“You mean Shannon helped secure the contract by dating Declan.”
“Yes.”
“And if I date Andrew you’re worried that...”
“You could jeopardize some complex business negotiations.”
“What does that mean?”
Greg’s phone rings. He reaches into his pants pocket and walks away abruptly. I hear the words, “Hi, Doctor...” and then his words become indistinct. His wife, Judy, is a breast cancer survivor, and now I wonder if there’s even more going on under the surface of every single part of my life—work, home, friends, Andrew—than I ever imagined.
It’s like realizing you’re perched on an island that turns out to be the tip of an iceberg.
In a boiling pot of water.
“What’s he talking about?” I ask Carol, who just shrugs.
“Don’t ask me. I’m still the newbie here.”
“You’ve worked here for more than a year.”
“I know, but that’s my convenient excuse and I’m sticking to it.”
“Why can’t you be the pregnant one?”
She holds her fingers up in the sign of the cross and shouts to Josh, “Got any garlic? Cast thee out, demon. Don’t you dare talk about more spawn in this womb.”
“I take it the baby factory is closed.”
“The womb has been converted from a factory to an abandoned warehouse. Yours, on the other hand,” she says suggestively, “is about to become a playroom.”
“Ewww,” Josh says from his desk. “I can hear you.”
“What? You think we’re discriminating against you because you have a penis, but when we talk about vaginas you get grossed out.”
“Yes.” He shudders.
“Oh, he’s going to be a great partner in these childbirth classes,” I say.
Carol snickers.
“Why can’t you do the childbirth class shops with him?” I ask.
She looks at herself, then at Josh. “Look at me. Look at Josh. Not only am I too old for him, but I could crush him like a bug. No one would ever believe we’re together.”
She’s right. They pretty much look like they’d be each other’s beard.
“Besides, I’d be the worst candidate for a child birth class, because I’ve actually been through childbirth. Twice. I know how much bullshit they deal in those classes, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, honey,” she says. “The only part that really helps is the tour of the hospital, so you know exactly where you’ll feel all your pain. Contractions in the elevator. Vomiting in the trash can in Waiting Room #4. Actual shredding of your perineum in Delivery Room #3. Stitch popping when you try to poop in Room #535. The tour should be renamed A Map of Your Suffering.”
Josh makes a strange gagging sound.
“But they won’t tell you that. And they shouldn’t. Because what woman in her right mind goes through pregnancy and childbirth knowing the risks and the torture that’s coming? So they sugar coat it and tell you that contractions are really just pressure you can use mind techniques to control, or that perineal massage for the entire pregnancy will thin out the tissues so the baby’s head doesn’t tear two holes into one.”
Josh is now retching.
“Or that when you’re on the delivery table and they tell you to push, you will end up with hemorrhoids the size of small Pomeranians.”
Josh sprints out of his office for the bathroom.
Carol looks over at his empty desk with cat eyes, her expression exactly like the one Chuckles has after coughing up an impressive hairball.
“Why do people reproduce?” I ask, cringing.
“Because it’s like making love with your body, but instead of being left with a wet spot, you get an entire human being who you get to love forever.”
“Awww.”
Josh staggers back, drinking a fresh can of soda from the machine outside the men’s room. His eyes are hollow.
“And bonus! If you’re really lucky, the flesh donut that forms when your butt hole turns inside out as the head emerges goes back in place. Eventually.”
Josh sprints again.
I am really, really glad I’m just work pregnant.
Chapter Seventeen
As we pull into the parking lot of the sex toy store where Marie and I are mystery shopping today, she turns to me and blurts out, “Amanda, what’s a dirty sanchez?”
I set down my foamy hot chocolate. Permanently.
Marie went through the entire mystery shopping certification process so that she could do sex toy shops. So far, she turns out to be a master at them. This one is a little different from the others.
This is a store with its own back room that hosts bachelorette parties. As luck would have it, we need to evaluate the process of being walked through the offer to host a combined bachelorette/sex toy party, complete with catering and strippers.
Timing is everything.
Shannon has begged me to make sure her mother doesn’t sign any contracts. Technically, as the maid of honor, it’s my job to throw the bachelorette party, and no matter how elegantly awesome this place might be, I have the final say on what Shannon’s last night of debauchery looks like.
As far as I’m concerned, it involves alcohol, body oil, and Joe Manganiello.
Not necessarily in that order.
I pointedly ignore Marie’s question about a dirty sanchez (Google it—you’ll understand why) and we walk up to the smoked glass doors of our day’s shop.
You would think we were walking into a spa. A Zen-decorated, grass and glass and polished stones, all muted earth-tones spa. The facility is called O.