“He’s depressingly competent at all that,” is all Renata will say before she changes gears. “May I give you an elderly person life lesson? Good. Life is only bearable if you have someone attractive to complain to. If I didn’t have my Aggie, I would not have survived the 1990s. Karl Lagerfeld, I will see you in hell.”
I laugh. “Okay. Thanks for the advice.”
She nods over at the lake. “You remind me so much of Aggie. She’s made of the same stuff as you. That’s how I know you will have very hurt feelings when this one gets the keys to his tattoo studio and rides off five hours in some direction without so much as a backward glance.”
“I hope I find someone who suits me. I’d like to have someone attractive to complain to when I’m your age. Which is not old,” I rush to clarify.
Renata pats my arm. “I am as old as dirt. Here he comes, sounding very unfit. He’s put in the effort on his so-called last lap. Little does he know—”
Teddy says as he passes, huffing athletically: “One more, I’m getting a runner’s high.”
Renata is equal parts impressed and annoyed. “I really need to get smarter with this one.”
“And I really need to get ready for the Stitch and Bitch,” I say, but of course it’s no use. She rolls the cuffs of my shirt up to each elbow. Tug, the skirt is pulled up higher. She’s accepted her role as fashion adviser in Melanie’s Sasaki Method. She releases two of my shirt buttons.
“Buy a size down. And this is your natural waist. Get some big belts, cinch everything in here.” She draws a line on me. “What do you have against new things, anyway? Don’t they pay you here?”
“I worked in a church thrift store so I know brand-new stuff gets donated. It’s better for the environment. And yes, I’m on a budget.”
Renata tugs at my hair elastic. It’s difficult for her and in these moments of struggle, I feel her frailty acutely. It’s the only reason I submit myself to her like this. She’s a tiny little loudmouth, but she’s also stuck in a ninety-one-year-old body against her will.
With more tenderness than I ever thought her capable of, Renata says, “Look at yourself. Any young fellow would be lucky to have you. And when you find him, he’ll never let a good girl like you go.”
I turn and see my reflection in the window of the rec center. Renata can work small miracles. Maybe I can picture myself, standing outside a bar, raising my hand in greeting as a man walks toward me. Ruthie? Nice to meet you at last. You look nice. “Thank you. I think so too.”
Teddy is now in front of us, hands on knees, panting.
Renata instructs him: “I want specifics on the physical sensations you’re feeling. I haven’t jogged since the eighties. Or the seventies. The sixties.” She racks her brains. “Ever.”
“Like a warm burning, but it’s so good,” Teddy puffs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. His clothes are steamed onto his body now. “Like I can’t get the air deep enough. I’m all hot, I can’t see straight.” He’s talking down to the pavement. My presence is still unacknowledged.
What an unexpected treat to see color in his cheeks and glittery specks of sweat on his brow. Is this exact kind of breathing what I’d hear through our wall? I have never thought as much about sex as I have in the past few days. I try to pull my shirt back into place and Renata spanks me with her sunglasses hard enough that they break.
“Get that,” she says to Teddy, and he seems only too happy to collapse to his knees. “When we get back, I’m going to dictate a letter for you to type up. We’ll address it to the current creative director at Céline. Dear Sir. Quality is down on your sunglasses.”
“Sure,” Teddy says, gathering the pieces. Then he finally looks up.
All I can think of to say is, “Are you recovering?”
He’s really not. The makeover has astonished him. His eyes are on the deep triangle of breast skin exposed to Renata’s solar nemesis. Arms, waist, hair, he’s not even blinking as he moves from one part to the next. His chest is rising and falling.
Right in this moment, I’m extraordinary.
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve been hanging for five o’clock all day,” Melanie tells me as I lock the office door behind us. “Finally, I get an invite to your place. Time to get this show on the road.”
“My place isn’t exciting,” I warn as we walk up the path, but she’s not interested in my boring caveats and excuses.
“Hello, I still live down the hallway from my mummy and daddy. You’re a grown-up lady in your own house. And I. Am. Excited.” She jumps into the courtyard, spends a bit of time looking at the tortoises in their enclosures, then knocks on Teddy’s door.
“He won’t be there,” I tell her as I unlock my own door. “And he’s not invited, remember?”
She turns his door handle and pokes her head inside. Great, so now I’ve got to worry about his lack of security on top of everything else? She calls, “Hello? Teddy, are you decent?” We hear nothing but silence.
Teddy has been . . . nesting? He’s got a battle-scarred leather armchair with an afghan throw on it. There’s a coffee table that he definitely found on a roadside somewhere. He’s put my Women’s Health magazine on it and has a plain white bowl filled with candy. Has he copied my furniture layout? I take a few steps in. On the crumbling plaster wall, he’s drawn a huge flatscreen TV with a marker, complete with brand logo: TEDDYVISION.
“Lucky his daddy is the landlord,” Melanie observes. “What a dump.”