book. I was leafing through it at the bookstore— it had some interesting ideas.”
Scott continues to draw ferociously, a man possessed. “No woman needs a diet book. Every woman I know knows enough on the subject to write a diet book herself. And it would be a short book, too. Page one: walk every day. Page two: if you’re wicked serious, go to a gym three times a week and lift a few weights. Page three: quit eating all that crap. Whether your crap is Zingers every time life throws you a curveball, Twinkies hidden in your desk drawer, or eating a two-thousand-calorie ‘salad’ loaded with dressing and meat, knock it off!” He turns the notebook around for me to scrutinize his work. “What else do I need?”
I look at the drawing and decide to betray my own sex in the name of flirting. “A Christian Louboutin shoe.”
“Which a woman believes will help her catch a man. Perfect!” he says, drawing an insanely high heel.
“Plus a DVD of Sex and the City, an eyelash curler, maybe a deck of tarot cards . . .”
“You are on fire, girl!” Scott says happily, taking a quick sip of champagne, then going back to his sketch.
My home phone rings. “Hey, can you do one of these about men?” I ask as I head to the phone.
“No,” Scott answers me firmly.
“What? Why not?”
“I wouldn’t know what to put in the display.”
“Under ‘Crap Men Believe’?” I exclaim. “You’re kidding, right? How about a Knicks jersey, a letter from Pent house, a porn DVD, and an old pizza box.”
“Hey—the Knicks have a shot this year. And a porn DVD is clichéd.”
“No more clichéd than a diet book,” I insist as I sip my champagne. “Oh! And for the center of the piece: a pillowtop mattress thrown onto the middle of the floor, with no box spring or head-board in sight.”
Scott laughs at my joke as my phone continues to ring. I look at the caller ID. It’s Mel. Damn it. She knows I’m seeing Scott tonight.
I pick up. “Hello.”
“I don’t think I’m getting the ring or the chili pepper fortune.” Mel says, and she sounds like she’s been crying. “Do you think there’s a toilet charm? Because that is where my life seems to be headed at the moment.”
“What happened? Are you all right?”
“No,” she says quietly. “If I were all right, I’d be in a romantic restaurant right now planning a trip to Bora Bora with Fred, dreaming of his proposal to me while we’re there, and being completely oblivious to where my life was headed. Instead, I am stunned, ready to throw up, and parked in front of your house.”
I’m confused. “Wait,” I say, walking to my front window, and pushing back my curtains to see her bright blue Prius parked out front. “You’re outside? Why aren’t you coming in?”
“Because Scott’s car is parked in your driveway, and I don’t want to bother you,” Mel reasons. “But I don’t know where else to go. Fred’s cheating on me.”
Chapter Six
Melissa
Seema and Scott run out to get me and bring me inside.
I quickly catch them up on the last hour of my life and have just finished the part about some strange Swedish woman throwing a drink in Fred’s face.
I then fill them in on what happened next: Fred wasn’t stupid. I saw a woman throw a drink in his face— he wasn’t going to get off without a full-blown explanation.
Svetlana, that’s her name— as if I could ever compete with a Svetlana— had been a client of Fred’s for three months. She was the trophy wife of a seventy-eight-year-old studio head who she caught getting head one night from an even younger woman than herself. Fred was her divorce attorney.
I had actually heard about her. Her husband had forced the final arbitration to be in Manhattan— so Fred was stuck there for a week and a half while both sides hammered out whether a five-year marriage to a decrepit guy was worth one hundred million dollars or one hundred and fifty million.
I remember Fred asked me to go with him to New York, but my high school was in the middle of state testing, and I didn’t want to leave my students.
I guess I should have.
I sit on Seema’s couch, numb, as I continue my story. “Fred told me, in a moment of tearful confession, that the night the case was settled, he took her out for drinks at the Oak Room. They had too much wine, he walked her back to her suite, she kissed him, and they made out for a few minutes.”
“Oh, good Lord . . .” Scott mutters under his breath.
“She’s not done with her story yet,” Seema tells him.
“Yeah, but obviously . . .”
“Scott . . .” Seema says warningly.
“Fine,” Scott says to Seema, crossing his arms. Then he turns to me. “But you do know he’s lying about that, right?”
I take a deep breath before I answer, “Honestly, I have no idea.”
“Finish your story,” Seema tells me sympathetically.
“Yes, you do!” Scott insists to me. “They did NOT just make out for a few minutes. You do know that, right?”
I look over at Scott, surprised at his vehemence. I shrug. “He says that’s all that happened.”
“Oh please. What’s he going to say? ‘I fucked someone in a hotel room three thousand miles away. I never thought I’d get caught. Oops.’ ”
His statement makes me burst into tears. Now I’m sad and embarrassed. Seema gives me a hug. I can’t breathe. I’m feeling sick, my nose is clogged, and my life is over.
I take a Kleenex from a box Scott brought into the living room, wipe my eyes, and gauge Seema’s and Scott’s reactions.
Seema’s eyes are wet as well, she is so shocked and saddened to hear my news. She looks almost as heartbroken as I feel.
Scott, on the other hand, looks angry. And the longer he listens, the angrier he gets.
I take a deep breath, and end my story. “Honestly, I don’t know what the truth is,” I tell them. “Fred’s called me at least seven times on my cell, and left texts. I haven’t picked up, because I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not even sure if I have a home to go to anymore.” I tear up again, but don’t cry. “I just have no idea what to think or what to do.”
“He’s a chode,” Scott states matter-of-factly. “You’re better off without him.”
I stare at him blankly. Seema glares at him. “Don’t say things like that!” she chastises Scott.
“Why?”
