| |
After almost two weeks of job hunting, Jemma had moved past panic into desperation.
Every morning, Miriam stoutly stated today would be the day Jemma would find work. And every afternoon when she came home from a day of rejections, Miriam patted her shoulder and told her not to worry, everything happened for a reason.
She wished she shared her grandmother’s confidence, but as the days passed, she couldn’t prevent a twinge of irritation in the face of Miriam’s certainty.
Relief washed over her when she returned from another fruitless search and found Miriam out. She needed time alone to gird herself before admitting failure yet again. Throwing herself onto the couch, she wallowed in the doubtful joy of self-pity.
Every time Jemma thought she had climbed out of the pit of financial troubles her grandfather had dropped his family into, something knocked her off the shaky footing. Eight years ago, paying Henry’s debts had been going well, until Alice started drinking. While Jemma could see a future clear of debt, her mother fixated on the staggering amount that needed to be paid and spiraled into despair. Soon the inevitable happened. She was fired. Two people Jemma should have been able to rely on, who should have supported her as she moved to adulthood, had smashed her dreams, dashed her aspirations. She grew closer than ever to Miriam. Then one day Jemma came home—to find a drunkenly scrawled note on the floor outside the door of the bedroom she shared with Alice.
It’s no use. I can’t take it anymore. You’re better off without me. Mom.
Jemma jumped off the couch, memories skittering like spiders under her skin. She paced to the large window overlooking the dingy back alley and stared out.
Another funeral, another goodbye. During those days, it was as if the slightest touch would shatter Miriam. Jemma handled her with care, while wrapping herself in a carapace of detachment, once again dealing with the details, accepting the condolences. At least this time there were no nasty surprises from the bank.
Jemma leaned her forehead against the cool glass. A scrawny black cat with white boots dashed across the grungy lane, disappearing behind a rusted green dumpster. She’d learned to be competent and careful with money and expectations. She and Miriam shopped at thrift stores and clipped grocery coupons, and if a penny was missing from her account, she tracked it down ruthlessly. She paid her rent and other bills exactly on time. She tossed every credit card application that appeared in the mail slot.
Her resentment of her mother and grandfather grew as she struggled to meet the obligations of her tiny family. She vowed to depend only on herself, never to rely on anyone else to provide and care for her. As long as she had Miriam, she didn’t need anyone else. Paying Henry’s debt was a mark of honour, but she also squirreled what she could into an emergency fund.
Thankfully, since making the final payment, Jemma had been able to stockpile more. That money had given her and Miriam a single month’s reprieve. As of yesterday, the account was as good as empty. She had less than three weeks to earn what she needed for next month’s obligations. Her stomach knotted and queasiness rose in her throat.
A rattling at the door nudged her out of her desolate contemplation. She dragged herself across the room and met Miriam as she bustled in carrying two canvas bags.
She didn’t have to say a word. One look at her face was enough to make Miriam say cheerfully, “Never mind, dear. I know it will work out in the end.”
Jemma took one of the bags and carried it to the kitchen. “I’m letting you down.”
Miriam followed her. “You could never let me down. You’re a good girl. We’ll get through this.”
Jemma placed the bag on the counter. “Didn’t you go shopping yesterday? What did you need today?”
“I used up the eggs with our fried-egg sandwiches last night. And we needed milk and fruit.”
Jemma opened the fridge. Inside were two-dozen eggs, a jug of milk, and a bag of apples. Inside the canvas bags Miriam had just brought home were two-dozen eggs, a jug of milk, and a bag of oranges. “We had the sandwiches two nights ago. You went shopping yesterday.” She pulled the refrigerator door wider. “See?”
Miriam peered into the fridge. “Isn’t that silly of me?” Nerves jangled in her laughter. “I’d forget my head these days if it wasn’t screwed on tight.”
Together they made room for the extra groceries, and Jemma soothed her own rising fears. Miriam had simply had an off day, that’s all. The doctor had said it might happen, despite the medication. There was nothing to worry about. There couldn’t be. Jemma wasn’t sure she could take any more bad news.
––––––––
Paul walked up the front path, lined with excruciatingly neat flowerbeds, to his parents 1950’s bungalow on West 15th Avenue. The house looked insignificant surrounded as it now was by the monstrous residences that had taken the place of the original, smaller dwellings on either side.
He missed the look and feel of the old neighbourhood.
He unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and stepped out of the narrow entryway into the dim hall. It smelled of mothballs and fresh bread and crisply ironed laundry. It smelled like home.
He followed the muffled sounds of a television set into the living room. His mother looked at him from her accustomed place in an upholstered rocking chair. “Querido!” She smiled. “How are you? Are you hungry?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the kitchen. Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m sure.” He pulled up a puffy ottoman and settled next to her.
Beatriz Almeida had dark, curly hair going softly grey, and her light blue eyes glowed with pleasure at his visit. Her fingers worked busily, crocheting a thick red and green blanket that covered her knees. She unwound the wool from her fingers and patted his hand where it rested on the arm of her chair. “We hardly see you anymore. You are working too hard. The restaurant...it is doing well?”
He couldn’t tell her the truth, as she would worry, and he was already doing enough of that for both of them. Yet he couldn’t lie to her. “Your shrimp is one of our best-selling dishes,” he evaded.
She flushed with delight.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” His father stomped into the room, carrying a glass of water.
Paul stiffened. “I left early. I’m allowed to do that once in a while, aren’t I?” He raised an eyebrow.
João snorted. “Why do you ask? You are the one that knows best all the time.” He dropped into his recliner and picked up the remote, changing channels rapidly.
A familiar ache lodged itself behind Paul’s eyes. He knew he’d made his father angry by refusing to be satisfied with the family business. But he believed his biggest transgression by far had been asking his father for money to help with the start-up costs for Paulo’s.
João had refused without a second thought. “Why should I throw good money away? Your fancy restaurant, it will close in less than a year. Then where will I be?”
It made Paul more determined to succeed. To do anything to prove his father wrong. Including humiliating himself on live television.
He turned to his mother. Lines creased between her eyes. He knew the strain between her husband and son bothered her. He squeezed her fingers gently, reassuringly. “I wanted to talk to you. To both of you.”
“What about?” She straightened in her chair. “What’s wrong?”
“Why do you always think something’s wrong?” He frowned in mild exasperation. “I have a job offer, and I don’t know what to do.”
Her grip on his hand tightened. “Job offer? What about Paulo’s?”
“I would do both. This new job is only for a few months. It could be really good for the restaurant.” He told her about Reservations for Two. When he mentioned The Bachelor she nodded vigorously.
“This I know. Why Mark did not choose the lovely Tiffany, and instead proposed to Gianetta I did not understand.”
Paul’s mouth gaped. “You watch it?”
“It is crap,” João growled. “But she must watch it. I leave the room.”
“Go on,” Beatriz urged. “You? You will be the bachelor?”
He explained the premise of the show. Her eyes brightened and she clapped her hands.
“You will do it, yes? You will meet the perfect woman, and fall in love, and give me grandbabies.”
Paul laughed. “I doubt that will happen. Honestly, can anyone meet their soul mate on a reality show? That’s part of the problem. How can I do this show when I don’t believe in it, when I think it’s silly? I’d be doing it for the restaurant, the publicity. And for the money. Is that lying to those women? Is it cheating?”
“Oh, Paul.” She shook her head. “You never lie. You never cheat. And you do not do so in this. You do not promise these women you will fall in love. But you might.” She smiled wistfully.
“You are such a...such a...woman,” João spat, jutting his chin out. “And your son is stupid. What? Do you not have enough work to do in your little restaurant? Now you will neglect it to be a movie star?”
Paul bit back his first sharp retort, refusing to rise to the baiting. “I won’t be a movie star, Dad. But in a few months Paulo’s would be debt free. The show will only tie me up three days a week. I’ll be at the restaurant almost as much as I am now.”
“Pah.” João sneered. Not once had he looked Paul in the face. When he spoke he kept his gaze on the television screen.
“Me, I think you should do it.” Beatriz turned Paul toward her with a gentle hand on his chin. “It is an experience, an adventure!”
“Thanks, Mom.” Paul glanced at João, who continued to ignore him. “I have to let the producer know by tomorrow.”
Beatriz tapped him playfully on the cheek. “My baby, on television! Your Titia Benedita will not believe it.”
“She probably already knows. I’m in this because of her son. I told Daniel he’d better start praying a novena this is a success, because if it’s not, I’m blaming him.”
––––––––
As they made and ate dinner, Miriam chattered cheerfully—about Jemma’s job hunt, about her favourite television program, about Mrs. Ziminski’s recipe for apple pie that didn’t use apples. “It’s made of Ritz Crackers, of all things, and you’d never know the difference.” She talked about anything and everything, except her duplicated grocery trip.
After dinner, she watched Wheel of Fortune with her usual enjoyment while Jemma sprawled on the couch. When her cell phone buzzed, she could scarcely summon the energy to reach into her pocket.
It was Lainie. Jemma toyed with the idea of not answering. She might be her best friend, but she couldn’t stand another relentlessly cheerful person at the moment.
Before she could decide, the phone stopped vibrating. An instant later, a text message chirped.
Call me now, idiot. Or don’t you want the job?
Jemma jolted to a sitting position. She bobbled the phone in her haste, fingers fumbling on the touch screen.
Her sudden moves startled Miriam. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Something might be right for a change.” Her throat tightened, preparing for disappointment. “Lainie says she might have a job for me.”
Miriam muted the TV and clutched the remote, staring at Jemma with wide, hopeful eyes.
Lainie answered on the first ring. “You didn’t find work yet, did you?”
“No.”
“You start tomorrow.”
After so many depressing days, her words made Jemma’s head spin. “I don’t understand.”
“One of my flakier production assistants has taken off for the golden land of Hollywood. I don’t have time to interview replacements. You have a theatre background and you understand food service. I need you, and I need you now.”
“Production assistant? I don’t know what that is.”
Lainie had raved about her new gig when they’d met for beer. Jemma had pretended to be interested, but as far as she was concerned, the last thing the world needed was another stupid reality show. This one sounded lamer than most—some loser trying to find the love of his life by making women cook for him. Even if she believed in marriage and happily-ever-after—which she didn’t—it was beyond her how anyone thought a reality show was the way to go about it.
“It doesn’t matter. Just do what you’re told. You might have to make coffee, or go grocery shopping, or set up appointments. You’ll be on set at all times in case you’re needed. If you’re asked to stand on one leg and pat your stomach while rubbing your head, that’s what you do.”
“Is it a job?” Miriam whispered, touching Jemma’s leg. “Does she have a job for you?”
The faith in her eyes broke Jemma’s heart. “I’m not a big fan of reality shows,” she told Lainie. “I don’t know anything about them.”
“I don’t care, and you’ll learn. You need a job, I need a PA.” She quoted the salary.
“Lainie—”
“I know it’s not great. PA’s are at the bottom of the food chain. But it’s more than minimum wage and it’s steady work for at least four months.”
“I just—”
“By then, everyone will have forgotten your asshole ex-boss called them and you’ll be able to go back to serving.”
“Shut up! I’m trying to tell you I’ll take it.”
A squeal shrieked through the speaker. “Oh, thank God! You’re a lifesaver. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Meet me at the sound stage.” She gave the address. “I’ll walk you through the set, show you around. Then we’ll head to the office and I’ll get you signed up. We’re live in just over a month.”