Snapped (19 page)

“You’re going to open a vintage reading library and throw a fantastic party,” Esther says.

“It does sound really cool,” says Nick, who up until now has said nothing.

“What’s it going to be called?” June asks.

I groan. I just want to read magazines and trashy old paperbacks, not think of names and throw parties. The board with the
Satin Rules
graffiti is propped up against the wall beside the couch. Tim and I keep arguing about what to do with it—I want to hang it, he wants it gone. “The Satin Rules Library and Reading Room.” It’s good. I like it. My years of trend analysis and general bullshit are put to good use. I can see the logo. We’ll do a newsletter for members, but more like
a ’zine, like the way
Snap
was about a million years ago. There will be no DOs and DON’Ts. It’ll be about reading old magazines and books and other things I like. Strangely energized, I spring up off the couch and grab my Polaroid. I push my feet back against the wall until my heels touch and hold the camera out in front of me. I smile and the flash goes off.

“This looks fun,” George says. He’s back from the bookstore and sees Esther, June and Nick gathered around the reading table waiting for the pictures to develop. I’ve taken one of each of them and have made them lifetime members of the newly anointed Satin Rules Library and Reading Room. I have to get one of those machines that makes the ID cards with the hard lamination.

I ask George to stand in front of the wall while I take his picture, too. “What’s with all the pictures? You’re not back to your old ways are you?”

“No way. No DOs. No DON’Ts.”

“Good.”

“Stay there.” I stand next to him and tilt my head toward his. I hold the camera with my good hand and push the shutter button. George looks confused. “This one’s for my notebook. I’m trying to make one like Lila’s.” George looks more confused. “I’ll explain later.”

“We should be going, dear,” Esther calls out. “I’d like to change before dinner.”

“You’re going out?’

“I’m taking June and Nick to that new tapas bar that was on the
Snap
MUST DO list last week.”

“Oh.” My mood deflates. I know nothing of that new tapas bar that was on the
Snap
MUST DO list last week.

“I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t have mentioned—”

I cut her off. “It’s fine, really, Esther. Call me tomorrow and let me know how it was. And you two…” I say this to June and Nick. “I’ll get your address from Esther and send you your cards.”

There are thank-yous and handshakes and awkward hugs all around and then George and I are alone and I notice that he’s holding a rock in his hand. “What is that?”

“It’s for you. Here.”

“No. Wait. I have something for you.” I pick a white envelope with his name on it up off the counter and hand it over.

I take the rock from him—it’s black and smooth. “What is it?”

“It’s a healing stone. For your hand.”

“You bought me a healing stone?”

“I did.” George laughs, then he reads the card aloud.
“You were never a DON’T. Now it’s time to make me over. Do your best DON’T.”
He holds up the paper doll. “Oh, I’m going to have fun with this.”

“Go to town. That’s what it’s there for. I’m thinking I’ll cover that wall over there with them—if anyone actually returns them. It could look cool.”

“You sent these out?”

“To every DON’T I ever put in the magazine. That’s how I fucked up my hand—writing them out.”

“They have things called computers and printers now, you know.”

“I wanted to do them by hand. I had to.”

“I know,” he says and pulls me into a big hug.

George says I need a business license and I know he’s right but I’ll deal with it later because right now I need Timotei and his friend Martin—or at least one of them—to get up on that fucking ladder and put the
Satin Rules
sign above the door.

“You should have it coated,” Tim says in his Australian accent, which is getting on my nerves so much today I don’t think I could ever have sex with an Aussie. Not that I really would have before, I don’t think—too blond and tanned and
g’day-mate
pep for me. “It’s a piece of
plywood
. It’s going to look like shit.”

“That’s the point,” I say.

“I’ll do it.” Martin takes the drill from Tim’s hands and climbs up the ladder. Martin has agreed to be my occasional slave in return for a free membership to Satin Rules. He wrote
cash only
on every invitation since I didn’t think of doing that before the invites were printed and I don’t have a credit card machine or account or whatever it is you need to take Visa. People will complain. I’ll tell them it’s part of the D.I.Y. throwback aesthetic of Satin Rules. This makes no sense, but people will nod and someone will inevitably use the term
old-
school
and I’ll smile and grind my teeth because they might pay me two hundred and fifty dollars a year to sit at my reading table and flip through books and magazines. Martin the occasional slave will also be making the laminated membership cards at the party. I’ve made it clear: no more freebies; everybody has to pay. I need to make money because
I am a successful female entrepreneur embarking on a new and challenging venture.
And it’s the only job that will allow me to read old magazines all day. Shit. I’ll have to give Ellen a comp membership, too. She’s coming in tomorrow for the opening party.

The party, the party, the party, it’s all about the party. Esther volunteered to catalog all the books, all the magazines, code them and make old-fashioned sign-out cards for them. What’s not so old-fashioned is the deposit charge that’s neatly printed in the upper-right-hand corner of each card. I have to get this credit card business straightened out. George said he’d help.

I look around the space. I’ll block off the stairs to my bedroom loft with something. I make a note to ask Tim or Martin to find that something. I don’t want random people wandering into my bedroom, looking at my stuff, taking things, smelling my panties. People do this, I know—I had a boyfriend once who did.

Jack is coming, so is Ted and, of course, Eva. I sent everyone at
Snap
invitations and have an ad in tomorrow’s issue. I’m going to be a bigger person, I’m
growing
, I have a
healing stone
, which as far as I can tell is a cheap polished rock rebranded and sold for twenty bucks. I was feeling big and all about
growth
last week after a day of rushing around the city with Martin and Tim, buying this, getting that, checking things off lists. I was feeling big and so absolutely inflated with personal growth I could burst after postering the neighborhoods with
photocopied announcements of the Satin Rules opening and leaving stacks of handbills in cafés. It was exciting and reminded me of the early days of
Snap
when I’d walk through the city, distributing copies of the magazine myself, taking pictures, talking to people, stopping for drinks. It was the same, sort of, but with assistants and I didn’t bring my camera and I’d duck behind Tim or Martin before I had to talk to anyone because I don’t like people very much. But I was polite to one particularly annoying Bjork wannabe with bad breath and this, above all else, was tangible evidence that I was indeed
growing
. So maybe it wasn’t so much like the early
Snap
days, but we did stop for drinks and after too many in the sun I ordered Martin to send invitations to the opening to every employee at the magazine.

Ted called the next day to congratulate me and said he’d be there. Jack e-mailed. Eva left an obnoxious voice mail asking if there was anything she could do to help.
Yeah, build a fucking time machine so we can go back to the day before you fucked Ted or, better yet, the day before I met you, and I could have my best friend back and everything would be fine, not the big clusterfuck that it is.

But I don’t think I want to go back. I want to read old magazines and kiss George. I want to shush people when they make too much noise in my library. But I do miss Gen, especially when I have to walk by the bus-stop posters advertising her upcoming album and reality TV show and her huge fake breasts.
This fall…fall in love all over again. J’taime Gen-Gen
. Gen has a reality TV show and a new album. She has a kid and huge fake breasts. She lives in the suburbs and wears high heels with three-hundred-dollar jeans.
That’s
a clusterfuck. I want to plaster myself behind the fresh drywall that’s gone up on one side of Satin Rules’ main floor. I could live there with
the rodents who will probably move in soon and I could think about what a hypercritical shit I am. So what? So Gen has a reality TV show and huge fake breasts and everything else, she was still my best friend. So she stayed with Ted after he fucked Eva’s cunt with his mushroom-head dick. So maybe that is a total clusterfuck and I’m a judgmental bitch who maybe isn’t
growing
much but for God’s sake what was she thinking?

I don’t know because she doesn’t come to the party and I don’t ask Ted about her. I just have a drink and wait for the Ativan I took five minutes ago to kick in. It’s my last one. I’m seeing that doctor again on Thursday and I made an appointment with the therapist for Monday when Satin Rules is closed so if I want to go I can but if I don’t I can finally go pick up my dry cleaning and spend the rest of the day reading old magazines in silence, alone. But that is six days away and now there are people everywhere, all over my place, laughing, drinking, touching things. I think some are buying memberships. They’re all talking at once.

They’re talking about the half-filled wall of DON’T paper dolls I’ve received in the mail. Some are meticulously colored with pencil crayons, some have haphazardly drawn boobs and pubic hair and nothing else. One card simply has
Bitch
written across it. Gen hasn’t sent hers in.

They’re talking about me and Ted and me and Jack and me and Eva and what happened—they all pretend they know what happened but they don’t. No one asks and some people point and whisper when they see me talking to Ted and Jack and not having a terrible time. Jack is running
Snap TV
and is moving to Montreal. He says he’ll give me a call when he moves; he has a couple boxes of stuff I left at his place. He doesn’t seem mad and I don’t hate him.

They’re talking about my turn as a judge on
Stylemaker.
The episode aired on the weekend but I completely forgot about it. Diane’s at the party. She says she’ll send me a tape. She says I was a big hit and that she’d like to talk to me about the possibility of being a permanent judge for next season. I won’t do it, but I don’t say no.

They’re talking about Eva and the rumors that she’ll be running the Apples Are Tasty site since Ted bought it and giving it something I hear someone call a
retro look and sensibility.
“And she’s the face of
Snap TV,”
whoever is talking to the
retro look and sensibilit
y guy says.

Killing yourself at your own party is generally considered a bad idea, I’m sure Lila would agree. I walk heel-toe, heel-toe in her highest black patent d’Orsay pumps and smartest black pencil-skirt suit that I hope makes me look like a sexy librarian but more likely makes my ass look bigger and rounder, but I remind myself that was very much the style in Lila’s day and people seem to like the look of those days or they wouldn’t be here. As I wind my way through the room eavesdropping, saying hellos, looking like I’m on a meet-and-greet mission but really looking for George. I’m feeling very Lila. I had a duplicate made, well, Martin had a duplicate made, of that picture of her—the
Portrait of a Lady Undone
—and it hangs in the library. I’m going to write an explanation, a dedication to accompany it. I am, but not tonight.

Across the room I see Eva with her Montreal red hair the same shade as Esther’s. She’s with Rockabilly Ben of the perfect cock and the paper route.
What is he doing here?
They’re talking to Parrot Girl, who I can’t believe I let in and who’s carrying a camera and has that fucking parrot on her shoulder.
I consider calling the animal control people or the humane society or whoever is in charge of keeping pets out of parties. But then, if I did that then the in-charge people might notice that there are too many people here and that there are drinks and lots of food and I think I might need a license for that and I have I license for nothing. I hunch down and slip behind the crowd, still watching Parrot Girl. She’s smiling and laughing and asking people to pose for pictures. She’s pretty—and touchy, she touches everyone she talks to on their shoulder, their arm, their back. Eva says something to her and Parrot Girl grins, but as Eva turns from her I’m sure I see Parrot Girl’s eyes narrow and her grin briefly disappear. I convince myself that Parrot Girl dislikes Eva,
hates
her. For this alone I should give her a comp membership instead of calling the in-charge animal people, but then that fucking parrot squawks and starts talking, saying, “Party, party, party,” in its awful parroty voice and people are laughing and pointing and saying things like,
how cute.
I don’t need animal control or Parrot Girl thinking she’s extra fucking special because she got a free library card. No, I need another drink. And Parrot Girl can get in line and pay for her membership just like everyone else.

I find George in the kitchen talking to Ellen. George pulls me to him and kisses me on the neck but I wriggle away. I find the bottle of pink champagne I had stashed, pop the cork and pour a glass. “Are you okay?” George asks.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fucking fine. I’ll be fine when this is all over and it’s quiet again.” I pour another glass after I knock back the first.

“It’ll be over soon enough,” says Ellen. “Maybe you should save the champagne for later—after everyone leaves.”

George nods. “And we could share it when you can finally relax.”

“I am fucking relaxed.” There is a woman wearing a
baseball cap
walking through the front door. I know this is an open opening, but
come on
. I want her gone. “Where’s Martin?”

“He went to get more film,” George says, his voice even and slow.

“We bought a ton.”

“It’s gone,” George says. “The memberships are a hit.”

“Great,” I say unenthusiastically.

“What is going on with you?”

“Nothing is going on with me.” I reach for the champagne bottle but George picks it up and puts it on top of the fridge.

“Do you want to go for a walk? Get some fresh air?” Ellen asks.

“Hey, Sara.” Fuck. It’s Rockabilly Ben.

“Uh, hi, Ben. Ben, this is George and Ellen.”

“Nice to meet you,
Ben
,” Ellen says. I want to kill her. I told her about Ben—all the hideous details—late one night when I was tipsy and waiting for George and was much too close to the phone.

“Great party,” Ben says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Well, I think I’m gonna split—have to get up early.”

“Of course,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

As soon as Ben is out of sight and out of earshot Ellen lets go a whoop of hysterical laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she says as she doubles over.

“Who is that guy?” George asks.

“Nobody.”

“He’s a
paperboy,
” Ellen says. I will kill her. I will open a drawer and take out a knife and slit her throat.

“I don’t get it,” says George.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Oh, come on, Sara—you can tell him.”

“Did you fuck that guy?”

I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t look up at his face. “It was a bad night.”

“You fucked a
paperboy
.”

“He’s an
independent adult carrier contractor
according to his card.”

“Paperboys have cards now?”

“Yup.”

“How was it?”

“Did you just ask me
how it was?
”

“Sure did. So?”

“Uh, I’m going to go talk to Esther,” Ellen says as she hurries out of the kitchen and away from the conversation. George is laughing now, but I’m still going to kill Ellen.

“You didn’t answer my question,” George says.

“I’m not going to answer your question.”

“That good, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to. If a guy is bad in bed a woman will tell you right away. If he’s good, she won’t say anything.”

“Oh, you’re so fucking smart.”

“What’d he do that you liked so much?”

“George, I can’t talk about this here.”

“Yes, you can. What was it? Did he hold your hands behind your back and fuck you really hard?”

“George!” I growl at him.

“He did, didn’t he?”

Did I tell him about Ben? I couldn’t have. Did I? I set down my champagne glass. It’s empty, but it’s a gesture. If I told George about Ben I will never drink again. “I am not having this conversation with you here.”

“Then how about over here?” George grabs my arm and drags me through the crowd and past the barricade blocking the stairs. He pulls me up behind him, up and up, past my bed and into the tiny bathroom Tim had installed. “So Ben held your hands behind your back and fucked you really hard, huh?”

“I never told you about Ben.”
Oh, God, I hope I never told him about Ben.

“You told me what you like and got me all hard, but you were so drunk it wouldn’t have been any fun.” I have no idea what night this was. There were several to choose from.
He doesn’t know about Ben, not everything.
“But you’re not too drunk now.”

George turns me away from him and I’m facing the corner. He hikes my skirt up over my ass and reaches his hand around and between my legs. I’m wet and he fucks me hard with his fingers. Over the din from the party below I hear Martin’s voice calling my name. George and I stop and I pull my skirt down and step toward the door. Martin stops calling.