“Can I just have some more water? Perrier.”
When I sit down in the chair across from her, her perfectly plastic face screws up in horror.
“Hi, Alma.” I try to give her a friendly smile. “You remember me, right? Mandy, Salinger’s assistant?” I stick my hand out.
Her mouth drops open, and she recoils.
Okay, then…I rub my palms on my pants.
“Where is Salinger?” Her voice is demanding. Haughty.
Pressing my hands together, I take a deep breath.
I need to keep this job.
“Unfortunately, Salinger is no longer in a position to be involved with you anymore.” My words are halting and awkward.
Picking up her wine glass, she scoffs, “Not in a position? What is that supposed to mean?”
Alma is not catching my drift.
“It means he’s breaking up with you.”
She screeches, and I wince.
“He’s not breaking up with me.” Alma slams her wine glass on the table and it sloshes, spilling red liquid all over the white tablecloth. “He can’t! We’re going to get married.” Her lower lip trembles.
“Oh no. Freaking hell, Salinger. That rat bastard proposed to you?” I try to go in for a sisterly hug.
“Gross—don’t touch me,” Alma snaps. “No, but he was going to. I’ve been sending him ring designs that I like. We’re in love. We’re supposed to be together. You!” She turns her anger on me. “You’re trying to keep him from me. He doesn’t know you’re here, does he? I bet you’re in love with him. Cheater! Homewrecker!”
Now everyone in the restaurant is looking at us. I sink into the suede chair, wishing I could just disappear.
“Alma, please.” I choke out the words. “I’m not in love with Salinger. Gosh, I can’t stand him—he’s a horrible person. You’re better off without him in your life, trust me.”
Her breath comes out in gasping sobs. “But I have baby names picked out.”
“You’re pregnant?” I wheeze. “I’m going to hell. All the way straight to hell. In a go-kart.”
Even the waiters are all blatantly eavesdropping on our conversation.
Fuck Salinger. Fuck him for making me do this.
“Maybe. I could be! You tell him I might be pregnant. And if I have his baby, I’m never letting him see it unless he marries me.” Snatching her designer handbag off the table, Alma storms out of the restaurant.
“Ma’am?” The waiter comes by.
“Is that the cocktail menu?” I ask him hopefully. “It’s not too early to drink, is it?”
“No, ma’am. This is your bill. We must kindly ask you to leave now.”
“But I need to order lunch.” I reach for the menu on the table. “I need to get something out of this godforsaken situation.”
He clears his throat and plucks the cardstock out of my hands. “This is a fine-dining establishment, ma’am.” Thewaiter looks pointedly at my chest, where the zipper on my thrift-store coat has split open, exposing the hole-ridden Corgi Butts T-shirt in all its glory.
“Right. Uh, sorry—didn’t know there was a dress code,” I mumble hastily, holding my coat together with one hand and digging around in my purse with the other. “Sorry, my wallet’s here somewhere.” A handful of tampons swan-dive out of my purse onto the floor.
I wrestle the company card out of my oversized bag, shove it at the waiter, then scurry around to pick up the tampons, which are making a run for freedom.
