Читать книгу Slightly Settled - Wendy Markham - Страница 9

Wrong.

A corporate Christmas party is no place to hook up.

At least, not according to this article in She magazine, where Raphael is assistant style editor.

The article is Ten Office Party Don’ts, and I stumble across it while I’m sprawled on his couch, leafing through the December issue and waiting for him to get dressed for our Saturday night out.

1. Don’t dress in a revealing manner.

“Uh-oh, Raphael,” I call. “I’m in trouble already.”

“Tracey! Trouble? What kind of trouble?” He peeks around the edge of the chartreuse folding screen that separates his “dressing room” from the rest of the loft.

“Are you wearing makeup?” I ask, realizing that his big dark Latin eyes appear bigger and darker than usual.

“No! It’s an eyelash perm. I got it yesterday. Do you like it?”

An eyelash perm. Oy.

I say, “It’s ravishing.”

The lunatic grins and flutters the fringe.

I go on. “So this article in She says I’m supposed to wear something corporate to the party next Saturday night. Something I’d wear to work. You know the dress I bought this afternoon? Well, I wouldn’t wear it to work unless my office was Twelfth Avenue after midnight and my boss was a guy in a long fur coat and a fedora.”

“Oh, please, Tracey. You should see the editor who wrote that article. We’re talking Talbots.”

This, coming from über-fashionista Raphael, is the ultimate insult. Still…

“I don’t know…maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s not a good idea for me to look like a trollop next Saturday.”

“It’s always a good idea to look like a trollop,” declared Raphael, who indeed looks like a trollop in a snug black silk shirt and snugger burgundy leather pants.

“I thought we were going to the movies,” I say as he steps into a pair of mules that match the pants.

“We are, Tracey. And afterward, we’re going dancing.”

I look down at my jeans and navy cardigan. “Raphael, I’m not dressed for a club.”

He turns to examine me. “You’re right. Tracey—” he shakes his head sadly “—that outfit—” clearly, he uses the term loosely “—has to go.”

Suddenly I feel like a contestant on that TV show Are You Hot?

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. You are not hot enough to proceed to the next round. Please exit the stage.

“Don’t worry, Tracey. After the movie, we’ll shop.”

“I’m broke, Raphael. I used up my weekly—” more like monthly “—shopping budget at Bloomingdale’s this afternoon.”

“Oh, my treat, Tracey. I’ll write it off.”

The beauty of Raphael’s stylist job is that he can actually do that. I can’t tell you how many times he’s treated me to a mini–wardrobe spree on the corporate credit card. Not to mention many an expensive sushi splurge.

“Isn’t accounts payable starting to get suspicious, Raphael?”

He shrugs, running a comb through his longish black hair. “Tracey, they love me there.”

“Raphael…” (I know—but I can’t help it. When I’m with him I tend to mimic his frequent name-user conversational style.) “I don’t want to get you into trouble at work. We’ll go to the movie, and then you’ll go dancing and I’ll go home.”

“Home?” Raphael echoes in horror.

“Yup, home.”

Home to my lonely studio apartment in the East Village. It’s still about the size of the elevator in one of those doorman buildings on Central Park South—and the only reason I know that is because I worked quite a few catered parties in them. The apartments, not the elevators.

My apartment will never be as fancy as a Central Park South elevator, but it’s definitely looking a little better since I started using my catering cash to buy “real” furniture, plus curtains, rugs and even a great stereo system.

Still, that doesn’t mean I want to spend the better part of a Saturday night there alone.

Looking as though I’ve just told him I plan to compose a “Farewell, world” note and scale a girder on the Brooklyn Bridge, Raphael declares, “Absolutely not, Tracey! You can’t go home. We see the movie, we shop, we dance. In fact—the hell with the movie. Let’s just shop and dance.”

“I thought you really wanted to see it.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, Tracey, but…” He looks over his shoulder as though expecting to find someone eavesdropping, then lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I’m starting to think Madonna should stick with singing.”

“Raphael. You? I thought you said she should have been nominated for an Oscar for her last film.”

“Supporting actress only,” he clarifies, pausing to bend over a table and straighten one of his many small glass sculptures. His apartment is filled with outrageously expensive clutter that he and his delusional friends refer to as objets d’art. I call them chotchkes, and you would, too, if you saw them. I can think of a zillion better ways to spend what little cash I have.

“And anyway,” he goes on, “that was two films ago. Let me tell you, Madonna’s no Cher. Her acting went downhill in that last romantic comedy, which I said in the first place she should never have done. And I hear this new one isn’t very good, either. I might even wait for the DVD. Unless you really wanted to see it, Tracey.”

“Me? No! I was just going for you.”

“Then it’s settled.” He gives a single nod and declares with the veneration of a Hells Angel embarking on a nocturnal Harley journey, “Tonight, we shop.”

Shop we do.

Two hours, three cab rides and a pit stop at my apartment later, I’m sitting across from Raphael in a dimly lit bar. He’s traded the burgundy leather for a pair of equally tight retro acid-washed flare jeans he couldn’t resist. I’m in a fetching vintage Pucci print minidress. Raphael insisted on buying me a lime-green boa to go with it—They’re all the rage in Paris this season, Tracey—but it’s draped on the back of my stool over my brown suede jacket. Screw Paris.

“I’m just not the boa type,” I tell him when he begs me yet again to wrap it around my shoulders.

“Maybe not a few months ago, Tracey, but the new you definitely screams boa.”

I glance down, half expecting to see something other than my newly familiar shrunken self.

I shrug and sip the lethal pink concoction Raphael ordered for each of us. He dated a bartender a few weeks ago, and now he’s into all the fancy cocktails of yesteryear.

I forget what this one is called. At first it tasted like Windex, but now it’s going down easier. “I have to say, I’m just not hearing the screaming, Raphael.”

“That’s because you’re not listening. You’re trying to keep the new Tracey hidden behind the old Tracey’s insecurities. I say, release her!”

“And deck her out in a lime-green boa? That seems cruel.” I drain the last of my drink.

Raphael leans his chin on my shoulder. “What do you think, Tracey? Want another cocktail here, or should we move on to Oh, Boy?”

Oh, Boy is, of course, the club we’re headed to.

I glance around the bar. It’s getting crowded. And I’m craving a cigarette, but like all bars in Manhattan, the place is full of No Smoking signs.

I’m about to suggest moving on when I lock gazes with a Very Cute Guy standing with a small pack of Very Cute Guys back by the rest-room sign and the jukebox. He flashes one of those flirty, raised-eyebrow smiles that guys are always flashing at Kate. Never at me. Never until now, anyway.

I realize this might be my fleeting last chance at heterosexual contact this evening.

“Another cocktail here,” I tell Raphael, hoping Very Cute Guy doesn’t think Raphael and I are together. I glance at him, taking in the snug silk shirt, the pink drink, the eyelash perm.

Nah.

“Are you sure you want to stay?” Raphael asks. “Because this place is getting packed, Tracey.”

VCG seems to be shouldering his way toward us. Or is he just trying to escape the bathroom fumes or the blaring Bon Jovi? Hard to tell. But just in case…

“Let’s stay for one more,” I say decisively.

Cute Guy’s name is Jeff. Jeff Stanton or Stilton—something like that.

How do I know this?

Because a few minutes after our second drink arrived, he popped up and introduced himself to me.

His name is Jeff, he’s a broker—or trader. I don’t know, exactly; something boring and Wall Street.

Oh, and he has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars.

How do I know this, you might ask?

Because he has Star Wars sheets. Sadly, I am so not kidding.

And if you’ve figured out how I know about his sheets, you also know that I’m not only dressing like a trollop these days; I’m conducting myself like one.

Did I get wasted and sleep with Jeff Stanton/Stilton/Something that starts with an S and ends with an N?

Yes.

Do I regret it now that the morning light is filtering through the slats of his blinds and I can’t even recall which freaking borough I’m in?

Hell, yes.

It’s bad enough that I’m in a borough at all. I had him pegged for Manhattan, Upper West Side. Tribeca, maybe. But a borough?

At least it’s not Jersey, I tell myself, sitting up in his twin bed—yes, I said twin bed—and pulling the StarWars flat sheet up to my chin as I assess the situation and try to remember how I got from Point A—the bar—to Point X-rated.

It’s freezing in here, by the way. I’m surprised I can’t see my breath. And there’s no quilt on the bed.

Oh, wait…there is a quilt. I can see it when I peer over the edge. It’s been passionately pitched into a heap on the floor beside my clothes—with the exception of my lime-green boa, which is draped over a dresser knob across the room.

How the hell did it get there?

And while we’re on that topic, how the hell did I get here? And where is here?

I remember asking Jeff S-n, at one point in the night, if he lived in Jersey.

I remember him laughing and saying of course not, as though I’d accused him of being a rifle-toting redneck bootlegger from West Virgin-ee.

What I don’t remember is when Raphael abandoned me at the bar with Jeff S-n or how it was decided that I would be borough-bound to have sex with a complete stranger.

I only know that much liquor was involved, followed by a long cab ride over a bridge. It could’ve been the Golden Gate, for all I noticed while I was making out with Jeff S-n in the back seat.

So what happened when we got here, wherever we are?

Searching my mind for reassuring memories of doormen or elevators or quaint parkside brownstones, I vaguely recall a side street crammed with parked cars, apartment buildings and small houses.

An educated guess tells me Jeff lives in one of them. There are major gaps in my recollection of our pre-bed travels.

I do know that it was dark when we came in, and he didn’t turn on lights.

Ostensibly so that I wouldn’t glimpse Yoda on a pillow-case and flee screaming into the night.

Maybe it’s not so bad, I try to tell myself. Maybe it’s even kind of, I don’t know, sweet that a grown man sleeps in a twin bed with Star Wars sheets, you know?

I turn my head and glance at Jeff, wondering if I’ll be swept into a wave of post-coital tenderness.

Nope, nothing sweet about it. It’s freakish, that’s what it is.

His mouth is open, wafting beery morning breath. I can see all his fillings, and a hinge of thick whitish drool connecting his upper lip to his lower.

Oh, ick. I’m outta here.

He doesn’t even stir as I slip out of bed and dive into my clothes. Shivering from the cold, I glance around the room as I dress. I half expect to see cheesy posters on the walls: race cars or topless women. To his credit, there are none. The room is messily nondescript. But there is a shelf lined with trophies and another with a bunch of Tolkien and C. S. Lewis titles.

I take another look at Jeff, half expecting to realize, in the broad light of day, that he’s actually an adolescent boy. After all, he was pretty vague about what he does for a living—or was it just that I tuned him out when I found out he was in finance?

Hmm. I note a reassuring stubble of beard on his chin, right beneath the drool, and what’s visible of his chest is broad and hairy. He certainly looks like a grown man. Snores like one, too.

Lord, I just hope I’m not in his boyhood home. When we walked in, he whispered, “Shh! My roommates are sleeping.” Still, you never know. What if his roommates are of the parental variety?

Not that I wouldn’t consider dating somebody who still lives at home, but…well, I wouldn’t dream of conducting a one-night stand with anybody’s parents on the other side of the bedroom wall.

Nor would I, in my kinkiest fantasies, have dreamed of conducting a one-night stand while reclining on an Ewok’s face.

I look back at the slumbering Jeff S-n. Should I wake him to say goodbye?

He emits a snorting sound, smacks his lips, rolls over.

I wrinkle my nose.

Okay, but should I at least leave a note?

I could write down my phone number, I think, as I put on my suede jacket.

But what if he calls? Then I’ll have to see him again.

And what if he doesn’t call? Then I’ll feel like a real tramp.

Screw it. Like I haven’t already descended into the depths of trampdom?

Carrying my shoes, boa and purse, I step into a carpeted hall, half expecting to find a graying man in corduroy slippers and a cardigan padding toward the bathroom.

But all I see is a row of closed doors and one that’s ajar, revealing a fraction of a sink and toilet. I glance in longingly as I pass, wishing I had time to spare. I sort of have to pee; I’m dehydrated; my mouth tastes like somebody vomited in it.

But, sniffing the air, I can smell coffee brewing. One of the “roomies” is up. I can’t risk hanging out here a second longer.

So long, Jeff S-n. Thanks for the—uh, memory blanks.

I head down the stairs and out the front door, stepping out into what I sincerely hope isn’t the Bronx. Or Staten Island.

The instant the frigid fresh air hits my face, I wish I had snagged Jeff S-n’s quilt to wrap around me for the trip home. It has to be below freezing, and all I have is a thin leather jacket. Oh, and the boa. I wrap it around my low-cut neckline, hoping to stave off pneumonia.

I walk gingerly toward the street, swept first by a wave of nausea, then a wave of panic—until I reassure myself that my meds will keep a full-blown attack at bay—followed by a wave of homesickness for Manhattan, for my little studio, for Will….

Yes, homesick for Will McCraw.

It’s been three months, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely over him.

It doesn’t mean that when I’m out on the street, I don’t constantly, subconsciously, look for him on the crowded sidewalks, thinking that I’ve glimpsed his face on a passerby—but it never turns out to be him.

And it doesn’t mean that I’m over longing for the days of waking up next to a warm, familiar body in a warm, familiar place.

But Will has moved on. He and Esme—his summer stock costar, with whom he cheated on me—are a solid couple.

How do I know this?

Will told me.

That’s because Will thinks we’re friends.

Yes, you heard me. Friends.

Is that a cliché, or what? He wants us to stay friends. So he calls me every week or two to “check in.” Usually, he does all the talking. I hold up my end of our conversation by trying to sound enthused about his brand-spanking-new life that doesn’t include me. Except, of course, in said friend capacity.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of Jeff S-n’s brick row house, I survey the block and light a cigarette. No real clues in the ubiquitous three-and four-story brick apartment buildings or small one-and two-family houses fronted by low wrought-iron fences. My gut tells me I’m in Brooklyn, but it could be Queens, for all I know. I can see a street sign, but it means nothing to me. There’s probably a Fifteenth Street in every borough. I could start walking until I find a cross street, but unless it’s a major, familiar one (even I know that Pelham Parkway is in the Bronx and Astoria Boulevard is in Queens), I’m still going to be lost.

Mental Note: Start carrying pocket atlas with street map of entire city.

Mental Note, alternative to above: Stop sleeping around.

An old lady trundles in my direction, pushing one of those wire carts full of plastic grocery bags. She’s wearing a down coat and sensible shoes, and I’m wearing a minidress and a lime-green boa.

“Excuse me, which way is the subway?” I ask her as she passes.

“Which line?” She doesn’t even bat an eye at my getup. Displaced sluts must be a common sight on weekend mornings in this neighborhood.

I shrug. “Any line to Manhattan.”

“The F train is two blocks that way.” She points and moves on, rattling off down the street with her cart full of groceries.

I look after her, envying her life’s simplicity. It occurs to me that I’d trade places with that gnarled grandma in a second….

After which it occurs to me that I’m probably still slightly drunk.

The F train. Okay, that tells me nothing. The F train runs from Brooklyn to Manhattan to Queens.

Then again, who cares what borough I’m in?

I head down the street, passing a couple of teenaged boys dribbling a basketball between them. They do a double take and snicker.

Well, who cares what they think?

I grab the dangling end of my boa and toss it over my shoulder with a flourish.

One of them mutters something as they pass. I don’t hear the words, but I know it’s about me and his tone is snide.

And suddenly, I care.

I don’t want to be this…this trollop.

I want to be me again. Tracey Spadolini. The only thing is, I have no idea who she is anymore.

Three years of entanglement with Will, followed by three dazed post-breakup months…

I’m not just lost and alone in some borough.

I’m lost and alone, period.

Brushing away tears, I make my way toward the F train, hoping to God that it’ll carry me home.