Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (8 page)

“Don’t mention it. I’m shhure you’ll find numer-, numer-, ugh, fuck it,
many
ways to thank me.”

Marjorie froze. “Wait. What?”

“Looking forward to being your boss. You know what I mean.”

“In a horrible turn of events, I think I do know
exactly
what you mean.”

He winked—like he had an affliction—then leaned across the table to where she stood and slipped a finger through one of her belt loops. “Why don’t you come to the back room and sign your paperwork.”

Marjorie stepped back, yanking his hand from her jeans. “Wow. What a disappointment. Even for
you.
” She started toward the door.

“This is not a good way to start a working relationship!” Mac called after her. He tugged at his ear, smirked, then braced himself, as he fumbled to standing.

Glancing back at him, it occurred to Marjorie that getting back on her own feet would prove more difficult than she’d imagined too.

8

At 11:30
P.M.,
Marjorie fit her key in the bottom lock at her apartment, 2B. The number had prompted many a nervous (and immediately regretful) date to quote Shakespeare. She nudged the door open with her hip.

The lights were out in the living room. The air smelled of extinguished fig candle, a neighbor’s yellow rice and red beans, and something familiar that defied description:
home.
Marjorie let go a sigh, equal parts relief and despair.

She had always imagined moving back to the Upper West Side after college, but the area had transformed from J. D. Salinger leftist to “might as well be Westchester” suburban, overrun with yoga-clad bankers’ wives. In looking, she discovered that there wasn’t another neighborhood with so many wide avenues, parks, beautiful prewar buildings, and tree-lined streets, bookended by half-century-old businesses from shoemakers to florists.

But NoLIta—nicknamed for its proximity to NoHo and Little Italy, a pipsqueak of a neighborhood itself—offered compensation in the form of the occasional tree boxed in by wire fencing but also sweet independent boutiques and cafés, all windows, Deco details, and understated signage.

The two-bedroom apartment with tinged plaster walls and parquet floors seemed like a gift from God but was actually inherited from a midlevel executive at Vera’s firm, who had amassed enough cash for less square footage in a new high-rise off the West Side Highway with amenities that tend to go unused, like an indoor pool and a lobby lounge.

Now Marjorie threw her purse on the couch and tiptoed to the kitchen to wash subway grime from her hands, noticing, with fresh misery, ownership stickers on most of the furniture that bore the initials “V.G.” for Vera Granger.
For the movers.

Marjorie had never made enough money for big-ticket home items and piddled away any small surpluses on taxis and takeout. But Vera, with her subscriptions to
Lonny, Dwell,
and
Domino,
had insisted on upgrading from dorm-appropriate, afghan-covered couches, and living like the adults they were becoming.

Marjorie scanned the room:
Good-bye heather Room & Board couch, “LOVE” poster, and white shag rug that Vera somehow kept clean. Good-bye gold-stitched Moroccan poof.

Did nothing belong to her? From a shelf across the room, a stuffed Uglydoll toy mocked Marjorie with its adorable fangs. “What are
you
looking at?”

The only items of hers were on that same shelf: a delicate glass bird with which she’d fallen in love at a design store on Wooster, a postcard of a painting of an evil little girl by Japanese artist Nara, and a rhinestone starfish from a jewelry designer friend. A bottle of expensive champagne lay in Vera’s wine rack, a “cheer up” gift from an ex-boyfriend, one of the many times she chickened out about quitting her job. In a grunge-era distressed Anthropologie frame was a photograph of Marjorie and Vera from elementary school. Her head was tipped onto her best friend’s shoulder. Both girls grinned, dwarfed by their oversized teeth and backpacks.
Little girls.
Something broke apart inside Marjorie just then.

She and Vera had fought before. A friendship doesn’t span two decades without misunderstandings and growing pains. But this time felt different. Was Marjorie jealous that Vera had found someone? Maybe. Did she feel abandoned and alone? Perhaps. Did she believe that Brian was a steaming pile of crap, an option worse than settling? YES.

In her bedroom, Marjorie tossed her clothes on the desk chair and changed into an old tank and Pepto-Bismol-colored sweatpants, giveaway swag. She plopped down on her bed, steeled herself, and then did the only thing left to do: She texted Patricia’s drum circle spawn about the Brooklyn apartment. Living with a random guy in an outer borough was better than being homeless.

She opened her laptop, searched “Williamsburg,” then stared at the Google map that emerged of meaningless street names and grids.

9

By design, Marjorie slipped out before her roommate emerged in the morning. In fact, Vera arrived in the living room moments later, sniffing like a bloodhound at the scent of still wafting Issey Miyake perfume.

Shortly thereafter, Marjorie panted up the train station stairs at the corner of President and Smith Streets. She wondered at the idiocy of calling a subway stop “Carroll” that doesn’t stop exactly on that corner and promptly judged Brooklyn for it.

Her inherited snobbery toward the outer boroughs was particularly absurd considering her mother’s Astoria upbringing. Marjorie had spent many blissful days at her grandparents’ loudly furnished, plastic-covered, brick row house in Queens before she turned twelve and they moved to West Palm Beach, Florida—the place, her grandfather had quipped, “where people go to die.” That had unfortunately been the case.

Only months before, Marjorie had ventured across the bridge (although which bridge she could not say) with Pickles—who, pregnant at the time, craved deep-fried food but would sooner subject her unborn child to anthrax than processed treats—to Williamsburg’s gourmet vegan donut shop, Dun-Well. (Being first to visit a new Brooklyn culinary destination was social currency for Pickles, who would return to her Upper East Side mommy group with boxes of “healthy” artisanal peach chamomile and green tea donuts.) Young hipsters had roamed past in outfits that had lapped ironic and become earnest again: neon ankle socks, suspenders, retro lanyard bracelets obscuring inner wrist tattoos, even top hats.

Marjorie figured she could handle Williamsburg. But Fred’s address seemed to be in a totally different and unknown neighborhood: Carroll Gardens.

So far, admittedly, even the subway platform was comparatively nice. Beneath requisite filth, white tiles shined. Exiting passengers looked like-minded and roughly her age, with earbuds firmly planted in their ears and their noses in paperbacks. Main drag, Smith Street, was dotted with independent storefronts; President grew more idyllic as she walked, following her iPhone’s directions.

By the time Marjorie reached Fred’s building, a quaint gray-blue row house with a bright red door and maple tree out front, she’d started to wonder if she’d been transported: Was this Portland, Oregon? Madison, Wisconsin? Why was it all so … pretty?

She was studying the buzzer, trying to recall Fred’s last name, when a stout older woman in a track suit, with hair dyed so black it was blue, barreled out the door, wielding her Louis Vuitton knockoff purse like a weapon.

“Who you lookin’ fawr?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. Marjorie was still in New York, after all.

“Fred!” the Manhattanite squeaked.

“Figures. Top of the stayas.” She held the door open. Marjorie slid inside, as the woman disappeared down the street, a charging bull.

The building was simple but well maintained. Climbing to the second-floor landing, Marjorie wondered if taking the stairs daily might tone her butt (a silver lining!). There was no obvious doorbell; she knocked.

“One second, one second!” shouted a muffled voice from inside.

Marjorie heard a bang, a curse, then heavy footsteps. The door swung open to reveal … no one. She shifted her gaze downward and laid her eyes on a tiny waif of a girl with a pixie cut, wearing what looked like a vintage evening gown and motorcycle boots.

“Hi,” said Marjorie, wondering if she had the wrong apartment. “I’m looking for Fred?”

“You found me!”

“You’re Fred?”

“In the flesh!” The girl fluttered like a moth. “Fred. Short for Fredericka, which is a mouthful, so no one calls me that. Did you think I was a boy? Are you disappointed? It’s misleading.”

Not waiting for an answer, Fred ushered Marjorie down a hallway, yanking the door closed behind them. “It doesn’t shut unless you slam it. Rule numero uno de la casa: Slam the door! It makes Roberta mad, but that’s just an added bonus!”

“Roberta?”

“The woman who lives downstairs. Dark hair, nasty snarl, yea big.” Fred drew her arms up into a large circle. The gesture felt descriptive rather than mean-spirited, as if it never occurred to Fred that calling someone “fat” would be offensive.

“I think I met her outside.”

“Probably. She’s no problem. All bark, no bite. She brings me homemade Italian cookies twice a week. The ones with the pine nuts, you know? I haven’t had the heart to tell her I’m allergic to almonds, and they’re just thick with marzipan. It kills her that I’m small. She thinks I don’t eat!”

Fred did look a bit like a child playing dress-up. Marjorie felt obliged to respond, though she had nothing to add, “I like cookies.” She sounded like an idiot. Fred didn’t seem to notice.

“Come in, come in. Welcome to ‘the Hellhole.’ No, just kidding, but I haven’t had the chance to clean in anticipation of your arrival. Sorry!”

Fred led Marjorie into a large, open living room and kitchen. Along its seams, original crown moldings bore Art Deco flourishes. Sunlight streamed in from the backyard and fell across polished wood herringbone floors. Apart from some woven tapestries, dream catchers, and pagan good luck amulets hanging about, this apartment was more lovely than any in which Marjorie had lived as an adult. She and Vera had sacrificed niceties—charm, character, space—to live among the beautiful people.

“This is it! Where the magic happens. What do you think?”

“It’s really pretty.” Marjorie knew she sounded stiff. She sometimes felt offbeat compared to her old friends, but next to this frenetic bohemian, she was plywood.

Fred smiled. “Thank you. Or, I should say, my aunt Maggie thanks you. Mags bought this place back in the day, and it turned out to be a good investment. She got transferred to Pittsburgh, and now, here I am! It was paid off years ago, so the rent is mostly a formality, to pay for upkeep. Feel free to look around! By the way, I really admire your hair.” She ruffled her own. “I keep mine short because I can’t figure out how to
do
it, you know?”

“Thanks. It’s not much work, once you get the hang of it.” Marjorie crossed to the kitchen window, careful not to knock over the two guitars—an old, loved acoustic and a pink electric—leaning against the sill. The backyard was abundant with hydrangea, honeysuckle, vegetables, herbs, and what looked like blueberry bushes.

“Roberta is the original farm-to-table chef. It’s her garden.”

Marjorie had to admit, it was beautiful. That was something, at least. “Oh, by the way, how much is the rent? I realize I never asked.”

“It would be six hundred a month.”

Marjorie spun around to face Fred. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s only fourteen hundred a month total, and you’ll pay less because your room is smaller.”

“But … I hope you don’t mind me asking, but if it’s so cheap, why do you even want a roommate?”

Fred laughed loudly, like a pirate. “Good question. I’m trying to make a real go of my music career, so I want to be responsible for as little financially as possible. Very rock n’ roll, right?”

That explained the esoteric 1970s posters of Joni Mitchell and Harriet King. Marjorie suddenly felt depressed. Would she be obligated to attend sad coffeehouse shows, where her singer/songwriter roommate would sing in falsetto clichés about some greasy-haired, patchy-goateed guy who dumped her?

Maybe her poker face needed work because Fred said, “We have a practice space. Don’t worry, I don’t ‘jam’ with the band here.” The air quotes suggested a sense of irony, despite the surrounding evidence of goddess worship.

“Oh, I wasn’t worried,” lied Marjorie. “So, what’s your … day job?”

“You name it!” Fred leaned against the kitchen island. “I’m a part-time receptionist at Cornerstone Healing down the street—it’s an acupuncture and herbal medicine clinic. I help my brother out at his film company sometimes. And I—OMG. OMG. OMG!” Fred shot up and began pacing like a mental patient in solitary.

This is it,
thought Marjorie.
This is when I find out that she’s not just “quirky.” Thanks, Mom.
“Are you okay?”

“I have practice in twenty minutes!”

“Oh, well, go ahead. I can run upstairs, see the room and I’m good to—”

“No, you don’t understand. I double-booked. My other job is as a tutor, and I have my first session with this girl in Park Slope today! Also at ten thirty.”

“Shit. Can you cancel either?”

“No, we have to learn a new song for a gig this week.” Fred sank onto the tattered couch and closed her eyes, groaning, “Why am I like this?”

It was funny to be around someone who seemed even less together than Marjorie. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Really?” Fred sat up. “Thank you!” She leapt off the couch, grabbed her acoustic guitar and woven backpack, and sprinted for the door.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“I owe you big time! I’ll text you the address.”

“Address? For what?”

“For the tutoring session. They pay in cash, so if they let you stay once you tell them you’re not me or part of the program, you’ll make money at least. Make sure you tell them that this time slot won’t work for me going forward, so they can request a replacement.”