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Not that Rachel isn’t kind, because she is. But her variety of sympathy is more the “pick yourself up, dust yourself off” variety, rather than the “poor old you” variety.

“Emma, Rachel, you
must
both come over tomorrow night,” Katy announces as she sails full steam toward us, and I cringe, because Katy can be rather overenthusiastic in her quest to fit in with the Pre-Preschool PTA mothers (or PPPTA for short). It’s not that she’s pushy, she just tries really hard.

“Marion and the girls are all coming over for the evening. I’m doing snacks and margaritas. It’ll be fun.”

I’ve just changed my mind about Rachel. She is
so
no longer my favorite best friend because she has slipped quietly away with some lame excuse or other about getting a drink, and has left me to Katy’s tender but insistent mercies.

Now Katy is lovely, but Marion Lacy (chairperson of the PPPTA) is a
huge
pain in the butt. And at the moment, Katy is trying to prove herself a caring, interested parent. Marion (and I know this because I’ve met her twice) believes herself to be the world authority on what a caring, interested parent should be, so when she says “jump,” poor Katy becomes an Olympic-style hurdle jumper.

“We’re forming a group,” Katy tells me.

Not another one. Oh God. I remember that last time she persuaded me to join one of her protest groups. It was Parents Against Drunk Drivers, or PADD for short. I spent one very unmemorable evening with Katy and Marion, driving up and down the New Jersey Turnpike between the Lincoln Tunnel and Newark Airport, carefully scanning the lanes for erratic driving.

Not that scanning roadways for drunk drivers isn’t worthwhile, because obviously it is. But that’s why we have the state police. And anyway, I think Katy’s main reason for wanting
me
there was so that Marion had someone else to intimidate.

“We’re calling ourselves Mothers Against Sexual SPAM. MASS for short. What do you think?”

“Er, very catchy. What is it for?”

As soon as I ask the question I regret it. I do not want to spend any more time in Marion’s company and if I show interest, it will be hard to say no to Katy.

“Well, it’s basically mothers against sexual SPAM on the Internet.”

I feel very stupid because I think that SPAM is chopped meat that comes in a can. But sexual SPAM? My mind boggles at the thought, and I don’t want to display my complete ignorance by asking.

“You wouldn’t believe the trash mail that Alex gets in his e-mail. ‘Add extra inches to your penis,’ ‘Visit this site for sexy young girls.’ We are talking about kids being corrupted by stupid, mindless idiots. I mean, my kid’s only two. He doesn’t need the exposure to that kind of trash.”

“Yes, but he doesn’t, you know, technically need to have his own e-mail account at two years of age, does he?” I point out.

Let’s face it, the kid can’t read yet. But I don’t say this, obviously.

Alex is a great kid. Unlike Jack Junior and Joe Junior, my half brothers, he restores my faith in reproduction. If I could have a kid (which now looks uncertain due to my lack of fiancé), I’d want him or her to be exactly like Alex. Unfortunately, Katy—although a completely great mother—has him enrolled in all kinds of classes that help his personal development. Because Marion and all the other mothers told her to. Actually, they didn’t
tell
her to at all, just sort of implied it…that PPPTA crowd can be pretty intimidating.
I
would not want to cross them.

“I know,” Katy sighs. “But Emma, you wouldn’t believe how important it is for preschoolers to get to grips with modern technology. All the other preschoolers have their own computers. Marion says that if we don’t give them the basic skills they need for school, they’re behind before they can get ahead.”

We both sigh. Me, because Katy is so nice, and trying so hard to fit in with the other mothers. I tend to forget, sometimes, that most of her friends (us) are single and childless.

“Hey.” Tom places an affectionate arm around Katy’s waist and kisses her on the cheek.

“You girls having fun? Is Katy boring you with her MADD mothers, Emma?”

“Er, no,” I say, not wanting to be the cause of marital disharmony. “It’s very interesting.”

“It’s MASS mothers, and you know it. Don’t be so dismissive, Tom.” Katy smiles and waves a warning finger at him. “Not if you want to get laid tonight.”

“My lips are sealed.” He smiles back at her. “Come on, woman, take me home. We told the babysitter we’d be home by midnight.”

And I am envious. They are so obviously in love. They have been married forever, and yet he still looks at her as if the sun rises and shines in her face.

And suddenly I feel so alone. And tired. I want to go home.

Wherever that may be.

Saturday morning, 6
A
.
M
.

Mick Jagger is jumping-jack-flashing around my poor, demented brain, and I realize that I forgot to switch off the radio alarm before I crashed out last night. I love Mick and the boys. But not when I have such a monumentally killer hangover.

It is painful to move, but I finally manage to reach the radio and flip the switch, then I gulp some of the water I remembered to leave by the bed last night. I sink gratefully back into my pillow.

7
A
.
M
.

Who the hell telephones anyone at this ungodly hour of the morning? I try to ignore its persistent ringing, and after four rings, it switches to voicemail. But then it rings again, and then again, and I know that I have to answer it to get any peace and quiet whatsoever, because whoever is calling me
knows that I am here.

“Hey, it’s me.”

Tish. She is happy and perky. Why isn’t she in bed with a hangover, too?

“Get yourself out of bed, sleepyhead. You promised to go to the gym with me this morning. And you’ll never guess what!”

“No, I won’t,” I croak. “And I don’t want to go to the gym. I want to die.”

“Rufus asked me on a date.”

“That’s fabulous,” I tell her, with more enthusiasm than I feel, because it
is
fabulous and she’s wanted this for so long. “When is the happy occasion?”

“Well, that’s the problem. We didn’t get as far as fixing a specific time or day…”

Typical. At this rate they’ll be collecting their pensions before they make it to the bedroom, and by then they’ll have forgotten what sex is.

“So we have to go to the deli for breakfast after the gym. I said I’d call in so we could, you know—”

“Can’t you go by yourself?”

Yes, I am callous and uncaring.

“Pleeeese, Emma. Please come with me. It’ll take your mind off Adam.”

Up until this moment I had forgotten all about him.

11
A
.
M
.

I have spent a painful hour contorting my body into strange, apparently body-lengthening postures. I have been a Mermaid, a Dancer, and a Proud Warrior. But the hangover is no longer torturing me, having been frightened away by the flow of endorphins and several bottles of water.

So by the time Tish, Rachel, and I arrive at Rufus’s deli, I feel moderately human and in need of sustenance.

But disaster strikes. Rufus is not there. Rufus has taken the day off.

“But why?” poor Tish asks Rufus’s assistant, who has no idea, because Rufus isn’t the most talkative of people. “He never mentioned a day off last night when he kissed me good-night.”

“He kissed you?” This is amazing. This is a major breakthrough after three years of barely speaking to each other.

“Did it involve tongues?”

Trust Rachel to ask that particular question.

“No. Only a peck on the cheek.” Tish looks down at her muffin. “That’s it. I give up. The man obviously doesn’t want to date me, and has taken the day off to
avoid me.
”

We munch disconsolately at our banana-granola muffins, and after much sighing on Tish’s part, and much head shaking on my part, Rachel creates a whole new category of Men Who Cannot Commit.

“He’s your classic noble gas,” Rachel tells us, nodding knowingly.

And then, when we both gaze at her in complete incomprehension, she adds an explanation.

“His electron field is totally full, so he’s completely stable and doesn’t need to bond at all.”

This does not cheer up poor Tish. This does not make me feel good about life in general.

Are there no decent straight men left in the world?

TO DO

1. Get sofa and rug dry-cleaned.
   Why bother?
   
2. Pack worldly possessions.
   Go shopping.
   
3. Clean apartment in advance of moving out.
   After all, a few dirty dishes, crumbs on the floor, and wine stains will only add character. Plus, this will irritate Adam, which is good. (Also, am not intending to move out yet…)
   

Sunday, 7
A
.
M
.

I have just dragged myself out of bed and poured half a pot of coffee down my throat in an attempt to wake up. Tish and Rachel are convinced that if left home alone today, I will do myself some serious damage because of being seriously depressed about the whole Adam/Stella affair and nonpromotion disaster. I can’t imagine why they think I’ll hurt myself, because I am completely allergic to pain in any shape or form. The worst I could do to Adam would be to upset his cream décor—although I
have
had dark thoughts about repainting the apartment black and red in his absence. (Obviously symbolic—black for the death of love and red for my bleeding heart…and revenge.)

Rachel and I are
equally
convinced that Tish will do something radically self-destructive because of Rufus’s apparent
change of heart re: their nondate and his nonappearance at the deli yesterday. Although Tish is gentle and sweet, she is half Italian, and you just never know when the hot, Latin-blooded side of her genetic makeup might rear its head.

Tish and I are certain that Rachel will commit murder, thereby destroying her chances of ever receiving the Nobel Prize for her contribution to science. Which would be tragic.

Hugh Peters, the super-brain, top scientist who joined Rachel’s research team a month ago (and is, in effect, her boss), is the new bane of her existence. This is obviously because he’s cleverer than she is but we don’t tell her this. And because she can’t bully him into submission, as she does with all her other work colleagues, but we don’t tell her
this,
either. She cannot say his name without the accompaniment of the most foul curse words you can imagine. I wonder if someone ought to warn Hugh Peters about Rachel’s black belt?

Because of this shared concern over our well-being (we are lovely, worthwhile people), we agreed, last night, after takeout Chinese and many glasses of Adam’s Special Reserve wine, to meet at the gym at nine this morning.

Speaking of Adam’s Special Reserve wine…his sofa is a complete mess. I think Rachel did it accidentally on purpose, mid-“fucking bastard” rant, to punish Adam. I got a bit carried away and “accidentally” spilled some on the cream rug, too. At least it adds a bit of lived-in color to this antiseptic place. Serves him right, ionic bonding bastard!

Anyway. Meeting at the gym at nine
A
.
M
. on Sunday morning is equally as bad as meeting at the gym at nine
A
.
M
. on Saturday morning, but we have agreed to do this because we are Supporting Each Other in Our Despair. Plus, we do not have significant others to spend our weekends with. And this fact does not make us sad and unlovable, oh no.

This makes us choosy.

We do not have mates because we
choose
not to select one from the poor array of single males we have so far encountered in this city.

Yoga will be followed by breakfast at the really great Spanish café on Washington, because Tish has forbidden us to ever darken Rufus’s deli door again. I wonder, fleetingly, if Rufus’s business account will swing violently into the red because of our boycott. I foresee a massive downward surge in muffin sales.

After delicious cake therapy, we are heading off for some retail therapy.

We are going
outletting.

To outlet:
a new verb we created. Here is an example of how it might be used: Today, I plan to go outletting with my good friends Tish and Rachel. To the designer outlets.

This may seem frivolous in view of everything that has happened over the last few days. My time
might
be better spent starting the hunt for a new apartment. Or at least packing my things and moving in with Tish later today, as planned. Maybe I
should
scour
The New York Times
Sunday edition for possible career opportunities.

But, you see, apart from the Donna Karan gift voucher burning a hole in my purse (thank you, Rachel), I have (with Rachel’s ranting encouragement last night) gone past the “poor me, why me” stage of rejection and have moved on to anger and resentment. The idea of making life difficult for Adam is very appealing. This is my plan:

1. Do not move out of his apartment just yet. Why should I cleanly remove all traces of myself before his return from the Bahamas with man-stealing bitch Stella?
   
2. Do not leave Cougan & Cray. Would be completely bad career move at this time and my daily presence will serve to remind Adam how badly he has treated me. (Although I will go and see Jacintha Bridges re: Human Resources job tomorrow—don’t want to actually work
   with
   Adam.)
   

Why should
his
life continue without even a slight hiccup after the way he’s behaved?

Another reason I am nurturing dark thoughts about how to complicate Adam’s life and generally be a pain in his side is because Adam just called me. From the Bahamas.

The phone rings just as I am about to leave the apartment to head for the Fourteenth Street PATH station. And I’m not going to bother picking up because I assume it will be either Katy, calling to find out why we didn’t attend her Mothers Against Sexy (or was it Sexual?) SPAM meeting last night (feel a bit guilty for not turning up to protect her from Marion bloody Lacy but don’t want to make up pathetic, unbelievable excuses to her at this time of the morning), or some bloody bane-of-the-weekend telemarketer.

I
hate
it when someone tries to sell me something that I really don’t want or need, and I have such a hard time telling them no because they are so persistent and aggressive. Plus, I always end up feeling sorry for them because it must be a really shit job. Can you imagine sitting there, day in and day out, calling people all across the country and knowing that the best you can expect is verbal abuse?

This is exactly why I have Caller ID and voicemail. To shield me from the bastard pushy person on the other end, determined to extract cash from me. But I am so pissed to get an “out of area” call at eight on Sunday morning that I pick up, determined to tell “Hello, this is Chuck, how are you today?” to stick his head where the sun don’t shine.

“Hello,” I bark, ready to vent my spleen on the doomed, hapless Chuck who is, poor soul, only doing his job.

“Emmeline? Is that you?”

Oh, God. It’s Adam. Despite harboring dark, vengeful thoughts about him, I am unable to stop the pathetic pittypat of my heart at the sound of his beloved voice. And then reality reasserts itself. This is the same lying, cheating, ionic-bonding Adam who has just wrecked my life.

“Yes,” I say, curtly, as images of Adam and Stella frolicking wantonly on a Bahamian beach flash in front of me.

“Thank God. For a moment there I thought it was your dreadful friend, Rachel.”

Now, insulting my best friend is not a good way to start a telephone conversation after shafting me both at work and at home, and as you might imagine, my temper (which has already been stoked very nicely by Rachel the night before) fires up.

“Just called to see how your weekend’s going,” he tells me cheerfully. “Did you have a good time on Friday night?”

Did I have a
good time
on Friday night? What kind of a weekend am I
having?
How
dare
he sound so…so cheerful! He casually ruins my life and my birthday, and then has the audacity to call me and ask if I’ve had a
good time.
I don’t believe this!

And then I
know
how I am going to handle this conversation.

“I’m having a
totally fab
weekend,” I lie. “The apartment looks
completely great.
You’re going to
love
the new black and red décor.”

“What?”

I can’t help a smug smile as I imagine the shock-horror of his face. Outraged Adam. Y-e-s!

“Tell me this is a joke.”

He really does sound upset. This is
great.

“You won’t recognize the old place. It’s amazing how quickly you can transform a room with a coat of paint,” I breeze at him. And then, before he can get a word in edgewise, “How is
your
weekend, Adam? Stella tells me that the Bahamas are lovely at any time of year.”

There is a momentary pause, but only a very slight one before Adam pushes manfully on.

“Darling, it’s pretty much as I told you. Boring work, lots of meetings, not much time to enjoy the surroundings. We might as well be back in Manhattan.”

How can he still call me darling? Has he no principles?

“Well,” I say, now huffy with indignation and resentment.
“I imagine that I’d rather be at a
business weekend
in the Bahamas than forcing my body into strange yoga positions. Did I tell you I’ve taken up yoga? It’s very
enlightening.
”

“About the apartment. What exactly have you done to—”

“Talking about enlightenment,” I interrupt, smug that he’s now really worried about what I’ve done or not done to his décor. “There are some things that you need to enlighten
me
about.”

“I—yes, you’re right.” He sighs. “Look, I was going to tell you before I left for this trip but there just wasn’t time. It never seemed to be the right occasion. But you deserve to hear this from me—”

“Actually, I don’t have time right now. I’ve got to go be a Proud Warrior and a Mermaid,” I say. I am not going to be dismissed on the telephone as if I am some insignificant amoeba. I deserve more than that. Face to face, at the very least.

“A proud what? Emma, did you say mermaid? Have you lost your senses?”

“Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. You could say I’ve
come
to my senses. What time will you be back tomorrow?”

“Five in the afternoon. What does that have to do with—”

“I’ll book a table at La Trattoria for six,” I tell him firmly. “Then we can have a good long chat about the Bahamas and why I didn’t get that promotion. And other things.”

“I told you why you didn’t get the job.” He sighs, and I imagine him pushing his blond hair off his forehead. “It had nothing to do with your ideas. You’re very talented, you have some great ideas. It was more to do with experience and outlook.”

“I
am
experienced, and I have a very cheerful outlook.
Usually.
”

“But—”

“Look, I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, borrowing my mother’s Mrs. Thatcher no-nonsense tone. “Oh,” I add as a
parting shot. “And I’m sure the red wine stains will come out of the sofa and the rug.” Click. I hang up and punch air.

This is great!

I decide to wait until we are at the Spanish café until I broach the subject of torturing Adam with Rachel and Tish.

We are sitting outside, eating delicious strawberry tartlets. It is very hot out here. It is actually in the high eighties, but feels like the high nineties on account of the late June humidity. And the reason we are out here in the sauna, instead of enjoying the lovely, cool, air-conditioned interior, is because this café is almost exactly opposite Rufus’s deli.

“There’s no point boycotting his deli if he doesn’t realize what we’re doing,” Tish tells us. “I want him to see what he’s missing.”

She certainly looks great enough to miss in the skimpy summer dress. The top has tiny spaghetti straps and clings lovingly to her ample bosom, and I am jealous as hell. The flirty skirt skims the top of her brown knees. It is also very red. This is a very un-Tish-style dress and it is blatantly sexy—so blatantly sexy it may as well be emblazoned with the words
FUCK ME NOW
, but my God, does she look good. She is also the only one of us not sweating profusely, and I wonder if this is due to a secret formula body lotion that the Italians have not shared with the rest of us.

“Oh, there he is,” she says, and I glance over my shoulder to look.

“Don’t look.” She kicks me under the table. “I don’t want him to think I’m sitting here on purpose like some sad, unattractive stalker who can’t get a date.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Rachel tells her. “I can’t believe
I’m
doing this. Jesus, I’m risking skin cancer for the sake of your fuck.” Rachel slides her chair sideways to get a good position under the shade of the canopy. “Can’t you just forget about Rufus and move on to a more
receptive guy? That waiter who served us was very interested in you.”

“It’s not about a fuck,” Tish says, and I gasp.

Tish
never
says
fuck.
She is the most clean-mouthed of all my friends, on account of her strict Catholic upbringing with Saturday confessions and Sunday mass.

“You
never
say fuck,” I accuse her. “The Pope will have a stroke.”

“Yes. Well, to paraphrase the great Bob Dylan, times are changing. I’m changing. I want Rufus to see what he’s missed. Fuck, fuck,
fuck.
God, that feels good.” And then she begins to laugh, hysterically, tossing her glossy brown hair over her shoulder.

Have I just missed something? Okay, Tish saying
fuck
is unusual, but it’s not that funny. I glance across at Rachel, who scowls.

“Hahaha.” Tish leans back languorously in her chair to show her breasts to their full advantage. And then she swings one knee sexily over the other. Her red strappy shoes are divine.

“That was just too fucking
funny.
” She giggles, then leans across and playfully taps my arm. “Hahaha, can’t you just go along with me and laugh? Pretend I just told you something totally hilarious—Rufus is watching.”

Aha.
Now we get it. I self-consciously join in. But Rachel doesn’t.