Last-Minute Love (Year of the Chick series) (2 page)

I decided to skip the elevator, opting for a
curvy stone staircase next to a totem pole. I stared at each face on the totem pole as I climbed the steps, with the full curiosity of the book-reading nerd I used to be. At home I had a bookcase stacked with everything from a giant book on Van Gogh, to about twenty different books on Ancient Egypt. Meanwhile I’d completely forgotten they existed for the whole of last year, so obsessed I’d become with finding a man. Now that the quest for love was on hold (
or up in the air...or on hiatus...or hopeless?
), I was finally getting back to my roots. Which apparently made me the only Torontonian under seventy with a museum membership.

I made it to the third floor a
nd entered the hall of Ancient History. Everything smelled a bit dead, but it wasn’t the kind of “dead smell” that would emanate from the home of a lonely person missing in action. Instead it was a “dusty mummy linens” and “disintegrating ancient bones” kind of dead. It was basically my aphrodisiac, right up there with a medium-ripe mango.

Usually I would stop to admire
the Roman busts of Trajan and the like, but this time I zipped down the massive corridor to the dimly lit area beyond…Ancient Egypt.

Part
of me was disappointed by how this exhibit hadn’t been updated since I was in high school (
I expect more from you, Canadian government!
), but the other part of me thought it was convenient to know exactly where everything was.

My power-walk slowed down when I spotted her several feet ahead.

Cleopatra.

I’d always preferred the Ancient Egyptian
depiction of this icon, and even though most of the paint had caked away from this ancient bust, she appeared resplendent.

“We meet again.”

I didn’t find it odd that I was speaking to a bust, as I’d already come to see her three times since I activated my membership.
We’re on speaking terms now.
Besides, if there were ever a statue to talk to yourself in front of, it had to be the legendary Cleopatra. It was the little-known things about Cleopatra that impressed me the most, like how when she and her brother Ptolemy ruled as teenagers, she had his name removed off all important documents and coins so she could rule alone. I could definitely admire a badass move like that, and I would totally do the same to my lazy brother if we found ourselves ruling Toronto.

On a larger scale
, I was more than impressed by Cleopatra’s way with men. “Did you really roll yourself into a rug and get delivered to Caesar?” I asked. “Alexandria to Rome seems far. Toronto to Barcelona is farther. Should I move?”

She wouldn’t say.

“Seriously that’s a damn grand gesture.” I sighed. “Why can’t I be that bold? And is that what it takes to get noticed? The rug ‘n roll?”

Cleopatra wasn’t very good a
t giving advice.

I knew I
was being a little crazy, but in my defense, I was fitting in just fine with the senile demographic of the average museum member.

“Do men even buy rugs these days? Like what if I
roll myself in a rug, but the guy’s all like ‘No, you must have the wrong person. I just got my hardwood floors put in.’” I shook my head. “See? You had it easy.”

I scowled at Cleopatra for a moment, but
quickly remembered she was on my side.

With a smile now,
I stroked her stony tresses of hair when no one was looking, and then I made a secret birthday wish:
In the next year, please help me find the courage to make a Cleopatra-worthy grand gesture...

Chapter Two

Do
people need a license to use an umbrella? Is this what society has come to?

I often had this thought on
rainy days in the city, when small clumsy women wielded big clear umbrellas, with a complete lack of skills in circumference-management. My sensible black umbrella got pushed to the side by a clear and plastic menace yet again, but I pushed back just as hard and kept my pace. My two office besties Eleanor and Amy followed closely behind.

The Italian restaurant up ahead was a beacon of warmth and coziness
, with just a few more paces to go. At last I opened the old wooden door, its hinges squeaking loudly to greet us. The soft classical music and eclectic scenery paintings were an instant escape from our retail corporate office, and the area in which it resided. This neighbourhood of ours had a handful of decent restaurants, no doubt, but otherwise midtown Toronto lacked a certain shine. Or in harsher terms, the hot spots were scarce and the man-parade was basically a dog show. This same lack of eye-candy permeated the office, as our VPs in charge of hiring kept the female-to-male hottie ratio noticeably unbalanced.

My friend E
leanor was one such female hottie. Even in gloomy April, when the breeze brought a chill and the rain beat hard against the restaurant window, she looked gorgeous. Not even a single strand of her long brown curls was out of place. To think this was her low-effort “office look.” Luckily she was smart and hilarious too, which was the reason we could actually be friends. She draped her coat over her seat and sat down, smiling at me as I struggled to remove my own (
my own fault for wearing coats that barely fit...anything to keep from looking “boxy”
).

“S
o how was your birthday off work?” she asked.

A
s exhilarating as my birthday had felt, a story about editing a book and then going to the museum would bore any human to tears. So I chose my words carefully. And briefly. “Productive and inspiring. Now let’s eat!”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow
. “Hold on...you started the final re-write of your book yesterday. This is a BIG deal, so stop glossing over it!”

I sighed and looked out the w
indow, replacing the rainy scene with a fantasy where I wound up selling millions of copies. Then I remembered reality. “This won’t be a big deal until people start reading the book, leaving reviews, telling their friends...and all of that assumes I will actually find a few readers!” I frowned. “Anybody can self-publish, but telling a story that people care about?” I shook my head. “We’ll see.”

“We WILL see,” said Eleanor. “I have a feeling about you.”
She smiled at me knowingly, while Amy tossed her menu at the table’s edge.

“I already know
what I want,” said Amy. “Tons of food and to go back to work as late as possible!”

I nodded.
“Ugh, I know. Having a day off work in the middle of the week blows. Sucks being back...” My voice trailed off as my face disappeared into the menu.

“
So what if you’re back at the office?” said Amy. “At least you got promoted!” She punched my shoulder in a way that would leave a mark.
Ouch!
Amy definitely came in a small package, but with two years of boxing classes she could take down an army of ninjas. You’d never guess it, with her warm inviting smile, soft brown hair to her shoulders, and matching big brown eyes. But it was there, always bubbling underneath the surface.

I’d actually been missing Amy’s abuse, since
I’d moved two floors away from her and Eleanor (the result of my recent promotion). It didn’t seem like a big distance, but different floors were like different time zones at our office. Now we would only see each other on scheduled coffee breaks.
Tragic.
How I’d convinced the higher-ups I was actually doing a good job was a new accomplishment in bullshitting. It also meant a lot more responsibility in planning weekly promotions, and a brand new boss I was having some trouble figuring out.
Maybe if he actually showed up for work more than twice a week...

For now I was simply glad
that my employer was clueless to my far-fetched dream: save all my money, take a year off, and move to Paris to write my next book.
And maybe run into James while I’m there. Like every weekend or so. Whatever.
The only thing I had to figure out was not running out of money in the first two months. And not having my strict Indian parents kill me, for embarking on a coming-of-age adventure that was clearly ten years too late. The last thing they wanted was their unmarried daughter going off on a Parisian adventure. In fact, the only adventure they wanted me to have was the one where you get married to a nice Indian man, and constantly give birth to sons.
A sweat-shop birthing factory, specializing in infants with penises. My poor ovaries.

I focused my attention back to the menu
, and ordered the worst thing you could have on a diet and the best thing you could have on your (belated) birthday: a mountain of pasta in a thick cream sauce.

I took a sip of water and glanced at Amy,
her big inviting smile in perfect place. It seemed a bit odd considering her recent break-up.

“I’m so impressed with how well you’re doing!” I said.

She slowly pushed her hair behind her ears. “With what?”

Eleanor snorted. “Wow, I
hope I can be that relaxed when I break up with MY boyfriend.”

I snorted back. “If you ever LET someone be your boyfriend.”

Amy completed the snort cycle. “You’re one to talk! How’s your overseas dude who’s not even your boyfriend?”

I
blushed, knowing full well that the long-distance scenario would always lose this game.
Another reason to ban foreigners until I move to Europe
. “Nicely played. But seriously, how are you not sad? You were with him for two years!” Her expression darkened for a moment. “I mean I don’t WANT you to be sad.” I quickly added. “But I need to make sure you’re okay. Are you?”

She smiled and it seemed genuine. “He wanted things I didn’t want, and I can’t handle being tied down so that was that. And now I c
an actually flirt with guys in clubs!” She closed her eyes and started dancing with her hands, striking awkward poses that would have horrified Madonna.

It wasn’t her horrible hand-dance that stunned me most, but her virtual
lack of emotion. Had her obsessive, emotional girly-gene been removed? And if so, how fast could I sign up for this medical procedure myself? It’d be a perfect fix for all my lingering thoughts about James.

“You’re such a dude,” said Eleanor.

Yes, Amy was part-dude, and I needed some of that “dudeness” to rub off on me...

***

About a month later, as the thrashing rain of April gave way to a warm May breeze, my parents returned from India, bringing back what seemed like half the country’s textile industry. My parents had started visiting India every year now, with their snowbird retirement home now built, along with the friends that came with it. These visits were my ticket to drunken late nights out, now that my parents and I were back to living under one roof (as was custom in the pathetic lives of unmarried Indian-Canadians). This latest visit to India had been entirely focused on buying every textile, jewel, and shoe for my older sister Neema’s wedding and the events preceding it.

My sister was a master of
deception, as she’d secretly dated her husband-to-be Anil for over a year, with my parents blindly believing their upcoming marriage was arranged. In addition to being sneaky she also liked to be in control, which was why she’d tagged along on my parents’ India trip (to have veto power over every outfit she’d be wearing). For an Indian tailor Neema was a dream, with her long skinny arms and accompanying stick body. As for me, five-foot-seven and slightly curvy by Indian standards, I was the unmarried sister of the bride. It didn’t matter what I wore, as long as I didn’t steal the spotlight.

Neema and I now sat in my parents
’ room, waiting for my mother to distribute the goods. The first bulging suitcase flipped open, and every smell and memory from India I had was released. The honking horns and scary driving on the rural two-lane highways, the truck stops where they’d serve you hot tea and fresh roti at four a.m, sweaty high noon at the Golden Temple, where you and a thousand others were waiting to make the pilgrimage...it was all seeping out of that suitcase.

“Take out my dresses first before they get ruined!” my sister cried. There was a whole six weeks to go before the wedding, but my sister was already well on her way to unleashing her inner “Bridezilla.” This did not bode well for me.

Unfazed by my sister’s “crazies,” my
mother crouched down on the floor, and at her own comfortable pace, started pulling each item out of the suitcase. My mother was the sort of person who with her stout figure and two bad knees really shouldn’t have been crouched on the floor at any time, but her control-freak demeanour kept us from ever questioning these things.

I always felt uncomfortable in my parents’ bedroom, not because I was afraid to imagine anything that had
ever gone on in here (
yeah right, I came from a stork
), but because it was all so formal. Nothing ever seemed used or had a speck of dust on it, and the mirror/dresser combo was the biggest I’d ever seen. Was this a room for giants? It was creepy and looming and cold.

“Give it to me!”cried Neema
. I was startled by her bratty voice, but quickly realized what her hissy-fit was all about. Wrapped in plastic and glimmering from within...was her wedding dress.

This
bright pink half-sleeve blouse, long wide skirt and head-covering would be worn during the Sikh wedding ceremony in the morning. The reception dress would be a totally different and stunning affair.

My sister carefully removed
the dress from its plastic cover, and in an instant I was blinded. The bright pink fabric was all lit up by the most intricate fake-jewel-encrusted embroidery I’d ever seen. I reached out to touch the material but she slapped my hand away. “Don’t even think about it.”

This
“big reveal” outfit showcase was suddenly becoming very boring if I wasn’t going to be a part of it. I rose to leave but in that very moment, my mother tossed a package in my direction. I barely caught it by the edge but when I did I understood: my saree for the reception.

“I found it for
you on the last day,” said my mother. My sister seemed suddenly curious, like she hadn’t been involved in the decision.

I pee
ked inside and was startled by the level of embroidery. It was a pink and gold saree that in non-Indian terms would be a horrific colour combination, but in Indian-party terms would be perfect. Neema would be wearing white and purple for the party, so there was no need for her to feel upstaged. Even so, I folded the package back up and kept it out of view.

But Bridezilla was already on it.

She snatched the package and pulled out the saree carelessly.

Her expression changed from surprised to nonchalant to a sneer.

“Whatever,” she said. “Don’t even think about wearing big earrings.”

“
They won’t be as big as yours, but they’ll be big.”

She glared at me. “We’ll see about that.”

In that small moment I realized that in the weeks to follow, Bridezilla would make my life a living Hell…

***

A week later, over afternoon tea with the family, we all poured over the calendar of events.

“
Are we getting the videographer for the mendhi party?” my sister asked. I was actually excited for that, since getting henna painted on our hands would result in a lot of curious looks when I went back to work. And boy did I love attention.

My dad seemed
confused. “You never told me to book a cameraman for that. That’s a whole extra night!”

Smoke
started escaping from my sister’s ears, as my mother calmly poured some more tea. My younger brother Sonny as always tried his best not to smile, since to him family conflict was utterly amusing. He pushed his greasy mop of hair to one side, and smirked in preparation for the outburst.

“How many times in your life does your daughter get married?!
” she cried. “We are NOT going cheap!” Was this the same sister who’d been afraid to say “no” to my parents’ arranged marriage set-ups? These outbursts were building some vicarious courage in me, and I liked it.

“What are we going to do for yo
ur sister then?” said my father, his exasperation quickly rising. “Have her wedding reception at home in the basement?”

Excuse me?

Not that I was in any hurry to get married, but the basement was also where my cat Tommy’s litter box was.
Let’s be serious.

I consulted the rest of the calend
ar, and one by one, I noticed all the events that were labelled with my name. In fact, my name was listed on almost every day in June. And were they even really “events”? It was more like a snapshot of the hired help’s summary of tasks. From decorating, to arranging hundreds of parting gifts, to cleaning up the yard (which my brother wouldn’t do since he was useless), to making a slideshow “life summary” for the couple, to taking care of all the guests when they arrived the week before...would I even have time to attend the wedding?