7. Mandy
7
MANDY
“ W hy won’t you answer your phone? I’m having a midlife crisis!”
“I’m at work, for god’s sake,” I hiss, cutting off my sister’s whining. “You’re only twenty-six. You’re not having a midlife crisis. You need to get a job.”
Lauren’s exaggerated cry screeches through the phone receiver. Jess winces, and Pepper jerks awake with a snort.
“You’re not being nice to me. I was cheated on. She’s pregnant. My life is over. I’m old. I’m almost as old as you, and I’m going to die alone and wrinkly.”
“Maybe you can go find a new boyfriend?” Jess suggests loudly.
“Ugh, is that your friend from college? The one who dresses like a teenage boy?” Lauren scoffs .
“There is nothing wrong with comfy pants, Lauren.” I grit my teeth when my sister huffs. “When you sit at a desk for sixteen hours a day, you need room to breathe. You wouldn’t know, though, because you’ve never worked a day in your life.”
“It’s hard work to find a rich man.”
Jess’s eyes roll back in her head.
On the other end of the line, a cupboard door slams. “Where is all your wine?”
“I’ll pick you up some on the way home.” I sigh as I unwrap a birthday-surprise cupcake one of the interns gave me for helping him fill out his insurance paperwork.
“Why can’t you move somewhere nicer? Also, you’re out of Goldfish crackers.”
“Can’t she live with your parents?” Jess asks as soon as I end the call.
“I think having Lauren and his mother-in-law living in the house would put my dad over the edge.”
“She can’t keep living with you.”
I shrug. Even though my sister is annoying, it is nice to have company, given my stalker situation. Safety in numbers, right?
“I’m sure she’ll find a new boyfriend and move out soon.” I clasp my hands around my oversized Starbucks cup. I finally got my white-chocolate-cheesecake mocha latte, and it was worth the wait. “There are rich guys here. Salinger pays them enough.”
“Are you seriously going to sic your sister, of all people, on one of the poor, unsuspecting men at this firm?” Jess’s eyebrows have risen to her hairline.
“There has to be someone in here with a vasectomy and a death wish. ”
Bang! We both jump as Salinger slams his fist against the glass wall of his office.
My latte spills down the front of my blouse. “Dammit!”
Jess hands me a wad of napkins from take-out orders past, and I blot at my shirt as I rush into his office.
His lip curls. “You smell like birthday cake. It’s revolting.”
“If you don’t like it, then don’t startle people.” My voice is shrill. My words might have been more intimidating if I didn’t realize just then there was icing on my face.
“Awfully smug words for someone who is dropping the ball.”
Mind racing, I scroll through my massive to-do list in my head. “I—I did?”
I want to slap the smug smile from his handsome face.
“Yes, Mandy, you did. The port contract?”
“I bought you tickets, I made the donation, I even offered to lend you my corgi. I did a good job!”
“You failed, however, to get me a date.” His sterling-silver pen taps against the leather blotter on his desk. “I can’t show up there by myself. It will look suspicious.”
“A what? A date? But… but… you have a girlfriend.”
“But… but…” The baritone is mocking. “You’re breaking up with her.”
The gears in my head grind to a halt. “I’m… what?”
“You are going to go break up with her over lunch today.” He says this like he’s asking me to pick up his dry cleaning.
“No. Man up and do it yourself.”
“Do it or quit.” The threat rumbles around the room. “I don’t have any use for you if you cannot follow simple instructions. ”
His eyes roam from the top of my frizzy hair to my comfy shoes.
“It’s a nice restaurant, Mandy. Might want to do something about that. Oh, and,” he adds as I walk out in a daze, “while you’re out, buy me the same thing you ordered me yesterday for lunch. You managed to do something right, at least.”
Why did I have to spill coffee on myself? The anxiety and dread of going to a place where everyone is going to know immediately that I don’t belong churns in my stomach as I approach the fancy restaurant.
The doorman opens the door for me. Inside, I am the least well-dressed person by a mile. Even the bus boys are wearing crisp white shirts and ties.
“May I take your coat, ma’am?” one of the hosts offers in a calmly professional voice, holding out his hand.
“No!” The words are too loud in the posh restaurant. Heads turn to see what the commotion is.
Sweat puddles under my boobs, which are covered by the emergency T-shirt that reads I Heart Corgi Butts . It has a hole in the armpit.
Definitely not restaurant-appropriate.
“No, thank you,” I whisper. “I’m here to see someone. The reservation is under Salinger Svensson.”
“Mrs. Svensson, I presume?”
“That is an incorrect assumption.”
“My apologies, ma’am.”
The host leads me through the restaurant to a table in front of an expansive window where a beautiful young woman sits like a model on one of the plush chairs. She is peak Seattle—expensive yet understated clothes without labels, light-brown leather ankle boots, perfect blowout, subtle plastic surgery. Her boob job is good, not too big.
“This is a nice view.” I sway in my cheap plastic shoes.
Ignoring me, Alma continues to scroll through her phone.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”
“Can I just have some more water? Perrier.”
When I sit down in the chair across from her, her perfectly plastic face screws up in horror.
“Hi, Alma.” I try to give her a friendly smile. “You remember me, right? Mandy, Salinger’s assistant?” I stick my hand out.
Her mouth drops open, and she recoils.
Okay, then… I rub my palms on my pants.
“Where is Salinger?” Her voice is demanding. Haughty.
Pressing my hands together, I take a deep breath.
I need to keep this job.
“Unfortunately, Salinger is no longer in a position to be involved with you anymore.” My words are halting and awkward.
Picking up her wine glass, she scoffs, “Not in a position? What is that supposed to mean?”
Alma is not catching my drift.
“It means he’s breaking up with you.”
She screeches, and I wince.
“He’s not breaking up with me.” Alma slams her wine glass on the table and it sloshes, spilling red liquid all over the white tablecloth. “He can’t! We’re going to get married.” Her lower lip trembles.
“Oh no. Freaking hell, Salinger. That rat bastard proposed to you?” I try to go in for a sisterly hug .
“Gross—don’t touch me,” Alma snaps. “No, but he was going to. I’ve been sending him ring designs that I like. We’re in love. We’re supposed to be together. You!” She turns her anger on me. “You’re trying to keep him from me. He doesn’t know you’re here, does he? I bet you’re in love with him. Cheater! Homewrecker!”
Now everyone in the restaurant is looking at us. I sink into the suede chair, wishing I could just disappear.
“Alma, please.” I choke out the words. “I’m not in love with Salinger. Gosh, I can’t stand him—he’s a horrible person. You’re better off without him in your life, trust me.”
Her breath comes out in gasping sobs. “But I have baby names picked out.”
“You’re pregnant?” I wheeze. “I’m going to hell. All the way straight to hell. In a go-kart.”
Even the waiters are all blatantly eavesdropping on our conversation.
Fuck Salinger. Fuck him for making me do this.
“Maybe. I could be! You tell him I might be pregnant. And if I have his baby, I’m never letting him see it unless he marries me.” Snatching her designer handbag off the table, Alma storms out of the restaurant.
“Ma’am?” The waiter comes by.
“Is that the cocktail menu?” I ask him hopefully. “It’s not too early to drink, is it?”
“No, ma’am. This is your bill. We must kindly ask you to leave now.”
“But I need to order lunch.” I reach for the menu on the table. “I need to get something out of this godforsaken situation.”
He clears his throat and plucks the cardstock out of my hands. “This is a fine-dining establishment, ma’am.” The waiter looks pointedly at my chest, where the zipper on my thrift-store coat has split open, exposing the hole-ridden Corgi Butts T-shirt in all its glory.
“Right. Uh, sorry—didn’t know there was a dress code,” I mumble hastily, holding my coat together with one hand and digging around in my purse with the other. “Sorry, my wallet’s here somewhere.” A handful of tampons swan-dive out of my purse onto the floor.
I wrestle the company card out of my oversized bag, shove it at the waiter, then scurry around to pick up the tampons, which are making a run for freedom.
Screw this day, screw this restaurant, screw Salinger.
He’s going to pay. And I have just the sister to make him do it.