A Perfect Life?

“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.

Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.

On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.

Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.

Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.

2

AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.

She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.

Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.

As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.

Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.

“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.

“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”

“It’s not that bad, is it?”

“Not for a stripper pretending to be a librarian. Wanna see my Dewey Dec-i-mals?” Kitty said in Marilyn Monroe’s breathy voice.

Claire laughed. “Who died and made you fashion cop?” Guitar Guy, Georgia and now Kitty had taken potshots at her new look.

“What are friends for?” She grinned, which made Claire smile, too. Kitty’s zingers came laced with affection, so Claire never felt wounded. “Zoe’s here,” Kitty said, nodding past her.

Claire turned to watch Zoe Bellows head their way, her waterproof nylon pants hissing as she moved. Zoe zipped herself into the lives of her lovers like a second skin, taking on their hobbies and interests. Her current boyfriend was outdoorsy.

Zoe would be completely empathetic with Claire. She was into Tarot, numerology and breathing. Inhale health…exhale toxins. Unnaturally optimistic, too, but Claire craved her slow, full-body, patchouliscented hugs.

“Hey,” Zoe said to Kitty, hugging her as best she could, since Kitty didn’t have the patience for Zoe’s lengthy embraces. Then Zoe turned to Claire. Just as Claire had hoped, the hug was long and gentle with a deep inhale, slow exhale. Soothing as a hot bath. Tonight, Zoe smelled of mint and banana sunscreen, instead of the usual patchouli.

Of her three friends, Zoe was the most likely to pick up on Claire’s shocked-by-her-vibrator expression, so she ducked away before Zoe could get a good look at her face. Claire wanted the sympathy in one big wave, not three little ones.

“So, you’re still seeing Mountain Man?” Kitty asked Zoe.

“We’re training for a bike trip through Mexico.”

Kitty shuddered. “What a way to ruin a foreign country—crouched over a bicycle, pumping your ass off. Let’s get a booth and wait for Em.” She led them to their usual spot at the back near the small stage where musicians occasionally played. They preferred it because it was quieter here.

“Is it Emily’s game?” Claire asked, sliding onto the cool leather banquette. Zoe nodded. They took turns choosing, matching the game to the chooser’s mood. They’d started with the chess and backgammon in the café’s collection, and then moved to games they brought themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, the three watched Emily Decker push through the door in a chic pantsuit, trailed by her husband Barry, who held two shopping bags by their handles. Emily hustled to the booth, determinedly kissed each woman on the cheek, smelling of her personally blended perfume mixed with expensive car leather, then slid in beside Kitty.

Barry set the shopping bags at his wife’s feet. “I’ll pick you up in three hours,” he said, then gave the rest of the Chickateers a weak smile. He probably saw them as evil witches stirring up trouble over a bubbling brew. After one Game Night discussion, Emily had declared him a flop at oral sex; after another she’d convinced him to propose marriage.

“We were shopping for a valance for the guest bathroom,” Emily explained. “Later, I’ll show you some swatches.” Emily had quit her job at a bank and now devoted herself to fixing up the home in Scottsdale they’d recently bought. To Claire, she seemed bored. The Chickateers already had been forced to admire her choice in kitchen knobs and light-switch plates.

Barry was kind of a schlub, and yet Claire couldn’t help thinking how great it would be to have a man willing to shop for something as mundane as a valance. What heterosexual man even knew what one was? Or cared? Jared, she’d thought. But she’d been wrong about Jared. Completely wrong.

“So what’s the game?” Kitty asked Emily. She filled Emily’s wineglass with the “cunning” pinot noir she’d selected for their first bottle. Kitty always chose the wine.

Emily took an eager sip and held up her glass. The other three joined her in their traditional toast: “All for one and one for all…No sniveling!” Except that’s exactly what Claire would be doing tonight.

Emily reached into one of the shopping bags and lifted out a board game, which she set on the table. “Voilà!”

“‘Life’?” Kitty asked in amazement. “You brought ‘The Game of Life’?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it perfect? It was in a toy-store display window and I couldn’t resist. I loved playing this as a kid. Choosing my career, earning my paycheck, getting married, putting the little pink and blue kids in my car…” She opened the lid as she talked, laid out the board and began to separate the money denominations.

“The Game of Life.” How ironic, since Claire seemed to be losing her own private version. All messed up with love and uncertain at work, with an apartment she could no longer afford. So much for her perfect life. The bright, cheery game board blurred as her eyes filled. Enough with the self-pity, already. She ducked her nose into her wineglass to hide.

“Pick a car color. I’ll be yellow,” Emily said, shuffling the career and income cards.

Kitty grabbed the red car and Zoe said, “Green or blue, Claire?”

Claire couldn’t speak, and a single fat tear plopped onto the table.

“What’s wrong?” Zoe turned to look Claire full in the face.

Claire would be strong about this. She brushed the water from her cheeks and lifted her chin. “A demonstration,” she said. She picked up the green car and inserted a little pink person into it. “Here’s me, right?” Then she took a little blue person. “Jared goes here, right?” She started to put it beside the pink person, then stopped. “No, because he’s already here.” She stuck the blue token into Emily’s yellow car. “Jared’s married.”

“He’s what?” Zoe exclaimed, sucking in a breath.

“No!” Kitty and Emily said, jaws sagging like in a bad comedy sketch. The three friends looked from Claire to each other and back…twice. Their shock made her feel loads better.

“But, I thought Pinkie was moving in with you,” Kitty said. Over one too many Fuzzy Navels, Claire had once mentioned that Jared’s penis was a pinkish color and Kitty had seized on it as a nickname.

“How did you find out?” Emily asked.

“A radio call-in show.”

“No!” all three said at once.

“Oh, yes.” She told them the whole K-BUZ debacle, gratified by their horror and anger on her behalf. “So, Happy V Day to me.” She took a drink of wine.

“Screw Valentine’s Day,” Kitty said. “It’s just a plot by the jewelry industry to soak men for big bucks and make single women feel like roadkill.”

“I’m so sorry, Claire,” Emily said. Emily’s advice would be practical and down-to-earth, which Claire valued, even if it came via bulldozer, aka, Emily’s way or the highway.

“I really thought he loved me,” Claire said.