Authors: Margo Candela

Underneath It All (26 page)

BOOK: Underneath It All

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I
borrow a little pill from Vivian who borrowed a whole bunch from Natasha. All the troubles of my day float past my eyes and out the window as I give into chemically induced relaxation and sleep.

Bina

I
wake up with cotton mouth. I must have slept with my mouth hanging wide open for the last ten hours. Very attractive. I look at the clock as I tentatively sip water, spewing some over my duvet when I see it’s past 11.

What the hell is in those pills? They’re lethal. Next time I’ll take only half.

I get up and pad to the bathroom and pee for what feels like an eternity. After I finally stop, I realize that the flat is too quiet, even for a Saturday.

Either Vivian is up and gone or passed out.

I brush my teeth, wash my face—twice—and pull my underwear out of my butt and make my way to the closed door of her room. I drum my fingers on the door and listen.

“Vivian? It’s me. You up?” Nothing. I push open the door and her bed is in the same state it was the night before. Naughty, naughty. At least I hope that’s what has kept her out all night and not some horrible car accident.

Speaking of which. I rush over to my machine to see if Bina called during my pharmaceutically induced coma. Nope.

This could be a good sign. He told her, she was totally cool with it, even sympathetic (she is a doctor, after all) and is now methodically canceling the flowers, caterers, reception venue ...

As if on cue, Bina’s number flashes on my caller ID. I pick up before the first ring is even finished.

“Hi, Bina! How are you? I was wondering if you were going to call.” As when a nurse gives you a shot, I believe in distraction and a stealthy poke. None of that tapping of the fingernail against the syringe, rubbing the area and giving the person ample time to think about the needle and the pain. “Bina?”

“It’s Sanjay.”

“Oh.” I feel as if I’m going to throw up. I sit down on the floor and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t. “What’s up?”

“I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention anything. She’s in the shower. She’s going to call you when she gets out.” Sanjay’s voice is curt and flat. I can tell he’s angry with me for making him tell his fiancée that he’s gay.

“OK.” There’s not much else I can say. He clearly is telling me that he hasn’t told her yet so I can’t remind him to tell her because that would only make me look like a bitch and I don’t need him feeling any more put upon than he already does.

“Oh! Here she is, Jacquelyn. See you soon!” Sanjay calls into the phone sounding cheery. That freak can turn on a dime, in more ways than one.

“Jacquelyn, sweets, I overslept. We can make the 12:45. I’ll be by to pick you up in 20 minutes. Kiss, kiss.” She hangs up.

Feeling slightly zombified, I head to the shower, hoping a blast of cold water will wake me up and that my Zoloft prescription hasn’t expired.

I take more of a splash than a shower, and I don’t even bother to shampoo or condition my hair, something I usually do religiously every day.

I like to take long showers, at least twenty minutes. It’s one of the great things about living alone and having your own dedicated water heater. Long showers, sleeping right smack in the middle of the bed and peeing with the door open so you don’t miss what’s on TV are just some of the perks of living alone. I’ve had to adjust slightly with Vivian, but it’s nothing compared to the sacrifices I had to make when I was with Nate.

I’m pulling on my shoes when the phone rings again. I look at it in horror. Maybe if I don’t pick it up I can avert another disaster. I guess I can let it go to the machine, but what if it’s my mom. This would be the third phone call in a row I’ve let my machine deal with. Three is usually my limit. It might just be a wrong number. I’m due for some luck. I pick it up, ready to toss it out the window if I don’t like what I hear. “Hello?”

“Jacqs, it’s me, Vivian.” She sounds out of breath.

“Hey, where did you sleep last night? Wait! Don’t tell me.” I lean back and relax. At this point, I can handle anything Vivian throws at me with my eyes closed. “You pick up some young legislative aide and teach him the ways of the world the way only a true redheaded woman can?”

“I wish. Nothing like that, just work. Got held over with this dinner thing. With the governor, but ...” This is a heavy but. I know this type of but. I brace myself. “But, um, I was wondering, if anyone asks, would you say I was at home? All night.”

“Who would ask?” Besides me, of course.

“My almost ex-husband’s jackal of a lawyer for one. We aren’t officially divorced yet and there is a slight issue with the dividing of assets. Don’t worry about it. I’m absolutely positive no one will ask, but just in case. I was home in bed and gone before you woke up, same old crap. Please?”

“Sure thing. Not a problem. I’m going to be out all afternoon, anyway. You want to meet me and Bina for lunch, shopping and a movie?”

“Really?” She covers the phone with her hand for a minute, and I can make out a mumbled conversation. “Oh, I can’t. I’ll see you when you get home. Ciao!”

“OK ... Cheerio!” I hang up, feeling a little confused. Who knew that work could make a person sound so ... exhilarated?

Bina double-parked right in front of my flat and the old lady neighbor has the towing company on speed dial.

I run down the stairs and take a quick peek at my mailbox. Bills. I’m not too eager to take a look at my American Express bill and be reminded just how stupid I can be. They can wait until I get back. I quickly walk toward Bina’s Saab and see she has her ever-present cell phone pressed to her ear. I slide in next to her and give her what I hope is an innocent smile.

“Sanjay,” she mouths and crosses her eyes. I settle down, feeling as if I’m about to get a tooth drilled at the dentist. “What is it with you today? Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. I have Jacqs in the car ... Yes, I’ll put my phone on vibrate. See you tomorrow night!”

“Everything OK?” I ask.

“Sanjay has this big tax-fraud case. He’s been asked to testify in New York. I told him to have someone else do it. He can’t handle the stress. You should see how jumpy he’s been. It’s like he’s the bride!”

“I can imagine that.” What a weasel. He still has no plans to tell her. “What’s going on tomorrow night?”

“Sanjay, he’s an ass but can be such a sweetheart. Remember his friend Allen? He was at the barbeque Sanjay threw for his department in Golden Gate Park? Anyway, he just broke up with that bartender woman he was sleeping with. Or claimed he was sleeping with. I always get the feeling Allen is hiding something. You
know
what I’m talking about. Anyway, we are going for a little cruise on the bay.”

“No, you’re not!” I yelp.

“Yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I? Allen’s a safe sailor. Is that what you call someone who is a yuppie and took sailing lessons because he had to buy a boat for tax reasons?”

“It’ll be dark and you’ll be all alone. Don’t you remember
Double Jeopardy? Sleeping with the Enemy? Dead Calm!
Remember
Dead Calm?
Nothing good happens on boats. Promise me you won’t go!”

“Jacqs, don’t be jealous. Once this wedding is over with, Sanjay and I will ignore each other and drift apart just as all married couples do. I promise. I’ll be all yours.” Bina pats my thigh and merges into the light Saturday traffic. “Anyway, you’re due for a boyfriend. Any good prospects?”

“No. I’m done with men. All of them.” I look out the window. I don’t trust Sanjay, but I doubt he’d kill her. He doesn’t seem that desperate. And I know Allen wouldn’t have anything to do with a scheme that even has a whiff of being in the gray area. He’s a lawyer and has grandiose ideas of running for office one day.

When he heard that I worked for the Mayor’s wife, I became his new best friend until I let him know that if I was going to weasel a job on the Mayor’s staff, it would be for me.

“So, how is Sanjay?” I ask, trying to sound extra casual. I’ve never inquired about his welfare until today and I don’t want to make Bina suspicious.

“I told you, jumpy. On edge. Between this wedding thing and the lawyers keeping him late at work, he hasn’t had a chance to relax. That’s why we are going out on the boat, to get away from everything for a little while. You should come! I know you hate boats and you threw up the last time, but it might be better at night.”

“OK,” I say without hesitating. I don’t just hate boats, I fear them. I was never so sick or scared in my life as I was in Allen’s boat, which isn’t small or rickety. Just the idea of being afloat in the middle of the bay, not being able to flee, can cause a panic attack. “I’ll come. For you.”

“Are you serious, Jacqs?” When I nod, she takes her hands off the wheel and tries to hug me. I bat her away to a chorus of car horns. “This is a miracle! This will be so fun. Who knows, maybe you can straighten Allen out once and for all. Invite Vivian! We’ll have a party on the boat!”

“I think I’ll pass on Allen. Vivian’s husband served her with divorce papers on Friday.”

“It’s such a pity, but maybe for the best.” Bina turns into the parking structure and heads for her usual floor. “They’ve been married only a little while and, thank goodness, there are no children.”

“I guess she is lucky in a way. Right? She’s young, attractive. She can find a new man, a better man, in no time,” I chirp, hoping that subconsciously Bina takes this all in. We climb out of her Saab and head toward the elevators.

“Of course she can,” Bina says as she links her arm through mine. “But we have to find one for you first.”

“It can wait,” I say, and lean my head on her shoulder. “I have a feeling I’m going to be busy in the near future.”

I sit next to Bina and pretend I haven’t seen this exact movie. The ticket taker recognized me and gave me a funny look, but I ignored him. Bina claimed I was flirting with him and I had no choice but to agree.

I can’t concentrate, and I laugh in the wrong places or miss jokes entirely. I need someone to talk to, someone human, but not Dr. N. I need someone who can share the horror of my situation on a very basic level.

Vivian! She’ll understand. Plus, she’ll find out anyway when the wedding is cancelled. Bina extended a very heartfelt and drunken invitation to her the night we all went out together. Vivian accepted on the spot and has already purchased a gift for them.

I have to hold it all in for a few hours before I can ditch Bina and spill my guts to Vivian. They’ll be the longest hours of my life.

Mrs. Mayor

A
fter an hour of shopping and then eating a slice of Blondie’s pizza standing up, I tell Bina (OK, lie) that I have cramps and I need to go home and rest.

She’s very understanding and offers to sit with me and keep microwaving my gel pack. I feel extremely guilty telling her I’d rather be alone. Then, to make it worse, she tells me she’ll use this time to work on wedding details.

By the time I get into my flat, all I really want to do is take another one of Vivian’s magic pills and shut out the world for the rest of my life. I’ll deal with all this stuff tomorrow. I’ll go out to lunch with Vivian and have a nice long talk. I strip off my clothes and, wearing only a camisole and underpants, collapse on my couch and stare blankly at the wall.

After that gets too tiring, I let my body fall to the left and resume staring. That’s when I notice the condom wrapper underneath my coffee table. One thing I’m absolutely sure of is that there hasn’t been a condom opened in my flat for the last year (and counting), at least not by me.

All of a sudden, every nerve in my body goes into overdrive as I strain to sense if someone is having sex with someone in my near, too near, vicinity. I inhale deeply, trying to smell if this sex may have occurred on my Pottery Barn couch. I splurged and went for the linen/cotton blend and had to wait three extra weeks for it to be delivered. It’s a virgin couch and I always thought I’d be the one to deflower it. I stand up and look closely around and see that things are moved around. There are two wineglasses on the side table, and a CD case (Marvin Gaye!) is open and empty on top of the stereo.

Her door is closed, but Vivian doesn’t strike me as the quiet type in bed. I get up, tiptoe to her door and press my ear against it, trying to hear heavy breathing or, please no, moaning. Nothing but quiet. I tap on the door and then leap back. I lean forward and knock loudly but hopefully in a friendly manner. Nothing.

I gently crack open the door and peer inside without trying to look at the bed. “Vivian?” I say in a whisper so loud that even the neighbors in the next building should be able to hear through the window. Hearing nothing, I push the door all the way open.

Her bedsheets are all twisted up and there is
another
empty condom wrapper in the wastebasket by her bed. I rub my eyes and look again at her unmade bed. Buried in the sheets is a tie in a unique shade of lavender (purple, according to the Hermès salesperson) that I only just recently laid eyes on.

I go stand by the bed and hover closely over the tie, so close that the pattern blurs. For a second I don’t really understand how Mr. Mayor’s tie, the one Mrs. Mayor had me get him especially for his dinner with the governor of California, has gotten into Vivian’s bed.

I’m about to gingerly pick it out of the tangle of sheets when someone pounds on my front door. I jump back, like a startled cat, and look for a way to escape, briefly entertaining the thought of heading out the window. It’s the police! I just know it. Now I know what Monica Lewinsky felt like when the FBI came to her door looking for her blue dress. I’m fucked and I didn’t even get laid!

I rush into the living room, peek through the peephole and get a fish-eyed view of a very upset-looking Mrs. Mayor.

“Open the door this instant!” She stops pounding on the door but is now yelling.

I snatch open the door before anyone sees her. Briefly I notice that her car, which she rarely drives herself, is double-parked outside.

“Hi. Katherine. What a surprise.” I smooth down my hair. “I thought you were in LA.”

“Where is he?” she asks hysterically, standing very close to me. I can see the faintest of smudges under her eye where it used to be bruised. “I know he’s been here.”

“Who? I’m here alone. Would you like something to drink?”

“Jacquelyn, don’t fuck with me,” Mrs. Mayor says in an icy-cold voice that scares me.

“OK.” I take a step back.

“Where is that redheaded cunt? Tell me!” Mrs. Mayor spits.

I notice she’s wearing pointy black Dior boots, sleek pants and a light cashmere sweater, and no jewelry except for her engagement ring—Mrs. Mayor’s catfight outfit. That rock on her ring would do serious damage and turn a simple catfight into assault with a deadly weapon.

“You mean Vivian? She’s not here. She’s out. I mean, I guess she’s out. I just got here. I was at the movies. You want to see my ticket stub?” I am totally innocent and Vivian obviously isn’t. I still feel kind of bad even though technically I’m not selling her out. But, hey, she got laid in her bed, now she has to lie in it.

Mrs. Mayor gives me a disgusted look, pushes past me and stalks into my room. Sensing that there hasn’t been any sex in there for a while, she beelines toward Vivian’s room and her unmade bed with its flutter of lavender. She stops short, gives a pained gasp and then launches herself toward the bed. She grabs the tie and then crumples on the floor, crying, really crying. Soon the snot starts running down her nose, and she makes no move to wipe it.

I wince. This is getting messy. I grab a box of tissues and am about to go in when I realize I’m wearing only my underwear. I rush into my room, pull on a pair of pants and take the time to dig out a slightly wrinkled shirt out of my closet. I can face Mrs. Mayor without shoes, she seems practically harmless for now.

I lock the front door with the chain so Vivian will know something is up if she is so blinded by stupidity sex that she doesn’t notice Mrs. Mayor’s double-parked Mercedes in front of my flat.

I march into Vivian’s room, shut the window so the neighbors don’t hear any more than they already have and hunker down next to Mrs. Mayor with the box of tissues.

“Katherine? Do you want to go sit in the living room? I can make some tea.” Tea seems like the thing to offer. It seems more medicinal than coffee, and there is no way I’m offering her anything stronger to drink.

“Why? Tell me, why?” she wails.

I dab her face with the tissue and notice she’s taken the time to apply a full face of makeup. I’m careful not to smear her eye makeup. Her mascara is staying put, must be heavy-duty waterproof. I make a mental note to check her makeup case to see the brand.

“I don’t know why, Katherine. Come on.” I heave her up and she leans heavily on me. I deposit her on the couch, where she slumps and continues to cry. I watch her for a bit. “Oh, crap! I’ll be right back.”

I tear outside and pound on my old lady neighbor’s door. She opens it holding her cordless phone.

“If you even think of calling a tow truck, you’ll live in a world of hurt from this day forward.” I jab my finger behind me. “That’s the mayor’s wife’s car and, trust me, she can be a real bitch.”

Without waiting to see if she has anything to say, I take off back toward my place and slam the door behind me.

“Now, what kind of tea would you like? I have green tea, of course, and chamomile and jasmine. Oh, and English breakfast, Irish breakfast. And orange spice, but it’s in bags. I prefer loose tea. The orange spice is Vivian’s ... Let’s have chamomile.” I fill the kettle, set it on the stove, and go and sit next to Mrs. Mayor, who is now sniffling and staring at her engagement ring, the first and last Baxter heirloom she got her hands on. I pat her back lightly and realize that aside from shaking her hand the first day I met her, this is probably only the second time I’ve touched her.

We sit in silence until the kettle gives off a shrill whistle. This seems to snap Mrs. Mayor out of her stupor.

“I knew he was cheating on me. This isn’t the first time.” She looks up at me with huge, sad eyes.

“I’m sorry. Let me get you some tea.” Normally, I would try to keep the conversation going while in the kitchen but it seems kind of crass in this situation, especially since she is my boss.

I race through pouring tea into the pot and putting cups, milk and sugar on a tray. I empty a box of butter cookies onto a plate and carry everything to the coffee table.

“Are you sure? I mean ... I mean, he could have lent her his tie for a tourniquet or something,” I chatter while the tea steeps.

I love having tea. I have a huge collection of teapots, and the only thing I was really gunning for as a wedding present was a tea set from Tiffany’s. I never got it, of course, because I didn’t have a wedding and everyone assumed that since we were already living together, we had everything we needed.

My internal clock tells me the tea is just close to perfect. I pour it into a cup and offer it along with its dainty saucer to Mrs. Mayor, praying that her hands are steady and she won’t drop it and break it. It’s my best set. I got it on sale at Bed Bath & Beyond when I was supposed to be tracking down refrigerated, pure flaxseed oil for her.

“I’m sure.” She takes the cup and blows. “I know. What more proof do I need?”

We sip in silence. Aside from the fact that Mrs. Mayor makes me uncomfortable, and there is a wrapper from a condom only a few feet away that was used by her husband and Vivian, this is actually pretty relaxing.

“I knew there were other women. I’m not stupid. He was practically engaged to that anorexic debutant when I met him. But no, I didn’t listen to my agent and I went ahead and married the bastard.” Mrs. Mayor snorts into her tea. “I’m surprised he hasn’t tried to get into your pants.”

“Thanks!” A compliment is a compliment, even a backhanded one, which are all Mrs. Mayor is capable of. “I mean ... no. Never.”

“Of course not,” she says more to herself than me.

I’ll let that one slide due to the circumstances.

“What are you going to do?” This seems like a reasonable question. If this isn’t the first time he’s cheated on her, it won’t be the last, and she doesn’t seem to be taking it too well.

“Nothing.” She scoops in too much sugar into her cup. I can tell that Mrs. Mayor is not one for proper tea. She usually sticks to the iced kind.

“Pardon me?”

“What can I do, Jacquelyn?” The tears start flowing again. “Divorce him and go back to making horrible movies or being a supporting player on a bad sitcom?”

“No, I guess not. Especially if you don’t want to.” I could think of worse fates than being a working actress. Even a cheesy working actress. I hand her a tissue, but I’m not doing any more wiping. Mrs. Mayor gets very dependent when she’s upset. “Have you guys considered going to a marriage counselor?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Mayor nods as she dabs her eyes expertly. This was her signature move on her soap,
Love and Lies.
Watching her makes me feel nostalgic for those simple times when high drama was relegated to the family television set. “I’ve suggested it, but he says no one in his family has ever been to one and he isn’t going to be the first.”

I wonder if he either doesn’t know she sees a shrink or doesn’t consider her as part of his family.

“Do you love him?” Women have the immense and irrational ability to overlook the most horrendous of faults for love. I wouldn’t hold this against her if she did, since I’d think twice about leaving Mr. Mayor and I only have a crush on him.

“Love? What is love, Jacquelyn?” This is Mrs. Mayor being philosophical.

I don’t say anything and let the moment pass. I can see, now, that even a woman who seems so self-possessed as Mrs. Mayor is just as weak and insecure as a regular woman when it comes to her husband, or any man, for that matter. Mrs. Mayor, I can tell, probably has a lot of experience with cheating boyfriends and disastrous romances, but she’s still holding on to hope that she’ll find the right one. Someday.

I should say something supportive and understanding.

“Um.” I start. I need to warm up.

“If that motherfucker thinks I’m going to divorce him, he’s got another thing coming. I’m going to be First Lady if it kills him. The prick.” She takes a butter cookie and dunks it and chews on it savagely.

I can see the wheels turning in her head. It’s an awesome thing and not a little scary.

“OK. So what happens now?” Maybe she wants me to make a spa appointment. I’d like nothing better than to pass her on to a massage therapist.

“First, this doesn’t leave this ... place.” Is she dissing my flat? “Second, we go on as normal. I’ll take care of it.”

She stands up and I automatically get up too. I guess teatime is over.

“If that’s what you want to do.” I walk behind her as she starts for the front door. She nods firmly and fumbles with my sticky front-door lock. I hadn’t noticed, but all this time, she was clutching her car keys.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday. Have a good day, Jacquelyn,” she says as if we were standing in her multimillion dollar Mansion and it was the end of a typical working day.

“Yeah, uh, you, too. Bye! Thanks.” I close the door and collapse against it.

I have to flee my own home. I dig out Natasha’s key (I have to water her plants) and start toward my room to pack an overnight (or two) bag.

My phone rings and I pounce on it, assuming it’s Bina.

BOOK: Underneath It All

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