The Art of French Kissing (2 page)

Just past ten, Andrea, my boss, stopped by my desk. I had just put in my third series of Visine drops that morning, in an attempt to mask my bloodshot eyes. I hoped that the tactic was working. I knew how the emotionless Andrea despised it when her employees brought their personal problems to work.

“Great job with the 407 account,” she said. They were named 407 because Max Hedgefield—whom everyone called Hedge—had apparently run out of silly phrases to string together and had thus resorted to using the area code for Orlando, the birthplace of modern boy bands.

“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile at her through blurry eyes. I
had
done a good job, and I knew it. One of our 407 boys had decided to come out of the closet the week their album was released, and I thought I had handled the resultant media storm gracefully. Thank goodness Lance Bass had blazed the way for boy-loving boy banders everywhere. Danny Ruben, the out-and-proud lead singer of our band, had been welcomed by the media with open arms, and as a result of all the publicity, 407’s album had climbed the charts even more quickly than expected.

“We need to talk about something,” Andrea said. She looked down at her left hand and examined her perfectly manicured fingernails intently.

“Okay.”

Maybe
, I thought with a little jolt of hope,
I’m about to be promoted.
After all, I certainly deserved it. I’d been with the company for four years, and although I was running the 407 and O-Girlz accounts by myself, I was only a PR coordinator. I’d heard rumors lately about a company reorganization, and I had my fingers crossed that I was next in line to move into a PR managing director position, which came with a substantial pay bump.

“Emma, sweetie,” Andrea chirped, glancing now at the perfect nails on her right hand, “Hedge has decided to downsize a little bit, so I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

I could feel my vision cloud up, despite the Visine.

“What?” I must have heard her wrong.

“Don’t worry!” she went on brightly, glancing away. “We’re offering four weeks’ severance, and I’d be happy to write you a nice letter of recommendation.”

“Wait, you’re
firing
me?” I asked in disbelief.

Andrea looked back at me and smiled cheerfully. “No, no, Emma, we’re
laying you off
!” she said, carefully enunciating the last three words. “It’s a totally different thing! I’m very sorry. But we’d appreciate it if you could have your desk cleared out by noon. And please try not to make a scene.”

“A . . . a scene?” I stammered. What did she think I was going to do, throw my computer at the wall? Not that that would necessarily be a bad idea, come to think of it.

She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You’re just so well liked around here, Emma,” she said. “It would be bad for company morale if you create a scene, you know. Please, for the good of Boy Bandz. We truly are sorry we have to let you go.”

I tried to wrap my mind around what she was saying. I felt numb, like someone had just smacked me across the face.

“But . . . why?” I asked after a moment. My stomach was tying itself into strange, tight knots. I worried for a moment that the granola bar I’d eaten on the way to work was about to make a reappearance. “Why me?”

Andrea looked momentarily concerned and then flashed me a bright smile. “Emma, dear, we’re just downsizing,” she said. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you. You’re very overqualified for your current position, and there’s simply no room for growth here. Besides, I’m sure you’ll find another job in a jiff ! I’m happy to be a reference for you, of course.”

I didn’t bother reminding her that Boy Bandz was the only record label in town. Or that it would now be impossible to walk back into Columbia Records in New York after I’d already rejected their more-than-generous offer three months ago. All of a sudden, my life was completely falling apart.

“Oh,” I said finally. I wasn’t sure what else to say. It seemed my brain was working in slow motion.

“Out by noon, Emma,” Andrea repeated. “Please, no scenes. And again, I’m sorry.”

I opened and closed my mouth, and when no words came out, I forced myself to nod at her to acknowledge my comprehension.

I didn’t panic. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Instead I numbly cleaned out my desk, went home, and cried for the rest of the day.

When I woke from a troubled half slumber the next morning, exhausted and confused, I tried my best to pull myself together. I logged on to the computer, went to OrlandoSentinel.com, and searched for PR jobs. There were eleven posted, and foolishly optimistic, I applied for all of them, faxing my résumé from a nearby Kinko’s and dragging back home around noon, feeling useless and confused.

In the next two weeks, which I mostly spent holed up in the house, refusing to talk to any of my friends, I was called in for six interviews. Unfortunately, I burst into tears during five of them (not that this was normal for me in the slightest; I blame it on the post-Brett trauma). In the sixth interview, the one in which I hadn’t cried, I knew I wasn’t going to be hired when the man interviewing me asked why I wanted to work as a PR rep for J. Cash Steel, and I couldn’t come up with a single reason because, well, I really didn’t
want
to work for a steel manufacturer.

Brett called three times in the two-week period, asking me in a monotone voice if I was okay. I was confused by his uncharacteristic concern until he finally revealed his
real
reason for calling at the end of the second week.

“Look, I know you lost your job, Em,” he said. “And I’m sorry to hear that. But I’d love to move back into my place. Any idea when you might be ready to move out?”

I’d called him a name that my mother had once washed my mouth out with soap for using. Then I slammed the phone down so hard that it cracked.

That afternoon, I finally picked up the damaged (but still functioning) phone to call my three best friends, the girls who were supposed to be my bridesmaids. They hadn’t called since I’d split from Brett, but I hadn’t called them, either. I hadn’t wanted to talk about it. I knew they’d be shocked to hear that he’d left me, and I was looking forward to being consoled by them.

At least they’ll stand by me
, I said to myself before I dialed Lesley’s number.
At least I can count on them not to hurt me.

Wrong again.

“I feel terrible telling you this,” Lesley said after she’d mentioned casually that she’d known about the dissolution of my engagement since last week, “but I thought you’d want to know.”

“Okay . . .” I waited for her to go on, wondering why she hadn’t called or come by if she’d known for a week that Brett and I had split.

“Well . . . maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” she said quickly, her breath heavy on the other end.

I sighed. I didn’t have the energy to play games.

“Whatever it is, Lesley, I’m sure it pales in comparison with everything else in my life right now.” After all, what could be worse than having your engagement broken off and then being fired the next morning?

“Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” Lesley said, her voice trailing off. She paused. “All right then. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Amanda has been sleeping with Brett.”

Okay. So clearly
that
could be worse than having your engagement broken off and then being fired the next morning.

I opened my mouth to say something but no words came out. I suddenly felt like my whole chest had been hollowed out. I couldn’t breathe.

After a moment, Lesley spoke again. “Emma?” she said. “Are you there?”

“Urghrhgrgh,” I gurgled.

“Are you okay?”

“Uhrhghrh.” I couldn’t seem to formulate words.

“Listen, Emma, it’s not like you two were still together when it happened,” Lesley said quickly. “Amanda says the first time they hooked up was three nights after Brett moved out. I think he just needed a place to stay, you know? And one thing led to another.”

I felt sick. For a moment, I really thought I might throw up.

“You knew about this?” I asked in a whisper after swallowing hard a few times. “Did Anne know, too?”

“Well . . . yes.”

“How long have you known?”

Silence.

“Lesley,
how long
?”

“Since last week.”

“I’m going to kill her,” I breathed, suddenly hating Amanda with every bone in my body.

“Emma, don’t say that,” Lesley said sweetly. “After all, you have to admit, it was over between you and Brett.”

I couldn’t even find the words to respond. I gagged on the sour taste that had risen in the back of my throat.

“You’re
defending
her?” I whispered once my vocal chords worked again.

“No, no, not exactly,” Lesley said quickly. “I’m just saying to look at it logically. It’s not like Brett
cheated
on you with her or anything.”

“But—” I started to say.

“Really, Emma,” Lesley interrupted. “Anne and I have talked about it, and we don’t think Amanda has done anything wrong. I mean, it’s a sticky situation, but I’m sure you’ll feel better about it in a week or two, once you’ve had some time to think about it. Let’s all meet for dinner this week, and we can talk about it. I know Amanda would love to see you.”

I was aghast. “I have to go.” I hung up before Lesley could hear me cry.

I called my sister, Jeannie, next, illogically hoping for some sort of consolation. Six years earlier, our father had moved to Atlanta with his twenty-years-younger new wife, and three years ago, our mother had moved to California with her twenty-years-older new husband, so Jeannie was the only family member I had close by. Unfortunately, we were as different as night and day, and Jeannie’s idea of a good conversation was one in which I was nearly reduced to tears thinking of all my shortcomings.

Perhaps this time, though, she’ll comfort me,
I thought.
After all, isn’t that what sisters were for?

“Seriously, Emma,” she said instead after I’d explained everything. I could hear her three-year-old son, Odysseus, yelling something in the background, and she sighed loudly. “Brett’s just going through a
thing.
It’s perfectly natural before a guy gets married. It’s just cold feet.”

“Jeannie, did you hear what I told you?” I said slowly, not quite sure that she was understanding me. “He’s
sleeping
with one of my
best friends
!”

“Emma, you’re overreacting.” She sighed. “You
always
overreact. Robert got cold feet before our wedding, too, but I talked some sense into him. Men just need a little persuading sometimes.”

“But, Jeannie—”

“Emma, really, you need to stop being so high-maintenance,” interrupted my sister, the most high-maintenance person in the world. “And do your best to persuade him to take you back. You’re almost thirty, for goodness’ sake. You’re running out of options. I was married at twenty-three, you know.”

“Yes, you keep reminding me.” Disgusted, I hung up and picked up the phone again to call the only remaining close friend I had—Poppy, whom I’d roomed with in London during a summer internship eight years earlier. She had relocated to Paris three years ago to work for Colin-Mitterand, an international entertainment PR company based in France, and last year she had gone freelance and opened her own boutique firm. Now, I knew, she had been hired to do PR for KMG, an international record label based in Paris.

I crossed my fingers before dialing the last digit of her phone number. If she couldn’t be supportive, I didn’t know where else to turn.

“Your friend Amanda did
what
? That horrid little tart!” she exclaimed in her clipped British accent after I had explained everything.

I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, and the beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that.”

“You don’t need a friend like that!” Poppy said hotly. “Nor the others, for that matter. How dare they stand up for her?”

I felt a surge of relief. “You’re right,” I said.

“And frankly, sweetie, Brett never sounded like much of a winner, either,” she continued. “He always was a bit of a spoiled mummy’s boy. Good riddance! Now you can focus on your work!”

“Not exactly,” I mumbled. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “I was fired.”

“What?” Poppy’s voice rose an octave. “Fired?”

“Well, laid off,” I said. “But it’s basically the same thing.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Poppy said. She paused. “Listen, Emma. We’re going to figure things out for you, yeah? I promise. I have an idea. Let me see what I can do. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay, luv?”

I felt momentarily buoyed by her enthusiasm, but there was a part of me that didn’t want to let her off the phone. After all, she seemed to be the only sane, supportive person in my life at the moment.

She called back the next day, as promised.

“Look, Emma, I think I have the solution to all your problems,” she said cheerfully.

“Okay . . .” I blew my nose, wiped my tears, and put the cap back on the carton of Blue Bell mint chocolate chip ice cream I’d been eating. I was grateful no one was there to see me consuming my fourth pint of ice cream that day. I felt a bit sick all of a sudden.

“I talked to Véronique, my liaison at KMG, and I have some good news for you,” she went on, obviously oblivious to my ice-cream stomach pangs. “I haven’t told you yet, but KMG hired me specifically to do British and American press for the English-language launch of Guillaume Riche’s first album.”

“Guillaume Riche?” I repeated, surprised. Guillaume Riche was, of course, the big French TV star who was best known for his high-profile romances, including reported flings with some of the top actresses at the US box office and a yearlong romance with British supermodel Dionne DeVrie, which had ended last year in a dramatic breakup that had been splashed across the cover of celebrity rags everywhere. I’d just read last week in
People
magazine that he was launching an English-language recording career, but I’d had no idea Poppy was involved. “Poppy, that’s great!”