“Are you mad at me?” I ask her. I’m pretty sure we’re having some kind of fight that I don’t really understand.
“No. Why would I be?”
Her tone indicates otherwise. Loathe as I am to assume this about a woman, I’m pretty sure that this particular no actually means yes.
My mind keeps returning to her asking if I wanted to move in together. It makes sense that she did; this seems like a logical step. One I never thought we’d really make, because I was sure she’d be sick of me long before now. Something that might be accelerated by her having to live inside my crazy life without having a space all her own to go home to.
I’ve been eyeing the end of my lease and thinking about getting a new place, anyway. What I really want to do is buy a house—I know enough about money to realize I don’t want to be dumping it into the rent sinkhole for the rest of my life. I’m twenty-eight, and I’d like to start making some sound financial decisions, to plan for the future.
But the house thing is so awkward. Emily and I have been together too long for me to buy a house without consulting her, but suggesting that we could buy a housetogetheris a much bigger commitment than we’ve ever discussed, far bigger than moving in together.
Especially when that conversation went so well.
Before I can decide whether or not to try to get Emily to talk, the first Not-Wife shows up, screaming like a banshee at one of the production assistants. “What do you mean, you don’t have any mud masks? What kind of spa is this?”This woman has her blond hair up in rollers and is wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and a pair of slippers covered in gold embroidery that look like they might have belonged to Louis the Fourteenth. Her slipper gets caught in a clump of sage brush, to which she reacts with such a look of disgust and horror, you’d think she’d stepped in a jackrabbit carcass.
A frantically mumbling crew member follows after her, trying to tell the banshee to calm down. She wheels around and wails even louder, “You did NOT tell me to CALM DOWN! You don’t even have a snail wrangler on staff! I can’t believe you call yourself a beauty spa but don’t have the facilities for escargot treatments!The antioxidants in snail secretions are crucial to my regimen.”
The handler—a woman wearing jeans and a crew member t-shirt—cringes. “Like I said, Calista, we’re not exactly equipped for—”
“I know what you said! But I signed a contract that said that you’d take care of all my needs while I’m here, and I expect—”
“You know what’s full of antioxidants,” I say loudly. “Utah red rock.”
Calista and the crew member blink at me, and then Calista steps closer. “Is that true? I’ve had thoseTibetan mud masks—they import the mud all the way from Shigatse, you know.”
“Oh, Utah dirt is even better,” I say, nodding like I’m not making this crap up right now just to spare the poor handler who is obviously not a snail wrangler. (This is a thing? Some spa convinced women to usesnail secretionsas a beauty product? I’m grateful, once again, for my low maintenance girlfriend.) “And it’s best when you come into contact with it in its natural habitat. Package it up or ship it and the antioxidants get stale.”
“Really?” Calista says. “When can I get one of those treatments?”
I gesture over to the red rock above the camp. “Any time you want.That’s the beauty of nature. It’s there. It’s free.”
She suddenly looks skeptical. I’m guessing this is because anything that’s free couldn’t possibly be good enough for her standards. If I’d charged her five hundred bucks for the privilege, she’d be over there rubbing her face against the cliff right now.
“We do have your green smoothie ready for you,” the handler says quickly. “And your gluten-free, non-dairy, hypoallergenic buttered toast.”
“Okay, then,” Calista says. “But I would like to speak to your staff dermatologist about the benefits of these rock treatments.” She eyes me warily, as if she has just now begun to suspect I am not said dermatologist.Then she turns on her slippered heel and strides off, the poor handler following behind.
Only moments later, the next Not-Wife arrives, and it’s clear I’m going to have my hands full.This woman also has blond hair—though a way less natural white-blond color—and announces herself as “Destyny with two Ys.” She’s wearing a bright pink, fuzzy track suit, the type that probably has a word written across the ass. With this outfit, she is wearing high heels. In the middle of a campsite in the desert.
“I’m so excited to learn more about climbing,” she says. “I had my designer make my own harness and everything.”
“Um,” I say. “You can’t wear a harness your designer made. We’re providing all the climbing equipment, and we only use the best.” I wonder if I should start quoting her prices, as money seems to be the best way to get through to these people, but I don’t want it to get around that I’m trying to sell the equipment we’re supposed to be providing. Before I can work my way through that ethical problem, Destyny is chattering again.
“Oh, my harness is so much better. It’s covered in genuine Swarovski crystals sewn on with gold thread—never mind, you have to see it.” She bustles off, more agile through the dirt and needlegrass than I would have assumed in those shoes, and yep, the word “juicy” is splayed right across her backside. I wrinkle my nose, just as another woman with reddish-brown hair plastered in a shell around her head approaches me. She’s wearing a weirdly shiny pantsuit, but at least this outfit doesn’t appear to be blatantly advertising its brand name or the state of her ass. I’m pretty sure this is Monroe, the Not-Wife who will be running the yoga classes or whatever they are. She darts forward, her lips moving toward my face, and I take a giant step back before realizing she was going in for one of those air kiss things.
Yeah, Emily and I really should have practiced. Monroe looks confused, but I’ve now put six feet between me and her, and I feel comfortable with that.Turns out I’m not an air-kisser. Go figure.
“Hi,” I say. I’m really not sure what’s wrong with that as a greeting.
The lined corners of Monroe’s mouth go up in a forced smile. “I need to speak to you aboutTiberius.”
She pauses for long enough that it’s clear this sentence was supposed to make sense to me, even though it doesn’t. Maybe where she comes from,Tiberius (he was a Roman emperor, right?) is a normal topic of conversation, but in my world, it is not. “Okay,” I say.
Then the bag at her side wriggles, and a pointed black nose emerges, surrounded by a puff of white fur.
Oh. “Tiberius is your dog? I bet they have an animal handler on staff, but that’s not me.” I’m pretty sure that’s a guild requirement to make sure that the animals in the production aren’t abused.
“Tiberius doesn’t need a handler,” Monroe says sternly. “He’s a good boy.”
