"So you're going to tell her, right?" Stella looks at me, her blue eyes intent on my face. Her blonde hair is tied in a loose ponytail. She's wearing a simple sleeveless black summer dress which hugs her solid body nicely, Stella not one to ever pick up a dress and then, on one of those maybe-if-I-lost-ten-pounds second thoughts, put it back on the rack. "Right?" she repeats.
I look at her. Sometimes she's like a little kid who has to be reassured every few seconds. Or maybe it has nothing to do with reassurance. Maybe it's connected to some A.D.D. issues that were never diagnosed and therefore never treated. "How many times are you going to keep asking me the same question?"
"I just want to make sure we're on the same page," she says. She takes a sip of her water. "What?" she says.
"What do you mean what?" I say back.
"You're staring at me."
She's right, I am staring. I can't figure out if it's just me or if there's something weird going on with her skin-tone. It's not the porcelain white it usually is. For some odd resaon, her skin seems to have an orange hue, but maybe it's the sun playing tricks on my eyes.
"What?" she looks down at her dress, then her arms. "What are you looking at?"
"Your skin looks sort of orange."
Stella rolls her eyes upwards. "Don't worry about it and don't try changing the subject. So we're clear, you're--"
"Yes, I'm telling her," I cut her off. I reach for one of the three menus the waiter has left on the table. Mama Gina's was Jen's idea. They have a nice outdoor terrace. We were lucky to get the last table outside and so what if it's a little too close to the neighboring table where two older women sit.
"Remember, I'm here to back you up," Stella says. She nods a thank you to the waiter who has just placed a basket of Mama Gina's famous homemade garlic bread on our table. "Think of me as your bodyguard."
"Bodyguard?" I put down my menu and just stare at Stella who's practically finished garlic bread slice number one. "Will you please quit making this out to be a bigger deal than it is."
Stella shrugs, her mouth too full to talk. I look at my watch. Jen's a few minutes late and I have to be at the Young office in an hour. My make-it-sound-like-we-support-affordable-housing speech isn't "up to par" according to Justin Jaspers. It was supposed to be ready last week, but then something came up with Young so she didn't need the speech as a.s.a.p as she thought she did, and then something else came up. I finally left it on Justin's desk yesterday because I was tired of holding onto it. He phoned me first thing this morning to voice his displeasure. "Emma," his deep, I'm-so-important voice said, "I'm afraid we have to have a meeting about the speech and then I'm afraid you'll have to rewrite it. Council Member Young has very specific points to make on this issue which you have failed to address. Well maybe Council Member Young should be writing her own speeches, Justin. Ever think of that, you self-aggrandizing prick. And maybe Council Member Young should be answering her own e-mail. What do you think of that, you stupid pompous asshole and by the way, you know Franco, the janitor? Well he's running for president too and he's about fifty times better-looki--"
"Emma? You okay?" Stella's eyes are wide open.
"I just voiced my thoughts out loud, didn't I?"
"You did indeed," Stella says.
"Hmm," I say as I pretend renewed interest in the menu.
"You okay, Stella? Maybe this dating service and writing speeches thing, not to mention your guilt over Matt--"
I tell Stella to shut-up on the guilt. The two ladies next to us have stopped talking to each other, their eyes on me. "Maybe you can talk to her," Stella says to them.
"I've got this," one of the women, the one wearing a soft pink dress says to her friend. Her blue eyes give me a sympathetic look. "You friend is concerned because you were having some weird two person-two-voices Council Member Young conversation. One moment you're talking in this weird man-voice, the next minute you're talking in this shrill Minnie Mouse voice. Trust me, it was a little disconcerting."
"Sorry," I mumble, "Long morning at the office."
The two women toss me sympathetic smiles. The one with the pink dress leans over and pats my hand. She mutters something about "haven't we all had mornings like that" before turning her attention back to her companion. She puts her elbow on the table and leans her chin on the palm of her hand. Her fingers cup themselves around her mouth as if to shield her lips from our view. "First signs of a nervous breakdown," she says louder than she probably realizes, "I'm quite the diagnostic expert thanks to husbands numbers one and three."
"All I'm saying," Stella says, "Is that you need to tell Jen about Matt."
I swear she's going to drive me crazy with the you-have-to-tell-Jen-about-Matt thing. She's actually managed to convince herself that my silence is "proof" of my "guilt". I tell her it has nothing to do with guilt. I tell her, "You don't go telling someone, Hey, I'm seeing your old boyfriend, unless you're actually seeing him and right now, I'm not really seeing Matt. I've seen him twice which is not the same thing as seeing him." Stella of course only hears what she wants to hear which means she's heard nothing of what I said. "Blah, blah, blah," she answers, "Just remember the longer you keep quiet, the worse it's going to look."
"Trust me," she now says, "You'll feel better if you tell her."
"Trust me," I answer, "I won't. I'm actually at peace with my decision. Peace. Get it? Each one has to find peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances."
"What are you talking about? Is this another one of your Gandhi quotes? Oh for crying out loud, is he here?"
I ask Stella if she's going nuts. She says, "I read your blog, remember? You think I didn't read that part about him showing up in Benton Valby's bathroom?" I try to explain that Gandhi doesn't actually show up. It's more like an in-my-head experience. "Ever hear of the term, metaphorically speaking?" I say.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Stella says, "Don't think you can pull that metaphor stuff on me. And don't even try telling me your blog is not about your life. Please! If I hear about your disclaimer one more time, I'm going to scream. This blog so is about your life. And don't bother telling me he's not here because I'm sure he's sitting in Jen's chair, isn't he?" Stella turns to look at the empty chair. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gandhi, but you're going to have to leave."
Well, this is nice. The two ladies next to us are now staring at Stella. One of them, the one who's good at diagnostics, puts her hand on my arm. "I've got this," she says with a reassuring smile. "Husband number two was quite the lunatic." She turns to Stella and says, "Do you want me to ask him to leave? Is that what you'd like?"
"It's just this chair is taken," Stella says. "We're waiting for a friend."
"Of course you are," the woman says. She turns to the chair, "I'm afraid you have to go now. Bye bye." She gives Stella a smile. "He's gone."
Stella actually looks relieved. She thanks the woman who says, "Anytime." The woman throws me a wink. I mouth a "Thank-you". The woman gives me a curt nods as if to say, Don't worry, you can't imagine what husband number 2 put me through.
"Peace," Stella says, helping herself to yet another slice of the garlic bread. "What does peace have to do with you telling Jen."
"I would feel a lot more at peace if I didn't tell Jen," I try to explain. "You and your insistence are the outside circumstances that are affecting my peace. Besides, tell Jen what, exactly? Matt and I haven't even kissed."
"I know. Can I have the last garlic bread? We can always ask for more."
Stella's question is rhetorical. She's already got the last piece of garlic bread on her plate. Mama Gina's has this rule about one basket of bread per table. You want a second basket? You pay three dollars. "What do you mean, you know," I say.
Stella shrugs. "First, you tell me everything and you haven't told me about any kissing. Second, you don't mention it in your blog. Oh, which reminds me, Rossetta's going to phone you. She found out about your dating service and--"
"For the one millionth time, Stella, I'm not running a dating service."
"Blah, blah, blah," Stella says, "Anyway, she plans on phoning you, so just don't say I didn't warn you."
I'm about to answer, but I can see Jen maneuvering her way to our table. She gives us a wave. She's wearing a navy blue skirt, navy blue heels, and an off white silk blouse. Her long brown hair hangs loose and her make-up is flawless. "Sorry I'm late," she says as she pulls out her chair.
"Do you think we could get a basket of the garlic bread now?" Stella asks one of the waiters passing by.
"Didn't I..." He looks at our table. So do I. There is no garlic basket in sight and Stella's plate has been wiped clean of any evidence. "That's funny," he says, "I thought I brought you a basket. Sorry about that. I'll bring one to your table right away."
Stella thanks him. She looks at me and winks.
"Okay, Stella, what did you do with the basket," I ask her.
Stella's eyes look at our neighboring table, then drop downwards. I don't believe it. She's actually managed to slip the basket into the Bloomindale's bag of the "diagnostic" woman. My phone signalling a text. From Stella. Stop looking so shocked. She already thinks ur having a nervous breakdown and who knows how crazy she thinks u r now that she knows u talk 2 imaginary people. Also, wrapped basket w. nice linen napkin so won't dirty whatever she bought.
I almost tell Stella that I'm not the one the woman thinks is crazy. "Your interpretation of reality is truly unique," I say instead.
"Hmm," Stella says. I again think how she's looking a little orange. I reach for my sunglasses, the large canopy over our heads not quite able to completely protect us from the sun's glare. Jen wants to know what Greg's place is like and whether Stella intends to make any changes. "Not yet," Stella says, she wants to "get the feel of the place" first. She talks about "us" when she refers to herself and Greg. "You won't believe who moved in the condo above us," she says. Her use of the word "us" surprises me because Stella was a "me" not even two weeks ago, and now it's "us" and "ours" and "we".
"We leave tomorrow for London," she now says, "We'll be there three days, then it's off to Venice for four days."
The waiter comes by to take our order. Stella, who I swear is getting more orange by the minute. orders the fettucini Alfredo, Jen orders a stracciatella soup and a salad, I order a wild mushroom risotto. "Oh," Stella says as the waiter is about to leave, "Could I also get a napkin?" The waiter gives the table a puzzled look, then says, "Of course."
"Weird question," Jen says to Stella, "Are you orange?"
Stella extends her arms. "I got a spray tan just before coming here," she says.
"Let me guess. They ran out of bronze pigmentation."
Stella gives me an unfriendly look. "Very funny, Emma," she says. "What you're seeing right now is the pre-bronze glow." She turns her attention back to Jen. "So how's Bluey?"
Jen laughs. I exchange a see-she's-happy-without-Matt look with Stella. "It's amazing," Jen says, "In fact, I don't think I've ever bee--" Jen stops mid-sentence. "The truth?" she says, "The truth is I think I made a big mistake with Matt. The truth is he broke up with me, not the other way around so it wasn't even like it was my decision. Sorry I lied, I was just too embarrassed to tell you guys he dumped me."
I push my plate away, no longer hungry. Stella retrieves a pen from her purse and writes something on the palm of her hand. She turns her palm towards me. U R SO DEAD.
"Actually, the truth is, Matt broke up with me before I left for Australia," Jen says. We spend the next twenty minutes listening to Jen oscillate between, "It's not that I'm not happy with Bluey," and, "But if I was happy, would I still be thinking about Matt?" I tell her it's normal to have doubts. Stella says, "And of course Emma knows all about relationships thanks to her long standing affair with Josh Keever." Jen reaches over and gives my arm a squeeze. "Would it be crazy if I called Matt? You know, maybe suggest I meet him for a coffee?"
Oh,oh.
Jen's phone rings. "Excuse me," she says, getting up, "I have to take this. I'll be back in two seconds."
"You're so dead," Stella says in case I misunderstood the message on her palm.
"You're so orange," I say back because I have no other retort other than to reach over and strangle her.
"Dead," Stella says, "Dead, dead, dead."
"Sorry," Jen says, "That was work. We're going to have to cut this lunch short."
"Well that's too bad," I say.
Jen doesn't bother to sit back down. "About Matt," she says as she reaches into her purse. "Maybe I overstated it. I mean I'm happy with Bluey, it's just we're more different than I thought-- Whatever. Maybe we can meet up this weekend. I just need someone to talk it through." She addresses this last part to me. I nod and watch her leave a twenty on the table. "I'll call you, Emma," she says, blowing me a kiss. "Stella, text me from London, Venice, wherever you are." She blows Stella a kiss and then she is off.
"So?" Stella says, twirling the fetuccini around her fork, "There's a very good possibility this may be are last meal together. Just so you know, I'll miss you, but honestly, I'll sort of understand why Jen had to kill you so don't expect me to stop being friends with her or anything. My loyalty needs to be earned, Emma. Earned. I just want you to remember that word."
"Thank you, oh wise one," I say.
Stella nods and grabs the last slice of garlic bread from basket number two.