A Christmas Date

by Camilla Isley

  Pity happily ever afters don’t exist. Some genius in my profession invented them to sell romance to the crowds. That’s all.

  “Sorry, Mel, but I’m not Julia Roberts and this isn’t a movie. No gorgeous gay besties in the picture.”

  “A straight friend would do, too. Anyone you can ask?”

  Ironically, the one male friend I could’ve felt intimate enough to ask something so embarrassing would’ve been Paul. Isn’t life funny sometimes?

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Well, then hire someone!”

  “Are you suggesting I hire a male escort?” And we’ve moved from My Best Friend’s Wedding to The Wedding Date, maybe she has a thing for Dermot Mulroney. “Are you crazy? I’m not that desperate.”

  “I was thinking more an actor.” She points at my computer. “You have a database full of them right there in front of you; you just have to pick and choose.”

  “That’s even more absurd and unprofessional.” To signify that this conversation is finished, I bend forward and start collecting the scattered documents from the floor. “Break’s over,” I say, pushing up the pen holder.

  “All right, boss,” Melanie says, getting up. She helps me clean the mess and places my office phone back on the desk, eyeing it meaningfully. “But your mom won’t give up, you know?”

  Don’t I?

  ***

  Another afternoon of staring into space earns me a late night at the office. I wish nothing more than to go home, change into a pair of sweatpants, and watch a silly romcom that will make me cry and despise my life even more. But I can’t leave before every minute of tomorrow’s shoot is mapped out. And I need to also check the ad sales reports on my holiday commercials and recheck the TV air schedules for the projects I’m following. So I trudge on, even if my eyes keep crossing over the endless Excel sheet lines and columns.

  By 8:30 p.m. I’m so exhausted that, when my landline rings, I pick up without thinking.

  “Nikki Moore.”

  “Nikki!” My mother sounds both astounded and utterly ecstatic she’s finally cornered me. “I thought I’d get your voicemail. I’m not sure your secretary is passing along all my messages. What are you still doing at the office this late?”

  “Working, obviously.”

  “Work, work, work. You work too much, honey, there’s more to life than just work.”

  I could come up with a million retorts. But if I argue back, the conversation will spiral into a sermon from my mother. A lecture starting with a list of all the important things I’m neglecting, and ending in a praise of the perfect work-life balance Julia has achieved. So, instead of defending my right to be focused on my career, I give her the easy response.

  “Mom, you know how busy it gets at the holidays, worst time of the year. I really need to finish up here, so…”

  “I’ll be quick, then.” Now that she has me, she’s not going to let me off the hook that easily. “I wanted to know when you’re coming home for the break. Julia is coming on the twenty-second.”

  I peek at the calendar. The twenty-second is the Saturday before Christmas.

  “Either then, or on the twenty-third,” I say. “I’m sharing a car with Blair, and we haven’t made a decision yet.”

  “But you’ll definitely be here by Sunday night.”

  “Yes.”

  “And when are you leaving?”

  “Not sure yet, Mom.” I try to stall before she traps me up there for a full week. “Depends on what my plans for New Year’s are.”

  “Oh, are you going somewhere?”

  I twist the cord around my fingers and say, “I could.” Which isn’t an outright lie. I could go on a trip; I’m just not planning to.

  “All right, we can settle that once you get home.” I think she’s finally going to cut me loose when she adds, “So, you’ve heard about Julia and Paul. Isn’t it wonderful news?”

  Peachy, I’d say, to keep in tone with the wedding color scheme.

  “Yeah, I had lunch with them yesterday.”

  “Oh, great. So, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind swapping rooms with your sister?”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because your bed is bigger, and since Paul is spending the holidays with us—”

  “WHAT?!”

  “Isn’t it marvelous? He’s almost part of the family now, and it makes sense he’d want to be with us at Christmas.”

  “And what about his family? Don’t they want to spend Christmas Day with their son?”

  “I think his mom prefers Thanksgiving. Anyway, can I tell Julia she can have your room?”

  “No.”

  “Nikki, don’t be unreasonable. You’re coming home by yourself, and they’re two—they can’t sleep in Julia’s bunk bed.”

  The thought of Julia and Paul sleeping—and doing who knows what else—in my old bed blinds me with rage. I lost my virginity on that bed with my first boyfriend—senior year, one spring afternoon when both my parents were out. Julia can’t have that, too. That bed has a lot of good memories, and I won’t let Julia spoil those as well. She’s already collected enough pieces of me.

  “I’m not by myself,” I say on impulse.

  “What do you mean?” my mom asks, surprised.

  “My boyfriend is coming with me.”

  And I’m digging myself a deeper grave with every sentence.

  “You have a boyfriend? Since when?”

  “Yeah, it hasn’t been long, but I wanted you all to meet him.”

  Lie, after lie, after lie.

  “Oh, Nikki, you’re making me so happy! What’s his name? How did you meet?”

  “I don’t have time to tell you the whole story now, Mom, but don’t worry, you’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “Sure. I’ll let you go back to work… So many things to organize here. I love you, honey.”

  “Love you, too, Mom. Bye.”

  I hang up and drop my head on the desk over my crossed arms.

  What have I done?

  I should call her back and tell her it’s all been a mistake. That Julia can have my man, my dream life, and even my bed. What does it matter, anyway?

  Only it does matter. I can’t spend a week at home, single and pathetic, sleeping in Julia’s tiny princess bed while she shares my bed with Paul. Not possible.

  I straighten up.

  So, where do I find a boyfriend?

  I throw a guilty stare at my computer.

  No, I couldn’t.

  What if someone at the office found out?

  Impossible.

  No one would ever believe I’ve hired a fake boyfriend off the agency’s database.

  With a few quick clicks of the mouse, I close the Excel sheet I was studying and access the actors/models database.

  A pop-up window prompts me to input filters to narrow down the search. I select “male” and then, before I know what I’m doing, I start creating an avatar of Julia’s ideal man.

  Eyes: green

  Hair: dark

  Height: 6’4” and above

  Age: |

  I’m undecided if I should include only the 30-34 range or expand it to 25-29 and 35-39. What if the perfect man is 29 or 35? I select all three, just to be on the safe side.

  Languages: |

  I check English and Italian and click Search.

  With my heart in my throat, I wait for the results. Does such a man even exist?

  The search engine lands three positive hits. Wow. Apparently, there are a lot more tall, dark-haired, Italian-speaking men in New York than I thought.

  I open the first profile, and the picture of a beautiful man pops on the screen. I say “beautiful” because it’s clear that this male model favors his feminine side. It’s in the delicate pout of his lips and the graceful tilt of his head. No one would ever believe he’s in love with me.

  I close his profile and open the next one.
/>   Jackpot!

  Now, if a man could ever be described as dark, smoldering hot, and mysterious, this guy has nailed all three. The headshot is pretty simple: he’s staring at the camera straight up, face forward. His wavy black hair is just long enough to be very sexy, as sexy as his full-lipped mouth, and his green eyes are piercing a hole through the screen. Tyra Banks would say he’s smizing at the camera.

  I study the picture a little longer… His straight nose is sprinkled with freckles that make him cute on top of sexy. And even the line of his neck is masculine and inviting. He is the perfect man. He’s my guy.

  His other pictures only reinforce my conviction. A profile shot: equally sexy. One of him smiling: heart-melting. And…

  Whoa.

  The last picture is a black and white bust shot. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious is wearing jeans and teasingly lifting a tank top to reveal his bare chest while he stares at the camera with a naughty expression—eyes alive with mischief and mouth curled up at one corner in a lopsided grin. The shot takes my breath away. This must be photoshopped; no real person could really have abs and pectorals that sculpted.

  Reluctantly, I close the picture and open his profile.

  Diego O’Donnell, age twenty-eight. Two years younger than me, but we live in a modern era where a two-year gap a cougar doesn’t make. From his CV I see that the guy has done a few lesser gigs on Broadway and has a couple of high-level commercials under his belt. But nothing so big that it’ll make him snub my proposal. Mr. O’Donnell still fits the struggling artist profile.

  Mmm, let’s see where you live.

  The address listed on his file is far away enough from Manhattan to tell me he’s not swimming in cash.

  Good.

  Because I need someone just as desperate as me to take this job.

  Fueled up by adrenaline, I save his contact on my phone and press Call.

  Four

  Here Comes Santa Claus

  Nothing.

  The call goes to voicemail. I try a second time, with the same result, so I decide to try the other number listed on his profile. Maybe a landline?

  “Hello?”

  The voice is a letdown. Too creaky to match the man in the picture.

  “Hello, Mr. O’Donnell?”

  “Who?”

  “Diego O’Donnell?”

  “Oh, you mean Dunk. He’s not home.”

  “You know when he’ll be back?”

  “Why?” The dude sounds suspicious.

  “I’m calling about a job opportunity, something rather urgent. No chance you’d know where I can find him?”

  “He could still be downtown. Dunk had a Santa Claus gig tonight, but it should be over by now.”

  Diego is in Manhattan! I can barely contain my excitement. “Do you remember where the gig was, by any chance?”

  “No, sorry, some fancy mall downtown. You want to leave a message?”

  “No need, thank you, I’ll call back.”

  I hang up and nibble at one of my nails. Damn. Now that my folly has gained momentum, I can’t lose steam. If only that guy remembered the name of the mall…

  Let’s see if Google can help. A quick “santa claus wednesday december 12 manhattan mall” search and… Bingo! There’s only one late-evening event today, and the address is not too far from my office. The program says the show ends at 9:30 p.m. If I hurry, I might get there just in time.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes after the scheduled end of the event, I arrive at the mall worried sick I might’ve missed him. But, luckily, there’s still a Santa seated in the winter wonderland booth at the mall’s entrance. He’s ushering a kid away, who an elf assistant promptly replaces with the last toddler in line, depositing the newcomer on Santa’s knee.

  As Diego listens to the little boy, I observe my mark to evaluate if he’s as good looking in person, or if he’s a cheat—aka a Photoshop-friendly model who doesn’t understand that going to a casting looking half as hot as his portfolio is a lose-lose approach. But between the fake beard and fake belly, it’s a hard one to call.

  Once the kid has expressed all his Christmas wishes and taken the customary picture, my man stands up.

  Mmm. Impressive. At least he didn’t lie about his height.

  “I’m getting hella out of here,” his lady elf helper says. “You coming?”

  “Nah, gotta get changed first. See ya soon, Jess.”

  They bump fists and the girl walks away, still wearing her red, white, and green costume.

  In the few seconds I get distracted by watching the elf leave, Diego has opened a hidden door and is already disappearing backstage. Whoops. “Excuse me—!” I call.

  “Sorry, Miss, the event’s over,” he says, without sparing me a second glance. And then he’s gone.

  What now? I could wait for him to get changed and come back out, but again, I’m impatient. And if I stay too long out here, I might chicken out, call my mom, and surrender my bed to Julia.

  Never.

  I throw a circumspect look around. No one’s monitoring the booth, so I enter Santa World and follow Diego behind the hidden door into a tiny backstage dressing room. There’s barely enough space for a locker and a small bench pushed against the opposite wall.

  Diego has the upper half of the locker open, which screens him from my view.

  “Excuse me?” I repeat.

  “Hey.” He closes the locker and throws me an angry stare. “This is personnel only.”

  He’s still wearing the fake beard and Santa hat, but the upper part of the red suit is now dangling upside-down from his hips and the belly stuffer is gone, leaving his ripped chest and abs all too visible under a sweat-soaked white T-shirt. With muscles like that, he could win any wet-T-shirt contest.

  I tear my eyes away from his chest, saying, “Yeah, I know. But I really needed to talk to you.”

  “Listen, lady, if your kid has missed his spot, I’m sorry, but it’s late and I want to go home. We’re doing another event in two days; you can come back then.”

  “I’m not here to see Santa. I’m here to see you, Mr. O’Donnell.”

  He starts at that. “How do you know my name?”

  “Nikki Moore, nice to meet you. I work at KCU Advertising, and I’d like to talk to you about a job opportunity.”

  I don’t usually name drop, but I need to gain some credibility before I present him with my crazy plan.

  “The big agency on Madison Avenue?”

  “Yes, but the job wouldn’t be for the agency; you’d be working for me. Care to hear me out?”

  He shrugs. “Mind if I keep getting changed?”

  “No, not at all. Go ahead.”

  Diego turns around and pulls the wet T-shirt off his back in one fluid motion. I’m momentarily distracted by more male skin than I’ve seen in a long while. Gosh, even his back is ripped.

  “I’m listening,” he says, opening the locker again and blocking my ogling feast.

  “Mmm, yeah, so.” This is harder to explain than I thought. “It’d be an acting job. Nothing scripted… a lot of improv required. Sort of, you know, like a reality show, but with no cameras. And you might think I’m crazy for asking, but you must understand that the holidays can be a difficult period for many people. Single people, I mean. And people with a family that just won’t back off, especially if they have a baby sister who’s the poster child of perfection in their mother’s eyes. You get what I’m saying?”

  Back still turned, Diego says, “Not really.” He rips off the rest of the Santa suit, rewarding me with an unobstructed view of his buttocks clad in close-fitting white boxer shorts. Mmm, those buns are so inviting I have to force myself not to reach out and squeeze one. Luckily, in a few quick moves, he pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and, closing the locker for good, turns all his attention to me.

  For the first time I see his face without the beard, and one thing is immediately clear: he�
�s no Photoshop user.

  He fluffs his hair, which has been plastered to his head by the hat, and grins. “What’s the job again?”

  Guess there’s really no other way to explain it. “I want to hire you to pose as my boyfriend for the holidays.”

  Diego opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, I stop him. “And before you say ‘no,’ please note that the pay is very competitive.”

  “How competitive?

  “Five thousand dollars—twenty-five hundred in advance, and the rest at job completion. And our relationship would be strictly professional.”

  “While I pretend to be your boyfriend?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Wait. Before refusing, please consider that if you say ‘yes,’ you’d be doing me a real solid, and I’d be happy to return the favor, professionally, of course, in any way you might need.”

  I saved the best bone for last. A struggling actor would do anything to have someone who matters in the industry owe him one. As expected, this offer gives him pause.

  He scratches his head and studies me. “You’re serious? This isn’t a joke.”

  I shake my head. “Dead serious.”

  “And you work for KCU?”

  I whip out my business card and present him with incontrovertible proof. “Mmm-hmm.”

  He eyes the card, thinking. “You guys are big on Super Bowl commercials. You even won an award last year, yeah?”

  “Breath mints, that’s us.”

  “Have you already cast this year’s ads?”

  “No, we start in early January.”

  “Can you get me a call in?”

  “Into the castings, yes, but the rest is up to you. I can’t guarantee a part.”

  A brief nod lets me know he understands. Then, out of the blue, he asks, “Why me?”

  The question takes me off guard. I can’t exactly say, “Because I want my sister to rot with jealousy when I bring her dream guy home for Christmas.” He already thinks I’m nuts.

  “We haven’t worked together in the past, so there wouldn’t be a conflict.”

  Diego keeps his eyes trained on me for the longest time. “Am I the only actor in your agency’s database you haven’t worked with before?”