Those who have not more must be satisfied with what they have.
—Mansfield Park
That’s rough,” Brandon admitted after listening to me recount my lousy day. “But those girls in the bathroom? They’re jealous.”
I looked at Brandon, who had just emptied a martini glass in three slurps, clearly skeptical.
“Jealous of what? They have everything they want. They’re married and pregnant.”
Brandon gnawed on a helpless olive. “Katharine Billington Shaw”—he always said my full name when he wanted to make a point—”you’re tall, thin, gorgeous, and single,” he said, as though that explained everything. “They’re married to men who bore them, who they don’t want to have sex with except to get knocked up. And now they’re scared witless that their lives are no longer going to be glamorous—no more cocktail parties, free trips to Paris on the magazine’s dime, or squeezing into sample sizes. But you … you’re free.”
Let me explain Brandon. He’s my other best friend, alongside Marianne. Super cute, super smart, and super sweet, Brandon. We were madly in love in sophomore year at college. Naturally I dumped him. But he was devastated. It took the entire junior year for Brandon to forgive me and then one day he was my friend again. Every once in a while in between boyfriends I wonder if I should get back with Brandon. But we’re so like brother and sister that the ick factor outweighs any short-term benefits. He makes his living directing television commercials, not exactly his Hollywood dream, but he was always one of those people who could adapt to anything thrown their way.
“I wonder if Gloria was making excuses and they just don’t like my work,” I said feebly. “When is this slump going to ease up?”
“It’s not, Kate. It’s very bad,” he said with sudden urgency. “You should be squirreling away every penny.”
I glared at him.
“Oh God, sorry Kate, but you know what I mean. Be careful with the money you have. It’s really important.” Frankly I hadn’t seen Brandon so worked up since George Lucas refused to release the original Star Wars on DVD.
“Have you been reading your investment statements?”
“Not lately,” I answered glibly. “Can’t bring myself to open the envelopes now that it’s all I’ve got.”
“You’d better,” he explained seriously. “Stocks, mutual funds, your retirement fund, are all worth much less than they were.”
I flinched. I had been contributing to my retirement plan steadily—well, not steadily—for about a decade. I had saved nearly thirty thousand dollars. I was relying on it in case I couldn’t find new work fast.
“What do you mean, ‘worth much less’? How much less?”
“There’s something in the air, Kate,” he said grimly. “We may be headed for another Depression.”
I sighed. He was being overly dramatic. This sometimes happened with Brandon; after four years of film school he saw life in epic movie proportion.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
We turned to see Marianne lumbering up the small steps toward our table by the window. We were at my favorite bar, an elegant space called Avenue, which was in a luxury hotel. I always imagined that I would meet the man of my dreams in a hotel. But so far I’d only ever met my two best friends here. Marianne sat down and ordered a pinot grigio, ignoring the glare from the waitress. She allowed herself the occasional glass of wine, which she’d sip and, more often than not, I would finish.
“Are you okay?” she asked me gently. Her tone was a bit too babying, like she was practicing her mommy voice on me.
“Quit asking me if I’m okay,” I said firmly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because you didn’t get the job you thought you were a shoo-in for. Because the publisher isn’t renewing your contract. Because of what happened in the washroom,” she answered. “Belinda and Rosalie confessed.”
I squirmed at their names. As if sensing my discomfort, Brandon piped up to change the subject. “We have to make plans for your birthday, Kate,” he said gleefully. “Forty and fabulous!”
I rolled my eyes and gulped my wine. I was the first of the three of us to turn forty, and in less than two months. “You know how I feel about parties.”
There are two things I have always felt strongly about: I don’t celebrate my birthday and I don’t fret about my age. Even as a child I dreaded having a party. Too much attention and fuss for what seemed, even then, to be a minor accomplishment. After all, there is little achievement in being born; everyone I know has done it. And as my grandmother would say, “age is only a number.”
“But this time we are doing something,” Marianne insisted. “Why not a forties film theme? Those are all your favorite movie stars!”
I stuck my finger in my mouth. They were treating me like a child.
“You can dress up as Katharine Hepburn,” she added.
“You mean as the other unmarried, childless Kate?” I snapped.
“You don’t want to be married with kids. That’s why you’ve avoided the altar—remember?” she reminded me. Not that I needed reminding. “Or have you changed your mind?”
I wrinkled my nose at her to indicate my mind remained unchanged.
“What about Jane Austen then?” Brandon jumped in swiftly. “You never get sick of her stories.”
There you have it. What I’m known for: a love of 1940s movies and Jane Austen. All I needed was a house full of cats and I was ready to age gracefully into spinsterhood.
I sipped my wine in silence. They took the hint. I had a theory about where my determination and confidence to skip my birthday came from. Forty wouldn’t bother me as long as I was in a good place—in a home of my own, a job I enjoyed, with family and loved ones around me. In other words, being perfectly fine with forty depended on where I was when it hit. But after today one of those prerequisites—the job—had vanished.
“So how is the quest for fatherhood going?” Marianne asked Brandon. Our conversations always diverted back to pregnancy when Marianne was around. She had a rather militant approach to the process.
“Fine,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m having sex on demand.”
“How arousing,” I said sympathetically. Brandon’s live-in girlfriend, Lucy, was desperate to get pregnant. They had been trying for a year with no luck. I didn’t like Lucy. If a woman could be described as a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, this was she: plain, sturdy, and tightly wound. But Brandon was nuts about her. I never understood the appeal: Lucy was one of those girls that men drooled over but women couldn’t stand. Marianne’s theory was that Lucy wasn’t a girl’s girl—she didn’t like the company of women and that was why we disliked her so much.
“It’s how babies happen,” Marianne said patiently.
“With a temperature reading and a command performance?” I asked sarcastically. She glared at me. I was the only woman on Brandon’s side.
“It’s a bit of pressure,” he admitted softly. “I do want a baby, but she’s obsessed. I feel like I’m not really involved, except in the obvious way.”
Marianne rolled her eyes.
“Maybe I’d like to get a girl pregnant the old-fashioned way,” Brandon confessed sheepishly. “Lust.”
“Don’t be silly,” Marianne snapped.
Brandon shrugged and proceeded to choke on an olive. Coughing, he said, “But forget about my issues. Poor Kate!”
“Yes, I know.” Marianne’s voice had softened once again. “I’m so sorry about the job. I had no idea. I’ll make sure we have loads of freelance writing for you.”
“Maybe I could get a job outside of publishing?” I suggested. After I’d stormed out of the office I had called around every magazine editor I knew and got the same resounding response: there were no jobs, not even maternity leave contracts, available anytime soon.
“You could be a wardrobe mistress again!” Marianne said happily. I had spent my twenties on independent film sets sewing buttons and steaming period costumes. I shuddered at the thought of the eighteen-hour days and minuscule pay.
“Or you could try bartending again,” Brandon added, smiling. I had been a bartender for one horrifying day back in the nineties. I still can’t open a wine bottle or mix a cocktail without having a panic attack.
“I could temp,” I said meekly.
We sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think of what I could do for money.
“Too bad you couldn’t teach classes on Jane Austen.” Brandon smiled.
“Too bad I wasn’t one of her young heroines, then my mother would marry me off and I wouldn’t have to bother with all this work crap.” I shrugged. “Women had it easier when all they had to do was find a husband.”
“That would have been a challenge for you considering your aversion to becoming a bride,” quipped Brandon. “You’re too independent for that anyway.”
“Touché!” Marianne said and clinked my glass. I rolled my eyes and took a slow, deep sip. As the wine coated my tongue a disturbing thought crept into my mind, so unnerving that I shivered.
“Do you think I’m too old to marry well?” I asked cautiously. Marianne and Brandon chuckled. They thought I was joking. Maybe it was the wine or all our talk about birthdays and money but as they laughed the reality hit me square on the jaw. Soon I would be forty. A middle-aged woman. Maybe it was too late to make what Austen called an “eligible match.” Maybe marrying a wealthy man had an expiration date, and I had reached it. I was past due. I was best before. I shook myself free of the thought. It was silly to worry about that. My love of Jane Austen aside, I had never aspired to marry, let alone marry well. I was in a bad spot financially, but otherwise I was just fine, thank you very much.
“I’m ready to go,” I announced. “I’ve had a hell of a day.”