Life is a blur of Joshua. Granted, we only had one date and two phone calls, but I have spun a gossamer web of daydream and fantasy. We have been to Bali and Paris, and to Venice twice. Our wedding was spectacular, despite the paparazzi. Our children have his eyes and hair and features, and they have me for…well, the uterus and womby stuff. Hadn’t really thought what they’d have from me. Possibly my ability to fill out forms with remarkable speed.
But reality encroaches. Joshua daydreams have fully occupied days, as I’ve unsuccessfully searched for new job and apartment. “Man,” however is on my list. So I haven’t failed my duties completely.
Tomorrow is big date. I read in Glamour that the second date is the most important, as we have passed Stage One and are now in serious territory. (Was slightly concerned to discover that sleeping together is actually Stage Four.) I am frantic with anticipation and anxiety. What if he realizes he doesn’t like me? What if my toilet explodes, or condoms or dead squirrels erupt from my tote, or if he realizes what a pathetic and unlovable person I am? Far easier to date carroty freak-heads. Carroty freak-heads who do not call after trolley shitwater incident.
I want to buy something new and gorgeous to wear, so Joshua will know we are meant for each other, but my monster stack is officially in the double digits. In effort to end cash-flow woes, I dream about moving in with Joshua, and never having to apply for another low-pay, no-status, not-hiring-me-anyway job in my life.
Maya thinks my love—she cruelly calls it infatuation—for Joshua is cute, in a giggly, elementary-school way. She also thinks I’m a total loss, and will soon be living in a van. She will be less amused when I convince PB to loan me money.
So, this morning, I fling open my closet to wrestle my money problems into submission. I am ruthless. This pile to keep, this pile to sell.
Four hours later: sell pile is miniscule, but there are a few items that have always added ten pounds. I drive my poor unwanteds to a shop on upper State which sells preowned designer clothes.
Utterly horrible, watching the beady-eyed woman run her bony fingers over my lovelies. I almost snap, but do not. I stand, smile pasted firmly on my bloodless face, and await judgment.
“One hundred and twenty dollars,” she says, folding a DKNY skirt.
Shit. I was hoping for one-fifty. The New Elle, however, haggles: “That’s less than I expected. How much for the faux crocodile boots?”
She eyes me queerly. “That’s one hundred and twenty for the lot.”
“What? I paid that for the belt alone! One hundred and twenty is a crime. This is runway robbery.” I whine and cajole until she agrees to look over the clothes again.
“The Theory blouse is stained,” she says, when finished. “One hundred even.”
Joshua and I have dinner at Downey’s, which is sort of staid and stately and très expensive. I brought my $100, just in case. The food smells delicious. I don’t know how it tastes, as, despite being ravenous, I only order salad. To make a good impression. Maya scoffed when I told her my plan. She said this only works on other women, and even they hate you for it. But she’s in a relationship, she doesn’t know what it’s like.
Best part of dinner? He pays!
I am aglow with pleasure.
Then it gets better. He slides me an envelope. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Open it.”
I do, and it’s full of money.
“Count it,” he says.
“One hundred and seventy-three dollars. For what?”
“Count it again,” he says. “This time without eyeing the dessert cart.”
“I have a thing for dessert carts.” I say, and remember I am the New Thinner Elle. “I wouldn’t touch the desserts, of course, but they’re always so well-presented, aren’t they? Anyway. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one.” I flip through the bills. “One hundred ninety-eight.”
“Two-eighteen,” he says. “And it’s yours.”
“Mine?”
“From Nordstrom’s. The BCBGs. I spoke to the manager about your fall, and the store’s liability. He thought refunding the purchase was the wisest course.”
I squeal and tell Joshua exactly how wonderfully perfectly gorgeous he is. I ask for details about the Nordy’s triumph, but he humbly says there was nothing to it. “But to celebrate,” he says. “Let’s go for a drink, shall we?”
“Drinks are on me,” I say grandly. “Let’s go to Shika. I know the—”
He laughs in disbelief. “Shika? You mean—Shika? You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course! Not Shika. Ha ha.” I feel sick for betraying Maya.
“I know the guy who owns The Gothic,” Joshua says. “We’ll go there.”
See? We even have that in common—we both know bar owners. And once I know Joshua better, I’ll insist we go to Maya’s.
The Gothic is a tragically hip bar that specializes in expensive martinis and quasi-pornographic art. The place is packed at ten on a Wednesday. Shika doesn’t even get this busy during Fiesta or Solstice.
We sit at the bar with the owner, drinking twenty-year-old Armagnac. He’s almost as good-looking as Joshua—except that his face is florid from drinking too much. They’re discussing whether the Bahamas or Mexico is more fun. I’ve never been to either, so I keep quiet. Which is probably a good thing—I don’t want to fuck up in front of the beautiful people.
Joshua keeps rubbing my back and running his fingers through my hair, so evidently I’m doing fine. Until a pair of feminine hands covers his eyes. A brunette stands behind him. She leans close enough to lick his ear, and whispers, “Guess who?”
She is my nightmare. She’s in a bar, so she must be twenty-one, but she looks nineteen. She’s five-two. Wearing a black deeply cut unitard which showcases her spectacular figure and caramel-colored skin. A red sweaterette is tied around her middle—a false attempt at modesty which only serves to make her waist look even smaller. She manages to be both tiny and voluptuous at the same time, like Salma Hayek.
“Joshua thinks it’s Jenna,” Joshua says.
I am too busy staring at Jenna’s buoyant breasts, straining for release from the unitard, to be horrified at Joshua’s referring to himself in the third person again. She has such sweet cleavage it makes me want to convert.
“Oh, Joshua!” Jenna pouts. “How did you know it was me?”
“Your scent. Obsession, right?”
I hate Obsession. I’ve always hated Obsession.
“Of course, darling.” She kisses him.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Exhausted. I worked two shifts at the café yesterday, and one today. I just want to relax and have a good time.” She eyes Joshua at this last bit, which makes me want to humiliate her for being a waitress. I may be unemployed, but if I did have a job, it’d be better than that.
“Where do you work?” I innocently ask.
“Café Lustre.”
“Never heard of it—is it new? I’ve been away, in D.C.”
“The strip club,” she says.
“You wait tables at the strip club?” Yuck. “Are the tips any good?”
She laughs, beautifully. “I don’t wait tables. And yes, the tips are excellent.”
I hate her. I want to punch her sex-kitten little face.
“Jenna’s a dancer, Elle,” Joshua says.
“Oh. I’ve considered doing that.” I close my eyes, tightly. What am I saying?
“Right,” Jenna says. “Men line up to see you naked.”
That’s it. I might as well go home right now. There’s no way I’m going to win a sexpot contest with a girl who belongs on the cover of Maxim. But Joshua leans into me and kisses me, long and hard. “I’d pay to see you strip.”
My heart bursts through my chest and does a victory lap around the bar. Joshua pulls me to my feet, and puts his arm around me. “In fact, I’m ready for a private showing. We’ll see you guys later.”
I’m officially in love.