The Girlfriend Curse Read online

  The redhead said, “Shall I start?”

  Nina said, “Stacy runs a company called insearchof.com. For a fee, she can find anything.”

  Stacy said, “Usually things. First-edition books, vintage dresses, estate jewelry. My partner, Oliver Ashfield, does computer searches. I hunt in stores and I have a nationwide network of antique vendors on retainer.”

  “And these antique vendors had my ex-boyfriends on a shelf?” asked Peg.

  “People searches are done on the Internet. Oliver is highly skilled at information gathering. He can gain access to otherwise secure websites.”

  “He’s a hacker,” said Peg.

  “Intelligence technician,” corrected Stacy.

  “Seven men on the list,” said Peg, cutting to the chase. “How many are married?”

  “Six,” said Stacy, consulting her notes on a pink Lucite clipboard. “Paul Tester is engaged to be married in June.”

  “I don’t suppose you found out when they got married?” asked Peg.

  “On an average, within six months of breaking up with you,” said Stacy.

  Peg stopped breathing for a second. “Six months?”

  “Daniel didn’t until nine months later. But Oleg married a woman two months after your breakup. The rest were all five, six, seven months later. Regardless of how long it took, they all married the next woman they slept with.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Peg, aghast.

  “I have a flow chart here,” said Stacy, passing sheets of pink paper to Peg and Nina. “I created it based on my interviews. Which, by the way, were endless. Every one of these guys would not shut up. They would say one thing, and then repeat it five times as if English were my second language.”

  “I agreed to pay a flat fee,” said Nina. “Not an hourly rate.”

  Peg read the page.

  One week post-breakup

  Three weeks

  Glad it’s over.

  Emotions now level,

  Feeling of pressure gone.

  wonder what went wrong with Peg.

  Six weeks

  Seven weeks

  New course of self-reflection.

  Wants to contact Peg,

  Thinks of Peg as catalyst.

  but sticks with her policy of no contact.

  Eight weeks

  Ten weeks

  Sees self-sacrifice of

  Hooked on new

  not calling a virtue.

  thoughtful nature.

  Gets into idea of thinking of

  Resolves to be a better

  another’s feelings.

  person in all areas of life.

  Twelve weeks

  Fifteen weeks

  Serendipitously meets a new

  New relationship going well.

  woman. Grateful for fresh

  Sees it as a shot at

  start.

  redemption.

  Twenty weeks

  Twenty-five weeks

  Engaged, happy.

  Married. Content.

  Credits Peg for his

  Thinks fondly of Peg.

  changed-man status.

  The paper shaking in her hand, Peg said, “This can’t be true of all of them.”

  Stacy said, “Bart is less grateful to you than the others. But he still owes you money. He says it’s in the mail.”

  “My no-contact policy has been my doom,” said Peg. “If I let them call me, I might be married to one of them now.”

  Nina’s eyes were still scanning the chart. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Look at Paul. You were open to contact with him. And besides, if you got back together with any of them, they’d have been the same jerk who dumped you the first time. Being away from you is what changed them.”

  “I guess this makes you the Accident Bridesmaid,” said Stacy.

  “I’ve never been a bridesmaid, not once,” said Peg numbly.

  “Then you’re the Accidental Catalyst. The Accidental Watershed.”

  “The Accidental Train Wreck?” said Peg. “The Perpetual Girlfriend. The Chronic Girlfriend. I suffer from chronic girlfriend fatigue syndrome.”

  “I’ll tell you what you are: an excellent friend who deserves better,” said Nina. “Besides that, you, Peg, are the Ultimate Girlfriend.”

  “Ultimate, as in ‘last.’ Not ultimate, as in ‘best,’ ” said Peg.

  “Why not both?” asked Nina.

  “The Ultimate Girlfriend,” repeated Stacy. “I like it. But I’m not married to it.”

  “Don’t say ‘married,’ ” moaned Peg.

  “It’s not all bad,” said Stacy. “You’ve made a huge impact on the lives of seven men, their wives, their kids. If it weren’t for you, ten children would not be alive today.”

  “Ten children?” asked Peg. “Not Oleg.”

  Stacy consulted her notes. “Twin girls, age two. Named Diamond and Pearl.”

  Peg hopped off the windowsill and paced. If she could have, she’d have run in circles. “You’re right,” said Peg. “I’m going to think positively about this. I have a dark gift. I’m a miracle cure for lame men. I should start a business. Date me for a year, dump me, never speak to me again, and within six months, you’ll meet the woman of your dreams!”

  “You’d make a fortune,” said Nina. “I’d handle the PR.”

  Stacy said, “I thought you might want to talk to a few of these men yourself.” She handed Peg a bound pile of pink paper. Peg flipped through the mini dossier of her exes. Names, addresses, phone numbers, email addresses.

  “Excellent idea. You should definitely talk to a few of them. Catharsis. Cleansing.” Nina said, “At the very least, you can ask them if they have single friends to fix you up with.”

  The redhead and Peg walked out of Goldenface together. By the time they got down the elevator and onto the street, it was raining. No surprise in April. It fit Peg’s mood. She’d get a taxi, go home, crawl under her covers and never come out.

  Stacy said, “Can I have your card? I might be able to throw some business your way.”

  Peg fished in her purse for a Georgia Designs card.

  Stacy said, “I do a lot of wedding searches. Finding antique gowns. Caterers. Florists.”

  Anything but that. “Look, Stacy,” said Peg, turning to face the redhead. “I’m not a fucking florist, okay? I’m not going to weave roses in someone’s chuppah or cut star lilies for her centerpiece. I’m an artist. I paint with organic materials. The day I design a corsage is the day I stick my head in an oven.”

  Stacy’s brown eyes widened, and then narrowed. Peg stared back at her, defiantly. She’d had enough injury for one day. She didn’t need the insult, too. Calling her a florist was the last twig.

  “This has been a pretty rough day for you,” said Stacy finally. She smiled at Peg, generously, her heart-shaped face softening with sympathy.

  Peg stared into Stacy’s eyes, the lashes long as spider legs. It was true: Peg was having a rough day, at the end of a rough decade. Stacy hadn’t deserved the attack. Her show of kindness despite Peg’s rudeness was rare in New York, rare anywhere. The unexpected sympathy from a stranger knocked something loose in Peg’s defenses. She started to cry. Tears weighty and wide, bullet-shaped as they fell, lost in the river of rain on the sidewalk.

  Two hours later, Stacy and Peg were drinking their fourth refill of coffee at the Greek diner on Broadway and 18th. Peg continued to snuffle and hiccup, the residual effects of a long, hard sob.

  Stacy said, “I didn’t think I’d ever get married, or want to, but then I met Oliver and he loved my antique purse collection. How could I resist?”

  Peg said, “You’re married to your business partner?”

  “We live in my apartment and work out of his. We’re neighbors. That’s how we met.”

  “It won’t happen for me that way,” moaned Peg. “I’m beginning to believe it won’t happen for me ever. I may be one of those women who stays single.”

  They were bot
h silenced by that depressing statement.

  But only briefly. “What are you searching for?” asked Stacy suddenly.

  “Love. Happiness. Joy.”

  “I can’t find those on google,” said Stacy. “Give me something I can get online or in a store. I’ll run an object search for you. Anything. Maybe a toy from childhood? Something nostalgic?”

  Peg considered this. What she missed from childhood was a feeling, not an object. The feeling that she fit—perfectly, if not harmoniously—with her parents and brother in their West 86th apartment. Although she’d lived at the Grand Street one-bedroom for ten years, Peg wouldn’t call it home. At seven-hundred square feet, the place felt too big for one person, hanging on her like a baggy, itchy sweater. But at the same time, it was suffocating, lacking the sunlight for her to breathe and grow.

  “I’m shriveling on the vine here,” said Peg. “I have been for years.”

  “Maybe you’re a square,” said Stacy.

  “Maybe you’re a fashion victim,” countered Peg.

  “I’m definitely that,” said Stacy. “I meant, maybe you’re a square peg, Peg. And New York City is a round hole.”

  “I could never leave,” said Peg, signaling the waiter for the check.

  Chapter 4

  “I’m thinking of leaving New York,” said Peg. She sat at her parents’ Indonesian teak dining room table. She’d come up-town to West 86th Street for Jack’s thirtieth birthday dinner.

  Pru Silver, Peg’s mom, a real estate lawyer, said, “Very funny. Eat your chicken.”

  Peg dropped her fork on the plate. “Things aren’t working for me here. I’m a square peg. I need a square hole. New York is a round hole,” she explained.

  “It’s definitely a hole,” said Jack.

  “A whole universe of opportunity!” said Otto, Peg’s dad, a tax attorney. “That’s so corny. Forgive me.”

  “Peg, tell us more about how square you are,” said Jack.

  Jack was fifty pounds heavier and six inches taller than Peg. But he’d always be her bratty little brother. Whenever she came uptown to the apartment she grew up in, try as she might to resist, she couldn’t ward off the slide of regression. One foot outside the apartment, Peg was an independent thirty-two-year-old woman. One foot inside, she was petulant, angst-ridden teenager.

  Peg said, “At least I’m not a loser who spends my thirtieth birthday with my parents.”

  Jack said, “It’s a small price to pay for free housing.”

  Her brother still lived at home. He was one of those New York men. No rent to pay, so he was flush with cash to spend on clothes and shows. No laundry to do, nor dishes to wash, nor meals to prepare, he was rich with time to stay in shape. Therefore, Jack had his pick of girlfriends, who managed to overlook or ignore his living arrangement. Nina, prime example, actually believed that Jack was perpetually on the verge of moving out. He hadn’t for eight years.

  Pru said, “Your brother is not a loser,” as she started clearing plates.

  Otto, on cue, rose from his chair. “Your mother’s not a waitress, kids,” he said, which he’d been saying since Peg was seven. He followed his wife out of the dining room and into the kitchen, arms laden with plates.

  Peg and Jack remained seated. She said, “I’m not getting out of this chair until someone takes me seriously.”

  “Mom,” said Jack. “Peg’s not helping.”

  “Where’s Stephanie tonight?” she asked him. Stephanie was Jack’s latest. She fit his type perfectly: light-years ahead of him, but willing to stoop to his level out of desperation.

  “She’s waiting in the lobby,” whispered Jack.

  “You’re making her wait in the lobby?” asked Peg. “You are truly a pig.”

  “If she comes up, we’ll never get out of here.”

  Jack and Stephanie had been together nearly a year. They met at Citibank corporate headquarters, where they arranged mortgages and home equity loans for the Private Bank clients (net worth in excess of $1,000,000). Stephanie had her own place in Murray Hill, a roomy, sunny studio, close to work, that could be converted into a one-bedroom. She wanted Jack to move in. He was reluctant to ditch the comforts of home.

  Peg said, “Stephanie should have dumped you months ago.”

  “She won’t,” he said. “She loves me.”

  “I’m buzzing the lobby,” said Pru, who had, apparently, heard every word of this conversation from the kitchen. “She shouldn’t be sitting down there with Carlos. He’s flirtatious.”

  “Don’t,” said Jack, standing up. “I’m on the way out.”

  “But I made cake,” said Pru. “I’m sure Stephanie would love to have some.”

  “Stephanie doesn’t eat cake,” said Jack.

  “She’ll eat this cake,” said Pru. “I don’t care how embarrassed you are of us. It’s dangerous to leave that girl in the lobby. I’m ashamed of you.”

  Otto said, “Is she afraid of us, Jack? You never bring her home. We respect your privacy. What goes on in your room is your business.”

  Peg listened as her family hashed over the logistics of Jack’s personal life. As usual, their discussion had nothing to do with her. It was Jack’s world, this apartment. They indulged him like the Sultan of Brunei. It’d been this way since Jack was ten, when he fractured both legs in a Little League football game. Peg, then twelve, witnessed the incident. Jack took a hit, went flying and landed funny on the field in Central Park. Pru ran after the kid who did the hit. “He’s an animal! He should be put on a leash or locked up!” she screamed at the tackler’s parents, who were horrified by the accident. Otto moaned for his son and himself, saying, “He inherited my non-athleticism! Why oh why couldn’t I have been more coordinated?” The ambulance came. Jack had to stay in traction for eight weeks. Pru and Otto took care of his every need, and hadn’t stopped yet, despite his complete recovery and seamlessly healed bones. Jack, who’d gone to Middlebury, had been a ranked amateur snowboarder in his college years.

  Peg got the attention she needed growing up. Certainly not more than she needed. She might have wanted more, but she wisely adjusted her needs to meet the available resources. After a while, she’d adjusted so well that she started to bristle if anyone paid more-than-enough attention to her, especially teachers and pushy female friends. She liked arm’s length. A comfortable distance.

  Hence, her choice of profession, her one day-to-day friend, her flight from West 86th Street at the earliest opportunity. The day after graduation from NYU, Peg went real estate shopping with Pru. They saw the Grand Street apartment on the second day, and made an offer. Pru represented her in the $100,000 purchase (down payment provided by Otto). This was ten years ago. Peg had reimbursed Otto in full. The apartment was hers. It was Peg’s only investment, her only nest egg. She wasn’t sure what it was worth now—probably double what she’d paid. Peg often fantasized about selling it and living off the capital gains in some rural setting where she could plant acres and acres of property and nurture her landscaping for decades. Nurture her soul, too.

  Peg broke into her family’s argument, saying, “New York has infertile soil.”

  “What does that have to do with Stephanie?” asked Pru.

  “Mom, listen to me,” said Peg. “Did you piss off some gypsy, or screw a witch out of an apartment? To your knowledge, has anyone ever cursed you and your children to a life of solitude?”

  “I did have a client once from Romania,” said Pru. “He sounded exactly like Bela Lugosi.”

  “How can you feel cursed to a life of solitude when you have a family who loves and supports you?” asked Otto.

  “Corny,” said Peg.

  “My curse,” said Otto.

  “Happy birthday, Jack. I wish you many more years of arrested development.” She air-kissed around, and headed for the front door.

  “Send Stephanie up,” said Pru.

  “I will,” said Peg.

  Otto said, “You weren’t serious before. About leaving New York
?”

  Peg shook her head. New York was all she’d ever known. Except for family vacations to Europe and the Caribbean, and the occasional weekend in New England, Peg had barely left the island of Manhattan. For good or ill, New York was her home. The idea of moving was a mental exercise, a fantasy.

  Peg said, “I could never leave.”

  Chapter 5

  On her knees, Peg clipped an apple branch to the size of a pencil. Her walkie-talkie squawked at her hip. She pushed the talk button. “The Condé Nast people want azalea topiaries now, in the shape of hourglasses.” It was Rica—her boss at Georgia Designs, named after Georgia O’Keeffe, who painted flowers that looked like vulvas.

  Peg said, “I’m doing apple blossoms.”

  Squawk. “They’ll pay double for azalea topiaries by next week.”

  “But the waste,” said Peg. Apple branches had to die for this?

  Squawk. “They must think money grows on trees,” said Rica, a woman who wasted nothing, not a bud, nor a blade of grass. “Aren’t we lucky to know better?”

  Peg didn’t feel lucky. She felt alien. Glanced around at the people in the lobby at Condé Nast—at the perfectly turned-out, immaculately groomed staffers from Vogue and GQ—they could have been from another planet, where Botox was the food of life. All of the gleaming human hangers had demanding bosses, stretch mortgages, weekend functions, gym memberships, offices to report to every morning. Just like Nina. And Jack. Like 90 percent of New Yorkers Peg’s age.

  Peg couldn’t relate. She assiduously avoided those trappings. As full of scorn as she was for the nine-to-nine lifestyle, Peg envied the confidence and purpose of these women as they clicked by in their heels. They had an air of being exactly where they wanted to be, latte-carrying members of a liberties union Peg would never belong to. Or want to.