The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (7 page)

L
ove in the
F
ast
L
ane

***
MEDIA ALERT
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MEDIA ALERT
***

A head start is always a good thing. Especially in PR. We won’t need a media alert until “week of.” But I like to know all Five
W
s early on. Once they are set, I know how to proceed. But not today. The
W
s not the only things out of place, I am distracted beyond distraction. Besides which, it smells like a funeral parlor in here. Seems as if everyone in the office has received flowers.

The reception area of PR With A Point faces front, in front of a U-shaped hallway along three sides. I step into reception and take my copy of the alert out of the printer. Then, paper and latte in hand, I walk the perimeter looking for Jay, peeking into offices and cubicles to see who got what for Valentine’s Day.

Jay’s corner office has a round table visible near the open door. The entire top is taken up with an arrangement of lilies of the valley, presumably from Enzo. Do I hear wedding bells?

A dozen pink roses bloom in a tall glass vase on Nancy Cheng’s desk. Across the hall in Heather Thomson’s office are a dozen white. Krista is elated with an orchid plant, and Sean Borrelli distributes chocolates, dropping handfuls of small dark cocoa squares onto everyone’s desks.

“A.A.” Jay calls to my back as he races down the hallway. His pace couldn’t be faster if he was running a marathon, and his speech pattern’s just the same. “Been meaning to tell you, honey, that you look
fabulous.
Oh my. And even from the front.” Caught up, Jay says that to my face, though he continues to talk and walk.

“Thanks. I think.” I wish he’d slow down. “Look, can we schedule a—?”

“Information. KISS approved a celeb.”

“Yes?” My antennae are up.

“They want a celebrity to judge the kissing contest.”

“So they like it?” Everyone internally was all over my idea at our last meeting.

“They love it. You PR Star.”

“Fantastic,” I say, thinking ahead. “So they must have a good budget then, right? Like what? Like seventy-five, a hundred grand? Plus travel expenses?”

Jay feigns a faint. With his hand, he pretends to slice the number in half. And then slice it again.

“You’re kidding! What
name
is going to give four hours to judge a contest and talk to the press for just twenty-five thousand dollars?” This news is awful.

“Work your magic,” Jay says, quickly dashing past. I see he’s looking good.

“If it’s an L.A. celeb, the event’s still in New York, right?” I call behind him.

“Don’t worry, if it goes L.A., we’ll rent you a nice convertible,” Jay shouts from inside his office. “Maybe something red.”

I immediately grind to a halt and do an about-face to where
JAY SPIEGEL, EXECUTIVE V.P.
is engraved on a thin metal plaque on his office door. I barge in.

“Jay!” At his desk and back online, his time for our conversation has ended.

“Fast, fast,” he says, acknowledging me though his eyes stay on his e-mail.

“The launch has to be in New York because you know I don’t drive,” I blurt out. Fast.

“Still?” His trim body collapses into his black leather chair. “Are you saying you have yet to handle this?”

“Yes. And I don’t want any surprises.”

“Aimee, Aimee, Aimee.” Jay looks at me. Disappointed.

“What?”

“We go through this every time we plan an event,” he says. “You may even be worth it, but car service for the PR firm is not a given in a client’s budget. And don’t make me remember Utah.”

The coup of KISS and its new line of digital cameras as a corporate sponsor at the Sundance Film Festival was short-lived. After days of a media blitz and no sleep, not to mention frigid weather, the second it was over everyone packed up and took off in order to make the flight. No one realized there could be ramifications to my driving both me and the superexpensive signage to the airport in the rental car.

“Is that what you’re saying? Are you first telling me now that
you don’t drive
?” Jay shouted repeatedly into his cell until some mountain made him lose his signal. I lost face, sleep, my flight . . . don’t ask about the rigmarole to fix it.

I had been able to conceal my driving phobia from PR With A Point for several years, but the more we travel, the more it comes up and the more problems it potentially creates. Of late, we’ve been traveling a lot. And everyone’s just about had it.

“Here’s a tip: when creating the event, create why it’s New York based,” Jay now advises. “And alongside that, consider how to get over your problem. Don’t tell me how, but by the time of the launch I’ll expect you have. Understood?”

“Understood.” As if I had just signed someone’s death sentence, I almost cry.

“Please don’t.” Jay wipes away a fake tear. “This is important. I’m taking you at your word, okay?” He extends his hand to shake on it. “I do have the number of a great phobic shrink if you want.”

“Really?” I ask, as I shake. Literally and figuratively. “What freaks you out?”

“An account supervisor on the cusp of becoming a VP who still can’t drive at forty.”

“Excuse me. Who you callin’ forty?”

“Gotcha.” Jay winks. “Now get out.” His hand shoos me as if I were a fly, the aroma of the flowers following me into the hall.

I’m dizzy when I leave. But determined to figure this out. I’ll come up with the perfect celebrity-based New York City KISS event. Sans cars. And after, when this goes down as a big success,
maybe
I’ll consider . . . Oy, I hope I won’t have to explain to Josh how I grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania without a driver’s license.

At the end of the corridor, I press the button that opens the door to exit into the main hallway. Past the elevator bank, I turn left to the ladies’ room and use my key to enter. Next to the row of sinks is a full-length mirror. I feel pleased when I catch my reflection on the way to the loo. Even though I have never looked more together, I have never felt less. But one thing’s for certain. I must protect my job. Whatever may happen, work remains my constant. The place I at least imagine I maintain control. Now Jay is saying there can be a stop sign. A time I won’t get to go unless I drive there.

“Zeman,” I shout when I exit the bathroom, seeing Andrew waiting for the elevator. “Happy V-Day!”

“Same to you,” he says. Not wearing a coat, he’s just running downstairs to Starbucks for his morning fix. He mimes holding a cup and taking a drink. “Want?”

“Have. Thanks.” Walking by him, I wave, pausing in front of PR With A Point’s front doors to swipe my ID to get in.

“Hey. How’s Bread Guy?”

“Cool,” I answer, holding the door open with my back in order to face him.

“Cool. Want to double?” he asks. “Selina wants tips on being a Jewess. What do I know?” Andrew steps into the elevator, typing on an imaginary keyboard to indicate we will e-mail to discuss. But once the elevator doors close, so does that discussion. That double-date among the last things I need.

“There was a delivery for you, Aimee,” says Tanisha, our receptionist, when I walk back in.

“Oh thanks, but I got it.”

Bright and early, first thing, Office Services delivered a dozen red roses from Josh to my office. The card read, “A Valentine Tasting Menu Awaits! 7:30 tonight. Pick you up in front of your office building.” Josh may not know the real me, but even this version doesn’t leave the office at six. I called him immediately to thank him. And I will give him my gift, Godiva heart-shaped dark chocolates, in person tonight.

“No,” says Tanisha. “Not that gift. Another one.”

“You sure?” I bet anything Josh sent another dozen roses. He strikes me as the type that can go over the top.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she says. “This one wasn’t through a messenger service. The guy hand-delivered it himself. The Messenger Center called for you to go downstairs and pick it up. But the guy didn’t want me to call you. Office Services went and got it. They probably brought it by your office.”

Peter? Ohmygod. Peter came here? What if I had just gone with Andrew and ran into him? What if he’d come up here and seen my red roses? What if he’d seen my red hair? No. He wouldn’t do that. He’s not thinking of me. It’s not for me. It must be one of the other girls. Maybe Tanisha is wrong.

But, alas, Tanisha is right. Next to the roses, front and center on my desk, is a package from Peter. I recognize his handwriting, my name written on the envelope of the card. I open it. It simply has a picture of a heart sketched on the front, one word printed inside:
Happiness.

I open the package—wrapped in the front page of today’s
New York Times
and tied with a red ribbon—and find a square wood frame. The words
Bow Wow
are engraved in four different fonts along each of its sides. Inside is a photo of Baxter, wearing a red bandana around his neck, a pumpernickel bagel sticking out of his mouth. It is so dear, I’m moved to call Peter. Except my cell rings and it’s Josh.

“Hi, there,” he says with the confidence of a man who feels he has done well. And he has. The roses come from an exclusive Madison Avenue florist nearby. Not to compare, but the arrangement outdoes all the other dozens I have seen today. Still, my eyes shift back to the photo of Baxter. The note from Peter.

“Aimee, you there?” asks Josh.

“Yes,” I say. “I am.”

“Good. Me, too.”

And suddenly it becomes clear.

***
MEDIA ALERT
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MEDIA ALERT
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O
ut of the
B
ox

I
T’S ALL YOURS
,” I say. I release the carton, strapped to one of those luggage carts, and dump it in the middle of Krista’s living room. “Josh is picking me up back uptown. I don’t have much time. So let’s do the exchange. And quick.”

“Good morning to you too,” says Krista, drinking coffee out of her PR With A Point black mug, tousled hair pulled up in a scrunchie. Padding around barefoot in blue plaid pajama pants. “Now why did you wake me?”

“You did it.”

Krista only grins. Ear to ear, I observe.

“Valentine’s Day,” she says. “And every day since!” The sunlight pours into her living room, illuminating her smile and sections of the original hardwood floor.

“Ohmygod.” I cover my eyes with my hands as if any second Matt will walk out naked through the bedroom door. Or worse, ask what’s in the box.

“Tennis. Don’t worry. He’s gone,” she says.

“Good.” I crouch down and unfold the flaps, also unfolding the words written across them:
Jewish Things: To Be Opened When I’m Safe and Married.

“How fabulous,” says Krista, rummaging through the box before taking out my siddur and the pair of ceramic candlesticks. “Ooooh, I like these. And I need something pretty for ShaBOAT.”

“ShaBOT,” I correct. “And since when did you start lighting
Shabbas
candles?” I say
SHAbus
, using the eastern European pronunciation to purposely get her confused.

“I thought it was ShaBOAT.”

“ShaBOT.”

“Yes, that too.”

“Well, that’s the modern Hebrew way of saying it,” I explain. “After lighting candles, my grandparents would say, ‘Good SHA-bus,’ but I grew up saying ‘ShaBOT Shalom.’ ”

“Then that’s the one I’m going to learn when I go to my conversion class,” Krista tells me.

“It’s not even a month. Are you kidding me?” That Krista openly gets to be Jewish upsets me no end. Especially as I hand over my most beloved possessions.

“They say when it’s right, you know,” she tells me. “Only I never did before.” Krista sees the look on my face. “Look, it’s only in my head. We obviously haven’t discussed it yet, but it feels . . .” She pauses so this word comes out right.
“Bashert.”

“I think it is,” I say, doing my best to separate my own fears from my happiness for my friend.

“Oh, don’t worry, Aimee, I’m going to share everything with you. And before you know it, Josh’ll want you to go to Jewish school too. Then you can get it all back.” Krista’s my friend, so she tries. But she doesn’t believe it for a second. And after Valentine’s Day, perhaps, neither do I.

We had a wonderful evening at Blue Hill on Valentine’s Day. I’ve been to my share of great restaurants, but a three-star place has never been my norm. The poached duck was a delicious surprise, but not bigger than when Josh said his mother makes that every year for Christmas dinner. I was just slightly aghast to discover Josh’s family always celebrates Christmas. With a tree!

“We work so superhard in December, it’s just the logical day off,” he explained.

Logistically it makes sense to me, but not emotionally. Still, it doesn’t necessarily seem like a problem because Josh
is
Jewish. And from the Five Towns on Long Island. It doesn’t get more authentic than that. So Christmas with the grandparents. Hanukkah at our house with the kids. But first you have to have them. If you built it, they will come. I even think bearing gifts.

“Okay, so you’ll hold this box for me until I’m ready to take it back? You can use whatever you want. Just don’t tell Matt where it came from.” Krista has agreed to a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy that, so far, seems to be working. “And can I have your stuff now?” I point to my watch. “I’ve got to get out of here. We’re going to Alpine in less than an hour. And I spent the better part of the morning getting my hair washed and ironed dry.”

“I told you I’d bring it to the office,” she says, dashing into her room to get it.

“He picked me up every night after work,” I yell after her. “I know he’d have looked in the bag. Besides . . .”

Krista reenters the living room with a big J. Crew shopping bag that, among other things, I know includes the brand-new ski outfit she got for Christmas.

“He
has
to come up to my place tonight. I’ve put him off half a dozen times, and with all the KISS work I didn’t even have time till first thing today to de-Jewify my apartment.”

“All right, calm down, don’t worry. Look”—she holds up the pale blue soft-shell jacket—“this will look great on you. Feel how light.”

“Gee.” Pulling the jacket over my head, I run to the mirror and observe myself as I pull the black zipper up under my neck to the top.

“I gave you two boxes of Christmas cards, leftover Christmas wrap, green grass and plastic Easter eggs, a bread basket, a butter dish . . .”

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“We’ll get to it. There’s a few slices left of white bread, two bananas . . . I emptied out my fridge for you.”

“What about the vodka?”

Krista pulls open a small cabinet door on her wall unit, revealing a makeshift built-in bar. “Here ya go,” she says, adding tonic water and an almost empty bottle of Absolut to the bag.

“Absolut Shiksa,” I brand out loud.

“There’s half a head of iceberg lettuce,” she continues, “Kraft mayonnaise, almost a full quart of whole milk, and my prized
Betty Crocker’s Quick & Easy Cookbook.
” Krista takes a breath. “Make sure you don’t spill anything on that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I also made you a list. You want to see?”

“Can you just read it to me?” I ask. I can’t tear myself away from the mirror. I love how I look in my new gear.

“Are his friends Jewish?” asks Krista as she unfolds the printed list.

“I wouldn’t ask. Only a Jewish person would ask that,” I explain, both as information and advice. “And
only
to another Jewish person. But I do know it’s a couple.”

“Well, unless it’s two gay guys, you better be on guard.” Krista’s questions and responses are sounding more and more like me.
Before.
“Now pay attention,” she says, and reads aloud.

“What if she asks where I got this?” I say of the blue jacket, hoping she will. I never bought such cool athletic stuff before, and this is a whole new world.

“If someone asks where you got anything, just say Bloomingdale’s. The words
Filene’s
and
Loehmann’s
are never to leave your lips.”

“But you shop—”

“I learned from you. Who’d you learn from? Next.”

“That’s easy,” I say. “Now,” I confess. “I can’t talk as much as I used to.”

“Try to keep it that way. Okay, we sort of went over this . . .”

“So let’s say I have Josh over for dinner. I couldn’t go there to maybe pick up a chicken because I know he’d like it?”

“Let him ask for it. For now, you always have a casserole in the oven.”

“But my apartment’s so tasteful,” I cry. “All muted earth tones.”

“A woman would catch that faster than a man, but take these.” Krista gets one striped throw pillow and one flowered one from her sofa and tosses them into the bag. “And a few fake flowers wouldn’t hurt anything either.”

Fake flowers. Like the silky ones they always string across windows. Over curtains. I have wood blinds. But curtains? On second thought, I like that. I’ll have to be on the lookout.

“You said you were going to give me some of those saint guys,” I say. “Did you?”

“In the bottom of the bag is the prayer to St. Anthony. He helps you find things. And I’m afraid you’ve lost your mind.” She looks at me and laughs.

“Krista!”

“Hey—it’s not like I gave you St. Jude.”

“What does he do?” I ask as I gather up the shopping bag.

“He’s the patron saint of lost causes.”

“Thanks a lot,” I confess to getting the joke. But boy, I sure love all my new toys. Plus my new outfits and accessories. “Shiksa Barbie,” I say, sure to blow Krista a kiss before I’m out the door.

I hold on to the feeling, because when I get into Josh’s black BMW, it’s JAP Barbie sitting in the back. And I’m sure I’ve met my Midge.

“Hi! I’m Stacy. This is Adam. Josh has told us
so
much about you.”

Josh has not told me so much about them. In a glance, however, I see. Her diamond ring, large enough to knock my eye out, and matching diamond wedding band indicate they are married. And Stacy’s large belly, protruding through her maternity-cut sweater, is proof positive she is busting with child.

“So nice to meet you,” I say, turning to face them from the beige leather heated seat in the front. Josh carefully closes the passenger door before making his way to the driver’s side.

“Everything you said,” declares Adam when Josh gets behind the wheel.

“She’s a peach,” Josh agrees, and leans across his seat to give me a very sweet kiss.

“Whoa, Josh,” says Adam.

“Adam, really,” Stacy says somewhat sharply. I not only feel tension in the adjustment they make seeing Josh with someone new, but imagine it’s fueled by their history. Could Stacy be one of Josh’s exes? Already losing my bearings, I’m not quite ready to know.

Josh heads up First Avenue, getting over to the right to go north on FDR Drive. We practically glide. I don’t know much about cars, but I sure like this one. The ride is so smooth, and the seat is toasty.

“Before we blow town, does anyone want to stop to pick up coffee or bagels?” asks Adam.

“Not for me, thanks,” I instantly say. It’s closer to lunch, but you can always eat a bagel. But to keep my new weight, I need to be a lot more careful. And as much as a bagel is a New York thing more than a Jewish one, I am quick to detach from my association with one of my favorite foods.

“She eats like a bird,” explains Josh. “I’m up for it.”

“Me, too,” says Adam. “Pull over here. I’ll pop in. Girls, anything?”

“Bottled water,” says Stacy.

“Me too, please,” I say.

Adam flashes a very sweet smile as he gets out of the car.

“So how do you all know each other?” I ask. Ready or not.

“Stacy was my office mate at my first job out of law school,” says Josh. He gives her a look and shakes his head. It’s obvious he and the law were not made for each other.

“And Lauren was my roommate at Cornell,” says Stacy. “So it was pretty funny when they had the blind date I arranged and realized they had already met in law school at Cardoza.”

“Lauren?” I sweetly ask, though I know exactly whom she means. So that’s what I feel. Stacy’s loyalty to Lauren. Still.

“Josh’s ex,” says Stacy, shooting Josh a look that says,
You mean you didn’t tell her?
“She’s a lawyer like me. Lauren made partner, Josh. Did you know that?”

“Aimee’s in PR,” he responds. “Consumer. An account supervisor.” Josh looks proud. “And soon to be a VP.”

“Josh.” I giggle. It’s sweet, and I feel pleased he toots my horn. I turn to Stacy. “We have a big product launch coming up that will be a determining factor.”

“Bet you work really long hours,” she says.

“Ohmygod,” I say. “You can’t believe it. Well, you’re a lawyer. You totally can.”

“So you’re ambitious,” says Stacy. “And you work
a lot.
That’s
interesting. Isn’t it,
Josh?”

“And Adam’s an architect,” he says, ignoring Stacy’s question. “And one of my best friends,” Josh tells me by way of explaining why he puts up with her. “So don’t worry about being stuck on a trail with a bunch of stuffy lawyers.” He doesn’t appear rattled. I have a hunch he’s been through this before.

“Thanks a heap, Joshy. But I’ll be inside drinking hot chocolate. You wear a size seven shoe, right?”

I nod.

“Did he tell you you’re borrowing my skis?” Stacy asks.

“Not yet,” Josh answers for me.

“I had to come, anyway,” she says, and pats her pregnant belly. “I just had to get out of that apartment.”

And see Josh’s new girl so you can report back to Lauren.

“When are you due?” I ask, knowing it’s safe.

At my first job out of college I rode the elevator with a coworker I was certain was pregnant.

“When are you due?” I asked. “Just the short time I’ve been here you’ve gotten
so
big.” I beamed at the woman awaiting her response.

She stared a moment before answering, “I’m not pregnant.” The next seconds of the elevator ride were an eternity.

I ran to my desk and called my mother, crying from embarrassment. I thought she would tell me not to worry, that it was okay. Instead she asked what I learned from this and told me never again, under any circumstances, assume a woman is pregnant until she says so.

“May baby,” says Stacy, who happily pats her oversized tummy. “Give or take.”

“Cool,” says Josh. “Boy or girl? Did you ever find out?”

“We’re waiting,” she replies. “But you’ll have to save a date. There’ll be a bris or a baby naming either way.”

A bris or a baby naming. It sure would be fun to go with Josh to a bris or a baby naming.

“Yeah,” says Josh. “I’ve got my cousin’s son’s bar mitzvah coming up somewhere around then also. Gonna be one Jewish spring.”

“You’ll manage, Joshy,” says Stacy. “He always makes such a big deal about any Jewish stuff and holidays.”

“Hey, I barely know how to pronounce them.” Josh turns to me. “You know about that stuff, honey? Aimee’s not Jewish,” he seems to boast.