Marrying Up (16 page)
Authors: Jackie Rose
love, holly
p.s. hope you have a good time on your road trip!
p.p.s. children of divorce are more likely to divorce themselves.
Just as I send it off, another message comes through. Maybe I’m not a loser after all! Maybe people back home really are missing me…
From: s7s#g(
*
[email protected]
Subject: R Cheep V!aG
*
Ra Will Make Your C
*
&K Hard!
I press delete without reading it. If it had been an “Increase Yer B
*
r&st Size In 14 Dayz Garanteeed!!” ad…well, that would be another story.
Upstairs, we’re finally making some progress, but you wouldn’t know it from the way Remy carries on about being behind schedule. Why he even bothers with a schedule is beyond me. It’s not like he has anything else to do, though George and I certainly do—we want to see more of the city, take a cable-car tour, find real jobs so that we can be released from servitude. Alas, we’re stuck working from nine to four every single day for a guy with sawdust on the brain (and we were supposed to be
happy
about it, because he wanted to start at eight!). Remy is still nice to look at, don’t get me wrong, but a girl cannot live on proximity to cuteness alone.
During one of our designated thirty-minute lunch breaks, I finally gather up the courage to ask Remy something I’d been wondering since George had brought it to my attention two weeks earlier.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, Holly.”
“I’m curious. Why exactly did you choose us to live here?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“What was it about my application?”
“Oh. You mean why did I pick you out of the countless more qualified renters with better credit ratings and higher incomes?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Sorry,” he says and reaches out to tousle my hair. It’s the first time he’s actually touched me—the first time
any
guy has touched me since Mateo the golf pro—and I can tell exactly what George meant that day when she said he wasn’t gay. “I liked what you said in your personal statement.”
“I still can’t believe you made everyone write a
personal statement!
” George says.
“And five hundred and fifty true or false questions,” I add.
“No!” George squeals and falls to her side, laughing.
“What’s so funny about that?” he asks, chuckling himself. “How else was I supposed to weed out the maniacs and losers?”
“I take it you were a psych major in college, Remy?”
“English actually. I minored in psych. And so what if I did, smartass? There’s no law that says a guy can’t put the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory to practical everyday use in his own life.”
I reach over to grab another slice of pizza from the box. “Is that what that was? I sure am glad I passed, then.”
“You didn’t,” he said. “But you were close enough.”
“If I’m so nuts, why bother with me?”
“To make things interesting, I guess. ‘They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm…’”
I swat him on the arm, now that we’re on touching terms.
“If you want to feel my biceps, girly, just ask!”
George pretends to get up. “I could leave you two alone, if you’d like….”
“No, please, stay,” he says.
“I’d smack you again, Remy, but I wouldn’t want you to take it the wrong way.”
“And what way would you have me take it?”
I try to think of a witty comeback, but can’t. The story of my life. “Seriously. Why did you choose us?”
“You,” George clarifies. “He chose
you.
I had nothing to do with it.”
Remy puts his beer down and leans back. “It’s no big deal. I guess I sort of liked what you said about wanting to be a writer. So I wanted to give you a chance. You seemed very…sincere. And odd. But in a quaint way.”
“Quaint? You think I’m quaint?”
“She’s not quaint,” George says. “Not at all.”
He nods. “Yeah, well, I know that now, don’t I?”
“Thanks, guys.”
“Enough chitchat, ladies! Back to work. These walls aren’t going to put up themselves!”
George groans. “My job interview’s at three and I really,
really
want this one. I’m already feeling a little queasy, so couldn’t I just skip out now? I need to get ready.”
“That doesn’t take two hours.” Remy extends his hand for her to take.
I suppose he could tell she needed some incentive, and it isn’t like he doesn’t know just how damn cute he is.
“So what about you?” I say to Remy later that afternoon. “You know an awful lot about me but I hardly know a thing about you.”
With George out of the house, we’re alone together for the first time, though I doubt he’s as aware of that fact as I am.
“You know plenty about me, Holly.”
“Not really. I know that you’re from San Diego, and that you’re probably not a very good soccer player. But that’s hardly scratching the surface, I’m sure…”
He laughs. “What do you wanna know? And don’t ask me if I’m gay!”
I think for a moment. “How can you afford this house if you don’t have a job?”
“I had a job when I bought it.”
“Did you get fired? What did you do?”
“I didn’t get fired. I’ve
never
been fired. Although I bet you have….”
“But we’re talking about you, now.”
He puts down his hammer and cracks every one of his knuckles, plus his neck. Revolting, without a doubt, yet somehow strangely charming at the same time.
“Okay, for your information, I did have a job. I owned my own company.”
“What kind of company?”
“What do you think? A start-up. In San Jose. My partner bought me out in ’99.”
“That was years ago. You haven’t been sitting on your ass since then, I hope.”
“Funny! But no, not exactly. I bought the house right away as a sort of forced savings. You should have seen it! It was a
complete
disaster! But I knew it would be a good investment in the long run and that I’d always have a roof over my head. Anyway, then I worked with my cousin for a bit, then I traveled until I was afraid I’d run out of money and have nothing left for the house.”
“Are you sorry you sold your business?”
“Are you nuts? I was a genius to get out when I did, or else I’d probably be living in a refrigerator box under the Bridge. As it was, I lost a ton in the market.”
“And so now all you want to do with your life is fix up an old house?”
“You got it!” His gray eyes twinkle impishly, as if he thinks he’s being as bad as he could possibly be.
“So let me guess—once it’s all done, you’re planning to flip it for a huge profit. Very original. I suppose you could probably get double what you paid for it.”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. Don’t care. I just want to live in it.”
“But you’ll need a job eventually,” I say.
“Eventually,” he agrees, and goes back to hammering. “But this is where I am for now. And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing over there….”
I’d been sanding the same patch of old paint off an antique railing post for half an hour to avoid my next task, which is considerably more taxing: installing it. George and I have both suffered severe fingernail trauma on multiple occasions. In spite of our clumsiness, though, the first floor is really beginning to take shape. We have almost all of the framing up and yesterday, George even started working on one of the walls. Unfortunately, once Remy noticed that she’d accidentally put holes through the panels in about ten different places, he tore it all down and made her start over. Still, real progress is being made.
“What about you?” he asks. “How long do you think you’ll be able to go without a job?”
“Don’t pressure me—I just started looking! Something will come up.”
“I bet you’d be happier just writing.”
“Of course I would,” I say. “But I’ve got to make a living in the meantime. Someone’s got to keep a roof over your head!”
He laughs loudly and goes back over to the dwindling pile of two-by-fours, shaking his head.
“I got it!” George shouts from our living room. “Holly! I got it!”
I run out of my room. “Are you serious? Really?!”
Her first interview and she nailed it! This was quite literally her dream job—assistant editor at a little boutique publishing house specializing in, of all things, women’s fantasy and sci-fi.
“I can’t believe it! It’s too good to be true!”
“No it’s not, G—you totally deserve it. This job was
made
for you! When do you start?”
“Monday!”
“That’s in three days!”
“They were looking for someone ASAP. God, I’m
so
relieved. I was beginning to get calluses. See?” She shows me her palms. “Three weeks of manual labor and I’m already a mess….”
“Yeah, yeah, princess.”
“I am just
sooo
psyched!”
She jumps up and down for a while, spins around a few times, calls her moms with the good news, then eventually collapses onto the couch with a bag of Baked Lays.
“You know what else this means, by the way?”
I shake my head. “We’ll have more money?”
“Guess again.”
“What?”
She leans in close. “It means that as of Monday, you and Mr. Wakefield will be working up there every day, side by side,
all alone….
”
“Shut up! You are such a child!”
“Aw, you want him, Holly. You
know
you do!”
“I do not! He’s such a jock. I wouldn’t go near him if you paid me.”
“Yeah, right!”
“I’m serious. He’s so totally full of himself.”
She raises a doubtful eyebrow.
“Okay, so he’s not a
complete
idiot, but he’s definitely not relationship material. He has way too much of that too-cute-for-his-own-good-frat-boy thing going on. I don’t trust it. And he’s beyond immature.”
George snorts in disbelief. “This coming from the woman who sought comfort in the arms of Jean-Jean, a guy who sleeps with a baseball hat on and carries a picture of his bong collection in his wallet.”
“Ack!” I shriek and throw a pillow at her. “I told you never to speak his name aloud!”
“Fine. We’ll see… But I have a feeling about you two.”
“Me and
Bicycle Boy
?”
“No, you idiot! You and
Remy.
If you think you can convince me for one second that you don’t badly want—and I mean
badly
want—the hot-bodied, quick-witted stud boy English-Major-From-Stanford who quotes Dorothy Parker and loves Kentucky Fried Chicken, then you must have me confused with somebody who doesn’t know you very well.”
I shrug. “What you’re picking up on is a fact that I admit freely—I could use a little male attention. We both could. But I’ll remind you that we did not uproot our lives and come all the way out here to have casual flings with the unemployed.”
“Uh, I don’t think he’s doing too badly if he owns a house like this.”
“Yeah, but he probably has a million dollar mortgage, too.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I’m not the one with the crush on the boy upstairs.”
“You really hit the nail on the head, there, G—Remy’s a boy. And tempting though he may be, I need a man. A
wealthy
man.”
“Still, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers…and I’m doing low-carb now!”
“Those chips working for you, then?”
“They’re low-fat!”
I roll my eyes. “And therein lies the problem.”
“One woman’s potato is another woman’s pain,” she sighs, licking the salt from her fingers.
I steal the bag away from her. “You know, George, now that you mention it, we’ve wasted just about enough time screwing around here. Tonight, we’re going out to celebrate your new job!”
“Yay!”
“And we’ll also begin our
real
work, what we came out here for in the first place….”
“I’ll shower first!” she yells, jumping up. “But don’t you dare finish those chips before I get back!”
The Ides of March
J
udging from the glowing three-page tribute in my trusty copy of
The Hipster’s Guide to San Francisco
, the South of Market area sounded like a promising place to meet straight young men of means. At least for now. The bulk of my research actually suggested that we’d be best off heading down to Silicon Valley itself—the string of towns southeast of the city that are home to the world’s largest conglomeration of high-tech companies—but first, I figured we might as well explore the options in our own backyard.
“It’s nice just to be out of that damn house for a change,” George says as we get off the bus at the corner of Folsom and 11th Street.
“Tell me about it! I feel like I’ve almost forgotten where we are!”
The financial district’s glass-and-stone towers loom to the northeast. Were it not for the unmistakable point of the
Transamerica Pyramid reminding us otherwise, in the purplish twilight, it could almost be Manhattan.
And then a streetcar clangs faintly in the distance.
Nope! This is definitely not New York!
The realization courses through my veins like pure adrenaline.
“We should have done this the day we got here!” I link my arm through George’s and we begin to walk. Here is exactly what I’d been hoping for—sleek thirtysomethings dressed in black, trendy nightclubs and restaurants housed in converted warehouses, beautiful people streaming in and out of beautiful cars. We read the names of the places as we pass.
The Public, Caliente, Butter, Wish, Loft 11…
“Look—that one doesn’t even
have
a name!” George marvels through chattering teeth as we walk by one particularly steely spot fronted with mirrored glass windows. The velvet rope outside suggests it might be busy later, although now there’s no crowd to hold back. Just a beefy bouncer in a leather coat talking on a phone by the door.
“Sure it has a name. 808.”
“That’s the
address,
” she explains.
I stop and give her a long, hard stare. “George, remind me—when was the last time you were out of Buffalo before we came here?”
“Florida! With you!”
“Before that.”
“I dunno,” she shrugs. “Probably three years ago. I went to Saranac Lake with my moms, remember?”
“What about the city?”
“What city?”
“New York!”
“Oh! Not since high school, I guess.”
I grab her arm and pull her back toward the restaurant. “Then this’ll be perfect.”
The bouncer smiles at us and pushes open the glass door. Inside, it’s actually quite busy, and the welcome heat of bodies in motion mingles with the aromas of food being prepared. A mirrored, circular bar in the center of the space overflows with patrons, many of whom are
definitely
dating material. Aside from a few hanging chrome lanterns, the room’s light is provided by a ring of connected backlit aquariums set into the wall.
“Hello, ladies.” A gorgeous hostess with shiny black hair pulled into a tight ponytail teeters in front of us in thigh-high stiletto boots. “Will you be eating or drinking with us this evening?”
“Both,” I say.
She grabs a couple of menus and leads us to a dark booth at the back. “The coat check is over there, if you like.”
“I think we’ve found Nemo,” George giggles after she’s left. “And get a load of that guy!”
An enormous angelfish—bright yellow and flat as a pancake—drifts slowly past our faces and on to the booth beside ours.
“He’d be delicious pan-seared with a little sesame oil and lemongrass.”
“First things first!” she says, pulling my menu away. “Drinks!”
“Okay. How about Manhattans tonight? A tribute to home.”
“I was thinking something a little girlier, but okay,” she says. “As long as you don’t mind peeling me up off the floor when we’re done.”
“We’re here to celebrate—you can get as drunk as you like, because starting Monday…you’re a working girl!”
She groans. “Suddenly, I’m not so sure I want a real job. Is it too late to change my mind?”
“Uh, yes!”
“But I’ve never worked in an office before.”
“I know. But it has its advantages. As soon as you get your first paycheck, by the way, we’re taking you shopping. You can’t wear that one suit every day.”
Her face blanches. “Oh shit! I hadn’t even thought about that! I need an entire work wardrobe!”
“Relax! That’s the best part of having a real job.”
“For you, maybe. You have the same body as the mannequins in the store.”
“Minus the tits,” I correct her.
“Whatever. But I look stumpy in suits.”
“Well, maybe you won’t have to wear a suit. It’s probably not quite so formal out here, anyway, so I’m sure business casual will be fine. Just take note of what everyone else seems to be wearing and we’ll figure it out.”
“I better lose some weight before then,” she says and opens her menu. “Oooh—but I bet the seafood risotto is good here. Should I have that? No, I probably shouldn’t. Should I? No. But it’s probably
sooo
good. God, but I’ve been so bad lately….”
“Go for it George. You deserve it. It’ll be a nice change from pizza with a cardboard crust.”
She nods, glad for permission to continue with her eating rampage. Pizza, and occasionally Chinese takeout, is pretty much all we’ve eaten since we arrived. More often than not, it was courtesy of Remy, so we were in no position to complain, although for an unemployed bum, we couldn’t help but notice that he sure blew a lot of money on takeout and beer.
After three delightful rounds of cocktails, the food arrives. Who knows if it’s any good, all I know is we’re having a
really
great time. After vanilla-bean crème brûlées, we move over to the bar and even meet a couple of cute guys (at least, I
think
they’re cute). Nothing really comes of it, though George and I definitely seize the opportunity to flex our flirting muscles.
It’s freezing out by the time we finally leave, and I’m in high heels (another of San Francisco’s many good points—the end of February, and no winter boots!), so we splurge for a cab home. We fall asleep as the car lurches down Market Street, and the driver has to wake us up when we get home. George throws up her very expensive dinner in the bushes on our way inside, but she definitely had a blast, anyway. We both did.
I curl up under my blanket and try to keep the room from spinning by counting sheep. Just as I’m about to drift off, it strikes me how for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am on my own and feeling good about it—no boyfriend, no job, no
therapist,
even! I’m blithely stepping on sidewalk cracks and forgetting to check the oven at night. It has been ages since I’ve recited my relaxation mantra or knocked on wood or blessed myself three times after sneezing. The other day, I walked straight past Deepak Chopra signing his new book at Barnes & Noble and went right to the fiction section instead.
So far, this city is good.
Very
good.
Of course, it doesn’t take too long for that bubble to burst. I should have known better than to think purely happy thoughts. For those of us who live in the real world, the conscious realization that things are going well should also set off a little warning bell somewhere in the back of your mind:
Heads up, girl! Trouble’s a-comin’!
And trouble—this time, in the form of absolute mortification—is exactly where I find myself not two weeks later, standing in Remy’s bedroom, completely unprepared for what has just happened.
He read my e-mail?
My cheeks burn with shame as he stands in front of me, laughing.
“…and I can’t
believe
that you guys came all the way out here to find rich husbands! That’s so…so…
evil.
I only took one women’s studies class, but man—that has
got
to be wrong.
So
wrong!”
“How
dare
you read my private correspondence!” I gasp.
Not much of a defense, but it was all that came to mind in the horror of the moment.
“Hey, it’s not like I went looking for it! I was just trying to check my Hotmail account but I got yours instead. You must have forgotten to log off. Genius move. Not that I have to justify any of this to
you,
since it is
my
computer, after all. And to think—I was nice enough to let you use it. Had I known you were going to pollute it with this…this…
filth!
” He waves his arm dramatically in the direction of the screen. “I certainly wouldn’t have allowed it!”
I know Remy is joking, but I’m in no mood for it.
“Well, if I’d known you were going to invade my privacy so…so
egregiously,
I wouldn’t have bothered! I would have waited for my own to arrive!”
“So
egregiously?
Ha! Are you gonna put that word in your book?”
“You…you
suck!
” I shout.
“Maybe,” he snickers. “But now I know you think I’m, like,
totally
cute. Actually…I believe the term you used was ‘complete hottie.’ You know, you might want to consider writing for
Tiger Beat
instead.”
God. Oh, God.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Holly. I
am
cute. What can I say?”
He is enjoying this way too much, so I try to hit him where it will hurt. “You are possibly the most egotistical, arrogant,
amoral
piece of—”
“Amoral? I don’t think so. Egotistical, maybe. Arrogant, most definitely. But I’ve done nothing wrong—my intentions were pure! It’s my house, my computer, which means
finders keepers.” He grins triumphantly and takes a swig of his beer.
Despite his adorably messy hair and chiseled cheekbones, Remy Wakefield is suddenly very, very ugly. Outrage wells up inside me, and I seriously consider slapping him across his smug, perfect face.
Instead, I decide to take the high road. “Finders keepers?
Finders keepers?
What are you, in grade three?”
“You’re just embarrassed!”
“Of course I am, because you’ve taken it all out of context and it seems so bad. But it’s not like that!”
“It isn’t?”
“No! But I’m too frazzled to justify it to you right now. Not that I have to!”
He stifles a laugh.
I spin around and stomp out of his room, desperate to get away from him.
But Remy follows me down the stairs. “By the way, your big plan sucks. If you’d moved out here a few years ago, before the tech crash, then maybe…but now? Most of those rich guys you’re looking for have gone the way of the dodo, my friend. And I should know—I was one of them!”
“My private life is none of your business. I’m not discussing this with you anymore!”
I pray that he is wrong. He has to be. But I suddenly wish I’d read the business section of the
Bugle
once in a while, instead of getting all my news from
Entertainment Tonight.
“Come on, now. Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“I feel like
strangling
the messenger.”
“Your information is just a little out of date. But it was like the freaking Gold Rush out here in the nineties! Women were coming in droves from all over the world, trying to stake their claims!”
“How nice for you.”
“I had to beat them off with a stick….”
“I’m sure you did plenty of beating off.”
He smiles and looks off into the distance. “We were lighting our Cubans with hundred-dollar bills….”
“As much as I’m enjoying this little trip down memory lane, Remy, I’d really prefer it if you’d just shut the fuck up right now.”
“Whatever,” he says, shaking his head as he walks off toward the kitchen.
“And for your information,” I shout after him, “Finders keepers doesn’t apply to stuff sent through cyberspace! That’s international territory, governed by international law!”
“Whatever, again!” he shouts back at me without turning around.
I sit down on the floor and concentrate on regaining my composure. What an ass. I consider calling Asher to find out if I have a case against him. Surely, the A.C.L.U. would have something to say about such a blatant invasion of a tenant’s privacy. A lawsuit might be the best approach.
Remy comes stomping back from the kitchen, shaking a finger at me. “But for
your
information, what I find in
my
house is mine.
That’s
the law. And if I wanted, I could kick you out on your butt if the contents of your correspondence offend me.”
“Offend
you?!
”
“Yes, me! It’s sexual harassment, and I won’t be subjected to it in my own home!”
“That’s
ridiculous!
”
“No, it’s not! Did you ever stop to think that maybe
you’ve
made
me
feel like a piece of meat? Like an object? Like something pretty to be toyed with, used for his resources, then thrown away? On behalf of all men, I’m offended!”
He’s making fun of me, but still, I want to kill him. Sarcasm doesn’t go over well unless it’s a two-way street.
“I could just as easily sue you, Remy. Under the California Labor Code. You’ve been…umm…unfairly profiting from our labor and blackmailing us with an illegal lease agreement! Without proper compensation or insurance for your workers, I should add, and your flagrant disregard for workplace safety codes is surely grounds for action! What if George or I tripped over one of those thingies over there and couldn’t work?”
He laughs. “It wouldn’t matter ’cause you don’t have a real job!”
“My point exactly! Because I spend all my time slaving away here for you instead of looking for one. Which suits you just fine, doesn’t it?!”
“Yeah, Holly.’ Cause being trapped with you in this house redoing all the work you mess up is exactly what I’ve wanted to do for the past month. It’s already March 15, and I’m weeks behind schedule!”
That hits me. Hard.
I’d sort of assumed that he
liked
spending time with me, that he enjoyed my company, as I did his, but I guess I was wrong. And I thought I’d been doing good work, too, especially these past couple of weeks with just me and him. I bury my face in my hands and begin to cry. I honestly didn’t mean to, but sometimes tears have a life of their own.