The Jane Austen Marriage Manual (2 page)

Right now, though, I was hungry. Still clutching the ultrasound images I spied the Magnolia cupcakes on the table and was about to pounce when I felt a hand on my arm. It was Marianne. Wearing an empire-waist tunic and leggings, she rocked maternity wear better than anyone.

“I can’t believe I got the stroller I wanted,” she beamed. “You must have told them.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. Marianne had her eye on this very posh stroller from Germany that wasn’t available in America yet. But the magazine had loads of European contributors, so I had made a few phone calls and raised the appropriate funds from the staff—Marianne was the boss, after all.

“Are you sure you could afford it?” she asked softly. She guessed, correctly, that whatever we were short I had topped up. But that was before the incident, the error in judgment that had made me broke.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said reassuringly, still eyeing the cupcakes, narrowing my choice down to a red velvet one with vanilla frosting.

“Have you heard from him?” she said, bringing up the incident.

“Not a word, and not a penny,” I answered gamely.

Here’s what happened. I was living with a guy named Chris on the Upper West Side for three years. We were content, sometimes even happy, with how things were. I never wanted the big ring, the fluffy wedding, or, even worse, the marriage, so cohabitation was for me. For us. I believed that we were as committed as any married couple. I believed this so firmly that when Chris was laid off from his graphic design job and wanted to pursue his lifelong dream of becoming a film editor I offered to put him through film school. After all, we were a couple and I’d amassed enough savings to make his dream possible. He was ecstatic and we made room in the apartment for the state-of-the-art edit suite he needed to practice on.

It was perfect.

Until he met a sexy postproduction coordinator. He moved out almost immediately, swearing to pay me back the more than fifteen thousand dollars I’d loaned him, not to mention the debt he’d run up on my credit cards when his own were maxed out and he needed new software or whatnot. Well, that was over six months ago and I’ve not seen a penny. Just excuse after excuse about the low wages of an apprentice editor, and could I try being a little more patient? Sigh. I was a first-class sucker and now, along with my patience, all I had left was my own retirement savings plan—mutual funds and the like.

I needed Darlene’s job. Badly.

“Really, I’m fine,” I insisted.

“I’m glad,” Marianne said sweetly and rubbed her stomach. “And I’m looking forward to having this baby and eating some of your famous lasagna.”

I smiled. “The secret family recipe,” I said furtively. “You might get more than one.”

“Kate, can I speak with you a moment?”

We turned around to see Gloria, the executive publisher of the entire company, and Marianne’s boss, walking toward us. This must be it. My job offer had arrived. I practically floated out of the kitchen and into Gloria’s office.

“Sit down,” she said. I smoothed my hair and dress as I sat in the
gray guest chair. I wondered if I could order a red one for my office. “You obviously know the economy is in a slump,” she began.

Of course I knew. It was September 2008 and the economy was big news. The words “financial crisis” were everywhere. So maybe I’d have to forego the signing bonus.

“We’re anticipating a heavy loss in advertising revenue,” she continued. “Not just
Haute
, but across the entire company. We have to make cutbacks. I know you’re substituting for Claire but she’s back next week.”

“And you have to find Darlene’s replacement,” I interjected with a knowing smile. “My salary requirements are negotiable.”

She stared at me and shook her head. Maybe I’d spoken too soon. “Not anymore,” she said and averted her eyes. “We’re no longer filling her position.”

I couldn’t decipher what Gloria meant because of a sudden sensation I might faint.

“Her assistant will be promoted and she’ll have to do both jobs herself,” Gloria explained. Then seeing my blank expression, she continued. “We’ve also made the decision not to fill maternity leaves. Existing staff will make up the slack. To be clear, once Claire returns next week, you’re not needed here any longer. I’m sorry.”

I swallowed. “I’m fired?”

“No, not at all,” she corrected me. “You were never an employee, just a contract worker. We’re simply not renewing your contract.”

It was suddenly very hot in Gloria’s office. I thought back to the kitchen full of my now former colleagues. The Ellie types, the Jennifer types, and all those in between. “Does everyone know?”

“No, not even Marianne,” she said. “I wanted to tell you first.”

I marched to my cubicle, my Mary Janes clipping and clopping so loudly on the hardwood floor I felt like a cavalry officer or his horse. My plan was to slip away without having anyone see me. I was no longer in the mood for cupcakes.

“Kate, darling!”

I nearly tumbled over when Claire appeared and threw her arms around me.

“I brought a new photo of Peanut,” she said smugly and plopped
down a glossy five-by-seven of her son. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m back next week and, well, it’s not like you have photos to put up.”

She hovered, opening packages of makeup, rifling through my in-tray. There went my plan.

“I’ll be right back,” I said and trounced off to the ladies’ room in the hope that Claire would be at the shower by the time I came back.

I shut the stall door and leaned against the metal partition. That’s when I realized I was still clutching the ultrasound photos. Fuck. This meant I would have to return to the party. At that moment I heard two women walk in and begin to preen in front of the mirror.

“Why was Kate in the photo?”

Did she mean me?

“It’s like she wants to be one of them,” the other voice chimed in. “All she does is cover maternity leaves. It’s weird.” They were definitely talking about me.

“Why doesn’t she have kids of her own?”

“Instead of hanging around all the pregnant women? I heard her boyfriend dumped her.”

“Really? Why?”

“He met someone else after Kate put him through school! He left her with a big, empty apartment and loads of debt. She had to move back home to Scarsdale,” one of them said with a snicker.

I sat there gripping the toilet. Should I remain silent and keep my dignity? Or confront the cows then and there? I chose option two. I stood up, opened the door, calmly walked out, and washed my hands. Seeing me, one of them grabbed on to the counter as though she were about to topple over. I refused to make eye contact but I recognized them; they worked down the hall in ad sales. What was obvious was that they were both pregnant, but forget Yummy Mummies. These two were Monster Mamas. They had been at the shower but were too early in their pregnancies to be included in the actual celebration. I wiped my hands dry, tossed the paper towel into the bin, turned and faced them, and, making a show of staring at their swollen bellies, I smiled warmly.

“Did you know that half of all men start an affair during their wives’ final trimester?” I lied pleasantly.

I went back to my desk, grabbed my things, and ran, but not before
stomping back into the baby shower to find Ellie. I didn’t do it on purpose but as I stuffed the ultrasounds into her hand, the images flew onto the floor like a deck of cards, scattering in all directions. I heard the surprised shrieks from the women but I didn’t stop to help. Maybe I was crying.

Marianne tried to chase after me. But that’s the thing about pregnant women: They’re easy to outrun, even in four-inch Mary Janes.

T
hat’s rough,” Brandon admitted after listening to me recount my lousy day. “But those girls in the bathroom? They’re jealous.”

I looked at Brandon, who had just emptied a martini glass in three slurps, clearly skeptical.

“Jealous of what? They have everything they want. They’re married and pregnant.”

Brandon gnawed on a helpless olive. “Katharine Billington Shaw”—he always said my full name when he wanted to make a point—”you’re tall, thin, gorgeous, and single,” he said, as though that explained everything. “They’re married to men who bore them, who they don’t want to have sex with except to get knocked up. And now they’re scared witless that their lives are no longer going to be glamorous—no more cocktail parties, free trips to Paris on the magazine’s dime, or squeezing into sample sizes. But you … you’re free.”

Let me explain Brandon. He’s my other best friend, alongside Marianne. Super cute, super smart, and super sweet, Brandon. We were madly in love in sophomore year at college. Naturally I dumped him. But he was devastated. It took the entire junior year for Brandon to forgive me and then one day he was my friend again. Every once in a while in between boyfriends I wonder if I should get back with Brandon. But we’re so like brother and sister that the ick factor outweighs any short-term benefits. He makes his living directing television
commercials, not exactly his Hollywood dream, but he was always one of those people who could adapt to anything thrown their way.

“I wonder if Gloria was making excuses and they just don’t like my work,” I said feebly. “When is this slump going to ease up?”

“It’s not, Kate. It’s very bad,” he said with sudden urgency. “You should be squirreling away every penny.”

I glared at him.

“Oh God, sorry Kate, but you know what I mean. Be careful with the money you have. It’s really important.” Frankly I hadn’t seen Brandon so worked up since George Lucas refused to release the original
Star Wars
on DVD.

“Have you been reading your investment statements?”

“Not lately,” I answered glibly. “Can’t bring myself to open the envelopes now that it’s all I’ve got.”

“You’d better,” he explained seriously. “Stocks, mutual funds, your retirement fund, are all worth much less than they were.”

I flinched. I had been contributing to my retirement plan steadily—well, not steadily—for about a decade. I had saved nearly thirty thousand dollars. I was relying on it in case I couldn’t find new work fast.

“What do you mean, ‘worth much less’? How much less?”

“There’s something in the air, Kate,” he said grimly. “We may be headed for another Depression.”

I sighed. He was being overly dramatic. This sometimes happened with Brandon; after four years of film school he saw life in epic movie proportion.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

We turned to see Marianne lumbering up the small steps toward our table by the window. We were at my favorite bar, an elegant space called Avenue, which was in a luxury hotel. I always imagined that I would meet the man of my dreams in a hotel. But so far I’d only ever met my two best friends here. Marianne sat down and ordered a pinot grigio, ignoring the glare from the waitress. She allowed herself the occasional glass of wine, which she’d sip and, more often than not, I would finish.

“Are you okay?” she asked me gently. Her tone was a bit too babying, like she was practicing her mommy voice on me.

“Quit asking me if I’m okay,” I said firmly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because you didn’t get the job you thought you were a shoo-in for. Because the publisher isn’t renewing your contract. Because of what happened in the washroom,” she answered. “Belinda and Rosalie confessed.”

I squirmed at their names. As if sensing my discomfort, Brandon piped up to change the subject. “We have to make plans for your birthday, Kate,” he said gleefully. “Forty and fabulous!”

I rolled my eyes and gulped my wine. I was the first of the three of us to turn forty, and in less than two months. “You know how I feel about parties.”

There are two things I have always felt strongly about: I don’t celebrate my birthday and I don’t fret about my age. Even as a child I dreaded having a party. Too much attention and fuss for what seemed, even then, to be a minor accomplishment. After all, there is little achievement in being born; everyone I know has done it. And as my grandmother would say, “age is only a number.”

“But this time we
are
doing something,” Marianne insisted. “Why not a forties film theme? Those are all your favorite movie stars!”

I stuck my finger in my mouth. They were treating me like a child.

“You can dress up as Katharine Hepburn,” she added.

“You mean as the other unmarried, childless Kate?” I snapped.

“You don’t want to be married with kids. That’s why you’ve avoided the altar—remember?” she reminded me. Not that I needed reminding. “Or have you changed your mind?”

I wrinkled my nose at her to indicate my mind remained unchanged.

“What about Jane Austen then?” Brandon jumped in swiftly. “You never get sick of her stories.”

There you have it. What I’m known for: a love of 1940s movies and Jane Austen. All I needed was a house full of cats and I was ready to age gracefully into spinsterhood.

I sipped my wine in silence. They took the hint. I had a theory about where my determination and confidence to skip my birthday came from. Forty wouldn’t bother me as long as I was in a good place—in a home of my own, a job I enjoyed, with family and loved ones
around me. In other words, being perfectly fine with forty depended on where I was when it hit. But after today one of those prerequisites—the job—had vanished.

“So how is the quest for fatherhood going?” Marianne asked Brandon. Our conversations always diverted back to pregnancy when Marianne was around. She had a rather militant approach to the process.

“Fine,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m having sex on demand.”

“How arousing,” I said sympathetically. Brandon’s live-in girlfriend, Lucy, was desperate to get pregnant. They had been trying for a year with no luck. I didn’t like Lucy. If a woman could be described as a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, this was she: plain, sturdy, and tightly wound. But Brandon was nuts about her. I never understood the appeal: Lucy was one of those girls that men drooled over but women couldn’t stand. Marianne’s theory was that Lucy wasn’t a girl’s girl—she didn’t like the company of women and that was why we disliked her so much.