A Girl's Best Friend Page 5

  My jaw drops. Now I am most definitely creeped out. “How did you know that? Did you have a camera in our room or something?”

  “Phone records. Your father hired a private investigator. He was working with Andy’s current wife—well, his third one, actually. She called Arnold on his cell phone soon after the marriage took place, and you answered his phone.”

  I look to the dirt. “He was in the shower.”

  “Arnold did—”

  “Please call him Andy, for my sake.”

  “He did one thing differently with you, Miss Malliard. Andy, I believe, really did love you. He was trying to earn enough where if you looked in his checking account, you wouldn’t think he was marrying you for your money.”

  This forces an unnatural laughter from my belly. “Somehow that doesn’t bring me any comfort. Do you plan to tell me who you are? Besides the wearer of fine Italian suits?”

  “George Gentry.”

  “Now that sounds like a fake name.”

  “Tell my mother, then. It’s the truth.”

  “You’ll forgive me for scoffing. I’ve had my fair share of surprises with men and their fake names. George Gentry, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. I’m here at the spa to forget about all this, though, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave me out of your investigation, or whatever it is you’re up to.”

  “Poppy said–”

  I twirl around. “You’re the one who talked to Poppy,” I accuse.

  He nods and looks to the ground, “That’s me.”

  “You’ve got what you came here for: the dumb blonde in need of your deft journalistic prowess to make me real to the reader for my incredulous naiveté.”

  Rather than take the hint, George Gentry bends over the water pitcher filled with ice and lemon slices that sits beside the door and pours me a tall glass. “We aren’t bitter, are we?”

  Okay, so who am I to pass up cool, lemony water offered by an espresso-eyed hottie, even if he is a jerk who knows far too much about my personal life. All I can say is that it’s a good thing I didn’t sleep with Andy. I’m not sure I’d want to hear that report.

  I take the glass. “You haven’t broken the story yet on my being married to . . . ” I pause for a minute before getting up the nerve to say his name. “ . . . Andy. Why not?”

  He pours himself a glass of water, and takes a swig, the drops from which bead at the top of his straight mouth. “I’m not a reporter, Morgan. I’m a lawyer.” He focuses on my hand. “That’s some ring you’ve got there.” His eyes narrow at my striking blue diamond. I close my left hand around it. “Did Andy give you that?”

  “Mr. Gentry, Andy couldn’t pay to have this ring sized. Even if my father gave him a discount.”

  He laughs. An endearing and warm laugh that rings with truth. And I find myself gazing into his eyes wondering what’s wrong with me. Why don’t I meet men who are who they say they are, who don’t follow me into spas, and who don’t dress up for the stalking occasion. Is that too much to ask?

  “Like I said, I wish you luck with whatever it is you’re up to.” I place my hand on my collarbone, and I blink several times, unable to keep myself from trying to figure out what he could want from me. I don’t want to ask.

  “Morgan? We were worried.” Lilly suddenly appears under the screened porch and eyes my acquaintance with the tenacity of a shark. “Who’s your friend?”

  “George Gentry, meet Lilly Jacobs, my best friend and fellow Spa Girl. You’ll want to get that into whatever it is you’re up to. I think it adds to the airhead element. I get pedicures and facials often, and I’ve been known to get pretty beat up by massage chairs. They have a thing for me.” Sort of like handsome, egotistical men without real jobs.

  Stalking up to him, Lilly reaches up and grabs George by the collar. “Listen, if you mess with Morgan—”

  “Lilly!” I shout through unexpected laughter. For a sprightly little thing, you wouldn’t want to mess with her.

  George gives a small grin at my beloved pit bull of a Spa Girl. “Arnold—I mean Andy—is scheduled for arraignment next week. Will you be there, Miss Malliard?”

  I melt a little more. “Call me Morgan. You’re intimate with my phone history; it’s only right.”

  “Lilly, a pleasure to meet you,” George sets the water glass down on the table and chances one last glance at me. As he walks away, he tosses over his shoulder, “I can explain everything if you give me a chance. Please trust me, Morgan. I can help you.”

  That’s what they all say.

  chapter 6

  How do I look?” I ask Lilly. We’re back in her apartment, and while I had a great, relaxing spa weekend, we’re about to destroy it by attending Lilly’s church’s Sunday Night Singles. She’s determined that I get “back in the game,” and she says my church is a bunch of peacocks trying to impress one another, so it’s time I saw what a normal church function is like.

  Can you tell me why a church must always name their singles’ nights? Is it to make you feel like a complete moron? I mean, I remember in high school we had Broom Ball Night and I’m not seeing much of a difference. I’m sure the name is meant to imply fun, excitement, where-the-action-is, etc., but somehow it’s more like there’s a beacon of light over my head reminding the world I can’t get a man over the threshold. (Except one who’s bringing another wife to the party.)

  Maybe we need to change the connotation of single. Maybe call it “Night of the Independents.” No, that sounds too political. I know: “Land of the Free.”

  I know marriage shouldn’t be my end goal, but when you throw us all into the same room with the heavy fog of desperation that comes with the title “Sunday Night Singles,” it motivates us toward wanting to graduate. I mean, the animals on the ark went two by two; they didn’t group together and rush towards the hottie giraffe when she came late, did they?

  “You look great.” Lilly interrupts my thoughts. “No one will ever know it’s you. Not a label on you but mine.”

  Lilly has outfitted me in something she calls “retro chic” and it’s reminiscent of a time in fashion history you’d just as soon forget. I have a badly dyed shirt with sleeves flowering at my hands like a wild Easter lily and the ugliest cowboy boots (with rhinestones, I might add) you ever saw. Cowboy boots in San Francisco! Isn’t there some kind of law? My saving grace is the pair of Lilly Jacobs designer jeans. Now this girl can make a pair of jeans. They hug you in all the right places and create a long, lean line that tells the world, “My legs do go on forever; so what of it?”

  Lilly’s quest in my fashion nightmare is to show me that I rely too much on money/clothes to make a statement for myself, and if I’m going to make a statement, I should find out what mine is. Heavens, all I can say is I hope this ain’t it!

  “So what kind of statement am I making?” I ask her. “Besides that I lack self-respect, and an iron.”

  “That you’re above having clothes speak for you. You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery. What man wouldn’t want to find out more?”

  “One that had good taste?” I offer. “And with this wrinkled shirt, you have completely eliminated all obsessive-compulsive men from my future.”

  “You need no more men with psychological diagnoses in your future, true?”

  I wilt a little. “Yes, I guess you’re right. But what about a man who realizes I don’t match and don’t have a real handbag?”

  “Then he’s probably gay and not looking at you anyway,” Lilly says easily. “When’s the last time you met a man who noticed your handbag?”

  “You’ve been in the fashion industry too long.”

  “Isn’t it the truth? Sometimes Max will do things like put a suit on, and I actually get nervous that he knows how to coordinate. I am definitely paranoid.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “You need to be out less,” she counters.

  “Well, this is the outfit to do that in,” I admit, scanning the boots one more
time and feeling like I’m going to a great Halloween party. It is October.

  “You look gorgeous. There’s no way I can fix that.” Lilly nibbles her bottom lip. “But maybe if you don’t wear any makeup . . .”

  “Can we go now?” I am not giving up makeup. A girl has to have a little self-respect. I mean, Queen Esther got a year of beauty treatments before meeting the king to talk. I can’t see how dressing like this is biblical, and we are going to church.

  “You know—” Lilly holds her fingers and thumbs like L’s, framing me. “Your statement now is that you’re friendly, not too concerned with fashion, and approachable. Before, you always looked so put together and elegant, only the car salesmen were going to introduce themselves.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Salesmen have the courage to come up to you. They face rejection all day long; they’re prepared for you to say no. But a quality man? He might be too fearful to approach you.”

  “Not today.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Maybe I like salesmen.” I’m a wee bit offended. Why shouldn’t I want a man willing to come up to me? I mean, if he’s too much of a doofus to approach me, is he worth knowing? My father has sold diamonds his whole life, and he’d make a good husband. Sort of . . . kind of . . . okay, not really.

  “It’s not about them, Morgan. You’re too beautiful. You just attract the wrong sorts. Look at all the supermodels and their loser husbands—is that what you want from life? Your name tattooed across someone’s bum?”

  Well, she’s got me there. I can handle being compared to a supermodel, but the reality of their boyfriend choices and my own are far too similar for comfort.

  “I’m not really interested in dating, Lilly. I just want to practice having a normal conversation. Maybe talk about how the 49ers look this year, or something.”

  “Which is why we’re going to my church group. You won’t be tempted.”

  “That’s not a great thing to say about your church group.”

  “But it’s the truth. Their idea of a hot date is for you to come watch them play videogames and tell them how manly they are. Tempted yet?”

  “Grown men play video games?” I ask.

  “Man, you are so naïve.”

  “Not really. It’s the same in my world. There are men who ride the ponies, and they want you to come down to the Circus Club and watch them compete while they trot around on a horse. Same thing as the video games, just add money.”

  Lilly looks at me, disgusted. “Please don’t talk anymore. Are you ready to go?”

  “What does Max think of you going back to the singles group?” I ask, reminding her of her boyfriend.

  “Let’s put it this way: Max has been to my singles group. He’s got the midseason starting anyway.” Lilly shrugs. “He’s so busy working, I barely see him, but he has no worries. He is definitely the man for me.”

  Max, Lilly’s boyfriend, is a television critic for a local paper. Really, he’s a hotel heir in San Francisco, but he refutes that part of his history. He got tired of living his parents’ dream a long time ago, and I have to say I admire him for it. But I’m just not sure I can pull the same thing off. These cowboy boots alone are enough to send me running and screaming back to my father and his credit cards. I’m a people pleaser by nature, and I worry people will not be pleased with tonight’s image. I’m not pleased; why would anyone else be?

  Since we’ve been home, my father has called my cell phone incessantly. His messages are basically, “Why would you want to live in squalor when you have a perfectly good penthouse?”

  Now I know where I got that idea to call Lilly’s home “squalor” in front of her. I’d obviously heard the term a few times. (The fact that Lilly’s still my friend speaks volumes.)

  Actually, the loft is not bad in terms of city dwellings. She keeps it clean, albeit smelling too much like Lysol. Her refrigerator is empty. She claims it’s because she’s been gone this weekend, but it’s not like I haven’t been here before. Lilly weighs about one hundred pounds, and she forgets to eat. Now if you put food in front of her, she’ll wolf it like a vacuum cleaner, but she won’t go out of her way to eat. She’s one of those people who are naturally thin, with waiflike qualities, while she consumes cheap chocolate in unlawful quantities.

  Her former roommate, Kim, lives upstairs with a man Lilly once kissed: Nate. Kim and Nate have been cohabitating for two months now and they enter Lilly’s apartment at all hours of the day. No one in the building apparently owns a piece of electronic equipment that is not community property. The Tivo is up and down stairs, the television, the sewing machine . . . You name it, they just walk in and out of each other’s places to use it like they’re living in a Hare Krishna cult. I’ve seen it before when I’ve been here, but even in the last two hours, I’ve seen how constantly and eerily codependent they are. Kim has already been down for a single egg and a can opener. While she was down here, she dropped off the coffee bean grinder for Lilly. Which is odd since there is no coffeemaker in the loft. I imagine that’s coming at some later rendezvous.

  My first thought is to flee. To run back to my dad’s and ask Mrs. Henry to make me something to eat. But one look at Lilly and I think about all she’s accomplished with so little, and I just can’t let her down. She has hired homeless women, taught them to sew, and rented out an empty warehouse in the fashion district and become a part of that neighborhood with her business. All in two months time and with very little start-up money. I, on the other hand, bought three new pairs of shoes last week that would pay the women’s salaries for a month. I’m not proud of it, but there it is in all its ugly glory.

  This—living with Lilly—is like moving to Kenya for me. A completely different culture, and just as foreign.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  “Let’s.” Lilly grabs a can of Lysol and stuffs it in my oversized canvas—yes, canvas—bag. Gone is my pebbled leather and carefully-stitched Hogan in favor of a black canvas bag that reads, “Got Milk?”

  “What are you doing?” I pull out the can of antiseptic.

  “The bus driver won’t let me bring Lysol on the bus. He knows me.”

  “There’s a reason for that. Do you think I’m going to smuggle contraband on the bus? It’s my first ride. Like I need any more humiliation. Getting kicked off Muni would be the final straw, don’t you think?”

  Lilly purses her lips and grabs it out of my hands. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I’ll admit it: ten minutes later I figure out that we should have taken the Lysol. What can I say? Did I know that part of humanity doesn’t believe in antiperspirant? There seems to be a rather large contingency of them who ride the bus.

  Wait, maybe that could be my ministry and life’s purpose! Buying Right Guard for the underworld! Lilly tells me sometimes it’s cultural, but I have yet to meet the culture who wants to stink. Although, maybe they have a point—they got the seat to themselves on the bus. Lilly and I are crammed onto one seat, hugging my “Got Milk?” bag and dreaming of Lysol. Lilly’s fetish is starting to make sense to me, and that’s just frightening. I can see myself getting older, crocheting rhinestone Lysol cozies and inviting people into my home with the plastic-wrapped sofas and fruit-shaped refrigerator magnets.

  The bus spits us up outside the church like Jonah landing on Nineveh’s shores, its doors closing before I’m officially out, giving new meaning to the phrase, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” Once inside, I see that Lilly’s singles group consists mostly of men over forty losing their hair and their waistlines. I wouldn’t have noticed, except they look exactly like the men my father has been trying to set me up with for years. The only difference is that my father’s men can afford better hair plugs and they’ve all been married two or three times.

  Lilly loves bald men, and it’s like a convention in here. I can’t believe she didn’t find the man for her in this bunch. I have a theory that the men of San Francisco work so hard
they lose their hair early, and clearly there are a few workaholics here. Of course, Lilly herself was a workaholic and often didn’t make time for her singles group. Which may be how she missed all these candidates and ended up with Max.

  (I have to wonder, though, why hair is such a big deal to guys. They obsess over it like we obsess over our bust size. And really, women don’t care about a guy’s hair. I look at the eyes. I look at the hands. But the head? Not so much.)

  “Hi, Lilly. Who’s your friend?” A young man with a full crop of hair approaches us and takes my hand gently. It’s very chivalrous.

  “This is my friend Morgan. Morgan, this is Steve Bandy. He’s a dentist.”

  I pull my hand away. “Nice to meet you.” I smile pretty and show him the investment my father has made in my mouth, but I’m sidetracked by all the new surroundings. The walls are hospital green, and there are music and movie posters taped to the wall. “Is this the teen room, Lilly?” It looks exactly like where I once played broom ball.

  She just shakes her head; apparently, it’s my clue to shut up. As I walk around the room, everyone smiles at me, and I gleam back, wanting to explain the cowboy boots, but knowing it’s part of the deal. I’m finding myself! I want to shout. I’m somewhere under these ghastly clothes.

  In the corner, there’s a man playing the guitar, and he just arrests my attention. My mind immediately shifts to Andy and all I’ve done wrong and just how many conscience warnings in my head I ignored. The guilt is overwhelming. The room starts to feel claustrophobic and stifling. I’m reaching for the wall to steady myself when the guitar player looks up and there’s something in his eyes that pulls me towards him. I’m almost there when I feel something stop me.

  “Where are you going, Morgan?” It’s Lilly. She is pulling on my shirt.

  “I was just listening to the music.”

  “He’s tuning his guitar.” She looks at me strangely.

  “Is he really?” I ask the question, and truthfully, I don’t know the answer because I’m mesmerized by this man. He just seems to look right through me. “Who is that?” I ask. “Playing the guitar, who is that?”