Читать книгу On The Verge - Ariella Papa - Страница 10

To be fair to my parents, I spend all of Friday cleaning the house in anticipation of Roseanne’s arrival. Tabitha was really annoyed that I didn’t go to this chi-chi West Village gallery opening with her. She also didn’t appreciate it when I said I’d offer her a twenty for every straight guy she encountered. She got off the phone all huffy.

Rosie got to my place around eleven on Saturday morning with her rented Ryder truck. Sometimes I forget how blond she is. She looks like a cross between Reese Witherspoon and a country and western singer. She had a little too much lipstick on for the hour, but I wasn’t going to be catty. She noticed my hair right away. I was pleased.

“Eve, you cut your hair. You look so…”

“Urban?”

“Well, I guess.” I could barely hide my delight. My dad and I helped Roseanne move her stuff in. Four hours later, my mom insisted we come in for risotto. She was trying to outdo herself for Roseanne.

I think I’ve forgotten to mention what an amazing cook Roseanne is. I guess this tidbit is not as sensational as the blow job in the bathroom. When we were in college she would make elaborate meals in our toaster oven. When we moved out of the dorms, she would organize dinners and throw themed cocktail parties. She used to craft little place cards for everyone and make pastries. We’d tease her about having her own brand of linens to sell to a major department store. My mom loves to pump her for little cooking tips.

“You know, Roseanne, my risotto never comes out the way it tastes in the restaurants.”

“Well, Mrs. Vitali, I think it’s delicious. It’s all in the stirring. You have to stir constantly.”

“I know, I did, but it still tastes blah.” Aggh, my ever descriptive mother.

“Well,” says Rosie, obviously scanning the recipe file of her mind. “For a cheese risotto like this one, you might want to throw in a few golden raisins just for a little sweetness.” Who would think of that? Golden raisins? Only Roseanne.

“Would that be good? I mean I’m sure you know best.” My mother is practically drooling over the happy homemaker Rosie has the potential to be.

“Just a few would do the trick. Remember risotto really is just sexy Rice-a-Roni, so play with it.” My father clears his throat. The last time “sex” was spoken at the dinner table was when Monica was getting her master’s in Social Thought and dating that guy who said he was an anarchist. It wasn’t pretty. My father excuses himself and makes his way to the garage to look at the lawn mower.

“Thanks, for all your help today, Mr. Vitali,” Rosie says sweet as pie. My dad nods and heads out to the garage.

I had made plans to go into the city and hit a downtown bar with Tab, you know give Rosie a little taste of the city, but by the time Rosie and I get finished organizing my (now, our) room, we are ready to collapse. Tabitha is not happy.

“Again?”

“Tabitha, we’re tired.”

“Isn’t she a marathon runner or something?” God! I’ve really said too much.

“Not exactly. I’m really tired. Call Adrian.”

“I can’t deal with another night of the unbridled lust of a bunch of gay men.”

“Luis?”

“That’s an in-person story. I don’t see how you can stand to spend an entire weekend out there in dump land.”

“Okay, we’ll meet you for brunch tomorrow. Okay?”

“I wouldn’t want to pull you away from the hairspray.”

“Tabitha!”

“Fine, fine. Let’s go to the place on Spring with the nice mimosas. Around one. Will that be enough beauty sleep for you?”

“I’m going now.” When I get off the phone, Rosie is painting her nails red. This is definitely going to be culture shock.

What an understatement. The next day, we arrive at the place and order mimosas. Tabitha is late as usual. Rosie is taking it all in.

“Wow, it’s amazing.”

“Yes, they do a lot of photo shoots here. It’s a real beautiful people crowd.” Everyone is kind of giving Roseanne a dirty look because she is not wearing black.

“Is your friend Tabitha like that?”

“Yeah, she’s very glam.” Rosie nods, mulling this over.

“She sounds a little snobby to me.” I will never learn to keep my mouth shut.

“No, she’s great. She’s not like anyone we went to school with.”

“Can we go to FAO Schwartz?” I pretend I don’t hear her.

Forty-five minutes pass and Tabitha still hasn’t arrived. She isn’t trying very hard to make a good impression on someone she’s hopefully going to be spending a lot of time with. Rosie checks her watch, but we keep ordering more mimosas. “Doesn’t this girl know about the half hour rule?”

“I know, Ro, but it takes a while to get down from the Upper East Side.”

“She might have accounted for it when she left the house.” Not a good sign. But, before I can defend Tabitha’s honor, Herself shows up. She’s a vision in brown this morning—and where did she get that leather jacket?

“Sorry, I’m late.” This to me and an extended hand to Rosie. “Tabitha.” They shake hands and eye each other. Does it really have to be this strenuous? Can’t we all just get along?

“Was it a rough night?”

“You could say that.” She hasn’t yet removed her sunglasses. “I went out with Ahmed.”

“What about Luis?” She looks from me to Rosie and back to me.

“I just can’t date people in the service industry. You should have seen the restaurant he suggested we go to.”

“I’m sure it was hideous.” This isn’t doing much for her image. The waiter comes over, but Tabitha, still undecided, waves him off as she “needs a minute.” I try not to see Rosie roll her eyes. I sigh.

“C’mon, Tabitha, I’m starved.” I am really trying to keep it together.

“You could have ordered.”

I grip my mimosa glass. “We didn’t. We waited.”

“Fine,” says Tabitha. She closes her menu and takes out a cigarette. Rosie absently waves some smoke away. The waiter takes our order. Tabitha smirks when Rosie orders an egg white omelet with grilled vegetables.

“The omelets are great,” I say, making an attempt.

“Of course you never get egg whites. Wanna cigarette?” Rosie excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

“Is she going to puke?” I hope I didn’t tell Tabitha about Roseanne’s former eating disorder.

“Tabitha, what’s your problem?”

“What problem?” I shake my head. The waiter pours us more mimosas. These drinks are never stiff enough, but usually I’m still slightly toasted from the night before. I snag one of her cigarettes and smoke fiendishly.

“And that outfit,” she rolls her eyes, “high fashion.”

“Tabitha. Maturity. Come on.”

“Fine, I’ll play with your little friend.” When Rosie returns, Tabitha stubs out her cigarette and removes her glasses. If you were a student of Tabitha body language like I am, you would think this was a good sign. We’ll see.

“So, what field are you interested in?”

“Finance. I was a finance major and I worked for a small consulting firm in Hartford.”

“Do you have any leads?” Our food arrives and the waiter mistakenly puts Roseanne’s food in front of Tabitha. “No, this is not for me.”

“Well, I’ve written some letters and I have two interviews set up for this week. I’m also in contact with an agency.”

“Those agencies are such a pain.” Tabitha shoves a huge forkful of eggs Benedict in her mouth. I think she is flaunting her appetite, if you can believe it. “It’s pretty admirable of you to just hop on down without a job or any hope of one.” (Is this a compliment?)

“I figured it was the only way to get motivated.” Tabitha asks the waiter for more bread.

“You know.” She pauses to get our attention before she speaks again. “I do have a friend at Deutsche Bank. Remember Johann?” I nod, remembering the awful fashion sense.

“Is he still talking to you?”

“I stopped talking to him. Danke.” Rosie smiles at that. “Anyway, see how your other interviews go and if nothing comes, give me a call and I’ll call Herr Johann. If you want.” Is she being helpful?

“Thanks.” Rosie is genuinely grateful, but of course this happy moment of togetherness can’t last. “I can’t wait till we find a place and then we can join a gym.”

“What fun,” Tabitha outdoes herself on the sarcasm and excuses herself to powder her nose. I stare down at my Belgian waffles.

“Is she always this…way?” Rosie asks.

“I know, I know, I know. She just takes some getting used to. She doesn’t mean to be abrasive. Really.”

Tabitha returns at the same time the bill arrives. Rosie reaches for it but Tabitha grabs her hand.

“Hey, I got it.” We protest, but it’s really hard to change Tabitha’s mind, also, she who pays has the power. I am starting to breathe a sigh of relief that this all seems to be going smoothly and we are just about to embark on Phase 2: shopping. Then Roseanne sees one of the actors from some series on the WB. It isn’t pretty; she starts to hyperventilate. At first we aren’t sure what’s going on. Rosie extends her hand as this quasicelebrity walks by. She turns red and starts saying over and over “star, star, star, star.” We quickly lead her out of the restaurant to calm her down. Tabitha smokes and shakes her head. I think it’s going to be a long, tough period of adjustment.

Rosie and I don’t get back until 7:30 just in time to catch the end of 60 Minutes with the ’rents. Luckily my mom has saved us her leftovers of Thai Chicken Satay. Rosie refrains from making any suggestions, perhaps she feels it’s hopeless. And again another Sunday night in a life full of Sunday nights.

The woman I presume is Lacey Matthews shows up at work as I’m on the phone with Roseanne reading her a list of apartment possibilities. She’s been searching for apartments and jobs nonstop. No luck, but it’s still too early to worry. Besides we’ve been having fun. Lacey has to be in her thirties, but she’s got the young chic going. If there was a juniors department of the designers she likes, she’d shop there, but instead she’s wearing Betsey Johnson. She has this huge bag and it’s moving. I get a flash of Zeke, but that’s dirty.

“Call me back, Ro, after you see the two-bedroom on Columbus.” I hang up and smile at Lacey and eye the bag. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Lacey Matthews.” It doesn’t take much more for me to decide that I don’t like her. Just the way she pauses after she says her name, to let it sink in, annoys me. I’m usually a lot friendlier but I forgo the “greats” because I know I’m being sized up. One of those funny woman things.

“You have an appointment with Herb, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She smiles, she definitely has had dental work.

“What’s in the bag?” The lost maternal instinct comes out. Lacey, who moments ago was all hard-core New York, gets one of those stupid high-pitched voices reserved for babies and kittens.

“Oooh, its just Maxie. Maxie! Maxie?” I peer into the bag. A puppy all right, not exactly my type. This one acts too much like a cat. Lacey continues with her excited voice. “He’s so little, too young to leave at home with his siblings.”

“Your kids?” I ask, already knowing the answer will make her look down at her belly. All those crunches and the trainer? No, abs as flat as a board. She is reassured. I am just a naive little assistant who doesn’t understand what kids would do to all her ab work.

“No kids, not yet.” Yes, of course, she is still hoping to meet the right breeder. That hope will kill her. You need hips for the mothering thing. She has body sculpted hers off. Besides, New York is not exactly a place for the unattached. Luckily, I’ve got age on my side. Nope, poor Lacey is lucky if she gets one of her homosexual friends to donate some sperm. But, I digress.

Herb has a nasty habit of wandering off and not telling me where he is going. Since I am supposed to keep his schedule I wind up looking like a big ass when people ask me where he is. Tabitha has a homing device on the Big C, but I have no idea where Herb is until he comes back—usually all sweaty and smelly, having just taken an eight-mile jaunt around the city “to get my blood flowing.” Apparently deodorant inhibits his creativity somehow.

I kind of wish he was returning from a bike ride right now, because I think I would enjoy watching Lacey pretend Herb’s creative man scent didn’t bother her. Instead, Lacey is sitting in his office listening to his stupid sitar music while I track him down.

Herb is two floors down talking with Jarvis Mitchell, one of the big guys. Jarvis handles all the sporty type magazines Uncle Pres owns. He gives me this weird look when he sees me as if he is surprised that he would have someone like me who has to keep track of him.

“Sorry to interrupt.” I always say that when I interrupt him and I wait for him to accept it like most people would, but he never does. “Lacey Matthews is in your office.”

“Lacey?” It is obviously too much for Herb to keep all of his expanding creativity in his head along with the name of the person he asked me to call.

“Mike Greaney’s friend,” Jarvis Mitchell reminds him. So that’s how Lacey gets to write for us. Mike Greaney is another big guy.

“Oh, right,” says our fearless leader. “I guess I better go be an interrogator.” Now, I stand awkwardly as Jarvis and Herb say their goodbyes. I’m not sure if it would be rude to leave, so I wait. I say goodbye to Jarvis as Herb is walking out, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Herb and I walk up the stairs (he wouldn’t dream of taking the elevator).

“So I left Lacey in your office with—” I imitate Lacey’s long pause “—Max.” I’m setting this up to wow him with a witty comment about dogs now that I know Lacey isn’t a friend of his.

“Oh,” says Herb so that I know he isn’t paying attention to me at all. When we get to his office Lacey is all smiles and I leave them to their introductions and their cooing over Max. Whatever.

When I get back to my desk, there are three messages waiting for me. The first: “What’s up, it’s me.” (Tabitha) “Guess who is going to be reviewed in the Times this weekend? If you guessed your lost love elizabeth, you are right. Aggh, what could have been, had you only had one more drink.”

I delete that one, sending it to the message graveyard, never to be heard from again. The second: “Eve, hey, it’s Zeke. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. I was out of the city but I’m back now. Wanted to take you out for some tapas.” (Yes, he says it with the correct Spanish accent just like a newscaster.) “Give me a call.”

I forward it to Tabitha’s voice mail. Finally: “Eve, where are you? I am so sick of sitting in Bryant Park between interviews and telephone calls. I talked to a Realtor about that place in the alphabet section.” (City, she means, this is a girl who loves Rent.) “It sounds really good. She gave me the name of a bar to meet at, it’s called Bar on A and it’s on Avenue A. Ooh, I guess that’s easy. Can you try to meet us there at 6:30?” My other line beeps. It’s Tabitha.

“Want to meet me and Adrian for dinner in Chelsea tonight?”

“I can’t, I have to meet Rosie to see an apartment in Alphabet City.”

“Oh, how Bohemian.” Tabitha knows Ro likes Rent. It’s come out in the past two weeks that among other things Roseanne thinks the soundtrack to Rent is really “real.” I would have liked to keep that quiet for a while; Tabitha still hasn’t gotten over the celebrity sighting.

“What time are you going to be there?”

“Probably not till eight.”

“We’ll try to meet you there.”

“Don’t forget to give her Valium in case Regis Philbin walks down the street.”

“Let me ask you this, Tabitha, what happens to Adrian if he leaves Chelsea? Is there some kind of electromagnetic field that electrocutes him?”

“Meow! Remember that Mexican place on Eighth.”

“How could I forget the twenty-dollar margaritas?”

“You are going to be no fun until this whole apartment thing is settled, aren’t you?”

“Yes, and I appreciate you being so supportive.”

“Mother of God. So will I see you later or what?”

“If you can behave yourself.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Great,” I say and hang up.

I meet Roseanne at the bar. She looks a little red. It must be all the sun she’s getting pounding the pavement. She’s been here since 4:15. It’s quarter of seven.

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Okay. That’s reassuring.

“How was the interview?”

“I’m not going to get it.”

“How do you know?”

“No chemistry.”

“Where is the Realtor?”

“She is talking to someone at the table over there. We were waiting for you. The bartender bought me a drink.” I order a gin and tonic. Rosie gets me back to my bad college habits.

“Do you want to meet Tabitha and Adrian for dinner after this? Mexican.”

“I guess.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I’m concerned about money. I have a feeling it’s going to take me a while to find a job. Also, I haven’t seen an apartment for under $1600. That doesn’t even include all the stuff we’ll have to get or the darned Realtor’s fee.”

“Well, I know you’ve had a lot of time to think about this, but honestly, you’ve only been looking for two weeks. That’s eleven business days. No one could get a job that quick.”

The Realtor interrupts us, a woman named Kate who has a really husky voice. She can’t stop raving about the area—she lives here, it’s changing, it’s safe enough to raise her daughter. She talks so much in the short walk over that I feel dizzy when we get into the apartment. Maybe it’s the walk up four stories. The moment we get into the apartment, Roseanne leans against the wall in the kitchen and refuses to look at anything else. I think she may be a little drunk.

“Why is the shower in the kitchen?” Roseanne asks.

As I walk around the apartment (which is really just three tiny rooms) I hear Kate explaining the charm of washing your naked body in the kitchen. There is only one closet and the door opens into the disgusting, showerless bathroom. Kate assures me that the bathroom will be cleaned and they will actually put in a sink before we move in. I could barely fit my double bed in here. The wood floors are nice though, maybe I could sleep on them.

“So what do you think?” Kate asks. Roseanne is peculiarly quiet. I ask again how much it costs.

“Only $1300.” I add in the $1000 broker’s fee, and we owe Kate $2300. I look at Roseanne, wishing we had my parents’ telepathic gift. Her face is unreadable. I know there is no way I want to move into this apartment, but does Rosie? I wait for her to speak, but she doesn’t.

“It’s a great apartment,” I lie, “but, we need to think about it.”

“Do you want to leave a deposit? We are also going to have to do a credit check and make sure we have a guarantor because you are so young.”

“I think we should talk about it first and maybe give you a call tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Kate seems a little disapproving. “I just want to advise you that apartments like this don’t last long in New York.”

I thank Kate and Roseanne manages a smile and we are back on the streets. I don’t say a word for a while, giving Ro the chance to mull it over. We cut through Tompkins Square Park and ignore the drug pushers.

Roseanne says nothing, but looks like she is in pain. I try to make casual conversation. “So, um, what did you think of the palace?”

“I would sooner cut off my right arm than take a shower in the kitchen.” Well, that settles that. The idea of being alone in my house with Roseanne repulses me, so I offer to buy her dinner.

We meet Adrian and Tabitha at the Mexican place on Eighth Avenue. It overlooks the street at all the beautiful boys walking by. The worst thing about Chelsea is that feeling of being in the best bakery in the world and having your mouth wired shut. There are no men as attractively unattainable as the ones in Chelsea. They dress well, have cuddly dogs, and probably awesome jobs and money in the bank, but you don’t stand a chance unless you have a penis.

Adrian lives in Chelsea. He’s one of those mouth-watering boys, but I know him so I’ve gotten used to it. He also works for Prescott, and has a job he actually enjoys. He works for Little Nell, the kids magazine based on a Saturday cartoon character with that annoying theme song. I guess it embarrasses him a little, but he’s a graphic artist, which is cool no matter how you look at it. He and Tabitha go way back to the days when they temped for MTV.

As soon as we order, I take Tabitha into the bathroom and give her the lowdown; Roseanne’s going nuts from all these dead-end interviews and ridiculous apartments. I am having trouble being positive. Tabitha seems focused on applying her MAC lipstick.

“Are you listening to me Tabitha? She’s getting really upset. I purposely walked by the Life Café, you know, the place in Rent, and she said nothing.”

“You mean she didn’t hyperventilate again.”

“Oh, Tab!” I say, just to be a bitch, but she doesn’t take my bait. She is too busy studying her eyes. She did them up from a picture in a book by this great makeup artist that she loves.

“What do you think, too much kohl?”

“Well, not if you are going for that Cleopatra look in blue.”

“I wish he would let me know where he gets his liquid eye-liner.”

“Who?”

“Kevin.” The makeup artist, of course. “It’s sweet though, you know he isn’t selling out to anyone, he’s tight-lipped about who he gets his cosmetics from. No exclusive contract, not yet anyway. How admirable.” Whatever.

Back at the table Adrian and Roseanne are laughing loudly. There is an empty margarita glass next to Roseanne. I told you she could suck it down. Anyway, I have to hand it to Adrian, he’s definitely taking some of the edge off. Thank God.

“I mean, I wasn’t raised to live in a place like that,” Roseanne says. She quiets down when I sit. “Imagine showering in the kitchen.”

“Imagine,” Tabitha says. I think she’s pissy because Adrian and Rosie are getting along. Adrian is a god to Tabitha. Rosie ignores Tabitha and we actually have a great dinner. Of course Rosie and I get drunk and when the bill comes I’m not psyched about paying for Rosie’s portion and it hurts me to turn her down when she offers to pay, but I keep my word.

While Rosie is in the bathroom, Adrian suggests we go to this gay dance club. “Adrian, the last thing I’m going to do is go to another meat market with you. If I want to see that kind of hormonal display I’ll go to the Upper East Side and get lucky with a frat boy.”

“Listen to Miss Thing,” says Adrian, laughing. He looks at Tabitha. “And you?”

“Well, I’m certainly not ready to go home to the ’burbs.” She smirks at us.

“Meow,” Adrian and I purr together.

“Your friend Rosie is nice, we should try to hook her up with a job.” What a sweetheart Adrian is. Let that be a lesson to Herself. Tabitha rolls her eyes.

“What’s next?” asks Rosie, back at the table. I know she’s tanked.

“Next is a whirlwind of an evening on the bus. I can’t be hungover again. You can sleep late.”

“You could always stay over, Rosie,” Adrian offers, and I feel Tabitha kick me under the table. She would absolutely die.

“Well, thanks, Adrian,” says Rosie softly, “but I don’t want Eve to go back by herself.”

“Of course you don’t,” adds Tabitha definitively. She could just give me a car voucher, but I’ve got no legitimate cause to ask for one.

We take a cab to Port Authority and catch the bus home. I plan on sleeping the whole way home. Rosie wants to talk about Chelsea.

“I think we should live there, Eve. All those guys, I mean, I know they aren’t your type, but they all seem so built and cute—and did you notice all the dogs? That’s the kind of guy for me.” She must be kidding, but she isn’t. It only gets worse.

“And Adrian, what’s his story? He’s so cute and nice. He’s a designer for Prescott Nelson, well, of course you know that, but how cool is that? Why didn’t you ever tell me about him? Did you like him? I kind of wanted to hang out, but I didn’t know. Are he and Tabitha together?”

The worst part is, she’s serious. I mean, Adrian isn’t flaming and he doesn’t really fit what people would stereotype as gay, but isn’t it obvious? Does one need to be singing the show tunes to be clear about their sexuality?

The trip turns into a harsh education for Rosie. I thought it might upset her more, but she actually takes it well. She laughs with me for the first time since she started looking for a job.

Need I remind you again that it’s only been eleven business days?

Tuesday morning is our staff meeting. I am mildly hungover. The staff acts like these meetings are the greatest things since the Times Square Shuttle. How much fun can you make articles about cycling? You get a real feel for what exercise geeks these writers are—they sometimes read questions that are sent in to the “Dear Biker” column and laugh about the ignorance of readers. Today is a special treat, we are watching a promotional video for some biking company that wants us to cover their newest brand.

Everyone is on the edge of their seats, mesmerized by the amazing angles the cameraman got on the bikes. Everyone except Lorraine and me. Since Herb has seen all the footage, he manages to be even more smug than usual, like he created the bikes or something.

I do a lot of eye rolling at Lorraine and she shakes her head. She leads the business aspect of the meeting; who is supposed to be doing what assignment, what kind of budgets the writers have and gives us feedback from different departments, lines of business as they are called. Herb does a lot of interrupting during Lorraine’s part. It amazes me that he does it with such ease. He makes the stupidest jokes and people will laugh. How does someone get the confidence to do that? Is it just by being the boss? If I ever tried that I think everyone would look at me as if I had eight heads and maybe I would get a good human resources “talking to.”

The meeting concludes with people reading select excerpts of their articles. There is a separate meeting called the Feed Meet, to get feedback before the articles are published, but this is reading the articles after they are already in the magazine. If we really cared we could just grab a copy of this month’s issue, but Herb insists that certain writers should read their articles during our staff meeting. There is no escape, not even in the fresh-squeezed orange juice and bran muffins. After the “special” writer finishes, we all have to applaud.

After the meeting I bring the carnage of the picked-over breakfast by my desk. This means that all day long, I’ll have all of them coming by looking at the leftovers as if there might be some new healthy snack that just appears. They also make goofy jokes about how the food is breaking down and are inspired to talk about how many miles and at what speed they have to bike in order to burn off a certain number of calories. Then it always deteriorates to fiber jokes and bathroom humor. Like I said, exercise geeks.

“Do you need any help?” Brian, the new semester slave, asks me after the meeting. I’m in the midst of e-mailing Tabitha.

“No, I’m fine for now.” Brian lives for these meetings. The bad thing about interns is they remind you of how little you have to do, and thus, how little you can pass onto them. Brian is going to be with us all semester, which means that I have him to look forward to until Christmas. “Why don’t you check out some of our old issues?” Brian is one of those interns who thinks if he asks enough questions and kisses enough ass, he’ll get a job here. When Brian isn’t slaving away or kissing ass, he is harassing me. He seems to think that part of the so-called learning experience is being involved in every aspect of the office.

“Hey, Brian. This—” I cover up my monitor “—is personal. It’s not some important job secret that is being kept from you.”

“Oh, okay.” He goes back to sit at his makeshift desk. I guess I should feel bad for the guy. At least I get paid.

He comes back fifteen minutes later under the pretense of getting a different issue. This time I’m on the Net trying to find Roseanne a recipe for gumbo. This is getting annoying. I quickly switch my computer back to the desktop and pretend to find it amazing. He decides to address me anyway.

“You know, I’m thinking of trying to write an article.” Mother of God.

“Great, Brian.” I don’t take my eyes off the screen, but I’m surprised how annoyed I am that Brian thinks it’s that simple.

“Did you ever think about trying to write?”

“Bikes don’t really interest me.”

“But still, it’s a great opportunity you have here.” I think they must brainwash them at the intern orientation. “I mean, you don’t want to be a receptionist all your life.”

“What?” This time I actually turn and look at him. Now, I have a very long desk that is sort of in the middle of a bunch of offices and cubes, but the receptionist sits in the elevator lobby. “I am not a receptionist! I am a department assistant. Big difference!” Brian walks away with his head hanging. Good riddance. But this raises another more serious question, do I really seem like a receptionist? Image is everything. What if I give off a receptionist image? I call Tabitha.

“If you seem like a receptionist, I seem like a receptionist, and I am certainly not a receptionist.” Tabitha has the same desk that I do and sits in almost the exact same position.

“Do you think it’s the desk? Is that what makes us seem like receptionists?”

“Hey, Eve, don’t clump me into the reception pool. It’s this shitty intern who is ignorant of the ways of Prescott Nelson. Don’t let it bother you. That’s the problem with these interns—they waltz in here with these ideals and think they can run the company.”

“Well, Tabitha, so do we.”

“Well, we can.”

“But here is the question, is there any more dignity in being an assistant than a receptionist?”

“Ah, the conundrum,” says Tabitha as my other line beeps.

“Hold on.” Tabitha sighs as if by putting her on hold I have ruined her day. “Eve Vitali.”

“Eve, Zeke.” Wow!

“Zeke! Hold on, I’m on the other line.”

“Is this a bad time I could—”

“No, I’m just finishing. Hold on.” I click back to Tabitha, who is incidentally singing a Spice Girls’ song, although she stops quickly when she hears me. “Hey, Slutty Spice, that’s Zeke.”

“Return of the Ape Man.”

“Thanks for consoling me about the receptionist thing.” I click back to Zeke. “Hi.” I will be strong. He can’t just decide not to call me and get away with it.

“Oh, Eve,” he growls. I might weaken a little. (I know, I know, but remember, I have needs, too.) “God, I’ve missed you.”

“Really.”

“I had to go to L.A. to check out a band.” I reminisce about why I first liked him. Say ’bye, ’bye receptionist, my carriage awaits. I can get over the hair, I know I can.

“How was it?”

“Oh, you know L.A.” I don’t, but someday I’d like to. “It’s good to be home.”

“Yeah.”

“So, Eve, can I see you?”

I agree to meet Zeke for Jamaican food. I must admit that he has a knack for picking restaurants. Tabitha thinks this signifies a chronic dater, but she gave me her blessing, because I might as well keep on getting some after my long drought. Roseanne wasn’t thrilled about spending the night alone with my parents watching “Nick at Nite,” but she agreed to corroborate my working late story. This being the only reason my mother would accept for not being a proper host to Roseanne.

Anyway, Zeke has on a dizzying shirt. It has black and white swirls and I wonder if he thinks it will hasten my drunkenness. Again, I intend to stand firm.

“Eve.” He gets up and kisses me (yes, on the lips). It’s not one of those gushy kisses—it’s worse. It’s one of those “we have something that won’t be cheapened by saliva, so let me take your face in my hands as if it is an exquisite jewel and kiss you with just a hint of the passion that will hopefully not explode all over the dinner table” kiss. You know the ones? Anyway, it’s troubling.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. Everything,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s great to see you. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks.” Standing firm. Unsinkable. We sit down.

The waitress arrives and places Jamaican beer in front of both of us.

“I ordered for us,” he says, taking my hand. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Uh, no.” Well, I guess I don’t mind. What I mind is the way he is sniffing my hand.

“You smell good, Eve, real good.” I have to wonder if my life just got scripted by soap opera writers. I look around for a camera.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No.”

“Good, because I just want us to focus on each other.”

“Well, I’m starved. Let’s check out the menu.” I break free from him. I feel him watching me, but I ignore it. I take a sip of my beer.

“Eve,” he says. I look at him. He looks intensely at me and smiles. “I can’t wait to taste you again.” Yes! He says that. I feel yucky. I have a serious uh-oh feeling.

“Okay.” Straight back to the menu. I get the jerk chicken.

When the food arrives Zeke is telling me about the book he is writing. He is writing it from the perspective of a thirty-five-year-old, Korean-African-American single mother.

“But, it’s different, very stream of consciousness. Very…I don’t know, how do I say it…?” he pauses as if thinking. Something tells me he has given this very same explanation a hundred times. “…well, I like to think poetic.”

“That’s interesting, Zeke—” I take a bite of my chicken and chew almost as thoughtfully “—but I thought the idea was to write what you know.”

From Zeke’s expression, I assume no one has ever discussed this with him before.

“Eve, that’s so oppressive. Why should I let my writing be defined by limits, by archaic rules. I understand this woman, I feel I’ve gotten her. That’s what being an artist is. I feel a side of me opening up. It’s an amazing release. It transcends everything.”

“Does it?” We eat our meals for a while. The waitress brings more beer. I’m pacing myself. Zeke is really quiet. No amount of sexual eating will pull him out of it. He’s not even watching me. The silence is so awkward, I actually run my tongue over the chicken before I put it in my mouth. It does nothing. When he isn’t talking, I kind of enjoy looking at him, and what the hell, I’m horny. (Yeah, yeah, I know what I said.)

“So, what should we do now? Do you want to get a drink?”

“Eve, I think I am ready to get the check and call it a night.” What?

“What?”

“I just don’t think it’s going to work between us.” Really.

“Really?”

He takes my hand again, this time almost pityingly. “You just don’t seem to get my work.”

“The A&R stuff? What’s to get?”

“No, Eve, not my job. No, my writing, my art.”

“What, that book?”

“It’s a huge part of me, and it’s clear by your ignorance that you’ll never understand.” Is he being serious? “I cared for you, Eve, but I realize you will never support me and that is a big issue.” The big issue I think I am starting to realize is that I am not going to have sex this evening and who knows how long it will be again.

“Zeke, maybe you’re getting a little excited.”

“That’s just it, Eve! You don’t understand!” He actually slams his hand on the table when he says this. Several diners turn to look at us. The waitress hurries over to see if she can get us the check.

“Yes, get the check.” I offer Zeke money, but he won’t take it. I was going to head to Tabitha’s, but in the absence of a good lay, I think I want nothing more than my own bed. Zeke gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and hops in a cab.

I ride home alone on the bus, because I missed the train. Again. This pathetic feeling is reason enough to move out.

My parents and Rosie are circled around the TV. I assure my mother I took a car home and Rosie seems a little too smug, knowing my date must have gone dreadfully wrong.

I go up to my room and feign sleep when Rosie comes in. She says my name, but I ignore her. Wasn’t I beautiful? Didn’t I taste delicious and eat sexily? What happened to all that? One blast of reality and Zeke is a goner.

We should have gone for Italian, I would have done wonders with spaghetti.

I don’t talk to Roseanne about Zeke for a few days. She’s got her own problems stressing about a job and searching for an apartment. I found this one on the Net and convinced her we should go after I got out of work. I’ve taken a new policy of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” If she gets a job she will undoubtedly tell me. Until then I will neither inquire about her search, nor offer constructive criticism about things like not wearing such a glossy lipstick or how much nicer her black pantsuit looks than the cotton-lycra skirt set.

The Realtor, Craig, gives us a little attitude about being late for our appointment. There was a subway delay. I give him attitude right back. Roseanne says nothing. I hope she isn’t this quiet and miserable on job interviews, but remember, I am beyond advice.

The apartment is not exactly near the subway, but I guess it’s still considered “in the vicinity.” Craig is very elusive about this apartment. Since Roseanne won’t talk (again), I have to be the spokeswoman. “So how is the place?”

“It’s great and so charming.” Okay, small—I gathered that from the ad. And I am sure the advertised EIK (that’s Eat In Kitchen, for you nonresidents) is minuscule. Craig chats up the apartment all the way there. He must feel guilty about the ridiculous fee that Realtors charge and somehow hopes to feel like he’s earning his money. Whatever.

We turn onto this nice block. I’m not jazzed about the Upper East Side and the only reason I’m checking out this place is because I feel bad about making Rosie do all this work in her fragile state. Despite all the telltale signs from the ad that it would suck (EIK, charming, 1BR converted, prewar), I suggested we check it out so I could put in some effort.

We stop at a really nice brownstone. I am fighting that hopeful feeling but, I can’t help thinking that this could be it. I look to Rosie, who is staring at the cracks in the sidewalk. I didn’t want to do this alone. I take a deep breath.

“Okay,” says Craig, stopping in front of the building, beginning his hard sell. “Now, it will be painted before you move in.” Don’t get too far ahead of yourself there, buddy. But, wait, he is headed downstairs! Downstairs? No one said anything about a basement apartment.

He opens the door to one of the tiniest apartments I have ever seen. Maybe if Rosie and I were Siamese twins we might have an enjoyable life here, but we’d probably also have a book deal and do the talk show circuit and could afford to live somewhere else. One bedroom converted? Converted to what? Two tiny closets? Yes, you can eat in the kitchen. The kitchen, the living room and the “converted” bedrooms are one big room. If you plan on eating in the apartment, you will virtually always be in the kitchen.

“Feel free to look around,” says Craig encouragingly. There is nothing I need to look at; the entire apartment is right in my field of vision. Including the bathroom. Craig must read my mind. “They’re definitely going to put the bathroom door on before you move in.”

That’s reassuring. I look at Rosie. She is turning a color I’ve never quite seen before. “There is no way in hell I will ever live in this doody apartment.” Rosie starts out slowly, but I can see it getting worse. That’s pretty crass for her.

Craig looks shocked—as shocked as I am. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, this is ridiculous. How much are you charging for this place? Fourteen hundred? The worst part is some schmuck is actually going to pay.” I note her use of “schmuck.”

“Listen, miss, I don’t where you’re from, but this is New York.”

“This is garbage!” Wow! Craig can’t believe it, either. He sweeps his arm around the tiny apartment and up toward the barred window that is barely street level.

“Where in New York do you think you will get a view like this one?”

Rosie shakes her head and physically grabs me and pulls me out of the apartment. As we’re out the door she turns back towards him and shouts.

“Up your ass!” Those are the harshest I’ve ever heard from those lips. I am holding on to the wall of the brownstone, so I won’t fall over laughing. What balls! The well-dressed people walking by will probably have us arrested for loitering, but I can’t stop laughing. My stomach starts to hurt and I am about to cry from the hysteria. I look at Rosie, expecting the same, but she really is crying, sobbing and it takes me by surprise.

“Roseanne.” I touch her shoulder. “Are you okay?” She doesn’t speak for a while. She shakes her head and keeps trying to stop.

“I’ve gone through two thousand dollars in three weeks.”

“How?”

“Little things—drinks, food—I swear I’ve only bought like one skirt and it wasn’t that. Just little things. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I were working, but what if I go through my entire savings and still don’t have a job? We are going to have to put a deposit down on the apartment. What am I going to do?”

“You are going to get a job.”

“No one has called back for more than a second interview. I was even thinking of putting in a résumé at Prescott.”

“Well, you should. I believe sooner or later everyone works for Uncle Pres.”

“And I just roam around the streets of New York all day, which would be great if I were on vacation, but I feel guilty, like I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“I know.” But I don’t.

“And today, you know how it rained this morning? Well, I went to The Virgin Megastore and I was reading and I just sort of fell asleep. One of the employees woke me up and told me I wasn’t allowed to sleep there. Like I was freaking homeless or something.” Wow! What do you say to that? There’s really only one thing.

“Let’s get a drink.”

We wind up back in the Village in a dark little bar. There is nothing like drowning your sorrows in the creature. I foot the bill. It’s the least I can do. I opt not to call Tabitha, although she loves this place and she’ll kill me if she finds out we’re here without her. I attempt to console Roseanne. “We just have to keep a positive attitude.”

“I know, but, I can’t stand another dead interview and I can’t stand another ‘charming’ apartment. What the heck is prewar, anyway?”

“No idea. But, there’s a guy looking at you.” Okay, I’m lying, he’s not. But Roseanne is pretty in that All-American way, which really means Northern European. (I only know that because of my sister’s Social Politics master.) She also is an exercise junkie. Anyway, I know I shouldn’t have, but if she just makes eye contact with this guy, it might work wonders for her self-confidence. Besides, he looks real cheesy and Tabitha thinks that’s totally Rosie’s type. I tend to agree.

“He is not.” She checks him out quickly. This is called setting the bait, he definitely saw her. These meat market games are so freshman year, but times are tough. The girl needs love. Within minutes, said guy comes over to us with his fat friend. They buy us drinks.

Roseanne and I play good cop/bad cop for a while getting Brad’s (of course) employment history out. It figures he works in advertising. Rosie is into it. I can imagine Tabitha smirking as we are in the process of picking up the cheesiest men in the bar. That is, Rosie is. I am not interested in Paul, the fat friend.

“So you work for a publishing company,” Paul asks, smiling at me with bad teeth.

“Yeah.”

“You girls got an apartment here in the city?”

“No, we are visiting from Tulsa, and we’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Roseanne shoots me a look. It’s amazing that she can hear me so clearly with her back to me yet she needs to lean so close to Brad’s lips to understand him. I correct myself, for her sake. For the sake of love, if you will.

Anyway, we imbibe quite a bit. So much so that at one point I must mistakenly give Paul the go ahead to kiss me (maybe it’s just the example set by face sucking Roseanne and Brad), but I quickly put a stop to that.

Roseanne walks away with a business card and a date for next Thursday night (props to her). Luckily, it’s the night I’m going to the Fashion Awards with Tabitha. Once again we are back on the bus, but this time we get to pass out. I wake up just in time for our stop and note that Rosie has a smile on her face as she sleeps. It warms the cockles of my cold heart.

“I found it!” Roseanne says when I pick up the phone. Herb happens to be standing near my desk, talking to one of the writers.

“What’s that?” I try to sound professional.

“The most wonderful apartment!” Let me just say that ever since her date prospect, she’s been a little happier, but finding the perfect apartment is nothing to joke about. I feel my heart start to beat. This could be the new beginning.

“Where?”

“Chelsea. Right on 7th Avenue. It’s amazing. The landlady’s cousin showed it to me. She says they’re making their decision tomorrow. Eve, there were like thirty other people there.”

“How much?”

“Only fourteen. Only? Gosh, I never thought I would say that. Shit, I’m becoming a New Yorker. Eve, I am serious, we have to get this apartment. Have to. Call the landlady and schmooze her. You’re good at that.” Really?

“Okay, give me the number.” She gives it to me. Her name is Mrs. Yakimoto. “How many bedrooms?”

“Well it’s just one bedroom with this alcove and a sleep loft. The bedroom and the loft aren’t that big, but the living room and everything else is huge. It’s unbelievable, it’s amazing. Eve, I haven’t seen an apartment this nice. Oh, shit.” Roseanne is getting real accustomed to this cursing thing. She is loving her new New Yorkness. It’s actually rubbing off on me and I find myself wanting this apartment sight unseen.

I hang up the phone. I smile up at Herb, who just sort of stares at me, like I am somehow representative of a generation of young women that he would never want to attempt to understand.

“Searching for an apartment,” I say.

“I hear it’s tough these days.” I smile and nod, hoping he will go away so I can make personal phone calls.

“Can you send this out for me, Eve?” He hands me a big puffy envelope full of stuff. Now as I said, Herb is a very self-sufficient man, but little things like “sending stuff out” are beyond him. This man has published books and had honorary and real degrees from all over but can’t figure out the Prescott Nelson mail system. Basically, our mail system entails just dropping it in a bin for someone else to come and take care of postage. It’s wonderful. My mother gives me care packages to send to my sister all the time. No one questions anything. All it takes is a Bicycle Boy or Prescott Nelson label. Since Herb has already written out the address, all I have to do is put the package in the mail bin next to my desk. It’s easy enough, and the nice thing is it makes both Herb and I feel like I am earning my title as “assistant.”

I take the package from him. I ooze efficiency. “Great. I’ll do it right away.”

I call Mrs. Yakimoto. She lives on Long Island. Her son answers the phone. He can’t be more than six. He screams for his mother to get the phone. She answers and speaks in slightly accented English.

“Mrs. Yakimoto, my name is Eve Vitali. My roommate Roseanne looked at the apartment today.”

“Yes, I think my cousin mentioned her. There have been so many calls today.” Mrs. Yakimoto sounds a little stressed. I can hear her kids in the background.

“Well, we are really interested in the apartment and we are really hoping to get it.”

“I know, but I wasn’t expecting to rent to two people and you haven’t even see the apartment yet. I never expected to even have this apartment to rent. My cousin decided to get married and now she wants to move uptown. She said she would handle it, but I still have to talk to all these people. Do you believe people are offering me six months’ rent?”

“Yes, I do. It’s really tough to get an apartment in the city.” I hear one of Mrs. Yakimoto’s children bawling and she yells at them in another language and gets back on the phone with me.

“Are those your kids?”

“Yes, I have four.”

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I’m sure the last thing you want to do is worry about all of this. I just want to tell you how great my roommate Roseanne thinks the apartment is and how much we would really love it.”

“Well, I have to talk to my husband about this. You girls seem very nice, but it’s a lot to decide. I will call you back tomorrow.”

“Okay, but Mrs. Yakimoto, we are really interested in the apartment. We’ll be great tenants. Really.”

When we get off the phone, I get an idea. I call Adrian.

“I was wondering if you had any extra Little Nell toys lying around.”

“We’ve got tons. Come down and get some. I could use a visit.”

It’s always nice to visit Adrian, because he notices things that most men wouldn’t. Today he said my lipstick was glam and very New York. He’s so cute. I can understand why Rosie had her little crush on him.

Not only did he give me a bunch of Little Nells, he gave me all kinds of cartoon T-shirts and some promotional toys from Little Nell’s advertisers. I look up Mrs. Yakimoto’s address on the Net and FedEx all the stuff to her with a note telling her (again) how much we’d like to live in the place and hoping her kids enjoy the stuff.

I can tell Tabitha is impressed with my cunning and maybe a tad jealous that I will live in a much cooler area plus be closer to Adrian and Krispy Kreme donuts. I neglect to tell her about my night out at the bar and the guy Roseanne kind of picked up. I am too tired to go out tonight, but I promise to go out tomorrow night, Friday, to kick off what might be one of the last warm weekends of the year.

She bugs me again about what I am going to wear to the Fashion Awards next Tuesday. Again, I say the same black Bebe sweater and some skirt I got in Soho for really cheap. I can tell Tabitha isn’t all that excited about it. All we are doing is seat filling. She finds the whole thing a tad beneath her. She wishes we had actual tickets instead of having to hop around from seat to seat whenever someone vacates. She is also dying to find a post event invite, but the Big C only got one.

“Eve, you’re a real peach today.”

“I’m just worrying about the apartment thing.”

“I’d worry, too, especially if only Roseanne has seen it. You’re giving her an awful lot of responsibility, don’t you think?”

“Well, I trust her, Tabitha.”

“What are you gonna do if she can’t get a job?”

“She’s been looking for three weeks. Only three weeks. She’ll get one.”

“As what? An aerobics instructor?” I don’t say anything for a full twenty seconds. I count it on my phone’s time display.

“Look, Tabitha, just give me a call tomorrow when you decide what you want to do this weekend.”

“Maybe try to scout out some more pseudo celebrities. Roseanne will like that. I hear there’s a bar where old cast members from the Real World are put out to pasture.”

“Whatever.” I hang up. That’s something I never do to Tabitha. I just can’t take the excess drama.

My parents are delighted about the apartment possibility. Well, I’m exaggerating, my mom dabs her eyes a little and congratulates us in her typical martyrish way and my dad makes some comment about Chinese people. I remind him that Mrs. Yakimoto is most likely Japanese, but it doesn’t seem to register. Thankfully my sister Monica isn’t around to start a political correctness war with them.

Roseanne describes the entire apartment to me. The things she keeps raving about are the hardwood floors and all the space. It’s unbelievable that it’s so cheap. There are only two other tenants in the apartment building. One above us, one below. We have the entire floor. It sounds too good to be true.

And we definitely need to get out of Jersey.

I call Mrs. Yakimoto first thing in the morning. A different kid answers this time, this one is probably nine. I ask to speak to Mrs. Yakimoto and he starts screaming.

“It’s the lady, the toy lady!” Mrs. Yakimoto comes to the phone.

“Eve?” She sounds weary.

“Hi. Mrs. Yakimoto.”

“Thank you for the stuff. The kids love it. They told me to give the apartment to the toy lady.”

“Well you should,” I say, pleased.

“Well, Eve, to be honest, my husband isn’t thrilled about the idea of giving it to two girls. What if something breaks? We’re just not sure about girls.” We’re women, thank you. I will get this apartment one way or another even if I have to sue her for sexual discrimination.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, we’re very self-sufficient women. Actually, my father owns a plumbing business. He’s really handy. So, really, we’ll never ask for anything.”

“But, you’re so young, and how do we know you can pay the rent? We have a lot of other interested people.”

“I know, but we love the apartment. It’s our dream. We will be the best tenants ever. Really.” Mrs. Yakimoto laughs. “We will definitely be able to pay the rent.”

“What about Roseanne, she doesn’t have a job?” Damn!

“Yes she does.” Shit.

“Really?” Fuck.

“Yes, actually she got a job working here, working for…” Help! Help! “A different magazine, she just found out last night.” Mrs. Yakimoto is silent for a long time.

“Well. I would like to see a copy of your last pay stub and I need something from Roseanne. Can she get a letter from her employer?” That Mrs. Yakimoto is sharp, depressingly sharp.

“Of course, I’ll send it right over.”

“You can fax it to my husband’s office.” The awful Mr. Yakimoto once again standing in the way of all that is rightfully ours.

Shit! Shit! Shit! I call Roseanne. She has just returned from a grueling run that she starts to tell me about. I cut her off right away to tell her the news.

“What are we going to do?” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. Why must I always be the pillar? I don’t have time to start wondering why; instead I come up with a brilliant plan. “Roseanne, I’ll call you back.” Immediately I call Tabitha.

“What’s up?” she says, obviously still a little miffed from yesterday. “Wanna have a cigarette?”

After a lot of begging and pleading and many allusions to how much more I like Tabitha than anyone else in the world (i.e. Roseanne). I get her to agree to be Roseanne’s boss. An idea that I’m sure would be dangerous were it a reality. The letter I type on NY By Night stationery reads like this:

To whom it may concern,

Roseanne Sullivan has been hired as an editorial assistant for NY By Night magazine as of November 1. Her expected salary is $38,000 for this year after which she will renegotiate her contract. Call me with any questions.

Sincerely,

Tabitha Milton

Vice President, Creative Development, NY By Night

It is a vision. I call Roseanne to let her know what her new job is and remind her to be very very nice to Tabitha the next time she sees her. Sure enough, within an hour of getting the fax, Mrs. Yakimoto has called Lorraine, my reference, and left a message on Tabitha’s (fortunately) unincriminating voice mail.

Although she is pretending to be huffy about it, Tabitha likes the idea of all of this. She calls me and then conferences with Mrs. Yakimoto. I keep my phone on mute so I can hear. Mrs. Yakimoto answers for a change. Tabitha is all professional. “Mrs. Yakimoto, this is Tabitha Milton. You left me a message?”

“Yes, I wanted to know about Roseanne Sullivan.”

“Oh, right, she’s our new hire. I wrote up a letter…” Tabitha is doing her Big C frazzled impression.

“Yes, is she going to make $38,000?”

“Yes, and probably a bonus that she doesn’t know about.” Wow, we never discussed that, what an actress!

“Really? Do you know Eve Vitali?”

“I know of her, but she works at a different magazine. I think she’s a writer, too.” Tabitha will be preparing her Oscar speech after this.

“They’re so young, how did they get these great jobs?” Good question.

“Just talented I guess. Is that all your questions?”

“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Yakimoto is as impressed with us as I am. We all hang up. I call Tabitha right back. She sees my number and answers on the first ring.

“You owe me so big.”

“Tabitha that was great. I’ll buy you a drink tonight—ten drinks, whatever. I’ll never stop repaying you.”

“True enough,” says Tabitha. “But hopefully there will be men buying me drinks, thank you.”

“There will be. You are the coolest. I am gushing.”

“Now let’s hope she gives you the damn apartment.”

“She has to. She just has to.”

“Okay, I’m going to leave you alone with your emotions. Come to my place after work and we’ll head downtown.”

“Okay! Um…”

“Speak!”

“Roseanne?”

“Whatever. She can come, I guess. Just tell her to go easy on the perfume or better yet, change it.”

This means Tabitha is warming up to Roseanne. It’s only a matter of time.

Roseanne is just as excited about the conversation. I don’t think she can quite believe that Tabitha would do that or that Tabitha wants her to come out tonight (so, I exaggerated a little, I’m giddy).

I call Mrs. Yakimoto before I leave for the day. She tells me that her conversation went well with Roseanne’s future employer, but she still hasn’t made a decision. She is going away for the weekend with her family and she will let me know on Monday if we can have the apartment. Apparently it is down to one other guy and us.

“Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I hope you make the right choice. We really hope to get the apartment.”

“Believe me, I know. You are definitely persistent.”

“Thanks,” I say, not sure if it’s really a compliment, “and have a great weekend.”

The bar we go to is, of course, dark and trendy. Tabitha and Roseanne seem to have resigned themselves to each other a little more. Baby steps, that’s really all I ask. Roseanne was super gracious and Tabitha waved it off with a hand, like an old pro who commits fraud all the time.

Tabitha situated us in the perfect spot, as usual, on low couches in the back, very close to the VIP room. She sits there in her new outfit and puffs away on her Dunhills. She always winds up getting a light from men at the bar. She dismissively thanks them and continues being aloof and attractive. I am wearing one of Tabitha’s sweaters over the black pants I wore to work. Roseanne, who notes daily how she is becoming more and more of a New Yorker, has put on some sexy black dress that I’ve never seen. She’s going minimalist on the makeup today (honestly she doesn’t need all the foundation) and she looks good—starstruck, but good.

I bum one of Tabitha’s cigarettes and Roseanne shakes her head. Hey, I’m a social smoker and it looks so cool.

“Can we go back there?” says Roseanne, motioning to the VIP room. Tabitha and I shrug at each other.

“We have to assess the situation.” Translation: a few more drinks before we try to schmooze the bouncer.

“Interesting,” says Tabitha, looking over my head, “but don’t look now.”

“Who?” I say as Roseanne whips her head around, irking Tabitha incredibly. I cringe.

“One of the fashion show designers. We profiled him. He’s French, Jaques something. Shit.” Tabitha hates when she can’t remember these important factoids.

He walks by, and it’s classic Tabitha. She exhales a puff just as Jaques something or other passes. It goes right in his face. He looks down at Tabitha, who smiles up at him coquettishly and shrugs. Then, he’s off to the VIP room.

“Wow!” Roseanne says, and Tabitha just smiles. The next few minutes are sort of a waiting game. There is no sense talking to Tabitha because she knows that soon she will have the prize.

Sure enough, someone brings us a round of drinks and tells us we have an invite to the VIP room. Total class, I think. It’s major points with Tabitha and me if a guy who is interested in one of us gets the other a drink for the hell of it.

“Well, should we go back?” Roseanne is all anxious to get the fun under way.

“Not yet.” I smile at Tabitha. She’s sweating the Frenchman out. She drinks slower than the rest of us. We tap our nails waiting for her. She makes us get up and hit the bathroom where she reapplies makeup for what seems like forever. Finally our entrance. Tabitha casually gestures to the Frenchman and the super-slick bouncer lets us in.

I scout the place. The only celebs are the Frenchman and some guy who looks recognizable from an independent flick or two. The rest are suits, probably industry people, and their nondescript model girlfriends. Among all the skin and bones that call themselves women, Tabitha stands out. She has mastered the art of getting attention. We go up to the bar and order our drinks. Tabitha keeps her back to Jaques the whole time. He makes his way over to us. I think it might be nice to score this exchange with some music and sell it to the Discovery Channel.

“Is dees your fwend?” he asks me, because I am the only one looking at him. I nod. He screams over the music. “Tell your fwend I like zees eyes.”

“He likes your eyes,” I say to Tabitha.

“No, no, no, no.” He shakes his hands at me. Then he makes a circular motion with his arms. “Dee size, dee size.”

I don’t translate. Jaques turns to go back to his table, where he is sitting with other artsy French types. Tabitha smiles and follows him. Roseanne looks at me, confused. It’s the last we see of Tabitha for a while although we keep giving her “you go, girl” looks whenever we can catch her eye.

Roseanne starts talking to some long-haired guy who is a guitarist on tour with some woman who has just released a single. He says her name, but neither one of us has ever heard of her. He points over at an attractive Asian woman.

“Oh, yeah, I saw her picture in the Virgin Megastore.” Roseanne is all over knowing this obscure person.

“She spends a lot of time in Virgin.” I tell this guy whose name is Q (hey, he’s a musician).

“Yeah, it’s a cool waste of time. Shit, the rest of my band is leaving. Gotta run, too.” He shakes my hand and winks at Roseanne. When he’s gone Rosie looks pissed.

“He was so cute, I wish he asked for my number. And you? I can’t believe you told him all I do is hang out in Virgin. He is lost forever.”

“Can you really take a guy named Q seriously?” I say.

“Yes.” She’s miffed. She usually doesn’t go for these long-haired types. I look over at Tabitha who is smiling drunkenly as Jaques strokes her hair and whispers in her ear. I also see the Asian singer that Q (the horror!) works for.

“If you are that into him, why don’t you just give that woman your number?”

“You don’t think that would be—” she searches for a word “—too much?”

“No.”

“What should I say?”

“Here’s my number. Give it to your guitarist. Tell him to call me. I think your new single is great.”

“You always know the perfect thing to say.” She kisses me. I feel like Tabitha. She scribbles her number and bounds off, leaving me to stand with my proverbial dork in my hand, sort of wishing at least the bartender would ask me for my number, so I could refuse. He doesn’t. I can no longer feel my nose. Tabitha comes to my side.

“Bored?”

“A little.” She pulls out the car voucher.

“Not too many more of these. You’ll have to start taking cabs once you move to the city. Drunk?”

“Completely. How is Jaques?”

“Incohesive,” she says, but I know what she means.

“It’s kind of hard to hear anyway with all this Portishead playing.”

“Guess what? You have a ticket to the Fashion Awards after party. Well, we both do, but I also have an October hookup.”

“Awesome.” I hug her like she just won the peace prize.

“You know, Eve, I was so impressed with your little scheme today. Fabulous! You guys are definitely going to get the apartment.” We hug again, boozy floozies.

“It will be great, really we’ll have so much fun.” She nods almost tearfully. All this emotion makes perfect sense after six Kettel One and grapefruits. Roseanne comes back over to us and I swear that she and Tabitha might hug, but I’m just drunk and it doesn’t happen.

“So what are you wearing to the Fashion Awards?” Tabitha calls me first thing Monday morning. I am just about to call Mrs. Yakimoto.

“Tabitha, c’mon, didn’t we clear this outfit up last week?” She sighs.

“Yes, but I had trouble sleeping last night and I thought it over. I have a dress for you. It’s a BCBG, very stretchy, so it should fit you.” Not be too big, she means. “We have tix to the post party.” She’s been saying this for days.

“Are we going to hang out with a bunch of production assistants and talent people?”

“Well, aren’t you Ms. Savvy about these glam events. This is the Talent party. Jaques would never have me mixing with the techies. This dress is much better for this kind of event.”

“All right, I’ll borrow it.” End of conversation.

“Hi, Eve,” says Mrs. Yakimoto, not sounding very enthusiastic when I finally reach her.

“Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Yes, look Eve, I don’t think we can give you apartment.”

I am crushed, I have never wanted anything more than this apartment.

“Why not?”

“Well, I spoke to my husband and we really didn’t want to rent it to two people. What if you get into a fight? Who pays the rent?”

“Mrs. Yakimoto.” I take a deep breath. “Roseanne and I have lived together for almost four years. We are very good friends and we never fight, but if we did fight we would resolve it very quickly and not let it ruin our time in the apartment. We wouldn’t move out. Do you want me to call Mr. Yakimoto?”

“No. No. Eve, you seem very nice and I wanted to give it to you, but my husband thinks I will regret it.”

“You won’t, Mrs. Yakimoto, believe me, you won’t.” Slowly, I think I will lose every shred of dignity I possess solely to get an apartment that I have yet to see. “I think the fact that I haven’t even seen the apartment and I am fighting this hard based on what Roseanne says is a testament to how much I trust her.” Mrs. Yakimoto doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s creepy. Finally, I can no longer stand it.

“C’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, don’t let Mr. Yakimoto tell you what to do. You’re the one that holds the family together. I know you are sick of this apartment thing. Has Mr. Yakimoto handled any of it? No, it’s been all you. So, c’mon, Mrs. Yakimoto, trust your instinct. Let us have the apartment.”

“Well,” she breathes again, “my kids would be happy.”

“They know—” I am triumphant! “—they know.”

“Oh, I guess.”

“Really?” I can’t believe it. Yakimoto might be toying with me.

“Why not?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Yakimoto, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Just don’t make me regret it.”

I want to do a little dance, but at the same time, I’m in shock. I never thought we would find an apartment this quick. I can’t believe it. I call Roseanne, who is in the middle of an elaborate calisthenics routine, and she screams when I tell her. I wish I were away from this office, so I could celebrate. I still haven’t seen the apartment myself and I certainly hope I won’t regret it.

Thursday, Tabitha and I are putting our dresses (well, Tabitha’s dresses) on in the bathroom stalls on my floor. (She didn’t want the Big C to see her before the event.) I had been trying to hide my hands from Tabitha all day, but she finally saw them and had a hissy fit at my chipped nail polish. She ran right downstairs and over to the Duane Reade and bought nail polish remover.

She’s starting to calm down now, but I’m still reluctant to complain about anything. Putting stockings on in a stall has to be the most difficult thing ever. I suffer in silence. I have no idea how the dress Tabitha gave me ever fit her. It feels painted on. “Tabitha, I don’t know about this.”

“Let me see.” I step out of the bathroom, sort of smiling at the other women who are there for a reason. I hear a couple say “Wow.” Tabitha opens her door a crack and peeks out.

“Looks pretty good. Except lose the bra.”

“I don’t want droopy booby.”

“Eve, just take it off. You’ve got good boobs. Pull it down a little to show them off.” I do as she says and stare at myself in the mirror, clutching my breasts. I’m not so sure about this.

Tabitha fully emerges from her stall. She is wearing some shiny gray dress that’s almost sheer. She puts her hair up and reapplies her makeup. I compare our reflections in the mirror. Tabitha may be a lot bigger but she fills her space up well, while I think I’m sort of grasping for a “look.”

“You look fab, you’re really doing it, Mommy,” Tabitha says catching my eye in the mirror. She turns toward me her lip pencil poised. “I just want to redefine. Your lips are really your best attribute, Eve—well your lips and those perky boobs. We should go.”

I bounce all the way down 7th Avenue.

The Fashion Awards are kind of a snooze. I mean it’s cool to hobnob, but when there is no alcohol involved and the dialogue is this poor, it’s kind of a letdown. The nice thing is wherever I look there’s celebrities, but you really can’t want to interact with them without seeming like the biggest star-struck loser. It’s only fun to look at them for so long.

Being a seat filler is solely for the purpose of making an event appear to the viewing audience as if it is the most populated happening in history. Most of these award shows are attended by industry people, and if they manage to lure celebrities, the celebrities only want to stay for a little while. They are kind of like us, they just want to get to the party.

I know I get on TV a couple of times. That will make my mom happy.

The party is at some club I’ve never heard of. My presence doesn’t stop Jaques and Tabitha from being overly affectionate with each other. Just as I was afraid of, this party is more for production people. There are some low-level celebs and models, but no one to really freak out about. I am here to keep Tabitha company while Jaques schmoozes with the producers to insure that he will be styling the awards next year. We have the bartender make us something extra special, which turns out to be Absolut Currant and cranberry juice. We have three. Suddenly Tabitha starts quasi-hyperventilating. In fact (and she would hate for me to point this out), she looks a lot like Roseanne did at the fateful brunch.

“What? What? What?” I say, while motioning to the bartender for more.

“It’s him, it’s him.” I look around. Who could it be? “It’s Kevin. C’mon.” She pulls me with her, practically spilling my new drink. It’s Kevin, the stylist whose book is her bible.

We hover close to Kevin, who is talking to some TV actress. It’s hard for him to ignore us because Tabitha is breathing down his neck. He smiles at us.

“Hi,” says Tabitha—whom I have never seen like this—“I think you are great. I love your book. You are truly an artist. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Tabitha.”

Kevin extends his hand, very humbly. “I’m Kevin.” Wow! Then, he turns to me and smiles warmly. He takes my hand.

“Eve,” I say, wishing Kevin could be my best friend.

“Nice eyebrows.”

“Thanks,” I say, but not being enough of a fan to gush I feel kind of stupid. Tabitha drags me away, although I know it’s difficult for her to remain calm.

“Isn’t he amazing? So nice. Introducing himself like we didn’t know who he is.” We sigh and have another drink to celebrate the glowing goodness of Kevin.

Eventually, Tabitha has to hang out with Jaques and I wind up talking to some production assistant who tells me that his name is Moose. Moose talks to me as if I am about five. Even though he has opted to wear sunglasses inside, I can still pretty much tell that he is staring at my breasts.

“Have you ever been here before, Eve?”

“No, have you?”

“No.” He enunciates every word like he’s my preschool teacher. Maybe he’s really stoned or just used to talking to four-year-olds. He is so repulsive, but I’m bored and I’m kind of enjoying just toying with him. I guess correctly that he is from Staten Island and I think he thinks I want to go home with him.

“You know it smells there. Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“No,” he tells my chest. “I said I was never here before. Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know,” I say, adding, “Moose.” And then he just stares, blatantly stares, at my boobs. I look around for Tab, but she is cuddling with Jaques. She is to blame for my lack of bra. But wait! No matter what, I don’t deserve this. Why should I be gawked at or talked to like a child, by the likes of Moose? I’ve had enough.

“So, Moose—” I crouch down to crotch level and speak to his fly “—are you having fun?” I’m not quite sure Moose gets it. He would most likely swear I was seconds away from giving him a blow job. Tabitha must think the same, because she and Jaques rush over and decide to send me home in Jaques’s car. They are going to go to some party for a designer that will certainly be more star-studded. I protest that I want to go too, but Tabitha will not listen. I wave goodbye to the dickhead Moose, who is still trying to guess my tits’ address. I only hope Kevin didn’t see my display.

At work the next day, I don’t hear from Tabitha until she calls at noon (when she finally rolls in) thinking I am going to be a wreck, but, it is she who is moving slowly. I ask her about the rest of her night. Despite the presence of several “fabulous celebs,” she is really most excited about the Kevin meeting and his kind compliments. Of course, she has to take some credit.

“Remember when I told you how to shape them better?”

“Yes, Tabitha, I owe it all to you.”

“Well, it really all goes back to Kevin. I mean, I got the idea out of his book. But, you know I can’t help feeling a bit envious. First you meet Prescott and now this. Two of my personal heroes you manage to charm.”

“I didn’t exactly meet Prescott, or charm anyone. It’s really thanks to you that I know who both of them are.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” Everyone feels a lot better now.

I was so undrunk last night that I had a long talk with Roseanne when I got home. She had waited up for me after her short-lived disaster date. Apparently her breasts also were in the spotlight. She had just sat down for a nice dinner with Brad (okay so the tipoff should have been when he took her to a midtown tourist trap) when, feeling a little hot, she slipped off her blazer.

“Wow,” he gasped. “What a set of jugs.” Needless to say, Roseanne considered getting a doggie bag for her dinner and bailing, but she stuck it out through Brad’s leerings and boring descriptions of his ad accounts, specifically a tartar control toothpaste and how they made the tartar look especially gross.

“Yuck,” I said.

“Worse, when I got back, I wanted to go for a run, but your mom was up and she forced me to discuss portobello mushrooms.”

“How bizarre. Poor you.”

Just as we were falling asleep, we realized that we only had four more days until we moved in and became true New Yorkers.

I have to deposit the check Roseanne gave me. She handed it over a little nervously; apparently she’s down to her last three hundred dollars after I cash it. We have to send in our first month’s rent and deposit. Somewhere along the line Mrs. Yakimoto raised the rent to fifteen hundred and in all the excitement, I agreed. I am keeping this from Roseanne until she gets a job. Not fun.

I head to the bank at lunch and hand the bank teller my money and the deposit slip. She’s a really attractive British woman. I wonder why she’s working in a bank.

“Eve Vitali?” She looks up at me, questioning.

“Yes, what?”

“That’s your name.” I nod. She smiles at me, a perfect tartar-controlled smile.

“Well, that’s a grand name—a telly name. I’m charmed by it. Absolutely.” Wow! I love British people.

I walk back to the office. It’s cool out, really perfect weather, and I just feel like everything is working. Ever have one of those days when you just feel perfect, unsinkable, nothing can touch you, because it’s just going to roll right off? It’s all going to fall into place finally. The apartment, my job, everything. I wanted the apartment and I got it. Didn’t Kevin say I had nice eyebrows? I feel like I’m floating. A telly name? Imagine that. Thanks, Mom and Dad, you’ve made me destined for greatness, just by choosing the perfect name.

When I get back to the office Lorraine looks at me strangely. I am so cheery, so far from being fake. I am a strong woman, I can do anything.

“Um.” She looks so uncomfortable. “Lacey Matthews got the job.”

“How wonderful,” I say. Not great, wonderful, and I mean it. We walk together to my desk. Good for Lacey Matthews. Nice name, not a telly name, but I wish her all the success in the world.

Lorraine still seems uncomfortable, she should just relax. She’s awkwardly holding a stack of napkins. “Herb took her out to lunch.” Lorraine takes my arm firmly before I get to my desk. “She brought Max in. You know, the dog?” She looks down and I follow her gaze.

For the rest of the afternoon, me, my perfectly shaped eyebrows and telly name mop up the floor and try to ignore the disinfectant smell mixed with the dog piss.