Love 101: When An Angelina Arrives

Every woman I know can share some anecdote regarding that gorgeous female “friend” her boyfriend annoyingly adores. It’s just inevitable. The minute you settle down with the Brad of your dreams, some Angelina shows up like a bee to your honey. Occasionally, she really is “just a friend,” but when her feelings run deeper, well, a woman just knows, and I think we can all agree it puts you in a somewhat awkward—make that insanely frustrating—position.

My jealousy grew, fueled by their every coy interaction, and by each time she’d drop one of her signature sexual innuendos.

My Angelina showed up, right on time, when I finally got my commitment phobic ex-boyfriend to pledge allegiance to my flag. He was an artist; she ran a prestigious London gallery. She was self-admittedly “horny,” possessed long dark Angelina hair and the stick figure of a model, and perhaps most intimidating of all, an encyclopedic knowledge of everything my boyfriend loved: contemporary art, video games, porn and hardcore music (the latter a genre they cherished, and that according to them both, I just didn’t “get.”)

Needless to say, I felt abysmally left out of the majority of their conversations, which flowed naturally and wittily and even, I felt in my gut, flirtatiously. It wasn’t long before I had stronger evidence. When at a party she drunkenly cornered me and gushed about how amazing my guy was, and how she wished she could find someone like him, blah blah blah, I knew immediately that she was in love with him.

Still, I couldn’t be sure that he felt the same. When I confronted him he vehemently denied it, but that’s when the problems started. My jealousy grew, fueled by their every coy interaction, and by each time she’d drop one of her signature sexual innuendos (after which she’d glance over at me with a smirk.)

The final straw came during a business trip she took to New York. Despite having an expense account and plenty of alternative crash pads at her ready, she asked my boyfriend if she could bunk in our tiny, one bedroom apartment. He was more than happy to host, and when I expressed my misgivings, he threw the classic, something-is-definitely-up line in my face, “You’re crazy! There is nothing going on.”

Nonetheless, I tried to be the perfect hostess: I tidied the house, washed her sheets, served supper, and in the process became a fly on the wall of their burgeoning romance. When she spoke, she looked directly at him. When she walked down the street, she made sure he was watching her. I turned into such a nervous wreck that I was incapable of eating.

Needless to say, this couldn’t go on forever, and sure enough our relationship soon smacked to a halt. My heart was already broken, but when I found out they’d wasted no time sleeping together, it felt like they’d run it through the meat grinder. I can’t even imagine how it would have felt if they’d wound up adopting a large pack of children. Suicidal? Bloodthirsty? At the very least, I’d have been rendered unable to fall in love again easily, and maybe for good.

Fortunately, I received a shred of slightly uplifting gossip about a month after the fact. Far from adopting half the third world and having his babies, she’d tried to coerce him into a relationship, and he’d declined. Instead of being the girl of his dreams, she had actually served as a kind of getaway vehicle out of our troubled relationship. So even though I couldn’t have him, the fact that she couldn’t either gave this dark cloud the only silver lining it was going to get.

As for my ex, I hear he’s married now, to someone else entirely. Whether their relationship is healthier than ours was or not, I hope for his wife’s sake that this little Angelina isn’t still in his life. If she is, well girl, you know in your gut what’s going on, and I know how ya feel. Good luck.