Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (38 page)

Fred examined her hands. “I ended things with James too.” And a million single female New Yorkers felt suddenly lighter, like something had righted itself.

“Again?”

“For real this time. He showed up for our date all cute and preppy, ready to pick up where we left off. But I wasn’t feeling it. I told him he had to move on. No showing up at my shows or parties. Maybe my ‘focusing on work’ line was an excuse all along.”

“Or maybe you changed.”

“It happens.”

“That’s what I hear.” Marjorie linked her arm through Fred’s.

Later, as the girls readied to part ways, Fred said, “Your bedroom is waiting for you, if and when you want to come home. You need your stuff!”

Home.
“Thanks, Fred. I’ll get it … at some point. I guess I can’t live out of a suitcase forever.”

The pixie sighed. “Look, I don’t know what happened in LA, Morningblatt. Gus won’t talk and apparently neither will you. But I refuse to have you annexed from my world because you’re avoiding him. I can’t have you both moping around!”

“He’s moping?”

“Mope City, here we come. Maybe I can at least coerce you into coming to a Stolen Ivory show?” She paused. “Aren’t you going to tell me the name sucks?”

“It’s actually not that bad.”

“Really? Maybe your taste is slipping.”

Upstairs, once Fred left, Marjorie pulled out Belinda’s story and began to read. It was different from what they’d worked on:

Once upon a time, in a land of Vespas and taxicabs instead of those horse-drawn carriages, there lived a royal princess named Chloe. Her parents, the King and Queen, meant well, but were overprotective pains in the butt by nature, too obsessed with their own arguments and seasonal dinners of mutton chop, kale, and quinoa to notice that their daughter was desperately lonely.

Eventually, the princess became so despondent that she refused to even dress herself, so they hired a Lady-in-Waiting to help her prep for festivals and events. What they didn’t realize is that this particular maid, named Star because of how brightly she shined, had magical powers. Every time she entered the room, the princess got a little happier and more animated again.

Princess Chloe began reading books and watching TV shows that weren’t for children, when the King and Queen weren’t looking. She particularly liked
Homeland, New Girl,
and
The Good Wife.

Meanwhile, the Queen had a suitor in mind for young Chloe, who she assumed would be her future husband (or at least boyfriend): the Duke of Prospect Park. He was nice enough, but Chloe was “just not that into him.”

One day, Star took Chloe to Bodega Stables to see horses and buy Doritos. There, the princess met a boy named Ruff. At first, Chloe scoffed at his crass comments and stupid jokes, although the attention was nice. He was not polished like the Duke of PP, but he was funny and smart. Star had never intended to pair Chloe with anyone, but she had taught the princess to think for herself and grow into an independent teenager, who didn’t follow a pack or blindly adopt her mother’s values.

For a while, the King and Queen were too busy arguing about bedspread colors to notice. But eventually Princess Chloe decided that she favored Ruff and would prefer him as a date to the big Barclays Center ball, where Jay-Z would perform before a gladiator battle (after which they would go eat organic hot dogs at Bark). Busy night!

The Queen flipped out, to say the least. The woman lost her mind. Even the King was totally unreasonable. They could see it was too late to convince Princess Chloe to change her mind. She’d already been given her own voice by the magical Lady-in-Waiting. But they blamed Star and, so, to punish everyone involved, they (wrongly, if that’s not clear) acted like losers and banished her from the kingdom—especially from the corner vegetarian bakery.

Star was not seen in the kingdom for some time. She went to live in Bath and had the amazing life she dreamed about with tons of beautiful, cool boyfriends, who were lead singers of super famous bands.

Princess Chloe and Ruff had a ball at the ball. Even the King and Queen were happier, because they bonded over hating Star and stopped fighting so much, though they weren’t smart enough to know it. And they all lived happily ever after.

THE END

On the back, Belinda had scrawled:

To The Coolest Tutor Ever,

I’ll never forget you! I’m keeping your flip book story safe.

Hopefully, you rubbed off on me a lot.

LOVE, BELLY

P.S. Do you like that I got “despondent” in there? Total vocab word!

EPILOGUE

Marjorie closed down her computer for the day, then rinsed her Zabar’s coffee mug in the communal kitchen sink. She dropped it back on her desk and slung her bag over her shoulder.

She looked out over the open-floor-plan office, where the team’s graphic artists were still squinting at their screens, enacting last-minute changes to ads. A new tune by the National—Brooklyn’s favorite indie band—played from someone’s Spotify; somebody else hummed along. Far away at reception, the landline rang. Out the window was a view of the East River and, from the right spot, the Statue of Liberty.

“You taking off?” asked Darren, Marjorie’s new boss, startling her. She hadn’t seen him standing nearby, his expression unreadable.

“I was going to. I promised my best friend I’d meet her for an early drink before I see her band play.” She paused, bracing herself. “Is that okay? ’Cause I can stay.”

“Totally okay.” He smiled. “Unless I have to go. I hate live music. Better you than me.”

Marjorie laughed. “Then you’re off the hook.” She was going to have to get used to this whole sane boss thing. He was a tech type, stilted but sweet.

“Hey, good work on the Gosling movie Twitter text,” he said while heading back to his office. “It looks great.”

“Thanks, Darren. I’m so glad you liked it.”

Outside, in Dumbo, as Marjorie walked past art galleries and converted lofts toward the subway, her phone rang.

“Fredericka?”

“Morningblatt!”

Marjorie smiled. “I was just heading back to my place to drop off my work stuff, then come to you.”

“Yeah, about that: change of plans.”

“What’s up?”

“Up? Nothing’s up. Can’t a girl change plans without something being up?”

“Um. Fred?”

“Okay, sorry. Just messing around. So, I have to meet now instead. There’s no time for you to drop your stuff off. And I’m not home. Do you mind meeting somewhere else?”

“Sure. Is everything okay with the show?”

“Yes! I just need you to meet me now. I’m nervous. I need you to distract me.”

“Okay. Done. Where?”

“The Maryland Monument in Prospect Park.”

“Seriously? I don’t even know where that is.”

“C’mon! It’s beautiful out and I need somewhere serene to relax. Hurry!”

“Fine, fine, fine.”

The train would take too long. Marjorie signaled and, at the corner, a cab slowed to a stop. She climbed in: “Fifteenth Street and Prospect Park West, please. And make it snappy.” She snorted. “Just kidding about that last part.”

“You got it,” said the driver, Mo, who was in a much better mood now that his infant son was sleeping through the night. Plus, the Yankees looked likely to make it to the playoffs, Jorge Posada or not.

Marjorie opened the window and inhaled the crisp air, which smelled of fireplace, sautéed garlic, and damp leaves. The day was winding down but some sun still lingered. Unconsciously, she brought a hand to her neck, where her Tiffany graduation necklace used to lie. She’d decided to take it off for a while. It felt like time. Instead, she was wearing a beloved new bird toile cashmere scarf that Fred bought her at a vintage store.

The taxi wove past Cobble Hill’s shops, over the ripe Gowanus Canal and into Park Slope, by Gatherers, then uphill toward the park. Marjorie sighed. She sometimes hoped to catch a glimpse of Belinda. In an envelope with no return address, Marjorie had sent her former tutee the DREAM bracelet she’d bought at the airport. She couldn’t risk including a note. Would Belinda know it was from her? Maybe; maybe not. It didn’t really matter. Marjorie just liked to picture her, sitting down to her homework at the kitchen table, over a dish of hummus and carrots, the bracelet dangling from her tiny wrist.

Though so far September had been fraught, today felt hopeful. The election was heating up, tempers were testy, the promise of autumn rode in on the tips of shorter, dimmer days.

Across the world, J. Christopher Stevens, the US ambassador to Libya, had been killed during terrorist attacks in Benghazi, the botched reaction to which sparked criticism of President Obama’s administration. The unemployed were angry. Mitt Romney kept putting his foot in his mouth. No one would let Paul Ryan forget his lie about his marathon running time. Both sides were sure that the wrong duo in power would spell the end of America.

The Summer Olympics were over, but the women’s gymnastics team’s “Fierce Five” gold medalists continued to tour, looking toward a final exhibition at Brooklyn’s Barclays Center stadium.
The Dark Knight
’s box office numbers were disappointing thanks to the Aurora shooting, but they bounced back worldwide. Fall TV shows started up again; that put some people at ease. But this was to be the last season for favorites like
The Office
and
30 Rock.
It was impossible not to feel, even as a new school year began, that something larger was drawing to a close. Change was near: an end, but also a beginning.

No exception, Marjorie had walked around like a live wire, nerves exposed, knees bumping against the underside of restaurant tabletops. In her case, it was a good kind of adrenaline, as she stood on the precipice of something hard-earned. She was still working on her spec scripts, but—after getting the chance to write some humor recaps for a popular TV Web site—the editor had suggested Darren hire her as an ad copy and social media writer for his movie-marketing company. Her PR experience met her love of media and writing—for now, it was a perfect fit.

Chipper’s health had fast improved. He returned to teaching, and Marjorie’s mother resumed work, along with reminding her daughter to wear blush. That was one of many factors that pushed Marjorie to move back to Brooklyn. She loved Carroll Gardens, but Vera had been right about one thing: A twenty-eight-year-old should have her own place. She found a sweet studio a few blocks from Fred. It was tiny, but it had its own garden. The pixie had already made some not very subtle suggestions about growing tomatoes; she could not be trusted.

The exposé on Brianne hit stands and, although a bazillion people e-mailed Marjorie to commiserate, she avoided reading the story. She was as disgusted by Herb’s self-serving deception as she was at herself for wasting years at that job. And though she couldn’t help herself from flipping her old office building the bird each time she passed in a cab, she didn’t like to feel glee at Brianne’s misfortune. Admittedly, the one excerpt Pickles e-mailed her to read, about how Brianne threatened to beat Herb with her yoga mat, was pretty genius, though. Apparently doing tree pose now and then does not make you a good person.
Namaste.

Now, the cab sped up tree- and brownstone-lined 6th, 7th, and 8th Avenues and finally crossed grandiose Prospect Park West to meet leafy green. Marjorie paid, got out, and checked a posted map for directions.

As she strolled past plush lawns, the breeze prickled her cheeks and she felt energized. Rounding the bend of a dirt path, she came upon the marble, granite, and copper monument, on a rise that served as the base of a steep hill. She looked around for Fred, then checked the time. Where was that girl? She was the one in a rush!

A short fence surrounded the statue. In the meantime, Marjorie leaned over it to read the George Washington–attributed inscription:
GOOD GOD! WHAT BRAVE FELLOWS I MUST THIS DAY LOSE.
Then she lost her footing and almost fell over.

“You have terrible balance,” said a voice from behind her. Marjorie turned, her heart thumping. There stood Gus—tall, tan, straight-faced, looking back at her steadily.

“It’s you.” An uncomfortable silence bloomed between them. “I’m supposed to meet Fred.”

“Yeah. She’s not coming.”

Marjorie scanned the area. “You didn’t kidnap her, did you? Because she gets really cranky without her daily Flintstone vitamins.”

“I did not.” He examined his shoes like a bashful kid. “I may have coerced her into helping me get you here.”

Marjorie was taken aback. “I’m so dumb. She’s the worst liar.”

“Ah, well. It was my best bet. You know Fred. She wanted to help. She loves anything covert. And she loves both of us.”

“That damn pixie!”

“Don’t blame her. I called, fishing. She said you’ve been working on some scripts?”

Marjorie was still having trouble believing that Gus stood in front of her, in the flesh. She thought about him all the time. “Yeah. I’ve been writing TV specs.”

Gus smiled. “That’s really good. I bet they’re fantastic.”

“But, Gus, why call Fred? Why not … call me?” She still felt hurt.

He rubbed the back of his neck; she realized how much she had missed seeing him do that. “I didn’t think you’d talk to me after I waited this long. I wanted to see you in person to explain.”

“Should we sit?” she asked. “You seem squirrelly.”

“Yeah, well, you make me nervous.”

“I make
you
nervous?”

“I was hoping we could climb the hill. I’ve heard there’s a great view. Maybe we could walk and talk? If you can swing it without your workout gear.”

She laughed. “I think I can handle it.” They started up the path.

“First, I want to say I’m sorry,” he began. “I shouldn’t have made any decision about the job without asking you, but I honestly believed it was what you wanted.”

“Why would I have wanted that?”

“We couldn’t be together if you worked for me. I thought if you liked me as much as I liked you…” He trailed off. To their left, an enthusiastic sheepdog knocked over its owner, then ran laps around him. Gus shook his head, laughed. She loved that sound.