I had not, and because there was no Spotify and she was joyously drunk, she proceeded to sing it, loud enough for the whole table to hear. She got to her feet and used a fondue fork as a microphone. She changed the lyrics to “Cherry’s got the pill.” (Cherry did not have the pill.) Loretta’s song about how the contraceptive pill had liberated women and allowed them to enjoy sex without the fear of getting pregnant was considered outrageous for the time—some radio stations refused to play it. Baashir’s guests only found the song outrageous because they disliked country music. People began pelting Eliza with bread cubes to get her to stop.
When the party finally ended, in the early hours of the morning, Eliza gave me her business card. She said I should call her about a job in her division. She said, “You can’t count kangaroos forever, Cherry, you should have a career! You and I should be together in the boardroom, patting their stupid heads!” She patted a still-seated man’s bald head to demonstrate, and he looked up, delighted, and tried and failed to grab her wrist.
I’ve wondered over the years what would have happened if I had called Eliza the next day; if I might have bravely climbed that rickety ladder and got myself into a senior management position. She died only last year. She never remarried, never had children. There were obituaries in all the financial papers. Eliza was a pioneer for women in insurance, she broke that glass ceiling: she was the first female CEO of her company, and she mentored countless other women. The photos showed a woman with short gray hair and glasses in a smart suit. If you didn’t know her you would never have guessed she was once a gorgeous woman in a leopard-print dress singing into a fondue fork.
Although if you looked closely enough at the photo you could still see her sparkle, right there in her eyes.
Look a little closer at the next older lady you meet. You might see that sparkle.
Or you might not. Some of us are grumpy and sad. Some of us are in serious pain: our feet, our hips, our shoulders. Some of us are crazed with grief and regret for wrong decisions.
Never mind.
I didn’t call Eliza the next day. It was years before I called her.
I never climbed that corporate ladder.
This is what I did instead:
—
I married the man in the lime-green safari suit.
Chapter 86
Ethan wakes on the morning of his thirtieth birthday to the sound of his phone beeping and Harvey’s voice in his ear saying: Didn’t you think we would have achieved more by the time we turned thirty?
“I’m blocking you from my brain, Harvey,” he says out loud.
The text message is from an unknown number. It’s Harvey’s sister, Lila.
Thought about sending this from Harvey’s phone but didn’t want to freak you out. Happy 30th! (Saw it in Harvey’s calendar.) I think you were his best mate. He might not have been yours. I know he could be kind of…Harvey. Anyway, here’s a Harvey kind of pic I took for your pleasure.
It’s a meaningless blurry close-up picture of a fence post. It’s so Harvey that Ethan laughs out loud and then bursts into tears, and he keeps crying while he’s showering and shaving and he thinks: For fuck’s sake, when will this be DONE?
By the time he’s ready for work, he is fine again. That’s it, Harvey. No more, mate. I’ve got stuff to do. A life to live.
It’s a good birthday. For a Monday. He suspects he gets more gifts and attention because people know his friend died, and also because some people genuinely think he hasn’t got long to live. All the women on his team give him gifts with which to protect himself in a fight: a self-defense keychain with a “super-loud” personal alarm, a pepper spray in its own leather pouch, and something called a “multifunction stealth knife.” They are clearly all designed for women as they are in pastel colors. The women present them as joke gifts, but then explain how they work. It is sweet and also terrifying.
When he gets home, the place smells of the chili Jasmine has been cooking for the nachos, and they eat crackers and black bean dip and drink strong margaritas in big glasses with salted rims. Jasmine has, of course, holidayed in Mexico.
Her birthday gift is a cushion featuring a pencil drawing of Jason Bourne. It’s a private joke present! He therefore loves it, although he has no idea what to do with it.
Ethan allows himself to pretend, just for a moment, that they are a couple, and they talk about music and movies and wonder if their expectations for The Sopranos are impossibly high, and then she says—and it takes him a moment to be sure he didn’t just daydream her words, because they couldn’t be more perfect—“Oh! I forgot to tell you! I’ve broken up with Carter.”
It’s the best birthday gift he’s received since he got the Masters of Magic kit with four hundred and fifty magic tricks when he turned nine.
“Your face!” Jasmine laughs. “You look so happy!”
“I’m sorry,” says Ethan. “I was actually starting to kind of like him.”
“No you weren’t, Jason Bourne,” says Jasmine. “Anyway, I’m sorry. I know he was staying over here too often and leaving his stuff everywhere. I just…I don’t know what I was thinking, everyone tells me I have the worst taste in men.”
“How did he take it?” Ethan feels like he might levitate he’s so happy.
“Not great,” says Jasmine. “He’s doing that ‘you owe me closure’ thing. He wants to come over and ‘talk it through.’ I mean, I don’t have anything more to say. I’m just…not feeling it. How many more ways can I say it?”
“He doesn’t want closure, he wants to change your mind,” says Ethan. He’d want to change her mind too.
“I’ve spoken to him five times today,” says Jasmine. “I’ve tried to explain—”
“You don’t owe him an explanation,” says Ethan. “You weren’t married.”
“Right, and also I don’t really have an explanation,” says Jasmine again. “I’m finding it a bit stressful. It feels like he’s got the potential to become a bit stalkerish. God, I hate the stalkers.” She sips her margarita and says, “So, what are your views on fish?”
Ethan tries to keep up. “Like your dad’s fish? Frozen fish? For…dinner?”
“No! Yuck! Disgusting. I’d never eat my dad’s fish, sorry not sorry, Dad. No, I’m talking about aquarium therapy.”
“Going to an aquarium?” He could take her to an aquarium. He likes aquariums. Not as a date, of course.
She runs her finger around the rim of her margarita glass and sucks off the salt. “No, I’m talking about getting a fish tank in the apartment. Apparently looking at tropical fish for just a few seconds lowers your heart rate.” She shows him her phone. “Look at this guy! Isn’t he adorable? It’s a guppy. Apparently they live-birth their young! We could wake up one day and find all these tiny guppy babies have been born in the night!”
Ethan is looking at the guppy fish, imagining him and Jasmine as new parents of tiny guppy fish (Well, it’s something. Harvey laughs so hard), when her phone begins to peal the chimes of Big Ben (her choice of ring tone this week) and Carter’s face appears on the screen.
Ethan recoils. “Oh,” he says. “It’s—”
She sighs. “See? Sixth call of the day.”
