Exotic entertainer. Plant manager. Sandwich artist. I circle “marketing assistant” and “animal care attendant,” even though I know nothing about marketing or animal care.
It’s discouraging, this spread of black-and-white rectangles that each announce a profession I either can’t do or didn’t know existed (mold setter?).
I toss the paper aside with a sigh. After Dean and I got married, I wanted to support him, wanted to be his solid ground while he established his career. I’ve been happy to do that for the past three years—I’ve enjoyed making warm, pleasant homes out of the utilitarian apartment we lived in during his fellowship position and now our little above-shop place in Mirror Lake.
I’ve loved being Professor Dean West’s wife, watching his success and growing renown in academia. And I haven’t minded my temporary part-time jobs, because I’d planned to start a career path as soon as Dean settled into a tenure-track position.
Except now we’ve been in Mirror Lake for almost two years and I’ve hit barriers at every turn: I freelanced for a local magazine that went under, I’ve been rejected for several jobs due to lack of experience, the King’s agriculture majors do all the work at gardening centers, and I quit a cashier’s job at a clothing store so I could take the assistant position at the art gallery.
So much for that plan.
After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I walk several blocks to the gym where I work out five… okay, two times a week. I sweat through an aerobics class, shower, and go to meet my friend Kelsey March for lunch.
Kelsey is an atmospheric scientist at the university, and of course I met her through Dean because they’re academic soul-mates and have known each other for years. She is one of the few people who refuses to fawn over him, which is just one of the reasons we both like her so much.
She’s pacing in front of the Italian restaurant where we agreed to meet, her thumbs working the buttons of her smartphone, her stride brisk.
As is her style, she’s wearing a tailored suit and button-down shirt, but she has this vibe that makes you think she’s sporting sexy lingerie beneath. Her frosted blond hair is cut in a sleek pageboy and embellished with a single streak of navy blue, which she flips back as she watches my approach.
“You’re late,” she says, blinking at me through her rimless glasses.
“Am not. Your watch is fast.”
She punches a few buttons on her phone and holds it up. “Greenwich mean time.”
“Because you would never consult Greenwich nice time.”
“You got that right.” Kelsey smirks and shoves her phone into her bag as we head into the restaurant.
We get settled into a booth, peruse the menus, and place orders of chicken marsala for Kelsey and butternut squash ravioli for me.
“Hey, sorry about your job,” Kelsey says, poking a straw into her soda. “I can get you something at the AOS department if you’d let me.”
“No, thanks.” I always balk at her and Dean’s suggestions that they can “get me” a job at the university. I know they don’t think I can’t find something on my own, but accepting their help might make me think that. “I have a few leads I’m looking into.”
“Let me know if you change your mind,” Kelsey says. “The professors are pains in the ass, but overall the department’s not horrible to work for.”
“Well, with that kind of resounding endorsement, it’s a wonder the AOS department doesn’t have applicants lined up around the block.”
Kelsey shoots me one of her “don’t-fuck-with-me” looks. I respond with a smile because she knows I would never seriously fuck with her. I’m not stupid.
“Hey.” She sits back and frowns. “Really. You look under the weather.”
“The fact that you just made a weather joke cheers me up immensely.”
“You know, Liv, you don’t have to find the perfect career right away,” she says. “Give it a little time, you know? Weren’t you a library sciences major in college?”
“Yeah. I worked at the art library at the UW for a while, but then Dean and I got married and moved to L.A. I just worked part-time retail when he had the Getty fellowship. And the libraries at King’s haven’t had any openings since we moved here.” I poke at my salad. “I did see an ad this morning for an exotic entertainer position.”
Kelsey snorts. “Missionary or doggy?”
I choke on a gulp of water and laugh. “Probably both.”
“I’m sure your husband would provide you with great references.”
I swat her with my napkin, then admit, “Well, that’s true.”
Kelsey grins, and we turn our attention to the arrival of our entrees. She slathers butter on a roll and says, “So, Liv, can I steal Dean on Saturday the twenty-fifth? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t an emergency.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“There’s a faculty banquet for some old fart who’s retiring.” She stabs a green bean with her fork. “I wouldn’t normally go, but I’m trying to get funding for a modeling program, and I need to pretend I’m a team player.”