On The Verge. Ariella Papa

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      “Yes, actually she got a job working here, working for…” Help! Help! “A different magazine, she just found out last night.” Mrs. Yakimoto is silent for a long time.

      “Well. I would like to see a copy of your last pay stub and I need something from Roseanne. Can she get a letter from her employer?” That Mrs. Yakimoto is sharp, depressingly sharp.

      “Of course, I’ll send it right over.”

      “You can fax it to my husband’s office.” The awful Mr. Yakimoto once again standing in the way of all that is rightfully ours.

      Shit! Shit! Shit! I call Roseanne. She has just returned from a grueling run that she starts to tell me about. I cut her off right away to tell her the news.

      “What are we going to do?” She sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. Why must I always be the pillar? I don’t have time to start wondering why; instead I come up with a brilliant plan. “Roseanne, I’ll call you back.” Immediately I call Tabitha.

      “What’s up?” she says, obviously still a little miffed from yesterday. “Wanna have a cigarette?”

      After a lot of begging and pleading and many allusions to how much more I like Tabitha than anyone else in the world (i.e. Roseanne). I get her to agree to be Roseanne’s boss. An idea that I’m sure would be dangerous were it a reality. The letter I type on NY By Night stationery reads like this:

      To whom it may concern,

      Roseanne Sullivan has been hired as an editorial assistant for NY By Night magazine as of November 1. Her expected salary is $38,000 for this year after which she will renegotiate her contract. Call me with any questions.

      Sincerely,

       Tabitha Milton Vice President, Creative Development, NY By Night

      It is a vision. I call Roseanne to let her know what her new job is and remind her to be very very nice to Tabitha the next time she sees her. Sure enough, within an hour of getting the fax, Mrs. Yakimoto has called Lorraine, my reference, and left a message on Tabitha’s (fortunately) unincriminating voice mail.

      Although she is pretending to be huffy about it, Tabitha likes the idea of all of this. She calls me and then conferences with Mrs. Yakimoto. I keep my phone on mute so I can hear. Mrs. Yakimoto answers for a change. Tabitha is all professional. “Mrs. Yakimoto, this is Tabitha Milton. You left me a message?”

      “Yes, I wanted to know about Roseanne Sullivan.”

      “Oh, right, she’s our new hire. I wrote up a letter…” Tabitha is doing her Big C frazzled impression.

      “Yes, is she going to make $38,000?”

      “Yes, and probably a bonus that she doesn’t know about.” Wow, we never discussed that, what an actress!

      “Really? Do you know Eve Vitali?”

      “I know of her, but she works at a different magazine. I think she’s a writer, too.” Tabitha will be preparing her Oscar speech after this.

      “They’re so young, how did they get these great jobs?” Good question.

      “Just talented I guess. Is that all your questions?”

      “Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Yakimoto is as impressed with us as I am. We all hang up. I call Tabitha right back. She sees my number and answers on the first ring.

      “You owe me so big.”

      “Tabitha that was great. I’ll buy you a drink tonight—ten drinks, whatever. I’ll never stop repaying you.”

      “True enough,” says Tabitha. “But hopefully there will be men buying me drinks, thank you.”

      “There will be. You are the coolest. I am gushing.”

      “Now let’s hope she gives you the damn apartment.”

      “She has to. She just has to.”

      “Okay, I’m going to leave you alone with your emotions. Come to my place after work and we’ll head downtown.”

      “Okay! Um…”

      “Speak!”

      “Roseanne?”

      “Whatever. She can come, I guess. Just tell her to go easy on the perfume or better yet, change it.”

      This means Tabitha is warming up to Roseanne. It’s only a matter of time.

      Roseanne is just as excited about the conversation. I don’t think she can quite believe that Tabitha would do that or that Tabitha wants her to come out tonight (so, I exaggerated a little, I’m giddy).

      I call Mrs. Yakimoto before I leave for the day. She tells me that her conversation went well with Roseanne’s future employer, but she still hasn’t made a decision. She is going away for the weekend with her family and she will let me know on Monday if we can have the apartment. Apparently it is down to one other guy and us.

      “Well, Mrs. Yakimoto, I hope you make the right choice. We really hope to get the apartment.”

      “Believe me, I know. You are definitely persistent.”

      “Thanks,” I say, not sure if it’s really a compliment, “and have a great weekend.”

      The bar we go to is, of course, dark and trendy. Tabitha and Roseanne seem to have resigned themselves to each other a little more. Baby steps, that’s really all I ask. Roseanne was super gracious and Tabitha waved it off with a hand, like an old pro who commits fraud all the time.

      Tabitha situated us in the perfect spot, as usual, on low couches in the back, very close to the VIP room. She sits there in her new outfit and puffs away on her Dunhills. She always winds up getting a light from men at the bar. She dismissively thanks them and continues being aloof and attractive. I am wearing one of Tabitha’s sweaters over the black pants I wore to work. Roseanne, who notes daily how she is becoming more and more of a New Yorker, has put on some sexy black dress that I’ve never seen. She’s going minimalist on the makeup today (honestly she doesn’t need all the foundation) and she looks good—starstruck, but good.

      I bum one of Tabitha’s cigarettes and Roseanne shakes her head. Hey, I’m a social smoker and it looks so cool.

      “Can we go back there?” says Roseanne, motioning to the VIP room. Tabitha and I shrug at each other.

      “We have to assess the situation.” Translation: a few more drinks before we try to schmooze the bouncer.

      “Interesting,” says Tabitha, looking over my head, “but don’t look now.”

      “Who?” I say as Roseanne whips her head around, irking Tabitha incredibly. I cringe.

      “One of the fashion show designers. We profiled him. He’s French, Jaques something. Shit.” Tabitha hates when she can’t remember these important factoids.

      He walks by, and it’s classic СКАЧАТЬ