Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (25 page)

Of course.
Far from disappointed, Barbara was poised for bliss. The Schulman fortune was chump change compared with the O’Sheas’. Her mother was not shallow enough to be concerned with the cash itself, but she coveted their access and boundless opportunities on her daughter’s behalf. Suddenly, Marjorie was overcome by both guilt and rage, frequent partners.

“I’m sorry. I’m being nosy.”

Marjorie swallowed her irritation. “No, I just wasn’t expecting the question. I haven’t mentioned anything because it wasn’t official until recently.”

“So it’s true?” Barbara’s voice rose with excitement.

“Yes, Mom. Mac O’Shea is my boyfriend.” Only now, as the sentence rolled off Marjorie’s tongue, did she realize how odd it sounded.
Mac O’Shea is my boyfriend.
Pickles had described the relationship as “serious.” That conflicted with Vera’s take.

“You know, we’ve always liked him.” Marjorie doubted if her father could pick Mac out of a lineup. “Oh! Have him join us for dinner on Tuesday!”

“Oh, shoot. Mom, no, the thing is, I’m calling because I can’t make dinner.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. How is Thursday, then? I have an afternoon seminar, but I’ll be out by six thirty. I just have to check with your father.”

“Actually, I’m going out of town. On a business trip.” It sounded fantastic out loud.

“Really?”

“Yeah. They asked me to cover a film festival in LA. I think this could turn into a full-time job. He thinks I have potential.”

“That’s great news! Who is he?”

“Who is who?”

“
He.
You said ‘he.’”

“Oh, Gus. My boss. At first, I didn’t like him. He was a jerk—
is
a jerk. The girls here, the interns, think he’s a god. I didn’t see it, but, now, even though he’s sort of impossible”—she giggled—“I also think that he’s … well, I respect him. He’s smart and Dad would love him because he’s a total film nerd.”

“He sounds great,” said a suspicious Barbara.

“Sort of. He’s a pain. But he’s also—like, interested in things my friends aren’t: books, politics, and—not that he’s my friend. We don’t even like each other. So, yeah,” she paused midbabble. “That’s Gus. And that’s why I’m going to LA.”

“But you’re dating Mac?”

“Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Just don’t forget to behave professionally.”

“Seriously, Mom?”

“We can all use a reminder now and then, you know, not to wear shorts to the office, etc.”

Marjorie looked down at her bare thighs. “Right.”

“Anywa—” The phone burped a pause, interrupting Barbara. “I think I have call waiting. The stupid thing never works.”

“Go ahead, Mom. I’ll try to call before I leave. Sorry I’ve been neglectful.”

“Please do. Your father misses you. And let’s make plans to have Mac over when you get back. Bye, sweetie!”
Whoosh.
And off marched Barbara to rejoin the throngs.

30

At Gatherers on Sunday, Belinda eyed Marjorie with alarm. “What do you
mean
you’re leaving?”

“It’s less than a week. We can e-mail and then I’ll be back for our next meeting.”

“But I was going to ask you for a makeup lesson,” Belinda complained. Her lids were bordered by broken strokes of eyeliner, a first attempt.

“Be excited for me, Belly! I get to see palm trees.”

“My grandmother lives in Boca Raton. They have palm trees there. They’re nice, I guess.”

“Well, then you know. When I come back, we’ll do a makeup lesson—or you could just ask your mothers?”

“No way!” Belinda sank her chin between her hands. “Mom D.’s idea of makeup is ChapStick. And Mom H. is still MIA. She joined an a cappella group.”

“Wow, really? What do they sing?”

“Mostly Indigo Girls and Lady Gaga. I watched them practice. She’s really excited about it.” Belinda examined her hands.

“Something wrong, Belly?”

She hesitated. “Mom D. is kind of a mess, I think. She keeps asking me strange questions about Mom H. I didn’t tell her, but I’m worried that Mom H. might like this lady, Charity, who runs the singing group. Like as more than a friend.”

Marjorie censored her grimace. Didn’t they see their perceptive child watching? “There’s probably a good explanation, Bells. It’s really difficult to accept, but you can’t control your parents. They’re just people who make mistakes too. Sometimes they have to be stupid before they can be smart. We can’t all pop out as brilliant as you.”

Belinda blushed, then smiled. “You don’t even know what happened to me at camp!” Kids are so resilient.

“Do tell. Quick, ’cause we need to work. It’s almost the end of July!”

“Remember Snarls?”

“How could I forget? Last I heard he was trying to get between you and Mitch at movie night.”

“Oh, he was trying to get between us all right. If you know what I mean.”

“Um. I do not know. Please explain.”

“He came up to me a few hours before, you know? And he asked me to sit with
him,
as if he and I weren’t already sitting on the same blanket because Mitch asked me.”

“You’re kidding! The nerve.” Marjorie suppressed a grin.

“Can you believe it? He said he likes me and he is never going to be happy until Mitch and I break up!”

“Break up? Were you together?”

“I knoooooow.” Belinda flipped her hair. “He’s crazy, crazy, crazy.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I couldn’t be mean. So I said we could all sit together, not
with
anyone, and sort it out later. But that meanwhile he should stop destroying my macaroni sculptures to get my attention!”

“You told him!”

“I did!”

“Well, I’m proud of you, Bell. You did the right thing.”

“It’s just the beginning of the saga, I fear.”

So dramatic, and not even twelve years old. Marjorie wished she could freeze Belinda as she was, before she was exposed to the corrupting influences of high school—the superficiality and cynicism.

“That
He’s Just Not That Into You
book may not have been totally right,” Belinda said. “Sometimes boys do act like jerks when they like you.”

“True!” Marjorie laughed. “Okay, back to work. It sounds like you have good fodder.”

“What’s fodder?”

“Material for the story.”

Belinda shrugged, handing over her outline; Marjorie scanned it.

I. Henry meets Chloe on taco day in the mess hall. (Chloe is the main character’s name because only cool, beautiful girls have that name.)

II. Henry is from England (Bath to be exact!). He’s at day camp outside of NYC because his overprotective parents have dragged him with them on a summer-long business trip. His dad works in advertising. (No idea what that means, but it sounds good?)

III. Henry and Chloe bond over guacamole, despite confusion over his British accent. He has this dog Snarls. (What’s his fake name again?)

IV. The dog HATES Chloe. Won’t let them near each other.

V. Finally, Henry and Chloe find themselves alone, away from the other campers and the dog (who Chloe has now won over with treats for his FAT BUTT). But, sadly, it’s the last day of camp and they must part.

VI. They have a tearful good-bye, but, at the last minute, he decides to leave Chloe a memento: the dog! She loses Henry, but she gains a new slobbering, drooling pet.

“Belly! I love this ending!”

“You do? I thought it could be funny. Like your flip book story—what seems bad ends up good, you know?”

“It
will
be funny! The image of Chloe and the dog left alone together, grumpy and resigned? I love it! It’s an unexpected twist.” Marjorie leaned over, her long hair pooling on the page. She drew a star at the top.

Belinda beamed. “I didn’t know I was being graded, but I’ll take it!”

“That’s big of you. To settle for being left with Snarls.”

“Yeah.” Belinda brushed cookie crumbs from her palms. “Maybe the dog isn’t
that
bad.”

31

What the hell am I doing here?

Marjorie watched a uniformed doorman press the elevator’s call button. (She—like every other able-bodied person—was up to the task herself, but Fifth Avenue residents paid exorbitant maintenance fees to avoid lifting a finger, literally.)

The circular button lit up bright, like a good idea, which this was not. Marjorie tapped her foot on the lobby’s gaudy marble floor.

She had been surprised when Pickles chose an Upper East Side apartment, blocks from her childhood home, over a more fashionable West Village brownstone. One of many expectations proved wrong.

Tonight was another surprise: Marjorie had received the “Code Orange” alert from Pickles while packing for the next day’s trip to LA. She couldn’t bring herself to ignore the call.

Pickles was her usual unmodulated self. “Oh, thank God! Madgesty, dearie. It’s me!”

“I know, P. I have caller ID. Everyone in the world has caller ID.”

“Riiiight. So true, so true. Anyway, it’s been ages.
Ages.
”

Marjorie rolled her eyes. “It has, Pickles. Because you haven’t called.”

“Oh. Did I miss
your
calls?”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t get any messages from you either.”

“I didn’t leave any. I also didn’t spend July Fourth with all of our friends and exclude you. Did you toast to ditching me with Vera’s Skinny Bitch margaritas?”

“For goodness’ sake, Madge. They’re called Skinny
girl.
And, yes, we drank them, but for the love of all things holier than thou, it was Vera’s birthday. I couldn’t very well invite you!”

Right. Vera’s birthday is July 3rd.
Marjorie had completely forgotten. She was shamed into dumb silence.

Pickles was not one to hold a grudge. “I’m sorry, Doodlebug. You know I love you forever.”

“But you never called to see how I was doing either … after everything.”

“Sweets, I don’t even
know
what happened! You disappeared off the face of the earth, moved and didn’t tell me where! Even your mother was cryptic with mine. Ramona called raving about how you might be in Rikers, Barbara was being so tight-lipped.”

Marjorie was touched at the image of her mother, handbag poised at the ready, protecting the details of her whereabouts.

“Fair enough,” Marjorie grunted.
Fair enough?
She never used that expression. Where had she picked it up?
Mac? Ugh, no. Gus.

“Anyway, we have bigger fish to fry. And I mean
fry.
A crisis demands your attention.”

“‘
We
’ as in you and me?”

Pickles cleared her throat. That spelled trouble. “Me and Vera actually. Well, just Vera.”

Seriously?
“What could she possibly want from me?”

“There’s a bit of … an issue. With Brian.” Pickles dropped her voice to a whisper. “Madge, she’s sitting on my bed, sobbing. You know I’m no good in these situations. I can barely comfort my kids when they fall on the playground. She needs
you.
”

“Pickles. She called me ‘trash’ last week. Never mind what her boyfriend said.”

“Oh, dear.” Pickles sighed. What was with these people? “Well, under the circumstances, I’d say Brian is now a nonissue.”

“They broke up?”

“Something like that. Involving another girl.”

Marjorie sat cross-legged on the floor, surveying the leaning towers of clothing that surrounded her. Her half-packed suitcase gaped. She still had a lot to do but felt a pang of—responsibility, sympathy, being right? “She must be sad.”

“She is. She’s doing that thing where she cries silently, then suddenly heaves like a rhino. I mean, it’s terrifying. Like watching Animal Planet!”

So up Marjorie trekked to 81st Street to confront the rhinoceros in the room.

Vera had been wailing for hours. Pickles’s husband, Steve, was hiding in the panic room (or den), clutching his iPad like an emergency flashlight as he waited out the storm. He received Marjorie with a wicked smile, whispering “Good luck!” in disbelief.

Vera was slumped against the guest room bed’s headboard in a hooded Dartmouth sweatshirt and yoga pants, a tear-stained pillow tucked under her arm like a teddy bear. Her eyes were puffy from ugly crying; her bob was pulled severely back in a headband; her lips were chapped and pale. In this state, her features looked almost cubist.

In contrast to the apartment, the room’s decor evoked a beach house with bleached-out wooden furniture and turquoise prints. Marjorie clocked a half-empty
Felicity
box set and realized this must be where Pickles escaped for alone time, her sanctum from Diaper Genies. No doubt Pickles not only wanted her friend to feel better; she wanted her space back. She stood behind Marjorie in the doorway, whispering, “It’s all you!” as if coaxing a trapped bird out the window.

Vera sobbed into cupped hands.

“It’s okay, Vee.” Marjorie slipped off her ballet flats, scooted onto the bed, and put an arm around her old friend’s quaking shoulders. “I know you feel awful right now, but I promise it’s not forever.”