Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (23 page)

“Oh, and get this,” I said, warming up, “she's an actor. Derrick claims she's starring in a Close-Up ad, of all things.”

“I think I saw that ad,” Jade replied mirthlessly. “Girl runs into an elevator. Bumps right into this tall, handsome guy.”

“Oh God. What a cliché. And I'll bet she's a cliché, too. What did she look like? I'll just bet she was your basic blond anorexic.” I said, waiting hopefully for Jade to confirm my assumptions.

“She had nice…teeth,” was Jade's only comment.

Feeling vaguely nauseous, I rushed her off the phone, claiming I had to do some urgent errands on my way home. What I really wanted was to take refuge in my apartment and bury myself somehow. Find some way to relieve myself of the burden of painful truth: Derrick was moving on. While I…I was doing a breath-stealing jog…in place.

As I reached my corner, I couldn't bear the thought of going home to my claustrophobically tiny apartment. Especially as I had just realized it was Wednesday and the last possible day I could reasonably accept a date with Max Van Gelder for the weekend without looking desperate, at least according to Jade's Guide to Guy Hunting. He had yet to call, and judging from the way my day was going so far, I sincerely doubted he would.

I almost headed to the Korean deli, visions of snack cakes dancing in my head. Almost. Then the feel of my still-aching abdominal muscles reminded me how far I had come, how the blood, sweat and tears I'd expended in the gym last night would be all for naught if I allowed myself even this pathetic little pity party. So I turned left instead, suddenly remembering I had other options.

I headed for Healthy Dee-lites, a little health-food store I used to go to when I was trying to prove to Derrick how health-conscious I was. It was during a period in our relationship when we had experienced the first lull in our sex life, and I had become painfully afraid that I had bloated up too much to be attractive. Later, when my sexual powers had been restored, I used to go simply because I had developed an addiction to Healthy Dee-lites' flagship product, Skinny Scoop, a frosty ice-cream-like substance that I had managed to convince myself was low enough in fat and calories to eat whole tubfuls of without gaining an ounce.

Once I hit University Place and the cheerful red awning came into view, I remembered the sweet old couple who ran the place and wondered why I had ever stopped shopping there. As I walked into the pretty little shop and eyed the rows of organic vegetables and shelves of snack food designed to comfort the mind without destroying the waistline, I knew I had found my mecca again.

“Well, hello there,” chirped the kind-faced, sixtyish woman who ran the place with her equally adorable husband. He stood ready at the register, a broad smile on his face.

“Hi, how are you?” I replied, feeling slightly embarrassed for having abandoned them for so long. I hadn't thought they would actually remember me.

“We're great. Haven't seen you in a while,” the woman said,
beaming up at me as if I were one of her prodigal children come home.

“Yeah, well. Busy and all,” I replied, not wanting her to think I'd been forgoing her and her husband's happy little shop for the new vegetarian superstore across the street.

“Double Mocha Chip, right?” she said, naming the Skinny Scoop flavor I used to faithfully come to purchase during that long, vague period of my Derrick Days. I was mortified to be so…obvious. It was as if she could see my gaping wounds beneath my slenderizing skirt outfit.

“You guessed it,” I said.

Then she paused. “You know what? I think we might have just sold our last pint. Gosh, Ed—do you think we might have any more in the freezer downstairs?” she said, turning to her husband, who seemed to think deeply about this.

Struck by an idea, he brightened and said, “I know, why don't you call down to Griff and see if he can check for us?”

The woman smiled at her husband, as if what he'd just suggested was pure genius. “Good idea.” Then she turned to a phone on the wall and, after a moment or two, spoke into the receiver to some faceless person on the other end who apparently waited there to do her bidding. “Do me a favor, Griffin, and check the freezer down there to see if we have any more of that delicious Double Mocha Chip Skinny Scoop.” She winked at me. “And bring it up if we do.”

She hung up the receiver. “We just had this intercom installed, and it works like a charm.” She smiled. “Our son recommended we get it. He's always thinking, that one. He's very smart. In fact, he runs his own design firm.” She turned her beaming face on her husband for a moment, then refocused it on me.

I returned her smile, wondering what was so pathetically wrong with her son that she felt a need to sell him to me, her disloyal female customer. She continued to beam, then turned her attention back to some sales flyers she had been folding into envelopes. Her husband, seeing her struggle a bit with the seal on a fresh box of envelopes, immediately came over to assist. It was then I remembered the other thing I had loved about coming to this store: seeing
these two together. My heart ached inside, wistful. I realized that I, too, could make a life for myself wearing a goofy apron and standing behind a peach-colored counter if I could find a man who cared for me the way this man obviously cared for his wife.

As I watched them work together in companionable silence, the door to the back sprang open, and out stepped the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Before I could even prepare myself, he stood before me, wearing a pair of ancient blue jeans and a dirty T-shirt that looked like it had been smeared with every flavor of Skinny Scoop Heavenly Dee-lites had to offer. But none of that took away from the fact that he was broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with gorgeous brown eyes surrounded by thick sooty lashes. Even his short brown hair managed to look silky, despite the dusting of powder that seemed to have settled over it from whatever work he was doing down in the basement. And there, in his large tanned hands, was the biggest vat of Double Mocha Chip I had ever seen.

“You the customer who wanted the Double Mocha?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, helplessly.

“We only had the gallon size,” he said, holding the container out to me. “That okay?”

Mesmerized by the way his chocolately brown eyes focused in on me as he spoke, I replied dumbly, “That's perfect.” Then, realizing what I must look like, standing there alone and agreeing to an ungodly quantity of ice cream that might not be quite as low calorie as its name implied, I added, “Me and my roommates are absolutely
addicted
to this stuff.”

He smiled, grabbed a plastic bag from under the counter, dropped the gallon in and handed it to me. “It's all yours. Enjoy,” he said. Then turning to the old couple, who seemed suddenly caught up in contemplation of the glue on one of the envelopes, he said, “Let me know if you need anything else,” and disappeared down the steps as they smiled after him gratefully.

After I paid the old man for my consolation prize, I headed home, my head full of illicit fantasies of going back to Heavenly Dee-lites at closing time and seducing the sexy new Skinny Scoop man. I wondered what his function was there. Was he just doing some repairs, or was he a regular employee? With a frown, I realized it
would be much better if he were some kind of mechanic. I mean, I couldn't allow myself a fling with a man who made just above minimum wage, could I? A girl had to have some standards, after all. The old couple seemed to be on pretty familiar terms with him, though. Maybe he was the creator of Skinny Scoop who they kept in the basement, churning out vat after creamy, lucious vat of the kind of frozen dessert designed to make women feel indulgent and satisfied, yet safely free from elastic waist pants. God, if that were true, he would be the perfect man. My soulmate. Maybe I had been looking in all the wrong places.

I snapped out of my reverie as I approached my building. Who was I kidding with my ridiculous delusions of happily-ever-after with the Skinny Scoop man? Clearly I was losing it. The reality was not that I was some midnight seductress haunting a health-food shop. I was a slightly overplump, recently dumped ex-girlfriend, who was heading home alone, and in serious danger of eating an entire gallon of Skinny Scoop once I discovered my answering machine contained no messages from Max—or Derrick, either, for that matter.

Opening the front door with a heavy sigh, I came face-to-face with Beatrice, who had apparently just arrived home herself, her arms loaded with groceries as she attempted to get in the door to her apartment.

“Hello, there, my friend,” she sang out at the sight of me.

“Hi, Beatrice, how are you?” I replied by rote.

“Oh, I'm all right, aside from the fact that my arthritis is acting up. Of all days, when I had to do my grocery shopping!” Then, her eyes lit up as an idea struck her. “Do you think you could help me in with these packages?”

Though I was reluctant to get any more involved with Beatrice than I had to, I went over and relieved her of a few of her bags, then followed her into her matchbox apartment.

At first glance, one might say her apartment resembled mine to a tee. But then I took in the walls, which were covered with brightly painted watercolors, many of them signed by Beatrice herself. Some of them were even quite remarkable, although others looked like the work of a child.

“Did you paint all of these, Beatrice?” I asked.

“Why, yes, when I was a much younger woman,” she said, placing the bags on the table and turning to study the walls with me. “Now, I can barely see them,” she said, squinting at them through her thick glasses.

“Well, they're quite beautiful,” I said, looking at her with new interest and wondering if perhaps there was more to Beatrice than I had originally thought. Maybe she wasn't just some lonely old woman doomed to a life of despair. Maybe she was an artist, or at least a former artist. Suddenly I allowed myself to imagine her current solitude as the result of a conscious decision to devote herself to the ascetic life of an artist, rather than some tragic flicker of fate. As I looked at her now, I tried desperately to see beyond her brown teeth, her bad hair, her short, stout figure and discover the woman beneath. The artist in charge of her own destiny.

“Why, thank you, Emma,” Beatrice said effusively. “Everyone at the rehabilitation center thought I had a good eye for color.”

All my visions disappeared in the blink of an eye and Beatrice became…Beatrice again. A lonely old woman with very little social grace and a dubious sexual orientation.

And just as I was about to march off and leave Beatrice to her miserable little existence for my somewhat elevated one of the fourth floor, I saw her pull a large plastic tub out of one of the bags with a label that looked menacingly familiar:

Double Mocha Chip, I realized with sudden deep dismay. The low-calorie confection of the lonely. And the lovelorn.

Confession: I have become the ex-girlfriend from hell.

 

M
aybe it was my newfound and extremely uncomfortable association with Beatrice that made me do it. Maybe it was the message from my father I came home to Thursday night, asking me if I had found a lawyer—or, better yet, an attorney-husband—who might represent him in his latest lawsuit and perhaps give him a few grandkids. Maybe I was just so damn tired of waiting for Derrick to call and apologize for moving in with a woman who could make him happier than I ever could. Whatever it was, I did the unthinkable, at least according to Jade's Guide to Guy Hunting. I agreed to meet with Max Van Gelder on a Friday night, despite the fact that he waited until Thursday at 10:00 p.m. to ask.

Though I knew it made me seem desperate, dateless and otherwise dull to be so available, I wasn't thinking this when I came home on Thursday from another unproductive day at the office. I'll admit I was somewhat bloated after spending the previous evening with a tub of Skinny Scoop and feeling as if there wasn't a male in the universe who might even find me remotely attractive. Even the construction workers who had been rebuilding the Union Square Station for the past decade failed to acknowledge me with the usual wink or smile as I passed by them on my way home.

Needless to say, when the phone rang at 10:00 p.m., I was desperately glad. And when I discovered Max Van Gelder on the other
end, I was so supremely happy, I would have agreed to meet him right then and there.

But of course I didn't tell him this as I sat across from him the following evening at a cozy little table at a pub called the Chelsea Square, my first in a very long line of tequila and ginger ale drinks in front of me. Instead I was thinking how incredibly handsome he looked in his baby-blue button-down shirt and jeans, and how glad I was that I had opted for jeans—topped with a clingy tank—and looked sufficiently casual and, I hoped, effortlessly sexy.

I will admit that even then, a small part of me still wondered how I had become so fortunate as to be sitting before a man who was articulate, well-read and utterly intimidating.

“Makes me think of Dickens,” he was saying now, in response to my rather bland, silence-filling comment that I had never been to the Chelsea Square before.

I smiled weakly at this and took a good slug out of my tequila. After all, I was one of the few English majors who had managed to get through a B.A.
and
a masters degree without ever having opened Dickens, who bored me to tears when I was force-fed
Hard Times
in high school. I considered my successful avoidance a point of pride, but I wasn't going to mention that now that I was busy being Max's captive audience.

When he was through discussing the finer points of the pub's crowded, gloomy interior, I promptly changed the subject. “So did you finish that piece for
The New Yorker?
” I asked.

“Oh, yes. In fact that was one of the reasons I wasn't able to call sooner,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “Deadlines, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” I said, with a roll of my eyes, another sip of my drink. He was drinking a Bombay martini, which I found quite impressive though I barely batted an eyelash as he ordered it.

“Yes, you mentioned you were a writer, but I don't think you had a chance to tell me what it was you were writing.”

The moment of truth had arrived. And before I could even mentally prepare my self-deprecating speech about my job at
Bridal Best,
my mouth went off in another direction. “Actually, I'm working on a novel.”

“Ah, kindred spirits,” he said, his perfectly cute eyebrows raised.

This bit of encouragement gave me all the fuel I needed. Well, this and another healthy sip from my drink. “Yes, I've been working on it for some time now.” All true, I rationalized. I had started a novel just after graduate school. Though since Derrick, the only thing I'd done was angst over the work I
hadn't
done on it.

Another sip of my drink brought a semitruth. “Actually, I've been kinda stuck on it for a while. Maybe it's writer's block.”
Or maybe I've given up.
I smiled weakly. “Or maybe it's my space. You know, I've been thinking a new desk might just be the thing. I have a computer, but I really don't have a good place to sit comfortably and write.”

He smiled. “Yes, well, when the need arises, I find I can write just about anywhere. I think one just has to find one's subject.”

Feeling as if he had seen right through my thinly veiled excuses, I polished off my drink. Rallying myself, I realized I needed to turn attention back to him—and fast. “So what is your subject, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Well, it's a kind of coming-of-age novel. A young boy loses his father and has to find his way in the world.”

This explanation irked me. Why was it men were always writing about young boys on the brink of manhood? As if anyone were really interested in the philosophical ponderings of the prepubescent. Still, I nodded in recognition of the genre. “Ah, a
bildüngs-roman.
Fascinating.”

His response was a wide smile that melted me all the way through to the lacy black bra I'd worn, just in case. “Well, first it looks like we need to get you another drink,” he said, gesturing to my empty glass and then signaling the waiter.

As I glanced at his nearly full martini, I was embarrassed. “Gosh, I guess I was thirstier than I thought. You've barely made a dent—”

“A Bombay martini must be sipped if one expects to find one's way home. Don't worry about me, enjoy yourself.”

And I did, finally relaxing over my second drink and listening as he spoke about the inspiration for his book, the death of his own
father. By my third drink (his second), I was sufficiently lubed to admit to my day job, and began regaling him with tales of days spent penning what amounted to marriage manifestos. I even took potshots at Patricia. “Everyone in the office suspects the groom in her wedding photos is a cardboard cutout,” I said to his amusement. I went on to describe the mania to get to the altar our editorial content seemed to fuel, and to make myself seem even more above it all, I described, to great hilarity, Rebecca's manic attempt to beat a wedding proposal out of her perfect boyfriend.

Max was not only amused, he was practically in tears of laughter when I was through. I would have said it was the martinis, but he'd ordered a beer on his second round.

“God, Emma,” he said, finally getting control of himself again, “I'll bet you're a damn good writer. This is terrific material.” Then, seeing my glass was once again empty, he signaled the waiter.

My head was swimming. “No, no, I don't think I can drink another.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, then, “I'm going to have another beer.”

It was all the encouragement I needed. After all, I hadn't felt this good in a long time. Max liked me. He thought I was funny. He imagined I was a damn good writer.

Pour me another one, I say.

So we had another, while I continued to be equally charming and, I hoped, utterly desirable. I batted my eyelashes. I swatted his forearm playfully. I made eye contact. And when we were done, he walked me home, his arm linked in mine. Maybe because he felt as warmly about me as I did about him. Or maybe because I started to weave the moment we hit the concrete.

When we finally reached my front door, that alcohol-induced warmth had already flowed into the pit of my stomach, making me liquid inside and aching with unquenched desire for this man who seemed to find me so captivating. I realized then that I was perfectly capable of sleeping with Max Van Gelder, and on the first date no less. Jade's warning voice all but drowned out by the flow of tequila
in my veins, I looked up at him as we came to a stop, my eyes slumberous and, I hoped, suggestive.

He kissed me then. And not just a good-night peck, but an open-mouthed plunder. I would have characterized it as the action of a man with only one thing on his mind, had it not been for that hesitancy I felt in him, as if he were merely testing the waters.

Pulling back, he looked up at my building, as if seeking out my window, then gazed at me once more with a small smile. “I think it might be safest if we say good-night here.”

Max. Precious Max, I thought in my hazy mind. Such a gentleman. The kind even Grandma Zizi would admire, I thought, realizing his height and good looks also met her other qualifications. Hell, he might even be rich. I smiled up at him, feeling something like love welling up inside me. Except we don't call it love, not this soon. Not until we are renting videos on Friday night and sharing a toothbrush on Saturday morning.

He smiled back. Then, removing my arms from around his neck gently, he clasped my two hands in his and held me away from him, his eyes studying me in a way that made me giddy, and slightly nervous.

Then he laughed, breaking the tension. And he spoke, breaking my bubble. “I still can't believe you drank four tequila drinks in—” he dropped my hands to look at his watch “—as many hours.” He chuckled again, eyebrows raised.

Suddenly those four drinks lurched in my stomach, in serious danger of making a comeback, all over his soft leather loafers. I laughed uneasily as he stepped back and with the most gentle, most innocuous wave, said, “I'll call you.”

I was certain, in that moment, that he never would.

As I stumbled up the steps to my apartment, my head fuzzy and my eyes burning with something that felt frighteningly like tears, I realized there was only one thing to do. And that thing was guided by a faint ache in my soul that alcohol only heightened, and the sight of my empty apartment made absolutely imperative.

I called Derrick. Don't ask me what I expected. I wasn't even sure myself. All I knew was that in the face of Max Van Gelder's apparent rejection, I felt an almost painful yearning to hear the
voice of the man who once told me he loved me more than life itself.

As the phone rang in my ear, I consulted my watch: 12:20 a.m. New York time meant 9:20 p.m. California time. He could be home. He could be out. He could be having sex with his roommate. I quickly blotted out that last thought. That's one of the great gifts alcohol brings: denial.

“Hello?”

“Derrick!” I said, relief evident in my voice.

“Hey, Em, how are you?” he replied. I was certain that was warmth and happiness I heard in his voice. He was glad to hear from me. Maybe even jubilant.

“I'm good, good. How's everything with you?”

“Excellent, in fact. I'm just getting ready to go to a screening party for one of the studio's new films.” He chuckled. “And this time I have an invitation, being an employee of the studio. My days of party-crashing are over.”

“That sounds great,” I said wistfully.

“So what are you up to? You must be just getting home from somewhere?”

“Um. Chelsea Square?”

“Oh, I used to love that place.”

Must be a guy thing. “Yeah, it was okay.”

“That's the one thing I really miss about being in New York. L.A. just doesn't have the same kind of cool old bars that you find everywhere in New York.”

I bristled, then joked, “Oh, so that's the
one
thing you miss about NYC?” Fear filled me as I waited for his reply.

“And you, of course, Em,” he said to my relief. “That goes without saying.”

My heart trilled inside.
He loves me, he loves me, he loves me.

“So who did you go out with?”

“Jade,” I replied quickly, then realizing I could inflict my own torture, I added, “and a few of her model friends. Just some
guys
she did a shoot with.”

“That's cool,” he replied, clearly unfazed by the fact that I al
legedly spent the evening surrounded by the most beautiful men NYC had to offer. “How is Jade doing?”

“She's fine. Alyssa's fine, too. Though Lulu isn't too good. Poor little thing needs surgery.”

“Oh, no, really? God, I hope Lulu's all right. I loved that dog.”

You did?
Then why, oh why, did you leave Lulu? Why did you leave
me?
Swallowing my angst, I said, “I hope she'll be all right. Alyssa's pretty broken up about it.”

“Well, give her a hug from me.”

“I will.” I felt so light suddenly. He cared about me. Even my friends. Hell, he cared about my friend's
dog.

Then he went and ruined it all. “Listen, Em, I gotta run. Carrie should be home any minute. I'm supposed to be ready to go when she gets here, and I haven't even showered yet.”

“
Carrie?
I thought you said
you
got the invite to this party.”

“I did. But I asked Carrie to come with me,” he replied innocently.

“But she's your
roommate,
” I insisted.

He laughed. “Yeah, and? Is there some kind of secret party law that says you can't take your
roommate
to a film-opening bash? I figured it would be a good opportunity for her to make contacts. She is an actress and—”

“Tell me the truth, Derrick.”

“Truth?”

“You're sleeping with her, right?”

“What?”

“Okay, maybe you're not sleeping with her. Yet. But it's only a matter of time. A few dinners at home, a few parties. Next thing you know, you guys come home one night, tumble into bed.
Next
thing you know, you're downsizing to a one bedroom.”

“Emma—”

“This is just like you, Derrick. Always doing whatever the fuck you want, no matter who you hurt. Well, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of everything.”

He was silent on the other end, which only encouraged me to go on.

“How dare you walk away from me after two years and call me
up as if everything is fine between us?” I said, a well of anger rising in me that I had not known existed until now. “Then you have the nerve—the nerve!—to start fucking your roommate and think this isn't going to bother me? Well, it does bother me, dammit. I know maybe
you
can tell someone you love them, and then move three thousand miles away. But I can't. I said I loved you and I still love you. You can't just change the rules on me. You can't.”