Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (6 page)

“Can I take your order?”

Turning away from my menu, I was confronted with a pierced belly button and low-slung jeans. The waitress, a lanky girl whose bored expression spoke of her utter indifference to our needs, stood beside our table poised and waiting. She looked exhausted and I noticed a faded ink stamp on the back of her hand, probably from some East Village club. Had it not been for her softly spoken question, I might have thought she was going to lie down on the bench beside us.

“Darjeeling for me,” Sebastian said, naming some substance I assume was tea.

Noticing a woeful lack of caffeinated beverages on the menu, I ordered chamomile, deciding that if I wasn't going to get a jolt, I might as well go to the other extreme.

“So, tell me, tell me, tell me. How're things? Derrick?” Sebastian asked, settling into the cushions surrounding his seat.

“Things are fine. Derrick's…gone.”

“Gone? As in…?”

“Got a job offer, moved to the West Coast.”

“Oh, dear.” Sebastian's pretty little nose scrunched up in sympathy.

“Yeah, well, I guess you can't say he didn't warn me.”

“That's the trouble with ambitious, creative, gorgeous men. They've always got something better to do than you.”

Picking up my glass of water, I clinked it into Sebastian's. “Here's to slackers.”

“Slackers with trust funds,” Sebastian replied, picking up his glass to drink. “Men without money are no fun.”

“It's true,” I agreed. “I've been thinking of going upscale in the man department. I've got the boobs, all I need is the dye job.
What do you say, Sebastian? Are you up for it?” I laughed, trying not to sound too desperate. I needed to be blonder, and Sebastian was the only one I trusted to take me to that next level.

“Oh, Emma. I've discovered that hair color—even
good
color—can't solve all your problems.”

Now this is where I began to realize that Sebastian had changed in some elemental way. Fear began to invade me. “Do tell,” I replied, trying for a light tone.

“Remember John? Impossible John?”

“Are you guys back together?” I asked with disbelief. John was the man who had tormented Sebastian for the better part of three years. A struggling actor, John was notorious for pledging his undying love to Sebastian just moments before he ran off with some buff production assistant or wardrobe boy from whatever set he was currently working on.

“No, no. Never, in fact,” he said, puckering his lips as the waitress placed our tea before us and slithered away once more. “John has been permanently replaced.” He began fishing around in the shiny tote he had with him. Pulling out his wallet, he flipped to the photo section and handed it to me.

I was shocked to find myself looking at a photo of an Indian woman dressed in traditional robes, a bindi firmly in place on her forehead, a gentle smile on her lips. Not only was she female—an unimaginable possibility as a new partner for Sebastian—but she was alarmingly unfettered by the kind of female things that normally gave Sebastian pleasure—like lipstick, cleavage and a well-groomed brow.

“Meet the woman who saved my life,” he said, smiling.

I stared at him, perplexed. “I don't get it.”

“Emma, I have undergone the most
amazing
transformation.”

“You haven't gone straight, have you?”

“God forbid!” he cried, shaking his head. “No, it's nothing like that. This is my guru!”

“Guru?”

He smiled pleasantly, as one might at a small child in serious
need of enlightenment. “Let me start at the beginning. I ran into John a couple of months ago, and you would not
believe
what he looked like. Completely bald, for one thing.”

“John?”
I said, remembering how much he had always treasured his long dark locks.

“I know, I
know,
” Sebastian said, looking sad for a moment, as if the loss of that beautiful head of hair might still hurt, despite whatever revelations about life he had recently been given. Getting hold of himself once more, he continued, “He had this look of serenity about him. It had almost changed his face—he was even more gorgeous, if you can imagine that!” His eyes widened at the thought. “I asked him how he'd been, and he began telling me that he was following a new path in his life. When I questioned him further, he told me he was practicing a form of Hinduism—and was training to be a healer.”

“Wow. Who would have thought,” I said, gulping chamomile and suddenly wishing it were something else…like a martini. I had a sinking feeling about my hair prospects, especially when I suddenly noticed that Sebastian had let his eyebrows grow in. Not a good sign in a man I once worshiped for his beauty regime.

“Next thing you know, he was inviting me to a meeting,” Sebastian said, lifting his teacup and holding it between his hands in front of him. “I will confess that when I first agreed to attend, I had sex on the brain. You know that no matter what happened between John and me, we never had trouble in that department. But from the moment I stepped through the doors of the Holistic Center for Life Healing, I was a new man. Within weeks, I was on the path, and now I'm close to being certified as a healer myself. I've even planned a trip to India in the fall, to meet the guru. I can't wait to go.”

I felt contrite. He did look happy. Who was I to mar his happiness with my own selfish desires? “That's wonderful, Sebastian.”

“I knew you'd understand, Emma. In fact, I've been meaning to call you and invite you to a meeting. I think you, especially, could
really benefit from it.” He put down his tea, then reached across and grabbed both my hands in his.

I will admit, I felt something like a soothing strength in those fingers. Of course, unable to acknowledge such things, I made one last halfhearted, half-humorous, plea.

“So I guess this means a few ash-blond highlights are out of the question, huh?”

“Oh, Emma,” he smiled beatifically at me, releasing my hands. “That world seems so removed from me now.” Then he winked. “Besides, you know I always saw you as a
golden
blonde.”

 

Confession: I get in touch with my inner career woman—and discover she is out to lunch.

 

The next day as I was poring over some old notes in an attempt to put together a piece on current trends in floral arrangements, Marcy Keller, the production assistant and resident office gossip, slipped into my cubicle.

“What's up, Emma?” she said, sitting down in my guest chair.

I immediately went on red alert. The only reason Marcy Keller would ever sit down in my guest chair to chat would be a) because she had some juicy bit of gossip she had already shared with everyone in the office and I was her last resort or, b) she had some juicy bit of gossip about
me
that she was coyly trying to verify.

A shiver went through me. They knew. They knew about my recent, brutal breakup. But how?

“So what brings you to this corner of the world, Marcy?” I asked with trepidation.

She looked up and leaned close, her eyes narrowing to slits behind the big square black frames she wore on her sharp little hook of a nose. “Sandra quit,” she hissed at me. Then, smoothing her short, dark brown hair behind her ears, she leaned back, folded her arms over her painfully thin frame and watched her words take their effect.

Relief swept through me, followed by a realization. Sandra was one of the three reigning senior features editors at
Bridal Best
and
had just given up one of the few management positions a contributing editor like myself could aspire to. Now I understood why I had been chosen to receive this particular bit of gossip. Since I was the contributing editor with four years' experience under my belt and the most seniority, I was the most likely candidate to apply. So Marcy
had
come on a verification mission. I decided not to give her the satisfaction.

“Sandra quit?” I began, leaning back in my chair. “That's wild.” I paused, pondering this for a moment to increase the dramatic tension. “Huh. And I thought she'd be a lifer. What has she been here, five, six years?”

“Seven and a
half,
” Marcy said, glee in her voice at the scandal created by such a long-term employee's leaving. “I heard that she and Patricia had it out.”

Now I knew she was embellishing. Our editor-in-chief was soft-spoken, poised, and probably the least likely person to start a brawl at
Bridal Best,
the magazine that was her life's blood. Which made me wonder about this battle she'd allegedly had with Sandra, who wasn't exactly a brute, though she had been rumored to have a temper. “Huh. That's hard to imagine.”

“Yeah, well, you know
Sandra.
She can be a bitch when things aren't going her way. And they haven't been, ever since her husband left her.”

“Her husband
left
her?” I asked, suddenly sucked in, in spite of myself.

Marcy rolled her eyes behind her square frames. “That was six months ago. God, Emma, where have you
been?
”

I snapped my gaping mouth shut. “Well, usually I'm too
busy
with work to pay attention to the gossip,” I replied, deciding now was probably the perfect time to put Marcy in her place.

Marcy swallowed hard and began backpedaling. “Yes, you do work a lot. I've even seen you here late a few times,” she said, changing tactics when she realized ridicule wasn't going to get her anywhere with me.

“Yeah, well. Once in a while. When I'm on a deadline,” I re
plied, embarrassed that someone might think me one of The Devoted, some of whom had given up their lives, their dreams and, apparently, in the case of Sandra, their husbands, for the sake of getting out a monthly magazine on how to make happily-ever-after a reality.

“No, you work hard,” she protested, gazing at me steadily and making me notice for the first time that her eyes were actually gray behind those thick black cakes of liner. “I read your piece ‘The Cinderella Syndrome: Finding the Perfect Wedding Day Shoe.' It was amazing.”

Now she had me. “Ah, well, thanks. I kinda liked working on that piece.”

“I just
loved
the way you captured the anxiety of finding a shoe that's both comfortable and captivating. And the fairy-tale angle was
very
clever. What was that line you opened with?”

Leaning back in my chair with something close to an embarrassing pride curling my lip, I quoted, “‘Now that you've found a Prince Charming who's your perfect fit, it's time to get serious about the shoe you step into to take that long—and potentially painful—walk down the aisle.'”

“Yes, yes!” Marcy said, sitting up higher in her chair. “That was
awesome.
”

“Thanks, Marcy. Gosh, I hadn't even realized you
read
the magazine.”

“Are you kidding?” Marcy leaned back in her chair once more. “You're good, Emma. Really good. How long have you been here now? Three and a half years?”

“Four years and two months next week.”

“Wow.” She beamed at me, then her eyes narrowed speculatively. “You know, you'd be a shoo-in for the senior features position.”

“That's nice of you to say, but—”

“I mean, you've got the most seniority of all the contributing editors.”

“I know, but that doesn't mean—”

“And
everybody
knows you're the best writer we have on the staff,” she finished, throwing in the pièce de résistance with a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes.

“They do?”

“Oh, Emma. You don't have to be so modest with
me.
I mean, I just assumed you'd be going for that promotion. You
are
the strongest candidate, after all.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Well, now that you mention it, I had thought of talking to Caroline about opportunities within the company.” It was true that I had recently had vague thoughts about talking with my boss regarding my future. But in my fantasies I always imagined entering her office with a prepared speech, then arbitrarily breaking into a rant about how no one recognized what a huge talent I was. It was this that always kept me from initiating any sort of dialogue with Caroline on the subject. But now it seemed—according to Marcy anyway—that everyone was quite impressed with me.

“You should talk to her.”

“Hmm. Maybe I'll talk to her some time next week. I mean, I've got this piece to finish and another one to proof—”

“I wouldn't put it off
too
long,” Marcy cautioned. Then she stood, leaning in close for the final kill. “I mean, you don't want someone
else
to move in first.”

She had a point. “Yeah, that's true.” I looked up at her, trying to find some glimmer of camaraderie on her face, and discovered
something
there that resembled sympathy and goodwill, but I was too far gone to discriminate at the moment. “I'll do it. First thing Monday morning. Then maybe she can advise me on how to approach Patricia.” Though the thought of approaching the editor-in-chief regarding the position put a pit in my stomach. I doubted Patricia even knew I existed. But it was necessary if I was really going to go through with this.

And it looked like I was, judging from the triumphant smile on Marcy's face as she made some hasty excuse and rushed out of my cubicle, more than likely to find someone worthy of her latest bit
of news—that Emma Carter, disenchanted editor on the verge of career despair, had just put herself on the block for the highest promotion a girl with no giddiness over marriage and all its may hem could ever hope to aspire to at
Bridal Best.