Unravelled (25 page)

Thirty-one

NOW THERE WAS nothing to do but hope... and cry... and listen to sad music while drinking beer in the middle of the day with my hairy legs. I couldn’t believe that in the span of six months, I’d had to go through the grieving process twice! But the first time, I had only been mourning the loss of my relationship with Colin. This time, I had lost so much more.

It surprised me a bit how little I missed Jim. Obviously, it was easier getting over a lying, cheating scumbag than a sweet, loving guy with commitment issues. But it was unnerving to think that I had so recently hoped for a future with a man whose disappearance from my life felt so unremarkable. Of course, I shed a few tears for what might have been, but even then, I wasn’t really crying over Jim. More often than not, when I thought about my bleak, lonely, childless future, it was Colin I really missed. At least with Colin, I had been able to be myself. But I could almost accept my impending spinsterhood. The loss of the stitch ’n bitch club I could not.

I was still in touch with Angie, of course. Our friendship preceded the knitting circle by several years. But her weekends with Thad in Vancouver and LA usurped most of her free time. Martin and I had maintained our relationship through our professional connection, meeting for coffee every so often. But my friendship with Sophie was a little more tenuous. There was still some contact, usually in the form of a forwarded email joke she’d sent to a number of recipients—usually something about women being much smarter and more capable than men. While I always responded with an:
OMG! LOL! So true! So true!
That was the extent of our relationship. Angie said Sophie and Nicola were spending quite a bit of time together.

My knitting sat untouched in its Safeway bag in the corner of my bedroom. While it would have been a productive use of my ample downtime, I simply couldn’t bear to resume my scarf project. Picking up the cream-coloured yarn would have been too painful a reminder of the precious times I’d once shared with my friends. I hadn’t realized it then, but our Thursday meetings had become the epicentre of my social life. With my solitary career and the deterioration of past relationships with Newlywed, Engaged, and Pregnant, the stitch ’n bitch club members were practically my only friends. Well, I had Mel and Toby, of course, but the fact that I counted a golden retriever as one of my friends was more than a little sad. It was just that he was always so upbeat and friendly that I was sort of starting to enjoy his company. I had to face it. I was thirty-three and a half, and my life was a mess.

Since I’d already lost several months of the year to wallowing in self-pity, I decided to cut it short this time. All the hours I’d been spending alone in the apartment were having a negative impact on my personality. I was even a little concerned I might be picking up some of Kendra’s traits. I’d been talking to my mom on the phone a lot, and was even starting to appreciate the simple comic appeal of
Maid in Manhattan.
I needed to make a change in my life, something major. I discussed it with my good friends Mel and Toby at the dog park on a sunny May morning.

“I’m thinking of getting a real job,” I said.

Mel gave me look. “Don’t degrade your craft like that,” she said. “Freelance writing is a real, viable career.”

“I mean a full-time job where I have to put on nice clothes and go to an office.”

“Oh . . . Why?”

“Because,” I said, sounding disturbingly like a whiny adolescent, “I need more social contact. I need to meet some new people.” Who aren’t afraid to let me near their older male relatives, I added to myself. I had told Mel about my breakup with Jim, but I couldn’t bear to tell her why. With Mel, there was no need for an explanation. “Rebound guy,” she’d said, with an
I told you so
expression.

Mel whistled loudly with two fingers, beckoning Toby. “I couldn’t deal with all the office politics again.”

“I know what you mean, but you and I are different. You thrive on being alone and I just... feel lonely.”

“But I’m not alone, am I?” Mel said in a syrupy voice. Toby, tongue lolling happily, had just joined us. She played with the scruff of his neck. “Oh no, I’m not alone! Oh no, I’m not! I have my precious Toby-Woby-Woo!”

She was going to suggest I get a dog to keep me company, I just knew it. But surprisingly, she clipped Toby’s leash to his collar and said, “What kind of job did you have in mind?”

I shrugged. “Some kind of editorial position at a magazine, I guess. I mean, that’s my background...and I still enjoy the work.”

We began walking back toward Mel’s station wagon. “Well, if you think it will make you happy, then great. I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear of any openings.”

“I appreciate that.”

Mel opened the hatchback and Toby obediently jumped inside. “Do you want a lift home?” she asked.

“I’ll walk,” I said. “It’s such a beautiful day.” My friend stared at me for several seconds. “What?” I squirmed under the intensity of her gaze.

“I’m proud of you,” Mel answered with a maternal smile. “You’ve had a tough year, but you haven’t let it get you down.”

A tough year? She didn’t know the half of it! But her words of encouragement were just the boost I needed to forge ahead. “Thanks,” I said, and then spontaneously gave her a hug. Mel was not really the “huggie” type. She seemed to get all the physical contact she needed from her pet, but the moment seemed to call for some show of affection.

“Okay then...” she said awkwardly, prompting me to release her. “We’d better be going. I’ll talk to you soon.” She got into her car, and turned the key in the ignition.

“Bye Mel! Bye Toby!” I called as she pulled out of the parking lot.

From that moment on, I decided to throw myself into my career. I began my job search immediately, sending emails to colleagues, setting up coffee dates, and updating my résumé. I also researched all the magazines based in Seattle and ranked them from best fit to worst. The arts and culture mags topped my list, followed by city and lifestyle, home and decor, and then sailing and gardening, with fishing a distant sixth. There were a number of environmental monthlies in town, but I wasn’t interested. I wasn’t going to take any chances that my path might cross with Jim Davidson’s again.

When my résumés and cover letters had been sent, I focused on my freelance gigs. I was still writing reviews for “Caffeine Culture” and I hoped to continue even after I was employed full time. It was enjoyable, got me out of the apartment, and over the course of a year, probably saved me about three thousand dollars in lattes and muffins. I’d also picked up a feature on the slow food movement and a movie review. It was enough to pay the rent and to keep me from obsessing about everything I’d lost . . . well, almost enough.

On an overcast Monday afternoon, the phone rang. As always, the sound filled me with a mixture of hope and dread. Could it be Sophie, asking for the resumption of the stitch ’n bitch club? Or Eileen Davidson’s lawyer informing me I had been charged with causing his client undue emotional distress? Or could it be
Northwest Home and Garden
offering me a position? Or
Pacific Fisherman
? Nervously, I picked up the receiver.

“B-Beth?” Angie stammered. Her voice was hoarse, barely recognizable. Oh god. Something was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my heart in my throat.

“It’s—it’s . . .” Her words dissolved into sobs. “Oh shit,” she finally managed, “can you come over?”

“I’ll be right there.”

I practically ran up Queen Anne Hill to Angie’s apartment. When I arrived, I was sweating under my light spring jacket and my breath was laboured. God, I really needed to sign up for an exercise class or join a soccer team or something. I leaned against the wall, exhausted, as I rang the buzzer.

“Come in,” Angie’s voice crackled through the intercom.

Instead of darting up the stairs as I had planned, I took the elevator. I didn’t want to pass out or throw up as soon as I reached Angie’s apartment. When I stepped off the lift, I heard her door swing open at the end of the hall. As fast as my weary legs could carry me, I went to her.

“Thanks for coming,” Angie said, ushering me inside. My impeccable friend was wearing a ratty pair of yoga pants and a rather matronly looking cardigan. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose shiny. Even the lush mane of hair she took such pride in was scraggly and unkempt. Her appearance indicated only two possibilities: Either one or both of her parents had been killed in a car accident, or Thad had dumped her.

“What happened?” I asked, taking her hands in mine.

“He—he b-broke up with me!” she wailed.

At least her parents were still alive. But I knew she’d find little consolation in this fact, given her current state of mind. “Let’s go sit down,” I said, gently. “You can tell me all about it.”

When we were seated side by side on her plush charcoal sofa, Angie spoke. “He s-said that we were in two different places in our lives.”

“That’s ridiculous! He knew when he started dating you that you lived in Seattle,”

“Not geographically,” she said, with a slight roll of her eyes. “Spiritually . . . existentially . . .”

“Oh.”

“H-he said that he needed someone more in tune with h-his being. He said, right now, he just wants to focus on his career.”

“Oh, hon,” I said, sympathetically. “Obviously it’s hard to hear, but if that’s the way he feels, then it’s better that he told you now. You don’t want to waste years of your life with someone who thinks you’re not...” I scrambled for the words, “. . .
existentially in tune
with him.”

She looked at me, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “He—he texted me!! He broke up with me on his BlackBerry!”

“Oh my god!”

“He’s so heartless!”

“He’s so
Hollywood,
” I corrected. “Seriously, Ange—I know I never met the guy, but it doesn’t sound like he is living in our reality. These movie people get together and break up at the drop of a hat! Consider yourself lucky that he didn’t marry you first.”

“I guess,” she mumbled.

A sudden, frightening thought struck me. “Please tell me you didn’t tattoo his name on your ass!”

“No,” Angie said, relieved. “I was still picking out the font from the sample book.”

“Phew!”

“I know.” There was a long pause as Angie blew her nose loudly. “It’s just that... I hadn’t cared for anyone that much since Trent Hanson in eleventh grade.”

I squeezed her hand. Trent Hanson was the high school sweetheart whose painful betrayal prompted her move to Seattle and subsequent reinvention.

“It took me so long to let myself fall for someone again,” Angie continued. “I just feel so used.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly, “I know what you mean.”

“Oh, Beth,” Angie cried. “I know you do. How are we ever going to let ourselves love again?”

“Well,” I said with a sigh, “we just have to remember that there are still good guys out there.”

“Really?” Angie said, skeptically. “Name two.”

“Well . . . My dad . . . your dad . . .”

“Please tell me you’re not planning to date someone that old again?”

“Not without a thorough background check, anyway. Okay... there have to be some quality guys our age, like . . . Martin!” I said, almost jubilantly.

“That’s one . . .”

I thought for a long moment and then added softly, “Like Colin.”

Angie didn’t think she could eat, but I convinced her to let me order us some Japanese food. We sat cross-legged at her coffee table, eating our bento boxes, drinking an Australian Merlot, and discussing our broken hearts. Of course, I let Angie do most of the talking. Her betrayal was the freshest and still the most painful. But as she vented about the stupid things she’d done for love—“That sweat lodge smelled like stinky feet!”—my mind drifted to my earlier revelation. Colin really was one of the good guys. He wasn’t without his
issues,
obviously, but he was a caring, trustworthy human being. And I had let him go, turned him away, told him to get over me ...

“We’ll focus on our careers,” Angie said, slurring a little as she refilled her wineglass. “That’s all we need: a satisfying professional life and good friends.”

I felt a lump form in my throat at the thought of the friendships so recently lost, but I pasted on a smile and clinked my glass to Angie’s.

Finally, exhausted from the emotional upheaval, Angie began to yawn. I put the foam boxes and our chopsticks into the garbage and the wineglasses in the sink. With a hug and instructions to call me any time, day or night, I left. Alone with my thoughts, I walked through the night back to my apartment.

Thirty-two

FOCUSING ON MY career proved a little harder than I had anticipated. The next day I received form letters from two of my top magazine choices: Thank you for you interest in our publication, but we currently have no suitable positions available. We will, however, keep your résumé on file in the event of future vacancies.

They may as well have just said, “Please fuck off. Don’t call us. We’ll call you.” At least I had my other articles to focus on, and I really needed to research taking some kind of exercise class or sports team. I was fighting hard to keep myself from sliding down the slippery slope of depression, but it wasn’t always easy. In my loneliest moments, my thoughts often drifted to Colin and how different my life would have been if only I’d stayed with him, if only I had given him a second chance. I might not have had the exact life I’d dreamed of, but it would still have been better than the one I was living now. I’d at least have a kind and caring man to love, and the stitch ’n bitch club would still be intact.

Thursday nights were still the hardest. I signed up for a yoga class but that only lasted from seven until eight and was a poor replacement for a three-hour session of stitching and bitching. But on this Thursday evening, when I arrived home from yoga to find Kendra sprawled on the couch watching
Legally Blonde
(Reese Witherspoon
again!
), I knew what I would do. Angie was alone, too, her heart still in pieces after Thad’s heartless text message. I would see if she wanted some company, maybe a drink or a piece of cheesecake. We could start our own Thursday-night tradition—the Drown Your Sorrows Club, or the Pig Out Until You Can’t Remember Why You Felt Sad in the First Place Club. Taking the phone to my room, I dialed her apartment.

“Hello?” she answered, after several rings. She sounded surprisingly cheerful.

“Hi,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Oh... uh, hi Beth.” There was an awkward pause. “I’m pretty good, thanks. How are you?”

“Fine. I just called to see how you’re holding up.”

“Not bad,” she said, with an uneasy laugh. “There’s no point moping forever.”

“That’s true.”

“Uh...it’s really sweet of you to call, but this isn’t a great time.”

“Oh, okay... sorry.” I became aware of muffled voices in the background. “Have you got guests?”

“A couple of friends popped by,” she replied, casually.

And then I heard it. “Ange! I’m going to open this bottle of Shiraz.”

It was Nicola’s voice! I would have recognized it anywhere. A rush of realization almost overwhelmed me, and a sick feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. The stitch ’n bitch club was continuing to meet without me! I’d been ostracized. They had chosen Nicola. Tears began to sting my eyes.

“Uh . . .” Angie said, at a loss for words.

“It’s okay,” I said weakly. “I understand.”

“Beth, it’s not like we’ve been seeing each other this whole time. We just got together this week . . . Well, and last week, but that’s it.”

“Right,” I croaked, my voice hoarse with repressed emotion. “I’ll let you go, then.”

“Please, don’t be mad.”

“It’s fine,” I said, the tears now streaming unchecked down my cheeks. In that moment, I felt more betrayed than I had when I’d discovered that I was sort of, in a way, Nicola’s stepmother. It wasn’t the same kind of stomach-turning shock and horror, but in a way, it was an even more painful kind of disloyalty.

“Oh, you’re upset,” Angie said, chagrined. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“Beth—” but I hung up. Alone in my room I was engulfed by an unprecedented loneliness. Just when I thought I’d reached the depths of despair, I received another devastating blow. The tears were flowing now and I felt a painful sob shudder in my chest. I knew I couldn’t hide in my room, suffering this latest betrayal alone. I had to reach out to someone, but to whom? Mel? Kendra? My mom? I had kept the details of my latest breakup to myself, for obvious reasons. What could I say now? “Hi Mom. My latest boyfriend turned out to be my friend Nicola’s dad, who, incidentally, is still married to her mother. But worst of all, all my other friends hate me and are knitting with Nicola at this very moment!” God, it sounded ridiculous. And that’s not to mention the lecture I’d receive on (a) not telling her I was dating someone new; (b) dating someone old enough to be my father; and (c) if we had had sexual relations, had we used the proper protection, because the pill did not prevent sexually transmitted diseases, you know. No, there was no one I could call.

And then, almost unconsciously, my hand picked up the phone and pressed the
talk
button. My fingers were dialing his digits before my rational mind could talk me out of it. Of course, he might refuse to talk to me. He might even yell at me and tell me I’d gotten what I deserved. And it was entirely possible that he had moved on by now. His new girlfriend might even answer the phone! But it was a chance I was, apparently, willing to take. My heart beat audibly as I listened to the phone ring in his apartment.

“Hello?” I could hear sports playing on the television in the background. I prayed that meant he was alone.

“Colin . . . It’s Beth.”

“Beth...” He sounded surprised, but not overtly hostile. “Uh . . . how are you?”

“Oh, you know...okay, I guess,” but the emotion in my voice belied my claims. “I, uh . . . I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

If he said, “Well, I’m just getting a blow job from Tammy here,” I would throw myself out the window. “No . . . nothing. Are you okay?”

“Sort of. I just wanted to hear your voice . . . I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s good to hear your voice, too,” he said, softly.

“And,” I forced myself to continue through the lump of sadness in my throat, “I wanted to apologize. When we were together, I should have been more patient with you . . . and more understanding of your
issues.
”

“No, you were right. I’ve actually been seeing a therapist. We’ve talked a lot about how I let my past influence my present relationships.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah . . . it’s been tough, but I need to deal with it. I mean, unless I want to be alone for the rest of my life . . . which I don’t.”

“I’m happy for you,” I said, sadly. Some girl was going to be very lucky to get the new, improved Colin Barker.

“Thanks. It’s really helped me move on.” I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my heart. Colin continued, “So...how are you? How’s the boyfriend?”

“Oh,” I said dismissively, “it’s over. It was . . . all a lie, really.”

“Yeah?”

He was obviously prompting me to elaborate, but I felt so ashamed. And yet, I had chosen to reach out to Colin as a friend. I had to be open and honest. “It turned out he was married.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yeah . . . to one of my friend’s mothers.”

“What? How old was this guy?”

“He told me he was forty-eight, but he’s really fifty-three.”

“That’s sick!”

“Well,” I said, defensively, “I don’t think age matters that much. Look at Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

Colin chuckled. “I don’t mean the age difference, I mean lying to you like that... And lying to his family.”

“I know.”

“God . . . that must have been really . . . well . . .
gross.
”

“It was.”

“What about your friend? How’s she dealing with it?”

“I don’t know. She doesn’t speak to me, for obvious reasons.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “that would be a little hard to get over.”

“I’m actually more upset about losing her than I am about losing him. Jim was . . . well, I thought he was this great guy who wanted the same things I did out of life. But it was all just bullshit. With Nicola, I lost a true friend.”

After a moment’s hesitation Colin said, “Sorry.”

I decided I’d monopolized the conversation long enough. “So . . . how’s work?”

“Oh, fine. The same. You?”

“I’m looking for something full time. I’ve been feeling a little isolated lately.”

“Good . . . well, good luck.”

“Thanks.” I suddenly felt completely drained, like the exertion of continuing this dialogue could cause me to fall asleep mid-sentence. “It was really nice talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Colin replied, “you too.”

“I’m glad things are going so well for you.”

“Thanks. I hope things improve for you.”

“Me too.”

“Don’t worry. They will.”

I could feel tears pooling in my eyes as I said, “I wish you all the best, you know.”

“I know you do, Beth,” he said, tenderly. “I want you to be happy too. You deserve it.”

“Goodbye, Colin,” I croaked.

“Bye.”

Well, we finally had it: positive closure. Jim would probably be able to get an excellent hard-on now! But obviously, I could not have cared less about Jim’s boner at this stage. Dropping the phone onto the floor beside me, I lay back on the bed and fell asleep.

The next morning I awoke to the phone ringing. It took me a moment to get my bearings. A glance at my digital clock radio indicated that it was 8:42 A.M. I couldn’t believe I had slept so late! I never set my alarm anymore. Kendra’s smoothie-making was more reliable than any clock could be. Had I really been so exhausted that I’d slept through it? Or was it possible that Kendra, for once, had had something quiet for breakfast? Like cereal? Or toast? Obviously it didn’t matter. I grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

“Beth?” a male voice said.

“This is she.”

“It’s Martin.”

“Oh... hi Martin.” The sound of my friend’s voice brought back last night’s betrayal. I wasn’t in the mood to speak to any of the stitch ’n bitchers today, but this could be a professional call. If Martin had an assignment for me, I would have to accept it. My bank account wouldn’t allow me to snub him for his disloyalty.

“Look...” he said with a sigh, “I’m calling about last night.”

“Oh?” My voice was cool as I sat up in bed.

“We should never have gotten together without talking to you first. It wasn’t fair. I felt bad about it from the beginning and I wouldn’t have gone except . . . I haven’t been knitting much since the group disbanded. And then, a couple of weeks ago, I got drunk and had a cigarette. I was afraid I was backsliding, so when Nicola called and invited me, I said I’d come.”

“Fine,” I said shortly. “I understand.”

“But last night, when you phoned, we all felt awful. We decided that we can’t go on like this.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I stayed silent, and let him continue. “It’s not fair to leave you out in the cold just because you made a mistake.”

“Uh . . . no,” I agreed.

“But obviously Nicola isn’t comfortable seeing you anymore.”

“Obviously,” I said, morosely.

“We talked about it for a long time, and I think we have a solution.”

“A solution?”

“You and Nicola can alternate your Thursday-night attendance!” he said excitedly.

“Oh . . . has Nicola agreed to this?”

“Yeah. Honestly, Beth, I don’t think she hates you. She’s sort of... well, disgusted, I guess you could say, but I don’t think she
hates
you.”

“And what about Sophie?” I asked suspiciously. Sophie had been anything but supportive since the night of the rehearsal dinner. I wasn’t sure she’d be thrilled about my every-other-Thursday attendance.

“It was her idea!”

“Really?”

“Really.”

But getting over the fact that they’d continued on without me wasn’t going to be easy. Even if it had only been for the past two weeks, the fact remained that the stitch ’n bitch club had regrouped and I hadn’t been invited. “I don’t know, Martin,” I said. “It’s nice of you guys to try to include me . . .
at this stage,
” I added, pointedly. “But I’m just not sure . . .”

“We miss you, Beth. I miss you.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

After I hung up, I padded to the kitchen and made myself some toast. I sat at the table, my peanut-buttered breakfast and a glass of orange juice before me, and pondered my reluctance to Martin’s plan. In the weeks since Nicola’s rehearsal dinner, I had been pining for the friendship and support of the stitch ’n bitch club. I missed them far more than I missed Jim! So why was I letting my ego get in the way of its resurgence? The phone rang again. Before I even picked it up, I knew it would be Angie.

“What’s going on?” she said, by way of hello. “Martin says you need to
think about
our alternate Thursdays plan. What’s to think about? It’s the perfect solution.”

My feelings were still hurt—especially in relation to my closest friend. “I don’t know,” I said, sulkily. “I’m not sure I really need to be in the stitch ’n bitch club anymore. You seem to be getting along just fine without me.”

“Come on, Beth,” Angie cajoled, “don’t be like that. I know it was wrong, but when Nicola called . . . well, after everything she’s been through, I didn’t have the heart to say no. She needs us.”

“What about everything I’ve gone through?” I shrieked. “I need you guys too.”

“I know you do! And since Thad and I broke up, I need the support group more than ever. We all need each other. That’s why you have to come back—every other Thursday,” she added.