Unmaking Marchant Page 3

  I nearly choke.

  “You haven’t asked to use the jet this weekend.”

  “That’s true,” I hedge. “I thought I might just…go commercial this time. You know, since I’ve used the jet so much this last year.”

  I can almost see her jaw drop over the phone line. “Book and board? Well, what time are you leaving, darling? You know, there may not be anything left in first class.” Her voice lilts up on “first class,” as if this is a catastrophic possibility.

  “I know, Mom. But I can handle business class.” I’ve flown that way a time or two, and I’ve yet to get pick-pocketed, infected with scabies, or kidnapped for ransom. “I am a business owner,” I remind her.

  “I know.” It’s half sigh; again, like this is a shame. “I assume you’re on your way there now?”

  “Um, in just a little while.” Not. I’m an outright liar now. I blink at the tidy buildings around me, feeling like a goldfish on a rug.

  “Well aren’t you going to miss the big event?”

  I exhale slowly, tightening my grip on the steering wheel. “Mom, what event?” I know I’m busted before the words leave my mouth, but what am I to do? I’m not keeping up with Adam anymore. It’s unhealthy.

  “I knew it,” my mother cries. “Something is going on with you and Adam!”

  “Is it?”

  “He has a book signing at the Time Square Bookseller in three hours, Suri.”

  Despite myself, I feel my stomach flip. “What do you mean, a book signing?”

  “For the décor book, darling. The one you and he thought up. For the series?”

  Sweat prickles under my hairline. “What series?”

  “The series of home books on…crafting and art and, you know. I noticed the write-up in the Times didn’t mention your name. I thought it was a joint project. What’s going on, darling?”

  What’s going on is Adam stole my idea. My idea. Sure, we talked about my idea together—a series of simple, colorful coffee table books on home décor and cooking. I’d originally thought of them as fun gifts for my clients, but Adam had urged me to dream bigger. “This could be a hit. Like HGTV,” he’d said. “Everyone is interested in this stuff. It’s really hot right now.”

  We outlined the chapters for the home décor book on a weekend trip to La Jolla. Or rather, I did. I left the notes in his Audi, and when we started to argue over the outlines for the second, third, and fourth books, Adam suggested we drop the project.

  I bite down on my lower lip. That was almost a year and a half ago! Adam poached my idea before we even got engaged!

  “Suri, darling—”

  “We broke up, mother. Okay? A few weeks ago, right before you had your bunion surgery, Adam and I decided to break things off. I told Rachel and Edith, and I asked them not to tell you because I was waiting for the right time.” I’d known it would take the news a while to reach my mother, who’d been confined to bed for several weeks after her surgery.

  She sniffs. “It’s clear the right time never came. How long were you going to wait, darling?”

  “Of course it didn’t come. Who wants to talk about things like this?” My hands, around the steering wheel, tighten as I turn right at a red light.

  “Suri, I’m your mother. Does your father know?” I can tell by her voice that she’d be more annoyed if he did, so I’m relieved that I can tell her, “No. I haven’t told him yet.”

  “I can’t believe this. Suri, it’s just terrible! What happened, darling?”

  I pull into the parking lot of a retro-looking building that houses, among other things, Julian’s. I lean down and put my forehead against the steering wheel and sigh, like I’m five years old and being asked to eat my green beans. “Mom, if you want the full story, can you just ask Rachel? I don’t feel like going into it right now.”

  “You can’t tell me anything?”

  I sigh again and close my eyes. “I can tell you it just wasn’t right, for either one of us. We’d been together so long we didn’t know it, but I don’t think I was what he really wanted, and I don’t think he’s what I want.”

  This isn’t the real reason things ended, of course—it ended with me hurling my ring at Adam’s head, where it bounced off and landed in the pool—but I’m surprised to find it definitely feels true. Adam wants a dandelion, someone who bends with him and doesn’t ask questions. I want…well, I want someone who’s not an ass. Someone who doesn’t have a drinking problem. Someone who’s spontaneous and fun. Someone who actually wants to live in the same state as me. (Adam felt coerced, I think, into moving back to California). Someone who likes to go down on me. (Adam never did—not really). Someone who’ll eat a cheeseburger and go flying in a hot air balloon with me. (Adam only ate steak, and he hated heights).

  My mother clucks. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Suri. I’m sure it’s been difficult for you. I’ll try not to feel insulted that you didn’t tell me sooner.”

  “Please do try. It’s me, not you. I mean it.”

  “Oh, I understand.” She says this as if maybe she actually doesn’t. “That does explain why you haven’t been asking to use the jet. You’re not flying business class at all, are you?”

  “Not this weekend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t or won’t.”

  “Of course not. In the event of an emergency.”

  “Right.” I roll my eyes. After reassuring my mom I’ll call her if I need her, I’m off the phone and staring at the front of Julian’s building. I should just get out and go inside and show him the mess I’ve made of myself.

  Instead, I hold out my left hand, where today I’m wearing one of my grandmother’s emerald rings, and I flip down my visor’s mirror to take a look at the tiny plastic tooth sitting where my lower left incisor used to be. It got knocked out the night I fell, and after Adam finally called a taxi home, I had to drive myself to Edith’s boyfriend’s house so he could give me a stitch inside my lip. He’s a resident at the local hospital, and thank god he keeps a first aid kid at his house. The official line to Edith was that I got so mad at Adam, I ran into a doorframe. I think she believed me. No one would ever dream that Adam could be mean to me. Not affable, gentlemanly Adam.

  Just the memory of that night leaves me feeling exhausted and discouraged, so I guess I walk into Julian’s looking down and out. His assistant, Sally, gets me a glass of lemonade and two shortbread cookies, and sets about getting someone to give me a back rub while I wait for Julian to finish the client he’s working on.

  When he finally sees me, Julian slaps both hands to his cheeks and starts to laugh. Which makes me laugh a little. “That bad, huh?”

  “What happened?”

  “Bubble gum,” I tell him solemnly.

  I spend the next hour getting cut and dyed and styled. As usual, I don’t glance in the mirror until he’s finished. When I do, I gasp.

  “Julian, you made me blonde!”

  “Not blonde. I brought out your eyes with highlights.”

  I cackle insanely, because while maybe he did, he also made me look even more un-me than I looked before.

  “I look like…”

  “A model? Yes you do.” His brown eyes shine.

  “A model,” I say slowly. And it’s kind of true. The hair’s that good.

  I fling my arms around Julian’s neck and he pats my head. “I heard about your nasty break-up, doll.”

  Wow. “You did? From who?” I haven’t told anyone hardly, and I didn’t think Adam had either.

  “Brina Lulle came in the other day.”

  My stomach sinks at the mention of the petite dancer from our high school class. “She’s going for him, isn’t she?”

  Julian shrugs. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Promise,” I say, holding up my hand.

  I drive home feeling… I don’t know. Betrayed? I broke up with him, and even though I think it’s what we both needed, Adam certainly didn’t agree when we spoke last, three days after that night at the pool. He’s
probably embarrassed. Hurt. He’s probably saying he broke it off with me.

  I didn’t expect him to spend a year in a monastery or anything, so it shouldn’t bug me—the idea of he and Brina; and my post-break-up track record is blighted by my embarrassing attempt to seduce a friend, after all.

  But I’m lying if I say it doesn’t.

  I shift my attention to the darkening clouds above the county road that leads from town to my house. A few seconds later, a misty rain begins to fall.

  I try to feel normal. To feel okay. But I can’t shake the pessimism, the nauseating unease that’s been following me like these storm clouds for the last few weeks.

  What bothers me, I think, as I ride toward my empty house, is how far I am from where I thought I’d be right now. Not with the business. Northern California Interiors is doing better than I could have hoped, and believe me, I’m grateful for that. I’m much different than Mom, who seems satisfied doing the cliché wife thing: charity ball this, gala for the children that. Her work actually is important, but I find so many of those things boring.

  I’m glad I’m getting to do what I enjoy, and I’m glad I had a good enough year last year that I was able to buy Crestwood Place from my parents. I don’t like freeloading, and I wanted to make the home mine officially. I was able to help my best friend Lizzy by offering her a room here, rent free, before she met Hunter West—the heir to the West Bourbon fortune, a savvy investor, and, as of several weeks ago, Lizzy’s fiancé. That makes me happy, too. So life’s not all bad.

  The bad part is losing the sense of pride I had whenever I would think of what a great pair Adam and I were. We’d been together since ninth grade, and everything about Adam was familiar and comfortable—at least until it wasn’t. While my mother is “darling” this and “darling” that, and works in her free time as a school counselor, entirely pro bono, Adam’s mom is this take-no-prisoners criminal attorney who dyes her brown hair bright orange because she thinks it’s ‘feisty’; his dad is a second-grade teacher for children with learning disabilities. Adam’s younger sister Mallorie and I used to be able to talk about anything. She was like my sister.

  I’ve wasted years feeling content and settled with Adam, and now I have nothing to show for it. I don’t like being single, not because it’s un-fun, but because it makes me feel off-balance. Like a bike with one tire flat. And yet, when I think of dating anyone, it’s the last thing I want to do.

  I’m about to turn into my driveway when I remember it’s midday on a Friday, meaning the gym where Lizzy and I learned Tai Chi has an open sparring hour.

  I am so going to that.

  I do, and it feels good, and afterward I’m driving home when Lizzy calls. She’s in Vegas, where she’s been shacked up with her fiancé, Hunter, for the last few weeks. She claims to be happy at the casino where Hunter has a penthouse, but today I can tell something’s bothering her.

  “Suri…hi. What’s up?”

  “Driving home from Tai Chi.”

  “Oh, the happy hour thing?”

  “Yep. Felt good, too.” I don’t tell her it felt good because I imagined I was sparring Adam. I haven’t told anyone what happened that night at the pool. No one except my cousin even knows he had—has—a drinking issue. It’s not that I never plan to tell…it’s just I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet.

  “I’m jealous,” Lizzy says, and I remember we’re talking about the gym.

  I wipe a trail of sweat from my temple and stick my tongue out at the phone. “Maybe you should come see your BFF, then.”

  “Maybe you should come see me. Like, say, tonight?” I know Lizzy, and despite the on-its-face simplicity of her suggestion, I can tell something’s up.

  “Tonight? Have you been deserted by your man folk?”

  “Yeah, he’s got that charity hearts tournament I mentioned the other day.” Hunter West is a professional poker player. I wonder how he does at Hearts.

  “So you’re looking for a girls’ night?”

  “Something like that.” I can practically see her chewing her lip, the way she does when she’s nervous.

  I’m about to press her for details, but she says, “What do you think? Could you come short-notice? We could try the slots. I could even take you to Love Inc. to meet the girls.”

  I make a face, and I guess she’s as good at imagining my face as I am hers, because Lizzy says, “Just kidding. Kind of.”

  Love Inc. is the high-end brothel where she auctioned her virginity. It’s owned by this guy named Marchant Radcliffe, who happens to be Hunter’s fratty best bro from Tulane.

  I’ve glimpsed the guy at a party or two, and he always seems so…pimpish. Don’t get me wrong: He’s got amazing clothes, and from what little I’ve seen of him, he’s not hard on the eyes—wild, brown-blond-red hair he wears kind of spiky, and a sexy beard—but he’s got a certain swagger I just can’t tolerate. Like he has sex with a different woman every night and he’s just so…proud of himself. Like he owns two huge brothels, filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies.

  Oh wait—he does have two huge brothels filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies!

  I wrinkle my nose. “No thanks on that part.” I’m sure Lizzy’s new escort friends are nice and all, but…they’re escorts. “But I’d love to come see you at the casino. I finally let the cat out of the bag about Adam to my mom today, so I’m sure the jet will be ready at a moment’s notice. She’ll probably think I need some girl time.”

  “Oh my God, you finally told Gretchen…”

  And so begins an hour-long conversation, during which I tell Lizzy all about my day and she tells me absolutely nothing about hers. In fact, the longer I talk to her, the more convinced I am that something’s going on. I consider asking her outright, but while we’re on the phone I send my mom an e-mail, which she answers immediately from her iPhone, letting me know the jet can be ready in an hour. She hopes I have a wonderful weekend, where I focus on just me! Smilie face!

  Soon I’ll be in Vegas, and I’ll find out what Lizzy is hiding.

  *

  My mood plummets as I pack. My iPhone’s calendar alerts me at exactly four o’clock that it’s time to take an ovulation test. If I were going to ovulate this month, my doctor thinks today would be the day. Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t taken the test already. It’s a testament to how scattered I am lately. For the last six months, since I’ve been working with an expert OB-GYN in Beverly Hills, I haven’t ever forgotten to take the test on O-Day. Of course, there hasn’t ever been an O-Day, so maybe I forgot today because I’ve finally given up.

  My reproductive system is a lemon. I’ve got two ovaries, but they don’t release eggs monthly. I got my period for the first time when I was sixteen, and I had it until I turned nineteen, when it disappeared, never to return.

  I drop a strapless bra and a blouse into my suitcase and trudge into the bathroom, where a quick test confirms what I already knew: I’m not ovulating today.

  Woohoo.

  Most months, I spend hours obsessing over what this means for me; what this meant for Adam and I. Today, I just don’t have the energy.

  I toss the test in the garbage can, push my purse onto my shoulder, hoist my hang-up bag over my other shoulder, and drag my rolling suitcase to the elevator.

  Arnold gives me a ride to my family’s airport, not much more than two hangars in a giant field between Napa and the valley. On the way, I make like Adam and pop the cork on a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stupid Clomid. Stupid all the other drugs I’ve tried. Stupid Dr. Haynes. Stupid ovaries.

  I guess it’s a good thing I’m single now. I’m never going to give any man children.

  I shut my eyes and take a few deep swigs straight out of the bottle. And when we arrive at the airport, I stuff the bottle into my purse—probably just like Adam, too, if he carried a purse.

  I focus on the feeling of my legs moving as they carry me from the limousine to the blue and grey Boei
ng Dad bought when I was in high school. I pay attention to my arms as they clutch my luggage. I clench my stomach underneath my shirt. I think about my ovaries below my stomach.

  What’s wrong with me? So far, nobody knows. Maybe I don’t care, I think as I hike up the plane’s fold-out stairs. Maybe I’ll be an old maid with a hundred cats. Or dogs, because cats are just difficult.

  Even the thought of a hundred darling dogs depresses me, and as soon as I see our family’s long-term flight attendant, Esmerelda, I realize that, just like at Julian’s earlier, I must be wearing my mood all over my face. She throws her arms around me and leads me to the most comfy, recliner-style seat on the jet, and starts a movie on the flatscreen right in front of me: Finding Nemo.

  “You need something fun today,” she declares.

  I just nod, because really, what else can I say? Nemo is perfect. He’s got the little fin; I’ve got the broken ovaries.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I must look like shit. I laugh and pull out the bottle of Pinot Noir from my Belkin bag.

  She laughs, too. “Oh, so it’s a bad, bad day.”

  I nod again, feeling too tired to think of anything to say, and she takes the bottle and brings me a glass filled with the crimson liquid.

  For the next two hours, Esmerelda refills my glass…a lot of times. Every time I finish, she refills it. I toss them back just like Adam, and watch the little orange fish swim around the screen with a strange, dull feeling—like I’m living inside an empty aquarium.

  When we touch down at the private airport behind the Wynn Casino, in downtown Vegas, Esmerelda laughs at me, and ruffles my newly styled, short hair. “I never seen you drunk, Suri Dalton.”

  I blink blearily at her. “I don’t ever get drunk.”

  “I didn’t think you did.” She squeezes my arm. “Would you like me or Lonnie—” that’s the pilot— “to walk with you?”

  I shake my head, feeling the plane tilt around me. I wonder if we’ve landed yet. “Um, no. I’m fine.”

  “If you’re sure,” she says.