So Much for My Happy Ending (5 page)

It took Tad a full three minutes to call me back. “I just booked it.”

I couldn't speak. Was he joking? Guys forgot to give cards on your birthday, they spilled red wine on your favorite Pottery Barn rug, they had sex with your college roommate, but they didn't book reception halls without express permission. No way was he serious. “You didn't really. I mean, this is a joke, right?”

“Nope, they have my credit card number and they're gonna use it. I told you I was going to spoil you, and I meant it.”

“And I told you I didn't want you to do this. Call them back and tell them no.”

“No can do. There's a five-thousand-dollar cancellation fee.”

“Are you kidding me? Call back right now! If you call back minutes after making the reservation I'm sure they won't charge you.”

“Maybe not, but I'm not canceling. You'd better start dress shopping—we're getting married in three months.” The line went dead.

Blakely approached with her latte. The fork had been retired. “The cashier is a complete retard. I had to repeat my order four times before he got it right and all I ordered was a half-caf-nonfat-no-foam-vanilla latte.”

“Uh-huh.”

Blakely's eyes narrowed slightly. “What's wrong with you?'

“Huh? Oh, nothing.” I shook my head, trying to clarify what had just happened. “I was just talking to Tad about wedding stuff. We, um, I think we set a date.”

“Oh?” Blakely sipped her half-caf-nonfat-what-the-hell-ever coffee. “And what would that be?”

“Um, this January. January nineteenth.”

Blakely put her drink down and folded her hands on the table. “Usually, when people talk of having a long engagement they are referring to a period of time that extends further than three months.”

“Really? I didn't realize that.” I winced as soon as the words left my mouth. It was never a good idea to use sarcasm with the person in the best position to promote you. “Sorry, it's just prewedding jitters. But it will be better this way…This way I'll have the whole wedding thing out of the way by the time any positions open up in your office.” Boy, was that a stretch.

“Right.” Blakely wasn't buying it but she also obviously didn't care. “So you would take the position if it were offered to you.”

For a brief moment my problems with Tad took a backseat to the immediate issue of my career. I toyed with the corners of my napkin. What would be worse, working for Liz, the demented cheerleader, or Blakely, the female version of Satan?

“April?”

“I'd take it.” I had already sold my soul so I might as well report to the big guy.

“Wonderful.” Blakely's lips curled up. She could now get rid of Cherise and avoid a lawsuit. If Blakely's plans worked out it was going to be hard not to hate myself for allowing her to use me in order to hurt someone else. But if Blakely really wanted to fire Cherise she was going to do it no matter what I did or didn't agree to so I might as well let myself be used. At least that's what I was going to tell myself. “I'll let you know as soon as something becomes available. I probably won't make any changes before the quarter's wrapped up but that's just a few short months away.” She checked her watch. “Oh no, I don't think I'm going to have time to check out your floor after all.”

“You're kidding? I was really looking forward to getting your input.”

After spending another ten minutes playing politics with Blakely, I raced back to my department to do a floor change during business hours. This was a major no-no and if Liz had come down from her office to see me stripping mannequins and running over customers with four-ways of leathers she would gouge my eyes out with a cheap mascara wand.

I checked the time. Two-twenty. I had spent the better part of my day off working. Normally that would have been enough to make me want to scream, but now I found myself longing to coordinate another outfit, write another schedule, plan another special event—anything other than think about what went down between Tad and me earlier. The worst part was nothing did go down. We didn't get in a fight. I mean, what was I so upset about? That he wanted to spoil me with a big wedding at the Ritz? Most women would kill for that problem.

The exhaustion I'd been staving off finally took its hold on me. I couldn't figure this out right now. Right now I just needed to go home, watch the soap that I'd taped and go to bed early. And my illusive troubles with Tad? Well, in the words of Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow is another day.

I took the J train home. I dropped onto a seat and put my coat next to me to discourage others from getting within touching distance. There was a Latina in her midfifties sitting across from me, staring out the window, although there was nothing to see but the concrete walls of the tunnel. There was nothing outwardly original about her, but I found myself nonetheless reaching into my tote bag for my pocket sketch pad. She was wearing a pale-blue skirt suit that she probably picked up at Mervyn's or some such place and the briefcase on her lap was severely frayed at the corners. She had probably been beautiful in her youth. She would still be so now if she didn't look so damn depressed. It was palpable really, each line in her face was testimony to the years and layers of living beneath—and no doubt hundreds of life's little disappointments. She didn't notice my sketching. She just sat there staring at nothing. There was no gold band on her hand nor was there a tan line or skin depression to give evidence of past commitments.

That would never be me. I didn't love my job but I did love Tad—nonexistent problems be damned—and now I would have him forever. He was my “at least.” You know when things go wrong in your life, your friends always bombard you with “at leasts.” “So your love life sucks, at least you have your work” or in my case vice versa. You knew you were in trouble when people resorted to, “At least you have your health.” If I ever got there, I was going to go out and catch myself a very unhealthy terminal illness.

Whenever the news media interviewed individuals who were on their death beds they frequently said that they wished they had done more with their lives, but they
never
said that they would willingly give up their loving family in exchange for a clean bill of health. It's why masochists cut themselves; people would rather be consumed by pain than depression.

My subject got off at the Civic Center exit, leaving me with a half-finished portrait. I longed to work with models like the ones in my college art classes. But I digress. No one made money as an artist. I certainly wouldn't have. I had made the pragmatic choice. And I could still be a star, if only recognized by the other tortured souls within Dawson's.

I got off the subway at the Castro exit. There were no depressed people in the Castro. Or if there were they hid it under Estée Lauder for men. I walked through the sea of gay couples until I came to my Edwardian apartment building. Tad was standing outside the door holding a single red rose.

I held my hand out in a stop-in-the-name-of-love gesture. “Whatever you want to do, I'm not up for it.”

Tad smiled and looked up at the sky, “God, I haven't even married her and already she isn't up for ‘whatever.'”

“Tad, I'm tired. I don't want to go out to dinner, drinks, dancing or any of the other spontaneous outings you're famous for, and I'm sure as hell not up for talking about the Ritz.”

He stepped closer and brushed the petals of the rose against my cheek. “So why don't you tell me what you are up for.”

“Watching my soap and going to bed.”

“And what do you expect will happen in good old Llanview today?”

“Well, for one, I expect Jessica will find out that the man who's been tormenting her family and recently married her twin sister is really her father.”

Tad scrunched up his nose in distaste. “He married his daughter?”

“No, his wife and his daughter are twins but they have different fathers.”

Tad opened his mouth, then closed it.

I tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “Yeah, I know, I haven't figured it out yet, either.”

“And you were going to try to solve this medical mystery on your own? Good God, woman, are you mad?”

I giggled and felt myself involuntarily leaning in to him. He reached behind me with his free hand and stroked my hair. “If you let me come up I might be grateful enough to make popcorn.”

“I'm not sure that the ninety seconds it takes to throw a bag of Orville Redenbacher in the microwave is enough of an enticement for me.”

“Foot massage?”

“We have ourselves a winner.”

 

In my dream there was a monster trying to get into my room. I couldn't see him but I just knew he was terrible, like something out of a high-tech science-fiction movie. I could hear his claws scratching against the wall. I knew that I needed to run but it was so dark and I couldn't see which way to go. I had no idea how to defend myself from this thing. Could it be killed? Defeated? His claws just kept moving—
scratch, scratch, scratch
—and bit by bit the wall began to crumble. Specks of plaster began to fall onto my eyes.

I blinked and adjusted my vision to the darkness. My room. I could make out the outline of my robe hanging on the back of a chair near the window. I could feel Tad's body next to mine. It was just a dream. Except for the scratching sound…that was real. I felt the flutters of panic in my stomach.
Stupid, it's obviously not a monster. A rat maybe?
I immediately became more alert; a rat in my bedroom would be infinitely worse than a monster. It was so dark I couldn't really see Tad's features, but I became aware that he had used his pillows to prop himself up into a sitting position and I could tell by the way he was ignoring me that he thought I was still asleep. With as little movement as possible I looked in the direction of where the noise was coming from. Tad sat perfectly still, with the exception of his right arm. He was scraping fingernails against the wall behind him. He just kept running them up and down, up and down in a heavy, methodical movement—
scratch, scratch, scratch—
all the while staring into space.

The rat scenario started to sound more appealing. What the hell was he doing? From where I lay I could see a neon-red three shinning on the face of my digital alarm clock. How long had he been at this?
Scratch, scratch, scratch
. Okay, this needed to stop. I closed my eyes again and rolled over with a slight moaning noise, hoping that the fear of waking me would stop him. The noise ceased, and for a brief moment there was a silence that probably should have been comforting. Then I felt the covers become heavier as he piled his share on top of me. The floor creaked as he walked out of the room.

He was just anxious. That was all. It had been an eventful week and now we were going to be married in three months. Everyone has a few nervous tics; no big deal. I heard the muted tones of the television set float through the closed door. All's well that ends well and if I could just let everything go and relax I could still get a few hours' sleep before work. I lowered my lids once again and tried to visualize some of the paintings from Chagall's Blue Period. Something about the coolness of his paintings during those years always relaxed me. I felt my limbs get heavier until everything took on that surreal quality it always does when one is on the verge of unconsciousness. The sound from the television seemed to become softer and more melodic, and I barely stirred when the scratching noise started up in the living room.

I
t is amazing how stressful it is to be spoiled. If Tad had just agreed to neglect me my life would be one hell of a lot simpler. Not that I wasn't flattered by Tad's efforts to make our wedding the event of the century, but surely there had to be at least one Bay Area wedding professional whose portfolio we didn't need to see.

Caleb eyed me from the passenger seat as we headed toward Club Red. “Not to be a backseat driver, but maybe it's not such a good idea to zone out while changing lanes.”

“We're not dead, so stop complaining,” I shot back. I heard Allie giggling in the backseat. “Did you know that
Modern Bride
says you need twelve months to plan a formal wedding?”

“
Modern Bride
is full of shit,” Allie said. “Look how much you've gotten done this last month, and you still have two to go. Besides, Tad's helping, right?”

I grunted in response and used one hand to discreetly adjust my halter top. Tad had been working day and night on business proposals and forecasts in the hope of convincing his partners to expand SMB but he still found plenty of time to be involved in every wedding decision. Actually, he
made
most of the wedding decisions; I was just the lucky girl who did the legwork. I know there are women who pray for those particular burdens, but all I wanted was to get married and be part of a “normal” family for once. I didn't want a guest book with its very own attendant.

I stopped for a red light and glared into the starless night sky. How I got roped into being the designated driver was beyond me, since no one in the car needed a drink more than I did.

“Why do you think women obsess over their weddings?” I tried to make the question sound casual, but the answer was very important to me. If I knew why other women felt compelled to spend—oh, what were we up to now?—thirty-five thousand dollars on a single party, I might be able to get into it, too.

Caleb slipped the Chap Stick he had been applying back inside the pocket of his leather jacket. “I actually have a theory about that.”

Allie laughed and adjusted the spaghetti strap of her daringly low-cut camisole. “I can't wait to hear this.”

“Okay, here it is. Most women spend their first twenty-some years of life dreaming about a prince falling hopelessly in love with them, putting the glass slipper on their size-seven foot and taking them to his panoramic-view palace. Then they get older and think, ‘Hey, how is a glass slipper going to support a hundred and thirty pounds of muscle and body fat?'”

“Yeah, that's it,” Allie said. “We grow up and start pondering the inaccurate physics of the Cinderella story.”

“After the marital knot has been loosely tied,” Caleb continued, “they find out that castles are expensive and most of them are cold and moldy, and Prince Charming is having an extramarital affair with Camilla Parker Bowles. The only part of the fairy tale that does ring true is that many of us do have the privilege of living with rodents in the attic, and if you sniff enough ammonia they
will
start talking to you.”

Allie and I exchanged looks in the rearview mirror.

“But on their wedding day the fantasy comes to life. Women get to pretend that they are about to ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after. In short, it's the last day women can live in complete denial, and
that
is a day worth cherishing.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Allie threw up her hands in disgust. “Here's an idea, instead of a reception, why don't we just stage a mass suicide after the ceremony?”

“It would be apropos,” Caleb agreed.

Allie rolled her eyes. “You are one sick little monkey. Hey, hey, look—that car's pulling out.”

I pulled into the parking space and reached across Caleb to pull the free passes to Club Red out of the glove compartment. I studied the Grateful Dead-like graphics on the glossy 3x5 cards. “Allie, are you sure about this place?”

“Absolutely, you guys are gonna love it.”

Caleb pushed his shoulders back slightly, as if preparing for battle. Allie was infamous for taking us to places that we absolutely didn't love. The only reason I hadn't put up more of a fight this time was that she had told me that the headlining band would be a great choice for my reception. But as I looked at the passes I had my doubts.

The club was only three city blocks from our parking spot, which wasn't a problem for Caleb since his jacket was part of his ensemble, but was a major inconvenience for Allie and me who had risked hypothermia in order to exercise the right to be sexy. Allie folded her arms across her chest as we got out of the car. “Jesus, my nipples are going to chap.” Caleb smiled and draped an arm over each of us.

“What's the name of the band again?” I raised my voice so Allie could hear me over her chattering teeth.

“Dig—Jeremiah's the lead singer. You remember him, right? He's the pretty one I wanted to lasso.”

“The closet case,” Caleb clarified.

“Right.” My breath was coming out in little dragonlike puffs. “You know, Jeremiah doesn't really have that wedding-singer look to him.”

“Just listen to him—if his music doesn't do it for you at least you'll have a chance to see him get all sweaty under the hot lights.”

Caleb nodded. “Stage sweat is so much sexier than gym sweat.”

We reached the club and hopped in place as the doorman collected the cover from the two couples in front of us. When I stepped into Club Red I immediately froze in place while I took in the scene in front of me. The space itself was large, with low ceilings and a small, cramped stage. Everywhere around me people between the ages of twenty-one and twenty-nine were waving their fists in the air and thrashing their heads in time to the violent beat of a grungy-looking alternative-rock band.

I grabbed Allie's arm. “Are you kidding me?” Even though I was standing three inches away from her I still had to scream.

Allie lightly patted her hair to make sure it still had that hard-to-achieve messy look. “This isn't Dig. They're up next.”

“But it'll be the same type of music, Allie.”

“What's your problem?” she asked impatiently. “You liked Nirvana.”

“But I didn't want them to play at my wedding!”

Caleb leaned in. “Look at these people…” He waved his hand around the room. “They're all a bunch of flaming heterosexuals! My God, what is this city coming to?”

I started to laugh but that resulted in a secondhand-smoke coughing fit. I checked my watch. Surely I could fit in one or two strong cocktails and still have time to sober up for the drive home. “I'm heading for the bar, who's with me?”

“You guys go ahead,” Allie instructed. “I'm going to see if I can get closer to the stage.”

Caleb and I pushed our way to the bar and we both ordered shots with beer chasers. I somehow lucked out and scored myself a stool.

Caleb held up his shot glass for a toast. “To easy listening.”

We slammed our drinks just as the band onstage finished its last song. I rubbed my fingers against my ears in hopes of relieving some of the ringing. “Do you believe all that stuff you were saying about marriage?”

“Somewhat,” Caleb said. “I think it's certainly true for some people. But there are the rare success stories out there.”

“But the fairy-tale part…You really don't believe in fairy tales?”

“Why would anyone want to?” He stepped a little closer to me to allow another patron access to the bar. “Fairy tales are so predictable. Life is much more exciting.”

“Well, call me a traditionalist, but I want a big strong man who will love, and for the most part, give me a happily-ever-after.”

They were announcing Dig now, and Caleb raised his voice to make himself heard over the cheers. “Listen, wanting something and wanting to want something are two very different things.”

I instinctively jerked away from him. He didn't know what he was talking about. I knew what I wanted. It was what I had always wanted; what everybody wanted.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an electric guitar, but unlike those of the last band, these notes were actually melodic. My eyes were automatically drawn to the stage where Jeremiah, whose skin was already on the glistening side, was a few paces back from the mic. His head was down and his hair hid his face. Just then the drums set in. He looked up slowly and slid forward. I wasn't sure if it was from smoking or genetics but his voice definitely had a gravelly quality to it. Yet the notes still sounded pure, sultry. The guitarist was strumming a little harder now but not enough to detract from what Jeremiah was doing—which was seriously sexing up the audience. He had his feet shoulder width apart and he was grasping the microphone stand with both hands. He was barely moving but somehow…God, what was it?

I sat there mesmerized for the rest of the set. I didn't have to worry about carrying on a conversation with Caleb since he had zoomed in on the bartender's bisexual tendencies. Several of the songs were a little too hard-core, but about one out of three was fantastic. Jeremiah was fantastic. At one point he let out a guttural moan and I felt a certain throbbing in my groin that I usually only felt while watching Brad Pitt movies. I bit down on my lip. No way was that man singing at my wedding.

At the end of the night Allie and I abandoned Caleb so he could help the bartender “close” and went to an all-night burger joint so we could fulfill our daily allowance of saturated fat.

Allie leaned forward over a plate of fried onion rings, putting her chapped nipple at risk of exposure. “Tell me those guys didn't rock?” The Long Island ice teas she had consumed before leaving the club had left her diction with something to be desired.

“They rocked,” I confirmed. “They must be playing pretty regularly if Jeremiah can afford a two-bedroom in your building. Or does he have roommates?”

“He has four.” Allie dipped an onion in ketchup. “He's so hot. All dark and dangerous, kind of disturbed…God, I'd love to use him as a weapon against my parents.”

I smiled and chewed on an ice cube. “He looks Mediterranean or something.”

“Italian, I think…He's got those dark intense eyes. The kind of eyes you want to look into while being tied to a bed.” Allie's eyes took on a kind of glazed look before she brought her attention back to clogging her arteries. “Speaking of which, how much time did Liz give you for your honeymoon?”

“I'm taking eleven days off, so after you subtract the wedding and travel time we'll have eight days in Spain.” Now,
that
was something I was looking forward to.

“You should've chosen France.”

“We've been over this—Tad's fluent in Spanish, and I've always wanted to see Gaudi's cathedral. Spain will be perfect.”

“When planning a major vacation you should always pick the location that's best able to cater to your passions. You're passionate about art and fashion, so you should go to France.”

“Ah, so does that mean your next vacation spot will be a liquor store?”

I gasped as I felt Allie's foot make contact with my shin. “That hurt!”

“Yo, Allie, thought that was you.”

Allie almost spit out her onion ring at the sound of Jeremiah's voice.

I looked up and tried not to seem awestruck. He was so not my type. He was too short (five-ten, tops). He needed a haircut, a new pair of jeans, some dark glasses to hide those insanely sexy eyes…I shook myself slightly and looked to Allie to see how she was going to respond, but she appeared to be choking.

Jeremiah bent down a little. “Hey, are you all right?”

“She'll be fine.” Serves her right for kicking me. I thrust my water in her direction and offered my free hand to Jeremiah. “I'm April.”

“Uh, hi.” He accepted my hand but still seemed a little preoccupied with Allie's struggle for life.

“Allie, can you say anything?” I asked.

“I think I'm dying,” she wheezed between coughs.

I turned back to Jeremiah. “You see? If she can talk she's not choking. Really, she does this all the time. Your band was great tonight.”

“We've been better.” He looked uncertainly at Allie, who was quickly recovering and using her regained strength to glare at me.

“Would you like to join us?” I waved my hand toward the seat next to Allie. He might have been off-limits for me but if Allie could get him naked she could give me enough details to flesh out my fantasies.

Allie managed a flirtatious smile and scooted over. “Where's the rest of the band?”

“They're at some lame-ass party. Not that I got anything against smokin' a little weed and listening to Bob Marley, but the guy throwing it has some serious issues. I figured I'd just grab a bite and chill for a while.”

Well, this was perfect. I had found a guy who could have been spectacular wet-dream material and he had to screw it up by speaking. When was I going to learn, never let them talk.