“When do I have to let you know by?” I asked.
“I don’t know, how about a few days?” Jack said. “So anyway, what did you want to tell me?”
“Oh, I got a job interview! With Retreat, which is a really great magazine. Can you believe it?” I enthused.
“You see, someone did read your exposé on the masses of seniors invading Disney World. When’s your interview?”
“On Friday, in Chicago. They’re flying me in,” I said.
“Chicago?” Jack sounded puzzled. “Would you have to move there?”
“If I get the job, then yes.”
“I didn’t know you were thinking about moving,” Jack said.
I shrugged, and then remembered he couldn’t see me. “I would for the right job,” I said.
“Well, if you’re willing to consider London, I know a few editor types here. Just say the word and I’ll see if they’re hiring,” Jack said.
I was startled. Was he really suggesting I consider moving to London? And was he just being nice, or was he implying that if I moved to London, he and I would . . . be together? That wasn’t possible, was it? Men are supposed to run from commitment like rats fleeing a leaky ship, not invite it to snuggle up closer. If Jack was going to keep breaking every known rule of how men and women are supposed to behave in the initial stages of romance, then how the hell was I supposed to get a grip on whatever it was that was happening between us?
“Claire?”
“I’m still here.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes. Fine.”
I could tell Jack was waiting for me to respond to his rather generous offer to help me find a better job, but what was I supposed to say? That sure, I’d consider moving to a foreign country to be with a man whom I’d known for less than a month? It was crazy. Okay, it didn’t feel crazy—in fact the very idea made me want to whoop with joy and start packing my bags—but intellectually, I knew that it was ridiculous. Of course, falling in love is an insanity unto itself, and therefore colors all perceptions and reactions. One should never make major decisions while either in the initial or final phases of it, such as moving out of the country or cutting all of one’s hair off.
“Um. That’s really nice. I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to talk to your contacts,” I said, wincing at how ungracious I sounded.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jack said. He paused. “By the way, have you talked to Maddy yet?”
Ugh. I’d hoped we could avoid that topic for the time being, or at least until I found a way to turn into Harry Potter, so I could wave my magic wand and make Maddy forget she’d ever met Jack.
“No, not yet,” I said. “But I will. I promise.”
“I just want to make sure she hears about it from you, especially if you’re coming here,” he said. “I think she’d be hurt if she found out from a third person.”
If you only knew that third person could be the private investigator Maddy was threatening to hire, I thought. But her hiring the detective also meant that I was out of time. I had to tell her the truth. I just hoped that Maddy would be in a charitable mood. Maybe she’d be somehow infused with the spirit of Christmas, and more willing to forgive treacherous friends.
“I know, I know,” I said, resigned. “I’ll tell her.”
From: Max Levy
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: absolution
Date: Tuesday, December 10
Okay, I’m sorry. Please stop ignoring me. What can I do to make it up to you?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Max Levy
Subject: Re: absolution
Date: Tuesday, December 10
I might have been able to forgive you for telling Gary I liked basketball. And Hooters could have possibly been funny. But the tongue in the ear? That was unforgivable. You know how I feel about ears. And tongues.
From: Max Levy
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: Re: absolution
Date: Tuesday, December 10
I didn’t know you had a thing about ears. I thought it was feet that you hated.
Okay, what if I let you stick your tongue in my ear? Would that make us even?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Max Levy
Subject: Re: Re: Re: absolution
Date: Tuesday, December 10
Well, now I’m disgusted by feet AND ears.
The only thing that would make us even is if Gary sticks his tongue in your ear. AND you have to take me out to dinner tomorrow night . . . I have a big interview on Friday, and I want to obsess about it. Ack, I hope no one in management is reading my e-mails. You never know when the watcher’s eyes are watching. . . .
From: Jack Harrison
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: The Top Five Reasons Why You Should Spend Christmas in London
Date: Tuesday, December 10
5. The day after Christmas is also a national holiday (they call it Boxing Day, for some reason).
4. The Queen broadcasts a really boring speech that we can make fun of.
3. You get to open Christmas crackers, and wear the silly hats that come within.
2. Father Christmas
1. I’ll make it worth your while. . . .
From: Claire Spencer
To: Jack Harrison
Subject: Re: The Top Five Reasons Why You Should Spend Christmas in London
Date: Tuesday, December 10
You really miss David Letterman, don’t you?
From: Norfolk, Peggy
To: All staff list
Subject: Name change
Date: Tuesday, December 10
We have some exciting news to share. As of January 1, the name of our magazine will be changed from Sassy Seniors to Sassy Seniors! We feel that this new name will better express our passion for exploring the issues facing today’s seniors.
From: Spencer, Claire
To: Norfolk, Peggy
Subject: Re: Name change
Date: Tuesday, December 10
I think there was a typo in your e-mail. You said that the name of the magazine was being changed from Sassy Seniors to Sassy Seniors.
Cordially, Claire
From: Norfolk, Peggy
To: All staff list
Subject: Name change
Date: Tuesday, December 10
There seems to be some confusion about the e-mail I
sent out earlier regarding the change in the name of
the magazine. The name of the magazine is still Sassy Seniors, but we have added an exclamation point to
the end. The new name of the magazine is: Sassy
Seniors!
Also, it has come to my attention that some members of the Sassy Seniors! team have been using their company
e-mail accounts for personal correspondence. We ask that you please not use the company e-mail for this type of correspondence, and also that you restrict your socializing to off-duty hours.
Thank you.
From: Max Levy
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: absolution
Date: Tuesday, December 10
Okay, I just called Cooksey and he said there’s no way in
hell he’s sticking his tongue in my ear . . . so I’m going
over to his place tonight and sticking my tongue in
his ear instead. Will that be a sufficient amount of
personal humiliation for you (especially considering
he’ll almost certainly become violent after I do
this)?
From: Claire Spencer
To: Max Levy
Subject: Okay . . .
Date: Tuesday, December 10
That will work. But I still want the dinner, too.
From: Jenny James
To: Claire Spencer
Subject: reservations
Date: Wednesday, December 11
Dear Ms. Spencer:
Pursuant to Mr. Harrison’s instructions, I have arranged a booking for a return business class ticket from New York
to London, traveling on December 23 and returning January 1. Please find attached a copy of your itinerary, and confirm your travel plans at your earliest convenience.
Should you require any further assistance with this booking, please do not hesitate to contact me.
With kind regards,
Yours sincerely,
Jenny James
Travel World
“So are you coming?” Jack asked when I picked up the phone.
“What?” I asked, taken aback, wondering if this was his somewhat abrupt way of initiating phone sex.
“To London. For Christmas. To see me. Remember?” he said.
“Yes, but . . . I mean I haven’t had a chance to think about it yet,” I said. “Although I have to admit I was tempted when I read the top-five list you sent me.”
“What else can I do to tempt you?” Jack asked, and this time there was no mistaking the lascivious tone in his voice.
Hmmm, maybe the possibility of phone sex wasn’t so remote after all. Wasn’t that what couples in long-distance relationships did? Suddenly I wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to make a misstep. What if we did attempt it, and I couldn’t talk dirty enough, or if he talked way too dirty, and we ended up feeling weird around each other afterward? And how long was phone sex supposed to last? Hours? A few minutes? About as long as a sitcom? And was I actually supposed to involve myself, erm, personally? Or was that just an act, a bit of cheap theatrics you throw in to keep things interesting? These were all questions that I could intuitively answer if we were in the same room, but had no idea how to handle now that we were separated by 3,500 miles and talking via satellite.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to see you,” I hedged. “Because of course I do.”
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just not sure . . . I mean, I just don’t know . . .”
“I see,” Jack said, and I laughed, since I was being so oblique there was no way he possibly could.
“I promise, I’ll let you know as soon as I can. I got an e-mail from your travel agent today, and I wrote back to tell her that I’d confirm as soon as possible,” I said. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Jack said, and although he sounded casual enough, he paused, and then cleared his throat. “Claire?”
“Yes?” I said.
Here it comes, I thought, both nervous and excited. He’s going to ask if we can try the phone sex thing, and I’m going to feel like a complete idiot when I don’t do it right. Am I supposed to use crass terms like “cock” and “pussy” once we start? Because those just aren’t words that roll off my tongue with casual abandon. And was there any way I could get through it without dissolving into giggles?
“Is there something wrong? I mean, is there something bothering you about . . . us, or about me?” Jack asked.
Oh great, I thought. He must have sensed that I’m feeling a little awkward about doing it. Should I tell him that I’m willing to try? I mean, I am, aren’t I? Of course I am. I’m a mature woman in my thirties, and hardly a virgin. I can handle a little dirty talk, some throaty growls, a few racy suggestions. Although maybe I should put him off for a day or two so that I can draw up a crib sheet, and write down titillating things to say to him in case my mind goes blank once we start.
“No, nothing,” I said brightly. “Everything’s great.”
“It’s just . . . I know you’re hesitating about coming here for Christmas, and I just hoped that I haven’t done or said anything that would make you feel uncomfortable about it. I had such a great time when I visited you in New York, and I thought you did too, so I just assumed . . .” His voice, tentative and unsure, trailed off.
It was a good thing Jack couldn’t see me, because I blushed bright red and rolled my eyes skyward, mortified at what an idiot I was being. Not only was he not interested in having phone sex, he was yet again trying to drag me into a relationship talk. Maybe Jack and I had suffered some kind of a Freaky Friday gender role reversal, where all he could think about was the emotional aspects of the relationship, while my mind was in the gutter.
“No, nothing’s wrong. And it’s not you at all, I was just . . . well, I just want to make sure that we’re not rushing anything. And I haven’t had a chance to talk to Maddy yet, about us I mean, and I feel like I should do that before we see each other again. Just so that we’re not hiding anything. But I promise, I’ll think it over, and let you know as soon as possible. Okay?” I asked.
“You’re right,” Jack agreed. “You should tell Maddy first. Why don’t you call her tonight and get it over with?”
The last time I had talked to Maddy, she’d been threatening to hire a private detective to track Jack’s whereabouts. Somehow the idea of blithely announcing that not only was I dating her ex-boyfriend but was contemplating spending the holidays with him didn’t strike me as a fun way of spending the remainder of my evening. Still. I knew it had to be done.
“Okay. I’ll call her,” I said. And then said a little prayer that in the few days since we’d talked Maddy had met some gorgeous British rock star icon who’d swept her off her feet, planted a five-carat diamond ring on her finger, and promised to buy her an island in the Caribbean as a wedding gift. Because short of that, I had a feeling she wasn’t going to take this news very well at all.
“Hi, this is Maddy. Leave a message after the tone, and I might just call you back.”
Beep.
“Maddy, it’s Claire. Are you there? [pause] Okay, well . . . please give me a call when you get this. I wanted to check on you, and see how you’re feeling, and I . . . well, I have something I need to tell you. So call me. Although, wait . . . I’m going out of town tomorrow, so call me over the weekend. Okay?”
Chapter 13
Wow. The Retreat offices were incredible. I suppose I should have expected as much from a magazine devoted to high-end travel—after all, the break room at Sassy Seniors! was stocked with cholesterol-lowering margarine, Aspercreme, and Centrum Silver (all advertising sponsors, naturally). But this place looked more like a really cool hotel bar than an office building—the floors and tables were a warm, russet-hued wood, all of the upholstered furniture in the waiting area was slipcovered in flannel gray men’s suiting material, and artsy black-and-white close-up photographs of pine needles and flower petals hung on the walls. Steel lamps that looked like expensive artwork graced gently curved tables. Even the receptionist was color-coordinated—she was a gorgeous redhead with a glossy bee-stung pout (what Max crassly refers to as “blow-job lips”), and was dressed in a dove gray skirt suit with a plunging neckline, and no blouse on underneath.
“Claire Spencer to see Kit Holiday,” I said, trying to sound professional, although I instantly felt like a slob. Why is it that flawlessly groomed women always make me feel like I’m dragging a square of toilet paper around on the heel of my shoe?
The redhead was a true professional, however, and didn’t even smirk at my decidedly less-than-hip outfit. It’s always so hard to know what to wear on interviews, since some magazines have switched to a casual dress code where staffers drag themselves around in wrinkled chinos and scuffed loafers, while others resemble extras from the MTV Spring Break special with their thong underwear peeking out of hip-slung jeans. Then there were the fashion rags, where showing up in anything that wasn’t stylist approved would earn you derisive sneers and a pay cut. Sassy Seniors! didn’t have an official dress code, although
every few weeks during the warmer months Peggy would send around an e-mail reminding everyone of the no-bare-legs policy (warnings that I ignored, since who in their right mind is going to wear panty hose when the temperature is hovering near 100 degrees?). So not wanting to be either wildly under- or overdressed, I’d gone the boring yet safe route and wore my black wool pantsuit over a crisply ironed white cotton shirt.
“I’ll let her know you’re here,” the redhead said in such a sexy, husky voice I wondered if she moonlighted as a porn star. Actually, she sounded like someone who’d delight in indulging in a little phone sex—exactly the kind of woman I needed some advice from on the topic—although I figured it would come across as unprofessional if I inquired into her experience in such matters.
While waiting for Kit Holiday to appear, I wandered over to the wall of glass windows that overlooked the main floor of the magazine. Just as I’d suspected, hipness abounded. No ugly, industrial cubicles for the Retreat staff. Instead, glass-fronted offices lined every wall, while the support staff worked at groovy steel metal desks in the open-floor-plan center. Tall plants and redbrick columns were artfully arranged so that everyone had a modicum of privacy.
I felt a shiver of nervousness. I couldn’t believe I was here, that I was really being considered for a job at this kind of a magazine! A place like this wouldn’t have travel features on Phoenix or Denver . . . instead, they’d do stories on Morocco, Amsterdam, Sydney. And their travel writers don’t weasel out the cheapest motel in town, but instead uncover the hippest hotels, the chicest attractions, the hottest new restaurant. No more budgets! No more chain hotel rooms featuring stained bedspreads and mass-produced forest landscapes hanging on the walls! No more eating at establishments that offer cellulite-inducing all-you-can-eat buffet lunches!
Wow, I’m going to need an entire new wardrobe if I work here, I thought. I’m actually going to have to start paying attention to those articles in Lucky and Marie Claire about how to pull together five versatile pieces of clothing into an easy-to-pack and glamorous weekend wardrobe.
“Claire?”
I turned, and was greeted by a petite woman.
“I’m Kit,” she said, with a wide, open smile.
True Love (and Other Lies) Page 17
