A Girl's Best Friend (5 page)
Poppy is not the type to have a Hollywood hero. In fact, I’ve never heard her discuss men in general. Unless she’s telling us about their poor kidney function or bent spinal cord.
“Too boyish.”
“Hugh Jackman?” I offer.
“Too tall.” She puts her fingers over her mouth and goes into deep thought. “I think, maybe Harrison Ford as Han Solo.”
Still waters run deep. “The lovable scoundrel. I wouldn’t have guessed it. I mean, I knew you liked Johnny Depp, but who doesn’t? But the pirate mercenary of Han Solo, now, that is a surprise. Proof that there’s a lot going on under all that cotton, isn’t it, Lilly?”
“So does this Brad look like Han Solo?”
Poppy laughs. “No, he sort of looks like Vin Diesel without the muscles. Yeah.” She thinks about it a bit. “A skinny Vin Diesel.”
“You got a bald guy?” Lilly kicks off her shoes so they hit the wall. “Life is so unfair.” Lilly thinks the root (no pun intended) of her issues is her bad hair, but considering she’s snagged herself one of San Francisco’s hottest bachelors, I think her issues lay closer to commitment phobia. I’ll have to look that up in one of my self-help books this weekend.
“Are you dating Brad Diesel?” I ask.
“Well, he hasn’t asked me out. We just talk after church is all.” Poppy goes about opening the French doors on the balcony to let in the scent of sulfur from the hot tub below. She’s avoiding questions, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say Poppy is interested in this Brad.
“Administration.” She turns around from the curtains, wearing a dreamy smile. “His gift is administration.”
Seeing her smitten expression and acknowledging my own lack of opportunity—not to mention luck—I fall back on the bed. “I’m
going to die a spinster. If I can’t get a job and afford my stylist, I’m going to die a mousy-brown-haired spinster with bad, store-bought highlights. Oh.” I put the back of my hand on my forehead. “The agony of it all.”
“You need to think about this getting a job business, Morgan. You don’t know how to be poor. You should leave it to the professionals,” Lilly says.
She should talk. She’s poor with style. She knows how to sew and how to create fabulous looks from nothing. I look Lilly straight in the eye. “I can be poor, Lilly. It’s not like it’s a skill to have no money. I won’t have to learn how to dress for the right occasion. Poor people don’t have occasions to go to, so what is there to know?”
Lilly laughs so hard, she snorts like a pig.
That’s attractive.
“You have to know how to look professional for work and how to buy enough Payless shoes to go with all your outfits. You can’t veer from a standard color palette, or it involves extra accessories at Claire’s and Payless, and that’s more than you can afford. So you stick with something you have shoes for.”
“No biggie. I have shoes for everything.”
“Okay, so let’s say you get a job at Starbucks, and you have to wear a pair of black pants. You’re going to hobble in to work for an eight-hour shift on Jimmy Choos? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, no, I have some Taryn Roses that I could wear.”
“And when someone spills espresso on your three-hundred-dollar mules, you do what?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Surely even poor people know better than to be dribbling on three-hundred-dollar shoes.”
Lilly throws herself on the bed. “You are hopeless. Normal people can’t imagine spending that kind of money on a pair of shoes. That is a major purchase in their home. An appliance! This is what I’m trying to tell you—not because I think you’re stupid, Morgan, but because I want you to be successful in your life changes, so I think you need to take it slowly.”
“If I take it slowly, I’ll never go anywhere.” I grab the Diet Pepsi out of Lilly’s bag, and even though Poppy is watching horrified, I twist it open and take a swig. “It’s now or never.”
“All right, Morgan. I’ll bet you can’t live on my salary, without a car in San Francisco, for one month,” Lilly says.
“No car is better than that Slob you drive now.”
“Oh, you think so,” Lilly is still on the bed, doubled over in laughter. “That handbag you have there, what is it?”
“It’s a Hogan. You know that, Lilly. Like there’s a designer you’re not familiar with.”
“That bag right there is your rent for the month. Welcome to the world of pleather, honey.” Lilly pulls out her organizer, jots down a number, and shows it to me. “If you take me up on my dare, this is the amount you have to live on. You can live with me and pay me half the rent for the month, but the rest is up to you. Food, clothing, entertainment—this is it. I’m there for you every step of the way, but if you’re really up to this, prove it. Or go running back to Daddy again.”
“You really think I can’t do this?” I look at the number, and my stomach churns. I think I spend more a month on coffee. “How do you buy lattes with this?”
“Have you seen those ads for frothy cappuccinos on television?”
“A mix?” I ask, aghast.
Poppy is pouring one of her elixirs at the desk, and she’s shaking so bad from laughter, she’s spilling it.
“You don’t think I’m capable, either, Poppy?”
“I just don’t think you have ever thought about money. It’s not important to you because you have an abundance. But I don’t think being poor is your thing, Morgan. We should go with our gifts. Yours is giving. God made you rich because you’d give up anything. You’d never keep anything to yourself when you could share. If you were selfish, I’d say this might be worth a try.”
“So I’m not selfish, but I’m clueless?”
They’re both looking at me, their mouths open like the Caldecott Tunnel, clearly unable to think of a response that wouldn’t be a fib. They do think I’m clueless.
I think about what I would look like if I were a classified:
Wanted: Single Eligible Bachelor Must be rich for my giving personality.
Must be willing to overlook a little boyfriend baggage.
Must find the clueless sort charming.
And this is from my best friends. Imagine what people who don’t love me think.
“Lilly, I’ll take you up on that bet, and I’ll prove to both of you that I may have been living in my father’s world, but I’m coming out, and I’m doing it on a shoestring. A very cheap, non-designer shoestring.”
“The Red & White Ball opening is next month,” Lilly warns me.
“I have a friend who sews and I understand Wal-Mart sells fabric,” I counter.
Poppy spills her elixir all over the desk. “Can you see Morgan in the
Star Wars
bed sheet gown? She’ll be all the rage.”
“I’m going to read my self-help books now.” I head to the balcony and the plastic chair. “You two certainly aren’t helping.”
As I sit on the plastic chair, though, I’ll admit, I have a huge tinge of fear pricking the back of my neck. Well, okay, I look up to see it’s really the plant on the balcony, but my point is the same: I’m not worried about living without money. I’m worried that I am not a person anyone would care about without money. And that when my Spa Girls figure out what I really did, I may find myself living without these wonderful, carefree retreats.
I
am a selfish creature. It’s not just the designer clothes, the penthouse, or my 645i that make me so. Those are just symptoms of the deeper disease. The truth is I can’t remember the last time I did something out of the goodness of my heart. Oh, I’ve brought Lilly little makeup samplers and paid for the spa trips. But it cost me nothing. Not really. I don’t pay the Visa bill, so my generosity has been a sham. It’s a hard realization for me—feeling that when the Bible says our works are filthy rags, mine are steeped in gasoline with a match at the ready.
So much for detoxification.
When Lilly put aside time to design a wedding gown for me, she gave of herself—her time and her talent—when it wasn’t convenient to do so. When Poppy sat with me all day while I sobbed over losing Marcus, she gave her sympathy to me, and brought me out of that dark place. She gave of herself.
But me? Really, I have given nothing that I couldn’t afford to give easily. How odd my friends should find me the generous and giving one. When in fact I clutch everything tightly out of fear that if I don’t buy them, I’ll be in want for friends and people around me. What a wake-up call that my faith is little more than me holding God in my special box. I don’t trust in the Lord, even though I claim to, week after week. What I really trust in, apparently, is that trampoline of safety called cold, hard cash. And if it were gone, could I jump freely knowing His hand was there to catch me?
After my hot rock massage outside under the magnificent oak in the garden, I’m excited about living with Lilly in her loft. I know she challenged me on a dare, but the truth of the matter is she’s offering me her place while I get my act together. Another case of her giving to the least of these.
But I’m looking forward to the change. And a change it will be. I’ve always had everything I needed. As a child. As a teenager.
Everything I needed by my father’s standards, that is. Which I’m not certain was the best measuring stick. Even my college dorm room was equipped with the best of everything, and I lived by myself instead of with a roommate. My father worked overtime to prove to me I was above the norm and entitled to better. It’s a wonder I ever had friends. I was bred to be better than them.
Not anymore. I’m going to start small in my gifts, like cleaning Lilly’s apartment, or cooking her dinner, but I’m going to learn how to do things for other people. I am going to learn to clean a bathroom.
The masseuse puts a spa robe over me, and I wiggle into it and decide to walk the gardens before going back in the room. The truth is I ate one too many truffles this morning, and I feel like I’m going to explode after the massage. Gluttony is never pretty.
I sit on a bench under a jacaranda tree and close my eyes to the peace of the moment.
“You look relaxed,” a male voice says.
I look up to see an unfamiliar face, a man wearing a suit shirt opened three buttons to reveal a small, pleasantly spaced tuft of hair. His smile is genuine. Not that I’m the greatest judge of character. But I like the look of him. He’s elegant and educated in his demeanor, but not too smooth or slick. Still, when I think about my heart stirring in any sort of male direction, I have to stop and take stock. I am the girl written up in the papers for running off with a con artist.
“Do you mind?” He puts his hand out towards the bench.
“Feel free,” I scoot over and go back to closing my eyes, sniffing the deep, earthy scent of eucalyptus. I feel him beside me—not his actual touch, just his presence. I sneak a look at him and find him staring at me. I immediately sit up and pull my robe tighter around me.
He clears his throat. “Sorry. You’re very beautiful in person. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Excuse me,” I say as I get up. See what a doormat I am? Creepy man in a suit at the spa, and I’m apologizing before removing myself from his presence.
“Please don’t leave,” he calls out, and for some reason I feel myself turning towards him.
“What are you doing here at a spa? And why are you using a bad bar line?”
He laughs out loud. “That was a bad line, but I can assure you, I meant it with the utmost sincerity. If it gives you any solace, I haven’t been in a bar in years.”
“And I can see why. You’re not exactly smooth.”
He laughs again. “No, I’m not.”
I scan him again, with my arms crossed in front of me. “So what are you doing here? In a suit?”
“I followed you here.”
“Why?” I deadpan. I feel completely safe. I’m in the Spa Del Mar, my home away from home. He doesn’t feel frightening. (Which is probably reason enough for me to hike this robe above my knees and make a mad dash while I still have time to avoid a new scandal.) But there’s something about him that makes me very curious. Just like a cat on its ninth life.
He clears his throat but doesn’t answer.
“Why did you follow me?” I ask, suddenly feeling my absence of makeup as nudity, plain and simple. The robe does nothing to assist that emotion. “Can you do me a favor and answer what’s so exciting about me that people want to read?”
“Do you want the truth or a story?”
“Which won’t hurt my feelings?”
“You’re a girl with everything. There’s nothing we like better in America than watching someone with everything lose it all. You’re the American gladiator. It’s not personal.”
“Trust me. It is personal. So what do you want from me, Mr. Suit? A good juicy piece of gossip on who I’m dating right now?”
He shrugs. “That’s not really the angle of my story or why I’m here.
Time
magazine said it best when—”
“
Time
magazine?” I gulp as I feel my lids slide shut. Oh, please tell me my pathetic life is not going to be a feature story. “Why would you possibly be interested in me?”
“I’m here to ask you about Andy Mattingly, the man you married.”
I can’t breathe. I yank the robe around my neck tighter, but it’s already practically choking me. “How did you know I married him?”
“I found the marriage certificate on record in South Lake Tahoe. Everyone assumed you went to Vegas, but I traced your phone records.”
I stand up and point at my newfound “friend.” “Aren’t you thorough?” I walk over towards him and, in a fit of daring, bend down to look at his feet. “I knew your socks would be perfectly coordinated. You cross your T’s.”
He smiles.
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
He moves farther over on the bench and slides his long legs out, leaving two lines in the dirt with his high-end loafers. “Sit down. I’m not here to bother you. With the advent of the Internet and cross-country dating, I’m here to find out why women . . . ” He looks over my figure. “ . . . who could clearly find themselves dates fall for these men. I’m sure your father is interested in the same answers.”
“Did you expect to find I had a third ear in person?”
“Truthfully, I expected you to be stupider.”
“Well, now, don’t sugarcoat it for my sake. How do you know I’m not stupid? I was married for three hours to a man who tried to take my father for my trust fund. Does that strike you as exceptionally brilliant? I haven’t worked a real job outside my father’s store so I’m not the career woman you might imagine. How exactly do you see me as intelligent? This, I have to hear.”
