He was saying something about when he would collect as I shut the door to my taxi.
“Have a good rest of the night,” I told him, cutting him off. Perhaps I was too focused on my date later in the week with Kenny to let myself feel anything for David.
Monday morning.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Ali Baba
I’m sure at this point you have recognized your actions and have returned to your pleasant self. Now what I need from you today is to send a package to corporate with all of the new items you said you received from the warehouse as well as for you to ask Ira to cut a check for me to give to Elliott’s school for $1400 to the auction committee. I bought a beautiful pair of Bulgari earrings at the school fundraiser. Ciao.
This email was only one of about twenty from Sally waiting for me. There was one from David as well.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hi
Good morning, Alison. I hope you had a good rest of the night and a great weekend. Last week was quite a time around my office and this week promises to be another one. I had a lot of fun with you at Bowlmor and would like to take you out again. What do you think?
No mention of collecting. Nice. But I was sure now that David was a strikeout. I called him right after receiving his email.
“The subscriber’s voice mail you have called is full. Please try your call again later,” said the automatic woman who intercepted my phone call.
Didn’t she realize that it would help me greatly to be able to leave my “Thank you for a fun night; I would like to be friends—without benefits” message on his voice mail?
Okay, it would have been easier to leave David a message, especially since I wasn’t sure how he would react, but I would have said the same thing to him if he’d answered the call. I always preferred when I received that courtesy and tried to do the same. But since I couldn’t reach him, it was time for plan B: send an email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Hi
Hey David,
I had a great weekend, thanks—hope you did too, especially after your long work week. I feel very awkward writing what should be said over the phone, but when I just called your cell, your mailbox was full.
I have had a lot of fun with you (and my bowling has definitely improved) but I think that we are better suited as friends. I wish you the best of luck finding someone special—she will be a lucky girl.
Fondly,
Alison
Nine minutes later, I received his reply.
From: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Hi
I agree . . . on all counts.
Have a great one.
My face flushed. Not the answer I expected. Why ask me out again? Or push for sex? I ended it with you and now you’re rejecting me?
But at the end of the day, I was happy not to lead David on and to focus on the good-looking man on the eleventh floor of my building. Next!
Before my date with Kenny, I met up with Zeke, the tall, blond, Norwegian head of Hotbox, for an early drink. Zeke wanted to talk about things unrelated to Sally Steele Cosmetics, and was careful to request drinks over the phone versus over email. As Hotbox was our outsourced Internet e-commerce company, I had frequently communicated with Zeke and his team since receiving my “viral media” fauxmotion. Hotbox was immersed in redesigning our website, among other things, and had its own difficulties with Sally.
There was an unspoken understanding between Zeke and me about the hair tearing (or hair losing!) experience of working with the Makeup Mongrel. Sally had reprimanded Zeke and individual members of his team for issues that were outside of their control and then berated me when the glitches couldn’t be solved. We’d become familiar with each other in a short time with daily contact over the phone and in meetings.
Zeke suggested we meet at Grand Central, before I was set to meet Kenny around 8 p.m. Could it be that sending out my résumé had released a message into the universe that I was available and looking? For men and jobs? I wasn’t sure if I believed in the theories of The Secret, but I was happy with whatever energy was newly coming my way.
“Alison,” Zeke said over wine and appetizers, “I’ll be candid. I would not have any desire to keep the Sally Steele account if you weren’t our point person.”
Is this business, or is he flirting with me? Oh stop, Alison. Keep your ego in check.
“Working with you is truly a joy,” he said, resting his hands on the table and smiling. “So I have a question for you.”
“Yes?” I asked, not sure if it would involve a paycheck, sex, or both.
“I want you to consider working for my team.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and took a swig of white. He was trying to get me to come in-house, not to his house. A job offer—thank God!
“And would you spare me from working on the Sally Steele campaign?” I asked with a smile.
“Well, I think that it would make sense for you to stay on the campaign. You have grown the business so much, and I think that you could do wonders with it if you were on our side.”
I need to get away from that Beast.
“Interesting, Zeke,” I said. “And thank you. But I have to think about it. I don’t necessarily want to leave Sally to gain Sally, to be honest.”
“Just think about it, Alison. We love working with you and want to keep a relationship with you for as long as possible.”
He paused for a second and looked me straight in the eye.
“I’m no fool, and I know you know that. I also know that you aren’t long for your company. Frankly, I don’t understand how you work for that woman at all. That was clearly off the record.” He chuckled.
And that was that. He understood the situation. And he wasn’t flirting with me.
I left Grand Central feeling like a ball of energy. Desire and positivity ignited inside my stomach. And the glass and a half of wine that I’d drunk certainly helped.
Kenny was already sitting in a booth at the Fitzpatrick Hotel bar, where we’d planned on meeting, just two blocks from our apartment building. He stood to greet me, smelling freshly showered and with wet hair that highlighted his eyes.
“I feel so far away,” he said when we sat. “These tables are huge. Would you mind if I sat in the corner with you?” I smiled as he slid into the navy leather seat next to me.
“What’s your favorite food?” he asked me as we both watched a plate of curly fries make their way to the table across from us.
“Ice cream—most specifically, Caramel Cone from Häagen-Dazs,” I answered without missing a beat, watching as a small smile crept across his lips.
“Ice cream?” he questioned.
I nodded firmly. “Yours? Fries, perhaps?”
“For me,” he said, “anything my mom cooks. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Most specifically, her meatloaf. I just love it.”
“I hope your mom’s meatloaf is better than my mom’s. I don’t like meatloaf. Meatloaf nights were code for eating at the next-door neighbor’s house where I grew up.”
He laughed quietly. Kenny was soft-spoken, but also clear and confident, even when we talked about our pet peeves. Mine: mixing fruit and chocolate. Why would anyone mess up the purity of chocolate cake with some sort of fruity drizzle? His: people who spoke too loudly.
I want to kiss this man. He’s talking and I can’t focus; I just want to kiss him.
“Can I walk you home?” he asked at the perfect decibel level after three hours that felt like twenty minutes.
“Of course you can. I hope it’s not too far out of your way,” I said coyly.
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“It would be my pleasure.” Kenny held my hand as we walked back to good ol’ Fifty. It was weird walking into our building together. I would often say my good-nights to dates to the left or right of the building entrance so that the doormen (who knew everything) didn’t have something extra to gossip about. The security of living in a protected building was fantastic. Having everyone know all of your business—not so great.
When we got into the elevator, I pushed the tenth- and eleventh-floor buttons. I wasn’t versed in intrabuilding first-date etiquette.
“Can I walk you to your door?” Kenny asked as we ascended.
“Yes, that would be great—thanks.” At the tenth floor, we walked down the hall to my side of the building.
“I had fun tonight, neighbor,” he said.
Kiss time? I hoped so.
“I did, too,” I replied, waiting.
And with a staccato peck on the lips—perfectly appropriate and a total letdown—he said one more good-night before heading into the stairwell.
At work the next day, I barely got anything done. Had Kenny had as much fun last night as I had? I spent most of the day Gchatting online with my girlfriends, overanalyzing the situation. I needed to stop thinking about it and focus on my upcoming weekend trip to QVC—my first to the Q!—in T minus three days.
That Friday night it was pouring rain, bleak and cold outside, but I didn’t feel any of the dreary elements as nothing could cloud my pre-trip excitement. Sally, Giuseppe, and I were leaving at seven the next morning. And I was choosing to focus on the thrill of going to QVC rather than to dread the extended solo time with Sally. I would finally get to see firsthand what this television shopping community was really like. TV selling was still a new beast to me, and the best way to conquer it was to see it from the inside.
“I’ve decided to allow you to use your entertainment experience to help produce my QVC shows, ya little showbiz girl. Aren’t you a lucky little Pal-y Ali,” Sally had said two weeks ago.
Is Sally finally realizing that I’m not just a lowly assistant? I’d wondered. This could be a new beginning for me here!
I knew the models, so I’d studied all the hosts and staff as much as possible over those fourteen days.
“You do realize how lucky you are to be going to Pennsylvania with Sally and Giuseppe, don’t you?” Helen half questioned and half accused as I left work the night before my trip. “They don’t usually take anyone other than a makeup artist with them. It’s an inner-circle thing. I’m just saying.”
“I’m really stoked for the opportunity,” I replied, realizing that in her two-decade tenure at the studio, she’d never been to QVC. I didn’t want to rub it in.
“Yeah, so enjoy.” The New Jersey in her made it sound more like a threat than a wish.
I knew I should go to bed early that night, and had planned on doing laundry and resting up before the big weekend. I was in the midst of packing and mentally digesting the past few days at the office when at 6:45, my phone buzzed with a text. It was from Kenny.
KG: Hey there. Greetings from the 11th floor! Hope ur enjoying this unbelievably gorgeous night!
Yes—he texted! And somehow, his use of “ur” didn’t annoy me like Sally’s “ur” did. Since it was a Friday night, I waited a little while to text him back. As far as he knew, I was getting ready to go out—or was already out for the night.
ALI: Yes, fantastic weather - perfect for the hair! You?
KG: Just picked up sushi. Should’ve had it delivered, I’m soaked. By the way . . . promise I’m not stalking u . . . but do you have a black and white monkey poster in your bedroom?
Could he see into my apartment from his windows? Oh my God! I guess, since he was on eleven and I was on ten (and both facing the courtyard), he looked down and right into my bedroom. This could be a problem. I never put my shades down. Loved the open view. I was a New Yorker—there was no shame in being an exhibitionist. And of all the apartment windows in the city, who would be looking into mine? This guy.
ALI: I cannot believe you risked bad hair to pick up dinner in this weather! Hope it’s 5 stars! Uh oh . . . They aren’t monkeys (more like abstract art) . . . but is it over the bed???
KG: Directly over the bed, yeah. Don’t worry—I haven’t seen much at all. I need new binoculars ASAP.
ALI: Whoa! I knew that never putting my shades down would someday bite me in the ass . . . eek!
KG: How’d you know I’m a biter?
Oh wow. He was totally flirting with me. And he could see through my windows. So he must know that I’m home tonight, since my lights are on. Wrench in my plan.
ALI: I didn’t . . . Guess I just got lucky.
KG: Lucky indeed. Are you venturing out in rain? Or r u hanging in?
ALI: Hanging in. Have to leave early for a biz trip tomorrow. You?
KG: Staying in. If ur up for hanging for a bit, feel free to knock. (Promise no biting.) If not . . . just leave your shades open.
ALI: Ha! Well . . . was going to do laundry and finish packing for my trip, but I may need to see this view of yours for myself. Can I bring anything?
KG: No. U may not bring anything. Thanks. Come whenever. 11-Q.
Could he really see into my windows? It would make sense. What has he seen that I don’t know about? At least I didn’t sleep on the window side of the bed.
Now, what to wear to the eleventh floor? It was a rainy day and I was hanging at home as we were texting, so if I showed up in anything more than very casual, he would sense the effort.
I settled on cute sweats and a casual hoodie with a tank top—had to show a little something, but not too much. The makeup looked good, clean and minimal. And no lipstick. Probably would have pissed Sally off.
I walked up to the eleventh floor and knocked on Kenny’s door. He opened it with a smile on his face, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Okay, good. I wasn’t over- or underdressed. The lights were dim, his television was on, and the spotless black-and-gray-dominant bachelor pad didn’t disappoint—it was the stereotypical finance/lawyer-type barely-lived-in home.
“First and foremost, I need to see this view, if you don’t mind.” I swept by him with a smile. He laughed and took me to his living room windows, where the shades were already open.
“Oh yes, that’s my bedroom.”
This dude can see right through my windows and half of my bed!
“I was hoping you would bring me some binoculars,” he teased as I stood by the window with my mouth agape.
“I want to know what kind of shows you’ve seen from your window seat!” I baited him, pushing his shoulder lightly.
“Well, fine. Even though you didn’t bring binoculars for me, I’ll still give you the present I had for you.”
He had a present for me? Wow. Cute and generous. I hoped he wasn’t doing this to get me into bed, because that wasn’t happening. He was lucky enough to have a same-night date.
When Kenny came out of his bedroom, he handed me a remote control. “For you.”
A remote?
“I know, it’s random, but I just switched to Verizon FiOS and you said that you have Time Warner, so I thought you would be able to use this, or just in case you needed a replacement remote in the future.”
Different, that’s for sure. Thoughtful or weird? Of course, I thanked him for it.
“Drink?” he offered, grabbing his already empty glass and walking into the kitchen.
“Just water for me. I have an early wake-up call tomorrow and still have some more packing to do.” My exit strategy, should I need it.
I was looking forward to a PG make-out session, but we sat parallel to each other on the couch, like sardines in a can. Odd. I felt like I was back in high school, wondering if the guy sitting six inches to my right was going to make a move.
Are we actually going to watch a movie?
We chose an offbeat comedy that neither of us had seen. During the first thirty minutes, our elbows would occasionally touch, and after he got up to refill his drink, he sat closer to me and our elbows touched for the rest of the film.
The flirt who texted me about needing binoculars to snoop in my window had this kind of self-control? Was I more appealing through the window?
Since the movie was subpar and I wasn’t getting any love (save for my elbow), I couldn’t wait for the film to be over so I could finish packing and get some beauty sleep for the weekend ahead.
“I’m shy, but I definitely would have tried to talk to you if I ran into you in the building,” he said as the closing credits rolled. “I mean, we did lock eyes a bunch of times at the Chinese restaurant.”
Did he want to lock lips?
“Here,” he said quietly, as he shifted his head toward mine and moved in closer.
YES!
I slowly moved to meet him in the middle.
SMACK! His hand holding his remote walloped me square in the forehead.
“Oh my God” came out of my mouth as my body tensed. I was flustered, but the only pain I felt was mortification.
“Oh my God,” Kenny repeated. “I just whacked you in the face!”
“Yeah, I got that,” I said out loud, still shocked.
I’m humiliated, but are you going to apologize?
“Wow, your face was like, right there. Can I get you ice or something? Are you hurt? Oh man.”
Declining the ice and dying to look at my face in the mirror, I hightailed it out of there, choosing the excuse of an early morning the next day versus my throbbing (and embarrassed) head. He walked me to the door and said good night. No peck. No apology. Nada.
As I walked down the flight of stairs and down the hall to my apartment, I had only one thought: I need to shut my fucking shades.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Temporarily Reduce the Appearance Of
My alarm clock woke me up the next morning and I automatically reached for my forehead. Feeling no bump and only slight tenderness, I jumped out of bed. With all the night’s rain gone, I had an easy, traffic-free taxi ride to the studio, where I waited for the red Mercedes to arrive.
What Pretty Girls Are Made Of Page 9
