Working It (12 page)

“That’s soooo sweet.”

“Vivian is the best thing that almost didn’t happen in my life.” I have to swallow a lump of emotion. “I say I became her friend, but really, she became mine. I think she sensed I was lonely, and that’s why she kept jumping all of the hurdles I threw in front of her. She’s got the biggest heart.”

“It sounds like your awkward meet-cute developed into an awesome friendship.”

We arrive at the entrance to Nordstrom. I am reaching for the door to hold it open for Laney when a small voice inside my head says, “Laney is kind and easy to talk to. If you knock down a barrier, she might become your next two a.m. friend.”

“Laney?” I turn around and look at her, but the words get stuck in my throat. “I…I was feeling lonely and lost before you came into my room. Thanks for being kind to me. I really appreciate it.”

She tilts her head and her glasses slide down her nose. “No prob, Fanny. I know losing your luggage totes sucks, but you have to admit it made for a wicked awesome meet-cute.”

Getting Humped

Text from Poppy Worthington:

V told me what happened at L’Heure. She said you’re headed to Siberia to live in an ostrog and teach sewing to convicts. I think she was joking, but one can never be sure with Vivia. Beating a hasty retreat might be quintessentially French, but it is not you. Don’t give up, Frenchie. Ditch the convicts. Apply at Chanel.

Poppy’s text hits my phone as I am hopping around the fitting room on one foot, struggling to shove my other leg into a pair of Rag & Bone stretch skinny jeans.

Poppy Worthington is a blue-blooded socialite and the heiress of the Worthington Hotels fortune. Vivian introduced us last year when we all went on a vacation to a working sheep farm in the Highlands. I hated Poppy when I first met her. I hated her clipped patois, uninspired Burberry plaid poncho, habit of pointing out etiquette faux pas, and her blossoming friendship with my best friend. More than anything, I hated her because she was
très
British.

My abhorrence for Poppy and her Burberry checkered wardrobe lessened upon further contact. We eventually bonded over Amaretto-spiked hot chocolate and an Ashton Kutcher movie.

She sent me a few emails after our trip, but I had been too busy with work to respond.

And that is why you don’t have many two a.m. friends.

I zip up the skinnies and collapse on the padded bench. My breath is leaving my body in sharp, shallow bursts, and it is not because the jeans are too tight. I feel like someone just used my abdomen as a speed bag. That I am the only one to blame for my tragically anorexic friends list literally hurts.

When I would see a group of women my age laughing together in a restaurant, I would tell myself I was too busy to indulge in silly pajama parties—that’s what I call girlfriend get-togethers. Vivian is big on pajama parties. I used to tease her about her Chick Flick Fridays and Pedi Parties.

Oh, wah! Poor me! I don’t have pajama party pals. It’s time I stop whining and do something.

I read Poppy’s text again and type my response.

Text to Poppy Worthington:

Chanel doesn’t want me. D&G, Prada, & Bautista don’t want me either, but that’s okay because I have come up with a new career plan. We’ll pool our resources & buy a sheep farm. You can take care of the sheep & I’ll knit fabulous ponchos. LOL

Poppy’s response hits my phone in seconds, which is amazing since it is a little after four in the morning in London.

Text from Poppy Worthington:

What an absobloodylutely ace idea! I’m in.

I laugh. I haven’t heard that ridiculous synthetic word since our trip to Scotland. It annoyed me then, but it makes me feel warm and connected now.

I slip my phone into my purse, pull the skinnies off, slip my old jeans back on, and exit the fitting room.

“Well?” Laney says, smiling hopefully. “Are you going to get those rags for your bones?”

“Yes,” I say, chuckling at her pun.

Laney has been a godsend. She guarded my bag while I tried on clothes, thoughtfully recommended I purchase a pair of thermal leggings, and found a beautiful cashmere Missoni scarf and gloves set on the clearance table.

Two hours later, I am rolling a new Longchamp hard shell suitcase filled with sweaters, jeans, undergarments, flannel pajamas—Vivian would squeal with victorious glee—and two pairs of… wait for it … Ugg boots! Two pairs of hideous, but practical, overpriced sheepskin footgear. One in versatile black suede and the other a pseudo riding look in brown leather and suede.

We are rolling my cases down Sixth Avenue, past a city park with pine trees decorated with glowing blue Christmas lights, when I suddenly realize Laney has been so busy helping me, she hasn’t even had a chance to eat dinner.

“Laney, it’s getting late. Aren’t you hungry?’

“A little.” She maneuvers around a slushy puddle. “I had some yogurt-covered lingonberries at the airport gift shop.”

“That’s it?”

She nods.

“You’ve been such a help today. I would like to buy you dinner to thank you.”

“No worries.”

“Please?”

She shrugs. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

An elderly man with a grizzled beard is coming toward us, so I stop and ask him if he could recommend a good restaurant. He narrows his eyes and then turns his head and spits a stream of tobacco-brown saliva onto the snow-packed sidewalk.

“Humpy’s,” he says, looking back at me.

“I…I beg your pardon?”

“Humpy’s Alehouse. They make the best steamer crabs this side of Valdez.”

“Ooo-kay,” I say, trying not to stare at the enormous gap between his two tobacco-stained front teeth. “Could you tell me where to find Humpy’s?”

There’s a sentence I never expected to utter.

“I could.”

I wait, but Copenhagen Charlie doesn’t speak. He just reaches into his pocket, pulls out a can of chew, pinches some leaves into his mouth, and grins.

“Are we close?”

“Couldn’t get much closer.”

He points across the street to a stone building. The word HUMPY’S is painted in big block letters over the door with a mural of a prehistoric-looking fanged fish.

“Thanks,” I say.

He spits again and continues on his way.

I look at the fanged fish and back at Laney.

“Do you want to find another place? There’s got to be a few more restaurants downtown.”

“Are you kidding?” Laney steps off the curb and starts crossing the street toward the fanged fish. “We can’t pass up an opportunity to eat at a place called Humpy’s.”

I look around the square for another restaurant, but only find a pizzeria with a bright blinking closed sign in the window.

“Come on, Fanny.” Laney looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Let’s get our hump on!”

We enter the loud, dimly lit restaurant, shivering against the sudden blast of heated air. A hostess wearing a T-shirt with the slogan, “I got crabs at Humpy’s” greets us and asks if we would prefer to sit in the dining room or on the terrace.

I look at Laney and send her a telepathic message.
Inside. Please say insid
e. Laney must be proficient in telepathy, because she asks the waitress for a table in the dining room.

She leads us past the bar crowded with fleece-wearing locals cracking gigantic red king crab legs in half and picking the flaky meat out with their fingers. The hostess stops at a small table near a makeshift stage.

“Jessica will be your server tonight,” the hostess says, handing us two plastic menus. “Enjoy your meal.”

“This place is so indie,” Laney says as soon as the hostess is out of earshot.

“Indie?”

“Yeah.” Laney smiles. “Indie. As in, original. As in, the opposite of mainstream.”

“Is that good?”

“Totes.”

A blonde with a long side-parted fishtail braid approaches our table.

“Welcome to Humpy’s,” she says. “My name is Jessica and I will be serving you tonight. Why don’t we start with drinks? What can I get ya?”

“Can you recommend a good local beer?” Laney asks.

“Sure,” Jessica says. “How do you like your beer? Thick and stouty? Pale? Fruity?”

Fruity. If I were in Monaco, I would put one hundred down on Laney liking fruity beer.

“Definitely fruity!”

Laney tilts her head and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. She’s so quirky and cute. I’ll bet she has contact book full of two a.m. friends.

“Then I would recommend Broken Tooth Hard Apple Ale or the Woodchuck Pear and Berry.”

“Oooo!” Laney coos and claps her hands. “Pear and berry, please.”

“And what about you?”

Jessica the waitress is staring at me, but I have suddenly noticed the tagline on her T-shirt and find myself at a loss for words. I stare at the cartoon prehistoric fish emblazoned across her chest and read the words beneath it again: Humpy’s Great Alaskan Ale—because there’s nothing like a dry hump.

She notices me staring at her chest and her cheeks stain a violent crimson. Ohmygod! She probably thinks I am a lesbian—not that there is anything wrong with being a lesbian. People on our bike tour through Provence thought Vivian and I were lesbians…

“Ma’am?”

“I would love a glass of Chardonnay.” I avert my gaze, pretending to study the drink menu. “Do you have any wines from the Beaujolais region? Perhaps a Domaine Béranger or a Chateau Montmelas?”

“Err, domaine what?”

“Never mind,” I say. “Just bring me a glass of whatever Napa white you have in your cellar.”

“Yeah.” Jessica puts her hand on her hip. “We don’t have a cellar. We have a storeroom, but I am pretty sure we don’t have anything from Beaujangles.”

“Beaujolais. It’s a region in France.”

Jessica rolls her eyes. “We don’t sell wine, but could I interest you in a vintage bottle of beer from the Kodiak region?”

“Do you have Belgian beer?”

“Sure,” she sighs. “We have King’s Street Holy Water and The Monk’s Mistress.”

“I’ll take the Monk’s Mistress.”

“Fine.” She takes our drink menus. “I’ll be back to take your dinner orders.”

Laney widens her eyes and whistles. It’s clear from her expression she is equally astounded by Jessica’s snotty behavior.

“I know, right?”

“You sure put her through the paces.”

“What? Me? What do you mean?”

“Look around.” Laney laughs. “We are in a dive bar…in Alaska. There’s a stuffed fish hanging over the bar, and our waitress is wearing a shirt that says she likes to dry hump. Does this look like a place that serves a 2000 Le Petit Mouton de Mouton Rothschild?”

“Did I sound snobby?”

She holds up her fingers and makes a pinching gesture. “
Un peu
.”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Laney smiles softly. “You picked guacamole from a stranger’s ear.”

“So?”

“So, a snobby person would never pick guacamole from a stranger’s ear, let alone give her their cashmere sweater.”

I shift in my seat. Normally, I would change the subject, because talking about touchy-feely things makes me extremely uncomfortable, but I suddenly remember the Father True Allight article and have an epiphany. Papa Light said true joy isn’t obtained through the pursuit of selfish pleasure. Being stingy with thoughts and affections is a selfish act, isn’t it? I have been selfish in my relationships—listening as other’s share their problems, doling out advice, but never reciprocating. Keeping my feelings buried deep inside and shutting anyone down who tries to unearth them has been another of my barriers.

“Do-do do-do,” Laney sings, waving her hand in front of my face. “You’ve just crossed over into…bum bum bum…the Twilight Zone?”

I blink. “What?”

“Are you okay? You kinda zoned.”

“Sorry. I was just thinking about something.”

“Unload.”

“Excuse me?”

“Unload those heavy thoughts, Frenchie.” She grabs her paper napkin and folds it into a triangle. “It’s obvious you are carrying one totes heavy burden.”

“How?”

She stops folding the napkin and looks at me, a frown creasing her brow. “How what?”

“How is it obvious?”

“Oh.” She resumes her napkin origami. “Your aura.”

“My aura?”

“Yes,” she says, looking at me over the top of her glasses. “An aura is simply the life-energy emanated by a person that is represented through colors. You can tell a lot about a person by reading their aura.”

Mon dieu!
I am too French to put much stock in spirituality—whether it be inspired by the New Testament or the New Age. But didn’t Father Allight say one must live spherically, be open to new ideas and experiences, to truly experience joy?

The waitress arrives with our beers. We decide to split the Humpy’s Special, two pounds of steamed Alaskan king crab served with drawn butter. I wait for Jessica to leave, and then I take a swig of my “Belgian” beer and ask Laney if she would tell me what she saw when she looked at my aura.

“Well,” she says, tilting her head and fixing her gaze on me. “Your crown chakra is purplish, which means your higher consciousness is guiding you to look at your relationships. You are learning how to love and be loved in return, but it’s not an easy, joyful process. It will get easier, though, as you learn to release your innate goodness.”

Okay, I am a little freaked out by Laney’s uncanny reading of my love situation. I take another sip of my beer.

Laney squints. “Do you want me to go on?”

“Yes, please.”

“Your base chakra is totes brown, which indicates a tendency to be stubborn, competitive, and materialistic. I see some movement there, though, which is good.” She nods her head, and her glasses slip down her nose again. “I see some gray around your hands, which tells me you are exhausted, drained, maybe a little depressed.”

Merde!
I don’t know about emanating colors and reading auras, but Laney is on the mark with her assessment of my…life force. I
am
drained and depressed.

“I am sorry,” she says, shoving her glasses up on her nose. “I know it can be tough to hear that your aura isn’t balanced and healthy.”