A Girl's Best Friend Page 3

  “I’m calling the bellman and getting a tow truck. I’ll have my car brought around and we’ll be on our way. Our first treatment is early tomorrow. We need to get on the road.”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” Lilly says. “You want to see how the real world works? The real world waits here for a tow truck driver while every San Franciscan yells obscenities for being in middle of the road. That’s what the rest of us do, Morgan. You have to learn to enjoy it. Sometimes I like to wave when people yell at me. Welcome to reality, baby. I don’t want to take anything away from your experience.”

  Reality bites.

  At this point, the photographers catch up with us and start clicking away and screaming in my face:

  “Miss Malliard, did you marry Andy Mattingly?”

  “Did you know he was married?”

  “Will you be getting an annulment?”

  “Does Andy wear boxers or briefs?”

  “Okay, that’s disgusting!” I point and yell at the journalist, but Poppy comes up in my face and whispers a reminder. “Morgan, don’t say a thing.”

  I know better. My father has told me this my entire life:

  “Be above reproach.”

  “Don’t sink to their level.”

  “They’re nothing but parasites.”

  But right now, the rules hardly matter. As they huddle together in their mass of flailing limbs, flashing bulbs, and taunting questions, the memory of my mother’s funeral invades my head. They all look just as they did then, still hoping to capture a small piece of my mother. And I imagine that’s exactly what I am to them. I start to wilt.

  “That’s enough. Normal people don’t endure this. Call your bellman, Morgan.”

  Poppy pulls me into the foyer of another elite apartment complex on the street. Their bellman helps me to a sofa and offers me a glass of cool water. I accept it gratefully and cross my legs, admiring my new shoes. Real people definitely can’t afford these shoes.

  The bellman is kind and grandfatherly, and I wonder what my life would have been like if my father had been like him.

  “Do you have a daughter?” I ask him.

  “Three,” he says back. Then he taps my shoulder. “And I know you didn’t do anything those papers said you did. I can see it in your eyes. I always know when a woman’s lying.” He taps his temple. “That’s what comes with living with four of them.”

  He smiles genuinely, and I feel my whole body relax. Just one person believing in you has that effect.

  He goes off to the door to shoo away the leeches and make sure they don’t enter the building.

  “Lilly, you were right. I think my foray into the real world should probably be a smaller step than the Slob. As you always say, ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’”

  “Good call,” Lilly agrees.

  “So, shall we go?”

  I figure the real world has got to be better than this.

  “You know,” I muse to my friends. “Christopher Columbus had a tough time finding the new world, too. It was fraught with setbacks. Why should my journey be any different?” I lift up a fist. “Let’s burn the ships!”

  Poppy rolls her eyes, “That was Cortez who burned the ships, not Columbus. Your history knowledge rivals Lilly’s geography skills.”

  “Whatever.” Like I’m taking a GMAT here. I know one thing: the real world can wait until I’m exfoliated.

  chapter 3

  I ’ve been called a dumb blonde in my day, and I think that’s unfair. First, because I’m not really blonde. And second, because I made it through college without the help of tutors, overly friendly professors, or my father’s money.

  Now, I’ll grant you that falling for a fake Christian rock star wasn’t the high point on my learning curve. Definitely not the move of the sharpest crayon in the box. But, in my defense, Andy Mattingly did write poetry that rivaled Yeats. Sure, it might have actually been Yeats, but at the time, I thought I was his beautiful muse who inspired him to greatness. I made myself believe that loving him enough would propel him to musical prominence.

  We’ll get to my narcissistic fantasies later, but for once in my life, I felt loved for who I was, not who I was born and shaped to be by my father.

  Wishful thinking is my Achilles heel.

  I’m through with this kind of fairy-tale life. Always waiting for the glamorous rescue where the hero rides in on his white horse (or white Beamer—I’m not picky) and takes me to his castle (conveniently located near Nashville’s Music Row). Yeah, I put way too much thought into it, I know. But after two failed attempts at engagement, I’m beginning to see the error of my ways.

  With God’s help, it’s my turn to be the knight. I’m going to get myself a real job, find myself a church where my tithe isn’t public knowledge, and I’m going to prove to everyone who called me an adulteress that I am an innocent woman. Perhaps this is all over-reaching, but I have to start somewhere.

  Right after this pedicure.

  The automatic chair’s thumper rises roughly up and down my spine, rolling me to a state somewhere between relaxation and downright annoyance in one fell swoop.

  “So Morgan,” Lilly says, lifting her foot out of her vibrating bath. “What do you hope to accomplish with all those books when we get to the spa?”

  I should mention that our Spa Del Mar only has facials and massages, so we always stop on the way to get pedicures together. Sort of an aperitif.

  “I’m going to get a job,” I say proudly. Though in my head, I’m thinking, What on earth would I do? What time will I have to get up for a real job? I haven’t a clue. My dad opens his store at ten a.m., but most of his clients prearrange to be there, so he goes in when the customers want him and when the Japanese tour buses roll into town. Other than that, he hires a well-dressed employee to stand there.

  Maybe I should start small and be one of those perfume sprayers I try to avoid at Bloomingdale’s. I could so outrun those old ladies with my sprayer at the ready.

  Both my friends are avoiding eye contact, but I can see them grinning at the idea of me scanning the classifieds.

  “A real job,” I add. “I’m going to be thinking about what I’d like to do with my Stanford business education and my experience in the diamond industry.” I take a sip from my iced tea while they mull this over.

  “Break out the Lysol!” Lilly says through her giggle.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask, slamming my glass back on the table.

  “Your experience in the diamond industry?” Lilly throws her head back, only to get punched by the manic chair. “No offense here, Morgan, but walking around fancy parties wearing your dad’s jewelry isn’t exactly working in the diamond industry.”

  I’m ready for her. “Maybe not, but I’ve learned a thing or two about real estate in the process. Which is where my dad actually makes his money.” I lean back in the chair, trying to give the impression of serenity. “I’ve helped him acquire and renovate a few buildings. Hah!” I point at them. “Wiped those smirks off your faces, didn’t I? You think I’m dumb, too, don’t you?”

  Poppy sways her head back and forth. “Heck, no, we don’t think you’re dumb. We wouldn’t hang out with you if we thought so. We have our reputations to protect.”

  At this, we all laugh.

  “We do think you’re a bit naïve,” Poppy says gently. “You’ve lived a pretty sheltered life.”

  Her comment stops me for a moment. Naïve? They’ve got me there. I did climb into a limousine thinking Andy Mattingly was suddenly wealthy and famous. That was definitely naïve.

  “I’ve been naïve,” I admit. “But I haven’t been sheltered. I’ve tasted death with Marcus succumbing to liver disease before our wedding. I’ve tasted loss with Andy not being who I thought he was. And I’ve lived utter humiliation with the whole of San Francisco knowing my mistakes. Lilly, when you got dumped by Robert, was it front-page news? If anything, I’m thrown to the dogs, not sheltered.”

  “Must we bring Robert up?” L
illy rolls her eyes. The very mention of Robert is enough to break out the Lysol in bulk for her. “And Robert was just slowing me down so the right man could find me.”

  Poppy turns off her overzealous chair, and we quickly follow suit. Much better.

  “Tomorrow, someone else’s business will be plastered in the news. They’ll forget about you, Morgan. It’s not like you’re Michael Jackson,” Poppy offers.

  “Did they forget about Hugh Grant in the backseat of a car? Tom Cruise jumping around like an idiot on Oprah’s couch? Pee Wee Herman? Did we forget any of that?”

  “Well, no, but this is San Francisco, not Hollywood. Only the people who’ve watched you grow up under your father’s care. If your father hadn’t been so outspoken on traditional values in the liberal capital of the country, no one would pay this any mind. People like to see the mighty fall,” Lilly says. “And your father did sort of set you up. The press was just waiting.”

  “It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t twenty-nine and still living with my daddy, Lilly. See, you knew that it was fundamentally time to get away from your nana. Those things didn’t register with me. You lived in squalor to make your own way.”

  Lilly wrinkles her nose. “Squalor? I mean, I know it was bad, but it wasn’t that bad. You make it sound like there were rats eating off my floor or something. Besides, squalor to you is probably anything under two million dollars.”

  “Wait a minute,” Poppy says. “We understand life isn’t going your way, Morgan, but you can’t expect to invoke sympathy from the living-with-your-daddy part. You have to add that you live on Russian Hill—which I thought was Nob Hill until you told me, but whatever. You have to add that you’re living in an eight-million-dollar penthouse, with an area big enough that you might never see your father, and you employ a full-time maid who actually makes your bed and picks up your dry-cleaning. Because that sort of negates people’s general sympathy. It’s sort of like ‘Let them eat cake’ and ‘woe is me,’ you know?”

  I haven’t told my Spa Girls the worst of this yet. I feel like if I don’t say it out loud, it won’t be true, and no one will ever know how bad it is—how inane I’ve been. Lilly and Poppy won’t hate me; we have too much history. But I’ve taken the dumb-blonde bit to new heights. (And once again, I’ll have to apologize to real blondes because to be really worthy of the title, it should be “dumb, mousy-brown-haired girl,” but that sort of loses its ring.)

  By the end of our pedicures, Poppy has painted her toenails a wheat color, Lilly a bright pink, and I’ve gone for scarlet. I think it’s the only appropriate choice given the circumstances.

  After we pay, Poppy stops us outside the salon. “Morgan, this is your weekend, and I don’t want to take anything away from that, but I have a slight confession to make.”

  Perfect timing!

  “You have a confession?” Lilly asks. “It’s all right, Poppy, we love you even though taupe isn’t a nail color.”

  Poppy doesn’t give a hint of a smile whatsoever. From her somber expression, I have a feeling it’s going to rival my own news. In a way, I hope it does. I wait with bated breath.

  chapter 4

  As we gather in the convertible, it’s obvious that Poppy isn’t sure she is ready for her deep admission of guilt. But unless we were Catholic, she’s not going to get a better confessional than my Beamer. And with my own circumstances being so dire, I’m ready to absolve her of anything. Go in peace, my child.

  “You didn’t murder anyone, right?” I ask, feeling pretty confident in her answer.

  “Of course not!” Poppy yells.

  “Run over a kitten?” Lilly asks.

  “No!” Poppy shouts.

  “I know what it is,” Lilly says confidently. “She ate fast food, and her temple is very, very angry. All that hydrogenated oil is in her system now, like the small amount of yeast in the dough. Sin has infiltrated.”

  “Enough!” Poppy removes her flip-flops and puts her freshly painted feet on the dashboard. “I’ve . . .” She lets out a deep breath and fills her lungs fully before starting again. “I . . . kind of talked to the newspaper about you, Morgan.”

  “Me? What? No, no, no. This is your confession! You didn’t talk about me. You wouldn’t!” Poppy hides her face and Lilly glares at me. I rein myself in a bit. “This is me, Poppy. You know better than to discuss me with the press, right?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I keep prodding, “Right?”

  Again there is silence. Poppy’s not looking at me. I try to remain calm.

  “Okay, so you talked about me, but I know you wouldn’t say anything bad. You must have a good reason, so let’s hear what happened. I’m ready for the truth.”

  Deep breath from Poppy.

  “Okay.” I scratch my temple. “It’s all right; this is some easily answerable offense, so go ahead, tell me.”

  Another drastic exhale. “Actually . . .”

  My heart starts to pound, and I feel it in my throat as if I’m Jim Carrey in The Mask. I brace myself for the words, because I’m thinking if the queen of Zen thinks it’s bad, it’s certainly not good.

  I close my eyes, “Go ahead, hit me with it.” I tighten my fists and ready myself for the barrage I know I don’t want to hear.

  “I sort of told them how you met Andy and how you fell in love.”

  I open my eyes and look at Poppy twisting her red hair like a three-year-old. You know, thinking back on my history, I believe dumb blonde might be too kind. I have been dumb as a plank.

  “It was before I knew Andy lied. The journalist was so nice, Morgan. I thought it was so cute how you met, and I thought he was excited for you like I was, and he tricked me.”

  Gee, imagine that. “You didn’t tell him we met on the Internet?” I cringe. My father will die at this information. He parades twenty eligible, wealthy bachelors a month in front of me, and I resort to the Internet.(Now this speaks to the quality of men he selects, but he’ll never see it that way. He’ll see it as the equivalent of me wearing a “For Sale by Owner” sign.)

  Poppy bites her lip and vacillates between shaking her head and nodding.

  “You did tell him. Well, I can deal with that, Poppy. Lots of couples meet on the Internet; there’s no shame in that. I mean, even in the Bible, Rebekah met Isaac in sort of an early blind date, right?”

  Both my friends nod with too much enthusiasm.

  “You didn’t tell them we met in a Christian chat room, did you?”

  She starts with the Lady MacBeth hand-wringing thing again.

  “Poppy!”

  “Look at it this way, Morgan,” Lilly pipes up. “It’s all out in the open now.”

  “Not quite,” I say, pursing my lips like the Church Lady. “But enough is out for my comfort level.” I’ve decided confiding my own news is not exactly the top of my priority list today. Confiding in people is what got me into this mess.

  Well, that and falling victim to a fake rock star, but whatever.

  After a long, silent drive to the spa, we wheel up to the familiar entrance of Spa Del Mar. Del Mar implies by the sea, and this is true—if you take about a ten-mile drive on a winding road. But Spa Del Mar is nestled in the eucalyptus, oaks, and rolling hills that signify California, and it makes you feel as though you’ve stepped back in time to when men like Zorro roamed the landscape.

  Men like Zorro. Now why can’t they make guys like that nowadays? A wealthy, Antonio Banderas-look-alike don who fights against the injustice of the elite. That’s what I should have been looking for—someone to come in and fight against my father’s rent gouging in Union Square. But no, I had to go and find myself a Robin Hood to steal from me and give to his wife. I bet if my father had read to me more as a child, none of this would have happened.

  We check into the spa and clamber up the stairs with our goods. Lilly’s toting biscotti and Diet Pepsi, which, trust me, beats her weird fetish with the pickles. Poppy has all her voodoo drinks for us to detoxify. And me? I�
��ve brought a normal obsession: chocolate, of course. Big DeBrands truffles with coffee beans on top for that final, happy caffeine buzz after the chocolate paradise. Lilly and I generally gag down Poppy’s detoxification drinks, and when she heads off for her facial, we guzzle mocha truffles and Diet Pepsi by the gallon. Ah, detox—it’s so cleansing.

  Once in the room, we spread out and drop our stuff, exhausted from our long trip. After the pedicures in the agitated massage chairs and the car trouble, it’s just been one thing after another.

  “I think you should take the first facial tomorrow, Poppy,” I say in my best yoga voice. Lilly looks at me, and we share a knowing glance. That’s right, chocolate and Diet Pepsi for breakfast!

  Poppy comes beside me and sits on the bed. “That is so sweet. I am really looking forward to this trip. You girls are going to feel so much better after these elixirs I brought. One has rhodiola for stress and to enhance immunity, vitamin A for beautiful skin, and a combination lactobacillus-evening primrose oil and garlic to help Lilly get her yeast balance right. She just really needs to give up the pickles and the sugar. Terrible for yeast.”

  “Yummy,” Lilly smiles. “I can hardly wait.”

  “So how’s your dating world going, Poppy?” I ask, anxious to hear about someone’s social life other than mine. Of course, I know my friends really want to know more about Andy, but I’m just not ready to give that up. I was pathetic. Is knowing the depths of my patheticness really necessary? The best defense is really to attack first. I can’t imagine Poppy wants to discuss her love life any more than I do mine. But once again, she surprises me.

  “Well, we have a new guy who has been coming to the singles group. He’s very businesslike, not my type at all, but there’s something about him. He has really good energy, and he seemed very interested in talking after Bible study about my love of natural health care.”

  Lilly and I look at each other again, sharing a knowing uh-oh look. I’m sure I’ve mentioned the fact that Poppy looks like Nicole Kidman. Granted, Nicole Kidman dressed like Whoopi Goldberg, but knockout gorgeous regardless. Often, men are very interested in the natural-healing sermon because they’re interested in the hot redhead who’s discussing it.