“He works Sundays?”
“All the geeks do.”
“He’s not geeky. He’s perfect.”
“He’s not perfect!”
“He looks, talks, tastes and is Perfect Brad.”
“Tastes?”
“You know what I mean. Name one way he’s not perfect.”
“He’s not Jewish.”
“Oh,” I say. “That.”
Maya and I have been friends since we were twelve. She always celebrated the major Jewish holidays, unless she had other plans, but that was the extent of it. Maya’s mother, on the other hand, was really observant. She died of breast cancer last year—her funeral was the one time I’d been back since college. Since then, Maya has taken religion more seriously. Not that she’s started attending synagogue or anything, but she knows her mother wanted her to marry someone Jewish.
“So no wedding bells?” I say.
Her face clouds. “The wedding bells were supposed to be for you and Louis.” She sits next to me. “Did he really hurt you, Elle?”
I’d been thinking about that, between bouts of obsessive eating. “Other than my pride? No. C’mon. Of course not.” I take another sip of coffee, wishing it were a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby. The name of the ice cream makes my heart hurt. “Yeah. I guess he did. I miss him. I liked him. I really—he was solid. We really knew each other—little things, you know? The stuff that doesn’t matter, but that’s all that matters. And he was…well, he was there. That’s important in a fiancé.”
“He was there.” Her tone says, you don’t sound like a woman in love.
“Do you remember in high school, when we wanted to be mistresses?”
“No.”
“Maybe that was just me.” I’d seen a special on 20/20 about Kept Women. It had made an impression. Your own house, designer clothes and an allowance. All you had to do was have sex whenever he wanted. I liked sex—it didn’t seem like a hardship. “That’s pretty much what I had going.”
“You were his mistress?”
“Well, we didn’t have sex whenever he wanted. But I lived in an apartment he paid for, I didn’t work, he bought me clothes.” I look at her. “I should’ve asked for an allowance.”
“Do you love him?”
“Sure. That’s what kept it from being tawdry.” I finish my coffee. “I know you must’ve thought I led this exciting, sophisticated, romantic life…”
“Not really.”
“But to tell the truth it was kind of—” I look at her. “What do you mean, not really?”
“You never sounded happy. Just sort of…empty.”
“Empty? I wasn’t empty. I had the shopping and the lunches and the…the…museums. It was full. Very full. I was settled, Maya—I had it all. A man I loved, a lifestyle, friends…”
Maya gives me a look.
“I had friends! People from Louis’s work. I could’ve stayed with one of them, but it would have been—you know. More comfortable for everyone if they stick with Louis. Besides, I wanted you.”
“Good. They can stick with Louis, I’ll stick with you.”
I feel sort of weepy, and Maya gets that pitying look in her eyes again, so I ruffle the newspaper and say, “You think I should get a place downtown, or on the Riviera?”
“You might not have a choice. How much can you pay?”
I look around her apartment. “What’s the rent here?”
“Take a guess.”
It’s the second story of a cape in a nice neighborhood—the upper eastside. Hardwood floors, white walls, a big kitchen with tile counters. Maya’s always had good taste, and the decor is mostly minimalist with Asian and Jewish accents thrown in. A Chinese lantern hangs over the dining room table and the mantel displays her mother’s collection of antique menorahs. “I don’t know,” I say. “Nine hundred?”
Maya snorts. “Try sixteen.”
“But it’s only got one bedroom, and no dishwasher!”
“Dishwashers are two hundred a month extra.”
“Oh. Well…” I don’t know how to tell her, but she’s been had. I bet this was the only place they looked at. Not everyone is good at this kind of thing.
“You’ll find something,” she says, and hands me a set of keys. “Use my car. Brad and I are sharing. You want to come shopping?”
I brighten. “Shopping?”
“Groceries, Elle,” she says, laughing. “Then I have to stop by the bar.”
“Oh. No. I should start the apartment hunt.”
“Back in a few hours, then.” She closes the door behind her, and I have a brainstorm: I’m gonna find the perfect apartment before she gets back. This is my new life, this is the New Elle—if Oprah can buy a fifty-million-dollar house without breaking a sweat, I can find an apartment in the time it takes Maya to buy detergent and cottage cheese.
I’m into the last ten minutes of Davey and Goliath when a key turns in the front door. I hit the off button on the remote a moment before Maya enters. I wish she’d come later. Goliath had disobeyed Davey, and I’m pretty sure he had a lesson coming.
Maya glances at the TV. “What were you watching?”
“Mmm? Oh, the news.”
“What’s going on?”
“Lot’s of…bad stuff. The usual. You’re back quick.”
“I’ve been gone four hours, Elle.”
“Well, I’m going to look at an apartment.” I point to the classifieds crumpled on the table. “There’s an open house, at one o’clock.”
She checks her watch. “It’s twenty after, sweetie.”
So I lolled around watching Davey and Goliath reruns and missed an open house. So what? It’s only Sunday. I’ve been in California less than twenty-four hours. I’m supposed to have accomplished something by now?
It’s not like I don’t have goals. Of course, I have goals. They are, after much soul-searching:
Apartment.
Car.
Job.
Man.
And,
