I’m a year older and I feel it. Just hours ago I was thirty-three—a fun number with curvy good looks that’s easy to say, and cool to write. At thirty-three, I was young enough to look good, yet old enough to have some cash to blow on life’s finer things. Thirty-four sounds dreary and looks dull; it has an air of responsibility about it. Thirty-three spends its last dime on a skirt to wear to a new restaurant that’s so expensive, the meal has to be paid off over several months. Thirty-four wears last year’s skirt (still perfectly good) to the reliable and affordable bistro around the corner. Thirty-three rushes to the liquor store to buy a case of Beaujolais Nouveau. Thirty-four knows it’s overpriced, overrated, underripe grape juice and bottles her own. Thirty-three seduces bartenders during a business trip. Thirty-four waits for someone safe to come along. Thirty-four is sensible. Thirty-four is mature. Thirty-four thinks long-term.
“Happy birthday to you.” The sound of someone singing startles me out of my reverie. “Happy birthday to you.” Richard creeps into my office. Closing the door behind him, he walks toward me, singing breathlessly, à la Marilyn Monroe. “Happy birthday dear Libby, happy birthday to you.” The last two words are little more than warm breath on my cheek as he leans down to kiss me. I quickly push my chair a safe distance away.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Here,” he says, putting a small, wrapped box on the desk.
“You bought me a gift?” I’m surprised by the gesture. We’ve hardly been the best of friends lately.
“Maybe.”
I unwrap the box and open it. “A watch!” I say, astonished. “It’s beautiful.” I realize immediately that I can’t accept it and snap the box closed. It’s too extravagant a gift. When I look up, he’s beaming at me.
“You’re welcome!”
“Richard, I love it, but I can’t.” I hand the box back to him.
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t be right—you know, because we work together. Others would wonder about our relationship and we’re not exactly involved.”
“I’ve noticed. Why is that?”
“It’s such an awkward situation. I can’t afford to give those two anything on me.”
“We’re talking about a fling, Libby, not Romeo and Juliet. Lighten up a little.”
“Richard, I don’t have the luxury of being your Canadian crumpet. You get to fly home anytime you like, but I have to take my career here seriously.”
“So you’ve been leading me on all this time?”
“Look, this job has been good for me and I want to keep it. If you and I got together, Margo and Mrs. Cleary would show me the door.”
“So it’s not worth the risk,” he says.
“Not for a fling. I’m sorry.”
“You know, McIssac,” he says, his face now inches from mine, “you’re not getting any younger. All work and no play make Lily a very dull girl.” He strides across the room and flings the door back against the wall.
I rest my forehead in my hand. Yesterday, I’d have sworn Richard had no more interest in me than he has for anyone with a uterus. He flirts with everyone. So what is he thinking, giving me a gift like that? The man doesn’t need to spend that kind of cash to have company. And surely I don’t come across as the type of woman who would fold for a pretty bauble?
To: Roxnrhead@interlog.ca
From: Mclib@hotmail.ca
Subject: Gifts from the Grave
Thanks for your birthday card and your note of condolence on the demise of the crush. The weirdest thing just happened. Richard came into my office, sang Happy Birthday and presented me with a watch. I don’t know what brand because I snapped the box shut quickly (so as not to be tempted) and gave it back to him. It definitely resembled a TAG.
Now, I’m just as turned on by extravagant gifts as the next girl, but when they come from a guy like Richard, I can’t help looking for strings. In any case, I’m over him. The proof: he kissed me on the cheek and it didn’t even start my heart racing. I’ve accepted that he’s not the type of guy for me and a fancy watch isn’t going to change that.
I hate to confess it, Rox, but this has just made me pine for Tim. I’ve got the birthday blues—you know, another year older and no relationship.
But I refuse to be maudlin. No, I am going to finish this speech and meet the gang for dinner and have a good time in spite of myself.
Lib
P.S. I’m glad to hear you’ve picked up the torch I laid down. Does Gavin know he’s been replaced by a sexy Spanish director? Good luck finding lingerie on that tiny island. If you run into problems, let me know and I’ll ship you a selection from my enormous inventory.
At the end of the day, I am cheered to find seven new voice-mail messages, all wishing me happy birthday. Curiously, there’s no word from my parents although Brian remembered to call from Vancouver. The phone rings as soon as I put it down.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” It’s Mom and Dad.
“Thanks! I thought you’d forgotten.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” says my father, who’d never remember were it not for Mom. After a brief pause, he adds, “Well, I’ll let you talk to your mother now. I’ve promised to mow Mrs. Hadley’s lawn.” My mother covers the receiver and yells something to him. “Uh, right. So, Libby, have a great time tonight and, uh, we love you.” He hangs up and my mother picks up the ball.
“So how was your day?”
“It was kind of weird. I don’t think I like being thirty-four.”
“Well, in my opinion, everything gets better at thirty-five.”
“Easy for you to say. You were never a cougar.”
“A cougar?”
“Nothing. Did Mrs. Hadley move?”
“No, why?”
“Her place is a mile from yours. How is Dad—?”
“Don’t ask, dear,” Mom cuts me off. “Let’s just say it’s a source of embarrassment to me.”
The thought of my father cruising along the back streets of Scarborough on his lawn mower makes me smile.
“We want to take you for dinner,” my mother continues. “How does next Sunday sound? We’ll let you pick the place.”
“There’s a pizza bistro that just opened in my neighborhood. Why don’t we try that?”
“Lovely. Have fun tonight. And Libby, it really does get better after thirty-five.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I’m only a few minutes late when I arrive at Canoe, but the noise from the corner indicates my friends have already assembled. They’ve taken over the bar’s prime real estate—a little sitting area beside the window. The view from the fifty-second floor of this downtown office tower is spectacular at night.
“Happy birthday!” they chorus as I join them.
“Thanks, guys.” I’m cheering up already. What great friends I have!
Then, as I settle into one of the leather chairs, they all start growling and snarling while presenting me with a case of Wildcat beer.
“Only the best for our cougar,” Elliot says. I glower at Lola.
“Don’t look at me!” she says, “I wasn’t the only one there.”
“Emma! I didn’t expect you to spill the beans.”
“What can I say? I was traumatized and needed to share the details with my devoted husband.”
“I guess I’m sensitive now that I’m officially in my mid-thirties,” I say, sighing.
“You’re hardly in a position to complain,” says Elliot, who turned forty last year.
“You’re all a bunch of old farts,” Günter comments, “but it’s nothing a little makeup can’t hide.” I notice he’s wearing liquid eyeliner and mascara.
“Keep your glitter to yourself, thanks,” says Bob, who likes Günter but feels obliged to keep up the heterosexual front.
The waitress arrives with a tray of drinks. They’ve already ordered all six of the bar menu’s specialty cocktails for me. Wonderful—two weekends in a row of painful detox. But I start in on the cranberry cobbler martini without complaint, biding my time until I have the nerve to corner Bob. I’m spooning up the fruit at the bottom of cocktail number three before I conclude that subtlety is overrated.
“So, Bob,” I say, leaning across the table and rudely interrupting his conversation with Günter and Elliot. “What’s the deal with Tim and Melanie?”
“Who are Tim and Melanie?” Günter asks.
“Tim’s the guy Libby is meant to be with,” Elliot explains.
“Then who is Melanie?”
“Melanie’s the slag he’s been dating,” Lola offers.
“Melanie’s no slag,” Bob says. “Ouch!” Emma has hoofed him under the table. “Not that I like her or anything, but Libby had her chance.”
“It’s okay, Bob,” I say. “I know I blew it.” Cocktail number four is bringing me down.
“Tell her about Melanie,” Emma prods Bob.
“I’m not talking about this,” Bob retorts.
“Fine, I’ll tell her,” Emma says. “Apparently, Tim isn’t that interested in Melanie. He knows her from the fund-raising circuit and she asked him out. He told Bob there are no major sparks. Right?” she asks her husband.
“I’m still not talking about this.”
“Anyway, she’s been chasing him for all she’s worth, the slag.”
“Emma!” Bob is outraged.
“Look, I offered to let you tell the story and you declined, so I get to tell it my way. Anyway, Libby, if he’s not mad about Melly, why don’t you just call him and claw her right out of the picture?”
Everyone laughs, but I say, “I don’t think it will be so easy to win him back.” Bob’s silence confirms I’m right.
“The man is a pig!” Lola exclaims.
“He is not!” Bob defends Tim. “Libby dumped him so why shouldn’t he—”
“Not Tim—Michael!” Lola points to the entrance where Michael is making an entrance with a gorgeous young blonde. He nuzzles her neck as they wait for the hostess. “That’s his admin assistant,” Lola gasps. “He hired her just after we started going out. He was probably two-timing me all along!”
“I hate to say it, but you’re probably right,” Elliot agrees ruefully.
“He was an asshole the night you brought him to my concert,” Günter says. “I’d love to take him down a notch.”
“If you really mean that, honey, I think there’s something we could do,” Elliot says to Günter, who picks up on the unspoken plan and nods gleefully.
“Lola, would you mind?” Elliot asks.
“Be my guest, fellas,” she says, settling back with the rest of us to watch the show.
“MICHAEL? DARRRRRRLING!” Elliot carols, in his most effeminate voice.
Michael looks over and the color drains from his face. He lunges for the hostess but Elliot and Günter are already speeding toward him. Each seizes one of Michael’s arms affectionately.
“Hi, Elliot,” he says awkwardly. “And uh, you are—?”
“Excuse me?” Elliot says. “I can’t imagine you’ve forgotten Günter, after all that happened. Mikey, don’t be coy. And who’s your friend?” he adds, giving her the once-over.
“This is Jenny,” Michael says cautiously.
“Yenny, Liebling,” Günter jumps in, “vat is zat cheap perfume you are verring? Vas it a gift from Mikey? He alvays had terrible taste, didn’t he, Elly?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t taste terrible, did he?”
“Vell, no, actually,” Günter giggles, “but ve shouldn’t discuss zis in front of poor Yenny.”
Michael tries to protest, but Elliot jumps in quickly. “I’m sure she knows all about his sordid past, don’t you?” Jenny looks bewildered and she’s edging away from Michael.
“Did you tell her about ze night ve met, Mikey?” Günter asks.
“Why would I tell her about that?” Michael says, irritated.
“You ver so sweet, coming backstage vith ze roses. My little groupie! How could I help falling for you?”
Some of the customers at the bar are starting to tune in now and Michael flushes with embarrassment. He tries to walk away but Elliot tightens his grip.
“Aw, look, he’s blushing,” Elliot says to Günter, “he misses you.”
“This is bullshit!” Michael explodes. “I barely know you and I was certainly never your groupie. I don’t even like your music.”
“Ouch!” Günter says, looking hurt. “Zat’s not vat you said ven you were trying to get into my plether pants.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“You said you loved me.”
“I did not! Jenny, he’s lying.”
“Vell, maybe I yust hoped for that,” Günter concedes. “But I wrote a zong for you, Mikey. Shall I sing it now?”
“I am going to shut you up, you prancing—”
“Michael!” Jenny interrupts. “Clearly you two have some unresolved business.”
“We do not. They’re just trying to get back at me for—”
“For what?”
“For breaking Günter’s heart, you asshole,” Elliot says. Günter’s eyes well up with tears. “He really cared about you, and here you are, Mr. Gay-when-it-suits-me, strutting around with your dolly pretending you’re straight. There’s nothing wrong with being bisexual—as long as you’re honest about it. Jenny, he hurts people. You need to know.”
Günter takes out a tissue and honks noisily into it. His eyeliner is running. Michael, now crimson, glares over at Lola, who raises her glass to him and smiles. Jenny, meanwhile, looks from Günter to Lola to Michael, then says, “Give the bartender your credit card, Michael. You’ve upset these people. The least you can do is pick up their tab.”
Michael hesitates for a moment, but everyone at the bar is watching and waiting. When he finally hands his credit card to the bartender, there’s a loud cheer. Jenny turns on her heel and walks out. Michael follows at a run.
Elliot and Günter make their way back to our table to joyous applause. Moments later, another round of cocktails arrives, this time courtesy of the bartender, who has enjoyed the show.
“Hell hath no fury like the friends of a woman scorned!” Bob says, raising his glass. Lola hugs Elliot and then Günter.
Maybe Mom was right about things improving with age.