Fake It 'til You Make It, page 6
She looks at her screen and wiggles it close to my face as we walk. ‘He’s everyone’s type. Those are the kind of arms and shoulders that can strip you bare on a hot day and make you sweaty even on a cold day.’
She raises her eyebrows – once, twice. I snort. Actually snort.
‘I like tall and weedy, not tall and muscly.’
‘Nooooo, you liked Andrew and since you’ve always been destined for him by our families, you’ve never thought to explore what else might be on offer. Like… hello! This guy!’
I shake my head, bemused. ‘What would a guy like that want with an unemployed auditor, who, thanks to six months’ advance rent and a new wardrobe, is basically broke?’
Dee rolls her eyes. ‘You are a woman living in her dream apartment block, with a completely stunning new look.’ She twizzles the ends of my new long bob. ‘Who is just waiting to find a career she’s passionate about and a man to use for wild sex.’
A guffaw breaks from deep inside of me. ‘You were earning top sibling marks until that last comment.’
We’re walking side by side, given the restaurant is spacious. This place is one of the best eateries in Manhattan, according to its website, and evidenced by the fact they don’t pack the tables together and oversubscribe.
‘Ladies!’ Meredith stands from a round table, where she’s sitting with Nate, and gives us a cheery wave. ‘Wow, Abbey, you look…’ She holds her arms out in front of her as she looks me up and down. I step into her hold to end the uncomfortable inspection.
‘You look lovely, as always, Meredith. Thanks for making the reservation.’
She gives me an airy wave, as if to say it’s nothing. We both know she loves to organize dinners and dinner parties. It’s part of her role as Nate’s wife, as she sees it.
‘Abbey,’ Nate says, like an architect might greet a client. Then he gives me a glancing kiss on the cheek. Ever the affectionate big brother.
I quickly scan the round table, counting the places on its immaculate white linen cloth, and wonder aloud as I clock the six Louis XVI upholstered chairs. ‘Are there others joining us?’
Meredith winces, then her lips rebound up again, as Nate says, ‘Drew is joining us.’
‘Andrew?’ I repeat in disbelief. Nate is one of few people who call him Drew.
‘You two are still friends?’ Meredith asks, like a person who has never been dumped before, let alone cheated on.
But, of course, to them I’ve simply parted ways with Nate’s childhood friend amicably.
They probably think I’d love to get back with him. In fact, they’re probably trying to set us back up – that’s the kind of thing Mom would put them up to.
And it’s not true. I don’t still want to be with him. I couldn’t. But I can’t deny my stomach is currently tying itself in a bow at the thought of seeing my ex.
Oh God, this is going to be a long dinner.
‘Are you okay?’ Dee whispers, firing daggers at Nate.
‘I’m fine. Surprised but fine. I guess I can’t avoid him forever, right? He’ll be invited to Mom and Dad’s vow renewal in a few weeks.’
‘I was hoping he wouldn’t have the audacity to—’
I cut her short because, as I take my seat, I remember there are two extra spaces at the table. ‘Who else is coming?’ I ask to anyone who’ll answer because I’m too busy staring at the two spare place settings, suddenly feeling disoriented.
Before I receive an answer, Dee slaps a hand to my arm. ‘You. Have. Got. To. Be. Shitting. Me.’
I know it’s bad before I even turn to follow her gaze.
Sure enough, when I do, it isn’t the opulent interiors of the restaurant that draw my attention but Andrew, who’s speaking to the guy on the welcome desk. Andrew, drawing a short white jacket from the arms of an extremely well put together, long and flawless red-haired woman.
Not only did he show up, he showed up with another woman.
Everything seems to have failed me – words, breath, sensibility. All I can do is stand from my seat and gawp at the couple heading our way.
When I think I can’t be any more shocked than I am in this moment, my brother does something he never does. He leans in to my ear and whispers, ‘I’m sorry, Abbey. I didn’t know he was bringing anyone until an hour ago and I didn’t know how best to forewarn you.’
‘So you just didn’t?’ Dee snarls.
I don’t know if I’m mad at my brother. I can’t process that right now. But I do know that I’m angry with myself. My naivety. That fleeting moment when my tummy danced.
I’m irate with Andrew. His brazenness. His lack of any semblance of compassion. The absence of any love or even respect for me whatsoever.
This isn’t even the woman he cheated on me with.
This is another woman.
He didn’t even plan to stay with the woman he cheated on me with.
He wanted her enough to leave me and not enough to stay with her. What does that say about our relationship?
Dee rises from her seat and I can tell she’s about to explode. Here. In this restaurant full of people. In front of my brother and sister-in-law and their perfect marriage.
I don’t know where I find it from but a wave of strength comes back into my jelly legs, then my backbone and eventually, my hand reaches out to Dee’s arm.
‘It’s embarrassing enough, Dee; please don’t make a scene.’
I’m flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Blown away that he would do this to me. But the overwhelming sense I feel is mortification. I am the woman who couldn’t keep the guy.
I watch the introductions and greetings take place around the table, silent, still.
Then, incredibly, audaciously, Andrew leans in to kiss my cheek.
‘This isn’t awkward, is it?’ he asks in my ear.
What I want to say is: You have got to be kidding me. It’s awkward as hell and you are the biggest asswipe walking this planet.
What I actually say is:
Nothing. Words have failed me. I’m speechless.
And what angers me more than my inability to respond appropriately is that, when he takes me into his embrace, his familiar scent is warming, comforting.
He is the sole reason that my brain and heart are completely fried. Yet, he’s the person who can help make it feel better. I close my eyes as I inhale the scent of nostalgia. Peace. A version of me I’m significantly more familiar with than the current me.
Once everyone is seated and a waiter has taken our drinks order, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room and do what every woman experiencing an existential crisis does – I stare at my reflection in the sink mirror.
I’m better than this, I tell myself. I don’t need to hide in bathrooms. I can do this.
It was going to happen sometime. Andrew is a family friend. He’s been in our lives since my earliest memories – despite the fact I actually didn’t like him as a child.
I continue to stare at my face, which is full of more make up than the old me would have ever worn; I stare at my, admittedly rather gorgeous and figure-hugging, little black dress. I might feel like the old me on the inside but I’m not. Just look at me. I am actually the woman I intend to become.
New Me does not shy away from a waste of air like Andrew. She doesn’t pine after his cologne. She’s courageous and she’s about to walk back into that fine dining room and show Andrew and his new girlfriend that she has moved on.
I give my reflected self one curt nod. You’ve got this. I’ve got this. Then I apply the overpriced lipstick I was lured into buying at my beauty makeover and proverbially brush myself off.
Walking back through the restaurant, I hold my chin high – more metaphorically than physically – and twist my lips up just like I twisted my new lipstick.
I. Am. So. Ready. For. This. Dinner.
‘So, how did you and Sasha meet?’ Meredith asks, finishing her question with a sip of Viognier and beaming in the direction of Andrew, seemingly lacking any emotional intelligence whatsoever.
Thank God for the vast à la carte menu I choose to get lost in.
I. Am. So. Over. This. Dinner.
The whole point of this disastrous experience was for Dee to share her baby news with Nate. From the way her knuckles are gripping her leather-bound menu so hard I can practically see bone, I know she won’t bring it up now.
I make an immediate decision to order no starter, a salad main and skip dessert. Free or not, no meal is worth this. The sooner I can leave and spare my ears the current fairy tale of Andrew and Sasha both gunning for the same yellow cab, the better.
They couldn’t be any more cliché.
Stuff waiting for a member of staff. I reach into the wine bucket where the wine Nate chose is chilling. I pour my glass to full beyond etiquette.
9
ABBEY
The best thing about dinner with Nate is that it’s over.
It was awful. Beyond awful. The stuff of nightmares.
I was first to leave, making a lame excuse about a work interview tomorrow, before the others had received the desserts and coffees they’d ordered. Dee wanted to leave with me in solidarity but I told her to stay – I know how she loves desserts and she’s eating for two now.
I blubbered my way to the subway, thankful to have held it together for more than an hour. Now, I’m heading into a pizza place between Clark Street station and my apartment block.
‘I’ll take a chocolate calzone, please,’ I tell the server, and I cry some more whilst I wait on a bench in the window, passersby staring at this ostensibly neurotic woman.
By the time I get the food back to my apartment block, the smell is killing me. I would happily bury my face in the contents of the box and grunt-gobble it up like a pig from a trough. It may not be fitting of my new capsule wardrobe and these stupid heels I’m wearing – I finally understand what people mean when they say killer heels – but it would be fitting of my current mood.
At the entrance to Blake House, I hold my fob to the door lock and back my butt into the main doors.
As I connect with the heavy glass door and start to push it open, a cab pulls up curbside.
For the second time tonight, I am left thinking, Come. Off. It!
The long legs of Andrew’s new woman are first to step out of the cab. Then, sure enough, Andrew gets out of the far-side of the cab and walks around to offer a hand to his date.
Meanwhile, my butt and I are rooted to the spot, holding open the entrance door.
Andrew looks up. Our eyes connect, both of us wearing expressions of confusion, and I really hope it’s not blatant that I’ve been crying.
‘Did you follow me?’ I ask.
‘Did you follow me?’ he replies.
‘How funny,’ his date says. ‘Do you live here?’
‘Ah, yeah, I do.’
They’re approaching me. Andrew relieves me of the weight of the door and I back inside the building.
‘Do you live here?’ I ask.
‘Sasha does,’ Andrew says, gesturing to her with a lean of his head.
‘You are actually dating someone who lives in Blake House?’ I’m incredulous. This is too much of a coincidence but then, we love this apartment block. This was our dream. If we lived here, it meant we’d accomplished our goals.
Except he – we – haven’t. ‘Did you actually seek out someone who lives here?’
‘Not in so many— No! We were both leaving Tia’s one night after awful Tinder dates and—’
‘Tia’s? Our favorite restaurant?’
My voice is raised. I sound hysterical, even to my own ears.
‘Abbey, I know you’re still upset about the break-up. It’s understandable.’
Understandable? Oh my God, he thinks I still want to be with him? Do I? No! I can’t stand him. Right now and always.
‘Sasha and I are a recent thing, like we said at dinner. Don’t take out your feelings on her.’
‘My feelings? Don’t you have feelings? Jesus, Andrew, we were together for four years and you cheated on me just three weeks ago.’
‘Actually, more like four, when I told you,’ he corrects.
I shake my head in utter disbelief. He thinks this is fine. He thinks what he did was nothing. That he can go to our restaurant and pick up a woman who lives in our aspirational apartment block and bring her to dinner with my brother and sister, then come to stay over with her in my home.
What I want to say is: You have some audacity!
What I actually say is: ‘You… you…’
‘Should I go up?’ Sasha says meekly. Despite myself, I actually feel sorry for her being caught up in this.
‘No, I’m coming,’ Andrew says. Then he holds up his palms to me. Hold up… ‘Why are you here?’
Oh God, why am I here? Why did I blow my life savings on rent in this stupid apartment block – was it actually for me? I really hope so. I really hope I wasn’t trying to prove something to an unworthy ex.
‘Well, I—’
‘Babe, you’re back.’
Huh? I feel a heavy arm come to rest on my shoulder and I recognize the cologne of the man it belongs to. Big. Burly. Obnoxious, but in an entirely different way to the sleazebag standing in front of me.
I turn to the rest of his body and sure enough, I see Michael Thomas. Mike from apartment 8B.
I meet his eyes, which are almost dancing with humor, right before he presses his lips to my temple. I’m no longer babbling. For the second time tonight, I’m speechless.
Michael lifts the lid on the box I’m still clutching like my life depends on it. ‘Is this for me?’ He tears a wedge off the end of my comfort calzone and puts it in his mouth.
Through a disgusting amount of half masticated chocolate pudding, he asks, ‘Who’s this?’ Nodding in Andrew’s direction.
‘My ex,’ I say, suddenly finding my words.
Clearer now, with less food in his mouth, Mike asks, ‘The jackass who cheated on you?’
He overheard us, which is embarrassing, yet I smile because Andrew really is a jackass and it sounds even better in what I’m now determining is Mike’s west-coast accent.
In fact, his hooded jumper with board shorts and flip-flops and the way his hair is messed up, as if he’s just stepped out of the sea holding a surfboard, all suggests to me that he’s from the west coast.
I like it. I prefer his relaxed look to the suit he was wearing on Tuesday. Though he did look head-turningly handsome, I’ve seen plenty of men in suits. The men at work all wore suits. Nate always wears suits. My dad always wears suits. Andrew is wearing a suit.
Besides the point. Why is this guy helping me out? We can’t stand each other.
And he just stole another piece of my calzone!
Mike scowls at Andrew. ‘Your idiocy is my gain.’ Then he turns to me. ‘Come on, babes, let’s go to bed.’
He finishes with a cocksure wink. It’s vulgar. He is so far from my type.
But right now, he’s the lesser of evils, and so I allow him to take the box of my chocolate dessert and I follow him into the elevator.
‘Why did you do that?’ I ask when we are alone and rising.
He presses the button for the eighth floor, then steps back so that we’re in line with each other, me holding the now partial calzone and him with his hands in his pockets. He side eyes me. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’
I look up to him. ‘Is it?’
Reaching over, he lifts the lid on my pizza box and tears off another strip of the contents. ‘Sweet tooth.’
My eyes narrow on him. ‘Well, thank you. I’ve had one of the worst nights imaginable and without your help, it could have been worse.’
The doors open to the eighth floor. Mike gestures for me to step out ahead of him.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he says, blasé. Entirely opposite to his actions downstairs, yet entirely in keeping with the version of him I have met on every previous occasion. ‘After you.’
‘After me? I’m on the seventh floor.’
‘Not if you want to keep up the pretense of me being your boyfriend, babes.’ He’s enjoying this, the ratbag. ‘Your ex and the replacement you are waiting for this elevator, which means we need to get out on the same floor. And why not really rub it in his face by going to the penthouse?’
The second last thing on earth I want to do is hang out with an arrogant guy in his swanky penthouse apartment, giving up my comfort food, but the worst thing on earth I can think to do right now is to still be in the foyer with Andrew and Sasha. So like it or not, the jock is right; we need to get out on the same floor, and I want my dessert, even if I am now sharing it.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ I ask begrudgingly, stomping past him.
‘Sure am,’ he says, and I know he’s grinning as he walks behind me to the door of his apartment.
I’m happy to report that the eighth floor looks much like the seventh – vanilla walls with a few oil paintings (mostly abstract smatterings of colorful paint), a couple of stone-colored side tables with fancy fresh flowers on top of them.
Mike holds his fob against the door lock and pushes it open for me.
Before I step inside, I set something straight: ‘don’t ever call me babe or baby or any other massively misogynistic term.’ Facing him, I take one backward step into his apartment. ‘And for your information, your breed is well on its way to becoming extinct.’
I turn on my painful heels and into the expanse of an absolutely vast penthouse apartment.
The place really is enormous. Not even in the same league as my little 7B. The view I’m familiar with seems much bolder and brighter thanks to the entire wall of windows. The sky is dark now, as dark as it gets in Brooklyn, and against the nothingness of the sky, the everythingness of Manhattan is twinkling.
The downstairs is fully open plan – a lounge with a large L-shaped sofa and a couple of swish chairs, dining area with a twelve-seat table, massive black unit kitchen with a six-stool island. I step further inside, turning on the spot, my head leaning back, and see a mezzanine glass balcony overhanging the lounge to one side of the sizeable turning staircase. To the other side is a hallway and, I suspect, the bedrooms.
