Bad Boy

Jon snorted. “Phil’s a distraction from things that matter.”

“Like what?”

“Um. Like the story of your mother’s early death. Your complicated relationship with your father. Your real writing.”

“What writing?” Tracie asked, playing dumb, though she’d been thinking the very same thing over coffee that morning. Jon meant well. He believed in her, but sometimes he … well, he went too far. “I don’t do any real writing.”

“Sometimes it creeps into the middle of a puff piece,” Jon said. “Your real stuff is good. If they give you a column—”

“Ha! It will be forever before Marcus lets me have a column.” Tracie sighed. “If he’d just stop cutting them and I got a few features published the way I wrote them …”

“You’d be a great columnist. Better than Anna Quindlen.”

“Come on. Quindlen won a Pulitzer.”

“So will you. Tracie, your stuff is so fresh that you’d blow everyone away. Nobody is speaking for our generation. You could be that voice.”

Tracie stared at the receiver of the phone as if hypnotized. Neither one of them said anything for a moment and Tracie put the phone back to her ear. Then the spell broke. “Come on. Marcus doesn’t even let my punch lines stay in my features. I’ll be writing holiday features until I’m old and gray.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Well, maybe if you focused more on your job …”

Tracie’s other line rang. “Hold a minute, would you?” she asked Jon.

“I’ll hold for Marcus but not for Phil,” Jon said. “I have my pride.”

Tracie punched the button, glad to hear Laura’s soprano. “Hey ho, Tracerino. I phoned because I’m actually getting on the plane now.”

“Get out. Right now?” Tracie asked. “I thought you were coming on Sunday.”

“Face it. You thought maybe I wasn’t coming at all. But I am. I really am. I’m just calling to say I packed up all my stuff and left my pots and pans with Susan.”

“So that’s it? You’ve told Peter?”

“I don’t think I had to tell him. He saw the look on my face when I caught him going down on our next-door neighbor in our bedroom. Plus, he told me Quincy was an asshole.”

Back in high school, Laura’d had a tremendous crush on Jack Klugman. Tracie could never understand why, but sometimes the two of them drove through Benedict Canyon and staked out the house where somebody had told Laura he lived. They’d never seen him, but there wasn’t an episode of Quincy that Laura didn’t know by heart.

Tracie’s eyes widened. “He didn’t like Quincy?” she asked in mock horror. “And he went down on your neighbor?” she continued. “Was your neighbor a man or a woman?”

At least Laura laughed at that; it was better than tears. By Tracie’s count, Laura had cried fifteen gallons’ worth over Peter already. “So what’s your flight number and what time should I meet you?” While Laura fumbled for the info, Tracie thought of her deadline and her date, but Laura had been her best friend for years. “I’ll meet you at the airport,” Tracie said, trying to assuage her guilt.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m a big girl,” Laura said, and laughed. Laura was six feet tall, and not skinny. “I’ll just take the bus to your place,” she offered.

“Are you sure?” Tracie asked.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. Besides, you’ve got work to do. You still get Quincy reruns in Seattle, don’t you?” Laura added.

Tracie smiled. “Yup.”

“Great. So hang up. I don’t want to hold you up,” Laura said.

That reminded her. “Oh no! I’ve got Jon on hold!” Tracie exclaimed.

“Don’t worry, he’s still there waiting for you. Hey, I’ll get to meet the nerd at last.” Laura laughed. “See you later,” she said, and then hung up.

Tracie pushed the button for line one and, sure enough, Jon was still on the other end. “What’s up?” he asked.

Chapter 2 (#ulink_8040b540-819e-55c1-8cc8-53bcea2b51ef)

“You’re sure this isn’t going to be inconvenient?” Laura asked, her sizable butt in the air, her head in the bottom drawer of the bureau Tracie had cleared out for her. She was putting away her T-shirts. Tracie had always marveled at how neatly Laura folded her shirts. Of course, once she put one on, it became as messy as her wild dark hair.

As she watched Laura, Tracie realized that she’d been really lonely for a girlfriend. She was pals with Beth and a few of the other women at work, but they were just work friends. Jon was her close pal, and though she adored him, it was nice to have Laura back again.

“I’m sure this is going to be inconvenient. Living in a one bedroom with a friend, not to mention a boyfriend as a frequent guest, is going to be very inconvenient, but it doesn’t mean it’s not going to be fun. I’m thrilled that you’re here.” Tracie squealed the way she had back in high school and opened her arms.

Laura gave great hugs. Sometimes, Tracie thought it was Laura’s patient, listening ear and her great hugs that got her through. They had met in the seventh grade and for the next six years had spent less time apart than most married couples. In all that time, they’d never had one fight or disagreement—unless you counted the time Laura wanted to buy a dress with a fake fur bolero jacket for the junior prom. Tracie had absolutely forbidden it because (although she couldn’t say so) it made Laura look almost exactly like a gorilla.

Tracie thought that they’d grown so close because they both were so needy at the time and yet so different. Laura was as tall as Tracie was short. Laura was big (God alone knew her weight) and Tracie was thin (104, but no more bulimia since she’d promised Laura not to throw up). Tracie was boyish, had almost no chest, and wore her hair short and streaked with blond. Laura was a brunette earth mother, had huge breasts and an unruly mane. Laura had always loved to cook; Tracie wasn’t sure there’d been a kitchen in her Encino house.

“You can stay here as long as you want. As long as you don’t bake farm cakes,” Tracie told her girlfriend as they ended their hug. “I think you should move to Seattle permanently. But you do whatever you want as long as you don’t go back to Peter.”

“Peter, Peter Woman-eater. Hadda neighbor, hadda eat her,” Laura sang.

“Was that really what he was doing when you walked in on them?” Tracie gasped.

“Sure was. Somehow, it was a lot worse than if they’d been fucking,” Laura said. She stopped unpacking and sat down on the edge of Tracie’s bed. “A guy can fuck a girl he doesn’t even like, but he doesn’t …” She paused and then shook her head. “Jesus, he hardly ever went down on me” She sighed, diving back into her bag to take out yet another perfectly folded T-shirt.

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Tracie told her. “You’re just never going to see him again. He’s going to miss you.”

“I don’t know about me, but I do know he’s going to miss my short ribs with braised cabbage and mango-apple-cranberry coulis.” Laura laughed. “But enough about Peter. I can’t wait to meet the famous Phil.”

Tracie waggled her eyebrows in a poor imitation of Groucho Marx. “Well, you’re not going to have to wait long. You finish unpacking while I work on this stupid feature. Then we’ll get something to eat. After that, I’ll take you to meet Phil at Cosmo.”

“What’s Cosmo?”

“It’s easier to take you there than to explain it,” Tracie told her friend. “You’ll see tonight.”

Cosmo was jammed by the time Tracie and Laura walked through its black glass double doors. It was enormous—three separate dance floors—with neon lights running along the black-painted walls and strobes and black lights picking up the slack, as if there was any. Laura eyed the scene. “An epileptic’s nightmare,” she quipped as they made their way to the crowded bar.

“Wait till you see the computerized light show,” Tracie yelled above the din.

“They make it snow in here?” Laura yelled back.

“Light show—SHOW!” Tracie yelled, then saw by Laura’s grin that she’d gotten her. “Yeah, yeah.” Tracie grinned back.

Cosmo was bustling with habitués, all under thirty, thinking they were terminally hep. Personally, Tracie always thought there was something weird about the jeunesse dorée of Seattle. They had a lot more money and a lot less style than people in L.A. or other places Tracie had been, but she liked them for it. They either looked like they had forgotten to dress up before they went out or as if they’d put themselves together for some convention. In fact, the majority of Seattle young people seemed like Trekkies who had recently transferred their manic interest to some other sphere. Now a swing band was playing and couples danced, many of them in forties zoot suits and period dresses. Tracie thought the dresses were kind of cool actually, but otherwise, she just didn’t get it.

“Me, neither,” Laura said, as if Tracie had spoken her thoughts aloud.