Marrying Up (20 page)

And another thing…someone else’s face kept popping into my mind at the most intimate moments. At first, I tried to push him away. What the hell was he doing there anyway? Afterwards, though, I realize that my fantasy visitor provided the only bright spots in an otherwise subpar eighty or ninety seconds. So I welcome my subconscious desires into the forefront of my mind and fall asleep thinking of plaid shirts and work boots, the smell of sawdust in my nostrils.

The light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows wakes me early. I lie there for a while, trying to get my thoughts and stomach in order. The better the wine, the worse the hangover.

When I return from the bathroom, Vale is awake. I slip back into bed and snuggle up next to him.

“Happy birthday, Holly,” he whispers. “Twenty-nine looks good on you.”

“Thanks.”

“I have something for you.” He leans over me and opens the night table drawer. “And don’t say ‘You shouldn’t have!’”

Why on earth would I say that? A girl has the right to expect a little something from her man on her birthday, doesn’t she?

“Uh, okay.”

He passes me a small turquoise box. Tiffany & Co. Not ring-size, but definitely jewelry.

“Wow! Thank you, Vale. But where’s the card?”

He props himself up on an elbow. “Just open it, smart-ass!”

Slowly, I untie the bow and flip open the lid. Inside, on a blue velvet pillow, two diamond studs sparkle wildly. Two
large
diamond studs.

“Wow!” I say. “For me?”

“Of course, for you! I noticed the ones you always wear are pretty small and thought you might like an upgrade. Was I right?”

“Uh, yeah! Of course…”

I never thought of my earrings as small. They’re the only diamonds I own, willed to me by my dad’s mother, so to me they’re pretty great. I’d cried tears of relief when I found the stud I thought I’d lost while packing up my apartment in Buffalo.

“Try them on for me!”

I walk over to the mirror and remove my earrings, then take the new ones out of the box.

Vale comes up behind me and kisses my neck. “They’re screw-backs, so you won’t lose them. And you might have to up your insurance. These puppies are three quarters of a carat each! Here, let me help you….” He pulls my hair back.

I slide the diamonds into my ears, screw on the backs and stare at myself. A skinny girl with a plain face, wearing an expensive bra and earrings that cost more than all the jewelry her mother has ever owned.

“Gorgeous,” he breathes.

I turn to face him. “Thank you Vale. They’re beautiful.”

“I knew you’d like ’em. Happy birthday.” He gives me a quick kiss, then goes to put his pants on. “I have to make a phone call to Chicago. It shouldn’t take more than an hour, an hour and a half, tops….”

“But it’s Sunday!”

“I know, hun. And while others are resting, I’m billing four hundred ninety-five an hour.”

“Okay,” I sigh.

“Why don’t you take a nap? You must be tired…we didn’t get much sleep!”

“Maybe…”

“Come on—it’s your special day and you deserve to be lazy.”

“I guess.”

“That’s my girl!” He smiles and pads off. I hear the door to his office close.

I put my old earrings into the Tiffany’s box and slip them into my purse. “Better not forget these…”

Instead of going back to bed, I take a good, long soak in Vale’s enormous bathtub—set on a raised podium next to a window with views on the Bay—and think about the night before.
Mediocre, at best.
The stuffed dates, on the other hand…now
those
were something special.

I get dressed, grab my purse and knock on the door to Vale’s office. It’s been over an hour, and by the look on his face when I walk in, I can tell he isn’t anywhere near to being finished.

“Hang on a sec,” he says into the receiver and puts whomever he was talking to on hold. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving, hun!”

“Yeah, sorry. I forgot I had lunch plans with George. She wants to take me out for my birthday.”

He makes a pouty face.

“Will I see you this week?”

“Things are all fucked up in Chicago. Looks like I’m going to have to go out there after all. But I’ll call you….”

“All right.”

“Come here and give me a kiss, birthday girl…”

I go over and give him one. On the cheek.

I have no idea if George is even going to be home, so I’m delighted to find her seated at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, talking on the phone. She hangs up quickly when she sees me and comes over to give me a huge hug.

“Happy birthday!”

“Thanks.”

“So how was last night? Dish! Immediately!”

I smile and sit down. “It was okay.”

“Okay? Just okay? I want details! Tell me everything!”

“It was fine.” She stands there, staring at me. I want to cry, but instead I ask, “So what about you and Quentin? When’s that going to happen?”

“I dunno,” she shrugs. “I’m not ready yet.”

“Not ready? You haven’t had sex in over six months! What are you waiting for?”

She exhales dramatically. “I’m not like you, Holly. I don’t
need
it. I won’t
die
without it. I’m like a…a sex camel. I can go for long periods without any male contact, provided I store up in advance. And the professor and I…I mean Stuart and me…we had that long weekend together right before we broke up. So I think I’m just gonna coast on that for a while. But I want to hear more about you and Vale, okay? So was it any good?”

I’m having enough trouble lying to myself about it, and I’m certainly not in the mood to be convincing someone else it was great when it hadn’t been. “Let me get this straight—you’re waiting with Quentin because you stocked up on nookie half a year ago? It doesn’t make any sense. What’s really going on?”

George’s face turns bright red. “For God’s sake, Holly! I don’t want to talk about it!” She stomps off to her room and slams the door.

Is there trouble in paradise?

Vale has mentioned on more than one occasion that his brother-in-law is still completely smitten with her, so I naturally assumed that things were fine, though I realize I haven’t heard it from the horse’s mouth in quite some time. George has been working really long hours and we haven’t had much of a chance to talk lately. On the weekends, she usually comes home after I’ve gone to bed (since my boyfriend has been off saving the insolvent masses, I’ve been
renting a lot of movies and catching up on sleep). A few weekends ago, when we’d all gone out together—dinner and the latest John Grisham adaptation, which Vale had snorted through condescendingly—they were lovey-dovey enough, although in retrospect maybe Quentin was holding up his end a little better.

I knock on her door. “George? Can I come in?”

A faint “Yeah,” followed by sniffles.

She’s half buried under her giant quilt, her face turned toward the wall.

“You okay? Because I have a really good joke about you being a sex camel and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“Joke?”

“I was going to ask if you were of the one-hump or two-hump kind…”

Instead of the laugh I’d been hoping for, she wails, rolls over, and begins crying again. “Two humps, Holly! That’s the problem! Two humps!”

“Come on, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

“I’m so sorry!” she sobs. “I don’t mean to be such a basket case. But I’ve been feeling a little…a little fragile lately.”

I sit down on her bed and pull the covers back. “Why?”

“Oh, Holly. I don’t know what to do and I can’t take it anymore. I’m
racked
with guilt….”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes… No… I don’t know! It’s just guy stuff. Do they suffer like we do? Do they?”

“Highly unlikely.”

“And I’ve been putting off telling you because I thought you’d be upset. It was going to be so much fun, me and Quentin and you and Vale, just like we’d talked about. And now you and Vale are totally together and, well, I don’t know what to do….”

“Spit it out already, will you?”

“Well… I met someone.” She peeks back to catch my reaction.

“You met someone?”

“Un-huh.”

“Someone not Quentin, someone?”

“Un-huh.”

“Who?”

“Max.”

“Max?”

“Un-huh.”

“Max who?”

“Max Levine.”

I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t. She just lays there with her eyes closed.

“For God’s sake, George. I’m going to need a little more information.”

“He’s Chloe’s son.”

“Chloe, your boss Chloe?”

“Un-huh.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“Does she know?”

“No.”

“I see. So…this is bad because you think she’ll be pissed?”

She nods. “That’s part of it. They don’t get along very well at all. What if she finds out and fires me? What if I can’t find another job? What if it doesn’t work out with me and Max and I throw away the best job I’ll ever have in my entire life?”

“Slow down, George. First things first. Who is this guy? Does he even like you, or is this some sort of unrequited lust thing?”

“No—it’s the real thing, all right. I met him at Fran’s book launch. He was the cute guy with curly brown hair and glasses sitting in the second row.”

“There were a lot of people there. Did you introduce us?”

“No. I only started talking to him after you guys left.”

“If he doesn’t get along with his mother, why was he even there?”

“His therapist suggested they do things together. It’s complicated.”

“Oh. So what happened? You started talking and…”

“We hit it off, like,
completely.
Then everyone was leaving so he asked me over to his place—”

“You went to some strange guy’s apartment you don’t know?”

“Well, I know his mother, so I figured it would be okay.”

“And…”

“And we stayed up all night talking.”

“And…”

“And we didn’t do it that night, if that’s what you’re asking. We haven’t yet. But it was so magical and we kissed and talked and I don’t think I’ve ever gotten along so well with anyone in my whole life! He’s
exactly
right for me—he’s cute, smart and
soooo
funny and sensitive to women’s issues and not gross or vulgar or a slimy kisser at all. Can you believe it?”

My silence must speak volumes.

“But he’s not rich…” she continues. “He’s a musician. A struggling musician.”

“Oh.”
Of course he is.

“He was in this really great band for a while, but it didn’t work out. He played me their demo!”

“Yeah?”

“He plays banjo.”

“Banjo. He plays banjo.”

“
Electric
banjo, actually. I know it sounds kinda weird, Holly, but he’s
amazing.
And he’s pretty confident that once he gets another group together, it won’t be long before he lands a serious record deal. His sound is, like,
totally
origi
nal…. It’s sort of this new folksy, half-funk kinda thing with some bluegrass influence, obviously, as well as—”

“George!” I snap. “Focus!”

“What?”

“I can’t believe you went over there when you already have a boyfriend. What about Quentin?”

“I dumped him. The next day.”

“What? You did?”

“There was no spark, Holly. What can I say? I’m a romantic—I want it all.”

“But how come you didn’t tell me?” I hate being out of the loop. It makes me feel neglected
and
neglectful.

“I’ve hardly seen you!”

“Yeah, but still—this is the kind of thing you make time for. God, I can’t believe Vale didn’t tell me.”

“I doubt he even knows. Quentin left town the next day. He said he needed to get away.”

“Yeah, but you should have at least waited to see if things work out with Max! What if he turns out be an ass and now you’ve let a good thing go with Quentin?”

“He’s not an ass, Holly,” she says defensively.

“How do you know?”

“Well, you’ll see when you meet him.”

But I don’t want to meet him. I want Quentin and George and Vale and me to live happily ever after together, just like we’d planned. It doesn’t sound like Vale and this Max person will have anything in common, leaving Vale and me…on our own? The thought isn’t quite as appealing, especially now that I know he has backne.

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but is it so wrong to want to go through it all with my best friend? Engagements, registering for china, bridal showers, weddings,
baby
showers, tummy tucks…

“So let me get this straight. You dumped a really nice
guy… A
rich
guy who’s totally into you…for a banjo player you hardly know who has issues with his mother?”

My words didn’t seem cruel until I hear them out loud, and they hang in the air longer than I would have liked.

George stares at me sadly and shrugs. “When you put it like that…yes, I suppose I did.”

What the hell is the matter with me?

“Wait, G…that didn’t come out right. I don’t mean to sound so completely awful. It’s not about the money. I know that. If you like this Max guy, then that’s the most important thing.”

“Really?”

“Of course really. I’m an asshole for implying otherwise. I have no idea why I said that. Maybe I’m just a little freaked out today. The last twenty-four hours have been…strange.”

“Oh, Holly—thank you! I was
so
terrified to tell you! I didn’t want you to be mad.” She crawls out from under the covers and hugs me. “I really,
really
like him. He’s amazing. You’ll see…”

She’d been scared to tell me, and who could blame her? I am a gold-digging hussy, just like Remy said. Did my best friend actually think I was going to stand in the way of her and the love of her life? If so, I need to do some serious soul-searching and some major behavioral editing.

Maybe this is the reason I’m having so much trouble writing my book. The idea is great, which makes it sellable, and I think I’ve more than justified the evil-sounding premise—hell, I’m even
living
it these days—but the words just aren’t coming. Is the problem that I don’t believe a single word of it myself? Maybe I want what George has, or at least what she thinks she has—the sincere belief that in this crazy, un-romantic and impossibly random universe, she’s somehow managed to smash right into her one true soul mate.