Room for Love (4 page)

“You mean your roommate Charlie with the long lashes and luscious lips?” Steve asks. We all chuckle.

“Yes,” beams Sam. “Charlie with the Paul Newman baby blues and James Dean
je ne sais quoi,
Charlie with the darling petite
chambre de bonne
that he charged me suspiciously little for all these months.” She pauses for emphasis. “Well, we're in love!”

The room goes silent. “That's right,” she continues, bouncing up and down, as if she is about to make an attempt at springing up to punch a hole in the ceiling with her head. “
C'est vrai!
Gorgeous, sweet,
wonderful
Charlie, who hasn't charged me a cent since
I moved into his room a month ago,
asked me to marry him!
This summer!
Charlie
loves me.
He gave me this!” She turns around and fumbles in her pocket for a second before turning dramatically to display a diamond on the ring finger of her left hand that must be at least two carats, surrounded by baby sapphires. It is huge. Beaming but solemn, she adds, “It's the ring his grandfather gave his grandmother.”

I plunk down in my chair, stunned. Everyone else flocks around Samantha to congratulate her and check out the rock. Another bottle of champagne pops.

“This is so
Goodbye Girl!
” Chester swoons. “Roommates doing the wild thing with roommates.” Sam giggles in giddy response.

I stare at my disorganized desk and sip the warm champagne they brought for my birthday from a plastic cup. Only Courtney refrains from the ooing and aahing to hang back and place a comforting hand on my back. This is so unfair. Sam doesn't have boyfriends; she doesn't date so much as collect admirers who swarm around her as she flicks them away like so many insects. And now she answers a random ad for a room in
The Village Voice,
and she's engaged? I suddenly feel competitive.

“Don't take it too hard,” Courtney says. “He'll realize how annoying she is eventually and call the whole thing off.” It's not like Courtney to make a joke at someone else's expense, so I force a smile at her attempt to cheer me up.

Someone turns the music back on, and everybody starts dancing around the office to “Everybody.” Courtney forgets about me and resumes her hippie dance. My desk is a mess, and I feel like I have to get out of here fast.

I hear the IM sound from my computer. Apparently AliCat has time for one last comment, but not enough to take the trash out. The screen says:

I'm not looking for an apartment.

so fake it

And then the latest:
honestly it's a good way to meet guys, easy 2 screen 4 losers, u c their gross kitchen, sweaty socks, pix of chix. one hottsy wuz in his boxers. NICE PECS

Yeah,
I think,
that is a great idea for a story.
I sit up straight in my seat and, typing so hard that my fingertips throb, e-mail Clancy a pitch, subject heading: “Catch!”

Hey Clancy,
I write.
I just came up with a GREAT story idea! It's about looking for a roommate as a great new way to meet guys. My sister's apartment hunting right now and she's got a date EVERY NIGHT! This system is better than the Internet, because a guy's home doesn't lie. You get right in there, see if he's a neat freak or a slob, check out his books, his music, find out if he waters his plants, slings jockstraps on the living room floor or has pictures of his mother—or some chick—on his nightstand. You cut right through the crap, get to know who this guy really is. You're allowed to ask him anything you want, because he thinks you're going to be living together. It's more immediate and intensive than Internet dating, the personals, trolling the bars … It's an untapped market. The dating scheme of the moment. What do you think? Talk soon! Jacquie.

Pretty damn satisfied with myself, I hit Send and check my Instant Messages one last time.

Alicia's last remark reads,
dude, write an article and pretend ur looking for a room to rent. i have a feeling. u'll meet your husband.

2

Looking for roomies!!! Two small bdrms avail in basement of sweeeet artist loft/gallery/workshop/recording studio/party space on the southside of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the best neighberhood in Nueva York! (The Burg ROCKS) Share livingroom, kitchen, ect. with artist/musician/party promoter/mellow dude. Guys, girls, your all welcome. Get ready to chill out, hang. Know what I'm sayin? Mnth2mnth OK. Call me. JAKE

On our way to the bar where we're celebrating, Courtney and I stop by my apartment to do a ritual she devised for my birthday. Courtney is big on rituals—and astrology and homeopathy and green, leafy vegetables and howling at the full moon. When we reach the top of my four flights of stairs and walk through the front door—after dumping our coats on the floor, since I don't own a coat rack and the closet is still packed with floor-to-ceiling cardboard boxes, even though I have been here for three months—Court goes into the kitchen to assemble the necessary paraphernalia and I run for the loo. We had too much sake and beer with our excessive sushi dinner. When I hit the light switch, the bulb over the medicine cabinet sparks, like it does every time the woman downstairs turns on her blow-dryer or vacuum cleaner, and makes me scream. I have to remember to do something about that. I close the medicine cabinet, which Alicia left open, toss her sweats and bra into the hamper, and scoop up the pile of makeup that is strewn on the counter and shove it into a drawer, trying not to get overwhelmed by the sight of the two neglected gallons of pink paint, brushes, rollers, and drop cloths glaring accusingly at me from the corner of the room.

As much as I love my apartment, becoming a home owner as a single girl has its drawbacks. In addition to the bathroom, which needs a paint job (Court and I did the living room when I first moved in), there are floors to refinish and shelves to build or buy to house my millions of books that are still in boxes. Also, I had a brainstorm that the kitchen needed an unusual backsplash over the counter and bought a ton of metallic mosaic tiles I fell in love with at a going-out-of-business sale, and now they are sitting dejected on my kitchen floor along with more cardboard boxes. I don't have curtains on my bedroom window yet, so in the meantime I duct-taped a towel to the molding above it. An annoying living room window will not stay shut. There is a lot of renovating and personalizing left to do, and not only are my credit cards maxed out, but I'm irritated with the strapping, selfless, handy boyfriend I don't have who would be dying to build me shelves and hang my pictures and fix my window and hold my hand on daily Kmart runs.

Each time I'm sweating my way back from Bed Bath & Beyond with bags full of shower curtain, stepladder, ironing board, and plunger-type stuff, I curse the guy I haven't met yet who should be helping me lug it all. The other day I was at the hardware store on First Avenue, which I love because the guys who work there are so helpful and the owner has a big, friendly white mutt named Buster (after Buster Keaton) who lounges by the door. When I first moved to the neighborhood eight years ago, I was a disaster; I didn't even own a hammer. After I had borrowed about sixteen basic household tools from the grumpy British bald guy who lived next door to me, he directed me to the hardware store, where the owner, a handsome Irishman in his sixties with a twinkle in his eye, set me up with everything I'd ever need in a toolbox: hammer, nails, screwdriver, screws, adjustable wrench, putty knife, spackle, awl, pliers, tape measure, utility knife, and paintbrushes, all neatly arranged in a bright red box, plus a plunger, turpentine, and baby wipes, which he said always seem to come in handy. I ran around, eyes aflame, bouncing on my toes, squealing for joy with each step I took toward being a functional adult with my own apartment. Sweet Mr. Connelly must have thought I was a lunatic, but he acted like I was the nicest girl in the world.

So, the other day I was in there getting a box of nails to hang pictures and the two buckets of Rosé Sorbet paint that will eventually coat the bathroom walls, and I just about lost it. A cranky old man bumped into me, causing me to lurch forward and drop the box of nails, and they scattered everywhere. I was so flustered and tired already and there were so many nails spread so far, I burst into tears. Mr. Connelly's cute son who runs the place since his dad died about six months ago—broad shoulders, strawberry-blond hair, lumberjack attire, the Connelly twinkle—rushed over to sweep them up.

“Don't worry, it's not a big deal,” he said. “Hey, sit down here—” He patted an upside-down milk crate on the floor by the register. “I'll go get you another box.” He smiled at me and his pale, freckled cheeks turned geranium pink.

“Okay,” I croaked. When he came back, I whined to him about how it wasn't right that I had to fix up my whole apartment by myself; that my sister was staying with me, but she has the eeriest ability to be running late for an apartment visit or a Pilates class every time I ask her to unpack a box or buy toilet paper. And that I'm dating a guy who is useless: He prides himself on being a good handyman, but in his current I'm-not-your-boyfriend phase he likes to remind me on a regular basis that he should not have to do boyfriend duty. I realized I was getting a bit too personal and stood up.

“My girlfriend's bad about that stuff, too,” the cute hardware-store guy said, his cheeks turning pink again. I'd seen him in the shop with a girl a bunch of times, one of those naturally pretty hippie waifs who wears size-2 Urban Outfitters and no makeup. “You can leave the stuff here and I'll drop it off at your place when I get off,” he said.

“No, that's really nice of you, but I'll be all right,” I told him, touched by the offer.

Before leaving, I turned back.

“Hey, I've been meaning to tell you. I was so sorry to hear about your dad,” I said, my cheeks warming at the unexpected intimacy, which I wasn't sure was appropriate. “I guess I haven't seen you much since then, but I wanted to say something.”

“It was awful,” he said. “Caught us all by surprise.”

“I really liked him,” I said. “So much.” He smiled, but looked sad.

“Well, I'd better go,” I said, backing right into Buster. “Excuse me, sweetness,” I said, petting the dog and waving awkwardly to his owner at the same time.

I walked out onto First Avenue, bulging bags and paint cans banging against my shins, wondering why everyone in the world is nicer to me than my boyfriend. It's clear to me that Jake is not the guy who will someday move into my new apartment and wonder with me if it would be fun to squeeze a crib into our small bedroom or more logical to sell the place and buy more space in Brooklyn or Queens. Sometimes I worry that I jinxed myself by buying an apartment before I had someone to share it with. Then I try to convince myself that I've laid the foundation, you know: “If you clean it up, paint it, and make it cozy, he will come,”
Field of Dreams
–style. This space could accommodate a couple, I tell myself, and it will. I'm not doomed to live alone forever. It just feels that way sometimes.

Checking out my uniform—jeans, black tank top, hoodie, and boots—in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, I announce to Courtney, “I'm putting on a party dress.” She sprints for my closet. Courtney lives for the opportunity to go through my clothes, either to help me choose an outfit or threaten to burn one. Last year for spring cleaning, we made a pot of stinky tea Courtney swears is a wonder cleanser for toxic livers like mine, and she watched me try on every item of clothing I owned. She made me get rid of everything gray or brown (“You have pale skin and freckles. Neutral colors wash out your natural beauty and light”), unfashionable (“It reminds me of third-season
90210
”), or inappropriate (“You're a woman in your thirties and that getup shows six inches of thigh and three of midriff”). She also completely reorganized my closet and drawers, without my asking. She's a Virgo—and a goddess.

“Something low cut,” I shout from the bathroom, where I'm scrutinizing the lines beginning to appear under my eyes. When I was in my teens, my skin was as smooth as heavy cream with a smattering of faint freckles across it and in the sun it would pinken, crackle, and peel. People used to say with my light skin and dark tangle of hair, I could be an Irish barmaid or, on good days, an Italian model. Beige crescents have always cradled my eyes, my beauty bête noire since I was old enough to grasp the concept of physical imperfection. When I first discovered my mother's makeup at eight or nine, I smeared creamy white eye shadow over my dark circles and was transfixed by the transformation. Nowadays, I no longer burn in the sun and my dermatologist says I'm a perfect candidate for chemical peels. I run a finger over the wiggly creases that have settled permanently under my eyes, in spite of heavy lotion day and night, and wonder if guys in their twenties still find me attractive. I remember with relief that Jake is twenty-nine.

“There's no saving my face,” I call out to Courtney. “I at least need my boobs to look good.”

Courtney bursts breathlessly in without knocking, holding two dresses. I grab a purple Diane von Furstenberg number with a swooping neckline and ruching down both sides, and squeeze myself into it. I study myself in the mirror, grab handfuls of my tummy fat, and decide I look like a pastier Sophia Loren on steroids.

“The red one,” I yell into the living room, where Courtney is lighting incense and digging through drawers for candles. As she flings the dress at me, the phone rings. I check Caller ID and instinctively roll my eyes: my mom.

“Hey, I can't talk,” I tell her. “I'm late to my party.” I struggle to get the polka-dotted fabric over my womanly hips, but it's so tight it actually hides most of my bulges.