Up & Out (9 page)

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks. I am starving, but it’s only fair to wait for Beth.

“Just more bread, please, and a glass,” I ask the waiter, almost pleadingly.

“It feels like summer,” Kathy said. She’s right. It isn’t even really dark yet, and you can feel the warmth in the air.

Beth finally arrives. She kisses us all hello and doesn’t apologize for being late.

“I’m starving,” Kathy says, and I’m not sure if it’s a dig for Beth.

“Have some more bread,” Lauryn says. It’s pretty strange that she organized this. We used to have to drag her out of the apartment. The waiter brings Beth and me glasses.

“Were you late, too, Rebecca?” Beth asks me.

“A little,” Kathy says before I can answer. Is she still bitter about the bridesmaid thing? We pick up our menus. In days gone by we never usually got around to looking at the menus (I, of course, was the exception); we gossiped for a while until the waiter would come over and ask us for the second time if we were ready to order. Now we are thankful to have a prop to cover our faces.

“Well, I know what I want,” Kathy says.

“Of course you know,” Beth said. “We’ve been here a zillion times.”

“I want to hear the specials,” I say. Beth turns to me.

“Honestly, Rebecca, you always get the
pappardelle.
”

“I know, I just want to hear the specials. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is,” Kathy says. She is taking my side by default.

“Remember that time we came here before your work party, Beth?” Lauryn asks.

“I do,” I say. “I remember Kathy was so shitfaced, she spilled pesto all over her white shirt.”

“And she was too shitfaced to care,” Beth adds.

“You lent me that cardigan you had in your desk,” Kathy says to Beth.

“And afterward you met Ron,” Lauryn reminds her. I wink at Lauryn. She is acting like some sort of negotiator. I’m not sure why it’s so important to her to make sure Beth and Kathy are getting along. Maybe it’s her therapist’s idea. The waiter came over.

“’Ave you decided?”

“She would like to hear the specials,” Beth said, then stuck out her tongue at me in a playful way. The spinach-and-ricotta ravioli special sounded good, but I decide to stick with what I know.

“I think I’ll have the
pappardelle
with spicy
ragu.
” The rest of the girls laugh at me and I mock bow.

“You are de star,” the waiter says in his hot little Italian way. Kathy got gnocchi with pesto. Beth got the spaghetti with peas and potatoes and Lauryn got penne a la vodka with chicken. And we agreed to split a baby-greens-and-goat-cheese salad and buffalo mozzarella tomato appetizer. The order is the same as always.

When the starters came, we fell right into a normal routine. Kathy started telling us about Ron’s mother’s annoying dietary demands for the wedding. Beth complained that her mother, who had been opposed to her dating all along, was now asking her if she wanted to be an old maid. I did an impressive impression of Delores Wagner and Lauryn ordered another bottle of wine.

It was perfect and comfortable. When our pasta arrived, we all took bites of one another’s dishes and moaned with savory delights. It could have been any other night.

Then Beth’s cell phone rang.

Then she answered the call.

Then Kathy excused herself to go to the bathroom.

Then she came back with red eyes.

Then Beth got off the phone and muttered an insincere apology.

Then we ate for a little while in silence.

Then Beth’s phone rang again and Kathy slapped her hand on the table.

Then Beth looked at the number, looked at Lauryn and left the table.

Then I ordered another bottle of wine.

Then Kathy said, “Don’t even bother. I’m going to go home soon, anyway.”

Then Lauryn said, “No, let’s have more.”

When Beth returned to the table, she didn’t say anything for a while. She pushed her food around her plate and ate another potato.

“You know, I’m full, and I told some people I would meet up with them,” she finally says.

“Well, have fun with your people,” Kathy says.

“Do you want to wrap up the rest of it?” I ask.

“No, that’s okay. I won’t eat it.” She already has her bag on her shoulder. “How much do I owe?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lauryn says. “It’s on me. My last big night out.”

I knew then why she planned this, what she wanted—a normal night out.

“What about next weekend?” Beth asks.

“I’ll be busy packing. I’m going to take the ferry up next Monday.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I’ll call you before you go,” Beth says. “See you guys.”

“Bye,” I say.

“I need your measurements to give to the dress shop,” Kathy says without really looking up.

“I’ll e-mail you,” Beth shouts as she was already almost out of the garden.

The waiter comes over to clear her plate. I rescue one of the potatoes in her pasta before he gets it.

“You can take mine, too,” Kathy says. “I should get the train before it becomes too sporadic. I didn’t realize this was your last night out, Lauryn. Maybe I’ll stop over to help you pack this week.”

“Thanks, Kathy.” While they hugged goodbye, I stole one of Kathy’s gnocchi before the waiter could grab it away. Then I hugged Kathy and told her I hoped to see her this week.

When she’s gone, we pick at our food a little more. Lauryn holds her plate out to me and I take a piece of chicken and mop it in more sauce.

“I wish I had known tonight was supposed to be special,” I said. “I should have planned it myself.”

“It’s okay. So, I guess you’re going to move in with Tommy?”

“It doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I’m sorry I was late.”

“That was the least of the problems.” She looks down at her plate and squeezes a piece of penne between her fingers. “Rebecca…”

“Yeah?”

“Who do you think called Beth? That last time?”

“I dunno,” I say. “One of her cooler friends, I guess. Why?”

“I don’t know.” She squints at me, sizing me up for something. She squinted at me like this many times when she was sleuthing Jordan. I made Esme squint in a similar way when she is questioning school bullies. I hadn’t realized that I got the look from Lauryn until right now. “You don’t think there’s something…funny going on.”

“Funny? I don’t know.” But there is something in my head that I can’t quite pinpoint. It was just out of my reach and for some reason, I didn’t want to know.

Lauryn stares at me for another few seconds, like she wants to ask me something. Then she says, “I guess you’re right. Let’s finish the wine.”

“Good idea. I know one thing that could turn this night out.” She raises her eyebrows.

“Tiramisu?”

“Thatta girl.”

M
y phone is ringing. Does anyone respect Saturdays anymore? Every Saturday, it’s like Déjà Vu. No, more like Ground-hog Day. I squint at the clock. It’s ten-thirty. It stops ringing. Bless Lauryn, I think, and fall back to sleep.

When I get up an hour later, I smell cleaning products. Lauryn is on one of her crazy housekeeping sprees. I really need to pee, but she is scrubbing the toilet bowl.

“Can’t you just wait?”

“It’s going to get dirty eventually.” She sighs and pulls off her rubber glove. She has her bandanna on, which means she’s going to attack the kitchen next.

“Who called?” I yell from the toilet.

“Tommy with questions. You should just move in with him.”

“What about Seamus?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t know. What if he finds out I’m living with Tommy?” I come out of the bathroom and go into the kitchen. She is pulling cans of soup out of the cabinets.

“Well, he won’t know who Tommy is.” She turns to me. “Rebecca, you didn’t tell him about Tommy, did you?”

“I did a little. I didn’t tell about the offer.”

“Well, don’t. Just have him keep calling you on your cell and never let him come to your place.” She learned a few things from Jordan’s lies.

“So I should move in with Tommy?”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like Beth is going to ask you. Unfortunately, everyone else is pretty much paired off. Unless you want someone’s couch. I think it should be a very transitional thing with Tommy. You can’t stay there for more than a few months. It just won’t be good.” It’s nice to have a person who has no trouble making your big decisions for you. She’s right. I can’t afford this rent, not with my credit card debt.

“I don’t know why you’re cleaning, we’re moving out, anyway.”

“It puts my mind at ease.” She pauses. “So I can tell the landlord we won’t need to resign.”

“Yes, and while you’re at it tell him to fuck himself for rent like this.”

“Okay.” She pulls out some pasta boxes and smiles. Cleaning makes her strangely giddy; I will never understand it. “What are you up to today?”

“Well, I think I’ll go to Madison Square Park and work on the final scripts and some notes for the animators. Then I told Seamus I would take him out for dinner since he’s treated me the past couple of times.”

“Nice. I’m going to clean out my closets and take stuff to Goodwill.”

“Do you want to go to Johnnie’s first?” Johnnie’s is a small restaurant with a lunch counter and a couple of tables. They make the best BLTs.

“Do you ever think of anything other than food?”

“Is there anything else?” She shakes her head, but closes the cabinet. I begin to salivate.

A mere hour later, I am happily full of bacon and trying not to be distracted by all the cute dogs at the dog run when I look over some final scripts. Some day I want to have a dog in the
city. If things don’t work out with Seamus, I will get a dog. But things seem like they’re working out—it’s starting to feel like a relationship. Although, he seems busier than I am.

I am not calling Tommy yet. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m going to magically move into Seamus’s fabulous apartment in the West Village. Still, it would be nice to have a fireplace (even if it’s fake) and a boyfriend with the inside track on New York’s restaurants. Okay, I have to stop this food obsession. I am getting out of control.

I think I’m starting to believe in all the work mumbo jumbo. We are in “transition” there—and I feel transitional. My apartment, my job, boyfriends, friends—everything. It’s like melancholy, but less clear. I just want to feel normal again. I don’t want to keep referring to focus groups where we pump kids full of pizza and soda and try to elicit answers we can use in Power-Point presentations to get more money. I want to feel like myself again.

I can’t focus on the scripts. I don’t want to think about Esme. When I first started working on her, I got so into it. It was like rewriting history, creating the type of person I wished I could have been.

My friends were all behind me. Tommy totally got it and knew her just as well as I did. Everyone who saw the interstitials said they were totally inspired by those little films. I even brought them home to show my parents over Christmas two years ago, and for once I thought they finally kind of understood what I did. Okay, they still didn’t get how I could be paid for doing it, but it was a start.

Now Esme belongs to everyone else. Funny how a promotion can be the fastest way to lose control. Sure, it was hard for me to let Janice and John animate her after I made executive producer, but I believed they got it. I don’t think someone in Korea who doesn’t get what it’s like to be a kid in this country would be able to figure it out. I hate that all these decisions are being made based on money, either, or that they are being made by people who don’t know jack about kids.

When I was putting the pilot together, I caved to Hackett’s
suggestion about changing Esme’s sister to a brother. It was easy enough to change Ellie to Eric, but once I made the first change I essentially made it okay for all the changes. This was all a part of the job. I wasn’t doing a solo stand-up act, I was making TV. I couldn’t work in a vacuum. People had say. Fuck.

A young black retriever comes up to me and sniffs my leg. “Hey, buddy,” I say. I let him put his front paws in my lap and I rub under his chin.

“Vixen,” says his owner, a twenty-something blonde in low-rise sweats. She holds his leash in one hand while the other is wrapped around the waist of a guy.

“Cute dog,” I say, and the couple smiles at each other proudly. They give Vixen a tug and are on their way. It must be nice to have a boyfriend
and
a dog.

I take a deep breath and focus on the scripts. These doubts about life are only putting me further behind schedule.

I told Seamus that he could pick any restaurant he wanted and make reservations, but he could not offer to pay. I insisted. I want to establish myself as an equal in this relationship. He picked Nobu, not Next Door Nobu. Delicious, but not cheap.

Don’t get me wrong, normally I would be thrilled to go, but this time I was paying. I had made that clear. As soon as we sat down at our table, Seamus started talking
omakase. Omakase
is the chef’s choice. It is prix fixe, but not like a $9.99 all-you-can-eat buffet. No, there’s a bunch of courses offered for varying prices, each one more expensive than the next. Seamus assumed we would get the most expensive. I couldn’t get out of it by saying I wasn’t hungry because at least two people at a table had to do
omakase.
Also, there was no way I could watch Seamus enjoying all the savory Japanese treats without yearning to sample my own.

“Is this okay, Rebecca?” Seamus asks. “I would have picked somewhere a little less popular, but I remembered how you said you loved the rock shrimp tempura.”

“I do. This is great and I usually go next door, not to this Nobu.” I am flattered he remembers. I decide to forget about
the tab and just enjoy. I just got that promotion and I have been paying all the minimums on my credit card bills. It is a mere token. I won’t always have to pay.

I order a mango martini and Seamus gets sake. He knows what kind of sake he wants. I have a feeling he’s been here a million times, too.

“Do you like it here?” I ask.

“I do. It’s lost a bit of its wow! but it’s still a fantastic meal for the layperson.” Am I a food layperson? “To me, nothing compares to West Coast sushi. I like Nobu, but this place in L. A., Matsuhisa, is far superior. Of course, there are arguably places in Vancouver that can rival that.”

“Of course.” I don’t always choose the restaurants when it comes to going out with my friends, but I am usually the person everyone looks to to choose the wine, even though I was learning from Seamus that my knowledge is limited. I am also the person who generally gets the “good choice” comment from the server when I order. With Seamus, I feel out of my league, yet it turns me on.

“I’d like us to try something,” he says. Uh-oh! Is this when things get kinky? “I want you to drink sake with me for dinner tonight.”

“Instead of wine?”

“Yes, I know. It’s out of the ordinary, but, Rebecca, I know some great sakes that are positively euphoric. I want you to trust me.”

“Okay,” I downed the rest of my mango martini. I could get used to this. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”

When the first bottle of sake comes, it tastes strong and gross at first, but I agree to finish my whole cup. Toward the end I could stomach it, so I took another cup. By the time we were on our second bottle, I was no longer tasting the delicious foods that were put in front of me. The cod in black bean could have been a Filet-O-Fish.

By the time dessert comes in its attractive little box, I am no longer sure what Seamus and I are saying to each other. I just
know that he has invited me back to his place and I am ready to go. There aren’t too many things I like doing when I feel this full of alcohol. I was looking forward to doing one of them in front of Seamus’s fake fireplace. All my inhibitions have been cast aside. All systems are go. There was no way Seamus would ask, “Did you, did you yet?”

When the bill comes, it’s unbelievable. Despite my alcohol haze, I could still make out the amount was over $400. Not including the tip. I have never spent that much on a meal (for two!) before. Thank God for plastic.

We get a cab right away, and we kiss the entire way home. Seamus pays for the cab—I save six dollars. (Every little bit helps after that dinner.)

Seamus gives me a brand-new toothbrush. He went to the dentist just last week. He also gives me some pajamas, which I don’t understand. I brush my teeth in his bathroom, studying my spit to try to remember what I had eaten. In the morning, I will hate myself for getting too drunk to enjoy my food and for spending too much, but tonight I need a little sugar in my bowl.

I strip down to my black bra and Tabitha’s Taboos underwear and go into Seamus’s bedroom. He is lying on his back on the bed. His eyes are closed and his pants are still on. This doesn’t look promising.

“Seamus,” I say, letting the “mus” ring out at the end.

“Mmm?” He moves his head to me, squints his eyes open and closes them again. It looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. The room is spinning, but if I make it to the bed, I will be fine. I climb up on the bed and straddle him.

“What are you doing?”

“Dunnnoooo.”

“You don’t.” I reach for his belt. “I do.”

“Rebecca?” he says with a question in his voice.

“Yes, Seamus?” I lean my face close to his. I start to kiss his chin.

“I think I’m in a food coma.” Record scratch. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This is the fucking honeymoon period.
When you first go out with someone, it’s like television sweeps. You pull out all the stops, guest stars, props, everything. You don’t eat too much, drink too much and fall asleep. Not when mama needs a little treat.

“Are you sure?” I kiss his neck this time. I rub the front of his pants. Nothing is happening. “You don’t want to…see?”

“Errrrrr.” I could get the hint. I am used to being celibate. If only I had kept up with him in the beginning, then our drunkenness might have peaked together. I roll off him.

“Do you want me to stay?” Honestly, I could have fooled around for hours, but there was no way I was getting myself dressed and into a cab. There was only one right answer to that question.

“Yes.” He pulls me into him rather clumsily. He might suffocate me. Also, he hasn’t had the chance to brush his teeth yet. I wriggle into a more comfortable position. He is spread across the bed, so it isn’t easy to get under the sheets, but I manage.

“Okay,” I say. I still hope for something. “Set the alarm for the morning.”

“Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

I fall asleep soon after…and wake up first in the morning. I have a raging headache, so I can only presume how bad he must feel. He is snoring. He looks pretty cute. I get up and brush my teeth.

When I crawl back onto the bed, I am wearing his robe for maximum coverage. I have found my inhibitions again this morning. I leave the robe open a little at the top.

As I am positioning myself to go in for the kill, he opens his eyes, which kind of freaks me out.

“Oh,” I say, lifting my face up. “Hi.”

“Ugh, I feel like shit.” Then he smiles. “Good morning.”

He pulls me up close and kisses me. I don’t even mind the morning breath. I could deal for a little morning nooky.

“You got me very drunk, last night, Rebecca.” He slips a hand into the robe. It’s warm.

“Me? You are the one who was serious about the sake.”

We laugh and kiss. Okay, this is looking good. Then he pulls back. “Do you want me to go get bagels?”

Is it possible that I have found a guy who likes to eat more than I do? Perhaps he just can’t perform when he’s hung over. Questions are already forming in my head, which will likely preoccupy me if we ever do get round to the act. There is no use doing anything now. The moment has passed.

“I’ll go,” I say, sitting up. “You just rest and I’ll also get you some orange juice and coffee.”

“You’re wonderful.” He reaches out to touch my hair. I feel like we are skipping straight to the comfortable period—without the honeymoon.

I get directions to the local bagel shop, and specific instructions on what kind of cream cheese to get. In the shop, as soon as I smell garlic I am hungry again. Okay, maybe Seamus had a point. We just need fuel and then we can have some afternoon delight. I order my bagels and pick up the paper. This will be great. We’ll eat, read and see what else happens. The couples’ perfect Sunday in New York.

“Rebecca?” I turn to see Jen behind me in the bagel line. She’s been out sick all week but looks fine.

“Hey, Jen, how are you? We missed you this week. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I feel much better.” She looks nervous.

“It’s all going okay, I mean our new boss is…” I shouldn’t say what I really think. She is Hackett’s niece, and besides she has to make her own impressions. “Well, she’s no Hackett.”