Milkrun (31 page)

I make an attempt to interrupt again. “Will I be promoted?” I look at the timer. Six minutes and thirteen seconds. “And while I have you on the line, can you tell me if I'll ever get married? Will Andrew ever want to be with me? Will Jeremy miss me? Will I meet someone else? Will I forget about Jeremy? Will I forget about Andrew? Will—”

“I see romance in your life.”

“I edit romance novels, of course there's romance in my life! Is there sex? I'd like to have sex again, one day soon. Is there an Andrew in the picture? Hello? Are you following? Are you there?”

“I see much romance. I see a cowboy.”

A cowboy? He sees a cowboy? The timer now shows just over seven minutes. I know I should hang up, but I have to know more. I need to know more! Tell me more!

I ask about my health (“Very good health”) and if I'll be rich (“Very, very rich”) and eight and a half minutes later I realize I'm still asking questions. So I say thank you very much and he says to call again soon. Yeah, right. I've just paid the college tuition for all his kids. What more does he want? For me to put them through medical school?

I hang up, realizing I never asked my intended question.

Forget Europe. Forget my promotion. I'm going to be a psychic. Can I be Jo-Jo? I want to be Jo-Jo. Maybe I am Jo-Jo. Please call me at 1-900-New-Jojo. And have your Visa card ready.

At 2:30, Shauna pops her head over my cubicle. “Jackie, are you busy now? Leanne and I would like to talk to you.” Leanne is the senior editor of
True Love.

This is it. Decision time.

I
T'S A DAY OF PASSION
,
ROSES
, and candy-grams. A day of romantic potential. A day that can be traced back to one of three roots: the ancient Roman festival Lupercalia, where young men whipped young women to increase their fertility, or one of the two different Christian martyrs named Valentine.

Happy VD, one and all.

“Would you like a drink and some peanuts?” the airline stewardess asks.

The thing is, I'm not really a salt person. “Do you have any cookies?”

“Plain oatmeal okay?”

Boooo. If they're buying oatmeal, couldn't they have at least thrown in some chocolate chips? Why not take the tiny extra step to bring people joy? Except lactose-intolerant people. They'd probably be happier with plain, run-of-the-mill oatmeal.

“Whatever you have, I guess. And some coffee, please.”

She gives me the cookie, coffee in a take-out cup, and a mini package of cinnamon hearts to celebrate V-Day.

I think back to when I was in grade school. I used to make the cards myself out of red construction paper (Janie refused to give in to the so-called greeting-card company conspiracy) and send them to all the kids in my class. Well…not to everyone. I never did send one to the boy in second grade who covered his nose with one hand and picked it with the other. Or to the smelly girl who sat behind me and used to have “accidents.” Hmm. I wonder if watching the rest of the class spreading and counting our valentines across our desks had anything to do with his assault conviction and her attempted suicide?

Damn communist holiday. It divides the haves from the have-nots. Marc brought over two dozen long-stemmed red roses last night. I've never received roses on Valentine's Day. Around February twelfth, Jeremy used to declare himself a conscientious objector to the holiday's crass commercialism.

Cheapskate.

I'm stuck smack in the middle of a row of five seats. Two businessmen in their thirties are sitting to the left of me, and a mom and her daughter are sitting on my right. Too bad Wendy left so much earlier. At least she's meeting me at Heathrow, because otherwise I'd never find my way to the hostel. I'd get lost on the tube for sure. I love that word. Tube. Yay! I'm going on the tube! First we're stopping in London for a few days, and then off to Paris, then down to the south of France, then to Florence, and then to Venice. Oh, and to Milan, as well. The original
The Kiss
is in Milan, which will be pretty cool to see up close. But first I have to kill five more hours. Luckily I brought a lot of reading material, ten potential
True Love
manuscripts.

I'm using up my entire vacation for the year all in one shot, but I figure it's worth it. I'm going to Europe!

I made the right decision, I think. Thankfully, Helen agreed to stay on at work until I get back. Love that Helen! Sam's thrilled I've decided to remain in Boston after all. Now that she finally has a female friend, she doesn't want to lose me. I told her she could move out a couple of months early, since Iris will be spending the summer with me and splitting the rent. Who knows after that? By that time I could be married, right? If not, there's always Nat. Maybe she'll move in with me after the summer.

And maybe not. It might be good for me to live on my own for a while, if I can afford it. I'm going to be slightly richer with my new job (yay!), although slightly more in debt because of this trip. Oh, well. That's what Visa is for. They're awful nice, those Visa guys. They never mind lending you money. I'm not putting the whole trip on the plastic, though. Just the ticket. My Christmas bonus and therapy money will go toward making sure I enjoy all the food and wine Europe has to offer.

And there's my train money, too. Since they were not able to return my luggage, due to it having been consumed by flames, I got to claim everything I lost. Unfortunately, umm, my two pairs of high black leather boots were in the bag. And, um, lots of CDs, including
Chicago's Greatest Hits, Air Supply's Greatest Hits, Here Come the Hits, Pretty in Pink,
and
The Spice Girls.
It was all very unfortunate.

In the end, my dad didn't object to my going away, not after I made certain compromises. For instance, at first I said I was intending to move overseas forever, so when I finally told them I was going only for a few weeks, he was relieved. I guess everything depends on the way it's framed. And I told my stepmom that it was time, sigh, for me to, sigh, fix my spirit and mend my soul. And that I thought traveling to Europe would do the trick. And complement the therapy. She and Oprah thought it was a terrific idea.

The last few days have been a complete blur. Sam, Nat, and I went to Orgasm last night. Unfortunately, Andrew wasn't there. It was nice to have a girls' night out, of course, but I'm looking forward to a vacation from Nat. This is what she said: “Jack, if Jeremy was seeing someone, would you want to know?”

What kind of question was that? Of course I wouldn't want to know! I don't want him to be dating anyone. But naturally, as soon as Nat brought up the possibility of his seeing someone else, I had to know. I needed to know. I would explode if I didn't know immediately.

“Whatever. I don't really care,” I said casually.

“Remember my friend Amber?”

“What? He's seeing Amber?”

“Well, not
seeing
Amber. They've only gone out a couple of times.”

“But Jeremy hates dentists!”

This piece of information left a bad taste in my mouth, like a fluoride treatment. It's not that I don't want Jeremy to be happy. Okay, so I don't want him to be happy. My mind will be in a much more serene state if I believe he's sitting in his apartment, alone, counting his condoms. Oh, wait. That's me. I'm the condom-counter. At least I've stopped wishing he'd die a slow and excruciatingly painful death.

I called Andrew when I got home. It was around one in the morning, but I needed to tell him I was going away.

He answered on the third ring, half asleep. “Hello?”

Wow. I hope my sleep-voice sounds that sexy.

“Hi. It's me.”

“Jackie. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I haven't heard from you in a while.”

Forty-one days, but who's counting? “I haven't heard from you, either,” I returned. “I'm just calling to say hi.” I experienced a brief moment of Iris-Kyle déjà vu. “And to tell you I'm going to London tomorrow.”

“You are? Vacation or work?”

“Vacation. I'm meeting Wendy.”

“I heard she quit the bank. I'm still in shock.”

“Everyone is.”

“She's really planning to stay indefinitely?”

“Yup.”

“I hope she finds what she's looking for…. Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me when you get home.”

 

Sam and Marc drove me to the airport. We were twenty minutes late leaving the apartment because I had no idea where my passport was. When I was about to succumb to complete hysteria, Sam found it under my bed, which doesn't make any sense at all because how could it get under my bed? But it was, and Sam found it buried under an old sweatshirt, right there next to my missing wallet. And then she made Marc carry my backpack for me, which was nice, but I'm still not sure how I'm going to carry this thing on my back while I'm out country-hopping.

“What's that?” Marc said pointing to a white envelope lying on the floor under the mail slot. “It has your name on it, Jackie.”

A bill? A note from the landlord? I stuffed it in my carry-on bag with the
True Love
manuscripts, one pair of underwear, contact stuff, a toothbrush, a bikini, a sundress, and my high black boots replacement, my fabulous new I-may-be-the-footwear-ofa-backpacker-but-I'm-still-sexy-and-stylish sandals. It's probably too cold to wear open-toe shoes, but they're so cute! And then off we went to the airport in Marc's two-door Civic. I had to endure a half hour of Sessy telling Biggy about all the changes his apartment would be undergoing once she moved in.

Uh-oh. I have to go the bathroom. Who should I make get up? The couple or the mom and her daughter? Never mind. The line's too long. Maybe I should start reading
The Sheik's Bride.
I reach into my carry-on and pull out the manuscript along with the five possible covers I get to choose from.

The sheik is quite hot. Are there sheiks in Europe? This sheik actually looks more Italian than Arabic. He looks very Italian. Omigod. He looks like Lorenzo. He
is
Lorenzo. An actor, my ass! He's a cover model! That's where I recognize him from! He's on the cover of half my books! He really should fix his tooth, though. Maybe I'll refer him to Amber.

On second thought, maybe I won't. Am I allowed to go to cover shoots?

I reach into my knapsack for some gum to pop my ears. But wait, what's this? I pull out the white envelope. It's slightly bulky. Is this the type of thing the British Airways check-in people were referring to when they asked if anyone had given me an unidentified package to take on the plane? Am I a terrorist?

I open the envelope and pull out what appears to be a Valentine's Day card. On the cover is a big strawberry. The inside says “Have a berry happy Valentine's Day.” In blue pen it says, “Is it a year yet? Come home soon. Love, Andrew.” A pack of sour berries is responsible for the bulkiness.

Love, Andrew? Does he always sign his cards like that, or did he do it intentionally? Does “Is it a year yet?” refer to when we can start dating or when we can start speaking again? How cute is that berry pun! And how sweet is it that he came all the way from Cambridge just to drop the card at my place! But the sweetest thing of all is that he remembered how much I like sour berries.

Is he just being nice? Does he like me or does he
like
me? He didn't sign the card “Like, Andrew.” He signed it “Love, Andrew.” So maybe he does
like
me, right?

Stop. Stop right there. I will not waste what could potentially be the best three weeks in the history of womankind by pining. I must keep my concentration capacity intact so that I can meet all types of sexy Lorenzos. (Speaking of Tae Kwon Do, Master Nan Chusaid I'm almost ready to test for my yellow belt. Yay! Only seventeen classes left!) Or maybe I'll meet a British bookstore owner in Notting Hill. Maybe I'll meet a prince. How old is Prince William now? An experienced older woman might do him some good. I'll settle for a Duke. Duchess Jackie. Duchess Jacquelyn. Lady Fern Jacquelyn of Back Bay. Are there sheiks in London?

A voice comes over the intercom. “Today's holiday movies are
Sleepless in Seattle
and
When Harry Met Sally.
”

Yay!

The man sitting next to me turns to his business partner. “What holiday?” he asks.

He didn't have to include the sour berries. If he just wanted to be friends, he would have just sent the card, right?