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ASSESSMENT OF PAST YEAR
Emma Taylor
Age 31 (just)

Accomplishments:

1. Have accepted self for Who I Am (i.e., small-breasted and skinny). After all, bigger boobs would only make me front-heavy, which is a bad thing because (apart from possibility of curvature of spine problem, or implants exploding on airplane due to air pressure problem) bigger boobs would only make me prone to falling on my face. Or not exactly on my face on account of surgically enhanced boobs breaking my fall—image of me bouncing along sidewalk on stiff implants is not attractive...However, have gained three more pounds thanks to disgusting bodybuilding shakes and am now well within personal body mass indicator. Excellent progress!

2. Have become A Couple! But not only this, have also been with lovely, caring, boyfriend Jack for eight whole months, so is now officially a long-term, grown-up, covalently bonded relationship. Y-e-s! See, best friend Rachel (with her Texas-sized brain) has a really great atomic chemistry theory about men. They are either (a) ionic bonders, i.e., they bond with another atom (make you fall for them), dispel their extra electron (have sex with you) then leave fully charged; (b) noble gasses, i.e., don’t bond with anyone; or (c) covalent bonders, i.e., permanently bond with another atom (fall in love with you), share electrons and create totally stable partnership. The perfect man! The perfect relationship! Very good progress so far...

3. Have pleased both parents and stepmom with my choice of Life Partner. Although (obviously) is more important to please self than others when falling in love, is very nice that Dad, Peri and Julia approve. Dad (plastic surgeon), because Jack is not in need of plastic-surgery procedures, plus Jack is up-and-coming architect with great future prospects (to support possible future offspring and me). Peri, my stepmom, because Jack is her younger brother and therefore perfection personified. Julia, politically correct, Human Rights-lawyer mother, also approves because Jack is in touch with his feminine side—see, Jack has no masculine/feminine identity problem when driving my daffodil yellow, painted-with-flowers Beetle. Plus, when Julia cross-examined him as to exact locations of female erogenous zones, he passed with flying colors. Although all she had to do was to ask me...Honestly, I’m the one sleeping with him so have insider information!

4. Have made progress on Career Front. Kind of...Although I thought that being promoted to Junior Account Manager, Advertising, would involve more creative work with Vietnamese potbellied pigs and cellulite creams, or similar, and less typing and coffee making...Not bad progress...but not great, either. Hmmm...

5. Have become A Woman of Means! At least, have become A Woman With Savings Account...promotion to Junior Account Manager, Advertising, means more money, and have so far saved nearly three thousand dollars (possibly toward Jack’s new roof when he asks me to marry him?). Very good progress—need to continue good work.

6. Have become A Philanthropist. At least, have committed self to monthly fifteen-dollar donations to assist children in Third World. Excellent progress!

7. Have retained Personal Friends despite being half of A Couple. Because is important to retain friends, and not to lose sight of them just because one has fulfilling personal relationship.

8. Have met personal Gods Among Men, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones! Crowning personal achievement! Y-e-s! (Apart from relationship with Jack, obviously.) Well, didn’t actually meet Led Zeppelin...but was only few feet away from them at launch of new DVD movie, so at least have breathed the same air...could almost have reached out to touch Robert Plant’s lovely blond hair.

Still to Accomplish:

1. Subtly indicate to Jack that am ready to take next step with mature, covalently-bonded relationship, i.e., move in properly (e.g., next week?).

2. Get engaged (but in fullness of time—Tiffany ring is definitely not a prerequisite, though. Definitely not).

3. Get married (also in fullness of time—sooner would be nice, but possibly next spring?).

4. Purchase more Manolo Blahnik shoes (possibly for wedding?).

5. Expand philanthropic works. Look into details of purchasing livestock for third-world villages in near future (possibly goats or chickens).

6. Do something positive about career. But what? Need to give this more thought...

All in all, not a bad year...but still room for improvement...

Chapter One — Déjà Vu

TO DO

1. Stay in bed with Jack allll mooorning looong (is my birthday, after all).

2. Have romantic sex (or deliciously wanton sex—both are equally acceptable), repeatedly, and at length, allll moorning looong. With Jack.

3. Choose exactly right outfit for tonight’s birthday (and possible engagement) celebration!

4. Be stunned and enthusiastic tonight when Jack surprises me with emerald engagement ring. Even though ring is too big. Even though am not fond of emeralds...

Saturday, June 28. 7:30 a.m.

Happy, happy thirty-first birthday to me, I think, as I snuggle sleepily into the comforter, and Jack spoons me closer. Mmm. Although it’s only early morning and my birthday’s still young, it’s already my best one yet. Definitely.

And Jack says I owe it to myself to spend at last half of the day in bed on account of it being my day to be pampered. But also on account of him wanting to spend time in bed with me! Y-e-s! This is definitely one of the pluses of having such a gorgeous, loving boyfriend—sex on demand!

Twice so far this morning...in fact, the second time Jack did this really great thing with—No. I’m not going there. Let’s just say that Jack has a great imagination and is full of surprises. Let’s just leave it there. But it was truly sublime...Actually I’m already feeling ready for a bit more birthday loving...wonder if Jack does, too?

I snuggle closer into his warmth, but although his arm tightens around me, I can feel his even breath on the back of my neck. Best to let him doze for a bit to regain his strength. Over the past couple of months he’s been really busy with his latest architectural project in Boston—something to do with the harbor, I think. I don’t really know, because Jack doesn’t usually bring work home. Actually, he does bring quite a lot of work home these days—he spends a lot of time closeted in the dining room with his computer and his blueprints...

Anyway, because he’s been soooo busy and tired, our sex life hasn’t exactly been overactive recently. So today we’re just making up for lost time. See?

As I try to drift back to sleep, I can’t help but think about today and how wonderful it’s going to be. This is our plan:

1. Stay in bed until at least noon, then take a leisurely (and naughty) shower. Together.

2. Amble down to the waterfront and have lunch in the fabulous new seafood restaurant. Together.

3. Amble back here to Jack’s house. Go back to bed for the rest of the afternoon. Together (but not to sleep, obviously).

4. Get ready for my party, tonight. Together. Best friends Sylvester and David are hosting it at their restaurant, even though it is Saturday night—their busiest time of the week. How lovely is that? They insisted, because although thirty-one isn’t a milestone age, my thirtieth birthday was a complete disaster...

Oh, togetherness is wonderful...

Wish we could be together more permanently, though. Like me moving in with Jack properly, instead of just spending most of my time here...Of course, it is important to maintain one’s individual identity within a relationship. But I just want to maintain my identity while actually living with Jack.

Wonder if Jack will ever get around to asking me to move in? No, I’m not going to think about that now. After all, we’ve only been together for eight months...

And anyway, look what happened with Bastard Adam, my previous boyfriend. I moved in with him and we broke up three months later. And where did that leave me? Boyfriendless, homeless...Yes, maintaining separate homes is definitely the right thing to do for now. I’m definitely going back to sleep.

7:40 a.m.

It’s no good, I’m just not sleepy. It’s this living together thing—I’ve really been giving it a lot of thought recently.

Okay, so things didn’t work out with Adam. Okay, so Adam forgot my birthday, used me for sex, cheated on me with a much older, well-endowed woman, and screwed me at work by ruthlessly stealing my ideas. But Adam, according to best friend Rachel, was a total bastard ionic bonder.

Jack, on the other hand, is a wonderful, kind, covalent bonder. But he does have commitment issues...I mean, he has this private area of his past that he keeps separate from me. When I’ve tried to broach the subject of his ex-fiancée sleeping with his best friend, or about our long-term future, he kind of gets quiet and defensive, and so I change the subject.

But despite his commitment issues, Covalent Bonder Jack is so lovely in other areas of our personal life. I mean, Bastard Ionic Bonder Adam would never have made a public fool of himself for me. He was always very conscious of appearances—particularly his own.

Jack, on the other hand, is not a self-obsessed jerk and did make a complete fool of himself for me. Oh, but it was the most romantic thing in the world when he did the karaoke-complete-with-long-blond-wig Robert Plant impersonation thing at my friend’s birthday party. Just so he could apologize to me, and to make me see how much I mean to him.

Adam would never have requested a Led Zeppelin song for me on the radio, or accompanied me to the Led Zeppelin DVD launch, because he assumed that I only liked classical music, like him.

Now Jack knows that I love Led Zeppelin—hence his Robert Plant ("Bob" to me, his number one fan) impersonation, and his cheerful willingness to spend Memorial weekend helping me dial the radio station to win those tickets.

But you know, I especially couldn’t resist Jack after he rescued Betty the Beauty. I mean, how could I resist a man who rescues a hit-and-run dog, hands out wads of money for emergency animal-hospital treatment, and then adopts the dog? Even if the dog only has three legs...

So you see, Adam and Jack are two completely different types of men. So I shouldn’t worry about me not-yet living with Jack. I’m sure he’ll open up to me when he’s ready. I think he just needs time...

And Betty the Beauty manages exceptionally well with three legs, I think, as she trot-hops across the bedroom and scrambles up onto the bed beside me. I was wondering where she’d gone—it’s about time for her breakfast. She’s such a sweet, clever little dog, but I think she gets embarrassed when me and Jack have sex—she usually yowls a bit, then takes refuge in one of the spare bedrooms.

We called her Beauty at first, but then we changed it. Although we think she’s beautiful, it’s in a nontraditional, beautiful-ugly, scrawny-mongrel kind of way. Because when we take her for walks people tend to notice her missing leg, and they always ask, "What’s your dog’s name?" When we used to say, "Beauty," they generally grinned, or even worse, laughed aloud. I mean really. How rude. Didn’t they realize how damaging that could be for Betty’s self-esteem?

Of course, I know all about the stressful demands of an inappropriate name. My mother named me for Emmeline Pankhurst, the famous British suffragette. Trust me, it took me years to quit worrying that I just wasn’t cut out to be a letterbox-burning radical...Although, obviously, I do strongly believe in the women’s suffrage movement. And World Peace and Human Rights.

Betty licks my nose and curls into a small ball of black fur, and I’m instantly flooded with love for her. As I cuddle her closer, I wonder if she misses me when I’m not here? I wonder if Jack and me not living together is stressful for her? See, that would be another good reason for me to move in—we’re probably scarring poor Betty for life!

7:45 a.m.

Oh, telephone. Wonder if I should answer it? I mean, it’s technically Jack’s phone, so it’s not really down to me to answer it...But who would call at this time of the morning apart from a bastard telemarketer in a bid to extricate cash from us? On the other hand it could be my mother calling from London. She forgets sometimes about the five-hour time difference. But it is Jack’s phone, so I should just leave it.

That’s the third ring. I don’t know how Jack can sleep through it. Wonder if I should wake him up? No, he needs his sleep...

I try to ignore the strong urge to grab for the receiver. If it rings twice more, the voicemail will pick it up, so whoever is calling will leave a message. We can always call them back later...But what if it’s urgent?

Betty scrambles to full three-legged alert, and howls at the ringing phone. See—it’s a sign! Someone needs to answer that call right now.

"Go on," Jack rumbles in my ear, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You know you want to pick up. It’s probably for you—one of your multitude of friends, desperate for your advice. Or your mother."

See—this is another reason I love Jack—he totally understands me!

As I slip out of his arms and reach for the receiver, Jack moves with me and nuzzles my neck, and his hands are—well, I won’t tell you where his hands are...Betty is not impressed—she yowls again, flashes me a disgusted look, then trot-hops off the bed and out of the bedroom.

"Hello," I burble down the cordless telephone just a bit breathlessly. Thank God the person on the other end can’t see what we’re doing!

"Emma." Oh. It’s Claire, Jack’s boss. "I need to speak to Jack."

This is a baaad sign! Why is she calling him on a Saturday morning? On my birthday?

"Finish up quick," Jack whispers in my ear. "I have more plans for you and they don’t involve conversation."

I wish I could just hang up and disconnect the telephone from the wall, but I don’t, because the Boston project is very important to Jack. Oh, but his hands make it very hard for me to think straight, and I am tempted briefly to throw the phone (and Claire, but only in a metaphorical sense) across the bedroom. But I don’t.

"Oh, hi," I say cheerfully to Claire instead, because although I can barely breathe on account of Jack and his wonderful hands, and what they’re doing to me, I’m also getting a very bad feeling that my birthday is about to be ruined. And anyway, it’s rude to call someone and not say "hi" isn’t it?

Actually, I don’t think that Claire likes me, because on the few occasions I’ve met her she hasn’t made much effort to disguise the fact that she thinks I’m an empty-headed idiot. And she does have this habit of making sly little remarks...Okay, so I do tend to sound a bit dumb when I speak to her, but that’s because she makes me nervous. Plus, my feminine instincts bristle whenever she’s around. I’m sure she wants to be more to Jack than just his boss.

"How are you?" I add, because I want to rub in her rudeness just a bit more.

"Fine," Claire says curtly. And then, "Emma, it’s urgent that I speak with Jack."

"Hurry, hurry," Jack whispers in my ear again. "If you don’t finish up your conversation right now, whoever is on the other end is gonna get very, very embarrassed."

"It’s Claire," I tell him, reluctant to let her interfere with our day together. And he immediately stops kissing my neck and removes his hands from my person as he takes the phone.

"Claire, hi." Jack rolls over to his side of the bed, and I am instantly cold. But not just from the lack of Jack’s body heat. "What’s the problem?" Jack climbs out of bed and starts pacing the bedroom, and icy fingers of dread clutch at my stomach. "I specifically told them not to cut corners on—" Jack pushes a hand through his hair and frowns.

As Betty (who is smart enough to figure out that the sex is now a nonhappening event) joins me on the bed again, we both watch Jack pace. Our heads follow him back and forth; our synchronicity is impeccable. Betty is wearing the same "Oh boy, this is bad news" expression as me. As I said, Betty is very smart. Plus, she doesn’t like Claire. Betty is also an excellent judge of character.

"Today?" Jack stops in his tracks. He is truly magnificent in his nakedness. "I can’t go to Boston toda—" He begins pacing again as he listens intently to whatever bad news Claire is imparting.

But how lovely is that? Saying "no" to Claire, because he wants to spend my birthday with me.

"How about tomorro—" He pinches the bridge of his nose.  "Yes, I understand how important this project is to—"

How selfish am I?

Poor Jack is between a rock and a hard place. If he refuses to go to Boston, his project could be in serious trouble. If he goes to Boston, he’ll be letting me down.

I look at Betty, who licks my hand and gazes at me with complete understanding. We know what I have to do.

"Jack," I say, my voice trembling just a bit.

"Yes, Claire, I know it’s—"

"Jack," I say again, this time with conviction.

Jack looks across at me, shakes his head, and mouths "Don’t worry." But I am worried.

I jump out of bed and pad over to him, taking his free hand in mine.

"Let me put you on hold a moment, Claire," Jack tells her.

"If you need to go to Boston, don’t worry about hurting my feelings." There. I said it. I feel like shit, but I can see the relief on Jack’s face. "We can do the birthday thing tomorrow, instead." God, I feel like Mother Theresa. Or at least how Mother Theresa used to feel. When she was still with us, instead of in Heaven. I should give my halo a bit of a polish.

"No," Jack tells me, his hand hovering over the mute button, but I can see he’s tempted. "We’ve made plans. You’re far more important than work." Oh, that’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

"But I’ll still be here when you get back." I squeeze his arm and smile reassuringly. Even though I don’t want him to go.

"You really mean it?"

"Absolutely." Nonononono. But I don’t say that, obviously.

"You are amazing." He plants a quick kiss on my mouth. I don’t feel very amazing. I feel amazingly horrible and empty. "Okay, Claire, what time’s the flight?"

And as they discuss the ins and outs of whatever problem is going on, I climb back into bed with Betty.

"I’ll see you in an hour." Jack clicks off the phone as my brain clicks into gear.

Of course he’ll see Claire in an hour; it makes perfect sense for Claire to go with him. The fact that Claire is tall, blond, intelligent, and wears a C cup is a nonissue for me, because as Jack has told me on many occasions, my 32AAs are perfect, and that more than a mouthful is a waste. No, I’m not worried about Jack being alone with Claire. Call me suspicious if you like, but I’m not so sure about Claire making a play for Jack...

"You sure about this?" Jack asks, pulling me into his arms, and I sigh as I rest my head against his chest. "Because if you’re not, I can call her right back and—"

"It’s totally fine," I lie, as I link my arms around his neck. "Betty and me will be so busy hanging out and doing girly things we’ll hardly notice you’re gone."

"Try to miss me just a little." Jack pulls me even closer. "I’ll be back for your party, I swear." And then he whispers in my ear, "How about a real fast quickie?"

Exactly what I had in mind...Mmm.

Betty marks her departure with a disgusted yowl.

8:10 a.m.

It’s not the same—spending the morning in bed if you’re on your own. Think I’ll get up and make some coffee.

"Yes, I know," I tell the now-impatient Betty, who is tugging at the comforter in a way that implies "Feed me now." "It’s past your breakfast time, and you’re hungry, poor baby."

Don’t think Jack will mind if I borrow a pair of his boxer shorts. It’s hot, and the boxers are so comfy for lounging around the house...

"Jack," I shout through to the adjoining bathroom, but he can’t hear me on account of the shower and him singing. I’ll just help myself, I think, as I rummage through his underwear drawer. I have to say it, Jack is not the most melodious of people—Oh, what’s this?

It’s a small jeweler’s box. A ring-sized box. Hidden away at the back of Jack’s underwear. It’s not Tiffany’s but...

My God!

My engagement ring!

Jack’s going to propose to me! And after all my worrying about not living with him, and his commitment issues...

My heart pounds right into my mouth as I finger the smooth velvet. Should I take a peek? Or will that spoil the surprise? I glance across at the bathroom, but Jack is still singing along in his own special way.

Betty raises an ear and snuffles in what I think is a very encouraging manner. I feel a bit sneaky, though, rummaging through Jack’s personal stuff...

Okay—just a small peek.

I glance again at the bathroom, take a deep breath, and open the box.

Ohmigoditsanemeraldring. Breathe, I tell myself.

Itstoobigforme. In-out, in-out.

The shower and singing shut off abruptly, and I hear the swish of the shower curtain. So I shut the box, carefully (but quickly) replace it exactly where I accidentally found it, and leap back into bed.

Now call me a bit ungrateful if you like, bearing in mind that my loving boyfriend has bought me an engagement ring in order to make a lifelong commitment to me. But an emerald is not my stone of choice. And the thing is. The thing is that Jack knows this, because I have mentioned it to him on several occasions. You know—on the odd occasion we’ve passed a jeweler’s store together, I’ve made the rare, nonchalant comment about how I think that diamonds are so much prettier than colored stones...not as a hint or anything, but it’s better to get these things out into the open. Also, Jack knows my ring size. Because I’ve mentioned this once or twice, too... actually, quite a lot more than once or twice...

"You okay?" He flashes me a concerned glance as he dries himself with the towel.

"Yes. I’m fine," I squeak, and Jack looks puzzled.

"But you don’t look okay. You’re flushed."

"Oh, I’m just a bit—you know—excited about my party."

"I almost forgot. Do you want your gifts now or later, birthday girl?"

Oh God. Do I want him to propose to me now? Or later, when we can celebrate properly?

"Oh, tonight will be just fine," I squeak at him again, because my vocal cords are not responding to orders from my brain.

"You look like you’re worrying about something. Or getting sick." Jack frowns at me.

"No, no. Never felt better."

"Okay." Jack, not convinced, checks my forehead with his hand. "Give it up. What’s bothering you?"

Jack knows me too well, sometimes.

"Really, everything’s fine," I babble. "I think I just need to eat—you know, low blood sugar from all that exercise—do you have time for breakfast? Only breakfast is really, really important, because—"

"Emma, sweetheart," Jack interrupts me. "Quit worrying about whatever the hell it is you are worrying about." He kisses my forehead. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"And the answer’s yes."

"Hmm?"

"Breakfast—go take a look in the refrigerator."

8:30 a.m.

Jack got strawberries and croissants for my birthday breakfast! How lovely is he!

So this is the puzzle, I think, as I pour coffee into two mugs and carry them to the kitchen table. Jack, who knows me so well that he can tell something is worrying me; Jack, who knows that I love strawberries, and warm croissants, and Robert Plant, has bought me an engagement ring that I will hate.

How did that happen?

"Hey, where have you gone?" Jack gives me a puzzled little smile, midchew.

"Just thinking about—you know—" I say, looking at Betty for inspiration. "—things. How they can change in such a short time." Like from not actually living with someone to being engaged, in one fell swoop. But I don’t say this.

"Yeah. Betty sure settled in quick. Can’t believe she’s the same dog as the nervy little thing I brought back from the animal hospital."

Right on cue, Betty begs for another bite of croissant, because apart from the fact that she is greedy; she is a dog of excellent culinary taste.

"You are such a fraud," I laugh. "Croissants are not doggie food." But I give in to her and feed her a small chunk.

"And you," Jack tells me, feeding me a strawberry, "are a completely softhearted sweetheart. You’d better get that," he adds, as the phone rings.

Caller ID says "out of area," but I swallow my strawberry and pick up, because although it could be (a) a bastard telemarketer, it could also be (b) my mother.

"Hi, this is Scot. May I please speak with Jack?"

This is a cunning ploy on Scot’s part to make me think that he is personally acquainted with Jack. But I can just tell that this is yet another telemarketing tactic to lull me into a false sense of security. I know for a fact that Jack doesn’t know anyone called Scot. I quickly decide on my strategy for Scot evasion.

"Hi, Scot," I greet him like a long-lost friend. "Jack’s indisposed in a priapismically difficult way at the moment." I grin as Jack chokes on his coffee. I have just told the hapless Scot that Jack is suffering from a prolonged (and probably painful) erection.

"I’m sorry to hear that," Scot tells me, not sounding sorry at all. "Is this Mrs. Brown?"

Hmm. Mrs. Brown. Mrs. Emma Brown. That has a nice ring to it. Or should I be Mrs. Emmeline Beaufort Taylor-Brown? No, that’s a bit of a mouthful. I think I like the simple option.

"Mrs. Brown?" Oh, I forgot about Scot...

"No, definitely not," I say in my mother’s Mrs. Thatcher voice. "I’m Jack’s wanton sex slave, and we’re right in the middle of an extended bondage session. Did you want to leave a message, Scot? Only he’ll be tied up for a while. You know, it’s amazing what you can do with a pair of handcuffs, a tub of chocolate sauce, and nine-and-a-half inches of pulsating, penile muscle."

Jack has now given up trying to drink his coffee and is clutching his stomach.

"Thanks for your time, ma’am," Scot gasps. Click.

"You are baaad." Jack grabs me and kisses me. And then, a bit faintly, "Nine-and-a-half inches?"

"Well, it was the first measurement that sprang to mind."

"I’m flattered, but I think you might be off by an inch or so."

"Maybe we should—you know—find out for sure with a ruler," I say, pressing myself against him. Mmm.

"Not a chance—there are some measurements a man likes to keep to himself. But I love the idea of the handcuffs and the chocolate sauce. Sounds...intriguing," he says, between kisses. And then his taxi honks from the street.

"You’d better go." I release him and straighten his tie, not wanting him to leave.

"See you tonight. Torture many telemarketers." He smiles his wolfish smile and my heart pittypats. And then to Betty, "Be good." And then he’s gone.

8:45 a.m.

So what will I do with myself all day? It’s still a bit early to call my friends. Besides, I must keep my mouth firmly shut about the ring. The ring...

I can’t help it. A vision of The One Ring from The Lord of the Rings flashes before my eyes in an orangey-greeny blur (on account of the emerald). I mean, I love the idea of the ring, but not the actuality of its greenness. I hear Gandalf whispering in my ear, "Is it secret? Is it safe?" Oh, God, this is too much...Maybe I should go and take another peek at it—maybe it will grow on me (but not in a bad, all-consuming Lord of the Rings kind of way, obviously).

No. I’m going to be strong. I’m going to wait until tonight...

8:55 a.m.

Okay, so I’m going to take just one more little peek...

Maybe if I try it on, it will look better. And I should practice in front of the mirror, just so I don’t show any signs of distaste when Jack surprises me later.

8:57 a.m.

The ring is not here.

Jack has taken it to Boston with him!

I am instantly filled with horrid feelings of déjà vu.

You see, last year I thought I was getting a ring from Bastard Adam, but it wasn’t for me...It was for his mistress.

The emerald ring is too big and just too...green.

Has Jack bought it for someone else?

END OF EXCERPT. LIKE IT? ORDER IT.

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Want more? Another peek at Emma? Ok. here you go:

Emma's To-Do List

1. Stop obsessing over the fact that I think Claire Palmer, Jack’s glamorous boss, is trying to steal Jack from me. List reasons why I am convinced that Claire Palmer is trying to steal Jack from me.

2. She is always horrible to me (but in a covert, clever kind of way).

3. Betty the Beauty hates her. Although she is a dog, she is also a very good judge of character.

It’s true. Claire is always horrible to me. It’s just really, really hard to pinpoint, because it’s not what she says to me, exactly, but how she says it. And why would she even waste time being horrible to me unless I have something that she wants, i.e., Jack?

Last month, for example, I met Jack at his work because we had plans to go to the movies. He had a few things to finish up, so I just pop into the restroom to tidy myself. I wish I hadn’t, because Claire is also in there. And as she’s drying her hands and fluffing her hair, and as I’m applying lipstick, I try to be nice to her. Because you can hardly ignore someone in the close confines of a restroom, can you?

This is what happened.

"Hi, Claire," I say. "How are you?"

"Hi, Emma, I’m great," she says, giving me the benefit of her perfect teeth and full lips. "That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing."

Well knock me down with a feather . . .

I mean, this is a nice top—I got it from H&M on Fifth Avenue last week, and although it is body molding (and let’s face it, I don’t exactly have much cleavage to mold) it does show my nicely firm abs and my delicate shoulders. But I’m shocked that Claire even bothered to notice it.

And just as I’m thinking that I’m wrong about her and that I just haven’t given her a proper chance, and that she can be nice, she delivers her underhand blow.

"You know," she says, as she readjusts her bra cups under her cleavage-revealing top. "A woman owes it to herself to make the most of what she’s got. Or not," she sniggers, scathingly eyeing my 32AAs.

Innocent words, but her meaning is completely clear.

Now I could at this point either (a) just swallow her nastiness and slink away like some sad, victim-like person, or (b) be nasty back, but in a falsely nice-sounding kind of way. I think (b).

"I know," I tell her, my voice oozing with artificial sympathy as I eye her 34Cs. "It must be so hard being so . . . abundant . . . I expect it’s difficult to get men to take you seriously in the workplace, when they’re leering at your boobs. Well, gotta dash," I tell her, grabbing my purse. "Jack’s waiting for me."

Jack’s boss or not, I couldn’t let her get away with that, could I?

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