On The Verge. Ariella Papa
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could say that.” She hasn’t yet removed her sunglasses. “I went out with Ahmed.”
“What about Luis?” She looks from me to Rosie and back to me.
“I just can’t date people in the service industry. You should have seen the restaurant he suggested we go to.”
“I’m sure it was hideous.” This isn’t doing much for her image. The waiter comes over, but Tabitha, still undecided, waves him off as she “needs a minute.” I try not to see Rosie roll her eyes. I sigh.
“C’mon, Tabitha, I’m starved.” I am really trying to keep it together.
“You could have ordered.”
I grip my mimosa glass. “We didn’t. We waited.”
“Fine,” says Tabitha. She closes her menu and takes out a cigarette. Rosie absently waves some smoke away. The waiter takes our order. Tabitha smirks when Rosie orders an egg white omelet with grilled vegetables.
“The omelets are great,” I say, making an attempt.
“Of course you never get egg whites. Wanna cigarette?” Rosie excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
“Is she going to puke?” I hope I didn’t tell Tabitha about Roseanne’s former eating disorder.
“Tabitha, what’s your problem?”
“What problem?” I shake my head. The waiter pours us more mimosas. These drinks are never stiff enough, but usually I’m still slightly toasted from the night before. I snag one of her cigarettes and smoke fiendishly.
“And that outfit,” she rolls her eyes, “high fashion.”
“Tabitha. Maturity. Come on.”
“Fine, I’ll play with your little friend.” When Rosie returns, Tabitha stubs out her cigarette and removes her glasses. If you were a student of Tabitha body language like I am, you would think this was a good sign. We’ll see.
“So, what field are you interested in?”
“Finance. I was a finance major and I worked for a small consulting firm in Hartford.”
“Do you have any leads?” Our food arrives and the waiter mistakenly puts Roseanne’s food in front of Tabitha. “No, this is not for me.”
“Well, I’ve written some letters and I have two interviews set up for this week. I’m also in contact with an agency.”
“Those agencies are such a pain.” Tabitha shoves a huge forkful of eggs Benedict in her mouth. I think she is flaunting her appetite, if you can believe it. “It’s pretty admirable of you to just hop on down without a job or any hope of one.” (Is this a compliment?)
“I figured it was the only way to get motivated.” Tabitha asks the waiter for more bread.
“You know.” She pauses to get our attention before she speaks again. “I do have a friend at Deutsche Bank. Remember Johann?” I nod, remembering the awful fashion sense.
“Is he still talking to you?”
“I stopped talking to him. Danke.” Rosie smiles at that. “Anyway, see how your other interviews go and if nothing comes, give me a call and I’ll call Herr Johann. If you want.” Is she being helpful?
“Thanks.” Rosie is genuinely grateful, but of course this happy moment of togetherness can’t last. “I can’t wait till we find a place and then we can join a gym.”
“What fun,” Tabitha outdoes herself on the sarcasm and excuses herself to powder her nose. I stare down at my Belgian waffles.
“Is she always this…way?” Rosie asks.
“I know, I know, I know. She just takes some getting used to. She doesn’t mean to be abrasive. Really.”
Tabitha returns at the same time the bill arrives. Rosie reaches for it but Tabitha grabs her hand.
“Hey, I got it.” We protest, but it’s really hard to change Tabitha’s mind, also, she who pays has the power. I am starting to breathe a sigh of relief that this all seems to be going smoothly and we are just about to embark on Phase 2: shopping. Then Roseanne sees one of the actors from some series on the WB. It isn’t pretty; she starts to hyperventilate. At first we aren’t sure what’s going on. Rosie extends her hand as this quasicelebrity walks by. She turns red and starts saying over and over “star, star, star, star.” We quickly lead her out of the restaurant to calm her down. Tabitha smokes and shakes her head. I think it’s going to be a long, tough period of adjustment.
Rosie and I don’t get back until 7:30 just in time to catch the end of 60 Minutes with the ’rents. Luckily my mom has saved us her leftovers of Thai Chicken Satay. Rosie refrains from making any suggestions, perhaps she feels it’s hopeless. And again another Sunday night in a life full of Sunday nights.
The woman I presume is Lacey Matthews shows up at work as I’m on the phone with Roseanne reading her a list of apartment possibilities. She’s been searching for apartments and jobs nonstop. No luck, but it’s still too early to worry. Besides we’ve been having fun. Lacey has to be in her thirties, but she’s got the young chic going. If there was a juniors department of the designers she likes, she’d shop there, but instead she’s wearing Betsey Johnson. She has this huge bag and it’s moving. I get a flash of Zeke, but that’s dirty.
“Call me back, Ro, after you see the two-bedroom on Columbus.” I hang up and smile at Lacey and eye the bag. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Lacey Matthews.” It doesn’t take much more for me to decide that I don’t like her. Just the way she pauses after she says her name, to let it sink in, annoys me. I’m usually a lot friendlier but I forgo the “greats” because I know I’m being sized up. One of those funny woman things.
“You have an appointment with Herb, don’t you?”
“Yes.” She smiles, she definitely has had dental work.
“What’s in the bag?” The lost maternal instinct comes out. Lacey, who moments ago was all hard-core New York, gets one of those stupid high-pitched voices reserved for babies and kittens.
“Oooh, its just Maxie. Maxie! Maxie?” I peer into the bag. A puppy all right, not exactly my type. This one acts too much like a cat. Lacey continues with her excited voice. “He’s so little, too young to leave at home with his siblings.”
“Your kids?” I ask, already knowing the answer will make her look down at her belly. All those crunches and the trainer? No, abs as flat as a board. She is reassured. I am just a naive little assistant who doesn’t understand what kids would do to all her ab work.
“No kids, not yet.” Yes, of course, she is still hoping to meet the right breeder. That hope will kill her. You need hips for the mothering thing. She has body sculpted hers off. Besides, New York is not exactly a place for the unattached. Luckily, I’ve got age on my side. Nope, poor Lacey is lucky if she gets one of her homosexual friends to donate some sperm. But, I digress.
Herb has a nasty habit of wandering off and not telling me where he is going. Since I am supposed to keep his schedule I wind up looking like a big ass when people ask me where he is. Tabitha has a homing device on the Big C, but I have no idea where Herb is until he comes back—usually all sweaty and smelly, having just taken an eight-mile jaunt around the city “to get my blood flowing.” Apparently deodorant inhibits his creativity somehow.
I kind of wish he was returning from a bike ride right now, because I think I would enjoy watching Lacey pretend Herb’s creative man scent didn’t bother her. Instead, Lacey is sitting in his office listening to his stupid sitar music while I track him down.
Herb is two floors down talking with Jarvis Mitchell, one of the big guys. Jarvis handles all the sporty type magazines Uncle Pres owns. He gives me this weird look when he sees me as if he is surprised that he would have