Unravelled (26 page)

“Maybe,” I said, softening a little.

“Nicola doesn’t hate you, you know.”

“Really?”

“She has some serious issues with you, of course, given the fact that you boned her dad.”

“We never actually—”

Angie cut me off. “I know. I know. It’s going to take Nic some time and some therapy to come to terms with everything that’s happened, but I think she’s really trying.”

“That’s good.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she forgives you one day.”

“Well, I don’t know if I need her
forgiveness,
” I retorted. “I mean, it’s not like I purposely went after her father, like I said: ‘Oh, look! There’s Nicola’s dad. I think I’ll make him my new boyfriend.’ ”

“Of course not. I’m just saying that I’m hopeful that one day, she’ll be able to get over her hurt and angry feelings toward you, and we can all be together again.”

“Me too.”

When I hung up, I had still not given a definitive answer on whether I’d be attending next Thursday’s stitch ’n bitch at Martin’s apartment. Despite my friends’ overtures, I was still smarting from their previous exclusion. And while I knew that Martin and Angie really did want me there, I still wasn’t sure about Sophie. Until I heard from her, I just couldn’t commit to rejoining the group. It wasn’t like I needed Sophie to
beg
me to come, but I wanted some reassurance that my attendance would be welcome.

But Sophie didn’t call that day... or the next, or the next. I stuck close to home, hoping for the gesture that would assuage my anxiety, but none came. On Tuesday, Angie left a message while I was in the shower, querying my presence at the Thursday session. I couldn’t phone her back. I still didn’t have an answer.

It wasn’t until Wednesday evening, as I was working in my office (well, really I was checking out
soapcity.com
) that the phone rang. Kendra answered it, and then yelled “Phone!” from her permanent spot on the couch. I went to retrieve the receiver, and took it back to my bedroom before saying, “Hello?”

“Hi,” she said. “It’s Sophie.”

“Uh...hi.” Part of me was relieved to hear from her; part of me was frightened that she would express her distaste at my rejoining the knitting circle.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier,” she said. “I’ve been so busy with Flynn . . . and Rob.”

“I understand.”

Sophie chuckled. “I never realized working on my marriage would be so time-consuming!”

“Things are going well, then?”

“Yeah,” she said, “we’ve had our ups and downs, but it’s a lot better than it was.”

“Great.”

“So . . . are you going to come to Martin’s on Thursday?”

“Well...” I wasn’t sure how to express my feelings without sounding like a big baby. “I’m not sure. I mean . . . I don’t know if you really want me there.” Damn! I totally sounded like a big baby.

“We do,” Sophie replied, not entirely emphatically.

“Are you sure, Sophie? Because if you’re not comfortable with me anymore since I . . . well, you know... just tell me. I don’t want to come to the stitch ’n bitch club if it’s going to be awkward and uncomfortable.”

“It won’t be,” she said, and her voice was sincere this time. “Look, I know I didn’t handle our relationship very well but I’ve never been in a situation like this before. Nicola and I have known each other longer and, well . . . You’re so close to Angie and you have Martin . . . I just thought she needed me more.”

“Nicola has those five look-alike bridesmaids!” I wanted to shriek. “I only have you guys... and Mel and Toby, of course.” But I remained mute. Sophie continued, somehow reading my thoughts. “Nicola has lots of friends but she’s too humiliated to see most of them. They all looked up to her dad. They thought she had the perfect family.”

“Right,” I mumbled, feeling incredibly sheepish.

“But I felt bad about deserting you. That’s why I suggested alternating your Thursday attendance with Nicola’s.”

“Thanks.”

There was a pause. “She doesn’t hate you, you know.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“Obviously, she doesn’t want to be in the same room with you, but... well, maybe one day.”

“That would be nice.”

“Please come on Thursday,” Sophie said. “I feel really bad for shutting you out... I miss you, Beth.”

“I miss you, too,” I said, my voice wobbling with the tears I was trying to keep in check. “I’ll see you at Martin’s.”

Thirty-three

SO I WENT to Martin’s that Thursday. It was a little awkward at first, but the warm hugs they each greeted me with helped put me at ease. Still, the conversation was a bit stilted—everyone was afraid to mention Nicola, Jim, and the disaster that had led to our group’s demise. Luckily, Angie had plenty to say about Thad—or
that fucker Thad,
as he was now known.

“Do you know what that fucker Thad liked me to call him when we were having sex?” she asked, painstakingly adding a stitch to the self-striping beret-type hat she was now knitting. Obviously, the periwinkle shell had been abandoned.

“What?” Sophie asked, her voice almost fearful.

“
Captain.
”

“Captain?” I tried not to laugh, but failed.

“I know!” Angie shrieked. “He was such a weirdo.”

“Well,” Martin chuckled, “it could have been worse.”

“Yeah?” Angie retorted. “Like what?”

“I don’t know... Admiral?”

“Commander in Chief,” I added.

“Daddy,” Sophie said. Then her eyes widened with alarm and she looked at me. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, Beth.”

“Uh . . . that’s okay.” There was an awkward silence, suddenly broken by Angie’s snort of laughter. Soon, we had all collapsed into guffaws. Maybe it was the relief from the tension, but I found myself in a fit of almost hysterical giggles. I doubled over and tears ran down my cheeks. My sides ached and I was even a little worried I might pee in my pants.

It seemed to go on for several minutes, but finally, the laughing fit began to subside. Angie dabbed her eyes with a napkin and reached for her glass of wine. “God,” she said, taking a sip, “what a fucked-up year this has been . . . and it’s only May.”

“I know,” I agreed, reaching for my own glass.

Martin said, “Well . . . look at the bright side, girls. Your love lives have to get better.”

Sophie seconded, “They certainly couldn’t get any worse.”

It was true. Things would get better—they had to. I clung to this prediction whenever I felt myself getting a little blue. But already I was feeling more upbeat about the state of my life. While seeing my friends every two weeks wasn’t exactly a madcap social life, I also had my yoga class to focus on. Okay... I’d dropped the yoga class, but I still intended on starting an exercise program. I just felt I needed something a little more . . .
aggressive
than yoga. I was considering martial arts or a women’s floor hockey team.

And I was knitting a lot. It was almost as though the long break had kick-started my knitting aptitude. The cream-coloured scarf was now approximately eight inches long. I’d even added a second skein of yarn, with only a little help from Martin. Of course, it would never be finished by my mom’s birthday next week, and it seemed an odd present to give to my sister-in-law in the middle of summer, but I worked at it diligently nonetheless. While I was by no means an expert, my knitting prowess had reached such a level that I was actually finding it relaxing, instead of just frustrating and kind of tedious.

Unfortunately, the full-time job that was supposed to fill my time and expand my social network had yet to materialize. I’d had a couple of informational interviews at a handful of desirable periodicals, but none of them had any openings.
Northwest Anglers
had actually offered me a position, but I felt compelled to turn it down. It was one thing to fake a passion for competitive bass fishing during the one-hour interview, but it was another to live the facade every day from nine to five. I resigned myself to my lonely freelance career—until Mel called.

“I got you an interview for a contributing editor position,” she said excitedly.

“Thanks! What magazine is it for?”

“It’s called
It’s a Dog’s Life.
”

“A dog magazine?”

“Yes!” She said this as if my working for a dog magazine was the most natural fit in the world. “It’s a very successful publication and they need someone to handle their celebrity column.”

“Celebrity column?” Now that Lassie was retired—or more likely dead—how many famous dogs were there out there?

“You would interview celebrities or other interesting people about their relationships with their dogs. As you know,” she said, “having a pet can be a life-transforming experience.”

“True.”

Mel continued. “The senior editor is a friend of mine from the Kennel Club. When he mentioned the position, I thought of you right away.”

“You did?”

“Of course! You’re interested in people and what makes them tick. And you love dogs!”

“Uh . . . yeah,” I agreed. While I had become rather fond of Toby lately, I didn’t know if that qualified me as a dog lover, per se. But I was rather intrigued by the life-altering relationships between canines and their owners—especially as it applied to singles. And I really found it fascinating that a drooling, hairy creature could make an otherwise normal, well-adjusted human content to walk around with a bag of poo in their pocket. “I’ll do it,” I said. “What’s your friend’s name and number?”

Charles Olin was a pleasant-looking man with unkempt grey hair and rumpled clothing. As soon as I entered his cluttered office, I took in a framed photo of Charles and an African-American woman, obviously his wife, hugging a black lab. “That’s my wife, Claire, and Marley,” he explained. “We lost her a couple of years ago in a traffic accident.”

Oh god. I hoped he meant the dog. “I’m so sorry.”

“She was a wonderful dog. We’ve got a chocolate lab named Willie now. He’s a great pup. A little more high strung than Marley was.”

“Well . . . maybe he’ll grow out of it?” I didn’t really know what to say.

“What about you, Beth?” he asked, gesturing for me to take a seat in the chair opposite his desk. “What kind of dog do you have?”

“Uh . . .” I couldn’t lie to him. While it hadn’t been that hard to pretend I loved bass fishing, fabricating a pet would be much more of a challenge. Besides, I think I actually kind of wanted this job, and I didn’t want it predicated on fiction. “I don’t have a dog right now. My roommate is allergic.” Okay... that may have been a lie, but Kendra really seemed the type to be allergic to everything cute and cuddly. I already knew that all laundry detergents except Ivory Snow caused her to break out in hives.

“Ohhhh,” Charles replied sympathetically.

“But at least I get to spend a lot of time with Mel’s dog, Toby,” I said, brightly. “I’ve really enjoyed watching how that relationship has transformed Mel’s life.”

“Well, she’s not the only one,” he replied. “That’s why we’re trying to expand this column. We used to just cover well-known people and their dogs, but we want to interview regular people affected by cancer, death, divorce . . . Anyone whose relationship with their pet has helped them get through a difficult time.”

“That sounds great.” Why did I feel like I might cry? I cleared my throat. “Well, my forte has always been human interest stories, and given my love for dogs, it just seems like a natural fit.” I said this so convincingly that I actually believed it myself. Thankfully, so did Charles.

“I GOT A JOB!” I ANNOUNCED TO THE STITCH ’N bitch club at the next Thursday meeting.

“Congratulations!” Angie cried, dropping her multicoloured knitting into her lap.

“Great!” Sophie seconded. The yellow baby blanket she was knitting was coming along nicely, despite the delay caused by the dissolution of the stitch ’n bitch club. Really, her friend’s as-yet-unborn baby would probably only be four or five months old by the time she was done.

Martin asked. “Where are you working?”

“Uh . . .
It’s a Dog’s Life.
”

They all looked at me blankly for a moment. “Sorry?” Angie said, obviously thinking she’d misheard me.

“
It’s a Dog’s Life,
” I repeated. “It’s a magazine.”

“Oh...” Sophie finally said, focusing on her knitting, “I didn’t know you liked dogs.”

“I do,” I said, honestly. “I wouldn’t say I’m a huge
dog person,
but I’m pretty close with Toby, my friend Mel’s golden retriever.”

“So . . . uh . . . what will you be doing for them?” Martin asked.

I explained, rather excitedly, about the column I’d been assigned. “I’ve seen it happen with Mel,” I continued. “A relationship with a pet can really transform someone.”

“I believe it,” Sophie said. “My aunt had a double mastectomy and was really depressed. Then she got a papillon, and she was like a new woman.”

“See!” I said. “It really works.”

“Congrats,” Martin said, setting down the black sleeve he was expertly working on and holding up his wineglass. “To your success . . .”

“Cheers.” We all clinked our glasses together.

“I’m really excited about it,” I continued. “Everyone in the office seems really nice and I’ll get to meet so many people through my interviews.”

“It’s perfect for you,” Angie said, kindly.

“So . . .” I looked around at my cohorts. “Kendra’s going to her grandmother’s eightieth birthday in Idaho this weekend. I thought maybe I’d have you all over for dinner Saturday night, to celebrate. Sophie, you can bring Rob, of course.”

“Uh...” Sophie began, inspecting her seed-stitch pattern intently. “I’m, uh, not actually available on Saturday night.”

“Oh,” I said, disappointed. “What about you guys?”

Martin cleared his throat loudly. “Uh . . . yeah . . . I’ve already got plans.”

“Me, too,” Angie agreed. “Sorry about that, hon. Another time?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment. Yes, we could do it another time. Kendra went out of town approximately twice a year so . . . maybe some time after Christmas we could celebrate my new job? Oh well, maybe it was more appropriate to celebrate with Mel and Toby anyway. “So . . . what are you guys up to this weekend?”

Sophie looked a little panic-stricken. “Uh . . . Rob and I have a date planned.”

“Nice.” I looked to my other companions.

Martin cleared his throat loudly. “I have a... speaking engagement.” I had come to learn that throat clearing was a definite indication of Martin’s nervousness. Something was up.

Angie sensed my suspicion. “We’ve got to tell her, you guys. Otherwise she’s going to think we’re blowing her off for no reason.”

“Tell me what?”

Sophie said gently, “Nicola’s wedding . . . it’s back on.”

“Oh.” I could feel the heat creeping into my cheeks. It was an undefinable, physiological response: a combination of humiliation, envy, and loss.

“It’s on Saturday,” Martin added. “We’re uh...reading the poem.”

“Great,” I managed to say. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “So . . . who got stuck with the aching and yearning verse?”

“That’d be me.” Sophie held up her hand.

Angie said, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied, truthfully. “I mean, I feel sad that I’m not a part of it anymore but . . . Well, I
do
hate public speaking.”

“I know what you mean,” Sophie said glumly. “Thanks to the ‘I can’t wait to screw your brains out verse’ I’m developing a huge aversion to it myself.”

We all chuckled. I focused on my knitting for a few seconds before asking, as casually as possible, “Is her dad still walking her down the aisle?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, almost reluctantly.

“They’re in family therapy,” Angie explained. “It sounds like they’re working through everything.”

“Oh,” I nodded, continuing to stare at my scarf project. “So . . . does that mean Jim and Eileen are back together?”

Martin cleared his throat again and I knew the answer. Angie spoke up. “It sounds like they’re trying to make a go of it.”

Sophie reached across the coffee table and gave my knee a squeeze. “Are you okay with that?”

“Of course,” I shrugged despite the dull ache in my chest. “I told him to go back to his family... if they would take him.”

“Nic said it’s going to take a lot of work, but they’re trying to forgive him,” Sophie explained.

“Well . . . that’s good, then,” I responded with a tight smile. “I know how important Nicola’s family is to her. I’m happy for them.”

And I was happy for them . . . really, I was. Oh, who was I kidding? I wasn’t happy for them! I was angry that Jim seemed to be getting off scot-free. I was resentful that Nicola could find it in her heart to forgive him and yet not me. And I was jealous that all my friends were busy Saturday night celebrating Nicola’s wedding instead of my new job at
It’s a Dog’s Life.

On that lonely Saturday night, I sat in the empty apartment trying to ignore the hollow, aching feeling in the pit of my stomach. While Mel and Toby had declined my dinner invitation (they had to be up early to meet Toby’s friend Stryker at the dog park), I vowed not to give in to the malaise that threatened to overwhelm me. I had completed my mission to find an interesting, challenging, and socially fulfilling career, and that warranted a celebration. While drinking champagne alone seemed just too sad (and I couldn’t risk Kendra coming home early from her grandmother’s birthday and catching me), I had bought myself a tub of chocolate chip cookie dough Häagen-Dazs, and rented one of my favourite feel-good movies,
About a Boy.
It was going to be a very pleasant, even celebratory, evening.