“Couldn’t you skip it, just this once?”
Tina and Luke don’t have kids, even though they’ve been married for five years already. They don’t talk about it, and I don’t pry, but I know Luke’s mother, Frances, wonders. Tina’s mother is blessedly no longer close enough to inflict direct damage. Although my guess is Tina and her sisters will be mopping up the fallout from their childhood for some time. On the outside, Tina’s your typical smartmouthed Outerborough Broad; on the inside, thanks to Dear Old Mom, she’s a tangled mass of insecurities.
“No, I can’t skip it, I promised her this morning.”
There’s a tiny pause, like when a reporter halfway around the world doesn’t answer the New York anchor’s question right away. “Okay, fine,” she says on a sigh, and hangs up. I’m tempted to feel guilty, until I realize if it was that important I would have heard it in her voice. Or she would have been sobbing and incoherent, like she was that time Luke and she broke up their senior year. Of course, they were back together before the weekend was out, although not before Tina had gone through three boxes of tissues and two pans of brownies. Not a fun weekend. Well, except for the brownies, which she shared.
Before I have a chance to cancel my guilt trip, I get another call. Angelique hands it over. Judging from her expression, I’m guessing she’s finding this an interesting way to break the afternoon’s tedium.
It’s Luke this time. “You gonna be home tonight? I need to talk.”
Gee—you don’t suppose these two calls are related, do you? And why, out of the approximately eight million relatives these two have between them, do they pick me to help them sort through whatever it is this time?
Because they always have, that’s why. Because they know they can trust me.
I’m quiet for too long, I guess, because Luke says, “Shit— Tina already called you, huh?”
And the cornerstone of my trustworthiness? An ironclad policy of not lying. Unless I absolutely have to. “Uh…yeah. She did.”
That gets another “Shit” and a very heavy sigh. Then: “She say anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I say, thinking even admitting her wanting to talk is probably a confidence violation. However, telling him we’re meeting up at Pinky’s definitely is. I can’t help it, I’ve always been protective of Tina. Probably more than is good for her, I know, but I can’t help it. Although my wanting to shield her from life’s doo-doo is nothing compared to how Luke treats her. The term “spun glass” comes to mind.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“Gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.”
And he hangs up.
Luke and Tina. My very own reality show. With extra cheese.
“He sounds sexy,” Angelique says after I hand back the phone.
Sexy? Luke? Yeah, I suppose. In that heavy-lidded Italian thug kind of way. Not that Luke’s a thug, but put him in tight jeans and a T-shirt, dangle a cigarette from his lips, put lifts in his shoes, and you got it.
“Married friend.”
“How married?”
“Very. Five years. To the woman who called earlier, in fact. They’re nuts about each other, have been since ninth grade.”
“Huh.” Some keys click. “Bet that voice sounds even better in the dark.”
She may have a point. However, as I’ve been listening to Luke since we were communicating in monosyllables and grabbing our Gerber teething biscuits out of each other’s hands, I can’t say as his voice has made much of an impression on me. Okay, maybe once or twice, in a weak, deluded moment, but not for a long time.
A very long time.
“He’s a plumber,” I say, don’t ask me why. “Well, plumbing contractor. Works for his father.”
“Hey. Plumbers make good money. And they’ll never be out of work.”
This is true. “But he’s married,” I repeat, realizing this is the first real conversation Angelique and I have ever had. And possibly the last, if I win the how-long’s-she-gonna-last pool. “To my best friend.”
After more paper shuffling and clicking, Angelique says, “So. You have a boyfriend?”
I don’t have the time or energy to deal with a puppy, what on earth would I do with a boyfriend? This, however, doesn’t stop images from springing to mind. Involving things one might do with boyfriends and various appendages attached thereto. I quickly, if regretfully, push the images away.
“Not at the moment. My old one broke and I never got around to replacing him.” I then add, tempted to look around furtively and lower my voice, “I have a daughter, though.”
Her dark eyes light up. “Me, too! How old is yours?”
“Five going on forty. Her birthday was a couple of days ago.”
“You got a picture?”
Do I have a picture, is the woman nuts? Like CIA operatives in a clandestine meeting, we drag out our wallets and compare children. I compliment Angelique on hers, already a knockout at seven. But let’s be honest here, Starr is going through what I hope to hell is an awkward phase. God knows, nobody’s going to mistake me for Catherine Zeta-Jones—even at her most pregnant—but my baby’s skinny, she’s nearsighted (like her mama), she’s got all this frizzy black hair (like her Great-Gran Judith)…poor thing looks like a myopic johnny mop.
“She looks very…sweet,” Angelique says at last.
Sweet is not the word I’d choose to describe Starr, but my heart cramps anyway because I’m crazy in love with her. Even if she totally freaks me out at times. “Thanks,” I say softly.
It’s kinda nice, being able to talk about my kid at work. Not something I ever thought about when I was really single. I mean, please—is “single mother” an oxymoron or what? “Single” implies “alone,” and God knows, the one thing you’re not once you’ve got a kid is alone. Anyway, it’s not as if nobody knows about Starr, it’s just that women who aren’t mothers aren’t real interested in hearing about your kids. Not that I blame them. If you’re not living it, it’s kinda hard to understand the excitement generated by that first dump in the toilet. Still. It gets old, pretending your children basically don’t exist while you’re at work. As if they’re houseplants or something. Because, you know, we couldn’t possibly be a hundred percent focused on our work if we’re also worrying about our kids. Never mind that some of us can actually do two things at once. And do them well, to boot.
Nikky suddenly bursts into the office, a frantic expression overriding the Botox. “Ellie! Darling! Come quick! You have to help me!”
Exclamation points whiz past my ears. “Sure, I’ll be there in a sec, right after I get this cutting list done—”
“No! This can’t wait! The Volare rep just called and said the company’s discontinued the floral print! Which means I have to pick a substitute! And I’ve got stores expecting those sundresses in six weeks!”
Even I can see there’s no turning off the panic button until the crisis has been resolved. Now, you might ask (understandably enough) why the woman can’t just pick a substitute fabric and be done with it. Well, there are several reasons, number one being—as you may have noticed—Nikky’s brain shuts down in a crisis. Two, since several hundred thousand dollars’ worth of orders are riding on this particular item, the substitute fabric has to be chosen very carefully.