it would be a good chance to explain The Plan to George while scoping out the scene for future reference.
I see my best friend bobbing up the street from a distance. I can tell it’s her because she looks like Stevie Nicks with brown hair, all flowing scarves and bohemian bangles. A curious splash of color in a sea of gray suits.
When she notices me she smiles. “I almost couldn’t make it. The new Mists of Avalon limited-edition DVD/illustrated-hardback combo boxed set came in early and I had to call everyone on the list—”
I pull her into the alley around the corner. “My God, George. What on earth are you wearing? Do you mind if we tone this down a bit?” I giggle, tugging at a sparkly purple fringe. “We should probably try and maintain a minimum level of professionalism here, for appearance’s sake.”
That morning, I’d dug deep, deep into the back of my closet for the sleek charcoal suit purchased for my grandfather’s funeral two years ago. I thought it helped highlight some of my better assets—small waist, decent backside, well-turned ankles. Being cleavage-challenged is definitely a plus when it comes to professional wear, so I decided to forgo the more obvious choice of a crisp white blouse in favor of a lacy black camisole instead. I even punched it up with some lipstick and blush, a ton of black mascara to bring out the hazel flecks that rescued my eyes from coffee-brown, and tied my too-long dark hair back into a chignon for a change.
More than a few heads turned when I showed up at work. “Got a job interview, Holly?” Cy shouted out as I passed by his office. He was kidding, of course, but he didn’t sound overly concerned at the thought of it, either. Virginia just growled at me without looking up when I brought her the files from accounting that she’d wanted yesterday, and to add insult to injury, Jesse never even got the chance to see me in all my gussied-up glory; he was out of the office all day working on assignment.
George twists free of my grasp. “What? What are you talking about? It’s too dark in there to see anything, anyway. And besides, who gives a damn? I like what I’m wearing today.”
“Look. Let’s just go in. I have a lot to tell you.”
“You are such a weirdo,” she says, and sashays past me into the bar.
I suppose now would be an excellent time to explain how my decision to try and be…well…less poor and single doesn’t make me shallow or evil or a victim or ignorant of sexual politics or anything like that. Okay, maybe it makes me a teeny, tiny bit shallow—I can admit it!—but the honest and sincere way in which I intend to go about the whole thing will infuse that shallowness with a certain depth. I promise.
Because The Plan was not born out of greed, envy, lust or any other deadly sin, but rather from a genuine desire for self-actualization, I know I’m going to have no problem justifying it to myself or others. And I can also tell you that like all great romantic adventures, it’s about a whole lot more than just having a warm body to sleep next to or being able to buy Creme De La Mer moisturizer at $110 an ounce without thinking twice. It’s not like I’ve been sitting around for years, crying and wishing I’d simply been born rich, or anything as ugly or unenlightened as that. Yes, this is going to be a love story of my own creation, inspired by my need to write something vital and necessary, and fuelled by my desire to grow and change into the person I want to become.
I will achieve everything I’ve been working toward in therapy in one fell swoop.
And there’s one other thing…one other reason. Marilyn Monroe and her merry band of husband-hunters aside, I’ve seen the glorious effects of the marriage between love and wealth first-hand. Which is why I also had Asher and Zoe to thank for planting the idea of The Plan within me, at least subconsciously. Our lunch earlier in the summer had sparked a bit of a self-pity fest, so it should come as no great surprise to anyone that, in my weakened condition, I ended up indulging in one of those singlehood meltdowns I’d always felt so immune to. Only my meltdown was different, because from it, great change would soon be born.
Zoe and Asher were old high school friends, and I hadn’t seen them in ages. Back in the day, the three of us were thick as thieves. Sure, we were big losers—boys who wear black eyeliner and girls who wear combat boots fall somewhere between band geeks and the janitor on the popularity spectrum in suburban American high schools—but we didn’t give a shit. Cheerleaders mocked us and football players spat on us, and we loved every single minute of it.
Asher was supersmart and received a partial scholarship to Brown. His parents, though stunningly cheap, were so terrified he was gay that they liquidated their 401(k) plans to pay for the rest of their wayward son’s Ivy League education, hoping that four years at what they assumed was a nice, conservative East Coast campus might be enough to straighten him out.
Although Asher wasn’t even remotely into guys, he truly enjoyed letting his parents think he was, so he was more than a little peeved when he could no longer avoid telling them he and Zoe were getting married (“It worked!” Mr. and Mrs. Blake had apparently shouted to each other when he gave them the news). I was a bit surprised myself when I learned that they were together, since none of us had ever hooked up in high school, except for the time Zoe and I got drunk at a Pearl Jam concert and made out just to see what it would be like. After Asher left for school, Zoe says she just sort of realized he was The One, and so she eventually followed him out to Rhode Island. I suppose two years of soul-crushing, booze-blurred bar-hopping with me and George was enough to give shy little Zoe the courage she needed to profess her undying love to an old friend.
Happily, the feeling was quite mutual. Now they live in Philadelphia, where Asher works as a lawyer for the A.C.L.U. and Zoe has a dog-grooming business. These days, they’re quite wealthy, too, courtesy of Zoe’s generous dad, who had recently come into more money than he could ever spend, due to a substantial patent payout on some computer-chip thingie he’d dreamed up years ago. That’s basically it. We still keep in touch, though not as often as we should.
When the two of them walked into the restaurant, they were as luminous as the last time I’d seen them, at their wedding almost a year earlier. Asher and Zoe were one of those couples who were completely unaware of how wonderful they were together. You know the type, I’m sure—that they didn’t make you sick is almost enough to make you sick.
After the usual catching up, complete with mutual berating for not visiting more often, I could see that they were anxious to tell me something. Naturally, I figured they were pregnant.
“Are you kidding? Me? Pregnant? No way!” said Zoe.
Asher rolled his eyes.
“Why not?” I asked. “What’s so crazy about that?”
“She tells me we’re not even close to ready yet,” he sighed.
“But you’re the only married friends I have,” I pleaded. “You’re also the only normal people I know who are married. I need you to have kids. You’ve got to restore my faith in the whole process.” Thinking of my nieces and nephews, I figured it would be nice to know there was such a thing as a non-obnoxious child before having one myself.
“Have your own damn kids,” Zoe laughed, pushing her long blond bangs out of her eyes.
“Maybe later,” I said.
“I’ve told her I’m ready to plant my seed,” Asher said, grinning.
“My field needs to lie fallow for a while. But you can plant your seed in the shower, if you like.”
“Mock me, hun, I don’t mind,” he said as he turned to face her. “But the simple truth is, I want to decorate the earth with as many beautiful babies as you’ll let me give you. It’s the only thing I know to do to keep from sliding into the abyss, to make it all mean something. Otherwise, it’ll be like we were never here at all.”
Zoe stared at him quietly for a moment. If a guy ever said anything like that to me, I’d be on my back with my legs in the air praying for fertilization before the waitress even noticed we were gone.
“Sorry.” She sniffed a little and tried