The Boy Next Door (8 page)

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: My butt

You are lying. About the muscle tee and about what Tony meant. You know good and well he meant that he’s sick of my size 16 rear
end.
I
am sick and tired of my size 16 rear end. And I fully intend to join a gym.

I just don’t need Tony suggesting it.

It’s his fault I’m this size, you know. I was a size 12 until he came along and started making me his trademark pappardelle alla Toscana with four cheeses and a marsala wine sauce every night. “Oh, baby, come on, just try a taste, you’ve never had anything like it.”

Ha!

And what about his rigatoni alla vodka? Vodka, my ass. That’s a cream sauce, and nobody can tell me any different.

And as for being called a Botticelli Venus, believe me, there are better things to be called.

Now, what’s the dog guy really wearing?

Nad :-/

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: What he’s wearing

What do you care what he’s got on? You’re engaged.

But if you insist….

Let me see, he is laying (or is it lying? No wonder they stuck me on Page Ten) on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt (sorry, no muscle tee—you’re right, I was lying to see if you were paying attention). He has his laptop out again. Paco is there beside him. Paco is looking disgustingly happy, I must say. That dog never looked that happy when I was over there. Maybe—

Oh, my God! No wonder that dog is happy! He’s feeding him Alpo—on the bed! That dog is getting Alpo all over Mrs. Friedlander’s guest room’s chenille bedspread! What is wrong with this man?
Doesn’t he realize chenille has to be dry-cleaned?

This is so pathetic. This is so pathetic, Nadine. I mean, the pathos of it all just suddenly came washing over me. I am sitting here in my apartment, recording the guy next door’s activities for my best friend, who is engaged. Nadine, you are getting married! And what am I doing? Sitting here at home in my sweats e-mailing my girlfriend.

I AM PATHETIC!!! I am worse than pathetic, I am—

OH, MY GOD. OH, MY GOD, Nadine! He just saw me. I’m not kidding. He just waved!!!

I am so embarrassed. I am going to die. I am going to—

Oh, my God, he’s opening the window. He’s opening the window. He’s saying something to me.

I’ll get back to you.

Mel

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: WRITE BACK!!!!

If you don’t write me back tonight, I swear I am calling the cops. I don’t care if I’m just like your mother. You don’t know anything about this guy, except that his crazy aunt lives next door to you and he has a naked picture of himself up in the Whitney. Which I think you and I need to take a little field trip on Tuesday to see, by the way.

WRITE BACK TO ME…

or the boys from the eighty-seventh precinct will be paying you another visit.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Tony Salerno

Subject: Cut it out

I’ve been trying to get through to you for the past two hours, but your phone’s been busy. I can only assume that either it’s off the hook because you don’t want to talk to me, or you are yakking it up on-line with Mel. If it is the latter, go off-line and call me at the restaurant. If it is the former, stop being such a spaz.

All I said was if you’re that freaked out about this whole wedding dress thing, get a personal trainer, or something. I mean, jeez, Nadine, you’re driving me crazy with this whole size 12 crap. Who CARES what size you are?
I
don’t care. I love you exactly the way you are.

And I don’t give a rat’s ass how many of your sisters have worn that stupid dress of your mother’s. I hate that dress anyway. It’s ugly. Just go out and buy a new dress, one that fits you the way you are NOW. You’ll feel better in it and it will look better on you. Your mother will understand, and who cares what your sisters think? Screw your sisters, anyway.

I have to go. Table 7 just sent back their salmon because it was undercooked. See what you made me do?

Tony

To: Tony Salerno

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Excuse me…

but I do not appreciate your attitude toward my sisters. I happen to like my sisters. What if I said screw your brothers? What if I said screw your uncle Giovanni? How would you like that, huh?

It’s all very well for you to talk. All you have to do is throw on some rented tuxedo.
I
on the other hand have to be radiant.

DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND???

God, it’s so easy to be a man.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: No big deal

He just couldn’t figure out how to work his aunt’s electric can opener. He bought Mr. Peepers some actual tuna in order to lure him out from under the bed. It didn’t work, of course. I suggested next time he buy tuna in water rather than in oil. I don’t know that cats like oil so much.

Anyway, while I was there, he asked which was the best place in the neighborhood to order Chinese from. So I told him, and then he asked if I’d had dinner, and I said no, so he asked if I wanted to order with him, and so I said yes, and we had barbecued spare ribs, cold sesame noodles, moo shu pork, and chicken with broccoli.

And I know what you are going to say now, and no, it was not a date, Nadine. For God’s sake, it was only Chinese food. In his aunt’s kitchen. With Paco sitting there, waiting for one of us to drop something so he could vacuum it up.

And no, he didn’t make a pass at me. Max, I mean, not Paco. Although I don’t see how he could resist, seeing as how I’m sure I was quite stunning in my it’s-Saturday-night-and-I-don’t-have-a-date sweats.

The fact is, Dolly has to be wrong about Max. He’s no ladies’ man. It was all very casual and friendly. It turns out we have a lot in common. He likes mysteries and so do I, so we talked about our favorite mysteries. You know, he is quite literary, for a photographer. I mean, compared to some of the guys in the art department at work. Can you picture Larry conversing knowingly about Edgar Allan Poe? I don’t think so.

Oh, God, a horrible thought just occurred to me: What if all that stuff Dolly said about Max is true, and he IS a ladies’ man? What does that mean, seeing as how he didn’t make a pass at me?

It can only mean one thing!

Oh, God, I’m hideous!

Mel

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Go take a Midol…

would you, please? You are not hideous. I’m sure all those things Dolly said about Max Friedlander aren’t true. I mean, it’s DOLLY, for God’s sake. She used to have YOUR job. Only unlike you, she wasn’t exactly scrupulous about what she reported. For instance, I sincerely doubt she’d have felt your moral outrage over what Matt Damon did to Winona.

I’m sure Max is a very nice guy, just like you said.

Nad :-)

To: Dolly Vargas

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Max Friedlander

All right. Spill it. What’s the truth about this guy? Because he has basically moved in next door to Mel and she’s clearly smitten, despite her protests to the contrary. Is he really as bad as you say, or are you exaggerating, as usual?

And remember: I am the head food critic at the paper. With a single phone call I can make sure you never get into Nobu again, so don’t mess with me, Dolly.

Nad

To: [email protected]

From: Jason Trent

Subject: So?

You’re not speaking to me now, or what? All I said on the phone was that what you don’t know about women would fill the Grand Canyon. What are you so touchy about all of a sudden?

Jason

To: Jason Trent

From: [email protected]

Subject: So?

I am not being touchy. What do you want from me? Not all of us have a personal assistant, a driver, an au pair, a housekeeper, a gardener, a team of pool maintenance workers, a tennis instructor, a nutritionist, and a job our grandfather handed to us on a silver platter, you know. I’m just busy, all right? My God, I’ve got a full-time job and a Great Dane I have to walk four times a day.

John

To: [email protected]

From: Jason Trent

Subject: You ought to seek professional help

Listen, you psychotic freak: Where is this hostility coming from? You know, you could have a job in your grandfather’s office if you wanted one. Ditto a personal assistant. I don’t know about a team of pool maintenance workers, as, living in the city, you don’t have a pool. But everything I’ve got you could easily have if you would just give up this absurd quest you’ve embarked on to prove you can get along without Mim’s money.

I’ll tell you the one thing you really need that you don’t have is a psychiatrist, buddy, because you seem to be in grave danger of forgetting something:

You do not have to walk that damn dog four times a day. Why? Because you are not Max Friedlander. Got it?

YOU ARE NOT MAX FRIEDLANDER, no matter what you’re telling that poor girl.

Now get over yourself.

Jason

To: Mel Fuller

From: [email protected]

Subject: Hi

It’s me. Max Friedlander, I mean. I’m [email protected]. That’s a reference to Jerry Garcia. He was the lead singer in the Grateful Dead. In case you didn’t know.

How are you? I hope you didn’t actually try those leftover cold sesame noodles yesterday. My share congealed overnight into something resembling stucco.

Look, I think some of your dry cleaning got delivered to my aunt’s apartment last night instead of yours. At least, I don’t think my aunt owns any leopard-print blouses from Banana Republic—or at least, if she does, she unfortunately hasn’t had much opportunity to wear them lately—so it must be yours, right? Maybe we could meet later for a dry cleaning exchange.

Oh, and I noticed there’s a digitally restored re-release of
Shadow of a Doubt
playing tomorrow night at Film Forum. I know
you said that was your favorite Hitchcock. I thought maybe we could catch a seven o’clock showing, if you don’t have other plans, then maybe grab something to eat later—preferably not Chinese food. Let me know.

Max Friedlander

To: [email protected]

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Hi back atcha

Sure. The seven o’clock show would be great. We could go to Brother’s Barbecue afterward. That’s right down the street from Film Forum.

Thanks for rescuing my dry cleaning. Ralph is always getting 15A and B confused. I am forever getting giant bags of Iams dog food delivered to my door. I’ll pop by around nine to pick up my shirt, if that’s not too late. I have a function to attend after work—an art opening I have to cover for my column. This guy actually does sculptures out of Vaseline. I am not kidding, either. And people actually buy them.

Well, talk to you later.

Mel

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: OHMYGOD

HE ASKED ME OUT!!!

Well, kind of. It’s just a trip to the movies, but that sort of counts, doesn’t it?

Here, read this copy of my reply and tell me if I sound too eager.

Mel

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Max Friedlander

Good God, I see what you mean. I haven’t seen Mel this excited since she found out about that
Little House on the Prairie
reunion special (remember poor blind Mary? What a sap. I hated her).

Thank God Aaron’s on assignment in Botswana and doesn’t have to be subjected to the delighted squealing coming from Mel’s cubicle. He is still pathetically hung up on that girl. Why Mel would want to throw away a work-in-progress like Aaron for a wretch like Max I can’t imagine. I mean, at least Aaron has potential. I have known many women who’ve tried to change Max, to no avail.

In other words, Nadine, be afraid, be very afraid. Max is everything our mothers warned us about (well, mine would have warned me about boys like Max if she’d ever been home).

Max’s modus operandi: very intense until he gets a girl into bed, then he starts backing off. By that time the young lady is usually
besotted, and cannot understand why the formerly attentive Max stops calling. Pathetic scenes ensue, in which cries of “Why haven’t you called?” and “Who was that woman I saw you with the other night?” are answered with “Stop suffocating me” and “I’m not ready for a commitment.” Variations on this theme include: “Can’t we just take this one day at a time?” and “I’ll call you on Friday. I swear it.”

Are you getting the picture?

Oh, and did I tell you about the time Max made all the models on a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit shoot ice down their nipples because they weren’t sticking out enough?

Darling, he’ll eat our little Mel up and spit her out.

You didn’t really mean what you said about Nobu, did you?

XXXOOO

Dolly