Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (21 page)

The next morning I called Kate and formally accepted her offer. My soul lost its wings for a moment when she told me to be in the office the following Monday morning at 8:30 a.m., but a trip to Marc Jacobs to invest in some staple work pieces helped me get over the loss of freedom known as “employment and resignation to a life of slavery.” There’s just something about buying twelve skirts that calms the spirit.

Monday morning rolled around faster than I’d expected. I’d spent most of Sunday night deciding on the perfect first-day-of-work look—which took hours—and ended up having to call over my hairstylist, Thorsten, for an emergency hair appointment to adjust my layers by half an inch. At first he was pissed
because it was 3 a.m., but after taking one look at my face he realized the proportions were all off and was able to have me looking like a whole new Babe by 4. I slept for the few hours I had left propped up in bed with cucumber slices on my eyes and a pore-tightening masque on my T-zone, before my alarm chirped me awake at 7.

While I was getting ready for work (Work? Who am I?) a messenger delivered a package from Charlie. A beautiful bouquet of flowers and a red lizard-skin Smythson iPad mini case with the sweetest note.

To the chicest girl in New York. Knock ’em dead.

Love, Charlie

I
don’t take public transportation, and I wasn’t going to take a taxi to my new job at
Vogue.
Placing my punctuality in the hands of a cabdriver who might ask me how to get somewhere was not going to happen. Ever. So I hired a car service to pick me up. That’s how I met Felix the Dominican. He had the face of a twelve-year-old, the body of a thirty-six-year-old, and the hair of The Rock. Felix rolled up to my building in a huge Escalade. He had a vibe about him that said “I will get Babe Walker where she needs to be, even if it means killing a man or a child or a small dog.”

I strolled into Kate’s office at 8:25 a.m. She seemed surprised that I was on time, and I lied and told her that I’ve never been late to anything in my life. Then she showed me to my desk and walked me around the office, pointing out the “people you’re allowed to talk to”—mostly assistants and junior editors. I
kind of loved what a bitch Kate was. She was so cold and thin. Actually, everyone in that office was pretty cold and thin. There were lots of chic-to-death women, gays, and even a couple hot straight guys, all sucking fashion’s dick. And I was Babe Walker: gainfully employed Voguette.

My first week went by smoothly. I had access to all the shoe closets, I went to all the New York photo shoots, and I even got to sit in on a creative meeting with Michelle Obama. It was a great position for me, because I didn’t have to be anyone’s assistant. Getting people’s coffee and being passive-aggressively bitched at all day are two things that aren’t in my skill set. There was one slip-up where I almost got caught sexting Charlie, and another where I almost overslept (I’d taken a Lunesta and forgotten to set my alarm). Thankfully, Felix had keys to the apartment and dragged me out of bed, dressed me, did a surprisingly decent job on my hair and makeup, tossed me in the car, and had me at work by 8:32 a.m. Also—I would never, ever brag about this if it weren’t true (swear on my collection of PS1s), but one day I totally overheard Anna Wintour tell her second assistant that my blouse was “not heinous.”

The thing I really loved about my job was that I didn’t hate it. This was the beginning of the rest of my life. I was going to have a
Vogue
career. I was going to grow old wearing Charlotte Olympia slingbacks, mixing florals and prints, opting for a more sophisticated and polished look that included lots of couture from the nineties, and eventually (if things didn’t work out with Charlie) marry an artist with a huge dick whose parents were filthy rich, retire early, and live out my golden years painting still-life portraits somewhere in Ibiza.

The following Monday I was picked up at 7:45 a.m., totally ready to take on week two of career-woman chicness at
Vogue
. Felix told me I looked “thinner and taller,” which I attributed to the Giuseppe Zanotti boots I had just bought. They went up to my crotch, they were gray suede, and they were everything to me. We stopped by my favorite coffee shop, Ninth Street Espresso, before work so that I could get an oolong tea. Apparently they’d hired a new barista who was unclear on the art of steeping, so it took him fifteen minutes to prepare my tea. I grabbed the steaming-hot tea off the counter and was rushing out the door when I almost ran smack into the chest of a bedraggled man who was coming into the café.

“ ’Scuse meeee!” I said, trying to edge around him without making eye contact. He smelled like a mixture of b.o. and Tom Ford Extreme.

“Babe?”

I turned around to confront this weird-smelling stranger who knew my name, hoping that it wasn’t anyone from college, and was shocked to see Robert staring back at me. He looked . . . bad. He had a five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes, and I swear his hair looked like it was thinning near his temples. Also, he was wearing drawstring pants that appeared to be medical scrubs, a white V-neck, and flip-flops?

“Robert?” I asked incredulously. I could tell he was embarrassed about his disheveled appearance. Especially since my outfit was insanely amazing (vintage Jean Paul Gaultier camel cashmere wrap coat, white Stella McCartney silk shirt dress, and, of course, my precious boots). Plus, my hair was incredibly shiny thanks to a five-hour conditioning mask I’d applied
the night before. Normally I’m the one who’s looking like a desperate mess. This was one of the greatest karmic shifts of all time.

I flashed Robert my friendliest smile. “How are you doing? You look very . . . relaxed.”

“I’m . . . I’m good!” he said unconvincingly. If anyone wearing flip-flops tells you they’re doing well, they’re lying. “So, you live in the city now?”

“Yeah, I do. Been living here for a while now. I really love it. What about you?”

“I moved back a couple months ago. Right around the corner from this place,” he said, motioning to the coffee shop.

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Yeah. Hey, did you ever get that voicemail I left you . . . ?”

“You know what? I might have, but I can’t remember. I just got a job working at
Vogue,
so I’ve been really, really, really, really, really busy.”

As if on cue, Felix appeared next to me.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Miss Walker, but it’s 8:05; we must be going.”

“Thanks, Felix. Robert, this is my driver, Felix. Felix, Robert.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” said Felix, giving Robert a firm handshake.

“You too,” muttered Robert. God, this was the best moment of my life.

“Well, it’s been so good seeing you, but I gotta jet. Take care,” I said, placing my free hand on Robert’s upper arm and giving him a reassuring, don’t-kill-yourself-later squeeze. I smiled sweetly and turned to follow Felix to the car. As I slid into the backseat, I heard Robert calling after me.

“Wait, Babe!” He jogged up to the car, and I rolled down the window.

“What’s up?”

“Can I take you to dinner tonight? I just . . . I really want to talk to you.”

“I have plans tonight.”

I wasn’t meaning to be so curt, especially since he looked like Ted Bundy on vacation, but I needed to self-protect against the possibility of turning into you-know-who.

“What about tomorrow night?” he asked.

“What about tomorrow night?”

“Do you have plans?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Wednesday night?”

“Busy.”

“Thursday?”

Looking into Robert’s eyes, I suddenly felt a pang of sadness. Here he was, clearly in terrible shape, and begging me, his beautiful ex-lover, to go out with him. It was borderline humiliating. For both of us.

“Friday night might work for me.”

“Great! Great. How about Koi? I can pick you up—”

“No, that’s okay. Why don’t we just meet there at seven?”

“Seven it is. See you then.”

“Bye, Robert.”

The workweek flew by, which I guess is what happens when all you do is look at clothes and talk about clothes. I got to Koi at 6:45 and took a seat at the bar. I was wearing a Burberry Prorsum metallic blue leather trench and chartreuse pumps with an ankle strap. Color = Power.

Robert showed up at 6:55 and seemed genuinely surprised to see that I’d beaten him to the restaurant. I stood up as he approached the bar and he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek.

“You look great. I made a reservation. Should we grab our table?”

“Let’s just stay here,” I suggested. I didn’t want this to get too involved. Keeping things relegated to the bar meant we could grab a couple drinks, eat some sushi, catch up, and I’d be out of there in an hour. Even though Robert looked much better than he had on Monday morning—he’d shaved, he no longer looked like he was balding, and he was wearing a gray Calvin Klein Collection suit, no tie, crisp white shirt underneath—I wasn’t here to get cozy.

“Bar works,” he said, taking a seat on the stool next to mine. I ordered right away (vodka martini, seaweed salad, toro sashimi) so he wouldn’t have the chance to linger.

“Thanks for meeting me, Babe,” said Robert, leaning over his cocktail and taking a sip.

“You’re welcome. You seemed a bit out of sorts on Monday.”

“Oh, you noticed?”

“Yeah, unfortunately your drawstring pants and flip-flops combo gave you away.”

He laughed. “It wasn’t my finest hour, that’s for sure.”

“You also smelled like a hobo, so there’s that.”

“Ouch.”

“But you clean up nice, I guess,” I said with a forgiving smirk.

“To tell you the truth, I’m in a weird place.”

“What’s going on?”

“I miss you.”

“Robert—”

“I just thought that if I could see you again, we could at least talk.”

“About what? How I’m the worst version of myself when I’m around you?”

“You’re not right now.”

I sighed. “That’s because I’m with someone else.”

“I know, and it drives me crazy.”

I loved that (a) Robert knew I had a boyfriend and (b) that he hated it. He kept going. “I called your phone on the off chance that it was still your number. I needed to hear your voice.”

“Look, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have a boyfriend and we love each other and are very happy together.”

“Do you go insane over him?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“As a matter of fact, no.”

“Then you’re not in love with him. Do you still think about me?”

“Robert, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t know, Babe.”

“Well, it’s really poor form to ask me to dinner and then just—”

“I think I’m trying to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m still in love with you.”

I inhaled sharply. What the hell was going on? I had expected to meet Robert for dinner and hear about how depressing his life was and feel even better about my own life. I never in a million years thought that all this time, all these months that I had tried to put him out of my head and move on, he had been trying to do the same thing with me. No. We couldn’t go down this road. It was too late. I was with Charlie.

“Well, that’s too bad,” I said firmly. “We had our moment, it’s over. Let’s both move on.”

“Babe, you disappeared. I was in LA, hiding out from everyone I knew back east, working like a dog, and you were off the radar in Europe or wherever. I wanted to contact you, but I thought you were done with me—or at least done with whatever it was we were doing. I stuck around, hoping you’d show up, but months went by and you didn’t come back. And then I just let you go, decided to move back to New York and start fresh. I was doing okay for a while, and then I saw an interview with you pop up on Barneys.com, talking about how you live in the city with your new boyfriend, and I just kind of lost it. I realized I wanted you back and that I’d do whatever it took to get you back.” He placed his hand on mine. Chills shot up my arm. I should have moved it away, but I didn’t. I felt a lust trembling within me. A lust I hadn’t felt in ages. I thought about Robert’s touch. The way he kissed. The way he fucked. His massive hands and his perfect dick.

“You want me back?”

“I want you. Period.”

“All of me?”

“All of you.”

“Even Babette?”

“Yes. I feel like I am the male version of Babette right now. I’m not even kidding. You saw how I was on Monday.”

“Are you attracted to me?” I asked.

“Very.”

I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn’t help myself. “Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes.”

“Elaborate.”

Robert leaned in close.

“I’d undo that trench coat you’re wearing button by button until your naked body was in front of me, and I’d put my finger in your mouth and make you suck it. Then I’d trace it from your lips to your breasts. Then to your belly button and then slide it into your dripping wet pussy while sucking on your nipples.”

I grinned at him.

“Do you have a boner right now, Robert?”