Page 9 of Come Back to Bed
3
Bernadette
Even though the walls between our apartments are quite soundproof, I was able to hear last night’s little outburst quite clearly. Normally, if I’d heard my neighbor yell out “WHAT THE FUCK?!” I would have sent Dolly an email to ask if she way okay. While I do have Matt McGovern Esquire’s email address, it didn’t seem appropriate to check on him so soon after meeting him last night.
While the walls of the building are thick and solid, due to a charming quirk of the vents and ducts, I can hear much of what goes on next door in certain spots of my apartment—mostly in my bedroom. Before Dolly’s current boyfriend was her boyfriend, he was an out-of-town friend staying in her guest room, and let’s just say I had the pleasure of hearing exactly what happened the night that she looked in on him and asked if he needed anything, because the head of my bed is up against the other side of the wall that the headboard kept banging against. There is no other way to arrange my tiny bedroom. I did put my headphones on, once I realized that what he needed would take several hours (likely thanks to a prescription).
Last night, after hearing Matt’s expletive, I waited and listened for any more signs of agitation, but there weren’t any. Not another bark from Daisy or her person, but then I heard him talking to someone who I assume was his assistant, followed by loud AC/DC music and some angry grunting (which I attributed to vigorous crunches and/or pushups), a couple of hours later when they were apparently both in bed, I heard him playing guitar for a few minutes, and then saying such sweet things to Daisy that I almost liked him. He really is nice to his dog. I figured it must have been some kind of momentary work-related outburst. He seems like the kind of guy who only gets passionate about work.
I didn’t see or hear him leave this morning, and if my boss hadn’t called to ask me to pick something up from Anita at her gallery on my way to his place, I probably would have spent at least five minutes on the floor of the fourth-floor hallway, trying to talk to Daisy through the crack under the front door. Love at first sight happens so rarely in life, it really shouldn’t be ignored.
I’m here to pick up some of Sebastian’s favorite Italian watercolor paper, which Anita brought back from her most recent trip to Europe, but ever since I walked into her Chelsea gallery, I’ve gotten an earful about the testosterone pellet she’s recently had implanted in her back.
“Look at my skin!” she says, “Feel how tight it is!” She grabs my hand and places it on her neck.
“Very nice,” I say. Anita is a stunning fortysomething woman who owns an amazing art gallery, knows everything about everything, knows everyone who’s anyone, and has never been satisfied with her looks or energy levels for as long as I’ve known her. I have never been so exhausted and impressed by a woman. I can’t wait to get out of here.
“At my age—at any age really, if you’re a woman, getting your hormones balanced is so important. Now I look younger, I have boundless energy, and I just want to hump everything!”
“Well that is great news. So, I’ll just write you a check for the paper?” I pull out Sebastian’s checkbook. I love signing my name to Sebastian’s checks and credit card transactions. But not in a creepy I’m-pretending-to-be-his-wife kind of way. I just like to sign for things that I don’t actually have to pay for—who wouldn’t?
“We live in exciting times,” she says. “I like what you’re doing with your hair. You seeing anyone special?”
I have no idea why I think of my new temporary neighbor all of a sudden. “No, not at all.”
“Ah. Still obsessed with your boss, I see.”
“I’m obsessed with my job. And thinking about my boss and his needsismy job. That’s not the same thing. I’m just really good at my job.”
“Oh, I bet you’re good at your job, little miss lips like two pillows.”
“Anita. You’re the classiest gross lady I’ve ever known.”
“I call it as I see it, sweetheart. You’ve been working for him, what? Three years now?”
“Three and a half.”
“And you’re what? Twenty-six?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Well fuck, honey. You should have a solo show by now. You need to quit. You still have time to make the Thirty Under Thirty Artists in NYC lists.”
“I’ve never cared about those lists. I make more money than everyone I went to art school with.” What I don’t mention, what I never mention, is that I don’t just stay at this job because of my boss. I do this because I don’t want my hippie artist parents to lose their farm and end up on welfare. Which reminds me, I need to call them to make sure they remembered to pay their utility bills.
“Yeah. Good for you. I’m glad he pays you so well. It’s practically impossible to find someone as qualified as you who’s also good at the mundane practical stuff. But you should be making art. Or love. Instead you’re making google-y eyes at a middle-aged married man who will never give you what you want or deserve.”
“He is divorced, and he is thirty-eight. I thought you liked him.”
“Of course I like him. I literally love him. But I’d never date him.”
“Too old for you?”
“Too much. Men like that—and you’d know better than anyone—are so busy being amazing they have very little left to give a woman. You need a man who can be your anchor, so you can lose yourself in your work. I mean, you saw what it was like with Sebastian’s most recent wife.”
“His most recentex-wife.”
She rolls her eyes at me, but I do know what she means. I just happen to think that I’m better at dealing with him than his ex-wife was. She wasn’t an artist, so she didn’t understand him. I’m his work-wife. I get him.
