by Thea Dawson
“Another struggling actor?”
She yawns and shakes her head. “Something in finance. The job sounds boring, but I met him a couple of times in college, and he seemed nice. I’m sure you’ll like him.”
It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I wouldn’t like him—Carina’s dates are usually almost as nice as she is—but it also wouldn’t have occurred to me to care much one way or another. She flits from man to man like a butterfly moves among flowers, never staying with one for long, so there’s no point in getting attached to any of them.
It’s funny in a way because although you wouldn’t know it to look at her, Carina is actually the most domestic of the three of us. She’s very nurturing and gentle. She loves to cook, and she adores babies—I know she’d like some of her own, but I guess she still hasn’t met the right guy.
And if she can’t find the right guy out of the dozens she’s dated, it doesn’t bode well for me, who hasn’t had a steady boyfriend since junior year of college.
We’re interrupted by the sound of the back door sliding open and a set of crisp, determined footsteps. We look around and stand up to greet Brianna.
“Mom said you weren’t coming until later,” I say, giving her a light hug which she returns with brisk efficiency. Everything about Brianna is businesslike, even her hugs.
“I was supposed to be on a conference call with Hong Kong, but it got moved to next week at the last minute, and I didn’t want to miss out on a moment with you two.”
Even Brianna is no match for Carina, who wraps her up in an affectionate squeeze before holding her at arm’s length and saying, “Wow, you look amazing!”
Like me, Brianna favors a one-piece suit. Unlike me, it’s not because she’s shy about her body, which is long and well toned, but because she’s too serious for a bikini. Instead, she wears a black designer swimsuit that manages to be modest, flattering and elegant all at the same time.
Now my little floral retro suit just feels frivolous.
Brianna lacks Carina’s warmth and humor, but she makes up for it by being insightful, wise, and above all loyal. And she has a snarky sense of humor that few people outside our family know about. She bypasses a third lounger in order to sit upright in a wicker armchair. I try to remember if I’ve ever seen Brianna just relax and decide no; even when she was a kid, she was driven, intense and serious.
Carina fills her in. “We were just gossiping about our dates for the party. Who are you bringing?”
“My boss.”
I raise my eyebrows and Carina lets out a squeal of scandalized delight.
“Chill,” Brianna orders. “It’s not a date, and we both know it. It’s a chance for me to show off my network and for him to meet some people who might be helpful in growing the start-up.”
That’s Brianna, always working even when she’s not.
“Annabelle met a guy in a coffee shop!” Carina eagerly fills Brianna in on Archer, my fantasy date.
Brianna raises a cool eyebrow at me. “Is it serious?”
I shrug, trying to look worldly and aloof. “Not yet. We’ve just hung out a few times.”
“Well, I hope he’s good enough for you,” says Brianna. “You always sell yourself short when it comes to men.”
Brianna’s never liked the guys I’ve dated. She hates geeky guys, but they’re the ones I feel most comfortable with. To the extent that she’s interested in men at all, she prefers guys who are as cool and elegant and emotionless as she is. She’s always telling me to set my sights higher.
Easy for her to say.
But even as her statement annoys me, I’m also touched.
As different as we all are, I know that Brianna and Carina will always have my best interests at heart. And although I know I’m being a little disingenuous by hiring Archer to pose as my boyfriend, I also feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of impressing them.
5
Annabelle
By ten a.m. the next day, my mom and I are on our way to Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills. She wants a dress for the party, and I think she's hoping we'll find one for me as well. I already have one, much more my style than anything we'll find at a high-end department store, but I’m content to go along and help her pick something out.
After that the plan is lunch, then mani-pedis, then with any luck, I'll be allowed to go back to the pool and my novel.
But first, the dress.
Mom pulls up in front of Neiman Marcus, hands her keys to a valet as we step out of her car, and we walk through the glass doors.
A wave of air-conditioned coolness hits me along with the scent of perfume.
I don’t love department stores, but I do love perfume. I pause to inhale it, then step forward and almost run into a tall man in a dark suit. He's standing a few feet from the entrance holding a bottle of eau de cologne, and as I stop in my tracks, I look up and meet his eyes.
Archer.
Oh shit. My first instinct is to ignore him and walk right past, getting my mother away from him as quickly as possible so that she won’t connect Perfume Sample Guy with Annabelle's Date tomorrow night. But it's too late. She's already noticed my awkward reaction and is looking at me curiously.
Fortunately, Archer is on top of it.
“Annabelle!”
He steps forward smoothly and drops a light kiss on my cheek. His beard barely grazes my cheek—soft—and I get a subtle whiff of his citrusy cologne. Instead of being relieved at the confident way he's taking charge of the situation, I’m just thrown into further confusion by the kiss.
“Good to see you here,” he continues. “And this must be your mother. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Winter.”
Mom’s eyes widen, but she smiles and shakes his hand graciously. “Nice to meet you …?” Her voice trails off as she waits for someone to explain who he is and how he knows her daughter.
My brain finally catches up with the situation.
“Mom, this is Archer. He’s … I'm bringing him to the party on Friday. This is my mother, Moira Winter,” I add to Archer, who has already figured this out.
Mom nods, her expression now showing intense interest. “Well, delighted to meet you, Archer. I hear you're an actor.”
Archer nods. “Usually, yes. And I fill in with gigs like this.” He sweeps a hand to encompass the make-up counters that stretch colorfully ahead of us. Now I see that men in black suits dot the entire department. “We’re giving out perfume samples as part of a launch campaign.” He grins. “Would you like to hear my spiel?” He puts just enough irony into his voice to let us know that he's not trying to do anything as tacky as actually sell us the perfume, but that it would be fine if we bought some, too.
Mom agrees with a light laugh, and Archer gives a little speech about heart notes of geranium and lavender, created for the sophisticated woman who's a girl at heart, et cetera, et cetera, that I barely hear. As he talks, he gently takes first my mother’s hand, then mine, and sprays a bit of perfume on our wrists. Mom accepts his ministrations with an expression that says she’s equally charmed and amused.
I, however, feel myself go bright red in the face as soon as his strong fingers encircle my wrist. I have to fight the instinct to pull my hand out of his. In fact, my wrist twitches in his hand, and I feel his fingers wrap around it more tightly as he sprays a burst of cool perfume on my bare skin.
I smile but can’t meet his eyes.
Then he lets go.
Archer steps back and winks at both of us. “Thanks for helping me do my job.” He turns to face my mother. “I’m looking forward to your party, Mrs. Winter. Hope you enjoy the perfume.”
“Oh, I'm sure I will.” Mom sniffs delicately at her wrist then looks from me to Archer. She's still smiling, but her gaze is sharp and penetrating. “Archer, do you get a break? If you're free, I’d love to take you and Annabelle out for lunch and get to know you a bit better.”
Panic shoots through me. Pulling off our “relationship” at a crowded party is one thing; doing it
up close and personal over lunch with my mother is quite another.
But Archer is on top of it again. He shakes his head regretfully. “That's very kind of you, Mrs. Winter, but I won't get off for a few more hours.”
I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding. I can see a few new customers hovering nearby, hoping for a little personalized perfume attention themselves, and I decide it’s time to extricate myself.
“Glad we ran into you!” I say brightly, hoping I don’t sound too formal.
“Give me a call tonight,” Archer tells me. I can’t—I don’t have his number—but I appreciate that he’s doing the boyfriend thing. I half hope I’ll get another kiss on the cheek, but I have to settle for an extra hand squeeze and a smoky smile.
Archer hands us each a coupon card for the perfume, and he and my mom exchange “Nice to meet you’s.” I try to give him a lady-like nod, but it turns into this ridiculous head-ducking, sheepish-smile thing, and I walk away quickly before I can make more of a fool out of myself.
I’m feeling a strange collection of emotions as I walk away from our encounter: mostly relief that we pulled it off, some embarrassment at my dorkiness, and a tiny bit of disappointment that it’s over.
My hand still feels warm from where Archer touched it. I can almost imagine that he's left fingerprints on my skin, each of them tingling in a way I've never felt before.
I sniff my wrist discreetly and glance at the card he handed me. Reciprocity is the name of the perfume. I can't distinguish the lavender heart notes from the sandalwood base notes; to me, it smells like summer nights and classic cars, swing dancing and starlight.
“He's very charming.” My mother's voice interrupts my thoughts. “Not at all what I expected from your description.”
Defensiveness flashes through me. “I said he was nice!”
“Well, I didn't think you'd date anyone who wasn't nice,” she replies. “I just didn't think he'd be so … sophisticated. He doesn't really seem like your type.”
The implication that I don't qualify for “sophisticated” men grates on me, though to be fair, most of the guys I've dated have been somewhat lacking in the sophistication department.
To the extent that I have a type, Archer is not it.
“Well, like I said, it's not that serious,” I say airily. “We’re pretty different.” I sniff my wrist again. “I rather like this perfume. I might get some.”
If my mother recognizes this as the blatant attempt to change the subject that it is, she doesn't call me on it. “Let it sit on your skin for a while before you buy it. Sometimes perfumes change completely when they interact with your body chemistry,” she murmurs, striding toward the elevator.
“Mm,” I say, nodding, but inside, I've already made up my mind. I'll buy some before we leave the store.
Forty-five minutes later, we're in the shoe department, which is sort of ironic, because my feet are starting to hurt, even in my comfy old Nikes. Mom’s found a dress she's happy with, and I’ve successfully resisted her offers to buy one for me. Now she’s onto the shoes, and I’m sneaking glances at my watch, hoping it’ll soon be time for lunch.
“Oh, you should try these on!” Mom seizes a pair of 4-inch-heeled sandals. I try to picture myself walking in them without breaking an ankle and come up short.
“Mm, not really my style, Mom. I have a pair of shoes to wear with my dress anyway.”
Mom gives me a shrewd glance. “You're being very sweet to put up with me. Why don't you run back to the make-up department and buy that perfume if you still want it.” Her eyes twinkle. “Maybe you can say hello to Archer again. I'll meet you over there in a little bit, and we’ll get lunch.”
She clearly thinks I'm pining for Archer, though really, I’m pining more for a meal and a chance to sit down. I'd prefer not to see Archer again if possible, but I’d rather walk around the store than wait here while my mother tries on several pairs of nearly identical shoes, so I agree and make my way back to the perfume counter, hoping that Reciprocity isn't unbearably expensive.
With the launch-day coupon, it’s not too bad, though I still feel a little guilty for indulging in it. It’s a bit sad to still be accepting money from my parents at my age, but my parents insist that I take at least enough to live in a safe neighborhood. Beyond that, I try to live on my grad student stipend—which definitely does not cover the cost of designer perfumes.
Still, I get a sense of deep satisfaction when the saleslady behind the counter hands me the small but elegant paper bag with the little glass bottle in it. My frivolous little purchase feels daring and sexy … maybe even a little dangerous.
I’m just thanking the saleswoman when I hear a voice behind me.
“Maybe I should give up acting and go into sales.”
I jump a little, then turn to see Archer standing next to me. I put my hand on my heart in an exaggerated gesture of relief.
“You startled me,” I laugh. “And yes,” I hold the bag up, “you talked me into it. Do you get a commission?”
He shakes his head. “Getting paid by the hour.” He shrugs. “But it’s a good rate, so no complaints.”
I nod. The silence lasts a second or two too long, then I remember my manners. “Hey, thanks so much for, you know, dealing with my mom like that. Very smooth.” Uncharacteristically, I giggle a little—Very not smooth, I think to myself.
“I’ve taken a lot of improv classes,” he says. “Lots of practice dealing with unexpected situations.”
“I was impressed that you remembered my name,” I add, for some reason trying to keep the conversation afloat.
“You’re memorable,” he replies. His voice is dry but there’s a humorous twinkle in his eyes.
I’m honestly not sure how to take that. Part of me wants to be flattered; part of me thinks he’s teasing me. If I am memorable, I’m not convinced it’s in a positive way.
I try to laugh, but it comes out sounding literally like, “Ha ha.” I feel my cheeks flush, and I grip the handle of my perfume bag more tightly, aware that my palms are getting a little sweaty.
Archer looks at me with a combination of amusement and pity. “Look,” he says, “I didn't think you’d feel comfortable with me crashing lunch, but I do actually have a break right now. How about we get some coffee or something and get to know each other a little?”
I blink, and say something profound along the lines of, “Um …”
Archer gently steers me away from the counter—I think I see the sales woman roll her eyes a little as we leave—and toward the elevator. “There’s a restaurant on the fourth floor,” he says. “I think Thursday night is going to go a lot more smoothly if we get to know each other a bit first.”
6
Archer
The look on Annabelle’s face when her mother asked me to lunch was so horrified that I was tempted to say yes. There’s something about her that makes me want to tease her, see if there’s a sense of humor behind those secretary glasses and uptight attitude.
Plus struggling actors know never to turn down the offer of a free meal.
But common sense and professionalism prevailed. I turned Mrs. Winter down politely, gave myself a pat on the back for handling an awkward situation well, and turned my attention to the next customer.
I’m used to dealing with women who are more worldly than Annabelle; they might be attracted to me, but they’re too sophisticated to be obvious about it. The way Annabelle is so completely, obviously flustered by my presence is an odd blend of annoying and amusing. Perversely, it makes me want to see how much more flustered I can make her, which is probably why I make a point of walking over to her and striking up a conversation when I see her buying the perfume an hour later.
But after five seconds with her at the counter, I realize that we’re going to be in big trouble on Thursday night if she can’t relax more around me. No one’s going to believe that we’re dating, let alone believe in the future that she was the one to break things off.
While I’ll probably never have to deal with her again after our “date,” I do take pride in the performances I put on, whether they’re real acting gigs or not. Plus, a good review from her will go a long way toward more and better roles with Gentlemen, Inc. Until I get my big acting break, I can’t afford to overlook opportunities that pay this well.
So I ask her to join me for coffee. I see it as prepping for a role. Besides, I don’t have anything better to do on my break except wander around the store admiring things I can’t afford.
Bar on Four, the little restaurant off the Men’s Department on the fourth floor, sells $30 sandwiches and $25 salads. I’ll be in trouble if Annabelle’s expecting me to buy her lunch, but when we sit down, she orders a much more affordable cappuccino and I order a latte.
She smiles at me politely while we wait for our coffees, but she fidgets and has trouble meeting my eyes, and the tension in her shoulders tells me she’s not entirely relaxed around me.
“So, I figure we should get to know each other a bit better before I meet your friends and family,” I say.
She meets my eyes and nods earnestly. “So, like, where we grew up and what our hobbies are and stuff?”
I lift one shoulder in a light shrug. “Well, maybe—I grew up in a small town in Ohio, for what it’s worth—but I don’t think we need to worry about too many details. There’s not going to be a test, is there?”
The waiter comes back with our coffees and places them in front of us. After smiling her thanks at him, Annabelle turns to me and shakes her head. “No. My parents are more likely to grill you on your future intentions. They’ll probably hold off on the full green card interview for another time.”
I take a sip of my latte while I pretend not to notice that her face has gone scarlet. I can almost hear her thoughts: there won't actually be another time, and she's embarrassed for suggesting that there might be.
“And we’ve only been dating a few weeks anyway, right?” I say. “So if we don’t know everything about each other, it’s not that big a deal.”
