Tuesday at school, Zadie ate lunch in the teachers’ lounge with Nancy, the biology teacher with giant collagen lips and the misguided opinion that Lycra tops were flattering on her.
“I met this guy at the carwash? While we were waiting? He asks me to dinner and I say yes. Nothing special. Casa Vega. I ordered the fajita taco. But
he
didn’t.” Nancy said it with a pointed look. As if this were supposed to mean something. Zadie bit.
“So, what’s the problem? You can’t kiss a guy after he’s eaten an enchilada?” Zadie never understood Nancy’s dating criteria. She went out with imbeciles and always offered up a play-by-play analysis the next day. Zadie secretly wondered if she went on these dates just to have something to talk about.
“No, he didn’t order anything. He just picked off my plate.”
“Okay, that’s a little weird. I’ll give you that,” Zadie said.
“Then he asked if he could wipe my face with his napkin.”
“Did you have food on it?”
“No.”
“A booger?”
Nancy gave her a look that indicated that Zadie was perhaps retarded. “I did not have a booger, my lipstick wasn’t smeared, and I wasn’t drooling—he was just a sick fuck.”
Zadie wrinkled her brow, considering this theory. “Sick fucks
generally want you to shit on their chest or some such thing. I don’t know if I would qualify face-wiping as being in the sick fuck category.”
Nancy gave her the look again. Zadie started to worry. Was she getting so pathetic that she could no longer pick out sick fuck behavior?
“Well, put it this way? He’s not getting a second date,” Nancy said.
Most of Nancy’s dates never made it past the first one. Nancy was close to forty and still believed she was going to find The One. Anything less than The One didn’t get a second date. Why would they? She didn’t inject her lips full of toxins to attract one-night stands. Those babies were reserved for husband material. Whoever convinced these women that their upper lip was supposed to be bigger than their bottom lip had pulled off the biggest practical joke of all time.
“So did you let him wipe? Was it as good for you as it was for him?” Zadie had no sympathy whatsoever for Nancy’s plight.
“Trust me. You won’t be making jokes when you get back out there,” Nancy said.
Zadie hadn’t dated at all since her “wedding” and she wasn’t looking forward to the prospect. “Who says I’m going to? You’ve dated every guy in the city and thrown them all back in. I don’t want to fish from your pool of losers.”
Right as Nancy worked up “the look” again, Dolores sat down. “Is Nancy trying to set you up again?”
Dolores was what most people would call a spinster. Mid-fifties, dishwater brown hair, no makeup, never married, all of her waistbands elastic. Dolores was what Nancy was trying not to become. And Nancy was what Zadie was trying not to become. In an age when women were supposed to be supportive of one another, it was amazing how many of them just wanted to avoid turning into each other.
What Nancy didn’t know was that Dolores had it wired. She was no fool. After a few sour apple martinis at last year’s end-of-school
party, Dolores confided in Zadie that she often went on those singles cruises and all-inclusive Hedonism weeks and “got some.” She wasn’t waiting around for The One. She didn’t even want The One. She wanted hot, kinky sex with strangers when she was on vacation, and a condo to herself and flannel nighties when she wasn’t. Who wants a husband around to make you watch hockey games when
Dirty Dancing
is on TBS? Dolores had a superintendent to fix the toilet when it broke, she had restaurants that delivered, and she had a satellite dish. She was a happy woman indeed. She told Zadie, “When you release your expectations, you can find an amazing peace with yourself.” As long as you drive out to Pomona every couple of months for a swingers party and screw a carpet salesman from Bakersfield.
“There’s nothing wrong with being set up.” Nancy went on at least four blind dates a month. She had a mother who would hang out at the dry cleaners and accost any man dropping off a suit who wasn’t wearing a ring.
“Let Zadie find her own guys.” Dolores was always one to stick up for you.
“Yeah, but look who she finds.” Nancy rolled her eyes, as if Zadie were just the dumbest bitch on the planet for having ever gone out with Jack. She probably was, but still, it was a little rude for people to infer it to her face.
“I love that you’ve just sat here and told me how you had dinner with a sick fuck, yet it’s me who finds the losers.” Zadie wasn’t putting up with any shit today.
Heading off what was sure to be an argument, Dolores chimed in with, “Have you seen Trevor Larkin in that T-shirt today?”
Zadie and Nancy both turned to stare at her.
Dolores remained unfazed. “How long do you think it would take to lick him from head to toe?”
And with that image in her head, Zadie excused herself.
Saturday night arrived amid its usual fanfare—Zadie’s clock chimed, her microwave beeped, and her car alarm went off. But this Saturday night was special. She was going to Grey and Helen’s engagement party.
She made two stops along the way—one on Hollywood Boulevard to buy an eight-by-ten picture of Steven Seagal from one of the souvenir shops, and one at Aaron Brothers to buy a pewter picture frame to put it in. That was their engagement present. She was sure Helen would take out the picture of Steven as soon as she saw it and probably put in a picture of their hot air balloon, taken postproposal, but that was fine with her. Grey would get the joke. On the first night they met, Zadie and Grey had seen Steven Seagal, by himself, at Mel’s Diner. He was eating a plate of waffles and a grilled cheese sandwich. With a milk shake. Grey had secretly paid his tab.
When she got to Newport Beach, she drove around forever trying to find the goddamn restaurant. Normally, she could’ve made the hour-long drive with Grey. But not when Grey was the groom. No, sir, Grey was down there at ten that morning helping to “prepare.” At least she wouldn’t have to worry about being flooded with memories of her own engagement party with Jack. They hadn’t had one. Never even occurred to them. Isn’t the
wedding enough? How many times can you expect people to congregate in order to honor your love?
When she finally got there, she was already starting to chafe. Literally. She was wearing a new bra that was supposed to make her look perky in her red sundress, but all it did was dig into her shoulders and let her boobs leak out the bottom. She stopped and stuck a hand in each cup, lifting them back in before she walked inside. The valet gave her a look that straddled between desire and fear.
The restaurant was on the water, overlooking a marina filled with zillion-dollar yachts. A seagull had relieved himself on the potted palm near the door. Never a good sign.
Inside, the normally understated Italian restaurant had been transformed into an explosion of light pink roses. Anyone who knew Helen knew that pink was her favorite color. And roses her favorite flower. And smiley her favorite expression.
“Zadie!” Helen held out her arms and gave Zadie a hug like she’d recently been lost at sea. “My God, you look great!” As if the last time Helen had seen Zadie, she’d looked like fried shit. Which was certainly not out of the realm of possibility, given her post-left-at-the-altar penchant for going out in public in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt.
Helen, of course, looked spectacular. Boob-length blond hair. Brite-Smile teeth. Three-hundred-crunches-a-day belly. Turquoise-blue eyes. Little black dress. Diamond stud earrings. Diamond engagement ring. Holy crap. Grey had spent some bucks. It was huge. At least a couple carats. Zadie’s ring from Jack had been amoeba-like.
Zadie hugged her back. “And you’re a glowing bride-to-be!” Why was it that wedding-speak was so riddled with clichés? Someone should really break out some new adjectives. Like “fetid” or “moldy.”
Grey was across the room, looking dapper in a charcoal suit with a pink rose in the lapel, schmoozing with all of Helen’s relatives. Who were actually Zadie’s relatives, as well. She could
only spot one whom she felt like talking to—Denise. Helen’s sister. Zadie had always felt closer to Denise because they were the same age and because Denise was a raging party girl. Which came to a raging stop when she got pregnant. She was now sitting in a booth scarfing down a plate of calamari at an alarming rate. It was at Denise’s wedding that Helen and Grey met. No one realized then that Denise was pregnant, but it was pretty hard to disguise at this point. Her stomach was as big as a VW Bug.
Zadie sat down with her and dipped a squid ring into the marinara sauce. “So. Who knocked you up?”
“Funny.” Denise looked over at the bar where her husband, Jeff, who possessed a beer belly that rivaled Denise’s, was happily imbibing. “He gets to have a Corona and I’m stuck with seltzer. He better be waiting in the delivery room with a pitcher of sangria in his hand when I squirt this thing out.”
“Sounds like you two are blissfully happy.” Okay, that was a little bitchy, but Zadie was in a mood.
“I’m a bloated seacow. Happiness is not an option at this moment. My only option is food or more food.” She moved on to the mozzarella sticks, actually dipping them in sour cream.
“So, what do you think of the pending nuptials?” Zadie looked over at Grey as he slid up behind Helen, wrapping his arms around her waist and smiling at their grandma. “Do you think they’ll be happy?”
Denise shrugged and kept eating. “Helen’s always happy. And Grey’s awesome. Why? Don’t you think it’ll work out?”
Zadie kept watching them. Smiling. Hugging. Oozing love from every pore. She had to admit that they looked more than happy. Grey was so beatific that most people would’ve thought he was overmedicated. Helen was levitating. They were perfect together. Helen radiated purity and light and Grey was aglow in her reflection, thrilled to have found a woman who would never do him wrong. Even through her bitter mood and the flying shrapnel from the plate of a ravenous pregnant woman, Zadie couldn’t help but be glad that Grey was so happy. She would still
be able to hang out with him after he and Helen were married, right? Helen must have someplace to go a couple nights a week. Tupperware parties? Book club? Home for the Criminally Perky?
Grandma Davis spotted her and came wobbling over in a cloud of peach-colored chiffon. “Zadie, you look so pretty.” Grandma Davis was legally blind. A compliment from her was always questionable. “Denise, my goodness, you’ve put on weight.” Maybe not so blind.
“I’m six months pregnant, Grandma.”
“But you just got married—one, two”—she counted it out on her fingers—“five months ago.”
Zadie whisked Grandma over to the buffet before she had time to hear Denise’s response. “Grandma, how’re you feeling?” Grandma had taken a mighty spill last year and was still in physical therapy. She’d been watching a Ginger Rogers movie and insisted on following along in her living room. Ginger was thirty in the movie. Grandma was eighty. And a little drunk at the time, quite frankly.
“I’m fine. It was no big deal.”
“It was a broken hip, Grandma. That’s a big deal.”
“If Chester had been there, I’d never have fallen.”
“Well, I’m sure Grampa Chester would’ve been there if he wasn’t—you know—dead.”
Grandma Davis took Zadie’s face in her hands. “See what happens to women who’re alone, Zadie? This is why you have to find a man.”
Right at the moment that Zadie was ready to clock Grandma Davis in the jaw, Grey swooped over, saving the day. “Grandma, look at you!” He gave her a twirl, letting her skirt billow. “Are you sure you’re not here to steal me away from Helen?” Grandma Davis squealed with laughter as Grey steered her toward the meat tray, giving Zadie an I’ll-be-back-as-soon-as-I-get-some-prosciutto-in-this-woman look.
As Zadie waited, she saw her parents walk in the door. Now the night was complete. She’d been unsuccessfully avoiding them
since her “wedding” day. All they wanted to do was smother her with compassion, but their own disappointment seeped through so abundantly that it made Zadie want to cry each time she looked at them. Like she’d let them down somehow by being the girl that Jack didn’t want to marry.
Her parents lived in Ventura, where Zadie had grown up. A two-hour drive from this fine restaurant. Dad was a balding CPA who watched NASCAR on the weekends. Mom was an insurance adjuster who did at least fifteen crossword puzzles a day and never missed a manicure. A stable, steady life for a stable, steady couple. Married for thirty-seven years. No concept whatsoever of what it was like for a single girl in L.A. trying to find a man who doesn’t want to fuck actresses.
If you took a survey among those in the know, Los Angeles would surely be voted the worst place in the world to be a single woman, Zadie felt. Every prom queen and head cheerleader from every shit town in America comes to L.A. to be discovered. Talented or not. And when they instead discover that every other girl with a fast metabolism and clear skin has moved to said locale for the same reason, they are forced to take jobs making soy lattes or folding sweaters at the Beverly Center while they wait for The Man. The Man can come in many forms—a casting director, a modeling scout, Hugh Hefner, or a short, squat Persian dude with lots of money to blow. The girls without morals are easily corrupted—doing porn in the Valley, spending six months with the Sultan of Brunei as a “hostess,” or simply sitting around a West L.A. apartment, waiting for The Man who pays the rent to come have sex with them once a week while his wife is getting her bikini wax. Sometimes dreams of stardom are easily traded in for a steady flow of cash.
The ambitious beauties are harder to nail. Unless you’re in The Industry. The men in The Industry are able to entice the young lovelies with promises of connections. “Hey, baby, I can introduce you to my friend Dave. He’s directing a movie for New Line next month.” Connections are hard to get, so if Balding Bob
knows Director Dave and Pretty Polly wants to be a star, Balding Bob is gonna get some tail. Broken down into its simplest terms—men who would kill to fuck you in Topeka are able to fuck the hottest girls in Los Angeles. So any normal girl at a bar is now competing with Grade-A snatch to hump a guy who’s a “four” at most.
The single men in Los Angeles are different. Especially the actors. The male actor ego needs constant encouragement so if you are a comely lass with encouragement to give, it will fall on handsome, receptive ears. Jack needed Zadie’s kind words when he was a nobody. Once he became a somebody, he had fans to give it to him. And an agent. And a manager. And a lawyer. And a publicist. And a producer. And a costar. And any random bimbo who happened to recognize him at the Sky Bar. Who needs a wife when you have all that? Who needs a wife when you are now in line to get the Grade-A snatch?
Of course there were the men who claimed they were tired of all the beautiful brainless girls and just wanted a nice, smart, wholesome teacher to settle down with. These men were full of shit.
Grey returned to her side right as her parents made their way over. “Mr. and Mrs. Roberts—thanks for coming!” Zadie stared at him. Did he just speak with an exclamation point? Was it contagious?
Zadie’s parents had met Grey at the Get-Zadie-Out-of-Her-Apartment intervention Helen had organized last winter. It was successful. They all went to Jerry’s Deli. Woo fucking hoo.
“How are you, kiddo?” Her father looked around the room as he asked it, hoping she wouldn’t answer honestly.
“I’m fine, Dad. How are you?”
“Recovering from tax time.” He looked over at the bar, spotting Grandma Davis swigging down a Bellini. “Mavis, your mother is drinking.”
Mavis Roberts (formerly Mavis Davis) pushed her husband toward her mother.
“Go stop her, Sam.” As if it were his duty as her husband to keep her mother from getting hammered.
“Let me help.” Grey led Sam over to the bar, where they proceeded to force-feed Grandma some canapes. Oh, God. Zadie was alone with her mother. Mayday.
“You look sick.” Always pleasant to hear. But Zadie knew Mavis wasn’t done yet. “Are you not getting enough sun?” To the rest of the world, a tan was a deadly thing. To Californians, it was a badge of health. Unless you lived in Beverly Hills, where you would actually see women with parasols, sheltering the new skin they just bought from a baby seal away from the blistering sun.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ve just been working a lot.”
“You get off at four. The sun’s still out.”
“Not on my balcony.”
“You can’t go to the beach?” Mavis and Sam had met at the beach during a pig roast in the late sixties. Very Gidget. Mavis was convinced that Zadie’s destiny was lying in the sand near the Santa Monica pier. All Zadie could find in Santa Monica were homeless men who wanted her change. She recently gave a bum a dollar because he told her she was pretty.
“Mom, stop. I’ll get some sun when school ends.” Oh, God, it was almost summer. What was she going to do for three months? Maybe she could pick up a summer school class. Or teach a creative writing elective. Maybe Trevor would sign up and come without his shirt on. She downed her glass of wine, trying to block out the thought. Thank God he was graduating.
“There’re some handsome men at this party. Have you noticed?” Mavis asked.
Zadie looked over her mother’s head, which wasn’t hard to do given that Mavis was barely five two, and saw a guy with dark hair and a green shirt standing by the bar. He had the shape Zadie liked. Tall and broad shouldered. Some women preferred the skinny, androgynous rock star type, but Zadie wasn’t one of them. If women were expected to uphold the Betty Boop body ideal, then goddammit, men owed them some muscles. She
watched as Green Shirt took a sip of his beer and made her Aunt Josephine laugh. Three years ago, Zadie would’ve had no problem sidling up to him and making clever conversation, but now there seemed to be little point.
She looked back at her mother. “No. I hadn’t noticed.”
Before Mavis could protest, Zadie’s father and Grey came back, having safely sequestered Grandma Davis with Helen and Denise’s parents in a booth. “She’s only got one real hip left. You’d think the woman would know not to tango in heels.” Sam sat down in a chair and hefted his Guinness.