On the Verge (9 page)

I call Mrs. Yakimoto before I leave for the day. She tells me that her conversation went well with Roseanne’s future employer, but she still hasn’t made a decision. She is going away for the weekend with her family and she will let me know on Monday if we can have the apartment. Apparently it is down to one other guy and us.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I hope you make the right choice. We really hope to get the apartment.”

“Believe me, I know. You are definitely persistent.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure if it’s really a compliment, “and have a great weekend.”

The bar we go to is, of course, dark and trendy. Tabitha and Roseanne seem to have resigned themselves to each other a little more. Baby steps, that’s really all I ask. Roseanne was super gracious and Tabitha waved it off with a hand, like an old pro who commits fraud all the time.

Tabitha situated us in the perfect spot, as usual, on low couches in the back, very close to the VIP room. She sits there in her new outfit and puffs away on her Dunhills. She always winds up getting a light from men at the bar. She dismissively thanks them and continues being aloof and attractive. I am wearing one of Tabitha’s sweaters over the black pants I wore to work. Roseanne, who notes daily how she is becoming more and more of a New Yorker, has put on some sexy black dress that I’ve never seen. She’s going minimalist on the makeup today (honestly she doesn’t need all the foundation) and she looks good—starstruck, but good.

I bum one of Tabitha’s cigarettes and Roseanne shakes her head. Hey, I’m a social smoker and it looks so cool.

“Can we go back there?” says Roseanne, motioning to the VIP room. Tabitha and I shrug at each other.

“We have to assess the situation.” Translation: a few more drinks before we try to schmooze the bouncer.

“Interesting,” says Tabitha, looking over my head, “but don’t look now.”

“Who?” I say as Roseanne whips her head around, irking Tabitha incredibly. I cringe.

“One of the fashion show designers. We profiled him. He’s French, Jaques something. Shit.” Tabitha hates when she can’t remember these important factoids.

He walks by, and it’s classic Tabitha. She exhales a puff just as Jaques something or other passes. It goes right in his face. He looks down at Tabitha, who smiles up at him coquettishly and shrugs. Then, he’s off to the VIP room.

“Wow!” Roseanne says, and Tabitha just smiles. The next few minutes are sort of a waiting game. There is no sense talking to Tabitha because she knows that soon she will have the prize.

Sure enough, someone brings us a round of drinks and tells us we have an invite to the VIP room. Total class, I think. It’s major
points with Tabitha and me if a guy who is interested in one of us gets the other a drink for the hell of it.

“Well, should we go back?” Roseanne is all anxious to get the fun under way.

“Not yet.” I smile at Tabitha. She’s sweating the Frenchman out. She drinks slower than the rest of us. We tap our nails waiting for her. She makes us get up and hit the bathroom where she reapplies makeup for what seems like forever. Finally our entrance. Tabitha casually gestures to the Frenchman and the super-slick bouncer lets us in.

I scout the place. The only celebs are the Frenchman and some guy who looks recognizable from an independent flick or two. The rest are suits, probably industry people, and their nondescript model girlfriends. Among all the skin and bones that call themselves women, Tabitha stands out. She has mastered the art of getting attention. We go up to the bar and order our drinks. Tabitha keeps her back to Jaques the whole time. He makes his way over to us. I think it might be nice to score this exchange with some music and sell it to the Discovery Channel.

“Is dees your fwend?” he asks me, because I am the only one looking at him. I nod. He screams over the music. “Tell your fwend I like zees eyes.”

“He likes your eyes,” I say to Tabitha.

“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his hands at me. Then he makes a circular motion with his arms. “Dee size, dee size.”

I don’t translate. Jaques turns to go back to his table, where he is sitting with other artsy French types. Tabitha smiles and follows him. Roseanne looks at me, confused. It’s the last we see of Tabitha for a while although we keep giving her “you go, girl” looks whenever we can catch her eye.

Roseanne starts talking to some long-haired guy who is a guitarist on tour with some woman who has just released a single. He says her name, but neither one of us has ever heard of her. He points over at an attractive Asian woman.

“Oh, yeah, I saw her picture in the Virgin Megastore.” Roseanne is all over knowing this obscure person.

“She spends a lot of time in Virgin.” I tell this guy whose name is Q (hey, he’s a musician).

“Yeah, it’s a cool waste of time. Shit, the rest of my band is leaving. Gotta run, too.” He shakes my hand and winks at Roseanne. When he’s gone Rosie looks pissed.

“He was so cute, I wish he asked for my number. And you? I
can’t believe you told him all I do is hang out in Virgin. He is lost forever.”

“Can you really take a guy named Q seriously?” I say.

“Yes.” She’s miffed. She usually doesn’t go for these long-haired types. I look over at Tabitha who is smiling drunkenly as Jaques strokes her hair and whispers in her ear. I also see the Asian singer that Q (the horror!) works for.

“If you are that into him, why don’t you just give that woman your number?”

“You don’t think that would be—” she searches for a word “—too much?”

“No.”

“What should I say?”

“Here’s my number. Give it to your guitarist. Tell him to call me. I think your new single is great.”

“You always know the perfect thing to say.” She kisses me. I feel like Tabitha. She scribbles her number and bounds off, leaving me to stand with my proverbial dork in my hand, sort of wishing at least the bartender would ask me for my number, so I could refuse. He doesn’t. I can no longer feel my nose. Tabitha comes to my side.

“Bored?”

“A little.” She pulls out the car voucher.

“Not too many more of these. You’ll have to start taking cabs once you move to the city. Drunk?”

“Completely. How is Jaques?”

“Incohesive,” she says, but I know what she means.

“It’s kind of hard to hear anyway with all this Portishead playing.”

“Guess what? You have a ticket to the Fashion Awards after party. Well, we both do, but I also have an October hookup.”

“Awesome.” I hug her like she just won the peace prize.

“You know, Eve, I was so impressed with your little scheme today. Fabulous! You guys are definitely going to get the apartment.” We hug again, boozy floozies.

“It will be great, really we’ll have so much fun.” She nods almost tearfully. All this emotion makes perfect sense after six Kettel One and grapefruits. Roseanne comes back over to us and I swear that she and Tabitha might hug, but I’m just drunk and it doesn’t happen.

“So what are you wearing to the Fashion Awards?” Tabitha calls me first thing Monday morning. I am just about to call Mrs. Yakimoto.

“Tabitha, c’mon, didn’t we clear this outfit up last week?” She sighs.

“Yes, but I had trouble sleeping last night and I thought it over. I have a dress for you. It’s a BCBG, very stretchy, so it should fit you.” Not be too big, she means. “We have tix to the post party.” She’s been saying this for days.

“Are we going to hang out with a bunch of production assistants and talent people?”

“Well, aren’t you Ms. Savvy about these glam events. This
is
the Talent party. Jaques would never have me mixing with the techies. This dress is much better for this kind of event.”

“All right, I’ll borrow it.” End of conversation.

“Hi, Eve,” says Mrs. Yakimoto, not sounding very enthusiastic when I finally reach her.

“Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Yes, look Eve, I don’t think we can give you apartment.”

I am crushed, I have never wanted anything more than this apartment.

“Why not?”

“Well, I spoke to my husband and we really didn’t want to rent it to two people. What if you get into a fight? Who pays the rent?”

“Mrs. Yakimoto.” I take a deep breath. “Roseanne and I have lived together for almost four years. We are very good friends and we never fight, but if we did fight we would resolve it very quickly and not let it ruin our time in the apartment. We wouldn’t move out. Do you want me to call Mr. Yakimoto?”

“No. No. Eve, you seem very nice and I wanted to give it to you, but my husband thinks I will regret it.”

“You won’t, Mrs. Yakimoto, believe me, you won’t.” Slowly, I think I will lose every shred of dignity I possess solely to get an apartment that I have yet to see. “I think the fact that I haven’t even seen the apartment and I am fighting this hard based on what Roseanne says is a testament to how much I trust her.” Mrs. Yakimoto doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s creepy. Finally, I can no longer stand it.

“C’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, don’t let Mr. Yakimoto tell you what to do. You’re the one that holds the family together. I know you are sick of this apartment thing. Has Mr. Yakimoto handled any of it? No, it’s been all you. So, c’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, trust your instinct. Let us have the apartment.”

“Well,” she breathes again, “my kids would be happy.”

“They know—” I am triumphant! “—they know.”

“Oh, I guess.”

“Really?” I can’t believe it. Yakimoto might be toying with me.

“Why not?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yakimoto, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t make me regret it.”

I want to do a little dance, but at the same time, I’m in shock. I never thought we would find an apartment this quick. I can’t believe it. I call Roseanne, who is in the middle of an elaborate calisthenics routine, and she screams when I tell her. I wish I were away from this office, so I could celebrate. I still haven’t seen the apartment myself and I certainly hope I won’t regret it.

Thursday, Tabitha and I are putting our dresses (well, Tabitha’s dresses) on in the bathroom stalls on my floor. (She didn’t want the Big C to see her before the event.) I had been trying to hide my hands from Tabitha all day, but she finally saw them and had a hissy fit at my chipped nail polish. She ran right downstairs and over to the Duane Reade and bought nail polish remover.

She’s starting to calm down now, but I’m still reluctant to complain about anything. Putting stockings on in a stall has to be the most difficult thing ever. I suffer in silence. I have no idea how the dress Tabitha gave me ever fit her. It feels painted on. “Tabitha, I don’t know about this.”

“Let me see.” I step out of the bathroom, sort of smiling at the other women who are there for a reason. I hear a couple say “Wow.” Tabitha opens her door a crack and peeks out.

“Looks pretty good. Except lose the bra.”

“I don’t want droopy booby.”

“Eve, just take it off. You’ve got good boobs. Pull it down a little to show them off.” I do as she says and stare at myself in the mirror, clutching my breasts. I’m not so sure about this.

Tabitha fully emerges from her stall. She is wearing some shiny gray dress that’s almost sheer. She puts her hair up and reapplies her makeup. I compare our reflections in the mirror. Tabitha may be a lot bigger but she fills her space up well, while I think I’m sort of grasping for a “look.”

“You look fab, you’re really doing it, Mommy,” Tabitha says catching my eye in the mirror. She turns toward me her lip pencil poised. “I just want to redefine. Your lips are really your best
attribute, Eve—well your lips and those perky boobs. We should go.”

I bounce all the way down 7th Avenue.

The Fashion Awards are kind of a snooze. I mean it’s cool to hobnob, but when there is no alcohol involved and the dialogue is this poor, it’s kind of a letdown. The nice thing is wherever I look there’s celebrities, but you really can’t want to interact with them without seeming like the biggest star-struck loser. It’s only fun to look at them for so long.

Being a seat filler is solely for the purpose of making an event appear to the viewing audience as if it is the most populated happening in history. Most of these award shows are attended by industry people, and if they manage to lure celebrities, the celebrities only want to stay for a little while. They are kind of like us, they just want to get to the party.

I know I get on TV a couple of times. That will make my mom happy.

The party is at some club I’ve never heard of. My presence doesn’t stop Jaques and Tabitha from being overly affectionate with each other. Just as I was afraid of, this party is more for production people. There are some low-level celebs and models, but no one to really freak out about. I am here to keep Tabitha company while Jaques schmoozes with the producers to insure that he will be styling the awards next year. We have the bartender make us something extra special, which turns out to be Absolut Currant and cranberry juice. We have three. Suddenly Tabitha starts quasi-hyperventilating. In fact (and she would hate for me to point this out), she looks a lot like Roseanne did at the fateful brunch.

“What? What? What?” I say, while motioning to the bartender for more.

“It’s him, it’s him.” I look around. Who could it be? “It’s Kevin. C’mon.” She pulls me with her, practically spilling my new drink. It’s Kevin, the stylist whose book is her bible.

We hover close to Kevin, who is talking to some TV actress. It’s hard for him to ignore us because Tabitha is breathing down his neck. He smiles at us.

“Hi,” says Tabitha—whom I have never seen like this—“I think you are great. I love your book. You are truly an artist. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Tabitha.”

Kevin extends his hand, very humbly. “I’m Kevin.” Wow! Then, he turns to me and smiles warmly. He takes my hand.

“Eve,” I say, wishing Kevin could be my best friend.

“Nice eyebrows.”

“Thanks,” I say, but not being enough of a fan to gush I feel kind of stupid. Tabitha drags me away, although I know it’s difficult for her to remain calm.

“Isn’t he amazing? So nice. Introducing himself like we didn’t know who he is.” We sigh and have another drink to celebrate the glowing goodness of Kevin.