife, but we didn’t. We met when we did. Besides, I had him now; he was the kind of guy who wouldn’t last for long on the open market if I were to wait until he was fully single. He’s attractive, funny, and smart. I didn’t like to see it as cheating, more like I was making a relationship down payment.

Dating a married man is less than ideal. On the other hand, there isn’t much that is ideal about dating over thirty. I wanted to be the kind of woman who didn’t date married men, but that was before I met this
particular
married man. Jonathon was smart and funny – and yes, a liar—and when we hung out together we had a good time. I refused to sleep with him again until he left his wife. This was my line in the sand. I was able to overlook our massive make out sessions. I liked him. I didn’t want to end it, and so I didn’t end it. I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but I can live with it.

* * *

Jonathon was coming for dinner. My condo is a converted warehouse loft on the border of Capital Hill. This part of town is on the cusp of being hip, bordering cool.

I tossed my keys onto the table just inside my door and kicked off my shoes. Whoever invented pantyhose should be shot. Of course, part of my discomfort comes from the fact that I always buy the control top type in a size too small in an effort to appear thinner. I wanted to pull on some jeans before Jonathon showed up. I hoisted up my skirt and started to shimmy out of my sausage casing when I noticed there was someone sitting on my couch. It was the kid from Positive Partnerships. I bounced on one foot for a minute, caught off guard, and then fell against a wall. My little toe caught the nylon and tore a hole. I stood up, the crotch of the panty hose just below my knees. I tried to look imposing.

“Excuse me. Can I help you?” She sat on the couch, her legs folded up underneath her while she flipped through a magazine, my copy of
Newsweek
. I had to fight the urge to look at the door and make sure I was in the right condo.

“This is actually kind of interesting. At first I wished you had a
Vogue
or something, but I actually sort of liked the articles.” She looked up with a smile.

“Okay.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. She didn’t seem like a burglar. She wasn’t stealing anything—not that there was much to take, mind you, but she was just sitting on my couch. On the other hand, it wasn’t like I’d invited her, and who knows what these at-risk youth are up to? Maybe because I didn’t join the program she’d turned to a life of crime. “Um, Diana, how did you get in here?”

“I slipped the lock. You should use a deadbolt; your lock is like kindergarten easy.”

“You broke in?”

“I didn’t break anything, that’s how easy that lock is. All someone needs to do is jiggle the handle and slide a card in the jamb. I would have called, but I didn’t have your number. The woman at the center said you weren’t going to sign on for the program.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to help, but I don’t have the time right now to devote to someone. You deserve a mentor who has the time to give you what you need.”
Like some serious therapy
. “Besides, you were pretty clear that you weren’t looking for a mentor.” I would have liked to cut a more intimidating figure, but it’s hard to look together when you’re in a pantyhose bear trap.

“Fair enough. The thing is, my social worker told me I pretty much have to do the program, so I had this idea. I don’t need a mentor, but I could be
your
mentor. Princess Diana was known for her charitable work and I’m sure there’s stuff you need help with, so you could be like my project.” She looked over at me. “Well, like our project.”

“You realize of course that Princess Diana is dead,” I said in the hope of startling her back into reality.

“Wow. Don’t feel like you have hold back on what you think.” She wrinkled her nose and shifted on the couch. “It reminds me of your radio show today, that woman called in who’s sleeping with a married man. As you can imagine, given the Camilla situation, it’s a topic on which Diana and I have a strong opinion. You should have come out much stronger against it. Dating married guys? Bad plan,” she said, tucking her blond hair behind one ear.

My eyes narrowed as I looked at her, and I felt the tension in my stomach unknot as it came to me. I bent down and yanked the pantyhose off.

“Okay, now it’s making sense. Who put you up to this? Colin?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ll admit you had me going, but you can let it go now.” I tossed the crumpled ball to the floor. I sincerely hoped there wasn’t a video camera involved in this prank. All I needed were shots of me yanking my skirt up being passed around the office. I had no idea what Colin was thinking involving this kid in one of his pranks. I couldn’t tell who was crazier, him or her. I would have thought it was beneath even him to involve kids.

“I’m not joking.” Diana drew herself up straight. “I would think you would feel lucky. Not everyone has a personal connection to Princess Diana. It’s sort of a big deal.”

“You’re nuts,” I told her.

“The tabloids tried to make out that Diana was crazy, but I can tell you, both of us are one hundred percent sane.”

That’s when it occurred to me: she might really be crazy. Not just odd or quirky, but full-blown crazy, the kind of crazy where your sweater’s sleeves tie behind your back. Granted, she didn’t have that homeless wacky lady look, she looked more like a shy teenager, but she
did
break into my apartment and was under the delusion she was channeling the spirit of Princess Diana. She could have heard me on the radio today and decided I was one of the voices in her head. You see Lifetime Movies of the Week with this kind of plot all the time. Next thing you know she could have me chopped up and start hiding my body parts in various Dumpsters around town.

“I think you need to leave,” I said. “It’s not appropriate for you to be here.”

She turned and put a hand on her hip with one eyebrow raised.

“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you? I need you to get my social worker off my back, and in exchange there’s all kinds of stuff I can do to help you.” She stood up quickly and I backed away. “Want to go through your closet? I can give you all sorts of advice. Fashion is kinda one of my things.”

“Okay, that’s it. You need to leave right now. If you don’t leave I’m calling the cops.” I grabbed the phone off the table and held a finger poised over the dial pad in what I hoped was a threatening way.

“Look, I’ve got to stay in the program so there has to be a way for us to work it out. I really can help. You dress all wrong for your body. Your clothes chop you up.”

“I didn’t ask you for fashion advice. Besides, you were quite clear you didn’t want me as a mentor.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Turns out if I’m not in the program then social services is going to step in and I don’t want that.” She looked at the phone in my hand. “Calling the cops is a bad plan.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked, my voice turning a bit shrill.

“No.” She looked disappointed in me. “It was advice. It would be best if you would start taking my advice instead of questioning everything. You know there’s no shame in taking advice. Lots of people need some help.” She turned back and headed toward the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking out the rest of your place.” I watched her walk away. The girl thought she had some kind of special direct line to Princess Diana and wouldn’t leave my house. What was I waiting for her to do, find the knives in the kitchen and decide she was now channeling Hannibal Lector? I took the phone and dashed down the hall to the bathroom. It’s the only room with a locking door. I sat on the toilet and called 911.

“Emergency Services: Fire, Police, or Ambulance?”

“Police.”

“Nature of your emergency?”

“Break and enter. She’s still in the house too,” I hissed into the phone. I could hear the operator’s typing increase speed.

“The intruder is still in the home. Is that correct?” She didn’t pause for me to answer. “Are you in a safe location or can you flee the area?”

“I’m locked in the bathroom.”

“Stay with me on the line. I’ve dispatched the police. You’re going to be okay.” I sat on the toilet grasping the phone while I listened to the crazy girl wandering around my place. I knew I should have insisted on an elementary school kid. Didn’t I tell that program coordinator we weren’t well suited? What was she doing out there?

“Hey.” Diana called out, tapping on the door. “Are you coming out of there?”

“The police are on their way. You should get out,” I yelled through the door, feeling ever so much braver now that I knew the cavalry was on its way.

Diana sighed. “Seriously? I can’t believe you actually called the cops.”

I heard knocking at the front door. Do the police knock? I pictured a much more dramatic entry.

“Hello? Erin? Anyone home?” Jonathon called out from the entry way.

“Jonathon, look out. There’s an intruder in the apartment.” I shouted.

“Erin? Oh, my God, where are you?”

I heard his steps echo on the hardwood floor as Jonathon wandered through the apartment.

“Careful, Jonathon!” I pressed my ear against the door. Diana was tall, but I’m pretty sure Jonathon could take her if she went all psycho on him; she didn’t look too tough. She was a tiny birdy thing. That was when all hell broke loose.

“POLICE!” The crash of the door slamming against the wall. A rush of footsteps. A loud “ooph” and a little-girl squeal sounded out as someone went down. I fumbled for the lock and yanked the door open. Jonathon lay on the floor with a burly police officer kneeling on his back, his arm pulled up at an unnatural angle behind him. He let out another squeal. The last time I had heard that kind of sound was a fourth grade slumber party.

“Stay back, ma’am,” the officer yelled as he pressed down, squooshing Jonathon’s face into the floor. There was a brittle crack as the earpiece on his glasses gave way and a piece of plastic spun in circles across the floor.

“Let him go! He’s not the person who broke in. She’s over there.” I pointed at Diana, who stood against the far wall looking over her fingernails as if getting a touch-up on her chewed fingernails was the most important thing going on.

“What?” The officer looked up. “Her?” He stopped genuflecting on Jonathon’s back. He looked at Diana, who bowed her head and looked up at the officer through fluttering lashes.

“Yes, her.” I pointed. Honestly, what is the IQ required these days by the police department? You would think they would have some sort of testing; after all, they let them carry guns. It doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes levels of detection to identify the suspect since there were only the two of them and I had eliminated Jonathon. I hope this cop never plays the game Clue—who did it with the candlestick would take this guy hours to figure out. Jonathon stood rubbing his back; his glasses hung off one ear. Everyone looked at me. “I want her arrested. She broke in here. I think she may have some mental health challenges.” I crossed my arms and looked over at her. I felt a little bad for her, but not so much that I didn’t want to see her dragged out by her blond hair, imaginary tiara and all.