I feel sort of weepy, and Maya gets that pitying look in her eyes again, so I ruffle the newspaper and say, “You think I should get a place downtown, or on the Riviera?”
“You might not have a choice. How much can you pay?”
I look around her apartment. “What’s the rent here?”
“Take a guess.”
It’s the second story of a cape in a nice neighborhood—the upper eastside. Hardwood floors, white walls, a big kitchen with tile counters. Maya’s always had good taste, and the decor is mostly minimalist with Asian and Jewish accents thrown in. A Chinese lantern hangs over the dining room table and the mantel displays her mother’s collection of antique menorahs. “I don’t know,” I say. “Nine hundred?”
Maya snorts. “Try sixteen.”
“But it’s only got one bedroom, and no dishwasher!”
“Dishwashers are two hundred a month extra.”
“Oh. Well…” I don’t know how to tell her, but she’s been had. I bet this was the only place they looked at. Not everyone is good at this kind of thing.
“You’ll find something,” she says, and hands me a set of keys. “Use my car. Brad and I are sharing. You want to come shopping?”
I brighten. “Shopping?”
“Groceries, Elle,” she says, laughing. “Then I have to stop by the bar.”
“Oh. No. I should start the apartment hunt.”
“Back in a few hours, then.” She closes the door behind her, and I have a brainstorm: I’m gonna find the perfect apartment before she gets back. This is my new life, this is the New Elle—if Oprah can buy a fifty-million-dollar house without breaking a sweat, I can find an apartment in the time it takes Maya to buy detergent and cottage cheese.
I’m into the last ten minutes of Davey and Goliath when a key turns in the front door. I hit the off button on the remote a moment before Maya enters. I wish she’d come later. Goliath had disobeyed Davey, and I’m pretty sure he had a lesson coming.
Maya glances at the TV. “What were you watching?”
“Mmm? Oh, the news.”
“What’s going on?”
“Lot’s of…bad stuff. The usual. You’re back quick.”
“I’ve been gone four hours, Elle.”
“Well, I’m going to look at an apartment.” I point to the classifieds crumpled on the table. “There’s an open house, at one o’clock.”
She checks her watch. “It’s twenty after, sweetie.”
So I lolled around watching Davey and Goliath reruns and missed an open house. So what? It’s only Sunday. I’ve been in California less than twenty-four hours. I’m supposed to have accomplished something by now?
It’s not like I don’t have goals. Of course, I have goals. They are, after much soul-searching:
Apartment.
Car.
Job.
Man.
And, of course, the complete obliteration of Iowa, by Act of God, Hanta Virus or Crème Brûlée. I’m not particular.
I have assets as well as goals, by the way. I got $1,100 for my Vera Wang wedding dress. Was going to sell it on eBay, but began weeping when I wrote the header: Vera Wang Wedding Dress: Never Worn. Sold it to a local wedding boutique, instead, for their first offer. I would have talked them up, but it cost Louis $4,800, and I wanted him to suffer. If he ever learns how cheap I sold it for, I mean. Which he won’t.
So $1,100 plus the roughly $4,000 in our household account, which was by all rights mine. Plus the triple-wick candle and instant ear thermometer, and so on.
I’m flush. A single girl in Santa Barbara with five grand and change. It’s a monster stack of cash, burning a hole. The future lies before me, full of abundant promise and happy surprises, like an endless sale rack at Barneys.
Chapter 4
Monday. Would prefer to remain wallowing in self-pity, comforting myself with treacley Facts of Life reruns and family-size pizzas, but I’m afraid to appear as encroaching houseguest. Normally, I’d go shopping to kill time, but I need to conserve my monster stack of cash—my credit card companies have all fallen victim to some sort of computer virus. Technology. Just goes to show you.
I muster myself into a feel-good outfit and head downtown. Window shopping is just as satisfying as buying.
Except Santa Barbara didn’t used to be such a retail Mecca. When I was growing up, there were three local boutiques, the best of which specialized in sequins and appliqué. Now there’s Nordstrom, Bebe, Aveda and Banana, plus a Gap and Limited for when you need a single strap tank for the week that it’s in. Across the street is Bryan Lee (très L.A.), and down toward the beach are vintage shops catering to girls half my age—but I still manage to find a YSL suit I can squeeze into.
Fleeing temptation, I escape into the newish Borders Books, grab a Vogue and settle into a purple velvet chair.
A feature on Antonio Banderas takes a while to get through—kept having to pause and take deep breaths. Maybe my new man should be Latino. There are lots of Latinos in Santa Barbara. Suspect they are good family men, too.
I turn to the last page, “The Ten Best Satchels in America,” and compare them to my ratty old Coach tote. Everyone else is carrying satchels this year. Not tatty ancient totes. I want Vogue’s number one pick—the Fendi. It’s only $1,650. I wonder how much I’ll get paid at my new job. Louis billed three hundred an hour, last I checked, which was years ago. Surely I’ll make enough to afford a simple handbag.
I return Vogue to the rack and grab Cosmopolitan. I haven’t read Cosmo since college, but I’m single now. This month promises “A Dating Diary,” “How to Perfect Your Stripping Skills on Virtual Boy-Toys” and some advice I could really use: “Land That Man, Ace Your Job and Look Your Sexiest Ever.”
Standing in the check-out line, I read “Ten Girlfriend Goof-ups” and discover I’ve girlfriend goofed in every way. I could have kept Louis if I’d cooked hearty dinners, wore sexy underwear, feigned interest in his work and allowed him time “in his cave.”
“I can help who’s next,” the cashier calls. He’s California cute, with dark hair and a tan. That’s one thing about Santa Barbara—it’s packed with beautiful people. Dumb, but beautiful. I know. I grew up here.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask Surfer Boy as I hand him the magazine.
“Uh, yeah.” He looks nervous. “That’ll be $3.79.”
I dig in my repellent, prehistoric, possibly-infectious Coach tote for my wallet. “I’m doing a survey. Does she cook you hearty dinners?”
“She makes pot roast sometimes.”
“Uh-huh.” I give him a five. “Does she wear sexy underwear?”
His eyes light up.
“Give you time in your cave?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“I don’t get that one either. You think you’ll ever break up with her?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “No doubt.”
See? Cosmo is wrong. All the peek-a-boo bras in the world wouldn’t have saved me and Louis. Which means it’s not my fault. It’d be Louis’s fault, but he’s clueless. That only leaves one person: The Iowan Floozy. I consider throwing Cosmo in the trash, punishment for misinformation, but decide