The Plus One: A hilarious feel good romantic comedy, page 5
Mrs. Claudette Davis, a.k.a. ‘Mother Davis’ or ‘the mother’ was the woman who hated me more than life itself.
Things hadn’t started that way, however. When Charlie first introduced me to his family, I was quite a hit. The ‘new girl’ being paraded around the room with the fanfare that the Davis’ were accustomed to.
I, having fallen deeply in love with Charlie the moment I lay eyes on him, wanted to make a great first impression. Dario spent hours honing my wardrobe to be Hampton-chic. Least not I make anything less than a perfect impression.
Hours were spent grilling Charlie on his mother’s favorite foods, colors, and even types of perfume she liked.
A week was spent planning and organizing the hostess gift I would bring. Just enough ‘oh you shouldn’t have’ mixed with ‘I am astounded at your taste’ consumed my week before we left.
We arrived at the Davis estate, me, completely unprepared for the sophisticated manner in which Charlie was raised, and he, with the complete obliviousness that I didn’t belong.
I can still feel his hand as he reached out and squeezed my fingers, “They’ll love you.” He promised, and then kissed me on the forehead.
I gulped my fear down and made him promise to not leave my side, even to go to the bathroom. He laughed as he pushed the door of the car closed and I yanked his arm toward me.
“Promise?” I asked, clear I expected a response.
He leaned in, lifted my chin with his finger, and kissed my lips, “I promise.”
My heart fell even further than it had already for Charlie Davis. I knew I already loved him and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. It didn’t matter that I was only twenty-four and had just graduated from college. I felt in my heart that I was ready. And most importantly, I was ready for Charlie.
A gravel driveway curved around the front of his parent’s stately manor and the large black door began to open as we neared the steps.
Were they watching? Did they see my apprehension and nervousness as I made Charlie promise to never leave my side? Do they have microphones and cameras?
My mind raced as the door opened and a nervous laugh rose in my throat and I coughed to hold it down.
A well-coifed man, gray but not old looking and well-tanned, wearing sharply pressed khakis and a light teal golf shirt opened the door.
Definitely not the help, I determined.
Charlie’s father greeted him with a smile, a hug, and a hard slap on his back. I can still remember the feeling when he turned to me and his eyes fell with some relief at my beige capris, pale yellow top, and white Sperry topsiders.
I made a mental note to ask Charlie about the other dates he brought home, and to thank him because for some reason the senior Mr. Davis was quite impressed with me.
The next challenge in the quest was to meet ‘the mother’. (quotations are important here) It’s important to note that up until now I’d never been nervous about meeting ‘the mother’. Mostly because my experience has always been that parents loved me.
I was funny, smart, and loved old people. That seemed to come through in every encounter and whether it was the prospect of looking upon the person who may be responsible for caring for them someday or just not being too offended by who their son brought home, I ended up making a good impression.
But this time it mattered. I knew that I loved Charlie and that I wanted to be with him. Babies had even crossed my mind, but only briefly.
The senior Mr. Davis guided us into a large glassed-in sunroom that overlooked a lush lawn that rolled from the back stone patio to the river that wound through the estate.
‘The mother’ approached us with the gracefulness that made me think she was a blend of Grace Kelly and Jane Fonda. Hoping that the humor and acceptance of Jane Fonda were coming to dinner that night.
“This is for you,” I thrust the custom basket toward ‘the mother’ and stood back, holding my breath, awaiting her praise.
It was assembled by the head chef at The Savoy and with the collection of information I collected from Charlie, he chose items that would align with ‘the mother’s’ taste and had also been items that were used for the Royal family when they visited from England.
“Sure to be a hit,” Emile promised.
“How lovely, dear,” Claudette (aka ‘the mother’) said. Her words said ‘wow, thanks’ but how she handled the basket was more like she was carrying a bomb away from a terrorist site.
Charlie told me later that night that it was the most praise she had bestowed upon anyone’s gift. I’d have to trust him on that one.
The next day was spent on the family boat learning all about each other’s dreams and wishes for the future. Now, it’s important to know the context of terms as they relate to every person in the story. Boat to the Davis family equals yacht to everyone else. Small get together equals a party of two hundred. A meet and greet with the family equals an inquisition.
Leslie was the youngest of the Davis children and the one and only Davis that didn’t obtain any of the grace and beauty that ‘the mother’ possessed. She was short and boxy, and her dark black hair was unnaturally curled into a bob-style cut close to her scalp. Dark blue eyes peered out from her sunken eyes and from behind stray curls, and critically surveyed everyone that came near her.
I assumed she was used to receiving her fair share of criticism by the way she held her crossed arms closed to her chest and scowled with folded brows at me.
“You must be the new girl,” Leslie asked.
This is the moment that Dario would have leaned back, one leg further behind the other, crossed his arms, and looked at Leslie from her fake perm down to her leather loafers and then back up to meet her eyes. And instead of speaking the words that so many other people need to rely upon to convey their thoughts, he would have huffed and raised his chin and walked away.
Saying more than anyone in the Davis household could ever have said.
“Yes,” I pathetically mumbled and reached out my arm. “Nice to meet you.”
Leslie turned to Charlie, “Didn’t think you’d have the balls to bring another one home.”
My face went pale, I could feel the color and the warmth drain from my body as I retracted my arm. I looked at Charlie for some help, a lifeline, something!
“Nice one, Leslie,” Charlie put his arm on my back and steered me away from his sister and into the center of the room.
He leaned in close to me and whispered, “These functions are well spent by the bar. Even if you’re not drinking, the others are, and they’re easily impressed by full sentences by this point in the evening.”
I laugh at the release of tension his humor always brought.
He points to a large man in a navy blue jacket, red shoes, and white sailing paints stained with a blotch of red wine just above his right knee. “That’s Mr. Surrey. He’s the de facto leader of the group. If you can make him smile, then the rest of the room is a sell.”
“How do I do that?” I asked suddenly concerned at the prospect of the next challenge.
“Just laugh at his jokes,” Charlie explains. “No matter how lame.”
The next hour was spent giggling and blushing along with Mr. Surrey’s lame, even inappropriate, jokes all at the behest of impressing the Davis’.
And it worked.
By the time Charlie and I climbed into his car and pulled out of the gravel driveway to begin our drive home to the city, his family had accepted the not-so-blue-blood date he brought home.
Even Leslie had reluctantly eased at her admonishment for my not having received a private education.
The next four months were spent in relative bliss as Charlie worked up the courage to propose and I prepared for the day that he would pop the question.
Finding the receipt for the ring design and the date that Charlie had circled in red pen in his pocket calendar, allowed me enough time to book a manicure (I sprung for the upgrade to gels) and a hot wax (full menu) so I would be ready for the ring and the celebration.
He asked, I said ‘yes’, and we celebrated the whole weekend, surfacing only for food and to shower.
When I remember the moment, it seemed like it was yesterday. I was young and in love. I had Charlie and a beautiful ring and the acceptance of his family.
I tossed the comforter off my legs and folded it back over Mr. Darcy and pulled my legs out of the sheets. I made my way in the dark to my dresser and pulled open the top drawer where I kept all my prize possessions.
My first bra (yes, I still have it - size 30 A), my first swimming badge (but I think they gave these to everyone on the team), and my engagement ring.
I lifted the brass clip on the box and took out the two rings and slipped them on my left ring finger. Each time I put them on they felt heavy with each memory they contained, both good and bad. But now, in addition to the memories, the added request from Charlie made me feel like they were pleading to stay. Begging even.
I clasped my fingers into a fist and watched the multitude of diamonds reflect the streetlights from outside my bedroom window. He’d have to rip it from me if he wanted it back, that I’d decided. And as I crawled back into bed, pulled the sheets up over my shoulders, Mr. Darcy agreed.
8
Feigning ignorance as to the whereabouts of my engagement ring and wedding band is much easier to do by text. It’s also easier to ignore Charlie entirely, and I still haven’t listened to the voice mail he left at three in the morning. I could never lie easily, a skill that could’ve brought me much more joy in both my dating life, work, and marriage. I managed to secure a total of three hours of solid unrelaxing sleep to only be awoken by a purring Mr. Darcy who had determined that the alarm that was buzzing was even too annoying for him.
A quick shower, a fashionable messy bun, and the only things left to do before I rush out the door for work are to scoop some of Mr. Darcy’s overpriced kibbles into a bowl and top off his water.
I’m starting to believe that Mr. Darcy looks forward to me leaving for work in the mornings and I hear a slight purr of contentment as I lock the door behind me.
I’ve mastered the art of running in heels and make decent time as I fly down my stairs and rush out into the road to flag down a cab that is streaming by my apartment. He pulls over and I tell myself I’m a master of time management as I realize there’s still time to grab a specialty coffee before I dash up the stairs to our Monday morning meeting.
I adjust my skirt and reach for the handle and open the door. I turn around at the panicked sound behind me.
“Uh, that’s mine,” a man says as he slides into the back seat of the cab. He’s holding his phone next to his ear, so I know he thinks he’s important. “Big meeting,” his weak attempt at vindication.
He eyes my periwinkle blue skirt and matching shoes and winks, “Thanks hon.” And then closes the door.
How would I describe him? A flash of images crossed my mind and the most fitting comparison would be that he’s a human version of a hemorrhoid.
The cab speeds off and I’m left fuming as I frantically wave down another. I’m more mad at myself for letting the clown steal my cab than I am at him for taking it.
How did he not know that I too was going to a meeting? Grant it, I look like I’m on my way for my weekly fitting at Saks but, in truth, I have a huge layout meeting in less than thirty minutes! As the assistant to the editor, I have more responsibility than my title may imply and it’s not only important that I make a good impression with the next issue’s layout but I want to pitch a new idea for a piece on new age dating. Imagine how to lose a guy in fewer swipes but with real-life submissions.
I manage to get a cab but now I’m cutting it too close to be able to grab a coffee. The humidity is rising in the city and the inside of the cab is beginning to smell ripe and it’s not even noon. My fashionable messy bun has slipped and has instantly transformed my ‘girl’s got style’ look, into a ‘girl doesn’t care’ look. I move to the middle of the back seat and try to adjust the awkward-looking cone on the top of my head in the reflection in the driver’s rearview mirror.
I catch him watching me and I smile, “I woke up late, and I have a big meeting this morning.”
He nods then returns his gaze to the traffic, uninterested in my coiffure malfunction. I pay the fare and dash out of the cab and up the stairs to the offices of NYSharp.
Gloria installed an aromatherapy air enhancement system to the vents in the office believing it can transform the mood of the office and improve the creativity of the staff.
Monday morning is when layout meetings are scheduled and when a blend of eucalyptus and neroli are pumped into the office. Later in the afternoon, it will be a blend of orange and sage.
I pull open the door and begin to peel off my sweater as I walk toward my desk. I toss it over the back of my chair and wave my hands under my pits.
My sweater was sticking to my arms and the hurried rush I was in because of my morning cab heist, forced my body temperature to rise. I pull open the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out the small travel makeup bag that most people would use only for vacations but was a staple for anyone who worked in the fashion industry.
Being prepared for a last-minute dinner, meeting, or fashion shoot always meant having a change of clothes and accessories on hand. I pull the tube of deodorant from the bag and swipe it twice under each arm and give them both a sniff.
“Nice,” Dario says as he walks up behind me and sits a fresh mochaccino on my desk.
I dive for it as if it’s a life raft and inhale the scent. I take a long swig before I thank Dario, which I do with a kiss on his cheek.
He looks at the flush in my skin, “A little rushed this morning?”
“A little,” I admit. “Plus, some jerk took my cab, so I didn’t have time to grab a coffee, so thanks for this.”
I raise the cup and take another sip.
Dario’s eyes rise to my head, “And you obviously didn’t have time to shower.”
“I showered,” I declare in defense of my appearance. “Sort of.”
He pushes me down into my chair and begins to unwind the messy knot I hastily created in the backseat of the cab. I begin to explain and then stop, it’s no use, within fifteen seconds Dario’s managed to create the look I was going for but was unable to achieve.
“Why can’t I move in with you and Saul?” I drop my face into my hands.
“Because you’re too messy and now you have that cat,” Dario says the last word with slight disdain, and I think I should be mildly offended.
“There,” Dario taps my shoulder. “You’re ready for the presentation today. Which starts in ten minutes.” Dario, who’s the only person in the office who still wears a watch, taps his wrist with his finger.
“Why are you coming to the layout meeting?” I ask, but secretly glad to have him there for moral support.
“The layout meeting was pushed to tomorrow,” Dario reminds me. “This morning the brand executive from Sutton Partners is here to pitch Gloria on an exclusive private label for NYSharp and an update on the collaborative project she’s been thinking about.”
My face contorts and I know it’s not attractive, but more importantly, it tells Dario I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“The whole travel makeup line and scent that Gloria wants to brand for NYSharp?” he says trying to jog my memory.
“Shit! That’s today?”
I’m mildly thankful that I have a twenty-four-hour reprieve from my pitch and layout meeting but I’ve no clue if I was supposed to have anything prepared for this.
The board room is located on the opposite end of the floor from where Gloria’s office is and is completely encased in glass. The light is streaming in from every angle and from the far end of the hall, I can see a display of items that are set up in the middle of the table. An assortment of travel-sized items uniformly branded with NYSharp’s trademarked black and white ‘NYS’ logo easy to recognize from a distance.
“How was the Thai restaurant?” Dario asks as we make our way to the boardroom.
“Better than my date.”
“What happened?” Dario has taken an extra interest in my dating life since he and Saul moved in together. Pouring the energy he built up in his ‘singlehood’ lifestyle into my cup. It’s what I would call a symbiotic relationship because as much as he craves involvement in my curse-laden dates, I require his advice and support regularly.
“Before or after I smashed my head into his face?” I remark.
In the last few feet before we reach the door to the boardroom, I relay the three key points from my night.
One. My date caught me using the dating app in the middle of our date.
Dario’s face contorts.
Two. I smashed my head into his face and I think I may have left him with a mild break, but definitely a swollen nose and bloodied shirt.
Dario slaps his hand over his gaping mouth.
Three. I forgot his name.
Dario rolls his eyes.
“How much did you have to drink?” Dario quips.
Not as much as you’d think seeing as all that took place in less than a couple of hours.
“Oh, and the best part of the night,” I add. “Charlie sent me a text asking that I bring the ring with me to Paris!”
“Is that why you’re wearing it?” Dario asked.
I stop walking and extend my left hand. “Crap. I fell asleep with it on my finger last night and I must have forgotten to take it off this morning.” I wiggle it around and face the enormous diamond to the inside of my palm.
“Or you didn’t want to take it off.” Another thing Dario does is practice his unofficial title of ‘boyfriend to a therapist’ on me.
Saul is a couple’s therapist and has a thriving business in the city. His clients range from those that want to save their marriage, to those that can’t afford to not save their marriage, and to those that want to stop being single. He began to take on clients who suffered similar fates as mine about five years into his practice. Divorced, widowed, or just caught in the undercurrent of bad dates, many thirty-somethings found their way to Saul’s couch in search of answers.
