Love in All the Right Places (Chick Lit bundle) (16 page)

Chapter 2: Behind the Scenes

Usually I spent my Monday mornings showing off my acting skills—you know, the kind that came in handy during marathon meetings so you could fake undivided attention while doodling swirly clouds on your notepad.

But this Monday meeting was different because I wasn’t acting. I was actually listening attentively, with a genuine grin plastered on my face.

For once my boss, Ms. Diane, or Ms. D, as we all called her (D for “demanding”) was not being her usual bitchy self.  Instead of bogging us down with her usual rundown of complaints on the previous episode, she was all praises for its “fresh approach” and “visual and mass appeal.”

“And the best news is,” she concluded happily, “that night, we got the highest ratings in our timeslot!”

Everyone broke into wild applause and hooting. When the noise died down, she looked directly at me. “Congratulations to you and your team, Crissy. I trust that you will be producing more quality episodes in the future, and that week after week, you’ll consistently out-rate our competition!”

This time, acting skills were necessary. I smiled enthusiastically while letting out an inward groan.

* * * *

“
D
should also stand for ‘delusional,’” declared Leo, my senior producer, who also doubled as my wingman, or, in his case, my “wing
-gay
,” as he called himself. He touched his temples with his fingers, pinkies out. “Creative ideas don’t just come out of our butts!”

“I know, I know,” I said soothingly. “Let’s just focus on finishing one episode at a time.”

“Yeah, but you know what’s even better news than the ratings?” Leo gave a small squeal. “Someone from a computer school called to say that his boss enjoyed watching the episode, and”—he paused for suspense—“he wanted to sponsor Brian’s college education!”

“You’re kidding!”

“I know!” He said, doing miniclaps. “We can’t wait to tell Brian.”             

“See? That’s the real motivation.” I turned to my computer. “Please inform the team I need their ideas by the end of the day, and let’s all meet at around…say, 5
PM
?”

I started typing up a reply to an email query when my phone rang.

“Crissygirl! I got the tickets!” Bea’s triumphant voice rang in my ear.

I clicked on the send button of my e-mail and replied distractedly. “Huh? What tickets?”

“Plane tickets for Boracay,
d-uh
! I told you I’d get them on sale!” she crowed. “Now remember
to block off these dates.”

I scribbled the dates on my calendar and focused on replying to my next e-mail. “Got it.”

“Oh, and don’t forget about that garage sale we’re holding two weeks from now.”

“Bei, I don’t think I’ll have the time—”

“Sheesh, Crissy! You think I don’t know you? I’ll take care of everything. Just show up and help me sell the stuff, okay?”

I burst out laughing. There was a reason why we had been best friends for more than a decade. “Okay, Boss!”

* * * *

It was perfect beach weather sans the beach.  I arrived at the garage sale to find Bea and Mark vigorously fanning themselves under a gigantic candy-striped umbrella.

“You’re here!” Bea squealed as Mark scrambled to get up, offering his seat.

“You, guys!” I spread my arms, taking in the whole setup. “This is awesome!” Tables were covered with patterned cloths of baby pink, aqua, and lime green. Pastel-colored balloons marked the area, while a mini-lemonade stand stood at the corner. And the pièce de résistance: lording over us was a huge poster of a winking fifties pinup girl with the words. “Show Me Some Vintage Love!”

Bea beamed. “Mark did most of the muscle work.” She motioned to the poster. “He even paid for the tarpaulin printing because he said it’s for a good cause.” She exchanged a knowing look with Mark, who probably agreed with her that I desperately needed a vacation.

“Happy you liked it, Crissy,” Mark winked at me. “But I’m even happier that you’re here! I can finally get the hell out of here.”

Bea punched his arm. “Babe, it wasn’t like I forced you to keep me company.”  She discreetly raised her eyebrows towards a bunch of teenagers who were sneaking glances at Mark. “Besides, you’re a great come-on for female customers.”

Mark was one of the guys you’d immediately notice in a crowd. He was tall, muscular (being a fitness freak like his girlfriend), and had boyish good looks. Meanwhile, Bea could hold her own in the looks department with her modelesque frame and delicate, chinita features.

But their compatibility went beyond appearance; Mark was the calm and steady one in the relationship, balancing out Bea’s somewhat high-strung personality.

“I’ll be back later to help you close shop,” he promised, and gave Bea a smack on the lips before pecking me on the cheek.

Despite the heat, people came in steady doses. I was amazed to see a youngish crowd. I guess vintage was fashionable these days. A pair of artsy-looking girls sporting colored hair and edgy clothes bought a big bundle of clothes and accessories.

“They own Funky & Fetching, that cool clothing store in Makati,” Bea hissed excitedly.  “I bet they’re going to deconstruct those clothes and sell them at a crazy-high price!”

One of them, the pink-haired one, was caressing my favorite polka-dot halter dress.

“Let’s go.” Her green-haired companion was rummaging through her apron-style fanny pack for bills, which she handed to us. “We have to open the store.”

“Do you think we should get this? It’s so, like, classic.”

Her friend checked the price tag. “Unless we can get it for half the price, we’ll have just enough for cab fare.” She looked at me questioningly, and I smiled, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s the last price.”

She shrugged, and they left.

I was still gazing admiringly at the dress when I noticed Bea looking at me strangely.

“What?” I self-consciously wiped the beads of perspiration off my forehead.

“Um. . . you have this huge-ass pimple on your nose.”

“What?! A mirror—I need a mirror!” Bea gave me her compact, and I snapped it open. Right smack at the center of my face, I saw the offensive red swell gaining momentum.

This freak of a pimple appeared once in a blue moon on the same spot every freaking time. Maybe it was a combination of stress and junk food—and the fact that I was so tired last night, I didn’t bother washing my face before sleeping.

“It was just this tiny dot when I woke up this morning!” I moaned, feeling it with my finger. “I thought it was just an insect bite or something.”

“Don’t touch it!” Bea grabbed my arm. “It’ll just get worse.”

We were momentarily distracted by a roaring bright yellow Kombi that pulled over, coughing out a man with a head full of silver hair. When he saw Mama Maring’s collections of odds and ends, he rubbed his palms together like a kid at a candy store.

“Just look at this! What do you think?” He turned around. “Son?”

“Here, Dad,” said a gruff voice, which belonged to the newly alighted driver—his smooth tanned skin glowed in a light blue shirt that said “Surf Camp”
in curly letters.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bea instinctively tuck her chestnut bangs behind her ear.

“Hello! Welcome to our vintage rummage sale!” I chirped.  The dad smiled back, while “Surfer Boy” completely ignored me.

“How much for each?” he asked, rifling through the box of vinyl records.  While Bea gave him the price, I studied him beneath my lashes: dark brown eyes with corners slightly tilting downwards, a cleft chin, tall, lean built, clean fingernails, and clean toe nails peeping out of his sandals, and-- my eyes crept back to his face—a very sour expression.

Just then, his dad spotted the vintage radio and gave a whoop.  “Now
this
— we should definitely buy!”

Surfer Boy’s face became even sourer. “How much?”

Grouch alert! I gave him the price.

“Last price?”

“That
is
the last price,” I replied just as brusquely.

For the first time, he met my eyes, as if surprised by my change of tone. Then I saw his gaze shift to the center of my face, right where my pimple was happily bloating away.  I felt my temper literally rise to the occasion.

“Take it or leave it,” I practically snarled.

The dad, oblivious to the growing tension between his son and me, had drifted off to the far end of the display, checking out Mama's collection of postcards.

“That’s too much.” Surfer Boy met my gaze evenly. “What’s your last price?”

Was this guy deaf? I was about to retort back when I heard another voice.

“How much?” I turned to see a middle-aged man gesturing to the radio.

I blinked at him and quoted the price.

“I’ll take it.”

“Um…” Bea opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“You don’t have to wrap it up,” the man continued, plunking down bills and coins on the table.

I stared at the money until Surfer Boy turned to me, the scowl back on his face. “Can you
please
explain to him that I was here first?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m sorry. Have you bought this already?”

Surfer Boy merely crossed his arms in reply, and looked at me expectantly.

There was only so much attitude I could take from this guy.

“No, he hasn’t,” I said sweetly, my eyes never leaving his royal grouchness’ face. “Sir, are you willing to pay full-price for the radio, or shall I give it to the gentleman over here?” Emphasis on gentleman.

For once, I saw Surfer Boy hesitate. The seconds ticked away as we all looked at him.

“You can have it.” He said finally, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s overpriced anyway. It’s probably one of those fake vintage radios that’s mass-produced in China.”

“Excuse me?” I could feel the steam coming out of my ears. “Are you suggesting that we’re selling fakes? All these items are genuine vintage! In fact, they’re my grandaunt’s—”

“Whatever,” he cut me off, and looked straight at me. “Genuine or not, it doesn’t change the fact that
you
have zero customer skills. It’s a total turn-off.”

Bea stared at him open-mouthed.

“Well, that’s a relief,” I shot back. “Because you’re someone I would definitely
not
want to turn on. A-holes are not my type. Good day.” I busied myself wrapping up the radio, and handing it over to the customer, who mumbled his thanks before leaving in a hurry.

The whole time, I could feel Surfer Boy’s eyes shooting laser beams at me. It seemed ages when he finally turned his back on us and left.

“I’ve never seen you this pissed!” Bea whispered, looking at me in awe. “And you should’ve seen his face when you delivered your killer lines—he didn’t know what hit him.”

I snuck glances at the spot where Surfer Boy was in deep discussion with his dad. I gritted my teeth, readying myself for round two of verbal battle royale—just in case.

Thankfully, I saw his dad shaking his head sadly, then leading his son back to the Kombi.

Exhaling loudly, I sank into the chair while Bea made clicking sounds with her tongue. “What a total waste of cuteness!”

I snorted. “It’s just unbelievable how some people think that good looks give them the right to be obnoxious.”

Bea looked at me for a few seconds before raising her eyes and palms to the heavens. “Hallelujah!
Finally
, she finds someone good-looking!”

Chapter 3: Transition

The workweek passed with its usual stress and harassment from Ms. D, so when Friday night finally rolled around, I gratefully plopped down on my bed for some serious snoozing. But it turned out to be one of those nights where sleep wouldn’t come easily. After half an hour of tossing and turning, I gave up and got up.

For the first time, after a really long time, I took a long, hard look at my full-length reflection.  Underneath the hair awkwardly growing out of a year-old layered bob, dark circles under the eyes, and stubborn flab that had accumulated in the middle area, I tried tracing my old self five years and ten pounds ago.

Who was I before all this happened?

I remembered taking pride in how I looked, scouring department stores to regularly update my wardrobe and blowing off my allowance on occasional shopping sprees in designer stores.

I remembered regular visits to the neighborhood salon for my regular trims and nail care.

I was never a gym rat like Bea, but I did enjoy working up a sweat—whether it was a quick round of volleyball, swimming, or badminton. I even joined 5K runs just for the fun of it.

Mama Maring used to tell me that taking pains with your appearance is a form of public service. “You give people something nice to look at—at the same time, you feel good about yourself!”

Seeing all those people fawning over her clothes and accessories at the rummage sale made me realize that Mama’s fashion investments were still paying off—they were still nice to look at, and those who bought them felt good about their purchases. I wanted to feel the same way, so I had gathered all the leftover accessories and brought them home. I vowed to wear a piece of Mama’s history every day.

But I had also brought one more item with me from the rummage sale. I looked across the room, where Mama’s polka-dot dress stared back at me, as if contemplating its new owner. I unhooked it from its hanger, and held it up to my body. Like I said, it was a thin-dress. It would take a while for my figure to catch up.

Leo constantly told me that, in order to succeed, you had to visualize success. You had to “claim those goals” before they could truly be yours. So in the process of reclaiming myself, I would start with this dress—claiming that it would eventually look good on me.

* * * *

I shuffled out my bedroom to the sound of the huge flatscreen TV blaring out a rerun of
How I Met Your Mother.
My pajama-clad flatmate was curled up in the corner of the suede butterscotch divan, index finger flying across the screen of her iPad mini.

“Hey.” She nodded to the open pizza box on the table, beside a grease-stained carton of buffalo wings. My tummy grumbling, I glanced up at the clock and rightly guessed it was brunchtime. Mia and I usually woke up at this hour, and whoever gained consciousness first ordered food.

I was about to reach for a slice when I suddenly remembered last night’s resolve—as well as my last-minute grocery run.

I got the brown bag from the kitchen counter—and pulled out a bunch of bananas.

Mia was in shock. “We actually have fruit here that’s not in a cake or ice cream?”

I ignored her, pulling out another pouch.

Mia squinted her eyes. “And—no way.” She clutched her chest. “Oatmeal? Since when?”

“Since today,” I replied firmly, ignoring the delicious scent of pepperoni wafting in the room. Instead, I concentrated on pouring the oats into my bowl, adding water, and popping the bowl into the microwave. While waiting, I bit into my banana, chewing fifteen times before swallowing.

“You’re freaking me out, Crissy. Since when did you turn your back on pizza? Maybe you want to order something else?” Mia gestured to our refrigerator, its surface completely covered with menus from every imaginable eatery within delivery radius.  

This was Mia’s philosophy: if you discovered you didn’t like something you just bought, then just go ahead and buy a new one. 

Money had never been an issue with her, especially since she earned top bucks at the same network I worked for as head of news operations. 

A quick look at our condo unit would reveal that no expense was spared (and you must remember that Mia paid for all these)—from the art deco drapes and handcrafted furniture, to the art pieces that accentuated the tables and walls. Even the plates we hardly ever used, except for takeouts, were imported, as well as the wine glasses that we filled with soda and the occasional alcohol. 

Fittingly enough, it was because of alcohol that I became her flatmate one fateful night at my first company Christmas party years ago. As top management delivered their year-end speeches, I had taken to the open bar like a moth to a lightbulb, acquiring an instant addiction to its caramel apple martinis. 

On my third or fourth helping, a tall woman with a fully made up face, wearing a smart-looking suit, and carrying a bag that looked like it had just been peeled off a crocodile (a Birkin, I later found out) came over and ordered a vodka. I saw her glance at my drink before barking at the bartender. “I changed my mind.” She pointed to my glass. “I’d like that one.”

Cheerfully (and a bit drunkenly) I had raised my glass and gushed. “It’s caramel appletini, and it’s so
goooood
.”

She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “I know what it is.”

A couple of glasses later, my fellow martini fan had gotten off her high horse to introduce herself as Mia.

The wheels clicked inside my head as I scrutinized her face. “OMG, you’re MLP!” In our office, we addressed the big bosses with initials, and Mia Lapuz Perez’s name was a permanent fixture in important memos that circulated within the office.

“And it took you—what—almost an hour to realize that?” She threw her head back and cackled. A couple of heads turned our way.

As the night wore on, we exchanged more stories, our conversation becoming more personal. Soon I was telling her about my recent breakup. “I was willing to do everything—even follow him to the States just so he wouldn’t break up with me. But the distance was just an excuse. It turned out that he was already in love with someone else. And do you know how I found out about it?” Mia raised her eyebrows. “Through Facebook! He posted lovey-dovey photos of him and his new girlfriend. I cancelled my FB account right there and then.”

“Hah!” She slammed her glass, spilling half of its contents. “You call that a sob story? Wait ’til you hear mine!”

She started dishing out her story about her long-time boyfriend, who eventually became her fiancé. “And what happens a month before our wedding? Just when everything has been arranged—the church, the caterer, the flowers—even the
fucking
invitations have been sent out—you know what happens?”

I held my breath.

“He
fucking
breaks up with me! He told me he wasn’t ready for commitment.” She emptied her glass and gave a bitter laugh. “Later I found out that he had gotten his officemate pregnant.”

I kept quiet, not knowing what to say.

“I used to think I got it all figured out, you know? I studied hard. I worked hard until I became the youngest person in network history to be head of something. But my greatest mistake? I loved hard.” Her eyes bore through mine. “I’m thirty-five years old, depressingly single, and every night, I come home all alone to a fully furnished condo that was meant as a love nest.”

I called the bartender and ordered another round.

Suddenly Mia sat upright, her face lighting up. “Hey, didn’t you say you always had a hard time commuting to the office?”

“Horrible.” I rolled my eyes. “By the time I get to the office, I’m too exhausted to think.”

“Well, why don’t you come live with me? I live just across our building!”

I must have looked skeptical because she whipped out her Blackberry and got my number.  “Look, I know it’s been a strange night. Let’s talk about this more when we’re both sober.”

The next afternoon, I had woken up with a head-splitting hangover and a blinking text message.

Mia here, now sober. And yes, I’m still inviting you as my flatmate. Let’s meet on Monday for lunch to talk it over.

And before I knew it, I was caught in a whirlwind romance. I immediately fell in love, not just with the condo but also with the arrangement. All I had to pay for were half the dues and utility bills, which was equivalent to renting a cramped studio-type apartment within the vicinity. 

Since my parents constantly worried about my safety each time I came home late from work, they readily gave me the go signal. Their eyes widened at the posh two-bedroom unit as they helped me move in.

“What’s the catch?” Dad asked as he took in the big space. “She’s not a drug lord, is she?”

“Dad!”

“Well, I think it’s nice that you can keep her company. It’s a great bargain.” Mom smiled as she helped me unpack in the guest room, a.k.a. my bedroom.

“I just want to be healthier, you know?”  I now told Mia as I took in a spoonful of sticky oatmeal, which immediately clung to my front teeth. 

Rolling her eyes, Mia bit into her pizza. “Okay, I won’t judge. Just don’t drag me into it.” She reached for her e-cigarette. “By the way, you want to go to Greenbelt with me? LV has a sale.”

Mia was forever dragging me into her high-end shopping splurges. Once she even talked me into getting a Louis Vuitton leather keychain, the only thing I could afford in the store. I was too afraid to lose it, so it ended up unused, stored at the back of my closet, its complicated packaging still intact.

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said.

Mia exhaled e-smoke and shrugged her shoulders in suit-yourself style, and I gulped down a glass of water, willing my new, improved self to feel full.

* * * *

As expected, my parents were glad to see me. Mom ditched the usual leftovers and cooked my favorite porkribs sinigang. 

They watched me carefully measure out my half-cup rice and ladle my bowl with a small slice of pork, drowning in a broth full of okra, string beans, radish, and spinach.

“What happened?” Dad looked from my bowl to his own plate teeming with pork. “Are you turning vegetarian?”

“Just trying to eat healthier,” I explained for the second time that day. “My body needs a break from all those processed and fast food. Do you know that it takes almost four days just to digest meat?”

Mom beamed. “I’ll cook healthy every time you come here.”

Dad groaned.

My parents were eager to talk about me, but they were also eager to talk about themselves. I found out that Mom was taking swimming lessons at the subdivision pool and was proud to be their “most senior student.” Meanwhile, Dad was taking up biking again and had hooked up with some buddies over the Internet. 

I settled back in my chair and smiled at them. I was proud of them. I knew how difficult it was for them to deal with an empty nest after my older sister had migrated to New York with her husband, and I had moved out of the house.

* * * *

After lunch, while my parents had their siesta, I called Bea.

She sounded surprised. “Wow, you’re home?”

“Project Svelte has officially begun.” I filled her in on last night’s epiphany. 

“Seriously?” she squeaked. “I've been trying to convince you for years! Why the sudden turnaround?”

I looked at Mama’s turquoise stone ring on my finger. It didn’t exactly match my denim shorts and loose shirt, but it was a start. “Oh, you know, just this general feeling of discontent, that things could be better.”

“Well, I promise that you won’t only feel better, you’ll also look better.” She paused. “And you know what’s a really great motivation to lose weight?”

“What?” My eyes narrowed. This reeked suspiciously of another attempt to set me up on a blind date.

“A whole new wardrobe!”

“Oh.” I sighed in relief, then frowned. “You’re not suggesting that I blow our rummage sale money on clothes, are you? Have you forgotten Boracay?”

“Forget Boracay for now.” She laughed. “I’ll pick you up in a few. We’re heading to the UK!”