Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [114]
I’m too nauseous to eat dinner, but I sit with Chloe while she happily devours her chicken and peas. Eventually, I pour a glass of wine, hoping it will calm me enough to listen to the messages that have accumulated while my phone was off. Eight missed calls.
Two each from Avi and Skip, the substance of which is that my money has been transferred and the remaining paperwork completed; one from the contractor supervising the finishes on the building, Ben’s boss, who wants to set up a meeting with me to discuss paint, flooring, and fixtures; one from Ben calling to check on me and to tell me to put in a good word for him when I meet with his boss. And one from Ruth.
“Mira, listen. I’m sorry I was so horrible. I know you were trying to help. It’s not your fault that Neil likes you. You can hardly blame the guy. You’re pretty and funny and a great cook. Besides, I must have been a real ass to think that playing mah-jongg with Leah Hollander was going to get me anywhere. I have a Jewish mother, and I would no more take dating recommendations from her than I would from my cat. Anyway, tomorrow is Gymboree day, and I wanted you to know that I hope you’ll come.”
The final message is from Neil, telling me he is looking forward to seeing me at Gymboree tomorrow and wondering if I have plans for Saturday night. The sound of his voice, so earnest and hopeful, fills me with panic, and I delete the message without even listening to the rest of it, then wish I had.
Ruth answers on the first ring. “Mira, thank God! I was beginning to think that I’d totally blown it and that you’d completely given up on me. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I really wasn’t trying to steal Neil.”
“I know, I know. You only left me about eight messages.” Ruth sounds like she’s been crying. “I talked to my therapist and realized what an idiot I was being. I hope you can forgive me.”
“Of course, if you can forgive me.”
“Done.” For the first time since Sunday, my stomach has stopped churning. It’s nice to have my friend back.
“Hey, guess what?” Ruth says, sounding more cheerful. “I made my mother’s brisket recipe—the one with the Coke in it. It wasn’t quite as good as I remembered. I was worried that if you stopped being my friend I was going to have to learn to cook! Thank God that’s over.” Then she asks, “So what have you been up to?”
“I bought a loft.”
“Wow. Congratulations! You didn’t even mention you were looking,” she says.
“I wasn’t,” I tell her. Ruth is silent. Stunned no doubt. “Come on,” I tease. “Haven’t you ever bought something on impulse?”
“A pair of shoes, yes. Real estate, no.”
“So, did I completely screw up? I still can’t believe I—” I exhale sharply; the palpitations have started again.
“No, not necessarily,” Ruth says, quickly. “It’s a good time to buy. I’ll bet you got a great deal.”
I change the subject.
“About Gymboree tomorrow, I can’t make it. I’ve got an interview at one forty-five with Enid Maxwell, the food editor at the Post-Gazette. I’ve got to spend the morning assembling my dossier.”
“Good for you! What are you going to wear?” Ruth asks.
Wear? I haven’t even thought about it. It’s been a good ten years since I’ve interviewed for a job, and never once have I been interviewed in an office setting, so I’m unsure of the protocol.
“A suit’s a must, understated makeup, no open-toed shoes. And stockings—it doesn’t matter if it’s eighty degrees outside. Stockings are standard job interview protocol,” Ruth counsels. I never wear makeup, so understated is, well, an understatement. The only suit I own is the one I wore to my meeting with Ethan Bowman and later, my arraignment, so I consider it bad luck. Ruth offers to lend me one of hers.
“Come on over before the interview. I’ll get you dressed. I’ve got a beige crepe suit that will look great on you. I’ll watch Chloe. It’s actually easier with two.”
“Great. I’ll bring lunch,” I offer.
“Don’t bother. We can have brisket sandwiches,” Ruth says.
“My treat. I insist.”
“Chicken,” Ruth mutters.
“Good idea,” I reply.
I’m on my way out Ruth’s front door the next afternoon, in a pair