Citizen Girl (29 page)

His phone rings again and he flips it open. ‘Seline, I’m sorry …’ His face slackens as he listens. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel.’ He darts his eyes at me. ‘I’ll come over later and we can… I see. No, that’s fine. Fine, then leave the ring with my doorman. I gotta go.’ He slaps the phone shut, glowering, and I focus very hard on the passing streets, debating the level of injury if I jumped out right now. I sense him puffing up beside me.

‘Your neediness is pathetic, Girl.’ I whip around to his flaring eyes. ‘Stop looking to me for every fucking little answer. You show
me
why you’re an intrinsic part of keeping this company alive.’

We pull up on my block and the driver hops out with an umbrella to get my luggage from the trunk. The windshield wipers strike back and forth. I feel for the handle.

‘I’m sorry about Seline.’

His lids swiftly shut and open. ‘And you need to start keeping your notes, or whatever, on your laptop or a Palm Pilot or something. It’s pretty fucked up that you work for a software company and organize your shit on school paper.’

The driver pulls open my door and the sound of the downpour floods the tense space. ‘See you Monday.’ He deflates, sinking once more into the polished leather.

‘You too,’ I manage before stepping from under the umbrella into the drenching rain. As the car splashes out into the traffic I turn to find Buster slumped on my front stoop, soaked to the skin behind a proffered bouquet of hopeful white tulips. I blink through the downpour at him for a minute, but it’s just so clear, so clean a gesture in the midst of all this crappiness that I’m wrapped in his dripping arms in seconds.

10. You Want Me to
What
?

Breathless, I blink in the darkness at the red eye of my alarm clock counting down the hours until I report back to MC, Inc. To Kat. To Guy. To
show me why you’re an intrinsic part of keeping this company alive …
I put my hand over my chest and force my lungs to fill, blowing out quietly to the ceiling while I focus on the rain-splattered swish of traffic below. I can’t tell which is causing the harder palpitations – being a part of keeping this wrong-wrongwrong company alive or the prospect of not being one.

Careful not to wake Buster, whose tulips were merely the overture to a weekend spent ‘making it up to me’, I slide slowly out of bed. Tiptoeing around my still-packed suitcase, I pick up his soft sweatshirt and zip it closed, carefully shutting the door.

I pour a glass of water, sipping it in the shadows from the streetlights refracted through the kitchen window. My heart gradually slowing, I nestle on the futon in the living room, and turn on the first hours of early Monday programming. I click past several infomercials – abs, abs, abs, abs … acne – before landing on
Cheers
, and sleepily follow a righteous Diane as she clings to professional dignity amidst a sports bar crowd. Then I’m back under for a fitful hour, surfacing as Julia Roberts is teaching Mr
Gere how to drive stick, working the pedals expertly with her thigh-high patent-leather boots … Mmmmm, and then it’s all so lovely in a movie-set-perfect kind of way when she finally crawls over to service him in their Beverly Wilshire penthouse.

I startle awake to the sound of a male voice rising above the soft patter of the rain. It takes a moment to place the jaundiced film illuminating the room – Jack Lemmon tirading at a hotel concierge while Sandy Dennis looks on. ‘
Give me your name. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer
.’ I push myself to sit, stretching Buster’s sweatshirt over my tucked-up knees.

Soon I’m giggling out loud, remembering watching
The Out of Towners
with Kira when we first moved to the city, how perfectly it captures the constant sense of assault and indignation that comes with taking on this make-it-here-make-it-anywhere town, or as Kira called it, ‘Survivor: Manhattan’. I rest my chin on my knees, captivated anew by how a hapless Ohioan in town to nail down the Big Promotion takes every single obstacle so personally – the lost luggage, the cancelled hotel room, the mugger, right down to the garbage strike and the pouring rain. And alongside him, for contrast, is his wife, beatifically making the best of things as he battles the relentless urban challenge. He’s so … so … insulted.

I grip my arms around my hunched-up legs. I’m tired of being the Jack Lemmon of My Company. Exhausted.

I stare intently at the television. What if Bovary is nothing more than a downpour or a garbage strike? What if I stopped reacting like this job is such a personal
violation? What if it’s
just a job?
I feel a rusty shift in my thinking and, as the credits roll, my stomach fully relaxes for the first time in weeks.

I slip off Buster’s sweater as I pad back to the bedroom. Pulling a corner of the warm duvet over me, I slide my fingers into his and, even though he’s deeply asleep, he squeezes them. Within seconds I find myself falling into blessed unconsciousness, my hand held loosely in his.

‘G?’ Buster nudges me. ‘Phone.’

Squinting, I reach over him for the receiver in the dawn light flooding through the slats of the blinds. ‘Hello?’ I murmur.

‘
Darling
, sorry if I’ve woken you, but I simply
must
see you. Jeffrey gave me your number.’

‘Kat?’ I croak, half sitting up as Buster rolls away from me and pulls my pillow over his head.

‘Darling, I’m downstairs. It’s a
massive
favor, I know, but just throw a mac over your nightie and meet me out front.’ Dial tone.

‘You okay?’ Buster asks, reaching a hand behind him and half-patting my thigh, half-patting the mattress.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, sitting fully up. ‘The client – that woman, Kat, she’s downstairs.’

‘Okay,’ he says, his breath already deepening.

The dawn sun is drying the sidewalk as I shuffle outside, tying my coat closed over my slip and wriggling my heels fully into sneakers. Weaving between the evaporating puddles I approach the white stretch limo, double-parked,
its idle the only sound on the deserted street, save the chirp of hungry starlings.

I squeeze in the tiny space between two parked cars and the limo door swings open to greet me. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I lean down to peer in. ‘Kat?’

She angles out into the morning light, the sun electrifying her hennaed hair as she reaches up to kiss me on the cheek, a waft of woodsy cologne lingering. ‘Darling,
so
good of you to come down. I know I’m being a pain, but I’ve just made the
most
amazing discovery. Here, Brit, slide over.’ Kat tugs my hand and I duck into the dark interior, tucking my coat under my thighs.

‘Hi.’ I give a collective wave to the four other women reclining on the red velvet benches. Wrapped in silk evening coats, they lounge in varying levels of luxurious repose around a swell of slipped-off Jimmy Choos. Their glowing skin sweat clean of makeup, their manner relaxed as if sitting in a sauna, they sip from small bottles of fresh orange juice, while in the far corner Liz sleeps against the tinted window.

‘O.J.?’ Kat reaches into the deli bag ballasted by the abandoned heels in the center of the upholstered car floor.

‘No, thanks.’

‘Bagel?’

‘That’s okay,’ I demur as Brit tears into hers, licking errant cream cheese off the corner of her mouth. ‘Sorry, you wanted to tell me something?’ I stifle a yawn.

Liz stretches awake, her hands landing on her Versace ribbon-bound chest as her head drops back on the
seat. ‘Muffin! Muffinmuffinmuffin
muffin
!’ she savors the word.

‘No, thanks. I’m really not hungry yet.’

The women erupt into deep laughter; Kat just smiles. ‘No, darling, not the food – the
lifestyle
,’ she murmurs.

‘The philosophy,’ Brit declares with a sweeping gesture, the large diamond butterfly on her right hand given the illusion of flight.

‘The revolution!’ Liz cries. ‘Have you been?’

Okay, one word. First syllable – sounds like …? ‘I’m not sure …’ I squint drooping eyes at Kat who, seemingly more sober then the rest of her party, presides regally.

‘It’s a soirée—’ the others all begin to explain at once. ‘A carnival!’ ‘A movement!’

Brit’s pedagogical voice rises above the rest. ‘It’s a celebration of the goddess, taking us back as a culture to the ancient rituals and rites that once celebrated
us
– our bodies, our power, everything that got taken away by the Judeo-Roman tradition —’

The woman next to her jumps in, her strands of uncut aquamarines rustling together. ‘There are no shoulds, no shame, no sanctimony.’

‘You can be purely, wholly yourself,’ croons another, pulling a small jar of Jo Malone vitamin E cream from her satin clutch and passing it to her left. ‘Dancing to Madonna and serving in the religion of your pleasure.’

‘Ooh, put Sarah McLachlan back on,’ Liz pleads, motioning her fingers at the panel by her seatmate’s elbow as
Surfacing
wells up and the women shimmy in their seats, humming contentedly, lost to themselves, like a
Vogue
spread in motion. Kat continues to smile at me as if she and I are sharing a confidence.

‘Okay, so,’ I say, still hopelessly unclear. ‘That’s really great that you found this. And that you stopped by to, uh, share it with me. I guess now you know where I live, and that’s good. So …’ Thanks?

‘Girlie Girl.’ Kat leans over to me as the others continue to dance. ‘Look at them.
This is it! This
is our American brand! It has mystery and texture and … Bovary opportunity written all over it.’

While Brit mists herself with Evian, Liz twinkles her pink toes out in front of her. ‘We’re dropping that dreadful Jed Devlin.’

‘“Chicks Gone Senseless” is a one-trick concept,’ Kat continues, electrified. ‘There’s no reason to align with him when there’s —’

‘
MUFFIN!
’ everyone else cries ecstatically.

I grab Kat’s arm, amazed that my first half-hour of NotJackLemmon consciousness could prove so rewarding. ‘No more “Chicks Gone Senseless”? That plan’s over?’ No more wanting to walk into any boardroom in America in six months and have forty- and fifty-year-olds flash you their tits like a bunch of crazy, carefree teens?

‘Over. Dead. Now go get some kip. We have a big day ahead of us.’ She reaches over me to open the door as she joins the sing-along.

At an infinitely more civilized hour of the same morning I proudly set my new cell phone next to my new, took-the-entire-weekend-with-Buster-to-master-this-fucking-thing
Palm Pilot on my desk. I sit down in my chair and open my laptop. Yes, even the MC, Inc. logo stuck above the screen feels less offensive. It’s going to be a good day and a good job. I can do this.

‘Your phone’s been ringing off the hook since you left,’ Stacey mutters as she passes with a tray of pastry.

‘Sorry,’ I apologize automatically. ‘Good to be back!’ I call after her. She circles her head in a manner that suggests some eye-rolling, but that’s o-kay.

I look down to retrieve my messages.

‘
Girl!
’ Julia’s ebullient voice greets me. ‘
Hi, it’s Wednesday. I’ve found a space! It’s perfect, but I need to make a commitment. Do you have a delivery date yet? Call me
.’

‘
Hi, it’s Julia. You may have already left for the weekend, but they want me to sign the lease on Monday. Do you know when the money will be coming through? Thanks. I’m on my cell
.’

‘
Hi, Girl. Not to be a nuisance or add to your juggernaut, but I’m a little concerned that I haven’t heard from you. I don’t know if I should read into that—
’

‘Girl, they want you.’ Stacey swooshes her finger behind her into Guy’s office.

I hang up and head in, Palm first.

‘You’re going to love this,’ Jeffrey sidesteps me to get to Rex, who’s reclining majestically in Guy’s chair. Displaced, Guy paces in front of a row of shrouded easels. Without so much as turning his head, Jeffrey passes off a packet of markers to me.

‘Guy,’ I drop them on the table, ‘I need to tell Magdalene exactly when we’re wiring them the money.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Guy pops his jaw in annoyance.

‘So what’s the date? I need to run out and call them before we get started on this … Guy?’

‘You see
this
, Girl?’ He swings his hands in large quotation mark swoops. ‘
This
is us trying to get the money for your little charity, so just chill out with that for, like, five minutes.’ Five minutes … and … go. ‘Okay, Martha Stewart,’ he snipes at Jeffrey. ‘Kat’s gonna be here any sec; let’s just see what you’ve got.’

While the two stare each other down, I offer myself a seat and take it. ‘Hold these.’ Jeffrey picks the markers off the table and puts them pointedly back in my hands, shining his focus on our reclining leader. ‘Rex, I was thinking along the lines of the work I did in Miami, keeping in mind Kat’s much further left.’ Rex nods, not looking up from an invoice with Wainwright Ltd. scrolled in purple ink at the top. ‘So, we need her to approve the design, the concept, the execution, the budget,’ he ticks off on his fingers, ‘and, of course, commit.’

Rex’s face clouds. ‘Billing double overtime for your entire team this weekend – that’s steep.’

‘You wanted the best,’ Jeffrey retorts dryly.

‘Guy,’ Rex drops the invoice on the desk, ‘The Bank’s reached the end of its patience.’

‘Well I’m ready to cut to the chase.’ Guy shows us his palms. ‘I’ve been ready since February —’

‘We can’t bully this,’ Jeffrey sighs, adjusting the tassel on his Tod’s loafer with the tip of a metal pointer. ‘I’ve worked her type before. This is an ego you need to coax.’

‘Bullshit, just let me talk to her —’

‘All right, keep moving.’ Rex waves them on. ‘I’m
curious to meet the lady who has your collective balls in a sling.’ He props his hands behind his head.

‘Hullo, boys.’ We turn to find Kat standing in the doorway clad in a bouclé trouser suit over a sliced and liberally safety-pinned tee shirt declaring, ‘This is what a feminist looks like.’