Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (16 page)

“Too close to home.”

“Did anything new happen this week?”

Belinda rested her cheek on her fist, pushing her lips cockeyed. “I did meet a kid at camp, who is going to be new at my school next year.”

“Perfect! Now, of the five ideas, which would be best to describe?”

“None of them are going to be
War and Peace.
”

“Belinda. Even
War and Peace
isn’t
War and Peace.
The battle parts are so dense—everyone skims them! Now, which one?”

“You pick.”

“I can’t know what’s most interesting to you.” Belinda didn’t budge, so Marjorie reread the list. “Fine: I say no chickens unless you want to write about farmers. The cigarette thing will probably land you in therapy, as will the bicycle crash. And seeing famous people is fun, but they can be disappointing.”

“How do you know?”

“It used to be my job to throw fancy parties for celebrities.”

“That sounds so awesome.”

“Do not, under any circumstances, even think about wasting your life doing that.”

Belinda looked surprised. “Why?”

“I mean, I’m not being fair. PR can be great,” Marjorie admitted, “but you should be an op-ed journalist or a foreign correspondent or a neurosurgeon or something, not checking on the white hydrangeas for J-Lo’s greenroom.”

“So, if you did that, then why are you a tutor now? No offense, but like why are you free to teach me during the day on Mondays?”

The too astute question flummoxed Marjorie. The only answer she could muster was the truth. “I’m kind of a loser, Belly. I was one of those popular kids, then I got confused about how to be an adult. I’m here now because I like cookies and writing. You’re okay too.”

On Saturday, after their talk, Marjorie and Mac had eschewed the bodega’s Rold Gold pretzels for meatballs, roasted vegetable salad, and pork braciola at Frankies 457. Mac had flirted throughout, making lewd remarks while she ate gelato and wondering aloud about the shade of tonight’s neon underwear. It all felt surprisingly normal. And, when they said good night outside her building, Marjorie had to fight the urge to drag him upstairs and show him her new bedroom. She reminded herself to be wary: This was
Mac,
after all. She pecked him goodbye and sprinted inside before she could change her mind.

A few remaining guests lounged on the floor. Fred was passed out on the sofa like a rag doll. Marjorie headed upstairs to bed but had trouble falling asleep; the night was too sticky, her air conditioner too weak. Mac was a ticket back to her old life. For the first time, she wondered if that was a good thing.

The next morning, as she and Fred Swiffered the floor and Method-sprayed the counters, she didn’t mention Mac’s appearance, loath to explain what she did not yet understand. Luckily, Fred’s headache made her less amenable to chitchat, until the afternoon, when Marjorie slipped out to meet Belinda.

“Where are you going?” asked the subdued pixie.

“Just running errands.”

“I’ll come with! I can show you that cool mural I found.”

Thinking quickly, Marjorie blurted out, “I kind of need alone time.”

“Oh.” Fred looked injured. “I guess I understand that.”

Now, Belinda gave her tutor a measured assessment, then announced, “I’m pretty positive that you’re not a loser.” Marjorie wasn’t so sure.

“Thanks, Belly. But, hey, time is a-wasting and we need to choose your topic. For next week, make a list of what you learned about this new girl at camp.”

“Boy.”

“Even better. Brainstorm ten facts—about where you met him, what you know about his past, how you think he’ll fit in at your school. And come prepared to work. We’re going to do a writing exercise.”

“We? Like you’ll do it too?”

“Like I’m going to help you with yours.” Marjorie watched Belinda crumple like someone had run over her puppy. “All right, all right, all right. Maybe I’ll do one too.”

“You always repeat things three times.”

“I do? That’s funny. I never noticed.”

“Well you do, do, do.”

Before packing it away, Belinda scanned her to-do list:

1. Borrow “He’s Just Not That Into You” from public library.

2. Make “Belly” stick.

3. Watch “Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion.”

4. 10 Facts About Meeting Mitch.

5. Find out what really makes someone a loser.

18

“You’re sure you don’t want to come with me instead?”

“Thank you, Fred. But I’m good, good, good.”

“Positive? The art opening is in Chinatown and it’s going to be
pretty
cool.”

Marjorie applied makeup at the full-length mirror that hung on the inside of her bedroom door; Fred lay on her floor in a racer-backed, blue-and-yellow leaf-patterned jumpsuit, and enormous round sunglasses. A wide-brimmed felt hat and high platform sandals sat to her left like loyal pups.

“It’s called ‘Pictures My Camera Took.’ The artist printed photos she accidentally took with her camera phone—like of her feet, her bag’s interior, the inside of her pocket. You know: ART!”

“It should be called ‘Pictures My Butt Took.’ Sounds cultured, but you know I have plans.”

Fred propped herself up on her elbows. “So, we’re really doing this? Going out with the stalker?”

“No.
I’m
really doing this.
I’m
going out with the stalker. And I’d love to stop talking about it. Wouldn’t you rather hear about my latest rejection?”

“Stop changing the subject!”

Marjorie had begun job hunting online, and the descriptions that most matched her skill set were so ambiguous that she was never quite sure for what she was applying: Executive Associate, Associate Executive, Associate Assistant, Assistant Associate to the Executive, Manager of Associate & Assistant Relations, Assistant Associate Managerial Coordinator for Northeastern Territories …

Decoding the listings became a game. “Hands-on experience” meant long hours for paltry pay. “Competitive salary” meant comparable to teenage babysitting rates. And, for out-of-touch employers, required skills like “optimization experience” and “social media acumen” seemed satisfied by an active Twitter account and a postmillennial graduation date.

By and large, the jobs sounded soul-sucking, but Marjorie could not afford to be picky. A recommendation from Brianne was as likely as a lottery win, and as antithetically toxic. And her experience was rarely applicable: As it turned out, the Newark, New Jersey, bezel manufacturer was not in need of a “celebrity liaison.”

While eating Union Market’s gourmet samples for lunch to save cash, Marjorie had confessed to Fred about her panic attack at the party, Mac’s arrival, the urge to draw a cat nose and whiskers on a passed-out Fred’s face. Disapproval wasn’t her roommate’s style, but she seemed unimpressed with Mac’s grand gesture. “He sounds like Bruce Wayne.” Fred shrugged. “I’ve always been a Clark Kent girl myself.”

“Speaking of which, what was with the Abercrombie model?”

“Who, James?”

“‘Who,
Jaaaames
?’” Marjorie teased, grabbing a shameless handful of rice cracker samples and dipping them in hummus marked “vegan” (as if there is any other kind). “Of course, I mean James. He was the only guy at the party who owns a brush.”

Fred and James had first met a couple years before in Prospect Park. She’d set off on a solo nature hike, only to get caught in a torrential downpour in an open meadow. (The experience later inspired her song “Buckets of Pain.”) Foreshadowing their future dynamic, James appeared—a knight in shining chinos with an umbrella as shield—and escorted Fred home. He wasn’t her type—being employed and groomed—but she deigned to give him a chance. And they were happy until Fred played a disastrous Hoboken show eight months later. Her punk female followers protested the too melodic, cheerful riffs of her new song, “Happy to Be Anywhere.” She almost lost their faith. Fred promptly broke off the relationship, she claimed, without irony, to focus on her music.

“You couldn’t do that with an adorable boyfriend?” Marjorie speared a chunk of soy cheese with a toothpick, tasted it, then spit it out into a napkin.

“He was too supportive!” complained Fred. “He paid for everything, bought me presents, forgave my mistakes. How is a girl supposed to channel angst with that? What was I supposed to write about? The 401(k) he set up for me? Really, he set up a 401(k).”

“He sounds awful. I don’t know why you still speak to him.” Marjorie watched her friend feign interest in a can of organic vegetable soup before taking a Dixie cup sample. “Fred! He’s the goddamn Holy Grail! Why is he still hanging around?”

“We’re friends.”

“Friends? No.”

Fred planted a hand on her hip. “Why can’t we be friends?”

“The
When Harry Met Sally
theory aside, how about the fact that he’s in love with you?”

“He’s not!”

“Oh, please. I saw him looking at you. Be honest: Do you call him when you’re lonely? Stay up nights on the phone together? Does he drive you to Fairway in Red Hook for groceries?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re dry dating him until someone better comes along. It’s unkind. No one wants to be a backup plan.”

“This from the girl dating
American Psycho
!”

Now they hung in Marjorie’s room, each in defense of her questionable relationship. Marjorie finished drawing a black liquid line across her lids and turned around. The dress was a Pickles castoff: short, tight, black Lanvin. “How do I look?”

“Better than your date deserves,” said Fred, without looking up. But then she actually glanced over. “Wow. Smokin’! Men must love you.”

Marjorie snorted. “Boys, sometimes. Men, never. I gotta go.” She grabbed her yellow leather Crossbody bag.

“Have fun with the stalker!” said Fred. “Just remember: Never go to the second location. That’s the kiss of death.”

Marjorie left Fred staring at the ceiling and considering the band name Cracked Paint.

En route to the subway, Marjorie had felt nervous. Mac, not so much, or so it seemed.

Toward the end of their dimly lit dinner at the Dutch on charming Sullivan Street in the West Village, he sat across from her, self-assured as ever, musing about their future: “How many children should we have? I’ve always imagined one or two, but now I’m thinking eight.”

“Oh. I think you have me confused with your second and third wives.”

“Right, Greta and Paige.”

“Paige. That’s it. She’s the one with the childbearing hips.”

“Any flesh is good flesh as long as it’s not wrinkled. That became my motto at eighty-two years old, when I married her.”

“Hmm. But that raises the issue of how to dispose of me.” Marjorie tossed back the dregs of her martini. “Divorce? Tragic death?
Suicide
?”

“Depends on the prenup. Did we have one? Or were we so in love that we believed it was forever? Because, without one, I might have to murder you.”

“Alas, no prenup. You refused to listen to advice from your parents and lawyers! And, as a gold digger, of course I egged you on. Poor Paige may have had six of your eight children, but she gets none of the cash.”

“Poor Paige!”

“Poor Paige? Poor Greta née Pippi West End!”

“Pippi West End?”

“Greta’s stripper name.”

“Of course.” Mac nodded.

“Greta thought she’d found her ticket out of ‘the life,’ when this dashing middle-aged gentleman stumbled into her Vegas club and fell in lust. But she was a mere stepping-stone out of heartbreak hotel after the crushing end of his first marriage to the brilliant and magnificent Marjorie Plum!”

“Marjorie O’Shea.”

“Well, that,” said Marjorie, sliding her cocktail’s olive off the toothpick and onto her tongue, “is up for debate.”

“I like it. Good story.” Mac considered her from across the table. “You’re insanely hot, you know that? I have no idea how you kept me at bay for all these years. Let’s get out of here and start on kids one and two.”

“Oh, May and Milo! So adorable, those sweeties, in their matching tennis whites…”

Marjorie thought maybe she should let the make-believe marriage game drop. This was
Mac.
She’d trained herself never to believe a word he said and now she was taking him seriously? Same repartee, different outcome. Normally, after a similar exchange, she’d have watched him slither into a cab with their waitress (a pretty aspiring actress, who kept asking—without subtlety—if he wanted “anything else?”).

“I am not naming my child Milo, but I’ll let May pass if we leave for my apartment now and make up for the other night’s chaste peck. I’m still having nightmares.”

“What’s the rush?”

“Gotta seal the deal before you remember I’m despicable. You ready?”

Marjorie did want to go home with Mac. To her surprise, she would have attacked him right there, over sliced five-grain baguette and extra-virgin olive oil. But she was leery. The stakes were higher now. Last time seemed like an isolated mistake that she’d pay for in mild embarrassment. Now he was sucking her into his vortex, getting her good and addicted to feeling wanted and …
special.

“You look unsure.” He reached over and toyed with the slim rose gold bangles encircling her wrist. “Okay. You win. Milo it is.”

She returned his gaze over the Syrah-stained white tablecloth. “I’m ready.”

He didn’t move. “This isn’t like before, Madge. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. We can do whatever we want together: have stupid adventures, fly to the Amalfi Coast or Tokyo for no good reason, Milo and May, and whatever the hell else. That can be our life.”

Suddenly seized with fear, Marjorie fought the urge to run from this new intense and sincere Mac—the future sounded so permanent. Was she ready for him every day? When she had the flu, when she was feeling down, when he was eighty-two years old? Did she want this life of cocktails hours and red eyes? And, jokes aside, would he be able to pass up Greta and Paige? The questions felt oppressive.

She forced herself to stand, flashing her best come-hither smile. “Let’s blow this joint,” she said, pushing past the “what if’s.” And they did.