My Year of Casual Acquaintances (South Bay #1)

12.

It’s too early for wine, so an hour of relaxation yoga appears to be the best alternative for warding off a full-blown anxiety attack. I consult the schedule and find a suitable class at three o’clock. I compose a brief, formal email to Robert confirming my resignation – again, always wise to have a paper trail in matters of importance – before I shut down my work email program. Now that I’m offline and my work phone is out of commission, I won’t have to worry about Robert trying to talk me out of resigning. But I turn off my cellphone as well, to be on the safe side.

At yoga class, Sexy Eyes—I mean, Charlie—is in his usual spot. Since the row behind him is fully subscribed today, I must plant my mat to the right of his. This sidewise proximity will limit my ogling opportunities, but at least I’ll get to gaze at him every time we twist or turn to the left. And I won’t embarrass myself in his presence by bungling difficult balancing poses or pretzel-like moves since this class is limited to seated or reclining stretches and relaxation postures. By the end of the hour, I am indeed calmer and more optimistic about my professional future.

Outside the yoga studio is a second-floor outdoor walkway, where I pause to gaze over the railing to the sparkling pool area below and the dark blue harbor beyond, which is speckled with small sailboats at this hour. Charlie walks up and grips the railing with both hands, stretching out his long arms as he takes in the view. “It’s hard to think about going back to work with a tempting vista like that in front of you, isn’t it?” he asks. His voice is like a smile.

“Do you always work late in the day?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Only when I have to meet a publishing deadline.”

“Oh. I actually prefer working late afternoons and evenings. I work from a home office.”

“Doing what?” he asks.

“Editor of an engineering journal.” For years, my identity has been so defined by this job, it isn’t until after the words spill out that I realize they are no longer true.

“An editor,” he says. “Well, well. I should confess that editors are the joy of my career and also the bane of my existence. The editor is my inspiration and my nemesis. My protector and my attacker. My liberator and my enslaver. And all at the same time.”

Wow. If he can speak off the cuff with such eloquence, what must his writing be like? I should take the time to find out. Evidently, he knows I know he’s a novelist. Perhaps Sunny has discussed me with him.

“My current editor is the relentless pest who calls my agent every day and screeches, ‘Where are those pages Kittredge promised?’” he says. “But without her and the others before her, I’d be nowhere.”

“You make the editorial profession sound so glamorous . . . and powerful.”

“It is,” he says.

I must have a stricken expression on my face because he gives me a curious half-squint and tilts his head to one side, causing his long boyish bangs to flop from one side of his forehead to the other. “Maybe in the engineering world, being an editor is different?”

“Oh yes,” I say as I heave a sigh. “I can assure you it is.” As much as I’ve been enjoying the quiet conversation and the tranquil view, this stark reminder of my present situation has planted me back into reality, and all at once, I’m itchy to be alone. With a sad smile, I wish him a nice day and I head out to the esplanade.

Pausing in the lobby to refill my water bottle, I listen in on a conversation between Dame Donut and a red-faced man I haven’t seen before. Although it’s an unwritten rule among members to avoid controversial topics, this man is expressing his uninformed opinion that climate change is a big fat hoax. Dame Donut says to him, her tone silky-smooth, “An accomplished man like yourself is much too intelligent to believe that, so I’m going to assume you were joking just now.” She gives him a gracious smile and glides away.

Well done, Dame Donut. In the same situation, I would’ve muttered “asshole,” stomped off, and then berated myself for the inelegant response. As a professional writer and editor, how is it I so often allow my words to betray me, as they did when I quit my beloved job on impulse? Part of me already regrets my blurted resignation.

Right or wrong, what’s done is done. During my walk today, I compose a mental list of all the clients for whom I’ve free-lanced. I’ll call or email my contacts at these companies and drum up a little business for myself. As long as I’m proactive, I believe my efforts will yield results. I have to believe this. Perhaps my search will lead me to a full-time job offer, though I’m not sure I want to go that route. It will be difficult, if not impossible, to find another employer willing to give me as much flexibility and freedom as Robert did, and I don’t want to be chained to a nine-to-five (or worse) office gig.

When I cross paths with Audrey and Petey, the dog acts subdued, as if he’s picking up on my sober vibe. Since he doesn’t jump on me today, I squat down to scratch him under the chin, and he thanks me with a smelly kiss. Audrey and I smile and exchange greetings, but I resume my walk at a brisk pace. I have no stomach for small talk this afternoon. Back home, I pour a glass of a nice Chianti and fix myself an early dinner – TJ’s frozen turkey Bolognese. All I have to do is nuke the package in the microwave for a few minutes. I boil a pot of salted water, throw in a handful of whole wheat penne, drain the cooked pasta in a colander, and toss the hot penne and sauce together with a tablespoon of grated parmesan. For a side dish, I make broccoli florets, also nuked. This is about as fancy as I get in the kitchen.

I top up my wine glass and settle at the computer for the evening, grateful to have a free-lance assignment to occupy my troubled mind. The task at hand is a five-page article for a building products company, a case study describing how an architect used my client’s solar panels to save energy. After a couple of hours, I have a respectable first draft. It’s not due for two weeks, but I need to stay productive.

The next day, I give the case study a fresh read and do a little fine-tuning. Then I proceed with my new business initiative. I make a spreadsheet of all my prospects and shoot out a brief email to the full list: I’m pleased to announce that I am expanding my free-lance business and am ready to offer excellent availability and fast turnaround on all your writing and editing projects. Call or email me for a project quote. I look forward to working with you.

I also make half a dozen calls to the people with whom I have the closest professional relationships. Nobody answers their office phones anymore, so I leave friendly voicemail messages to deliver my pitch. I summarize all these outreach activities on my spreadsheet to make sure I have a detailed record. By the time I finish this busywork, half of the morning still lies ahead. I’ll walk over to the gym for a couple of hours, but then what? I can only spend so much time exercising and socializing in the locker room. After my workout is done, how will I engage myself for the rest of the day? And tomorrow, and the day after that, and all the days that follow? Panic stirs within me. This isn’t about money – I have more than enough between the settlement and the house sale. It’s about time.

Throughout my married life, between the magazine job, free-lance work, and family obligations, the pace was relentless. I used to imagine being bathed in time, never feeling rushed or overwhelmed. I envisioned myself luxuriating for hours in a Jacuzzi tub with fragrant bubbles, a good book, and a glass of champagne. I pictured long ferry rides to Catalina Island, hiking explorations of the Santa Monica mountains, daytime excursions to museums and lectures. But now that time has been handed to me like a gift, and all these pleasures are mine for the taking, the things that used to attract me are now repellent – like a Prince Charming transformed into a slimy frog.

Leisure is my enemy, not my friend. All I want is to work.

. . .

The following days are fraught with anxiety and boredom, which I try to relieve through a series of small tasks. Check email and voicemail again. Make another round of phone solicitations. Set up a new filing system that would make Judge Judy proud. But after two more weeks of this, not a single soul has responded to my new business overtures. Knowing the few free-lance assignments on my to-do list will be completed soon, I grow more despondent by the hour. If I weren’t on the outs with Michael, this would be a perfect opportunity to spend more time with Benny. Remembering our day at the tide pools, I feel that ache of guilty regret again. If only I hadn’t bungled things last month when Heather was sick. What was I thinking, leaving him with Sunny without their permission? I keep trying to call Mum, but every time I reach her, she says, “Now’s a bad time, Margy,” or “Frightfully busy this week.”

At the club each day, I prolong my routine as much as possible. I work out in the equipment room, I attend a couple of classes, I chitchat indoors in the lobby and outdoors on the pool deck. Since I have nothing else to do, I no longer wait until late afternoon for my daily esplanade walk. I go out earlier, directly from the club, plugging in earphones and listening to music or podcasts to avoid reflecting on my personal circumstances. It’s pleasant enough, I guess. But I no longer see Petey and Audrey because of the deviation in my schedule, and their absence has left yet another hole.

Back at the club one afternoon, desperate to fill time, I decide to use the women’s steam room. Though sitting naked in a chamber filled with burning vapor can make me claustrophobic, today I spread a big towel on the highest bench, stretch out, and let the scalding steam penetrate every pore, hoping it will sweat the toxins from my mind and body. Fifteen minutes later, in the shower, I can’t say the experiment has done any good, but at least it’s allowed me to forestall my dreaded return home by another quarter of an hour. I dress, grab my gym bag from the locker, and am getting ready to leave when I overhear a conversation. Amazon Lady is talking to a woman I haven’t seen before – another redhead, although her long thick hair reminds me of a chestnut mare, in contrast to Amazon Lady’s finer strawberry-blond tresses.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Horsehair says to Amazon Lady.

“What’s wrong, Cheryl?”

“My sitter fell down the stairs and broke her leg. She won’t be able to take care of Connor.”

“For how long?”

“That depends on how it heals—but a long time. Like, weeks.”

“Remind me, how old is he?”

“Four and a half.”

“Why can’t she sit for him anyway? He’s not an infant who needs to be carried.”

“Are you kidding? The way that kid runs around in the playground, you almost have to be a marathon runner to keep him out of trouble. A middle-aged woman on crutches is not gonna cut it.”

“Oh yeah, I see what you mean. But can’t you bring him to the daycare place here?”

“My time at the gym isn’t the problem. I can work out in the mornings when Connor is in pre-school. But I volunteer twice a week, and I have my three-hour art class on two other days, so I need a private afternoon caregiver at home. Do you know anyone who babysits?”

I silently curse Nic Rodriguez for dragging me down to my current depths of despair. Then I stride over to the two redheads, straightening my back and shoulders as I walk. I want to project an air of authority while also exuding warmth and tenderness, like a woman who can control any situation but in a nurturing way. I reward Horse Hair/Cheryl with my brightest and most confident smile as I say, “I babysit.”