A Perfect Life?
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Dawn Atkins
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15.5K
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12
1
“SO, CLAIRE QUINN, it says on this card you’re in love. That right?”
“Huh?” Claire pressed the phone to her ear and squinted at her bedside clock, wondering who the hell was calling about her love life at 7:15 a.m. This early, she hardly knew her own name.
“Frank and Phil here, Radio K-BUZ, double-eleven on your dial,” the lush voice answered. “How are you this fine morning? On the one-week countdown to Valentine’s Day.”
“Asleep,” she mumbled. “And you?”
“Oh, we’re just fine. But not as fine as you’re going to be.”
“Why is that? And how did you get my name?” She never listened to K-BUZ, which was easy-listening elevator music for fortysomethings. She jerked to a sit. “Wait. Am I on the air?”
“You bet your sweet, um, heart you’re on the air. You’re on our Morning Madness Show, where you’ve been selected as today’s ‘Someone Loves Me’ winner.”
“I’ve been selected? I’m a winner?” She vaguely recalled her friend Kitty laughingly dropping Claire’s business card into a fishbowl plastered with radio call letters at Vito’s Bistro after lunch two weeks ago, when she’d first told her friend that she and Jared were in love.
Claire was not the radio contest type, but then she’d never been in love before, either, so Kitty’s gesture had seemed the perfect ending to their lunch, during which Claire had talked nonstop—from the focaccia bread through the blackened mahi-mahi salads to the decaf mocha lattes and fat-free flan—about how Jared was the perfect man for her about-to-be-perfect life. Maybe not perfect, but you had to set your sights high, right?
“So you’re in love?” Frank or Phil asked again.
“Uh, yes, I am,” she said. “You bet.” She was pretty sure. Who really knew about love? Everyone told a different story and none of it matched the movies.
Still, doubts and all, she’d just pronounced herself a woman in love to thousands of radio listeners. She wondered who had heard her happy news. Not Jared, who was back in Reno until Saturday, when he’d move into their perfect apartment in CityScapes, the brand-new building on Central Avenue, in which Claire had lived for five fabulous days.
At first it would only be part-time for Jared—he was only in Phoenix three days a week—but he’d look for a sales job here, she was sure, or transfer to the Phoenix office ASAP.
“Tell us what you love about this guy,” the disc jockey asked.
“What I love? Um, lots of things.” How romantic he was, how he focused on her—really focused—and made her feel vital to his well-being. That was powerful. “It’s personal.”
“Okay, if you’re not gonna give us the juicy stuff…” Frank/Phil gave a theatrical sigh. “I guess we’ll just have to tell you about your prize.”
Hadn’t she already won the best prize of all? True love? On the other hand, overkill in the prize department was okay by her. “What is it?”
“Claire Quinn, you have won a Valentine’s Day gift from the man you love, courtesy of K-BUZ Radio.”
“Really?”
“Truly. Tell us his name, this master of love.”
“Jared.”
“How do you know Jared loves you, Claire?”
“Well, he told me so.” And it had been perfect. He’d just blurted it out. And it had sounded so right that she’d said it back. And then there it was—floating in the air between them like a soap bubble. They were in love. And she’d been floating right along with the words ever since.
“He told you…sounds good. What other evidence do you have?” The DJ paused for her to say something clever or funny or romantic or profound. But all she could do was breathe into the phone. It was too early to even be conscious, let alone clever or funny or romantic or profound.
“Okay,” the DJ said, sounding exasperated at her lack of showmanship. “Just give us his number and we’ll tell him what he’s won for you.”
“You want to call him? But he’s in Nevada right now.”
“Not a prob. Give us the four-one-one. You just stay on the line and listen in. Don’t say anything and we’ll surprise him.”
The phone rang three times and Jared answered sleepily. So cute. She loved when he sounded sleepy.
“This Jared?” Frank or Phil asked.
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Frank and Phil, K-BUZ Radio. You’re a ‘Someone Loves Me’ winner on our Morning Madness Show.”
“I’m a what…? On the where? A winner?”
“Yes, indeedy.”
“Is this for real? Am I on the air?”
“Yeppers. And you’ve just won a dozen roses to be delivered to the woman you love.”
“You’re kidding! Wow!” He sounded as excited as a kid. That was one thing about Jared that bothered Claire—his immaturity. He sulked when he didn’t get his way and ducked any serious topics. He was sweet, though. The huskiness in his voice reminded her how gentle he was in bed. Not the most suave or exciting, but that was beside the point. The point was that he didn’t sleep well when he wasn’t wrapped around her. She loved that. So romantic.
She held her breath so Jared wouldn’t know she was there. This was so great. If she’d had any doubts that she was doing the right thing, here was proof from the universe. Falling in love had earned her a prize. And just in time for Valentine’s Day—always a sucky holiday for her. Maybe her friend Zoe, who was into woo-woo, was right about karma. And Claire’s karma was suddenly coming up roses.
“So, Jared, who should we make the card out to?” Frank or Phil asked. “Who is the lady you love?”
Here it came. Jared would say her name to thousands of radio listeners.
“Make the card out to my wife Lindi. Lindi with an ‘i.’”
Claire gasped. “Your wife?!” The floor seemed shift to the side and she felt dizzy.
“Who is that?” Jared asked.
“Your wife?!” Claire repeated, the words thundering through her. Jared was married? He had a wife? Probably right there in bed next to him. In something filmy and pink. But maybe her legs weren’t shaved.
“Uh-oh,” Jared said, his voice filled with dread. “Claire?”
“You’re damn right it’s Claire,” she yelled. “You’re married? How could you? You prick!”
Frank and Phil’s barely stifled laughter made her realize that they’d listened in on her betrayal, along with thousands of people out in radio land. Omigod!
Claire slammed the receiver on Jared’s plaintive, “Let me explain,” her face burning. She felt like one of those women on a TV special who was clueless that her husband was a bigamist. Her heart thudded so hard in her chest she thought her ribs might give way.
My wife Lindi. Lindi with an “i,” for God’s sake. She couldn’t believe it. What kind of woman had the name Lindi? Some perky housewife who ironed her husband’s boxers and made her own clothes.
A memory zipped through Claire’s mind—Jared telling her he loved her, his eyes full of adoration—and then sizzled in the bug zapper of his last sentence. Make it out to my wife Lindi. No hesitation, no question who would get his love roses. How had Claire been so stupid?
But she hadn’t been stupid. She’d read the Cosmo article, “Ten Signs Your Man is Married,” and Jared had come out clean. His ring finger was as tan as the other nine. Sure, he’d given her only a cell phone number, but as a salesman he was constantly on the road, so a cell phone made sense.
Mixed-up emotions—shock, grief, disbelief, outrage—churned inside her like surf. The phone rang and she jumped at the sound, then picked up the receiver, her hand trembling.
“Let me explain, Claire.” Jared.
For an instant, hope bloomed. Maybe it had been a mistake. April Fool’s in February? “Is it true?” she demanded. “Are you married?”
“Yes, but—”
Bam! She banged down the phone. And instantly wanted to snatch it back. No, she should be strong, stay mad. Her gaze fell on the brass puffin Jared had given her as a move-in gift. She picked it off the TV tray she used as a nightstand and reared back to fling it across the room. Just in time she realized it would leave a big hole in the Navajo white of her perfect new apartment wall, so she slammed it onto the patterned Berber carpet instead.
The phone rang again. She lifted the receiver and dropped it. She had to think this through before she talked to Jared. She hurt all over—like an all-body toothache and she needed some air.
Rushing to the double-paned arcadia door that had kept the city clamor to a whisper while she’d slept, Claire tugged it open and stepped onto her bookshelf-size terrace. Sucking in fresh oxygen, she let Central Avenue’s hum and growl fill her ears. For a second, she remembered how happy she was to be here—right in the middle of downtown, close to the city’s pulse, part of the action. From the fifth floor, she could easily see Camelback Mountain.
What about the apartment now? This was Claire’s first adult place and she was going to gradually buy real furniture, not the bricks-and-board shelves or bean bag chairs she’d had since college. Jared and she had been going to split the rent and on move-in day—Saturday—they were going to buy a couch together. Well, a futon, but close enough. Buying furniture was a committed couple thing to do. Except Jared was already committed to someone else.
That lovely bubble of love she’d been floating around in popped, splattering her with stinging flecks of soap, thanks to K-BUZ Radio’s Valentine’s Day extravaganza. Without Jared, she wouldn’t be able to keep this apartment. Not without a huge raise. She was only a mini account exec at Biggs & Vega Advertising, with tiny clients—car repair shops, a tire wholesaler and dry cleaners—and it would take her a while to build. She’d just begun her buckle-down campaign a week ago. She was twenty-five—a whole quarter of a century old—with a serious boyfriend, she’d reasoned, so it was time to get serious about her career. Just the day before she’d asked Ryan Ames, a senior account exec, to be her mentor.
Her mind flitted through odd thoughts—her futon-no-more, her now-too-expensive apartment, her new mentor Ryan and Mr. Tires, her biggest tiny account—anything but the nuclear blast that had just vaporized her heart.
Maybe she was still asleep and this was a nightmare. She pinched herself on the forearm—ouch—and then again just to be sure. Ouch again. She was awake, all right. And filled with the feeling she got when she’d done something dreadful—like spilled red punch on Mr. Biggs’s Italian loafers at the Christmas party or bit down on a walnut shell, cracking her tooth—situations where she’d give anything to do a quick rewind of the moment. Turn left instead of right. Spit instead of swallow.
She grabbed the railing and took in more air. Blindly, she watched traffic pass. How many people zipping down Central had just heard her on-air humiliation? Her gaze caught on a man heading toward her building. She recognized him as the musician who’d been playing on her corner for tips the last couple of mornings. She’d dubbed him Guitar Guy. She was certain that he hadn’t been listening to K-BUZ. He was about her age.
Claire stepped back into her bedroom, slid the door shut and thumped her head on the cool glass a couple of times before dropping to sit on the floor. Resting her chin on her knees, she let a couple of tears slip down her cheeks and onto her shins. But just two. That was all the leakage she’d allow for that rat. Jared, how could you be married?
And how had she picked him to fall in love with? She’d taken her time, looked around, chosen very carefully. Oh, yeah. She’d very carefully picked out a cheating bastard.
Well, she couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for herself. Heartache or no, she had a job to get to. And a career to boost. She’d feel better once she got moving. Shine it on, her friend Kitty would tell her. Climb back onto that little red tricycle and pedal on, sister.
Managing a smile at the thought, Claire tromped to the bathroom and turned the shower on ultra hot. She grabbed the loofah Kitty and her other two best friends had given her as part of their apartment-warming gift and dragged it across her back. Too scratchy. No pain, no gain, her friend Emily would say. She’d call the Jared disaster a learning experience. Zoe, who’d picked out the raspberry face soother, would tell her to be gentle with herself to get through the hurt.
Claire sighed. She needed to talk to her friends about this disaster. The four called themselves the Chickateers—all for one and one for all—sharing the good, the bad and the dreadful every Wednesday for Game Night. They gathered at Talkers, a bar not far from Claire’s apartment, to talk, drink wine and play a game they took turns choosing.
Thank God tonight was Game Night. She would share her tale of woe and the Chickateers would tell her what to do. And it would all be okay.
Scalded pink from the sizzling shower, Claire wrapped herself in a thick Egyptian-cotton towel—also from the Chickateers—and headed for her huge walk-in closet—another thing she loved about this apartment and did not want to lose.
What to wear? Now that she was getting serious about her career, clothes were an issue. In advertising, appearance was everything. She had to make the right statement. She pulled out a Lycra tank top and suede miniskirt. Too casual. How about this kicky gauze tie-dye number? Too femmie. She flipped more hangers. At the back, she found the suit her mother had given her when she first got hired at B&V. Navy blue, tailored lines. Very dress-for-success.
Perfect, because from now on, Claire would focus on success. Without Jared in her life, she could stay late at work, take work home. Not that her piddly-ass accounts required much extra effort. Penny-saver ads and newspaper flyers mostly. She sighed.
That’s what Ryan Ames would help her with. He was new to the firm, but a very hot exec who’d brought some top accounts with him, and she was pretty sure he liked her. When she’d proposed the mentor idea yesterday, she’d thought she detected a flicker of the man-woman thing on his face, but it faded so fast she figured she’d imagined it. She’d definitely talk to him today. Anything to distract her from the misery that kept rising in her throat like one too many Jell-O shooters.
Clothes on, Claire headed into her bright white, melamine-cupboarded kitchen for something to put in her stomach. There was nothing but Crystal Lite and celery in the fridge. Just as well. She felt like hurling.
For a minute she wanted to crawl back into bed, suit and all, throw the covers over her head and just cry.
No way.
She had to keep going—slog through the day until Game Night, when her friends would help her. She needed their guidance more than ever. Jared the Jerk was proof positive that her judgment was wonky. Where were her instincts anyway? In her butt? Somewhere the sun didn’t shine, that’s for sure. She was clueless about men. And lame about love. Rotten at romance? That had a ring to it. If she were writing a commercial about herself.
No matter what, she would not call Jared. Uh-uh. Regardless of how her fingers itched to hit speed-dial one. No way. She’d walk to work. Early. Better to keep moving and stay away from phones.
She jogged to the elevator, rushed across the lobby, pushed out the glass doors and rounded the corner, where she ran smack-dab into Guitar Guy.
“Oh,” she said, backing up a step. “Hi.”
She had to admit he was a hunk. About her age, she thought, and very tan. This close she could see he wasn’t a druggie. He had intense gray eyes that seemed smart, not frantic and not a bit bleary. Shaggy black hair—too long—hung over his forehead, and he wore comfortable-looking cords and a gray muscle shirt, worn, but clean. A stylized yin-yang tattoo ringed his left bicep, and he wore a stud in one ear. He smelled of soap—Irish Spring?—and patchouli.
Watching his fingers on the well-polished guitar, Claire felt a little vibration shimmy along her nerves. The music was old-fashioned and torchy. Something you’d drink brandy and sniffle to in some smoky bar. And he was good. Very good.
As she walked past, he spoke, the words so soft they were like a whisper in her head. “You’re trying too hard.”
She stopped dead and turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“That getup you’re wearing.” He gave her a slow head-to-toe perusal. There was a little bit of sex in it, but it was more like a friend determining whether something fifty-percent off was really you or not.
“You’re critiquing my outfit?” she asked.
He met her gaze steadily. “Just making an observation.”
“Well, I have one for you then. You need a haircut.”
He considered her words, then gave her a crooked smile.
What? Now she was trading grooming tips with a homeless guy? Why not? She turned and started down the street, feeling Guitar Guy’s eyes on her. Or maybe she was imagining that. Hoping for it? Nothing like breaking up with a guy to make you want proof you were still attractive.
Claire plowed doggedly onward, ignoring the way her pumps pinched her toes and rubbed her heels. Her suit was as airless as a plastic bag. By the time she reached B&V Advertising, she had blisters and felt woozy from being overheated. Oh, well. At least she had something besides her breakup to focus on—survival.
She paused at the door to the office to brace herself for the inevitable cracks from the Morning Madness fans at B&V who, she’d bet, included Georgia, the receptionist. Prepared, she took a deep breath and marched inside, head up, chest out, heels stinging, sweat dripping, but looking successful. Or at least dressed that way.
Luckily, Georgia wasn’t at the front desk. That wasn’t unusual, since she deserted her post whenever the spirit moved her. But at least Claire got through reception without a jab.
Needing coffee, she made a beeline for the tiny kitchen…where she hit a K-BUZ listener jackpot—Georgia and her friend Mimi, the bookkeeper. Claire attempted a backward slink, hoping to escape unnoticed, but Georgia spoke. “Moonlighting on the radio, are you now?” she asked in her smoke-roughened voice.
“You heard?” Blush washed over Claire.
“Was that staged?” Mimi asked. “The call and all?”
“No, it was real,” she said. Vividly, excruciatingly real.
Georgia looked her dead-on. “They bleeped out what you called him. Was it ‘prick’ or ‘dick’?”
“Prick.”
“Yeah, I’d say that’s the best word for him.”
“You look bad, girl,” Mimi said, looking her up and down. “Kinda like you dropped your vibrator in the bathtub—all shocked and jittery.”
Georgia cackled and snorted smoke. This was a no-smoking office, but Georgia didn’t let anyone push her around. “Good one,” she said, then narrowed her gaze at Claire. “How you doin’ with it?”
“Hide the razor blades,” Claire said with a lopsided smile.
“Don’t sell yourself short, honey. You deserve better than that putz.”
Georgia and Mimi were both forty, divorced and okay with being single. Claire envied them their self-sufficiency.
“At least you have a great story to tell,” Mimi said. “I learned my husband was cheating by finding Victoria’s Secret receipts in his suit coat. So cliché.”
“Good point,” Claire said, comforting herself with three sugars and real cream in her coffee. She turned to face the women, resting her backside against the counter.
“Those mechanicals are on your chair to copy,” Georgia said.
“Great. Just what I need—a visit with Leroy the Letch.” The man lurked in the copy room and lived for a pat, brush or slide against some female part.
Georgia cackled again. “If that man gropes me one more time, I think I’ll have to…I’ll have to…”
“What?” Mimi said. “Sleep with him?”
The three women burst into laughter. It felt good to Claire—kind of like a mini Game Night.
“Nah,” Georgia said. “I can’t sleep with him. Mouth breathers snore.”
They laughed again.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Claire said, raising her doctored brew in a toast to the two women. She turned to go.
“One more thing,” Georgia said.
“Yeah?” She turned, expecting something motherly.
“Lose the suit. You look like a stewardess.”
Just the image she was going for. “Honey-roasted nuts, anyone?” she said. Actually, she could think of a pair of nuts she’d love to roast. With no honey involved…unless the nuts were suspended over an ant-hill. Hmm…
“Don’t feel bad,” Mimi said, shrugging. “If you don’t try things on for size, you can’t learn what works.”
“Right,” she said. The advice was good for life, as well as clothes. Except everything Claire tried on was either too tight, too loose or made her butt look big. She set off for her office.
Low on the account exec totem pole, she’d been squeezed into the cubicle between the copy room and the mechanical room that used to be a janitor’s closet. Now and then, when the breeze was right, she caught a whiff of cleaning supplies. She’d grown to love the smell of Comet in the morning.
She picked up the ads from her chair and began her foray into Leroy the Letch Land. Moving quickly, she escaped with barely a breast brush.
The minute she sat at her desk, the phone rang. “Claire Quinn,” she said into it.
“Don’t hang up!” Jared.
She took in a quick breath, knowing she should do just that, but the phone felt Velcroed to her ear.
“I wanted to tell you a million times,” Jared said, “but I knew it would hurt you and I’d rather die than hurt you.”
She could hear tears in his voice. Tears. She couldn’t help but be touched. And a little weirded out. “How long have you been…?”
“Married?”
No, a cheating creep. “Yeah.”
“Three years. We just sort of ended up together.”
A thought chilled her. “Do you have kids?”
“No, no kids. And we’ve grown apart. I didn’t realize how much until I met you and fell in love.”
“Right.” She tried to sound sarcastic, but the word love softened her like a VCR case on a dashboard in summer.
“It’s a relief that you know the truth. You have no idea how this was haunting me.”
“You poor, poor dear.”
“I know, I know. Of course you’re hurting more than me right now. We can talk this all through on Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“When I move in.”
“You can’t move in. You keep forgetting—you’re married.”
“We need to be together, Claire. This thing between us is big. Just give me time to talk to Lindi.” His words were as sweet and soothing as warm honey on Claire’s sore throat.
“We’ll work it out,” he continued. “I know we will. And on Saturday we can buy that futon, and a lamp—even an area rug—just like we planned. Anything you want, baby.”
Anything she wanted. Baby. She loved it when he called her that. She fought down the throb of hope that tightened her throat. Hold it right there, you lying sack of pig parts. She decided on a more civilized approach.
“How can I trust you?” she said. “You lied to me. Our whole relationship is a lie.”
“No. My marriage is the lie. Our love is the one true thing I have. You have every reason to hate me, Claire, but please don’t stop loving me. Please.”
She was touched, of course, but she couldn’t help noticing he sounded like bad daytime TV. Plus, the picture of roasting his nuts kept floating in her head.
“I want to hold you,” he said. “I need you in my arms to feel okay in the world.”
Now that line was perfect and she felt herself melt right into her pumps, blisters and all. Maybe it would be okay. Men had to get shocked into change, didn’t they?
“I don’t know, Jared. I have to think.”
“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.
Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.
On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.
Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.
Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.
