Sunday brunch with the girls was usually the highlight of my week. Now that we were nearly thirty, brunch had replaced the sloppy, drunken Saturday nights of the past. The ones where we'd go back to our college apartment with some guys we met on the dance floor and have bad-idea sex.
But this morning, after talking about my pitiful finances for the last fifteen minutes, I might've opted for the bad sex.
When DeShauna—one of my best friends from Columbia—heard about my social media disaster and client-less situation, she offered to review my business and personal finances with her lawyer-like precision. She was good with numbers—I was not.
Now, sitting across the table from her and Tanushree at Farm Stand, our favorite brunch spot on Columbus and 73rd, I was prepared to hear her assessment.
"I'm not gonna sugarcoat this, Maren. Your finances are a disaster." Deshauna lifted one of her perfectly waxed brows. "Please remind me why you don't have a business accountant."
"Because—as you can see—" I said, gesturing to the tablet of data she was referencing. There was a whole lot of red on the screen, which even I knew wasn't a good thing. "I can't afford one."
Tan and I ordered a pitcher of mimosas to share while DeShauna sipped a zero-proof mocktail that looked delicious—but altogether too healthy for my current life collapse. From across the table, she gave me a sympathetic smile, then refilled my champagne flute with more alcohol.
DeShauna swept her long dreds back behind her shoulder. "No, what you can't afford is this eight hundred dollar a month parking spot for a car you never drive because you live in Manhattan."
She accentuated the last word as if to suggest a true Manhattanite didn't need a car. Which, was mostly true.
"But—" I started, trying to defend myself.
"But nothing, Maren," DeShauna said matter-of-factly. When she saw the deflated look on my face, her own softened. "I love you, and I know you've gone through a big change over the past year. Having your mom cut the financial umbilical cord hurts, but you can't keep living like Eleanor is still paying for everything. You've got to give up some of these expenses. I recommend starting with the car and the parking spot."
I bit my bottom lip. Unsure. My car was the only thing I owned. Everything else in my life was just rented. Clothes, apartment, workspace, you name it. All of it temporary and none of it truly mine.
"If you get rid of those two things, you'll save fifteen hundred dollars a month," DeShauna added.
Tanushree nodded supportively. "That's a big number."
DeShauna was the kind of brutally honest friend I was lucky to have, but this was too much for me to take in.
Yes, I knew I'd been living beyond my means since my mother fired me, and yes, I'd justified the spending by telling myself it was part of the business investment, but having to confront it on a spreadsheet was a whole new kind of embarrassing.
DeShauna handed me the tablet detailing my spending habits, and I studied the lines of red in shock.
I had more shame staring at my financial ledger than the time Tommy and I got caught fucking in the backseat of my car after a Yankees game.
I took a too-big gulp of my mimosa, then dripped orange juice and champagne on my Dolce & Gabbana white cotton button-down. I grabbed my napkin and tried to blot the stain out. As if I needed to ruin yet another piece of rented clothing.
I could almost hear my mother's voice in my ears. "You are so disappointing, Maren."
I was supposed to be proving her wrong by showing her that I didn't need her help to be successful. I was a professional—despite her best efforts to discredit me. Not being able to afford my car was another step in the wrong direction, and I wasn't ready to admit defeat.
"But what if I need to go to Brooklyn to see a show?" I said, still rubbing the orange stain on my shirt, "or what if I want to take a star client out to a new trendy restaurant in Dumbo? How can I do that without a car?"
DeShauna eyed me over the top of her glass. "And which star clients are you dragging all the way to Brooklyn for dinner and a show? I thought Patrick left."
My gaze dropped to the table as the weight of my situation sunk in. The two maybes from my slush pile had declined my invitation to interview with my company, along with the ten solid no's I called out of desperation.
My social media outtake coupled with my mother's subsequent press statement had done the job of turning me into an industry pariah. All of a sudden, I'd even become too unstable for unrepresented actors.
Tanushree grabbed the pitcher of mimosas and poured herself another glass. Looking smug. "What about Maverick? He could be your next star client. You know the guy has dance moves and stage presence."
DeShauna nodded. "She has a point, from what I've heard of his skills."
They both grinned back at me.
I took a smaller sip from my glass this time, trying not to think about West Tenney on stage. His body grinding against mine, touching me in ways I hadn't been touched in so long. His stage presence and the force of his smile were enough to impress any casting director. But now that I'd danced with him, all he saw me as was a potential hookup—not as a serious talent agent.
He'd asked me out for drinks at some dirty karaoke bar afterward like I was still Ms. Sloppy Saturday Night.
I couldn't imagine calling him, let alone speaking to him ever again.
"I'm sorry, but I just can't," I told my friends. Both Tan and DeShauna covered my hand with theirs. "I guess that means I need to sell my car."
As I sat in front of my two best friends, wondering what the hell I was going to do, our food arrived, and I used my ricotta pancakes topped with berries and syrup to distract me for a while. Our conversation turned to rumors of Tanushree finally being made a principal ballerina at her dance company and DeShauna's consideration for partner at her law firm.
My friends were these powerhouse women with amazing careers, yet all I had was a viral hashtag and more debt than some small countries.
My friends glanced up from their plates, looking over my shoulder, which caused me to turn around too. When I saw who they were looking at, I actually groaned.
As if this day could get any worse.
Orlando Blackfield was walking towards our table, looking as handsome as ever, holding a tiny white mug of espresso in his hand. Orlando owned his own—very successful—boutique talent agency. We used to be cool, trading backstage gossip or inside tips every now and again, but our days of being cool were so over.
Orlando watched me fall into a pool without offering to help. He'd probably been worried his reputation would be tarnished if he did—like he could catch secondhand failure as easily as herpes.
"Maren!" Orlando said with far too much excitement for two p.m. I gave him my fakest, toothiest smile that I hoped looked like a snarl as he slid into the empty chair behind me. "I'm glad to see you're out and about. How are you holding up after that awful fall into the pool?"
At this point, the force of my fake grin was actually hurting me. "I'm doing great. Really great. Thanks for asking."
Orlando pressed his lips together in this condescending way that made me want to slap him, but instead of drawing more unwanted attention to myself, I turned back to my girlfriends and my pancakes.
"Okay, maybe that was the wrong thing to say," Orlando added. "I'm sure it's been a tough few days, but I just wanted to stop by and say hi."
I smeared butter on my pancakes with the tip of my knife, avoiding eye contact.
"My friends and I are enjoying brunch, so if that's all you have to say." I took a big bite to keep my big mouth occupied.
Orlando scooted his chair closer to me and leaned in. His spicy cologne ruining my brunch vibe. "I wanted to let you know there are whispers that Manuel Ortega is coming out of retirement to direct a new show."
I swung my head around so fast my long hair smacked Orlando in the face, red brown strands sticking to his black stubble. Embarrassed, I pushed my hair back and gave him a bewildered look. Manuel Ortega was a Broadway legend. If he was coming out of retirement to direct a show, it must be really good.
"You're serious?" I asked in a whisper. "The Manuel Ortega?"
Orlando licked his full lips. Considering me with amusement. He loved dangling this juicy piece of gossip over me.
"Oh, I'm very serious." He toyed with a strand of my hair. "If you want more details, maybe I could tell you about it tonight at dinner. Say nine o'clock?"
His gaze dropped down to my tits, and I realized this wasn't so much a dinner and gossip invite but a hookup invite dressed up in disguise. Now that I'd disgraced myself, Orlando thought I was desperate enough to have sex for inside information.
I tilted my head to the side and frowned. "Sorry, but I already have plans. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have brunch to get back to."
Orlando's gaze swept the table, and he found Tanushree and DeShauna glaring at him.
"Thanks for stopping by, Orlando," Tan said, waving, but Orlando didn't move.
"Unless you're picking up our tab, that's your cue to leave," DeShauna added sharply. Her lawyer voice coming out.
I had to swallow a laugh.
Orlando and his tiny mug got up from the table and returned to wherever he'd come from.
"Pretentious dick," Tan said under her breath.
I reached in my purse and pulled out my cell phone, then typed out a quick message to my sister, Christiane, and pressed send before I lost my nerve.
She worked at Mitchell Enterprise as my mother's assistant and would know everything about Manuel Ortega's rumored return to Broadway. It was a long shot, but it was better than sleeping with Orlando.
Now, I needed to get back to finding new clients so I'd have someone to send to this next great audition.
I just love writing Maren's character, she is so much fun!
Also, brunch > all other meals
Amiright?!
What's your favorite brunch order?
xx
AJ