I’ve decided a Passat is the way to express my new self. Elegant, but not flashy. High-quality, but not ostentatious. That’s the New Elle.
The VW dealership is downtown, and it’s where I make my first new Santa Barbara friend. Bob, the car salesman. He’s instantly smitten with me. I can always tell. And truth is, he’s not bad. I mean, he’s a used car salesman, which is hardly a Prince Charming job. But he’s tall enough, and has a good smile and nice eyes. I fill out a form—which, I notice him noticing, includes my home phone.
I decide that when he calls, I’ll tell him I just want to be friends. Because that’s the sort of thing the New Elle does. No reason to jump into a relationship with the first cuteish guy to come around.
I tell Bob I’ll settle for the bottom-of-the-line GLS model, but he says everyone who bought one wishes they spent a little more for the GLX.
Well! I love it when a salesperson gives you their personal opinion. It means they like you. We start in a Black Magic GLX with black velour interior. A quick drive, and Bob and I know it is too masculine for me, so we take the Mojave Beige with beige velour interior for a cruise to the beach.
“You look good in it, Elle,” Bob says.
“It feels a little soft,” I say. “Like I’m a soccer mom, Bob.” Bob. Bob. It’s a funny syllable.
I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll be happy with a Passat, when I see it across the lot. Silver. Curvy. Beautiful.
“That’s the W8,” Bob says. “Top of the line. Eight cylinder engine, leather interior, sunroof, five-CD changer…”
The minute I sit in it, I know. I’m like Goldilocks. This one is just right.
It’s late, and the dealership is closing, so I give Bob my information and he promises me he’ll put a deal together tomorrow morning. He smiles, and I mentally rehearse: I really like you, Bob, but I just want to be friends.
When I get back to Maya’s I check my little list:
Apartment. Not living in moss-walled shack or sharing toilet with teenage boys, so I’m ahead of the game.
Man. Will reject Bob with grace and tact. Apparently the streets of Santa Barbara are paved with eligible bachelors.
Car. Gorgeous Silver Passat! Will be stunning with new, employed-Elle wardrobe, and new, Antonio-Banderas-looking boy toy. It’s a W8, too. I like the sound of that, but must remember to ask Bob what it stands for.
Job.
Job.
Job…
The problem with my employment history is I have none. My mom sold real estate while I was growing up, and made tons of money, so I never got an after-school gig. It wasn’t until she bought her vitamin-and-runes store that she started getting tight. Plus, my dad sent her money for my upkeep when I was a minor. Now I’m a major, and I’ve never had a job.
Well, there was a brief period the summer after my second year at Georgetown. My roommate, Angela, convinced me it would be fun to join the team at the Colonial Williamsburg Foundation in Virginia. I got hired as Martha Washington in a historical reenactment, while Angela got stuck with wench duty at one of the taverns. After two weeks, the administrators decided the public preferred a white-haired Martha to a young bride, and I was ousted by a retired flight attendant. I was a better Martha, though. At least I refrained from pointing out the emergency exits to George. Angela kept wenching while I slunk back to Washington. That’s when I moved in with Louis. I spent the rest of the summer womanning phones for EMILY’s List, but that was volunteering, not employment.
I’m home alone, halfheartedly scanning the want ads, when it hits me: What I need is a starter job. Preferably a starter job that pays well. And that’s not too demanding. Like, say, being a bartender. The neat thing is, I have this friend who owns a bar. Maya has to hire me, right?
“I need help,” I say when Maya answers the phone at the bar.
“What? The remote stopped working?”
“No, it works fine.” I click off Entertainment Tonight.
“So what’s the problem?”
“This job-hunt thing…”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t quite know how it works.”
“Oh. What part don’t you understand?”
“Um…” I look at the paper. “Take this one, for instance. Development Director wanted for World of Goods, a nonprofit organization dedicated to sending relief supplies to countries in need. Qualified candidates will have demonstrated experience managing others, working with board members, facilitating meetings, monitoring budgets and in all aspects of development.” I give Maya a moment to take it in. “What is development, exactly? Developing what?”
“It means fund-raising.”
“How hard can that be? It’s just asking for money. I did that all the time with Louis. It pays forty thousand a year. And it’s in tune with my values.”
“Louis ever find out how much of his money you were giving to the ASPCA and NOW?”
“Not yet—pledge cards don’t come ’til the end of the month. Anyway, World of Goods also gives you a housing stipend.”
“I suppose that’s what attracted you.”
“A little,” I admit.
“They offer a company car, too? That, a company charge card and a company boyfriend, and you’d be able to cross everything off your list.”
I make a rude noise.
“Forget anything with the word ‘director’ in it, Elle. Do you know how to type?”
“I know all the letters are on the keyboard and you push them to make words.”
“How did you get through college?”
“Hunting, pecking and oral presentations.”
“So secretarial, and basically all office work, is out. What else appeals?”
Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. “What I need is something that uses my natural charm and vivacity. Dealing with people, you know, in a sort of social setting.”
“Prostitution won’t work for you, Elle—you’d hate the dress code.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have demonstrated experience as a mistress.”
“Don’t even start. Seriously. What do you like?”
I decide against saying alcohol, and instead go for the real truth. “I like shoes. Maybe I could design shoes.”
Maya doesn’t say anything.
“I like people. And animals. You know how I like animals. Maybe I could be
