Chapter 1 : Part 2

It's About Your Husband
by Lauren Lipton

(Page 2 of 7)

I won't have, though, and that's too bad. It might have been an early clue that perhaps I'm unfit for the new career that's about to fall into my lap. What was it they just said at the unemployment office? Our experience is our toolbox, with our skills as the tools? Well, it seems I've locked my observational skills into my toolbox and left it on a street corner somewhere. Since relocating to New York five weeks ago for a fancy focusgroup moderator position at Hayes Heeley Market Research, and up until getting "restructured" right out of that very same position two days ago, I worked, went for coffee, and had lunch with Valerie Benjamin nearly every day. After this much concentrated time in her company I know what she looks like down to the last eyelash. I know her taste in men, clothing, and cocktails, her life's philosophy, and her family background. I know she has an identical twin.

In fact, one of Val's favorite conversational pastimes is counting the many ways her sister is spoiled and selfish, sharing stories of behavior so abysmal I always find myself grateful to be an only child. I know Victoria doesn't work, and that she is married to a commercial real-estate broker named Steve. Five years ago, minutes before her three-hundred-guest New York Times-approved wedding at their parents' estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, Vickie got so overwrought that she screamed a string of obscenities at Val, then fell weeping onto her bed and refused to get up. Val was beginning to think she'd have to give Vickie a slap-and, considering the scene to which she was being subjected, was looking forward to it the tiniest little bit-when Vickie snapped out of it abruptly on her own, splashed some cold water on her face, and an hour later was flitting happily around her reception without so much as an apology to Val.

Right now, though, with Vickie here before me, bawling, I only feel bad for her. "I am so sorry. I did think you were Val. You must get that all the time."

"Constantly." Through her tears, Vickie sounds sarcastic. I'm this close to excusing myself and slinking away when Val, the genuine article, materializes at the top of the staircase. I wave her over. Saved!

Now, in my own defense, I am preoccupied today. But Vickie is right; who could mix up these two? Yes, they have the same rosy cheeks, the same gray eyes, matching stewardess noses with the same smattering of freckles across the bridge. But Vickie wears a wedding ring, the Junior League hairdo, and sensible Ferragamo flats. And here's Val, my friend and, until Monday afternoon, office colleague. Ecstatically single, with an unruly electric-red downtown crop, deliberately smudgy eyeliner, vintage sixties go-go boots, and a mod little miniskirt in which it's pretty clear Vickie wouldn't be caught dead. Vickie: Greenwich. Val: Greenwich Village.

"Iris! And Vickie?" Val, too, looks perplexed. "Val, it was the strangest coincidence." Life is looking better already. I provide a quick recap of the past five minutes while Vickie grudgingly clears two inches of space for her sister. Val's black vinyl skirt makes a squeaky noise as she sits down.

"It's not that strange," she says. "Manhattan is just a big small town. People bump into each other all the time. It can be a real pain."

"Believe me, if I'd known I'd bump into you here, I never would have come," Vickie retorts.

"Now, now, Vickie-poo, I wasn't talking about you. Tell me, Iris, is there a walk of shame in the San Fernando Valley?" I lean closer, grazing my chin on the corner of a shopping bag. "Walk of shame? You mean Walk of Fame?"

"Walk of shame. When you go back with someone to his apartment and then, on your way home the next morning, run into one of your mother's ladies-who-lunch chums, who can tell you're blatantly wearing an outfit from the night before."

Vickie eyes Val's hemline. "Sort of like you're doing now?" "I'll have you know, this is not a walk of shame. This is office attire," Val snaps. "I'm simply explaining to Iris that New York is a small town."

"Technically there's no walk of shame in the Valley." I say it quickly, sensing an argument about to happen. "So, then, what were you wearing the first night you stayed over at Teddy's place?" Val asks me. "And what did you wear home?"

I scrutinize my glass of Rolling Rock. Had I thought to get something in a bottle, with a paper label, I could now make myself busy peeling it off.

"Come on, Iris. Don't tell me you wore his old sweatpants; that's a hundred times more shameful-a fashion faux pas." "I just sort of never left." I'm blushing. "I just kind of stayed."

Both twins stare at me. "Never mind." I take a drink. "Where I come from, people scurry out to the curb when no one's watching, dive into their cars, and speed home."

"There you go," says Val. "Another difference between the coasts. In New York, everybody walks at least one walk of shame. Now that you're living here, it's only a matter of time."

"Well, I've never done any such thing," Vickie says. Val peers at her in a way that suggests her sister's presence has only now sunk in. "Why are you here, anyway? Don't they have bars in Yorkville?"

Copyright © 2006 by Lauren Lipton

About the Author

Lauren Lipton is a deputy editor at Cosmopolitan. Previously she was a senior editor at In Style and a staff writer at The Wall Street Journal, where for the popular Weekend Journal section she reported on supersize engagement rings, copycat brides who steal their friends' wedding ideas, and luxury homes with his-and-hers garages. Her work has also appeared in publications including Glamour and Marie Claire and on National Public Radio's All Things Considered. She began her career as a staff writer at the Los Angeles Times, covering television and lifestyle trends.