Slightly Settled. Wendy Markham
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I’m single; I’m not supposed to need a man.
I’m supposed to be an independent woman who can stand on her own; a woman with a promising career and cultural interests and plenty of good friends.
I’m supposed to be like Murphy Brown, Mary Richards, Elaine Benes. I’m suppose to make it after all—a hat-tossing single woman in the city, confident and savvy and solo. Or does that just happen on television sitcoms? Old, outdated television sitcoms?
As I make my way down the hall toward accounts payable, I decide there is a certain irony in the fact that I’m spending my nights watching Nick at Nite and TV Land reruns about women who actually have lives. Fulfilling lives that are too busy for endless speculation about how and when and where to meet a soul mate.
In real life, I don’t know many—okay, any—willingly single women. Everyone I know, aside from Raphael’s lesbian friends, either has a man or wants a man.
Is that so wrong?
Well, maybe I’ll meet somebody any second now. Maybe I’ll round the next corner just past the water fountain and I’ll crash into the perfect man. Maybe he’ll steady me by holding my arms just above my elbows, and we’ll look into each other’s eyes, and…
Kismet.
What? It happens.
It happens all the time.
Well, it does.
Okay, it happens all the time in Sandra Bullock movies, and sometimes it happens in real life, too.
I find myself holding my breath as I approach the corner, wondering if this is more than a fantasy—if maybe it’s a premonition.
I decide that if I round the corner and crash into a man—any man—that it’s fate. As long as he’s single and reasonably attractive.
Okay, here I go.
This could be it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn the corner.
Open my eyes.
Empty.
The long carpeted hallway stretches ahead, empty as my love life.
Oh, well. Deep down, I knew it would be.
Deep down, I don’t believe in kismet after all.
4
“Where is everyone?” Seated beside me on a bar stool, Brenda lifts the hand that’s not holding a blood-orange martini to check her watch.
The four of us have been here at Space for a half hour and a round and a half of cocktails. We’re sitting at the curved stainless-steel bar beneath a vast black “sky” dotted with tiny white lights that are supposed to be constellations. The bartenders are wearing silver jumpsuits. Mirrors line every surface, making the place look infinitely expansive—and reflecting me in all my slinky red glory.
I’m not looking at my own reflection. Well, not most of the time. The thing is, when I do happen to catch my eye, I can’t seem to get over that this is really me. It’s enough to banish any lingering doubts about being the only woman in the place baring a little cleavage and a lot of thigh.
“What time is it?” Yvonne asks.
“Eight. And the party starts at eight. Are the four of us the only punctual people in the whole freaking—”
“Nope,” Latisha cuts in, pointing across the cavernous room toward the door. “Look who’s here.”
“Let me guess. Judy Jetson?” My quip strikes me as more amusing than it should, courtesy of the potent second drink I just sucked down.
“Nope, Mary,” Latisha says, gesturing.
“Madonna,” Brenda murmurs, wide-eyed.
“Oh, so we’re talking Mary, Mother of God?” I swear, I’m cracking myself up.
“No, Mary, the office freak. Look.”
Still giggling, I set down my empty glass and turn to see that Mary—excuse me, Merry—has just made her entrance. Her roly-poly figure is encased in a bright red dress with white fake fur trim. Incredulous, I gape at the shiny black boots below and the Santa hat perched jauntily on her round head. All that’s missing is a sack full of toys slung on her back.
“Now, that’s a real shame,” Yvonne says dryly, shaking her pink bouffant, an unlit cigarette in one hand and a martini glass in the other.
Mary spots us and makes a beeline for the bar. “Hi, everyone!”
I can’t resist. “Mrs. Claus, I presume?”
She titters and warbles, “Oh, Tracey, you’re so funny. Um, Yvonne, you’re not allowed to smoke in here.”
Yvonne rolls her eyes in the direction of the Little Dipper.
“She knows,” I say. “She just likes to hold her cigarette. It’s a habit.”
A habit Little Miss Merry Two-Shoes couldn’t possibly understand.
A jumpsuited bartender materializes. “Can I get you something?”
Mary orders a spritzer.
That’s enough to make me order my third martini. I rationalize it by deciding that blood-orange martinis aren’t as potent as the regular kind, but basically, I’m about to get trashed.
I’m just one big Office Party Don’t, but I can’t seem to help it. Blood-orange martinis are my new best friend.
I’m not in the mood for spritzers, and I’m sick of being one big Do all my life. Maybe it’s just my martini fog, but it seems to me that Don’ts have far more fun than Do’s do.
Soon, thank God, Mary disappears and the place fills up. You don’t grasp just how huge an agency Blaire Barnett is until the whole company is in one place. I see plenty of faces I don’t recognize, and some that I do. The music throbs, and there are a few people out on the dance floor, most of them self-conscious-looking entry-level drones or grooving mail-room staff.
“Who’s that guy? He’s cute!” Brenda says, nudging me and pointing at someone I’ve never seen before. He’s got blond hair, which is usually not my type. Not Brenda’s type, either, but look at her gaping.
“You’re married, Bren. Remember?”
She shrugs. “I’m not dead. I can look. And you should look. Maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Maybe I will.”
“You should start mingling.”
“Maybe I will,” I say again, but I’m having a good time just hanging by the bar with my friends.
Then again, it’s getting a little warm in here. The music seems to be abnormally loud, and I’m thinking I should switch to a spritzer after I finish this drink. The insert the pharmacy gave me with my happy pills says that I’m not supposed to overindulge in liquor.
I spot a very familiar face approaching as Brenda and I pose for a picture Latisha is about to take with my camera.
Yes, I brought my camera. Is that a Don’t? It’s not on the list, but it probably isn’t considered a Do. Especially when Latisha and I keep cracking ourselves up pretending to be private detectives furtively taking photos of Alec, a married account executive who looks a little too cozy at the bar with Mercedes, the buxom and boozy sixth-floor receptionist. Which is a borderline violation of She magazine’s Don’t Gossip rule.
The familiar face stops in front of me, and its mouth says, “Hey, how’s it going, Chief?”
“Hi, Mike!” Am I slurring? “Here, get in the picture with us!”
“How about if I take it?” he offers, setting down his bottled Molson Ice and taking the camera from Latisha. She gets into the picture