Chapter 6 Erin
Erin
I spot Mallorie the second I push through the doors of the café. It’s impossible not to.
My best friend is wearing a leopard-print fake fur coat—in May—over a burgundy skin-tight pant suit, her naturally curly long red hair spilling buoyantly down her back. She has enormous sunglasses perched on her head, a steaming cappuccino in one hand, her phone in the other.
Her loud cackle alerts the entire place to her presence. Though I suspect they already knew she was there.
Same old Mallorie. Forty-four years old and still allergic to subtlety.
Her eyes flick up on my approach and she almost drops her cup scrambling to her feet.
“You’re here! My darling! I’m so happy to see you!”
Her warm, fluffy arms wrap around me in a long-needed hug, and I snuggle into her.
“God, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” I murmur into her coat.
I eventually prize myself from her lovely grip and pull out the chair opposite.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?”
She waves a hand about, setting a collection of wrist bangles clattering. “No. Just got here, five minutes ago. Here, look at this.”
She leans forward, turning her phone screen toward me.
“These reels are fucking hilarious. I swear to God, it’s a wonder I get anything done. I could scroll through these for hours.”
I watch what appears to be security footage of enormous dogs pulling over their owners with all manner of dangerous, eye-watering outcomes.
I sit back. “Well, if you’re going to mistake a horse for a dog, it’s the least you deserve, in my humble opinion.”
She swipes the phone away, laughing. “That’s my girl. Now, what can I get you?”
I smile gratefully. This is why I love Mallorie.
I don’t even need to tell her that money is a delicate issue for me right now.
Just one word—divorce—and she gets it. Having been through one of her own at the tender age of thirty, since which she has sworn to being eternally single, she knows the score and is all the wiser for it.
“A latte would be perfect, thanks.”
I check my phone for messages as I wait for Mallorie to come back.
There’s a message from Paige to say the shirts have been collected, thank God. Every time I looked at that box, shame and humiliation nicked at my spine.
It wasn’t just the way I flipped out in the coffee shop that sends a shiver through my bones at the recollection, it’s the idea that the man I flipped out on thinks I need help.
That I’m some kind of charity case. It’s one thing to accept a latte from my best friend of thirty-something years, it’s a whole other thing to accept twenty-thousand bucks-worth of shirts from a presumptuous stranger.
The second message is from an unknown number. I swipe it open and my throat tightens. It’s the offer of a part time gig at a seedy bar downtown. I’d forgotten I’d even interviewed for it. Actually, lemme take that back. I’d blocked it out.
The place stank of stale beer, sticky floors and sweaty armpits. The clientele was made up largely of old, balding men who lacked nutrition, sleep and common decency. One even swiped at my ass on my way out.
The interview was short, the questions blunt. Can you open a bottle? Yes. Can you work evenings? Yes. Do you own any short skirts? No, but I’m sure my teenage daughter can help me out.
By the time Mallorie is back with my coffee, I’ve buried my face in my hands.
“Uh oh, that doesn’t look good. What happened?”
I lift my head, wearily.
“Okay, I mean, apart from the divorce, and living at home with your mom, and trying to raise a moody teenager…”
“I’ve been offered a job,” I grumble.
“What? That’s great news! Cheers to that!”
She ‘clinks’ my paper cup against hers and settles in her seat. “What kinda job?”
I huff out a breath, unsure how to form the words. They already taste like failure.
She dips her head. “Well?”
“A barmaid job.”
Mallorie is one of the most optimistic people I know, but she’s trying hard right now, I can tell.
“Okay, well, it’s a start.” She clasps her hands on the table. “A regular income, right? A routine? You’ll be able to regain some financial independence.”
I chew on my lip. This job is none of those things. It’s a gig—there’s no contract. I don’t particularly want to get into the swing of a seven p.m. to three a.m. shift pattern, and it will bring in just enough for me to keep up this coffee habit.
“Don’t fake enthusiasm, Mallorie. It doesn’t work on you.”
“Ah jeez.” She sits back in her chair. “It’s shit. I’m not denying it. But it really is a start. You’re not in Cali anymore. You need to get back into the New York City way of life, you know? It won’t be forever. Something else will turn up. Where’s the bar?”
“Downtown. Rivington.”
She sucks in a breath through her teeth.
“Yeah. I rest my case.”
“Erin…” Mallorie leans forward and takes my hands. “You sure that’s safe?”
My brows hike. Not such a great start after all, huh? But it’s the only offer I’ve gotten so far. If another one comes along, I can quit.
“I’ll be fine. The landlord assured me the area is safe enough for women ‘of a certain age.’”
I bristle at the memory.
Mallorie’s scowl is priceless. And understandable.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I shrug. This is my life now. I’m about to become a ‘woman of a certain age’ who works a bar on the sleaziest street in the city. #lifegoals.
“No,” I affirm. “But, I feel like I should do it. I’ve been supported by Gerard most of my adult life and I’m not a charity case. I need to stand on my own two feet again. Can we change the subject now?”
I glance down at the enormous tote at the side of her chair, overflowing with old, decapitated baby dolls.
“To, like, why you’re carrying around a graveyards-worth of plastic corpses?”
“Oh!” She reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the headless creatures and pats it to her chest affectionately. “I’ve been hired to do the Halloween windows for Jacksons. Even though it’s months away, I have to present my concept this week. I’m going all out Chucky.”
My early thoughts about Mallorie’s dream career of being a stylist were that it was unsustainable, frivolous and overly optimistic.
Yet, now, she earns six figures a year designing department store windows, consulting on sets for off-Broadway shows and small screen TV series, and styling the occasional minor celebrity.
And she loves every second of it, which is priceless.
I tip my head slightly. “Not Nightmare on Elm Street?”
I not-so-fondly remember being violently sick in Mallorie’s bedroom after watching that film for the first time. Blood and gore, I can handle. Constant shocks to the nervous system, I cannot.
She wrinkles her nose. “Did that one last year.”
“Have to say, I’m not sorry I missed it.”
“Actually, it was a mash-up of Nightmare and Saw.”
I grimace. “Messy.”
She nods, pride lighting up her face. “Beautifully.”
I shake my head, laughing. “God, I’ve missed you Mal.”
Her expression sobers. “I’ve missed you too, hon. Now, tell me, how’s Gerard handling the divorce?”
I run my tongue along my top teeth. “With an iron wallet.”
“What’s he giving you?” She picks up her cappuccino and takes a long slurp.
“Maintenance for one year.”
She swallows her cappuccino fast, wincing at the heat.
“One year? But I thought you guys were rich!”
“Correction…” I affect my best Gerard the Asshole voice. “Gerard is rich. I just live off his earnings and do nothing else.”
Her face is pure horror.
I point at it. “Now that should be next year’s window.”
“I am literally stunned. What about Paige?”
“He’s going to pay for her school stuff and go halves on everything else, but I get one year’s salary to supposedly get us on our feet.”
“What about the house in the ‘burbs? The beach chalet? The cars?”
“Well, technically, one of the cars is in my name so I can sell that. Everything else is in Gerard’s and he’s clinging onto it all with both hands.”
She breathes in, then sighs. And in a soft voice, she asks, “Are you ready to talk about what happened yet?”
I pin my lips together and give another brief shake of my head.
She smiles sympathetically. “Well, you know where I am if you decide you want to talk.”
I nod my thanks and take a long sip of latte.
“How’s Paige getting on?”
I shrug a shoulder. “She’s already decided she hates the new school, even though she only started there this morning. She wouldn’t get out of Mom’s car. Just sat there scrolling on her phone like she was staging a silent protest. She says I’ve ruined her life.”
Mallorie leans forward again, a serious look in her eye. “You haven’t ruined her life. You’ve done what’s best for the both of you. She’ll understand when she’s settled, and maybe a little older.”
I’m not convinced. “We’ll see.”
“And life in Casa de Gloria?”
I can’t help but grimace.
“It’s weird. I haven’t lived there since college. My childhood bedroom still has a couple of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.”
Mallorie grins. “They’re probably worth something at auction.”
I laugh, but it fades quickly.
“I just need to get out. For both of us. I need my own place. Something small, but ours.”
“It’ll happen, don’t worry. And, you know, starting over doesn’t mean starting empty. If nothing else, you’ve got motivation.”
I lift my cup and soft-clink it against hers. “To surviving teenagers and moving out of my mother’s house before I lose my mind.”
“Cheers to that.” She grins and downs the rest of her cappuccino.
“You know,” she adds, “no matter what, you’re doing great. You left. You’re taking care of your kid. That takes guts.”
My throat feels lumpy all of a sudden, which isn’t like me at all. I’ve always been the sober, pragmatic, level-headed one, while Mallorie was the messy, hot-headed, emotional half of our duo.
“Thanks. I don’t feel brave. I feel tired.”
“Same thing,” Mallorie says, shrugging. “It’s just that bravery has better PR.”
My laugh is a little lighter this time and I reach across the table, closing my hand over hers.
“I’m sorry I left it so long, Mal. I’ve really missed this.”
She leans forward and pins me with a devious stare. “But you’re back, Erin honey. There’s no escaping me now.”