The Last Place She'd Look (24 page)
Read The Last Place She'd Look Online
Authors: Arlene Schindler
All of these experts' insights fueled my articles as well as my personal growth. My relationship series got great feedback and raves. My fees per article were increasing. I was offered a syndicated advice column that appeared in newspapers three days a week and simultaneously on a website. I had now ascended from self-help diva to relationship royalty. Since I was never someone who could take a good thing and accept it without picking it apart, I still wondered: If I was such an expert, where was my relationship?
But I kept my head down and kept writing. A few months later, my friend Rachael, another writer who focused on sexual addiction issues, used excerpts of my work in a women's anthology that made it to the
New York Times
best seller list, and also on a site where people paid per click to read the content.
One day Rachel met me for coffee at Kings Road Café on Beverly Boulevard. We sat outside, each drinking café mochas out of giant white cups. I couldn't get over the gorgeous pair of Grecian sandals she was wearing. “Your shoes are so great; they make your legs look endless. The leather is soft and yummy,” I said admiringly.
“Glad you like them. You could get a pair too,” she said, while reaching into her purse for a letter-sized envelope. “This is for you.”
I opened the envelope and took out a check for 22,000 dollars! I put my hand over my mouth to soften my gasp of delight. “What's this for?”
“Australian rights to the book, U.K., Japan. The blog is taking off too. Women in Europe really clamor for your advice,” Rachel exclaimed.
“My angst is a gold mine?” I said smiling, bringing the cup to my lips, sipping and feeling the warm sweet mocha slide down my throat. The only thing that would make this moment more glorious was if I had someone to race home to, to tell my news and good fortune.
Rachel and I said our goodbyes. I strolled home, smiling, wondering who I could call, who I should call. Beth was having marital and money problems, so dialing her would seem like gloating. Diana might ask for a loan. Who would be happy for me and might even benefit from my newfound flash of cash?
What could I do with 22,000 dollars? How should I use that money to change my life? I could deposit it in my account and draw from it when I needed help paying my rent. That's a sensible, conservative woman's approach to money. That won't make me happy or change my life. But it will keep me safe. Wasn't it me who really valued being safe and sane just a few months ago? What happened to that, Sara? She gambled on two lovers and crapped out.
I held the check in my hand, feeling it could burn a hole in my skin. I couldn't bring it to the bank till I spoke to someone, shared my news, and explored possibilities. I felt overjoyed and invincible. This was my lucky day! I picked up the phone and dialed Jessica. The phone rang four times. She picked up. Her hello sounded hesitant.
“Jessica, it's Sara, calling you as a potential client. I might be in the market for a condo,” I blurted. Before I could think about what I'd said, and how stupid it was, she put me on hold. I used this time to figure out what I'd say next. My mind was blank.
“Sara?” she said, clicking back to me. “My three o'clock for tomorrow just canceled.”
“Meet me for coffee at three tomorrow,” I insisted. “I know you're free now.”
“It would help if I knew what you were looking for?” she asked, in a highly professional demeanor.
“Looking for?” I said tentatively, knowing that what I really wanted was her, in my life again.
“What size condo, amenities, gym, terrace, pool?”
“I don't need a pool,” I answered, feeling stunned to be having
this
conversation.
“Your price range is under a half million… or more?”
“Oh, under, definitely,” I said, realizing she was serious and only focusing on the work aspects. I didn't want to piss her off…again.
She paused, and then with an ounce of reluctance said, “Okay. How about meeting near Bob's Doughnuts at Farmers Market?”
“Deal. Bob's Doughnuts, three p.m. See you tomorrow.” I hung up the phone and danced around. Then I prepped the tub for a luxurious bubble bath. I needed to soak and rehearse what I'd say.
The next day at 2:30, final preparations: good hair, clear face, looking good, not too excited. Who am I kidding? After trying on four or five different shirts and finding the one I liked, I spilled coffee, which created an obvious stain the size of a baby's fist, right near the left boob on my favorite blue blouse. After changing that shirt and triple checking that the right buttons were in their designated holes, I turned to walk out the door. Hand on door knob, the phone rang. An editor was checking on my progress for an article due next week.
“Uh-huh, uh-huh, talk to you later, uh-huh, good, can we--uh-huh, talk later? I'll call you back? Bye.”
Finally, out the door, walking two blocks to The Grove to meet Jessica, I heard the screech of two ambulances, followed by a police car. They're all heading where I'm going! Walking another two blocks I realized I'm walking towards the scene of a three-car collision. Glancing over to make sure none were Jessica's BMW, I kept walking, heart pounding, in anticipation of our meeting.
Meanwhile, the sounds of sirens are replaced by the rustling of a leaf on a tree mere inches from my head. Looking up, I realized I'd just dodged a shoulder full of bird poop. Glad it happened near me and not ON me, I smiled, feeling lucky. Walking south on Fairfax Boulevard, I felt encouraged by it being a warm, sunny day in February. The closer I got to Farmers Market, the faster my heart beat. If these aren't loving, yearning feelings, I don't know what is.
Farmers Market: chattering crowds of people, talking, laughing, eating different kinds of food. Senior citizens pushing baby carriages. Walking, looking, hoping—there she is—there's Jessica. Should I hug her? Just a friendly smile? I'll let her lead the way. Jessica smiled and leaned into me, not quite a hug, almost like a body peck. Her hair smelled as great as I'd remembered. I tried not to swoon.
“Hey, how are ya?” she said, more officious than warm, pulling a clipboard and pen out of her purse.
“Coffee? Anything?” I was trying to push the social angle of the meeting.
“Um, uh, soy latte?” she said tentatively, as she made herself comfortable at a table with folding chairs.
I obediently searched the nearby coffee sellers for a soy latte, not easily found in this part of the market. But I knew it would make her happy, so I went to the far end of the market. I brought back chocolate cookies too.
“Is everything all right?” Jessica asked, concerned I'd been gone a while.
“Fine. Great,” I said. “They have the coffee you like on the other side…and these too.” I presented the cookies.
“Thank you. Now I pulled some comps for condos in this neighborhood as a starting point for what you'd be looking for.”
“How's your coffee?” I asked, easing the conversation to being friendlier.
Jessica sipped, and went back to her clipboard. “Look at these and tell me what you think.”
“I trust you'll find great places.”
“What's your down?” she asked off-handedly.
“Down?”
“Down payment, your deposit.”
I offered proudly, “Work has been going great. I'm syndicated and a big hit in Europe. I just got a check for 22,000 dollars.”
“That's nice, Sara, congratulations. But how much can you put down to buy a place?” she said officiously, growing impatient.
“Twenty-two,” I restated, proudly.
“You brought me all the way here for 22,000 dollars…anything else you can add to that? You should know you can't buy a hot dog stand in this town for that kind of money.” She gathered her things as if ready to leave.
I grabbed her arm. “Don't go. Listen to me.”
“I wish you respected me enough to not waste my time,” she said coldly.
“With my writing and your real estate smarts we could create a real estate column together. I'd quote you the way I quote shrinks and therapists. This would increase your visibility, build client recognition, revenues—yours and mine. We'd pool our resources; we could make enough money to buy a house with a pool.”
“You're an adorable dreamer, Sara. But I live on planet earth,” she said curtly.
“Hear me out,” I mustered, not knowing where I was going. “I'm seeing this as a business opportunity that could benefit both of us. You teach me more about real estate; now that I'm syndicated, your point of view could be all over the country. Articles on: How to help women hold onto their homes, or buy foreclosures before auction. I could help you become the Suze Orman of real estate.”
We each paused and looked into our coffee cups, both surprised by what I'd said, and the potential of it all.
“You talk a good game,” Jessica said, still not looking at me.
“I'm not playing. I'm for real. All these months away from you, I was thinking about this moment, and what I could offer you…if it would be good enough—compelling—if I would be good enough. I've grown into a better woman—more mature and responsible.”
“Who sleeps with men,” she said, insistently.
“When we first met, you said there was so much you wanted to learn from me. I want to learn from you. Remember that Pet Shop Boys song,
I've got the brains, you've got the looks, let's make lots of money
.”
Jessica laughed. “You were always fun to be with.”
“Work with me. Teach me about short sales, for example. We can work on articles together; down the road, maybe a book. Buying a short sale for the long haul.”
Jessica looked up and focused on me. “I'm listening. Continue.”
“See me from a business point of view. Let me show you the potential.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“Be open to anything possible.”
Our eyes met, both smiling. In this moment, I was drenched in hope.
I knew if I won Jessica's trust I'd have to work hard to keep it and build on it. I immersed myself in learning everything I possibly could about the buying, selling, and maintaining of real estate.
I pitched stories about the homes and lifestyles of the women I wrote self-help articles for. I got to know a slew of new editors from design magazines such as
Elle Décor, Metropolitan Home
, and
Dwell
. Stories like
Spruce Up Your Studio Apartment, Living Large on Less
, and
Ten Steps to Refinancing Without Tears
, all sold easily and effortlessly. They also paid better than some of the other publications I'd been writing for.
Meanwhile, Jessica and I were spending a lot of time together working on story ideas, sharing dinners at night, looking at houses and condos on weekends. At first, we worked together as friends, and then, one night our work life melted… into a romance.
We were at my place, outlining an article about
How to
Start a Vegetable Garden, Even on Your Terrace
. Jessica was uber-serious. I tried to be playful. We ordered mushroom and garlic pizza. I opened a bottle of red wine. We ate and drank. The pizza was very salty, so we drank some more. On the couch laughing, she reached past me to refill her glass. Her arm grazed my leg. The clean scent of her magnificent mane was intoxicating. I leaned in for a cheek graze that became a smooch. Yes, it was that same couch where I'd had my last night with a man, my infamous misstep with Derrick. I thought how I needed to burn that couch, to silence the stories it could tell. Or maybe that couch was my passport to erotic adventures! That night was incredibly passionate, as Jessica and I both unleashed our wild girls, moaning and groaning each with fierce feline moves and frenetic energy. It was clear to both of us that neither had been intimate with anyone since our break-up. I think that made her receptive to trusting me, again. I saw this night as a small victory. But I knew that battle was not totally won.
After that, work nights ended with affection, sex, and pillow talk before falling asleep. Our professional goals of building greater magazine visibility and real estate expertise were coupled with growing as a romantic team. But two people collaborating get growing pains. We certainly had our share. I like to be comfortable when I write. Jessica saw this as me dressing sloppily, with dirty hair and a ripped shirt.
Jessica was repulsed, “Pigpen, stink bomb. Smellier than a man.” “That's a low blow.”
“You know how, better than I do,” Jessica fired back.
“Will you ever forget? Will you ever let go and trust my love for you?”
Another day, another argument, same subject. She thought I was a slob who couldn't wash a glass properly.
“Oh no, you don't call this clean?”I remarked sarcastically, examining the stained drinking glass. Then I dropped it on the floor, so it would break. “Now it's not a dirty glass…its garbage—I'll clean it up, 'cause I'm a planner.”
“I don't think I can work with you,” said Jessica.
“Me either,” I admitted. “But I can't imagine life without you… So I'll do better.”
That evening we went out to dinner. I was clean, dressed up, and well-coifed. Jessica was all smiles, attentive, and quite turned on in the restaurant. After dinner we stopped off at a supermarket to get some fruit for breakfast.
While I was in the produce aisle a man approached me. Seems he recognized me from my photo in the
Toluca Times
. We spoke for a few minutes. Jessica watched from a distance. She saw him touch my shoulder and give me his card.
“Who was that?” she inquired, with more than a hint of jealousy.
“No one.”
“No one gave you a business card?” she continued, amping up her rage.
“He reads the column, wants me to write about drywall and mention him, 'cause he's a drywaller,” I explained, hoping this would calm her.
“You think he's attractive?”
“He wants me to grow his business, not suck his dick. Is that all you see whenever I talk to a man?”
