The problem with the first date you went on after getting your heart broken into 500 pieces was that you couldn't help comparing Date Guy to the Guy Who Dumped You. Example (out of a perfect 10): Rob Carvel: 2 . Nick Jones: 11.
If you haven't guessed, Rob Carvel was the guy currently sitting across from me in the Atlantic Grill. Thirty-three years old. Senior number-cruncher. A Gemini with something I forgot what rising, according to our awkward convo during the shrimp cocktails.
Was Rob Carvel your typical nightmare of a blind date set up by my well-meaning but "I'm so sick of listening to you whine about Nick" roommate, Heidi? No. After all, Heidi was my best friend and wouldn't stick me with total schlub. No, no, Rob was perfectly nice-looking, perfectly nice. Perfectlynot Nick Jones.
Deep sigh. Was that how Nick had felt about me? That I was perfectly this and that, but not perfectly perfect for him? Just not the one? Why did it take me all of four minutes to realize when someone had It potential or not when it took guys just a little over six weeks?
Oh, wait a minute. I just remembered that it hadn't been a matter of time for Nick. It had been a matter of a wanna-be supermodel named Tamara.
What did Tamara have that I didn't? A detailed list:
Numbers 1 through 1,000,000: She looked exactly like Cameron Diaz.
"So, Maddie," Rob Carvel said out of his slightly too small mouth, a fleck of grilled zucchini between his two front teeth. He took a sip of his merlot, pinkie raised in the air. "Everyone asks me if I'm related to the Carvel ice cream dynasty, but I'm not. Don't I wish, though! So what's your favorite flavor, Maddie? Vanilla, chocolate, or the twist? I'm partial to the twist with multicolored sprinkles."
Oh, God. Was this first date conversation these days? Was this what men and women who were potentially two more dates away from seeing each other naked talked about?
Don't be so cranky! I mentally yelled at myself. Just you remember the alternative to this perfectly nice guy: pity from "the Coast." My shoulders slumped and I suddenly couldn't bear another bite of my herb-encrusted salmon.
I'd better explain. My father (a Hollywood producer), his wife (my step-monster, Ivy), and their 21-year-old daughter (my half sister, Ariel, a backup singer for a teen superstar) were coming to New York City next weekend to (and I quote) "shop for the fall season." They were going to stay at the ultratrendy "W" hotel in Union Square. The step-monster had called to pen me and "that darling boyfriend of yours" in for a dinner during their visit, then had gone on to her usual ego-stomping conversation: "You're not still living in that charming " (translation: wretched) " little apartment, are you, Madeline? I mean, it's hardly big enough for half a person, let alone two young women! Well, if you play your cards right, maybe you'll be picking out a nice diamond at Tiffany's and living with Nick in a luxury doorman building!"
I was actually quite proud of the tiny two-bedroom, sixth-floor walk-up apartment that Heidi and I had been lucky to find on Manhattan's Upper East Side at a supercheap, rent-controlled $1,650 a month, which was hardly affordable on our pathetic $27,500 a year salaries. We ate a lot of rice and beans and never took taxis. Or went shopping. We couldn't even afford movies, which at $10.00 had eclipsed the suggested donation for entry to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Have you been promoted yet?" the step-monster had inquired, as though my job as a junior copywriter at Cashmere Cosmetics was a family embarrassment.
It was always Ivy who called every few weeks to say hi and keep in touch, never my dad, except on my birthday. Harry Simon had divorced my mother for Ivy when I was five, and the new family had taken off for L.A., rarely seen since. If my father had business in New York, I saw him. If Ivy wanted to shop for the upcoming season, I saw him. The Simons' last visit (Ivy simply had to see some Broadway show that was closing) had coincided with my brief romance.
And, Nick, Mr. Busy, had actually agreed to dinner with the folks, mostly because my father was a producer and sounded important. The Simons had paid attention to me for the first time in years because Nick, in his black shirt, black tie, black pants, and Prada shoes, was sitting next to me, ordering the right wine, talking the right talk, telling insider stories about his plastic-surgeon-to-the-celebrities doctor uncle in the Hamptons. My father had been impressed by Nick, and Harry Simon had looked at me differently, spoken to me differently.
Like I was someone instead of his plain-Jane, curly-haired kid back east who lived in a rattrap, couldn't sing, dance, act, or draw, and still had the word junior in her title at age 29. Anyway, was it any big surprise that I neglected to mention to the Simons that Nick, my one and only accomplishment in their eyes, had dumped me on my head?
Maybe I should also mention that my last boyfriend a guy so shy he broke into hives when Ivy asked him what his father did for a living so offended the Simons with his lack of presence that they sent me brochures for speed-dating events on the Upper West Side, where they wished I'd move.
I felt someone's eyes on me. Oh, that's right. I was on a date. And what a bad idea that had been. I'd thought I could get over Nick by meeting someone new. I'd thought I could find someone else to make me appear normal in the judging eyes of my family at one three-hour dinner. But I'd thought wrong. I wanted Nick next to me. And so did the Simons.
Rob finished the last of his tuna steak, stared at me pointedly and furrowed his light brown eyebrows. He leaned to the right, eyed me, then leaned to the left and eyed me again. The brows furrowed once more. He pursed his lips as though he was trying to figure out a logarithm.
"So, um, Heidi mentioned that you're entering the Miss New York pageant," Rob said, looking me up and down, taking in my long brown corkscrew curls that refused all attempts to be straightened, my muddy-lake colored eyes, my lack of cheekbones, my non-silicone-enhanced lips, my medium height, medium chest, medium body, and medium looks. "I have to admit, when Heidi told me she was fixing me up with a Miss New York contestant, I was, like, whoa, dude, this chick's going to be a total babe. I was really intimidated. But, you're I mean, uh, I thought you had to look like a model to be Miss New York."
Asshole.
"Miss Yorkville," I corrected, tempted to scoop up my rice pilaf and fling it at him. "Yorkville is what my neighborhood is called, you know, east of Second Avenue in the 80s and 90s. It's just a local pageant, and anyway, I'm just entering. I'm not expecting to even make the first cut."
That was true. I wasn't entering the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies to win. I was doing it in memory and honor of my mother, who'd been Miss Yorkville 1972 (and who, by the way, had looked like a model). My mom died when I was 21, two days after I'd graduated from New York University, as though she'd held on until that tassel-switching moment that gave her comfort in leaving me.
Wouldn't it be something if you were crowned Miss Yorkville, too? she'd often mused. Oh, how happy it would make me just to have you enter the pageant! My heart squeezed at the thought of my mom, her warm blue eyes dreamy at the thought of her only child following in her footsteps. But unless I entered the pageant this year, I'd lose the opportunity. Miss Yorkville had to be under 30 years old. And I was 29.
"Wow, Maddie, you've got guts," Rob said, flipping open the leather billfold that contained the check. "I mean, take that chick over there " He gestured to the table behind ours. "I'll bet you'll be facing a lot of babes like her in the pageant."
Where had Heidi found this jerk? I turned around to check out my competition and almost spit out my mouthful of merlot. The Cameron Diaz lookalike who just so happened to be the supermodel wanna-be Nick had dumped me for was perusing a menu and flashing her superwhite teeth at her good-looking date, who was not Nick Jones.
A month ago, Tamara Arm had turned up in the reception area of small Cashmere Cosmetics for a model "go-see," and I had gone from Nick's six-week-old girlfriend to history. I watched the Wanna-Be bat her baby-blues and scootch closer to her dinner companion. Interesting. This must mean that Nick and Tamara had broken up! Maybe I had another chance with him! Maybe he'd attend the Simon family dinner with me! Maybe
Maybe Nick was suddenly standing outside the Atlantic Grill, staring through the window at Tamara, rain pouring on his head, a forlorn expression on his gorgeous face. He was clutching a cell phone. He punched in some numbers, then held the phone to his ear, his tortured eyes on Tamara.
The wanna-be's cell phone rang. I heard her say hello, smack her lips, tell her date (who, mind you, was wearing sunglasses) that she was sorry, she'd only be a minute, and then hiss-whisper, "Nick, I told you. It's over!" Silence. "You're not hearing me!" Silence. "Well I don't love you, Nick! What?" she practically shrieked as she craned her neck to peer past Sunglasses out the window. "I can't believe you're stalking me! It's over. Deal with it!" Click.
And that was when Nick's beseeching yet still beautiful eyes found mine. They widened. He punched numbers into the cell phone again. My little date purse started ringing.
Why did I get the feeling he wasn't calling to tell me he wanted me back?
What did he want?
Wednesday after work
DT UT, a coffee bar on the Upper East Side
No, I had not left my cretin of a blind date in the middle of cappuccino, mango sorbet, and a vulgar story about his friend's bachelor party just because Nick Jones, ex-love of my existence, had called and "desperately needed to talk to me." Leave one nightmare for another? No, thanks. I might have been in love with Nick, but I wasn't a dum-dum. Nick Jones, I knew, had only one thing on his mind, and it wasn't strings-free sex with me. It was Tamara Arm.
Nick slumped in his overstuffed chair and picked at his chocolate Rice Krispies Treat. "Tamara sounded a little mad that I called her while she was on a date, but what was I supposed to do, Mads just let her be out with some other guy? I mean, we just broke up a week ago, and she's already seeing someone else?" He slurped at his iced mocha and slumped down even more.
I nodded empathetically. Pathetic thing was, I did understand. All too well. I knew exactly what it felt like to be in love with someone who was with someone else. After Nick had dumped me a month ago for Tamara, I'd stood outside his apartment building staring up at his 17th-floor window during a few thunderstorms myself.
As he flicked Rice Krispies on the floor and sulked, I couldn't take my eyes off him. Did I mention that Nick was gorgeous? Think Billy Crudup. Did I also mention he was very dynamic, very New York, very six-one, 175 pounds, and very...very? I'd met Nick at Cashmere Cosmetics, where I was a junior copywriter and he was a product brand manager. It had taken me six months to work up the courage to flirt with him, and I'd been beyond shocked when he'd asked me out for a drink three months ago. I'd thought he wanted to talk about Cashmere's Mighty Mascara campaign. But he'd wanted to just talk about everything on his mindand eat sushiand drink good wine at a little outdoor place he knewand kiss me good-night, then ask me out for a weekend date.
He'd said I was "differently bookish," a damned good copywriter, and that he'd always wanted to date a "brain." My eyes were "exquisitely expressive," he'd told me. Nick Jones was the first guy who'd ever kissed my eyelids. The first amazing guy to want me. He'd made me feel as though I was special. For almost two months.
But Cashmere Cosmetics and junior copywriters hadn't been enough for the guy who'd bagged a wanna-be supermodel named Tamara Arm and a hotter job as a senior product manager for Lancτme.
Make him forget all about Tamara Arm! I mentally told myself in pep-squad fashion. Hit him with youryoursomething, anything. "Uh, so guess what, Nick? I've been assigned to write the packaging copy for Mighty Mascara! Isn't that great? Usually senior copywriters score the hot new products, but my boss thinks I'm "
"This is her most recent head shot," he interrupted, pulling a glossy 8 x 10 out of an envelope from his knapsack. "God, isn't she beautiful?" he whispered in awe. "Stunningly, achingly beautiful?"
I stared at the smiling, perfect, not-even-airbrushed face of Tamara Arm, boyfriend stealer and boyfriend thrower-away. There was no need to answer Nick. His question had been rhetorical.
Nick sighed again. "She wouldn't even say why, Mads. Why did she dump me? What did I do wrong? That's all I want to know so I can be a better boyfriend." He slumped again and flicked a few more Rice Krispies off his plate and onto the floor.
To me! So you can be a better boyfriend to me! Now it was my turn to slump.
"Why did you and I break up, Mads?" he asked, sitting up in his chair and staring hopefully at me. Those dark brown eyes were looking right into mine. A dimple struggled to form. He took my hand and held it in both of his.
I almost jumped into his lap, almost told him it didn't matter why, that what mattered was that we were back together, a couple.
"Mads, will you do something for me?"
Anything. Anything! I nodded.
"List my top five, biggest problems as a guy and a boyfriend so that I figure out where I went wrong with Tam. I have to know."
My fudge-blondie sunk to the bottom of my stomach. I couldn't think of one problem, let alone five. Oh, wait a minute. I thought of something: You broke my fucking heart!
"Nick, it probably had nothing to do with you at all. She probably met that other guy, fell in love, and didn't mean to hurt you. She probably said, 'It's not you, it's me,' right?"
Yeah, just like what happened with us
P>Nick fell back against his chair with a sigh. "Actually, she said, it's not me, it's you, never call me again. But that's it. That doesn't tell me anything what I need to change or do to get her back. I'd do anything, Mads. Anything." Slump.
What the hell was so special about Tamara Arm anyway? She was just a wanna-be, just another gorgeous woman in New York City. Big deal! There were gazillions of models gliding around Manhattan on their 10-foot-long legs. Tamara was pretty. That was it. That was all she had going for her. After all, any woman with a brain in her head wouldn't have dinner with a guy wearing sunglasses. And she wouldn't have broken up with Nick Jones, perfection in human, masculine form.
Beauty. That was what Nick wanted. A pretty
Duh! You fool, I mentally scolded myself. How could I have forgotten that I was entering a beauty pageant? That would definitely puff me up in Nick's shallow eyes. And this is my girlfriend, Maddie, he'd tell everyone, pride filling those amazing dark eyes. She's competing for the Miss Yorkville title! Just think, I almost lost her.
I popped up straight in my chair, slid my half-eaten fudge-blondie under the New York Times that someone had left on the table, sucked in my stomach and pretended someone was pulling my head up with a string (Be-a-Model-or-Just-Look-Like-One tip from an old Barbizon brochure). "Um, Nick, guess what? I'm entering the Miss Yorkville pageant! I'm doing it in honor of my mom. You remember I told you she was Miss Yorkville 1972 and "
Nick shot up straight and grabbed my hand again. It had worked. I was brilliant. Playing his shallow game, yes. But brilliantly! "Tam's planning to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant!" Nick practically shouted. "God knows why, since it's such small beans. Ever since she did that layout for Glamour magazine, she's almost an It girl! Cosmetic companies want to sign her, bigger modeling agencies want to rep her, but she keeps saying she's not ready to make any decisions so, of course, everyone's interested in her."
Especially you. My choco-banana smoothie joined the fudge-blondie in turning into sludge in my stomach. I felt utterly ill. The Wanna-Be was entering my pageant. My mother's pageant. The pageant that was supposed to fulfill my mother's dream for me, make my father and the step-monster approve of me and impress Nick into wanting me back. My small-beans pageant that regular me could enter.
Why would Tamara Arm want to compete for the Miss Yorkville title, anyway? It made no sense. I'd recognized her from clothing ads and a couple of television commercials for shampoo even before she'd turned up in the lobby of Cashmere a month ago for a model "go-see" and stolen Nick from my fragile grasp. She had already sort of "made it." She was probably too much of an airhead to realize she was blowing her own career by not moving on to bigger and better gigs. How dare that tall, gawky thing enter my pageant! Tamara probably wasn't even from Yorkville. Are you there, God? It's me, Maddie. Can you please make Tamara break a nail so that she won't enter the pageant on Saturday? Thanks.
While I was trying very hard not to burst into tears, Nick, apparently, was brainstorming. "Mads, I know how to get Tam back. And you're the only person who can help me!"
Wednesday Evening
My humble abode on Second Avenue at the corner of 71st Street, above the
Falafel King takeout
The minute I'd gotten home from my depressathon with Nick, Heidi had taken one look at my sad-sack expression and mixed a pitcher of strong margaritas and suggested facials.
We were now sitting on the futon in our tiny living room, our Cashmere Kiwi-Extract Masques hardening nicely, Alanis Morissette seething about betrayal on our CD player. Heidi, who'd been my roommate and best friend for five years, ever since we met as copy assistants at Cashmere Cosmetics, had recently started dating a very cute guy in New Product Development. She was the resident expert on men, having actually once lived with a guy, so I tended to listen to her advice, even if she occasionally arranged blind dates with pinkie lifters like Rob Carvel.
She asked, "So?" about 10 times, meaning: quι pasa with Nick? but I was too busy biting my lip around the kiwi mask to answer. Whenever I did something I knew was wrong or just plain bad for me as a person on this earth, I got quiet. Heidi knew that. She threatened to turn off the water supply and let my mask harden into plaster unless I told her what happened. And something did happen. Something really beyond awful.
I told her.
Heidi (mouth wide-open): "He wants you to what? Tell him no way. Tell him to go fu"
Me (sheepish): "Uh, we sorta made a deal."
Heidi raises one perfectly plucked strawberry-blond eyebrow.
Me (fake cheery): "Well, guess who agreed to come to dinner with my father, the step-monster, and the teen singing sensation? Nick, my 'darling' boyfriend!"
Heidi (mouth still open): "You and Nick got back together?"
Me (biting lower lip): "Uh, not exactly. He's just going to pretend he's still my boyfriend, as a favor to me."
Heidi (eyes narrowed): "And in return"
Me (running into the tiny bathroom): "Time to wash off the mask. Can't talk now!"
Heidi follows me. Stares at me. Taps foot.
Me: "Uh, I sorta promised him that, in return for pretending he's still my boyfriend during the big dinner, I'd befriend Tamara at the pageant meeting on Saturday and, uh, talk him up."
Heidi (with expression of pure disgust): "Let me guess. So that she'll realize she was a fool for dumping him and run back into his waiting arms."
Me looking anywhere but at Heidi.
Heidi: "Well, that's odd, Maddie, because I thought you were in love with the guy."
Me burying my face in washcloth.
Rrrrrring!
Me trying to make a beeline for the telephone to escape the all-knowing Heidi.
Heidi (sticks arm out across the bathroom doorway): "Let the machine get it. We're not done here, Maddie. We have a lot of work to do."
...leave a message for Heidi or Maddie.... Beep! "Madeline, dear, it's I-vy." The step-monster always drew out her name as though she were Southern, and she was the only person on Earth who called me Madeline. "Just a gentle reminder for you to make reservations no later than tomorrow at the Mesa Grill for dinner next Friday night. The three of us and you and that darling boyfriend of yours. We can't wait to see Nick again! Your father is so impressed that you've snagged a catch like him! Oh, if you only knew how worried we both were that you were all alone for weekends and corporate social events and holidays and I mean, of course, you know you're always welcome to fly out to the coast, dear. Oh, goodness, look at the time. I'd better dash. You tell that handsome beau of yours we can't wait to see him again!" She added three sickening kissing sounds "One from me, one from Daddy, and one from Ariel!" and then the machine gratefully clicked off.
Heidi: "I'll go erase that message and mix another pitcher of margaritas."
I nodded over the lump in my throat. The three of us. Not the four of us and my darling boyfriend. Three. Her, my father, and Ariel. A family I wasn't a part of.
My family wasn't mine. My fake-boyfriend-for-a-dinner wasn't mine.
Heidi (hands me frosty glass full of frozen raspberry margarita): "Repeat after me everything is going to be okay."
Sure it was. I'd send the guy I loved back to the woman he loved, and I'd impress my parents with a "boyfriend" who was basically bribing me to be said "boyfriend." Everything was going to be very not okay.
Friday
My cubicle, Cashmere Cosmetics, 17th Floor, Flatiron District
Instead of writing copy for the packaging of Mighty Mascara, I was staring at a blank computer screen, in absolute panic. Tomorrow was E-Day for the Miss Yorkville pageant. Anyone who wanted to enter had to show up with an application (from a local weekly newspaper), two photos (a head shot and a body shot), and a 250-word essay on what being Miss Yorkville would mean to her. My mom's face floated into my mind. Wouldn't it be something if you were crowned Miss Yorkville, too.
I peered to my left, then to my right. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me, which was nothing unusual. I typed a heading: What Being Miss Yorkville Would Mean to Me by Maddie Simon. Hannah Simon's beautiful face seemed to float on the screen. You're such a beauty, Maddie, she used to coo to me when I was little. My little beauty's gonna be Miss Yorkville someday just like her mama!
No offense to my dad, but he was the one I took after, looked like. Not my gorgeous mother. I wasn't a beauty. I'd found out she'd been lying the minute I entered elementary school. And the lie had been confirmed when boys hadn't been interested in plain-Jane me in middle school, high school, or college. I was okay-looking, I knew that. Even cute, if my hair behaved and I wore a little Mighty Mascara to enhance my eyes. But I wasn't Hannah Simon. And I'd never be Tamara Arm.
Why the hell was I entering this stupid pageant, anyway?
For your mother, you self-absorbed, whining child!
"You're entering the Miss Yorkville pageant?"
I whipped around to find my boss's boss CEO Irwin Cashmoil, who Heidi and I referred to as the Moil staring at my computer screen, reading the start of my essay. I would say, Hel-lo, personal, with a lot of snappish attitude, but, um, that might get me fired even faster.
The Moil's light blue bug eyes narrowed at me. "Follow me to my office, young lady. We've got some serious talking to do."
Gulp. Was I about to get fired for working on personal stuff on company time? Maybe Cashmoil had also been reading my personal emails (I often enjoyed making fun of him to Heidi, who was three cubes over, by the way). I trailed after him to his corner office. He gestured to his guest chair, which I slowly sat down upon.
"I am very impressed, Maddie!" the Moil lisped, sitting his five foot four inch, 250-pound frame in his very large desk chair. "Very impressed! You're getting a raise. A very big raise. If and this is a very big if, Maddie you actually manage to convince her to sign a contract with Cashmere."
Huh?
The Moil swiveled around in his chair, clapping his hands three times very quickly with an expression of pure delight. "You are one clever girl, Maddie Simon. Entering that pageant to get close to Tamara Arm in order to convince her to be the new face of our spring line. We all saw the little piece on the Post's page six about her plan to enter the pageant, but no one thought of infiltrating, Maddie. No one! Not those idiots in Marketing or P.R. You're clearly dedicated to the Cashmere family. You get Tamara Arm to sign as Cashmere's face, and you're getting promoted to senior copywriter with a very nice raise and an office. Hop to it!"
Hop? I barely managed to stand. If I threw up all over his Persian rug, maybe he'd answer my prayers and shoot me.
"Hey, Maddie, you know what's funny?" the Moil added with a chuckle. "For a second there, I thought you were entering the pageant for yourself, like a real contestant! Now get out there and write that killer application essay that's what'll carry you! Forget Mighty Mascara your new job is befriending Tamara Arm. If you don't make the finals of that pageant, Maddie, you just might find yourself demoted back to copy assistant. Hop to it!"
Saturday afternoon
Yorkville Neighborhood Association Center, 88th Street between First and
York Avenues
There were over 100 young women waiting in the Yorkville Neighborhood Association Center to hand in their entry forms for the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies. Beauties were aplenty, but so were normal-looking women like myself. On my left was a Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike, and on my right, a very zaftig woman wearing a tight red dress with a sequined Bigger Is Better, Baby! across her chest.
No one was looking at me with "what does she think she's doing here" judging eyes. So far, so okay. I rubbed my sweaty palms on the DKNY black tank dress Heidi lent me for good luck and took a seat on one of the metal folding chairs. Everyone was checking each other out. I peered around for the Wanna-Be. The Wanna-Be who didn't wanna-be, after all. The Didn't-Wanna-Be. I was giving myself a headache.
"Young ladies, welcome!" boomed a very attractive 40ish woman from the podium at the front of the large room. "I'm Vanessa Loomis, Miss Yorkville 1989 and coordinator of this year's pageant!" She paused for clapping. "All rightie!" she continued after a scattering of applause. "If you don't meet the following qualifications, I'm afraid you cannot submit an application packet and you'll have to leave now. One you must be between 21 and 29 years old." At least 20 women made muttering sounds, stood noisily, and left.
"Two you must have proof that you live or lived for a period of at least one year in Yorkville." At least 30 women piled out in a huff.
"Three you cannot be engaged or married." Ten more women slunk out, their diamond rings and wedding bands twinkling.
"Four you must be of a character befitting the title and crown of Miss Yorkville."
One woman got up, then said, "Just kidding!" and sat back down with a hearty chuckle.
Vanessa didn't look amused. "All rightie!" she chirped to the now sparsely filled room of about 25 women. "The Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies began in 1912."
I tuned out the history lesson and peered around for the Didn't-Wanna-Be. There she was, a few seats up on my left, looking more like Cameron Diaz than ever. Baby blue eyes. Baby blond hair wisping barely to her bare shoulders (tube top dress). She had a sweet expression, as though she was from a farm or something. She had huge breasts for a very thin, very tall woman, 10-foot long legs without a single vein, scratch, or mark, perfect, long white teeth, and skin so farm-fresh she appeared airbrushed. She didn't seem to have on much makeup either, maybe just a little mascara and shimmery lip gloss. I even knew what brand of lip gloss it was (not Cashmere) because a few weeks ago, I'd followed her all over the Upper East Side for a few hours, buying everything she bought, hoping to learn her secret at being her.
I'd been walking off my sorrow over Nick and comforting myself with a double scoop of mocha-chip ice cream when I'd spotted her gliding down Third Avenue. So I'd tailed her. I'd ended up with a pair of $240 black leather stiletto boots from Bebe, weird vegetables from a corner market, the very lip gloss she was wearing today, and a Snapple diet iced tea. She'd stopped to give a homeless man a dollar, so I did, too. Then she'd disappeared into the 77th Street subway entrance. I had not been willing to follow her onto a 200-degree platform to wait for the 6 train with a million cranky New Yorkers.
"Simmer down like young ladies, please," Vanessa singsonged into the microphone. She then went on and on with pageant history, then briefly discussed the competition, which would be held in a month: a 10-minute talent segment, a three-minute speech on why we should be crowned Miss Yorkville, and a three-minute speech on what Yorkville meant to us. Judges would be from three local businesses that were sponsoring the pageant. The winner would receive a crown worth 35 bucks in rhinestones, a 30-minute meeting with a modeling agency, $1,500 in cash, and her picture in a local weekly newspaper.
"All rightie, young ladies, it's time to hand in your application packets, which should contain your essays, photos, and proof of Yorkville residency. Line up, please. Once you hand in your packets, you may leave. If you don't hear from us by Monday evening, you have not been chosen as a finalist for the Miss Yorkville 2001 title. Bye now!"
I positioned myself in line behind the Didn't-Wanna-Be. Tamara was so tall she blocked my view of everyone in front of us. I was five-seven, and Tamara still towered over me by at least three inches in her annoyingly (flat) cute mules.
Didn't Wanna-Be suddenly turned around and smiled at me. "Isn't this exciting!" she gushed, those baby-blues twinkling. "I've always wanted to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant! My mom was Miss Yorkville 1975, and her mom was Miss Yorkville 1955, and her mom was Miss Yorkville 1935. They've been after me to enter, so here I am! This pageant means so much to me." The baby-blues misted.
Huh. "My mom was Miss Yorkville, too," I said. "Nineteen seventy-two."
Tamara beamed. "That makes us both legacies! Hey, after I hand in my packet, I'm going to the Starbucks on Second Avenue for a Chai Latte. Wanna come? I'd love to swap stories about our moms' reigns."
Actually, I was sort of hoping you'd be a major bitch and not give me the time of day, therefore making me unable to fulfill my two nightmarish mandates of a) talking up my ex-boyfriend so you'll take him back; and b) convincing you to sign a spokesmodel contract with Cashmere.
I'd rather earn $27,500 for the rest of my life than see her mug on every ad at work next spring. Why does she have to be nice? I wondered miserably. It was so unfair!
The ex-boyfriend coincidence would come up the minute she asked what I did for a living, and then she'd agree to sign on as the face of Cashmere Cosmetics, because "you work there and you're a legacy, Maddie!" I'd lose Nick to her for good and earn back my reject-of-a-daughter-status with my father and the step-monster. Somehow I doubted a promotion to senior copywriter would impress them.
"C'mon, Maddie. Let's go!" Didn't-Wanna-Be trilled, linking her arm through mine as though we were old friends. "We have so much to talk about!"
No, we have nothing to talk about. Nothing!
Both our cell phones rang at the same time. A reprieve.
"Hello," we said into our respective phones.
"Maddie! Irwin Cashmoil here!" Oh, God. What did the big boss want now? "Just checking to see that you're at the pageant meeting, making friends with our face-to-be. Wine and dine her for lunch, but keep it under 50 bucks. Talk up our spring line. I must have her as my spring face!" I ignored the Moil and trained my ear on Tamara's conversation. "Maddie, ya there?" the Moil was harping. "Maddie, are ya listening?"
I wasn't. I was listening to Tamara's conversation.
"Nick, I told you," she hiss-whispered into her phone. "It's over. Stop calling me!" Click.
I sighed. "Uh, yeah, I'm here, Irwin. Don't worry about a thing. I'll try my best."
The Moil coughed. "You mean you'll get the job done, Maddie. That's what a senior copywriter with an office, a big raise, and a credenza of her own would say. But maybe you like that little cubicle of yours."
Asshole. "Uh, Irwin, I'd better go. I see you-know-who getting ready to leave. Better go after her and make friends!" Click.
My cell phone rang again. "Irwin, don't worr"
But it wasn't Irwin. "Hey, it's me, Nick. Mads, you're not doing your job. You promised you'd talk me up. She won't speak to me. She keeps telling me not to call her and hanging up on me. You said you'd get her to take me back. Maddie, I'm desper"
"Uh, gotta go," I told him. "I see you-know-who about to leave. Better go after her and talk, talk, talk." Click.
Tamara was chatting with the woman in front of her about the history of the pageant. I took a deep breath. We made it to the front of the line and handed in our application packets.
Tamara squealed with excitement and grabbed my hand. "This is just too exciting! C'mon let's go celebrate with lattes and rehash everything!" What was that clichι about being led off your death?
Saturday night
My living room (where else?)
"What could you possibly have had to say to Tamara Arm for two hours this afternoon?" Heidi asked, half watching a tape of last week's Sex and the City. "I'm surprised she could string together enough sentences to have that long a conversation."
I'd been surprised, too. Turned out that it was very hard to hate Tamara's guts. She and I had gone to Starbucks and talked about why we wanted to enter the Miss Yorkville pageant, what we wrote our application essays about (our moms), and then we'd talked books, movies, hair-care products, and which Starbucks was the best for hanging out in for hours on one cup of coffee.
Cashmere Cosmetics and Nick Jones had never thank God come up. Tamara didn't seem curious about where I worked, what I did, how much money I made, who I knew, or which Hamptons I hung out in when I wasn't entering beauty pageants.
"So what are you gonna tell Nick and the Moil about why you didn't 'get the job done'?" Heidi asked while Samantha was having hot sex with a hot guy on Sex and the City.
Good question. Nick expected me to send Tamara flying back into his loving arms. Cashmoil expected me to send Tamara flying into photo shoots as the face of Cashmere Cosmetics. And I expected me to do, um, neither for as long as I could get away with it. I shrugged at Heidi and flopped back against the futon.
The phone rang and Heidi answered it, then disappeared with the cordless into her bedroom.
From where I sat, I could see my Box of Memories under my bed. I forced my lug of a self up and slid out the box and brought it back to the futon. Everything that meant anything to me was in the box. I pulled out my mom's Miss Yorkville '72 banner and her old entrance essay and finalist speech. I traced a finger over the photo of her beaming as she was crowned and handed a bouquet of red roses. "I'm trying, Mom," I whispered to the ceiling. "I entered, just like you always hoped."
Ladies and Gentleman...first runner up is...half a drumroll, please...Tamara Arm, who everyone expected to win! But in a stunning upset and following in her beloved mother's footsteps is...two drumrolls, please...our Miss Yorkville 2001, Miss Maddie Simon! Standing ovation! Thunderous applause! Bouquets of long-stemmed red roses...Nick on his feet, clapping wildly, wiping away a tear of pride, yelling, "That's my girlfriend!" My father, handing out cigars and declaring, "That's my baby!" The step-monster and Ariel outshined. Irwin Cashmoil announcing that I was the new face of Cashmere Cosmetics....
My heart squeezed in my chest. I wasn't going to make the finalists, let alone feel that crown on my thick head. I'd accomplished nothing except for not being disqualified. Winning was a pipe dream, like Nick's love. But it was hard not to fantasize. If I won the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies, Nick would take notice. Suddenly, I'd be bookish and beautiful, whereas the Didn't-Wanna-Be would only ever be beautiful. Nick would listen when I was talking about things that were important to me, like my job or my family. Instead of quickies to make sure he didn't miss Heidi Klum or Pamela Anderson on the Tonight Show, he'd make very slow, very passionate, very loving love to me.
Then again, the Miss Yorkville crown hadn't been enough to keep my dad from dumping my mom for another woman. Tears stung the backs of my eyes and I blinked them away hard. I shoved everything back in the box, slid it far under my bed, and flopped onto the futon, my heart blobbing in my chest. What was enough? What the hell did men want? What did you have to be?
Heidi returned to the living room with a bowl of fat-free mocha-chip frozen yogurt in one hand, and her cosmetics box in the other. She handed me the bowl and put the box next to me on the futon. Then she stuffed my long, thick hair into a scrunchie and studied my face before reaching for Cashmere's Creampuff Foundation.
Twenty minutes later, the greatest friend in the world had finished my trial makeover for my big dinner with the Simons and Nick. Plus, Heidi had pointed out, the future Miss Yorkville should have a glam new look for when she was crowned, right? Thank God for Heidi.
We finished watching Sex and the City and set the VCR to tape tomorrow night's new episode. After all, if Nick came to his senses and wanted me back, I'd have better things to do than watch television things that would put Carrie, Samantha, Miranda, and Charlotte to shame.
Very late Saturday night
My bed (alone, as usual)
Buzzz! Buzzz! Buzzz! Buzzzzzzzz!
Who the hell was buzzing the buzzer at I looked at my alarm clock two a.m.! Furious, I stomped out of bed and pressed the intercom. "What!" I snapped.
"Mads, it's me, Nick. I gotta talk to you!"
Had my dream come true? I pressed the buzzer to let him in, then ran to the bathroom to calm down my hair, brush my teeth and put on a little mascara. I threw off my Yankees T-shirt and white cotton undies and pulled on a black thong and my butt-skimming Victoria's Secret red satin robe, which I tied loosely enough to reveal a hint of cleavage. A spray of Chanel's Coco, and I was ready. Very ready.
I heard him clacking up the steps. I unlocked and waited.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I peered through the peephole. There he was, tortured expression and all. I opened the door and he lunged in and flung himself onto the futon.
"I gotta know, Mads," Nick said, running a hand through that silky brown hair and sitting up straight. "Did you talk to her about me today? What did you say? What did she say? Tell me every detail. Verbatim. Don't leave a thing out. Not a thing."
If he noticed my fuck-me outfit, he was doing a great job of hiding his sexual desire for me. Deep sigh. I tightened the robe and plopped down next to him. I might as well have been wearing a space suit, complete with helmet.
He stared at me intently with those Billy Crudup eyes, that Billy Crudup nose, that Billy Crudup mouth. Oh, what I'd done to that mouth during our mini relationship. Three months ago, in the very bed I'd moments ago been sleeping, Nick and I had made love for the first time. He wasn't exactly into foreplay, but I hadn't cared. He would strip off my clothes (without even noticing the new Victoria's Secret lacy bra and matching thong I always wore for our dates), practically rip off the bra and thong (he actually did tear my very expensive black lace bra), grab a condom from his wallet, jam it on with some force (which always made me nervous since he never stopped to squeeze the little tip), and then jam into me with the same said force. The feel of him on top of me and inside of me was all I needed, all I wanted, all I cared about. Minutes later, the grunting would begin, followed by, "I'll make it up to you, Mads. But I've gotta...I've gotta...I've gotta co!"
He'd then interrupt his monologue by going stock-still, let out one amazing grunt, look as though he'd just been shot with a machine gun, and then flop onto me with the above-mentioned force. He'd nuzzle my neck for five seconds, then roll over onto his back, make some appreciative noises, and close his eyes. I'd gaze at his closed eyelids, my heart thumping, and trace his cheek with my finger. Seven minutes later, he'd sit up, grab the remote, and turn on Seinfeld. He sort of always forgot to make it up to me.
What I wouldn't give right now for him to rip off my little satin robe and just put his hands on me.
"Mads, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do anything. All I can do is think about Tamara and wonder why she left me. Why? Why?" Nick shook his head and flung himself back on the futon, then lay down and covered his face with his hands.
"Nick," I said, in my soothing tone. "I " But I had no idea what to say. I inched closer and could smell the Ivory soap he always used. "Nick, I really think that "
But he was fast asleep. Or so I thought. He pulled me down on top of him and untied the robe.
Sunday morning
My futon with the New York Times
"You slept with him?" Heidi, with an expression of incredulous disgust, was staring into my bedroom at the horizontal hairy legs visible on my bed through my ajar bedroom door. Nick was fast asleep. "Maddie! I can't believe you! You slept with him!"
"I wish," I said, putting the Arts and Leisure section of the Times on the tiny coffee table and taking a sip of my coffee. "I didn't sleep with him. I slept next to him, but that's about it. He came over last night practically crying his eyes out over Tamara. He pawed me for three minutes, then told me that for a second he'd hallucinated that I was her. When he realized it was me, he actually tied my robe for me, then walked into my bedroom, took off his jeans and shoes, flopped on his stomach and went to sleep, clutching my teddy bear."
Heidi rolled her eyes. "And this is the guy you love."
I gnawed my lower lip. "You don't "
"No, Maddie, you don't understand."
Rrrrring!
We let the machine get it. "Madeline, dear, It's I-vy! Did you make the reservations yet? Tell that darling Nick of yours that your father has an article from the L.A. Times he thinks Nick would enjoy. It's Nick this and Nick that with your dad. Oh, you should have heard him talking about you at the party we went to last night, how his daughter snagged one of New York's most eligible bachelors just when he was starting to think you were a lesbian! Oh, dear, look at the time. Gotta run. Remember, Mesa Grill for five people at seven sharp on Friday. The three of us and you and the catch of the century! Bye now!"
There was no need to dignify anything the step-monster had just said with commentary. But it stung. Bad.
"I just need Nick to show up for the dinner on Friday, Heidi. Pretend he's my boyfriend. Pretend he's wild about me. Is that so wrong?"
Heidi pointed at me with her cream-cheese-and-lox-topped bagel. "What's so wrong is that you want much more than that, Maddie. You're in love with a total jerk. I hate to say it, but I'm your best friend, and I'm going to tell you the truth. The guy is self-absorbed and doesn't even care about you. He only cares about himself and a woman he can't have. Think about last night, Maddie. The guy is pathetic!"
I'd storm into my bedroom and slam the door, but I didn't want to wake up Nick.
Monday morning
My cubicle at work
My mouth dropped open and the phone fell from my hand and clattered onto my desk. "Hello, Miss Simon?" I heard a faint voice say from the receiver. "Miss Simon, are you there?"
I grabbed the phone. "Uh, yes. I'm here. Just a little shocked." My heart was booming in my chest.
"Congratulations again on making the finals for the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies. You must show up at the Yorkville Neighborhood Association this Wednesday evening at 7 p.m. for a meeting with the other finalists to discuss pageant procedure."
My mouth was still open. I'd done it. Me, the undistinguished, indistinguishable Maddie Simon. The girl who couldn't sing or dance or interest her own father in a conversation. I was a finalist for the pageant my mother had won! "Thanks! Thanks a lot!" I told the pageant coordinator's assistant. "I'll be there!" I hung up the phone and wanted to burst into song.
I grabbed the framed photo of my mother off my desk and hugged it, then held it up to my face. "I did it, Mom," I told her. "I did it!"
I was about to run down the hall to Heidi's cube and share, but my You've Got Mail! pinged with another "urgent" email. I'd had two "urgent" emails from Cashmoil, six from Nick, and one from Ivy (who wanted to change our dinner reservations on Friday from 7:00 to 7:30). I hit Open Messages. Another new message from the Moil, asking if I'd heard from the pageant officials, if I were that much closer to securing his spring face. Jerk.
I ignored Cashmoil's messages and flicked through Nick's. Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? Did you talk to her yet? That was following by another message listing what he considered to be his Woman-Enticing Resume. I was to remind Tamara of the following about Nick at my next opportunity:
1. I look as good in a T-shirt and Levi's as I do in
an Armani tux.
2. I've been told that my tongue is one of my best features, if you know
what I mean.
3. I earn just under six figures and enjoy lavishing that well-deserved
income on the special lady in my life.
4. Mothers and grandmothers adore me. And fathers and grandfathers are
impressed by me.
He was kidding, right? He didn't really consider himself caring or supportive or a good listener, did he? I'd grant him the list of four above, but that was it. Then again, maybe he was all of those other good things. Maybe he was a good listener and caring and supportive and loyal when it came to Tamara. Maybe that side of him simply hadn't come out with a woman he didn't love: me. But if he had been all those wonderful things with Tamara, why had she dumped him? Why? That question was the one thing Nick and I had in common.
I let out a deep breath and picked up the phone, figuring I'd give it one last shot. One last shot at impressing him. You're a sadist, Maddie. Or was that a masochist? I punched in Nick's work number.
"Jones," he said in his bored voice.
"Nick, it's me, Maddie. Guess what?"
"You talked to her? She's coming back to me? Oh, God, Mads, you don't know how happy you just made me. Thank you so much. I owe you big-time. At that dinner with your folks, I'm gonna make them think I'm nuts about you!"
Stab. Stab. Stab. "Uh, Nick, actually, I was just calling to tell you how excited I am because I made the finals for the pageant! Isn't that amaz"
"What a relief! I was a little worried about you making the cut, and I didn't know how you'd hang around Tam otherwise and move in her circles if "
Loyal, supportive, caring... My heart made its final plummet to my toes. "Uh, Nick, my other line's ringing." Click.
I was about to crawl down the hall to Heidi's cube for commiseration when I remembered that I was supposed to be celebrating my victory. Heidi would kill me if I was depressed that Nick didn't give a flying fig that I'd made the finals or congratulate me, for that matter instead of whoo-hooing up and down the halls of Cashmere with my big achievement.
Ping! You've Got Mail! I was about to take my hardcover dictionary and throw it at the computer when I noticed the email address: Tamara@modelcitizen.com.
I clicked open the message. I have to talk to you! It's urgent! Tam.
Wednesday evening
Miss Yorkville Pageant Headquarters, Yorkville Neighborhood Association
Center
What Tamara had so urgently wanted to tell me was that she'd been named a finalist. Big surprise. She told me she'd been sure I'd made it, too. When I'd told the Moil the good news, his mouth had dropped open in shock. "Wow, Maddie, I never really thought you'd pull it off, excellent essay writer or not. Good work! Now go get our face! Earn that credenza!"
Heidi and I had celebrated my big coup with a feast at my favorite Mexican restaurant. As for the Simons, I planned on telling them in person at dinner this weekend. I wondered if they'd even bother flying in for the pageant. They'd probably deem it too "small beans."
The seven finalists (all very different types, sizes, and races) were handed brochures detailing the competition, a list of rules and regulations, discounts at the businesses that were judging and sponsoring the pageant, and a schedule of two more meetings to rehearse the order of the finalists for the competition and what direction to walk on and off the stage.
"Let's go have dinner and celebrate!" Tamara suggested. "I can't wait to hear what your talent segment will be. I'm thinking of doing a six-minute watercolor painting. I was taking a watercolor class at the LearnItCenter, but I had to stop because my jerk of an ex-boyfriend kept hanging around outside the building waiting for "
"Let's go have that drink!" I interrupted, not ready to hear her talk about Nick. Not ready for why, after all. We grabbed our tote bags and headed for the door.
Screeeeeeeeaam! Tamara had let out one monster of a shriek. She was staring at the door, a murderous look on her face.
Nick Jones was standing in the doorway, posed like a porn star.
"That's it!" Tamara shouted. "I've had it. I'm going to kill him!"
Tamara lunged for him, claws extended.
Five minutes later
East End Avenue in the upper 80s
"He comes near me one more time, and I'm pressing charges. I've had it!" Tamara yelled. "That's right, you'd better run, you pathetic jellyfish!" she screamed at his retreating figure.
I peered up East End Avenue in time to see Nick stop at the far side of 84th Street and duck behind a tree. He poked his head out and watched us turn and walk away. I closed my eyes and counted to 10.
Nick the guy I dreamed about every night, the guy my parents were so impressed by was stalking his ex-girlfriend and hiding behind trees. Heidi's words from the other night came back to me: And you love this guy.
"I guess I should explain who that guy was," Tamara said as we resumed walking and turned onto 82nd Street.
I took a deep breath. "Uh, Tamara, actually, um, I know him. We used to date.""Then I guess I don't need to tell you what an asshole he is." She wrinkled up her face and shook her shoulders as if to shake his creepy-crawlies off her. "He's good-looking, but that is all he has going for him. Isn't he the most self-absorbed, egotistical jerk you've ever known? I can't believe I lasted three weeks with him. I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt, sure he was just trying to impress me, that he'd calm down, that I'd get to know the guy inside, but there is no guy inside. He's just an empty shell. But I don't need to tell you that."
I bit my lower lip. Did I know that? Okay, he was a little self-absorbed. Okay, a lot self-absorbed. But he was so...good-looking. So charming. So...impressive. For a guy like Nick Jones to want me, to think I was pretty, to think I was sexy... That had been enough for me. It had been more than enough. When he'd been my boyfriend, people noticed me. My family noticed me. I noticed me. Didn't that count for anything? Tamara just didn't understand. A woman who looked like her could have any guy she wanted.
"Ugh, enough about him," Tamara said, a disgusted look on her face. "Here we are! The Arm's Inn!"
We were standing in front of an Irish pub. This is where the woman who could win the Miss New York pageant wanted to have dinner? Then I connected the name of the pub to her last name. Did Tamara own the place? I followed her inside the cozy little crowded restaurant.
"Hi, Mama!" Tamara said to the bartender. (Her mother was a bartender? Not a Lady Who Lunched on Madison Avenue?) The very pretty early-50s blonde rushed out from behind the bar and enfolded Tamara in a bear hug.
"This is my friend Maddie," Tamara told her mother. "She's a finalist in the Miss Yorkville pageant, too. And a legacy her mom was a Miss Yorkville, just like you."
Mrs. Arm congratulated me and asked who my mother was. I told her, and her mouth dropped open. "I was friendly with your mother! Hannah Simon taught me how to walk the Miss Yorkville 'way.' I was so sad when I heard she passed. She'd be so proud of you!"
Tears stung the backs of my eyes. All I could do was smile weakly and nod.
Mrs. Arm disappeared into the kitchen to "fix you beauty queens two house specials," and Tamara and I sat down in a booth. She told me that her parents (her mom was long widowed) had owned the pub for almost 30 years, and that she'd grown up in the two-bedroom apartment above. I was surprised. I'd figured she'd come from Park or Fifth Avenue and attended private schools. But she'd grown up right here in Yorkville and had gone to public school, just like me.
"So where'd you meet that jerk, anyway, Maddie?" Tamara asked me. "I met him at a model 'go-see' at Cashmere Cosmetics. You couldn't pay me to even buy a lipstick from that company again!"
There went the Moil's spring face and my credenza. "Uh, small world, Tamara, because I work for Cashmere. I'm in the advertising and promotion department. That's where I met Nick."
"Wow it is a small world. So how long did it take you to dump Nick on his head?" she asked as her mother slid two steaming plates of corned beef and cabbage on our table. "You seem so smart, I'll bet you dumped him after a week. Sometimes it takes me so long to figure out when someone's got nothing inside. That's why I like to take my time making decisions." "Well, um, he sort of broke up with me. For you," I added in such a low, cracked voice I wondered if she heard me.
Tamara peered at me. "I'm sorry, Maddie." She covered my hand with hers. "He is a superficial jerk, though. You do know that, right? If he broke up with you, it was because you were too good for him and it freaked him out. Trust me. He probably couldn't handle it, so he wanted bimbo eye-candy and went after me."
I stared at her. "You're hardly a bimbo, Tamara."
Tamara sliced her corned beef. "I know that. But he didn't and still doesn't. The more I tried to be myself with him, the more he resisted knowing me. He wasn't interested in me, Maddie."
What the hell was she talking about?
She shook her head and put down her fork. "I'd try to talk to Nick about my dreams of going back to college, but he'd cut me off and say, 'Who needs college when you could earn millions with your face and body?' I'd explain that I wanted to become a veterinarian one day, and he'd laugh and tell me I could buy a zoo with the money I'd earn as a model. He would stare at me, tell me how beautiful I was, and not listen to a single word I said. That's not what I want in a guy. And I doubt someone as pretty, smart, and together as you would want a guy like that, either. You deserve a great boyfriend, Maddie. Someone who really cares about you. Nick doesn't care about anyone. He only cares about himself and image."
I stared at the cabbage, tears prickling the backs of my eyes. I'd been so wrong about Tamara. She wasn't only beautiful. She was a lot smarter than I was. Nick Jones was very guilty as charged. And I was guilty of the same thing. I'd been nutso over him because he was gorgeous and impressive; there was nothing else to like about him. I'd fallen in love because he made me feel validated as a person, as a woman.
That was pathetic. I'd made the finals of the Miss Yorkville Pageant for Young Ladies because of me. Me the person, me the woman. Weird. It was almost as though I'd validated myself.
I had validated myself!
My cell phone rang. Tamara excused herself to use the ladies' room. "Hello?" I managed to croak, hoping it wasn't Nick or the Moil calling to pressure me. All I wanted was to crawl off somewhere to think.
"Mads, it's me, Nick. I saw you two turn up 84th, but then I lost track of you. Are you with her now? Are you telling her the stuff from my woman-enticing resume?"
I turned toward the wall. "Nick, I wouldn't blame Tamara if she pressed stalking charges against you and got a restraining order. She doesn't want you in her life. You've got to let her go and move on with your own life."
Silence. Then he said, "Oh, are you done with your little speech? Good. Because jealousy really doesn't become you, Mads. You stick to our bargain or you'll be having dinner with your family tomorrow night all by your lonely, dumped self." Click.
Wednesday night/Thursday
morning, 4 a.m.
My bed
Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.
Thursday, 12:30 p.m.
My cubicle, lunchtime
"Mads, I'm really, really sorry about the way I talked to you last night on the phone," Nick said, turning on a sheepish expression, which I was just beginning to realize he could affect on cue.
He hadn't called to apologize or to ask if he could drop by at lunch to apologize. He'd just barged in, his usual MO, with take-out lunch for one.
"Nick, I've done a lot of think"
"I know it must be really hard for you, Mads," he interrupted. He took a bite of his grilled chicken on focaccia bread, chewed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, popped a French fry into his mouth, then took a long gulp of his lemon-lime Gatorade. "I mean, I know you got hurt when I ended things between us. But when I laid eyes on Tam last month, I just flipped. I had to have her. You understood, right? And when she dumped me, man, you want to talk about pain? You don't know anything about it, sister. I'm just beside myself over her. So she wasn't really mad about me dropping by pageant headquarters last night, was she? I just wanted to congratulate her in person for making the finals, and she went and pulled a Buffy on me! So did she stay mad, or did reminding her of my good traits and my woman-enticing resume work its Nick Jones magic? And did"
I stared at his moving mouth, at his Billy Crudup face, his long, lanky, muscular body, his Prada clothes, his Soho haircut, and all I saw was a 32-year-old child. I'd loved this person for absolutely no reason at all. I wasn't about to wonder what I'd seen in him. I knew. And I was ashamed of it. Nick Jones was nothing more than everything Heidi and Tamara had said he was: a shell with nothing inside. Nothing. Except for a lot of gook and some serious issues.
No need for a deep breath. "Nick, I'm going to tell you how to get Tamara back.
" He brightened, put down the chicken sandwich and sat straight up. Those deep brown eyes looked into mine intently, waiting for my words of wisdom.
"Nick, do you remember when you asked me to list your top five biggest problems as a guy and a boyfriend?"
He nodded.
"Remember how I couldn't think of even one?"
He nodded and slurped his Gatorade.
"Well, Nick, I've come up with thousands."
His face fell. Then he smiled and gave me a playful sock on the shoulder. "You jokester! C'mon, tell me what you said, then what she said. Do you think there's a chance she'll take me back?" He took another slug of his Gatorade.I grabbed the bottle out of his hand and threw it in the little trash pail under my desk. "This is no joke. There's nothing funny about it. I. Am. Not. Joking. Not for a second."
Nick eyed me. I could see him taking in my serious expression. "Okay, so tell me. I can take it. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, right? I mean, that's what this is all about, working on myself so that I can be a better boyfriend to Tam when she takes me back."
I smiled my evil smile. And for the next 25 minutes, I listed everything that was wrong with him. Everything. I started with his narcissism and ended with his criminal habit of stalking. I threw in a litany of his crappy treatment of me. I spared nothing. On and on and on, I spoke.
He opened his mouth to protest a few times, but clamped it shut each time when I backed up everything I said with cold, hard evidence. He slid lower and lower in my guest chair until he was almost horizontal.
"One more thing, Nick," I said. "When you've thought long and hard about how you've behaved, how you treat people, what you're made of, I think you should email me an apology for Tamara, which I'll forward to her. I suggest you apologize for your despicable behavior these past weeks, and I want you to state that you now understand that no means no. You will add that you will never call her or try to see her again. And then, after you hit Send, I want you to find a good therapist."
Nick sulked for a good five minutes, picking at threads in his Prada pants. Finally, he said, "But "
"No, Nick. There are no buts."
"Bu"
I shook my head slowly and his lips pressed shut. He stared at me for a good, long moment, then searched for answers in his tube of French fries. Finally, he nodded gloomily.
I nodded back. "Look, I've got a ton of work to do on the Mighty Mascara packaging, so...I'll see you around, okay, Nicks?"
He raised an eyebrow and stood up, still sulking. "But what about tomorrow night? Aren't I having dinner with you and the Simons, pretending we're hot and heavy? I've been craving the Mesa Grill's mahimahi for weeks."
I looked at Nick and forgave him for being such an asshole. Then I forgave myself for not having realized he was one until now. The forgiveness lifted a 10-pound dumbbell off my chest, off my heart, off my head. I felt happier in that moment than I had in a very long time.
"Actually, you're off the hook, Nick. I no longer need a pretend boyfriend. I'm fine on my own." I'm fine on my own. For the first time in my life, I owned those words. "But thanks for still being willing."
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well, tell your dad and stepmother and the kid I said hi. They'll be disappointed I'm not there. They really like me."
"You are absolutely right," I responded gleefully. "They adore you."
He managed a weak smile, then sulked away down the hall.
I intercommed Heidi and made plans to celebrate the lesson learned after work with enchiladas and margaritas, then called Tamara and made plans for lunch at the Arm's Inn on Saturday. And then, as though I were the Moil, I swiveled around in my desk chair with a delighted clap of my hands.
Two weeks later
Tamara: To pay for college (pre-med at NYU), she signed a six-figure contract with Cashmere as the new spring face because "that's where Maddie works." Tamara and I meet for drinks/dinner at least once a week. (By the way, Sunglasses turned out to be her agent.)
The Moil: Promoted me to senior copywriter with an office, a credenza, and a big, fat raise.
Heidi: Enjoying her own promotion to senior copywriter with all the trimmings since I insisted she was my creative and intellectual partner on all Cashmere initiatives past, present, and future. The Moil bought it. Then again, it was true.
The Simons: Booked a first-class flight to New York for the Miss Yorkville pageant. (It was a start. We'll see.)
Rob Carvel (if you were curious): Called to say he'd read in some weekly rag that I'd made the finals of the pageant and would I like to have dinner soon? (No, I would not.)
Nick: On a six-week-long yoga retreat in southern Arizona, no cell phones allowed. (Emailed me the apology, which I then promptly deleted.)
Me: Fine on my own.
The End