The California Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

a toilet door and I could simply slot her back to Vacant.
    Am I numb? I must be. Otherwise I'd be screaming.
    Not that I'd have room for much of a tantrum at the moment. I can't even cross my legs – Zoë is so far reclined I feel I should make myself useful and give her a scalp massage. And who'd listen to my wailing anyway? Sasha is buried in her book (some geisha saga) and Elliot and Elise are engrossed in each other. With the emphasis on gross.
    Fighting back the swell of tears, I try to focus on the movie but the sweeping battle scenes in Lord of the Rings marathon aren't ideally suited to my Post-it note sized screen. Dinner comes as a welcome distraction, aside from the eating part. When I decline the steward's offer of a chilled bread roll Elise leans back and asks if she can have it. Sure! I feel like adding, first the man I love, now my bread roll, go ahead and take it all.
    I take another gulp of wine. Perhaps the second bottle of Pinot Grigio was a mistake. It's making me all sentimental for the good old days, when we were young and fiancé-free.
     
     
    I always relished the times when Elliot was between girlfriends – then I could tousle his hair and lean on him and be fairly open in my adoration, passing it off as a tactile friendship. Like now, if She wasn't here, we could watch a movie on entwined headphones, pick at each other's pretzels and get cricked necks trying to fall asleep on each other's shoulders and no one would necessarily be any the wiser to the divine bliss I'd be experiencing internally. But when there's a girlfriend – or worse still, future wife – suddenly there are all these no-go areas and unspoken rules. I'm obliged to tiptoe, speaking with a few seconds' delay to censor anything that could be misconstrued or give the game away. It makes me feel as though there's a little man in a white coat monitoring my behavior and giving me a running commentary – 'You wouldn't do that unless you loved him … Don't touch him there! No reminiscing about the good old days in front of her … Quick, turn to her and smile and make her feel included.’
    And so I end up wildly over-compensating, often ignoring Elliot in a bid to ingratiate myself with the girlfriend. 'Who, me? In love with your fella? Get outta here!' And sometimes, in the name of faux girlie-bonding, we gang up on him. But it's just a defense mechanism: two women sussing each other out, both with something to prove – her that she's good for him but not love-struck to the point of losing her identity, me that I'm a girl's girl and thus not about to jump in bed with him the second her back is turned. (Chance would be a fine thing!)
    If the girlfriend is nice, which hasn't actually been too much of a problem to date, I feel guilty about having such strong feelings for him and live in fear that they might guess my dirty secret. I daren't even look directly at him in front of them because I'm afraid the love pouring from my eyes will be all luminous and glowy like something from Ghost . But one by one they move on. That is my consolation. At the risk of sounding like a psycho-stalker – I've outlasted them all! But then, he's never asked any of them to marry him before.
    I feel a sickening twist in my stomach. And it's not just the lukewarm burrito I wish the flight attendant would remove from my tray.
    I know it sounds silly but I always thought it would be me he'd marry. In the end. I never much minded when my feeble attempts at relationships floundered because I always felt that their ending brought me one step closer to a beginning with him. Surely now the time is right? I'd think. Surely I've endured enough duds that now I get my prince?
    Not that he fits some fanciful notion of a knight in shining armor. He just hits home with me: I get this warm sense of satisfaction when he's around. He makes me laugh in that way that makes me feel all helpless and dizzy. And he really listens. If I phone him I never feel he's cleaning out