Chapter one
New york city, 1998
Vicky’s apartment 11:32 pm
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Brrring! Brrring! That little pink phone jumped around. I knew it had to be Jackson. That little nervous businessman called every couple of hours now.
“Hey Jackie” I said, half annoyed and half laughing to myself.
“Oh um, hey Wendy. It's um Jack-Jackson. From the, uh,” He had had that same nervous tone for three days now, “Are we still- tomorrow at umm..”
“8:00 pm, your place. Tomorrow. See you then, Jackie boy.” I said trying to mask my apathy with flirtation.
“Yeah, I know, but, how much?” He said with a little more confidence. I guess that little wall street boy was used to money deals, not so much romance. I glanced at the catalog on the end table and noticed that handbag. $250. Damn.
“How about 250, sweetheart?” I said with that same false flirtation.
“Oh yep, 250, tomorrow, at my place, eight pm. Got it. Yep, yep, yep. All good, "he said, stumbling over his words.
“Yes Jack, see you then, love ya.” He started saying something else, but I hung up before he could nervously croak out another word. I feel bad for him almost, his buddies set this one up and he doesn’t seem so interested. That's not my business though. I need that handbag, and I need to move out of Vicky’s place.
Then, she walked in from her bedroom. She did this every night around midnight. She says it to check on me, but I know she only comes in here for a drink.
“Hey, who are you talking to?” She clenched her hand around the vodka bottle on the counter, “Are you getting that job finally.” She said with a chuckle.
My fake flirtation and confidence over Jack faded to anxiety with Vicky. Something about a tall, bitchy, British girl makes me insecure. She didn’t exactly have her shit together herself, but she had more shit together than me.
“Oh yep, new job. Boss just called. I’m starting soon.” I lied.
“ At eleven at night?” She said with a gulp from her cup.
“Yep. Night job. Uh, tomorrow at eight.”
“Really, where?” She saw right through me.
“Oh… uh,” I stumbled over my thoughts.
“That’s what I thought. You have not even gotten a resume, have you?” She sat down next to me and crossed her legs, “I get it all. You’ve got the break up blues. You’re sleeping on your friend's sofa, you’ve chopped up your hair, you’ve been wearing the same clothes for a week, you’re a stone bigger, you’re single, and you yearn for him. I bet that was Griffin on the phone.”
“Was not.” I retorted, “You’re not exactly taken yourself.”
“Oh fuck off, its a choice. I’ve got a life I’m living. I just do not see a man in it.” she said, I know she talks all mean, but deep down it’s her love language.
“What life? Drinking yourself to death and working at that stupid store for god knows why? What happened to that NYC dream?” It was our friendship. We were like fire and ice, the meaner we were, the closer we felt. She shoved me endearingly.
“Oh you're no better, you know I only drink so I can sleep. I am not an alcoholic, just an insomniac.” She said, all bubbly with denial.
“Well okay sleeping beauty, get me some too. You’re no fun if I’m sober.”
She sighed and got up and poured me a glass of wine. Well, a plastic cup of wine. She knew I wasn’t worth washing a nice glass for. I wasn’t some fancy suiter, I was a parasite living on her couch.
Vicky gulped down her glass of vodka. “Well, I am gonna get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. Beauty sleep, you know? You could use it.” That backhanded bitch. I could see the bags under her eyes, the puffy face. Didn’t seem like she was getting any herself, but I knew as long as I slept in this apartment, I’d face those infamous double standards. I pulled the chain on the lamp on the side table and watched the light stay on in her room. She was a bitch, but I am too, we’re perfect for eachother. She is the best friend I’ve ever had- and the worst.
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The next morning, I woke up and glanced up to the clock on the wall. 11:24, Vicky was already off to work and I had nothing to do until that appointment with Jack at eight. I got the sense he was a thoroughly planned out, punctual type of guy, so I shouldn’t go drinking or anything wild like that. No that those were Thursday morning activities anyway.
I kicked the pink blanket off of myself and onto the floor and turned towards the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. Next to the pot, Vicky left a note and some money. Please pick up groceries. Bulleted underneath the heading was a list of the items to pick up. It was all Vicky’s usual rabbit food. Carrot sticks, green tea, etc. I pulled the bills out from under the paperclip that bound them to the note. $40. That seemed like a lot for a little run down to the store.
I brewed my coffee, popped a couple of sugar cubes in and sat down on the couch to watch television. Some re-run of a stupid reality show was on. These horrible actresses were fighting and I hated the premis, but this one girl had that bag I wanted nestled in her elbow. Sometimes I felt like all I ever needed was to be a perfect pretty woman and all of these handbags and blouses and perfumes and makeup were the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t the stupid bitch staying at her bestfriends apartment after the big break-up. They made me feel special and lovely and desirable. I’d fallen hard for retail therapy. I knew that because I pocketed the fourty bucks to spend on an eyeshadow palette. To hell with Vicky’s stupid rabbit food anyway.
I dug through the cardboard box I kept my clothes in here to find something cute. I pulled out this light-blue skin tight shirt and threw it on with a mini skirt. I slipped on the new heels I bought a few days ago. I fixed my hair in the bathroom and threw on some pink makeup all messy. I checked myself out in the mirror and put on some of that lip gloss I stole from the check out at that fancy place near Rockefeller center. I must admit, Vicky was right. I wasn’t quite the blonde bombshell I used to be. This shirt rode up a bit more, my eyes hung a little lower and back slouched down now. It's just those break-up blues. I marched out of the building trying to hold myself a little higher. All of those blues would go away the moment I enter a designer store.
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