She'll Take It (23 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“Melanie. Hey. Melanie, where are you going?” I'm out of his place and halfway down the hall. I told Kim and Tommy that I was leaving but I insisted they stay and enjoy themselves. After all Kim was in the living room nose to nose with a good-looking cameraman, and Tommy was conducting an impromptu wine and cheese tasting in the kitchen. But after my run-in with Trina I felt like I was going to break out in hives. In fact the strangest thing happened to me in the bathroom—I had an overwhelming urge to take Greg's soap dish. It was the run-in with Trina—I had never even considered stealing soap dishes until she planted the stupid idea in my head. But of course I couldn't take his soap dish—it's a soap dish for God's sakes. Besides, I'm done stealing. I chose Greg, remember?
But the thought of never stealing again is making me a little nervous. Okay it's making me a lot nervous, and I don't know if this is a panic attack or what, but suddenly I feel really dizzy and I can't breathe. I'll just go home and steal something from myself. That should do the trick. Or I'll imagine myself taking something. That's it. Don't they say your brain doesn't know the difference between what it experiences and what it imagines? Oh God. Why didn't I think of that when I took the little wooden penguin from Greg's side table? I've never stolen from a friend before. Damn Trina Wilcox, this is all her fault. I'm going to have to return the penguin. Greg doesn't deserve this. I'm going to confess everything to him right now and graciously let him out of the relationship.
“I'm sorry,” I say, pushing the button for the elevator. “I have to go.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me around. “Hey. You're crying. Melanie, what's wrong?”
“My allergies are acting up, that's all—”
“Liar. Look at me. What is it?”
I like you, I say silently. I never thought a guy like you would fall for me. I'm a liar. I'm a klepto. You deserve so much better. If you stay with me I'm going to ruin your life.
“I'm just disappointed,” I say.
“In me?” he asks quickly.
“No. No are you kidding?” I touch my forehead. “I'm disappointed because I really wanted to stay and I'm afraid I'm getting a migraine.”
“Do you want to lay down in my bed?”
Yes. I want to roll naked in your bed. With Wesson Oil. And handcuffs.
“Thank you but I need to find a quiet place. I'm just going to go home.” He looks so concerned that I decide not to make him any more miserable tonight. I step forward and kiss him. It was just going to be a little kiss, but it's like getting caught up in a wave. Passion overtakes us, and before I know it he has me against the wall, and if I do say so myself it's a little embarrassing how carried away we're getting. I mean, for a girl with a fake migraine, I'm doing pretty well. Looking back I must have heard her heels on the floor, after all the hallways in Greg's building are tiled. But she has to politely clear her throat—we're blocking the elevator buttons. Greg pulls back first and smiles at Deborah Green, who is looking at me with one eyebrow raised.
Needless to say, minutes later when the two of us are alone in the elevator, it's somewhat uncomfortable. We descend six floors in silence. It's not until the elevators open into the lobby and I think I'm going to get away with it that she says, “Doesn't seem so boring now, does he?” And. “Wait, you dropped your—penguin?”
Chapter 25
T
his is how I die. On a gray cardboard table after a poker game. I'm the only female player, surrounded by burly, beer-drinking, cigar-smoking, betting men. I lay a royal flush on the table, and chaos erupts. The biggest of the three, Jerry D, reaches across the table and grabs me by the collar of my stolen cashmere turtleneck. “You cheating bitch, ” he growls, “that's your fifth royal flush.” I smile, a smile that radiates victory. I'm still smiling when I see the knife, sharp and shiny. I can see my reflection in the blade. I look damn good in this turtleneck. Then the knife pierces my heart and my blood spurts across the table, splattering the cards, sticking to their beards, and drowning my royal flush in red. But I die smiling. I die a winner.
Okay. So I've had a few setbacks this week. In fact today I've stolen from three different stores. I took a butter knife from Fred Meyers, a porcelain clown from Bartells and a two-hundred-dollar butterfly pillow from the Silk Emporium. And yes, I snuck it out under my belly with a large coat on top. I guess my clock is ticking. Little did I know, all of them were.
Three times in one day, Melanie,
I scold myself on the way home. Tomorrow you're going to march over to Fifth Avenue Temps and admit to Jane you were never in a one-woman show. Trina's already told her as much, so lying is out of the question. I could bring her chocolates and beg for a new assignment. Once I had a job again I wouldn't be so anxious. Greg had been calling me all week, and although I had been religiously watching
Side Court Live
, I had yet to call him back. It's not that I didn't want to talk to him, but I've decided I'd rather leave him thinking I'm a creative artist than date him and let him discover I'm a neurotic klepto. Kim is trying to call me, but my cell phone is beeping low battery. At least she's home. Maybe I can talk her into the Three Musketeers.
I have everything under control. Things are going to be just fine.
I had forgotten all about Trina's warning.
So I'm shocked to find her sitting in my living room with Greg Parks and a strange man. “There she is,” Kim says, pointing to me with false bravado. It's meant to warn me, but against what I haven't had time to figure out. I'm trying not to stare at Greg because he looks downright sexy sprawled on our Ikea couch. His legs are spread apart—a far cry from the composure he normally displays. It hits me on a sexual level. I can feel my clitoris come to life. I bite my lip and turn away in case he can sense my reaction. From the way he's staring at me it may be too late.
Maybe I shouldn't be too quick to break up with Greg. After all, I still haven't had last-person sex. This is not a good thing. So what about it? Should Greg Parks be my last-person sex? Before I have time to steal another glance at him and assess his last-person-sex potential, the stranger in our midst stands.
I peg him to be in his early forties. He's sporting a soft gray suit and is disgustingly tan. House in the Hamptons type. Tommy walks out of the kitchen with a tray of cheese and crackers. “There she is,” he parrots with the same forced enthusiasm with which Kim greeted me.
“What's going on?” I say, forcing my lips to spread into a smile.
The tan man stretches out his hand and opens his mouth, revealing perfect laser white teeth. “Your ears must be burning,” he says. “I'm Josh Hannigan.”
I absentmindedly rub my ear while stepping forward to shake his hand. It's firm, yet soft. He's never done a day of manual work in his life. “Nice to meet you,” I say, politely clueless.
“Trina's told me all about you,” he says. He still hasn't let go of my hand. Should I take mine away first? Is there a hand-shaking hand disengaging societal norm that I'm not aware of? Isn't handshaking usually quick? Now he's patting my hand. Am I supposed to pat his hand now? I can't take it anymore and I pull my hand away. That's when I notice Kim. Her eyeballs are going crazy trying to catch my attention.
I slide my eyes over to Trina. She has a huge shit-eating grin on her face. Greg Parks is smiling too, but his seems friendly. I start to feel queasy, and I'm suddenly very conscious of the fact that I have a pillow under my coat. I yank it out in front of four pair of eyes. “Baby shower game,” I say laughingly. Kim gives me a look. I'm going to have some explaining to do. Thank God I dropped the butter knife and the porcelain clown on Broadway.
“Won't you sit down?” Josh Hannigan says, gesturing to an open chair. As odd as it is to have a stranger treat you like a guest in your own home, I sit like a good little girl. Kim is still trying to bore subliminal messages into my brain with her eyes. I shoot her a dirty look. When nobody speaks I swallow and cross my legs. Why did Tommy have to put the plate of cheese out of my reach?
“So,” I say with a nervous laugh. “You're probably wondering why we're all here. I know I sure am.” One side of the Ikea couch erupts in laughter. It's Greg. He has a great laugh. I appreciate the audience, and his last-person-sex potential goes up exponentially. I throw him a grateful glance and he holds my gaze until I look away.
“Let me get right to the point,” Josh Hannigan begins. “First I have to tell you that you're lucky to have a friend in Trina Wilcox.” A pinball rolls around in my gut. For the first time since I entered this den of lions, I dare myself to look at Trina. She meets my gaze head on as if she's been waiting for it. She's smiling. In fact she looks downright thrilled. She's also sporting a Donna Karan pantsuit that makes her look thin, which she already is, so it's just ludicrously redundant. I turn back to Josh Hannigan.
“Oh, Trina is something all right,” I say. “What is she up to now?”
“Melanie,” Trina pipes in. “Can you believe
the
Josh Hannigan is sitting in your living room? You must be bursting.”
The
Josh Hannigan.
The
Josh Hannigan. My eyes drift up and to the right. I glance at Kim. She taps her watch.
“It's—about time,” I stammer. The right side of the Ikea couch erupts in melodious laughter again. After a moment
the
Josh Hannigan himself joins in with a slightly less melodious laugh of his own. Kim glares at me and moves her eyes to the far wall. I follow her glance to a cuckoo clock I bought at an estate sale. It doesn't chime anymore because I ripped the head off the bird one night while waiting for Ray to call. Every hour on the hour its headless bird body continued to taunt me that he wasn't going to call. The bird deserved it. Was Kim trying to tell me I was about to get my head ripped off here?
“I have all the time in the world,” Josh Hannigan is saying. “In fact I was hoping you would take us to your studio.” I was still smiling and nodding. He might as well have been an alien saying “Take me to your leader.”
“My studio?” I repeat.
“Yes,” Josh Hannigan says. “I don't usually do this—but Trina has been so insistent that I see your clocks.”
“You're kidding,” flies out of my mouth before I can stop it. Trina laughs with glee.
“I'm sure you know what an honor this is, Melanie,” she says. “Don't all new artists dream to be noticed by the Hannigan Galleries?” Hannigan Galleries. Hannigan Galleries. That does sound familiar.
“Of course,” I murmur.
“I love the look on your face,” Greg says happily. Does this man know sounding like a naïve Boy Scout chips away at his chances at last-person sex?
“Well?” Hannigan says. Now that the formalities are over, he's all business. “I only have one opening left for my new artist feature of the winter show. And of course there are no guarantees you'll even make the first cut. But again—Trina has been very persuasive.” Josh Hannigan turns his smile on Trina. They exchange a lingering look giving me a good indication as to what those “persuasions” entail. I can't believe the woman is willing to whore herself out just to get back at me. So be it. Two could play this little game. Trina Wilcox was not going to get the better of me. If nothing else, I could out act her any day of the week.
“I'm flattered,” I say, stalling for time. “But I must admit I'm a little confused. Trina has never seen my work,” I say, looking directly at her again. “She's taking quite a risk.”
“Risk is what drives me,” Hannigan says, bouncing a wedge of pepper jack cheese in the air like it's a sailboat flailing in the ocean. “Shall we go?”
“Right now?” I squeak.
“Is there a problem?” Trina asks. She stares at me while I flounder. She is setting me up like a croquet set on an English lawn. I take a deep breath and conjure up one of my old acting teachers, Junie Wilder. She was a frail woman in her sixties with hair as black as night and large red glasses that would be incredibly fashionable even today. She was always hunched over her metal folding chair with a Kool cigarette wedged in the left corner of her mouth. Actors feared her. They also adored her. Every time you finished a scene, there would be a horrible moment of breath-holding frozen silence as thirty pairs of frightened eyes fastened on Junie Wilder, watching as she pondered your worth as an actor and—by association—a human being.
Once she deemed you'd suffered enough, Junie would shift in her chair, exhale cigarette smoke out of the right side of her mouth, and say in a gravelly voice, “I don't believe you.” I spent the year desperately trying to make Junie Wilder
believe
me. Today I was going to have to deliver a performance worthy of that believing. My motivation is simple. If I really were a clock maker and a famous gallery owner wanted to see my work, I'd be thrilled. I would be honored. “This is incredible,” I say with emotion. “I'm thrilled. This is quite an honor, Mr. Hannigan—”
“Call me Josh.”
“Josh. This is a dream come true.”
“I can't promise anything,” Josh says, crossing his legs.
“It's an honor just to be nominated,” I say idiotically.
“So,” Trina sings. “Why don't you take us to your studio?”
Take us to your studio. I nod and smile. I pray to the
Saint of Meteorites
to send one crashing through the ceiling. Trina stands, and Greg and Josh followed suit. Kim, Tommy, and I continue to sit.
“Melanie's very shy about showing her work,” Kim ventures. I smile gratefully. Everyone should have friends who are willing to lie for them.
“Melanie's clocks are amazing,” Tommy says, not to be outdone. “I've seen several of her pieces.”
Shut up, Tommy, I plead silently. Shut up.
“You have?” Trina demands. Her shit-eating grin is now gone.
“Of course,” Tommy lies. “They're incredible. They make me think,” he adds, tapping his forehead dramatically. “Not that they're not also aesthetically pleasing. They are. They're beautiful. And functional.”
Okay Tommy. That's enough.
“Some chime,” he continues. “Some,” he folds his arms and chews on his lip, “don't,” he concludes. Well done.
“You see,” Josh Hannigan says brightly. “You have a following already. That kind of talent excites me. Shall we go?”
“Yes. Shall we?” Trina sings.
I spring out of my seat. “Yes, let's go,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “As long as nobody minds a trek to New Jersey,” I shout. “I know it's not as trendy as a Manhattan studio,” I continue, “but the locals in Keansburg really love to have artists in their midst. You know, it kind of takes the sting out of the smells and sounds of the factory. Of course I have to warn you, my section used to be a meat-packing plant, so it gets a little chilly in there. Not to mention the smell. But it helps the inner workings of my clocks if it's a little cool. And with all the energy you'll burn trying to keep warm you won't even notice the smell. Are you driving Josh, or should we just hop a bus? If you let me drive, we can make in an hour tops.”
Josh Hannigan glances at his watch.
“Unless you'd rather just have a look at my portfolio,” I add politely. “We could meet for dinner and go over my work.”
“Now that's a woman who knows business,” Josh says. “I'd love to have dinner and go over your portfolio. We'll save the trek to—Keansburg, did you say? Another time.”
“Why don't we all meet at my place?” Greg chimes in. “I've been dying for an excuse to entertain.”
“You just had a huge party last week,” Tommy points out.
“And there's still plenty of food left over,” Greg says.
Tommy wrinkles his nose.
“Sounds great,” I say, hoping nobody will notice that my voice is cracking like a prepubescent boy.
“Perfect,” Josh says, heading for the door. “See you tonight, Melanie,” he says over his shoulder. “I can't wait to see those clocks.”
Josh Hannigan takes his leave, but Trina and Greg remain rooted to our living room floor. Trina is obviously not happy about the turn of events.

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