Charming Falls Apart Read online

  Jordan puts up her hand to stop me and shakes her head. “Give it up. You’re not going to hear from her. She didn’t even call you for your birthday. She called me to say she wouldn’t make it, and I don’t think I’ve ever received a phone call from Kate.”

  “But why? Is it because of work or the wedding?”

  “My guess is all of the above. Personally, I’ve never trusted her. There are negative Nellies, and then there’s Kate. What’s someone with her glass-half-empty-and-the-rest-is-filled-with-poison outlook even doing in PR?” Jordan throws her hands up in the air, exasperated by the subject of Kate. “Face it, Allie. She’s ghosting you. You’re never ever going to hear from Kate again.”

  Deep down I know she’s right, and my heart breaks in a million pieces all over again. I’m not sure now which breakup is harder—a fiancé or best friend?

  Kate’s spirit animal is the hedgehog. When Kate is in a good mood, she’s my funny little comrade who makes me laugh harder than anyone else with her quirky and often wry observations and humor; but when feeling cornered or defensive, her spikes go up, and one must handle her with care. Although she’s the most introverted of my friends, ironically, she’s also the person I spend the most time with on a daily basis, that is, until recently. Though I took her on as a mentee (she was competent and efficient if not always eager), we didn’t become friends until the night she found me shell-shocked and staring at my computer after being majorly chewed out by one of our bigger clients and asked me what was wrong.

  “There was a typo in the A-Kon Batteries press release,” I said, still recovering from the irate phone call.

  “What was the typo?” she asked.

  “We inverted one of the numbers in the phone number for their headquarters.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” Kate was the one who actually drafted the release, but it was ultimately my responsibility as the senior account manager to check her work. “That sucks, but it’s not exactly tirade-worthy. If people call the wrong number, they’ll just look up the right one online.”

  “Yeah, but …” I buried my face in my hands.

  “But what?”

  With my hands still covering my face, I whispered in horror and embarrassment, “The wrong number belongs to a sex shop. They specialize in vibrators.”

  The second the word vibrator came out of my mouth, Kate burst out laughing, and, after a couple of shocked seconds, I started laughing along with her.

  “C’mon,” she said, still laughing, “let’s go get a drink.” Even though we were going to catch hell in the morning for the mistake, that night, over a couple of mojitos, our work friendship solidified into a personal one, and the next day Kate admitted to Paige that she had made the mistake, while I took the heat from the client. Since the “Night of the Typo,” we’ve weathered many campaigns and projects together, and she’s been a loyal friend. One of the many reasons I looked forward to Kate as my bridesmaid was that something would go horribly wrong (as they do at weddings) and she would be the one to make me laugh when it did. But wouldn’t a loyal friend check up on me after I got fired?

  Jordan taps on her glass to get my attention. “Speaking of the wedding, have you heard from Neil?” she asks.

  “Nope, and I’m starting to think I’ll probably never ever hear from him again either. But it’s all still feeling a bit surreal, as if he never existed, as if our relationship never existed.” I look at her helplessly.

  “Unfortunately, I bore witness to it, and it existed,” Jordan testifies. “And how’s the wedding canceling going?”

  I squirm. “Um, yeah. I haven’t gotten around to that yet.”

  “Allison,” she gently scolds, “vendors don’t care about your heartbreak. They care about the money.”

  “I know. But it’s only been a week,” I deflect, “and like I said, it’s all a bit surreal. Even though I hate Neil, I still can’t believe he’s just disappeared into the ether. Don’t I get an explanation? Some sort of closure? How could he have been having an affair under my nose?”

  I’m tempted to hunt him down and force him to give me some “closure.” But that’s only for “psycho-exes” and I’m not there yet (though I’m firmly of the belief that the reason a woman becomes a “psycho ex” is because her ex drove her there).

  “I know. We all want closure. But, the thing is, most of the time the explanation or answer isn’t what we want to hear. It’s better to just move forward. And you can start by canceling your wedding contracts.” Jordan pats my hand. “Do you want me to call? I’ll say I’m your lawyer. People usually respond to that.”

  I laugh sadly. “Thanks, but I got it.”

  SATURDAY MORNING I think about Jordan’s comment that it’s best to just move forward. Despite my heartbreak and how absolutely mortifying the task, I really have to move forward on canceling the wedding. Dragging my feet on this has given me an icky feeling in my stomach. Guests have made arrangements to be there for me and Neil, and it’s only fair to give them notice; though it’s rather unfair that I’m the one who has to be responsible for cleaning up this mess when I’m not the guilty party. Anger bubbles up in my chest and even though the rational part of me is screaming, “Nooooo,” I pick up my phone and call Neil.

  While his phone rings, I pace the length of the condo back and forth and back again. My call eventually goes to voicemail and, panicking, I immediately hang up for fear of leaving an angry incoherent message—one that he might share with Stacey. I wonder if he saw my number and decided to ignore it. Slumping down onto the sofa, I type him an email instead.

  Subject: Wedding

  Neil,

  I just called and got your voicemail. I haven’t begun canceling our wedding contracts because I think you should be involved. Please give me a call this weekend because I’d like to cancel everything Monday morning.

  Allison

  I read the words back to what must be the most depressing email I’ve ever written. Who was this Neil that I agreed to spend my life with, and how did he so suddenly become a stranger?

  The only person who can give me these answers is Neil, that is, if he ever calls me back, which I’m beginning to doubt. So when my phone rings, I jump a mile. I look at the caller ID. It’s my mother. Sigh. I’ve been avoiding her calls all week, which makes me feel that I’m no better than Neil, Stacey, or Kate. I take a deep breath and answer.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Allison, darling, where have you been?” She sounds worried and I feel guilty. “And why aren’t you returning my calls?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been a busy week.”

  “I called you yesterday at work and the number didn’t go through. Then I called the main switchboard and they said you didn’t work there! First this crisis with the wedding and now work? Heavens! What is going on with you?”

  Oh, god. I need to come clean now. How clean, I’m not sure. I know that if I tell her I was fired, she will ask me what I did to make them fire me.

  “That’s right. I don’t work there anymore. My last day was Friday. I’ve been there twelve years and it was time to move on.”

  “You took another job?”

  “Not exactly.” I take another deep breath, crossing imaginary fingers behind my back. “I felt I needed the time off to think about what I want next.”

  “So you quit without another job lined up? Allison, what is wrong with you?” When I don’t respond because I’m too busy gritting my teeth, her tone softens. “Did you quit for Neil?”

  “No!” I say quickly and emphatically.

  “Then this is too much. I just don’t know what is going on with you,” she says, her voice harsh again, which feels like tiny pins puncturing my eardrums. “You should talk to your father. Do you need us to come down? Actually, don’t answer that. We’re coming down tonight and bringing you home.”

  “Mom, I’m thirty-five. I don’t need to come home.” The idea of my parents dragging me out of my condo and back to their colonial in the western burbs
is a bit over the top. Perhaps I should consider expanding my job search to out of state. “I’m fine, okay. I don’t need to discuss all my career moves with you.”

  Through the phone, I can hear my mother maniacally tapping her fingernails on the honed marble countertops in her oversized French country kitchen. “And what is happening with the wedding?” she asks. “Have you talked to Neil?”

  “No progress on that front.”

  “You two are being ridiculous. You really must sort this out quickly,” she scolds me, as if Neil and I are just having a juvenile skirmish because he pulled my hair on the playground. “Invitations were sent. People are expecting a wedding in three weeks.”

  “I know, I know. We’ll take care of it.” Or more like “I” will take care of it. The fact that my mother can’t seem to understand that there is no wedding, that this isn’t just some misunderstanding, adds to my growing list of things that make me want to scream today.

  “Mom, I have to go. I have an appointment.”

  “An appointment? It’s Saturday.”

  “Yes. I, uh, have a nail appointment,” I lie. Any twinge of guilt is surpassed by the need preserve my sanity, which means ending this call through any measure.

  “Should you really be spending money on your nails when you have no job—”

  “Goodbye, Mom.” I hang up before she can say anything else.

  Argh! I can’t win with her. If I’d told her that I canceled a manicure appointment, I’m pretty sure she would have said, “Are you sure that’s wise? You need to look your best to get your man back!” or something along that line.

  I’d been pacing back and forth while talking to my mother, and in doing so I kept passing the door to the office where all the wedding presents are piled up. Since the great Neil cleanout with Jordan, I’ve kept that door closed, not needing the constant reminder (and the kitchen table has sufficed as my new office space). Standing in front of it now, I pause and consider opening it. But as soon as my hand is on the doorknob, the thought of all those prettily wrapped presents with each well-wisher’s card taped to the corresponding gift gives my heart a pang. A lump forms in my throat. I sigh and head to the bathroom where I take out my nail polish and supplies for a DIY manicure. Lying to mother has made me feel like a bad person and, frankly, my nails could use some love.

  While my nails dry, I numb my mind and heart with a mindless Bravo marathon for the rest of the afternoon. Moving forward can wait until Monday.

  Defeated, I go to bed at six.

  I’m awake early and make it to my regular Monday six thirty barre class. It’s soothing to see the other regulars and to pretend for an hour that everything in my life is exactly the same. The only change is that I now head to The Cauldron rather than Starbucks for my post-workout latte. The Cauldron is also beginning to feel like routine since the same guy, Eric, is working the cash register and the same twenty-something hipster barista is working the espresso machine.

  “Morning!” Eric greets me with his friendly, easygoing smile. “Good workout?”

  “Good morning!” I smile back. “And, yes, it was a good workout. Thanks.”

  “What can I getcha?”

  “A large almond milk latte and this banana,” I say, taking one out of the basket.

  “No scone?”

  “No, thanks. Not this morning,” I say, handing over a twenty.

  As he makes my change he says, “Sooo, you didn’t like it?”

  Shoot! That’s right—the free scone from my first visit. I inwardly cringe at appearing rude when he’s been so kind to me. “The scone? Oh, I loved it! Totally delicious. But, carbs, you know?”

  It’s subtle, but I notice he’s giving me an appraising look as he hands me my change. “But not good enough to tempt you for another?” I can tell he’s teasing me more than trying to push his baked goods on me. “You look like you can handle it.”

  “Ha!” I fumble putting the change into my wallet. “Well, I don’t want to undo all my hard work from the gym.”

  “Your fiancé is a lucky man.”

  The word fiancé punches me in the gut, and I look down at my left hand where my engagement ring sparkles up at me, as if winking to say hello. Even though it’s been a little over a week now, I can’t yet face taking off the beautiful ring I’d selected when I thought I was going to live happily ever after. I promise myself that once I officially cancel the wedding, then I’ll take it off.

  “You know, maybe I will take a scone,” I say, wanting to change the subject from my nonexistent fiancé.

  Eric looks a little surprised at my change of heart, but says, “Great! I have orange cranberry this morning.”

  “Sounds perfect.” I reach back into my purse for my money.

  He waves his hand toward my purse. “No, no. Don’t worry about it. This is a new recipe. You can pay me back by giving me your honest opinion.”

  “Oh. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He puts a scone in a small paper bag and hands it to me. “Just let me know what you think the next time you come in.”

  “Will do. Thank you very much.” My latte is ready, and the hipster barista hands it to me with a smirk, looking back at Eric and then at me.

  As I leave Eric calls out, “Have a great day, Allison.”

  “Thanks! You too, Eric.” I wave and leave with a smile on my face.

  MY SMILE DISAPPEARS the second I open my door.

  “There you are,” my mother exclaims, standing up from where she was sitting on my sofa.

  “Mom! What are you doing here? And how did you get in?” I throw my keys and purse onto the table, hoping my voice sounds more surprised than horrified. Maybe for some people their mother on the sofa would be a good surprise; I am not one of those people.

  “Robert let me in.”

  I make a mental note to have a discussion with my doorman Robert, though it probably won’t help. He adores my mother, and even I admit she can be quite charismatic when she chooses, and especially when she wants something.

  She walks over to greet me with an air kiss and hug, and I instinctively take a step back to ward her off. “I’m sweaty. I just worked out.” Even though her “hugs” (her hands just hovering over my shoulders) are more air than actual touching, after our last two phone calls I’m not exactly in an affectionate mood.

  She backs off. “Oh! Glad to hear that. I came over to make sure you’re okay, but you seem to be doing fine.” She peers at me closely, clearly looking for any telltale cracks. “So what has you up so early?”

  She sounds slightly disappointed, and I can tell that she wanted to surprise me, or more like launch a sneak attack.

  “Just keeping up my routine, you know. I’ve only been out of work for a week. No reason for sleeping in.” I don’t mention that I’ve also been falling asleep around the same time that my parents’ country club is serving its early bird special.

  “Have you talked to Neil?”

  “Ugh. It’s too early in the morning to talk about him,” I say, sighing. “Can I at least take a shower and finish my coffee first?”

  “Of course, darling. You go take your shower. I’m yours all day.” I look at her confused, and she says, “Since I hadn’t heard from you, I was worried you were holed up in here feeling sorry for yourself. So I wanted to take you out to lunch. And maybe do a little mother–daughter shopping?” She sings this last part and winks charmingly, and I can see why Robert always lets her in.

  My earlier feelings of annoyance melt away at her concern; though, knowing my mother, this may all be part of a devious plan. Even so, I wouldn’t mind a stroll down Michigan Avenue to distract me from my troubles. “That sounds great, Mom. Thanks.”

  “What’s in the bag?” She gestures toward the table.

  “A scone from the new coffeehouse down the street.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Are you sure you want to eat that? You do have a dress to fit into.”

  My tentative warm fuzzy feelings instantly
evaporate, and I see what sort of day it’s really going to be. One in which my mother is going to try to save her “big day.”

  “I do,” I say tersely and swipe the bag to take with me to my bedroom. Once there, I set down my coffee and check my phone for email. Nothing from the recruiters. I guess I’m free and clear to spend the day with my mother—God give me strength. And since I don’t have to fit into one of my suits for interviewing or my wedding dress, I take a defiant bite of the scone. It’s delicious, tasting all the better because it feels slightly rebellious, and I look forward to giving Eric my verdict the next time I see him.

  A CAB FERRIES my mother and me to the Mag Mile for some retail therapy. I’m not really in the financial position or mood to shop, but when my mother insists on buying me a Tory Burch tote I’d been eyeing, I don’t refuse. Although deep down I know it’s probably a bribe, I choose to view her gesture as an offer of apology.

  She’s been surprisingly quiet on the subject of Neil and, thankfully, hasn’t asked about the job hunt. Instead, whenever I bring up the subject of my career, she just pats my arm and says, “Don’t worry about that now. Something will come up.”

  “Jake has a new girlfriend,” my mother mentions at Bloomingdale’s as she picks up a shoe, looks at the price, and sets it down again. Jake is my older brother and a lawyer in New York. Like my dad, he’s a bit of a workaholic, and I don’t hear from him much.

  “What happened to Cherise?”

  “It wasn’t working. She was too into her career, or something or other.” My mother waves her hand dismissively.

  I roll my eyes. My brother is thirty-seven, and no girlfriend has yet to last a year with him. According to my mother, no woman has ever been good enough for her perfect Jake, and she figures he’ll probably settle down in his forties. His constantly changing posse of girlfriends doesn’t bother her because he can eventually give her the grandchildren she desires—unfortunately, my life is not viewed with such patience. Unlike my brother, my biological clock for her future grandchildren is ticking, and if Neil and I don’t marry, she fears those grandchildren will be nonexistent. She not-so-secretly blames me for this because I’m one of those “career gals” she’s always complaining that my brother dates.