See Jane Date (21 page)

“That's my cue!” Gwen trilled. “Say bye-bye to Jane-Jane,” she baby-talked to Olivia.

“Oh, hey, Gwen? What would you suggest getting a pregnant friend who's just announced her news? Someone who's not even showing yet.”

“You can never go wrong with getting a mom-to-be the book
What To Expect When You're Expecting,
” Gwen told me. “I must have read and reread that book three times while I was pregnant. See you later! Come on, Livie-loo. Time to play with Morgan while Mommy goes to a meeting.” Gwen pushed Olivia's carriage down the hall to Morgan's cubicle. Morgan was baby-sitting until the meeting ended.

What To Expect When You're Expecting.
Excellent idea and very appropriate, considering that the Gnat was worried about her mothering skills. I could stop at Barnes & Noble on my way to the subway tomorrow morning.

I began rereading the Gnat's Chapter Two and was into a juicy part about the number of men she'd slept with on the Hollywood “casting couch” when Morgan buzzed me and informed that my presence was requested in the conference room. When I arrived, Remke, Jeremy and Gwen were sitting in their usual seats. No one was looking at me. Remke was thumbing through memos, as usual. Jeremy was reading—gulp—my excerpt. And Gwen was pretending to be checking threads in her skirt.

Oh, God. Was I getting fired?

“Let's go, let's go,” Remke said, eyeing me over the rim of his glasses. “Sit down.”

I sat. And waited.

“Gwen wants to discuss the Nutley project,” Remke prompted.

“Well, I just want to make sure everything's going all right,” Gwen added. She turned to me. “I'm worried that you're all alone on this project without any support.”

“Things are going really well,” I said. “Natasha's working hard, and I'm getting some great stuff out of her….”

“I'm sure you're both doing your best,” Gwen offered. “And by keeping up the hard work and with additional experience, you'll be a very strong editor. But right now, you're really just learning.” She directed her phony concerned expression to Jeremy and Remke. “I'd be happy to act as a support system for Jane and approve her work as she goes. Perhaps I could even give Natasha a call and let her know she has a senior editor behind the scenes who's—”

Jeremy stopped reading my excerpt and slapped it on the table. “Gwen, Jane's doing just fine. This excerpt she wrote from Natasha's first chapter is excellent. Absolutely excellent. There's not a thing you could have contributed to make it stronger. Jane has a long history with Natasha, and she's clearly guiding her very well.”

“We're done here then,” Remke said. “Good job, Gregg.”

“I'm impressed,” Gwen exclaimed. “I've trained you well, Jane!”

I'd done it. I'd actually done it. I'd
arrived.
Gwen Welle was threatened by me!

“Black, stick around,” Remke said. “Let's talk about
that Backstreet Kid. Gwen, if you'd like to stay, I'd love to have your thoughts on this.”

“Oh, great!” Gwen exclaimed. “Let me just make sure Livie's settled.”

Gwen followed me out. As I passed Morgan, who was cooing at Olivia, she shot me a good-job nod. Clearly she'd heard every word in the conference room and was impressed that Gwen was threatened by me.

Gwendolyn Welle, senior editor extraordinaire, threatened by
me.
After six years of hard work, I'd made it. I couldn't wait to tell Eloise. I ran to her office, but she was deep in conversation with Daisy. I thought about calling Timothy, but it seemed too early in the romance for that. We weren't at the call-each-other-for-anything stage yet. I might as well tell him tomorrow when he was feeding me his homemade enchiladas. That would be celebration enough. I skipped to my office and reveled by swiveling around on my desk chair.

The intercom buzzed. “Jaaane,” Morgan whined. “You're wanted in the conference room for a staff meeting.”

A staff meeting? Was I getting promoted? I was. I was getting promoted! Why else would Remke call a staff meeting on a Friday? Remke, Jeremy and Gwen hadn't stayed after our little meeting to discuss the Backstreet Boy. They'd stayed to discuss my promotion to Associate Editor!

Deep breath, deep breath. Affect the poise of an associate editor. I pulled out my compact and de-shined my nose, then touched up my lips with my trusty Clinique Black Honey lip gloss. A fluff of the hair, and I was ready to be congratulated.

The editorial staff and the art department were gathered in the conference room. Two champagne bottles and a
bunch of plastic cups were on the table, along with a platter of cookies. Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. I was getting promoted. This was it.

“Since we're all here today, including Gwen,” Jeremy began, “I thought it would be a good time to announce some wonderful news.”

My heart was ba-booming so fast. What if I couldn't speak when Jeremy announced the promotion? Deep breath, deep breath.

Jeremy cleared his throat. “I'm very happy to announce my engagement to Carolyn Klausner, an executive vice president at
Vogue
.”

The ba-booms stopped. I felt eyes on me. Four eyes, to be exact. Morgan's and Eloise's. Everyone was clapping. I forced myself to clap, too.

“Let's go, let's go,” Remke said. “Let's make a toast.”

As the champagne popped and poured, Eloise snaked her way over to me and squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?” she whispered.

I nodded and squeezed back. I wasn't upset over Jeremy.
Quelle surprise,
but I wasn't. Yes, a Heidi Klum look-alike-slash-executive-vice-president-at-
Vogue
was marrying Jeremy. My Jeremy. The man I'd been dreaming about for five years. But the only thing I was upset about was that I'd been stupid enough to get my hopes up about the promotion. Maybe Gwen hadn't been threatened by me, after all, Maybe she simply thought I wasn't up to the task.

 

What Tiffany's was to Holly Golightly, Bloomingdale's was to me. Nothing very bad could happen to you in Bloomies. Except for maybe having your credit card revoked for exceeding the limit or getting sprayed with
five different perfumes by aggressive floor models. Granted, Bloomingdale's wasn't exactly
the
elite of New York City department stores, but bad things
could
happen to you in Barney's or Bendel's or even Saks or Bergdorf's: Saleswomen could appraise your clothes and shoes and purse and hair and makeup and raise their noses in the air and not even bother asking if they could help you.

My favorite part of the store was the main floor, with the cosmetic counters and accessories and jewelry and hosiery. You could spend an entire afternoon in Bloomies without spending a penny: getting a free makeover, trying on stylish clothes and shoes you could never afford, imagination-decorating your entire apartment. And the bonus was people watching.

The Flirt Night Roundtable was meeting in front of the MAC counter to try on lipsticks before heading up to the registry to fill out the paperwork for Eloise. Eloise was busy asking the MAC beauty advisor about bridal makeup for the big day. For a woman who'd burst into tears when telling her best friend she was engaged, she sure was going full steam ahead.

“Hey, ya'll!” Amanda called with a wave as she weaved her way over. She beelined for an empty spot in front of the lipsticks and applied a shimmery pink. “What do you think?” She puckered up.

Eloise kissed her on the lips. “There. Now you can see how it looks on me.”

“I think it looks different on an engaged woman,” Amanda said. “You know, when your skin's glowing, pink looks pinker.”

But Eloise wasn't glowing. She was fake-happy, and I knew it. I wondered if Amanda knew it, too. I'd been tempted a few times yesterday to call Amanda and get her perspective about Eloise's engagement, but I hadn't
wanted to talk about El behind her back. Anyway, Amanda didn't know Eloise the way I did. And I didn't want Amanda to get the wrong idea, that I was jealous or something. That was what I was afraid she'd think. I wasn't sure why. Maybe because they both had serious boyfriends, and I had two dates under my belt.

“So Jane! Looks like you and Timothy are gonna be getting engaged soon, too!” Amanda said. “He told Jeff he owes him big—like a Porsche—for fixing him up with you!”

The smile burst out of me. “He said that?”

“Hey, who knows,” Eloise said. “Maybe we'll have a double wedding! Wouldn't that be amazing?”

“Can I help you ladies?” asked a male beauty advisor.

Saved. Amanda and Eloise lunged for the lipsticks and an available mirror and the advice of a guy with pink hair. A double wedding. Dana's wedding was enough wedding for a long time to come. Okay, okay, I wouldn't mind an engagement ring twinkling on my finger. I wouldn't mind a wedding in a mini-ballroom at the Plaza Hotel. I wouldn't mind being married to the man I loved.

Was I jealous of Eloise? I suddenly felt like Ally McBeal when she shrank to teeny-tiny size on her chair after she was made to feel small, small, small. I didn't think that was it, but maybe it was. Maybe I was simply jealous that I was being left behind. Losing my best friend.

After a half hour of makeovers that cost us each over fifty bucks in cosmetics we didn't need, we descended on Registry Lady. Forms in hand, Eloise, Amanda and I hit my second favorite part of Bloomingdale's: the bed and bath department. We wandered around the entire department to look at everything, and then Eloise started making selections. We decided to put one of each thing she chose
in our shopping baskets so that she could immediately see if colors matched or if she didn't like something fifteen minutes later.

Eloise chose thick dark purple towels (twenty bucks for a bath towel!) and a very cool bath mat with tiny cartoon moose. Art Deco-y accessories, and a shower curtain that was a movie poster of
Casablanca
with Bogey and Ingrid Bergman in a heated, tense embrace. A down comforter thicker than my winter coat. A duvet cover more expensive than my winter coat. Pillows, thick and thin, down and synthetic. Calvin Klein sheets and pillowcases in a three-hundred-thread-count. Flannel Ralph Lauren sheets. A feather bed. A talking scale.

Two hours later, Eloise announced she'd changed her mind. She wanted a paler color scheme. Who even knew if Serge would like any of this? she'd worried aloud. Maybe she should come back some other time with him and they should choose together, she'd said. And so the three of us took our baskets and dumped everything on one of the display beds when the salesclerks weren't looking.

“Let's move the Flirt Night Roundtable to a round table,” Eloise said, looking a tad grim. “I need a drink.”

Amanda and I looked at each other and nodded. And ten minutes later we were sitting at one of the low round tables near the fireplace at Arizona 206, a Southwestern restaurant across the street from Bloomingdale's. Three frozen margaritas, Eloise's Marlboros Lights and a book of matches were before us. Eloise had decided this wasn't the time to give up her favorite bad habit.

“So you haven't had a single puff since last Saturday?” Amanda asked. “Wow, Jane! That's so great!”

“Let's toast to Jane's one-week anniversary as a nonsmoker,” Eloise said, raising her margarita.

We toasted, my eyes on the familiar light-brown-and-white pack of cigarettes. She'd admitted she'd sneaked more than a few cigarettes over the week; it was one of the reasons she'd avoided me. I'd told her she should feel comfortable puffing all she wanted in front of me. I was stopping in the name of love. She already had smoking love.

And that had made the three of us crack up. The tension had been cut, and the Flirt Night Roundtable was in full session on East 59th Street.

“Oh shit!” I said. “I forgot to buy Dana her shower present.”

“Just give her money,” Amanda said. “It's what couples want anyway. No one wants another hideous Mikasa vase.”

“But they're gazillionaires,” I reminded her. “What does she need my hundred bucks for?”

“Rich people are obsessed with money,” Amanda said. “They can never get enough. Because they
spend
so much. Trust me, your measly hundred bucks will help pay the Plaza bill. Why do you think they're inviting so many people?”

She had a point there. “Still, you don't think Dana will find money from her cousin too impersonal?” Dana was definitely money and status obsessed, but we were family, after all.

“No way,” Eloise said. “She'll think it's ever so appropriate.”

I raised my margarita. “Okay, if you guys say so.”

“Jane, are you sure you're okay about Jeremy?” Eloise asked.

Amanda looked from Eloise to me. “What about Jeremy?”

“He announced his engagement to some
Vogue
VP,”
Eloise said, exhaling a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling.