Slightly Married - Wendy Markham

Скачать книгу

momentarily so that I can regale her with the romantic saga of Jack on his knees in the gutter.

      But it’s Billy who a good minute later picks up the receiver and asks, “Hello? Tracey?”

      “Yeah…?”

      “Listen, Kate’s got her head in the toilet again. She told me to tell you congratulations and she wants to take you out to lunch next weekend to celebrate.”

      “Okay…thanks. And be sure to tell her the wedding won’t be until after she has the baby, so not to worry.”

      “What wedding?”

      “Mine and Jack’s,” I say, miffed that Billy would offer secondhand congratulations without even asking Kate the reason.

      “Oh, that’s great,” he says in exactly the same fake-enthusiastic tone he might use if somebody’s six-year-old niece gave him an ugly crayon drawing.

      “Well, see ya.” Billy hangs up.

      Wow. First time I get to make my big announcement, and one audience member pukes, and the other doesn’t give a damn. Where do we go from here? I just hope it isn’t an omen of some sort.

      I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Kate.

      I also can’t help but feel the distinct need to share my news with somebody who won’t be dismissive. Or vomit.

      But there’s nobody to tell, unless Jimmy the doorman is on duty…and I’m not dressed for the lobby at the moment.

      Talk about anticlimactic.

      Maybe I was wrong last night about getting engaged at last being different from Christmas, or losing your virginity, or eating a post-diet Twinkie.

      Maybe there is just a hint of letdown after all….

      Or maybe I’m just experiencing a momentary lapse, because when I hear Jack stirring in the bedroom, my heart does an excited little flip-flop.

      I go in to find him lying on his back, stretching. He was staring at the ceiling but his eyes flick immediately to me, and he smiles and pats the mattress by his hip.

      It looks like he’s over his panic-infused gastric attack.

      “Hey, good morning,” I say, and sit on the edge of the bed beside him, one leg curled underneath me. “Want to get up? I’ve got coffee made, and I think we’ve got a couple of eggs I can scramble…”

      “In a few minutes, maybe. Or you could just come back to bed…”

      He pulls me down and kisses me.

      I kiss him back, but I’m thinking of all the wedding details I need to get moving on; the plane tickets that need to be bought; the shower I should be taking…

      “I don’t know,” I hedge.

      “Come on…it’s Sunday morning…”

      Then Jack kisses me again, and I decide that everything can be put off a little longer. What’s another hour when I waited six months to get engaged, and we’ve got a lifetime in front of us?

      3

      My friend Brenda materializes by my desk the moment I sit down in my office Monday morning.

      Yes, my office. Not my tiny cube down the corridor, where I spent the first few years of my advertising career. My own office, not spacious but definitely less tiny than the cube, with my own window. So what if it’s just on the seventh floor and overlooks a solid brick wall across a narrow alleyway occupied by a Dumpster?

      It beats cube life, as I’m sure Brenda would attest if you asked her.

      I wouldn’t. Ask her about cube life these days, that is. Ever since I got promoted a few weeks ago, I’ve found myself feeling oddly guilty and undeserving. Kind of like that guy who escaped the Titanic wearing a dress.

      “Well?” Brenda asks. “How was it?”

      For a second, I think she’s talking about my engagement and wonder who could have possibly spilled the beans. Did Jack, that rascal, tell my co-workers we would be getting engaged on Valentine’s Day?

      No, he did not, because he didn’t know himself, remember? Brenda is obviously talking about something else.

      Because I seem to have developed Alzheimer’s regarding recent events other than my engagement, I say, “Huh?”

      “The wedding! How was it?”

      Um, should I be worried that I’m still drawing a complete blank?

      “Tracey! Don’t tell me you forgot about Raphael’s wedding already?”

      “Of course I didn’t forget! It was a beautiful wedding.” And it was. However, it wasn’t my wedding, and I can’t wait to tell Brenda that I’ll be having one.

      But before I can thrust my ring finger at her, my supervisor, Carol, says, “Tracey? Good, you’re here.”

      I look up to see her round face poking around the doorway, framed by her perfectly curled-under pageboy that I’m sure is all the rage—in, say, Lincoln, Nebraska. Or some foreign land where people dance in clogs.

      Here in Manhattan, not so much. Yet despite her hairdo, Carol worked her way up to management rep here at Blaire Barnett. And I will be forever indebted to her for promoting me to account executive on McMurray-White’s All-Week-Long Deodorant and Abate Laxative accounts.

      All right, so it’s not the junior copywriter position I’ve been coveting all my career, but it’s definitely a stepping stone.

      “The Client thought our Abate meeting was at ten instead of two today, so they’re on their way over!” Carol informs me, obviously alarmed.

      “What?” I blurt, instantly alarmed, as well.

      It seems that alarm is a frequent state of mind here in Account Exec Land, where people frequently exclaim—and sometimes even shout and curse. Here in Account Exec Land, Client is always spelled with a capital C, deodorant and laxatives are life-sustaining products and the Client is always, always, always right. Even when they’re wrong. Which they often are.

      So naturally, I don’t suggest to Carol that we simply call the Client and tell them the Abate meeting is at two, not ten, as one might in any other—sane—industry.

      I just bellow, “Oh my God!” like someone who has just witnessed a violent explosion.

      “I know! We’ve got to get our tushies up to eight and go over the presentation with the Creatives right now!” Carol shrieks like a fire warden evacuating the floor after the violent explosion.

      “Oh my God!” I shout again and bolt from my seat, grabbing my presentation folder with my right hand and pretty much shoving Brenda out of the way with my left…

      Which she seizes. “Oh my God!” she screams, and not because the Client is on their way to a premature laxative-planning meeting.

      “Tracey! When did this happen?”

      “What? What happened?” Carol demands frantically.

      “What’s going on?” Adrian Smedly, the director of our account group, has come out of the woodwork. In his custom suit and tie, as impeccably stylish as, well, as Carol is not, Adrian is poised just outside my office, waiting for a reply.

      “I got engaged,” I explain as dispassionately as possible, because of course Adrian is putting a damper on the whole damn thing.

      Brenda, still clutching my freshly manicured ring finger, squeals and hugs me.

      “Congratulations!” Carol hugs me, as well. “That’s wonderful news!”

      “Thanks.” My mouth is muffled by hair: Carol’s brown mushroom do and Brenda’s teased, sprayed one.

      “When did he pop the question,

Скачать книгу