Tales Of A Drama Queen

I need money. Not millions. I’m not asking for millions. I just don’t want to have to choose between ZZ’s garage and a converted trolley. My real apartment, I mean the apartment Louis and I lived in, has two bedrooms and…and it hits me. Louis is living in my apartment with his new wife. His wife. He married her. In a week. After six years with me, he married a stranger. He’s married. He’s somebody’s husband. He has a wife. What if he hears I’m living in a garage or a trolley?

I am suddenly thrilled with the drain in the floor, because I’m gonna throw up. I make a noise like a sick cat and bend over the toilet, and Schoolmarm Petrie knocks and enters.

Apparently she thinks I’m inspecting the toilet, because she says something about the plumbing and the pipes, and sternly warns against flushing “feminine napkins.”

“Well?” she finally says.

I straighten in a dignified manner. “I’ll take it.”

Leave messages for Maya and PB regarding my rental triumph. Do not offer specifics, due to theory that once I’m there, it will look less like a trolley and more like a gatehouse cottage à la the Cotswolds.

Have a private ceremony to officially erase “apartment” from my list. Wake up two hours later suffering from a sugar-crash and surrounded by the crumbs of a celebratory Anderson’s Butter-Ring—butter pastry, marzipan and white icing baked into sugary goodness. But the New Elle does not stop while on a roll. The New Elle continues rolling. The New Elle will apply for three jobs today, three tomorrow and three more each day until she is gainfully employed.

I look through my job folder—actually a stack of clippings stuffed in my mildewed, hateful tote. Over the last week, I’ve cut out every job that mentions “development” or “boutique” or “team leader” but not “director” (grand total: seven). I pick one at random, and in a burst of efficiency write a cover letter, stuff it in an envelope with a résumé, and place it on the kitchen table so Maya will remember to stamp and mail it.

Despite being exhausted from use of fiction-writing muscles atrophied since college, I have two more cover letters to write. I write “To Whom It May Concern” and am debating merits of following it with a colon or a comma when it hits me: I’ve no furniture, I’ve no silverware, I’ve no bedding, I’ve no gorgeous objet; in short, I’ve nothing at all for the new cottage.

This isn’t optional, this is housewares. Thing is, I started with $5,100, right? Then gave $1,500 to Schoolmarm Petrie for first, last, security. Spent $300 on assorted shopping. Well, $400. Let’s call it $500 on assorted shopping, to be safe. I do a little long-division and discover that $5,100 minus $2,000 is $3,100.

I count my money: $1,773.59. Must have it wrong. Even I cannot misplace $1,300 in cash.

I count it again: $1,612.59.

Again: $1,598.59. This rate of shrinkage, I’ll have nothing left by midnight, except the fifty-nine cents I’m so sure about.

I panic. I call Louis, and hang up on the second ring. I call back, and hang up on the first. I take a deep breath, and call a third time. I get a message. In a woman’s voice. I hear: Hi, you’ve reached the Ferrises. We’re not in right now—

I slam the phone down. The Ferrises? That is my fucking answering machine and my fucking fiancé. I call Maya at work and get the machine. I dial my mother and hang up before the call goes through.

Twenty minutes, and all the Butter-Ring crumbs later, I’m thinking more clearly: what I need is money, not comfort. I call my dad.

“Dad, it’s Elle,” I say when he answers.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He sounds pleased to hear from me. “Guess what?”

“I don’t want to guess. You got my message that I moved? I’m in Santa Barbara now. The flight was fine. I just rented an apartment.”

“I got married.”

That isn’t my favorite sentence. I feel the throb of an impending migraine. “You already are married.”

“Leanne? We divorced months ago. I met Nancy in Panama in October. We tied the knot last week in Hawaii.”

I want to ask why he didn’t invite me, but I know the answer: He’s still upset because last time he got married I said I couldn’t come this time, but would be sure to catch the next one. “Is she Panamanian?” At least that would be something new.

“She’s a school teacher from Vermont. She quit her job and moved in last month.”

“She quit her job and moved across country to be with you,” I say. “Does she know there’s no chance the marriage will last more than two years?”

“Eleanor, c’mon. That’s a little hard on your father. Your mother and I were together seven years.”

“Longer than me and Louis,” I say bitterly.

My father perks up. “Oh! That reminds me. You’re not going to believe this, but while Nance and I were on our honeymoon, we ran into Louis.”

“In Hawaii?” He never took me to Hawaii.

“No, no. That’s just where we got married. We honeymooned in Venice.”

“Venice?” He never took me to Venice.

“Most romantic city in the world. Me and Louis were trying to hire the same gondolier. Small world, huh? Anyway, he’s doing great. Got a huge bonus for some deal in Iowa. Gave him a corner office, too. He and his new wife were celebrating. Lovely girl. Have you met her?”

I can’t respond, due to the red-hot poker that has been shoved into my left temple.

“Charming girl. Pretty. Reminded me of you. Except not so…you know.”

“No, I don’t know. Not so what?”

He laughs weakly. “Oh, nothing.”

I take a deep breath. “Dad, I need money.”

Silence.

“Dad?”

“Louis said you took three thousand out of the household account. He thought that was very fair.”

“Three thousand?” I thought it was four. So I didn’t misplace $1,300. Only $300. I’m oddly relieved: misplacing $300 is easy.

“That’s what he said. Oh, and he asked about his stamp collection. Apparently got mixed in with your things.”

“I don’t want to talk about Louis. I want to talk about me. I’m running out of money. I don’t have a job. I just rented an apartment and I need a car.”

“Honey, I’d love to help. But you know how strapped I am.”

“You managed to scrape up the cash for Hawaii and Venice,” I shrill. “And to pay four alimony checks a month.”

“And that,” he says, “is why I’m strapped.”

Chapter 10

The next morning, in what she undoubtedly intends to be retail therapy, Maya and I go shopping. Housewares, remember? Our first stop is Indigo, a shop on State Street, past the Arlington Theater. It has gorgeous, gorgeous, just delicious Asian and Asian-esque couches, tables, fabrics, lamps, chairs, rugs. Maya checks price tags and drags me outside.

We try Living, Ambience, Home and Garden, and Eddie Bauer, and I am dragged from each. Maya finally snaps and grabs the car keys. An hour-and-a-half later, in Burbank of all places, I see the light.

Love Maya. Love IKEA.