All Eyes on Her (7 page)

“I don’t want any pretense, Stefanie. I want to know if I have done something or said something to offend you, so that we can just get it out in the open and move on.”

“You are such a drama queen,” she muttered, searching the ceiling. “Just because you missed out on lunch you’re calling me in here to pick a fight? Classic.”

“All right. First of all, I am not picking a fight. This is not junior high. Actually, I am doing the opposite because I refuse to lose my cool in public. Stefanie, you can interpret it however you want. But the truth is that I am trying to call for a truce. I don’t need this stress at work and I can’t imagine why you would want to stir it up.”

“Is that a threat?” She seemed almost aroused at the idea.

The loon proceeds to smear cranberry sauce across her lap…

“What?”

“I am not stirring anything,” she insisted in a monotone, as if
I
was the one that was insane.

“You can deny it as much as you want, but we both know that it’s true. You have hated me since the minute I got here. And honestly, if just looking at me makes you that upset, then I don’t understand why you spend so much time staring. But you should know that I will not get into a public pissing match with you, no matter how much you poke and prod me in front of the partners. I will not stoop to that level over nothing. You’re wasting your time.”

“No, Monica,” she spat, clearly incensed at that point. “
You’re
wasting
my
time.”

“Well I do hope that I’m overreacting, Stefanie. I really hope so. Because maybe I’m an idealist, but I do believe that professional women can only lose as a whole if we don’t stick together, or at least stop dragging each other down.”

“Whatever, Monica. I have to get ready for a conference call, and you, apparently, have to seek some professional help. We’re done here.” She threw the door open and strode confidently out.

Not by a long shot,
I thought.

“S
O…” HE BEGAN, A PIMPLY VERSION OF
D
OOGIE
H
OWSER
M.D.
bellied up to the bar beside me the following evening “…can I buy you a drink?”

The lighting was low enough at Drago that night, but even with an eyebrow raised, junior’s clearly college-aged skin couldn’t even so much as hint at a wrinkle. And after the last few days of working past midnight, the dark circles under my eyes made it clear that my skin had no intention of bouncing back the way that it used to after all that late-night partying in college. Never underestimate the power of boredom though. Since I was twenty minutes early for my dinner reservation with Sheila, and Los Angeles was one of the funnest places on earth to play the age-guessing game, I threw junior a bone.

“I don’t know,” I said and turned to give him my most disinterested once-over. “
Can
you?”

“I don’t get it.” He stiffened, likely frightened or confused, because he left his fake ID at home.

“Sorry.” I laughed, deciding to see where this could go, “I don’t mean to be harsh, but…don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”

“Why?” He pulled his chin back. “What are you, like…
twenty-four?
That’s no problem, baby. So am I.”

“You’re twenty-four?” I nearly spit raspberry seeds from my flavored mojito right onto his face.

“Yeah, I know.” He waved away what he had clearly self-translated into a compliment. “I look too professional to be just twenty-four. I get that a lot. It must be the tailored suit.”

Well, at the very least I had to give him points for fitting ten pounds of swagger into a five-pound bag
.

“Yeah, something like that.” I waved the bartender over for a refill.

“So, how about it?” he asked with a big smile. “Can I buy you that drink, now that we’ve established how old we are? Or do you need to know what kind of car I drive, too? Damn, you L.A. women make a man jump through a lot of hoops.”

“We didn’t establish my age, honey. We just established your age and an affinity for cranky older women and tailored suits.”

“Wow…
affinity.
You’re a smart one.”

God, dating in Los Angeles could be so degrading sometimes. I wondered what Raj was doing at that exact moment….

“So…you’re older?”

I nodded.

“Twenty-six?”

I sighed.

“Twenty-seven?”

“Getting warmer.”

“Twenty-eight?” His voice climbed to a pitch that was more than a little insulting.

“I’m twenty-nine years old.” I scanned over his shoulder for any signs of Sheila.

“No way!” he protested, as if I’d just told him I could fit both legs behind my head at once. “You’re
hot
for thirty!”

“He did not seriously say that!” Sheila hiccupped, while our waiter handed over the menus.

“I think the most offensive part wasn’t the fact that he qualified my hotness…I think it was the fact that he rounded up!”

“That’s just bad manners.”

“Who rounds
up?
” I asked my menu.

“Whatever. At least he was hitting on you. I can’t remember the last time anyone hit on me.” She held out her ring finger. “This might as well be a massive red circle with a line crossing out my face. You’re smart not to wear yours.”

“Can we not talk about Raj tonight?” I slurped up the remaining bits of raspberry from my second mojito.

“Then tell me about Stefanie. Has anything happened since you tore her a new one yesterday?”

I shook my head, chewing on my straw and perusing the menu.

“You know this is about being promoted to senior associate, right? If she didn’t think you were a threat, she wouldn’t be so bitchy to you.”

“Good point,” I said. “I mean, what else could she have to hold against me?”

“See?” She winked, pointing to her temple as the waitress came over to take our orders. “I know stuff sometimes.”

“Trouble in paradise?” I asked, after watching the woman who never ate anything full-fat order an appetizer, entrée and dessert.

She shrugged casually. “The usual.”

“Sheila, I haven’t seen you order tiramisu since the summer before you went to Fat Camp. Whatever’s bothering you, it’s gotta be more than
the usual
.”

“Camp Makealeap was for gifted kids,” she shot back with a horrified whisper. “And you agreed never to bring that up again!”

“Then don’t lie to me.”

She huffed into her drink. “The family’s going to the cabin for another ski weekend.”

At their last fun-filled family trip to Vail, Sheila hadn’t felt welcome, exactly. Joshua’s mother had planned an entire weekend of activities in advance, and then feigned surprise when Hindu, non-red-meat-eating Sheila opted out of the duck-hunting exercise and asked for something other than beef as an entrée at Smith & Wollensky’s. Being the dutiful young fiancée at the time, Sheila bit her tongue. She didn’t even flinch when they left her behind on the bunny slope to hit the black diamonds
as a family
.

But the final straw, the one that resulted in a whispered 2:00 a.m. phone call to me from inside their hotel bathroom, was the jacket. Emboldened by Sheila’s failure to make a peep in her own defense, monster-in-law had actually gone as far as to tell Josh to change out of the ski jacket that Sheila had bought him as a gift, calling it
frivolous and impractical.
Joshua, blissfully ignorant of anything beyond the tip of his own nose while surrounded by family, had obliged in front of everyone without blinking. Sheila, mere months away from her dream wedding at the time, decided not to make unnecessary waves by forcing him to stand up to his mother until after
I do.

But time had passed, and the situation never improved. Confronted now with Sheila’s sad and tired eyes, I decided to give her permission to take the out she so clearly wanted.

“Why don’t you make an excuse?”

“I can’t do that,” she said, to my surprise. “I won’t.”

As it turns out, I had underestimated my cousin. The stress I thought I was picking up on was actually anticipation. This time, Sheila had plans of her own.

“Ahem.” She straightened up and cleared her throat. “On Saturday morning we have a couple’s massage at the spa in town. Prepaid. Nonrefundable. On Saturday night we have dinner reservations for a seven-course prix-fixe tasting menu at the best French restaurant in Vail. They only had a table for two. Prepaid. Nonrefundable. On Sunday morning we’re going horseback riding in the mountains. I would have booked my darling mother-and father-in-law with us, on the ride, but I think that three hours would be a little much for a couple their age. And of course…”

“It’s prepaid. And nonrefundable.” I laughed and shook my head.

“What?” She played dumb. “She can have Friday night. We’ll eat Challah and drink Maneschevitz. And if Joshua wants to leave me alone after our Saturday morning massage to go hurl himself down a black diamond with his family that’s his choice. But I’ve got a new red silk number from Victoria’s Secret and a jar of chocolate body paint that might make him want to pause and reconsider.”

“Who knew being married involved so much strategery?”

“Is that a word?” she asked, while our appetizers were laid out before us.

I shrugged, lifting a spoonful of polenta into my mouth.

“Look, it sounds like a fantastic weekend to me. And you would make up for all the time she stole from you on your last ski weekend. But it is a little passive aggressive. I’m not saying you shouldn’t do all these fun things. Though you might also consider telling your husband to be a bit more sympathetic.”

Her forkful of warm mushroom salad stopped before her mouth.

“Look, Sheila.” I tried my best to backpedal and wipe the look of hurt off of her face. “I didn’t mean that—”

“Monica,” she said pointedly, and with a wisdom far beyond her years, “wait until you’re married.”

Sheila’s predicament got me thinking about Raj again. Maybe merely entertaining his point of view would help me win back some credibility—or at least a return phone call. So after overtipping the valet in an attempt to offset the negative karma I had generated at the dinner table, I swung a left onto Robertson Boulevard and reached for my phone.

I hit Send and prepared my most ingratiating tone of voice.

Naturally, after three rings there was still no answer.

“Raj, it’s me.” I was too slow to hang up before voicemail, so instead I left a message completely contrary to what I’d hoped to convey. “Look…I…I’ve been giving it some thought. And I get it, okay? It’s just…we need to talk. You can’t treat a person like this. I know I was a little…difficult…before you left for London. But there really is no excuse for not calling me back. It’s just…it’s just rude. So…so call me, okay? Okay, bye.”

This was getting ridiculous. After being with me for so long, Raj should know that ignoring me would be the cruelest thing he could do. It was very, very insensitive. And very unlike him. In fact, none of this was like him. But at least I still had a chance on the dating scene.

I was
hot for thirty,
after all.

“Is there such a thing as early early onset menopause?” a voice asked. The blaring of my cell phone had woken me at 1:00 a.m. Thursday morning.

“Who covered the catwalk with apple butter?” I mumbled. “Don’t they know I’m gonna slip off?”

“Have you been drinking?”

“What? Who is this?” I peeked out from under the covers, opening one eye and checking my hand for signs of apple butter.

“Don’t be annoying,” Sheila insisted. “So, is there such a thing?”

“Such a thing as what?”

“Early early onset
menopause!
”

“I don’t know, Sheila.” I sniffed. “I went to law school, not med school. Ask your husband. Okay, good night!”

“No, wait! I can’t ask him,” she whispered. “I think my period is over.”

“It’ll come back next month, trust me. And leave me alone. I’m going back to sleep.”

“You don’t even care?”

I stifled the urge to remind her that since she was married, that guy in her bed was now legally required to care, which was technically supposed to let her spinster cousin off the hook.

“My period has always been five days long,” she persisted. “Down to the hour. You could have set a clock by me. Always. Since I was thirteen. And this time it was only three days. So that’s why I’m asking. Do you think this means that I’m having early
early
onset menopause? Like maybe I’m drying up?”

“Okay, gross.”

“Monica!” she yelled through the phone.

“You woke me up to ask me if you’re drying up? Do you honestly believe that?”

“Okay, no…I mean I’m not a maniac.” She exhaled, and then thought about it. “Actually, I woke you up to tell you to turn on your television.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Turn it on
now!
” she scream-whispered. “Or I’ll tell your mom that you and Raj broke up and that you miss her and want her to come stay with you for a month to make you feel better.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. But I will tell everyone at your office that you read
Pucker.
Just trust me. I swear, I have a good reason for this. Flip to PBS.”

“Why are you whispering?” I groped around for the remote on my bedside table.

“Because I don’t want Josh to know.”

“That you watch PBS, or that you’re drying up?” I sat up and flicked on the television, flooding the room in blue light. “What the hell am I watching anyway?”

“Oh
crap!
” she said. “I think I hear him coming. I gotta go hide. I’ll call you back from the hall closet, if I get reception.”

I found PBS just in time to glimpse a montage of scenes involving various types of primates biting, taunting, roaring and occasionally hurling their feces at one another.

“Welcome back to this special presentation of
Women At War.
This and other important public programming was made possible by your generous donations to the Public Broadcasting System.”

“Sugar and spice and everything nice?” An aggressively eyebrowed host in an argyle sweater beseeches the camera. “Not if you consider the behavior of this two-hundred pound orangutan in the Brazilian rainforest. Unnerved by a younger, fertile female’s attempts to attach herself to their group, the elder orangutan roars with anger when the intruder moves toward the vicinity of the alpha male. Eventually she’s angry enough to climb a tree and hurl her feces at the potential interloper.”

I quickly gathered that this was a documentary exploring competition among female apes from an evolutionary perspective as a means of better understanding human social tendencies.