“Ab Fab, fancy seeing you here,” he says, looking more at my feet than my face. His girlfriend is looking me over from head to toe and back again in that horrible way that women do to size up the competition, which is ridiculous, since I’m practically definitely maybe going to marry Seth.
“This is Whitney; Whitney, this is Ab, um, Lane, my assistant.” I extend my hand, and it takes her a second to take hold of it with her dragon-nailed claw. When she does, it’s with a birdlike grip I can barely feel.
“Charmed,” she says, clearly not meaning it. And then she turns to Tom and says, “I think we should go to the table now. If we’re not going to a real restaurant, then the least we can do is eat at a table—rather than at the bar—like civilized people.”
I look at my plate of boneless chicken wings and should probably feel like a barbarian, but instead, I stab one with a fork and moan, “Mmmmm,” waving them off with a stuffed-mouthed grin.
Tom looks as if he’s going to flash that award-winning smile, but thinks better of it, waves and follows his Ivana Trump look-alike to a corner table.
“That’s your boss?” Joanne asks, with disbelief.
“Yeah, why?”
‘Well, he’s so—young. And cute. How come you never mentioned him?”
I look over at them sitting down in an oversize booth; she appears to be fixing his hair, licking her finger and trying to smooth down a flyaway. I would have never thought he’d go in for that type. It doesn’t fit my image of him and throws me off. I’m relieved I can’t see his face.
If I could pick a woman for Tom, she’d be wonderful, stylish, smart, and funny. I’m cataloging my girlfriends to think of a single one, but I’m the only one who doesn’t automatically receive the “and guest” invitations these days.
“What’s to mention? He’s a sweet guy and all, but definitely not M&M material. Did you catch a load of that tie? And anyway, he has a girlfriend.”
“Whatever.” she says. “I’ve had enough of downtown. Wanna head back to the real world?”
“You know what you need?” Joanne perks up in the taxi, as if she’s just found the cure for cancer, or the alcohol has just kicked in. “You need to have some random hookup with a guy that you don’t need to worry yourself sick about with stupid questions about him being your Kit Kat or whatever.”
“M&M.”
She doesn’t skip a beat. “It’s unnatural dealing with this twenty-four/seven. I think you’re in danger of going mad and I don’t mean that in a romantic HBO version of Hamlet’s Ophelia sort of way, so don’t even go there. It’s hard enough meeting someone, working out whether you should go on a second date, much less whether you can spend the rest of your life with him before you’ve even had dessert. I really am afraid you may short-circuit. That’s it. We’re going to a posh spot where none of these guys would ever go.”
The jury is still out on whether or not I’m going mad. It is possible, perhaps, that some might say I’m a smidge too excited about my date with Seth. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m merely enjoying myself. Thoroughly. The pressure is there, but only a bit, since I’m still only in week one, and everything seems to be progressing swimmingly. Still, I’m never one to argue when it comes to meeting Mr. Right Now, who has many indisputable merits.
Mr. Right Now is Joanne’s term. She’s always telling me I should enjoy the single life because once you are in a serious relationship, “You’ll never be able to touch another man’s ass.”
I can’t imagine being so unhappy with your own man’s ass that you’d want another one, but I will never judge Joanne’s relationship again. The one time we’d gotten down to talking about her sex life and she said they had sex on average once a week, I nearly fell off my seat laughing. What kind of relationship is that? Certainly not one I’d ever imagined. I’d thought it was a joke. Apparently it wasn’t. Her eyes widened to perfect circles, brows stretched so high they disappeared into her hairline. She’d glared at me like she was about to pounce. But after the scariest twenty seconds of my life, all she said was “Lane, you’ll never change, will you?”
So now I just concentrate on my own love life. To each his own. And since I haven’t technically seen Seth’s ass yet, I’m free to do whatever I wish, with the bonus of my imminent date to keep me from feeling desperate should my mission fail. It’s the best of both worlds.
Twenty minutes and an eight-dollar cab ride later we’re ordering a round of drinks at Cherry in the W Hotel. I have spent the last decade trying to meet men this way, in chic spots that look romantic, but it has never proven successful. Still, there’s always that stubborn inkling of hope in the back of your mind that this time will be different. My eyes scan the room, tingling with possibility.
“You’re so lucky you’re single,” Joanne says. I can’t believe she’s bringing this up again.
For someone who fancies herself knowledgeable in the ways of the world, she sure doesn’t know the first thing about how unlucky single life is. And I’m just about to start in about how before I met Seth the weekends stretched out ahead of me like torture tests—a series of never-ending hours to be occupied by various modes of distraction (mainly complaining about how there’s nothing good to eat anymore; in desperation, eating something fattening; complaining about how I just ate something fattening; wondering what I’ll eat next), punctuated only by overindulgent sleeping jags—when I feel a tap at my shoulder, and hear the words, “Excuse me.”
I jump, and in the process, land my pink drink in the lap of the unfortunate speaker. The first thing I see is a wet lap. And then I notice that the wet is rather embarrassingly located over the crotch of a rather exquisite pair of navy pants, which, looking up, I notice, is actually part of a rather exquisite suit, over a sleek collared shirt, on a rather nice frame, topped by one of the most handsome faces I’ve ever seen. Watery blue eyes, small, in that sort of squinty, sexy way, strong brows (I am an avid fan of the strong brow on men), a well-defined jawline, and almost nonexistent lips. Most people like big, full lips, but I like tiny, skinny ones. There’s no reason, really. I just do. Perhaps it’s something to do with those Ken dolls I played with as a kid—they had the tiniest lips. And I might add here that this guy knows exactly how to choose a tie. His is a beautiful, understated check pattern with a hint of blue that perfectly compliments the shirt and the eyes.
“Do you have the time?” he asks in an English accent (an English accent!), as if nothing has happened. I’ve spilled a drink on the most beautiful man ever to step foot in a W Hotel bar, who has, above all things coveted, an English accent. Maybe this is why I’m single.
I want to apologize, offer to lick it off if necessary, but, instead look at my wrist, and say, “Six-thirty.” Thank God I’d settled on that watch at Century 21. Apparently miracles never cease.
“Great. Then I’ve time for you to spill one more drink on me before my dinner meeting. What’ll it be?”
I look over at Joanne, and in that no hands/words needed language we communicate in, ask how to proceed here.
And in the no hands/words needed language, she lets it be known through a flick of a brow and the slightest turn of cheek, that I should order another cosmopolitan, introduce myself, and attempt to refrain from regarding him as an obsessed fan would Joey Fatone at an ‘N Sync reunion.
Gosh she’s helpful when she doesn’t open her mouth.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t buy you a drink?” I venture.
“Oh, not a chance. Then I’d owe you something and I’m rather enjoying things in their current state. Now that you feel bad for making it looks as if I’ve done a wee in my suit, you’ve no choice but to sit here with me while I finish my drink. It’s the only polite thing to do.”
Polite? I would have stayed here with him until he begged me to leave, calling over bouncers to rip my arms and legs from him.
And then, with the most subtle gesture, he calls the waitress over, passes his credit card into her palm, and orders up one “mountain
” of napkins, a cosmo for me, one for Joanne (even though she hasn’t nearly finished hers yet), and a scotch for himself.
A scotch! (I am tipsy and highly attracted to this man, so using exclamation points to excess is now unavoidable!) I’ve never spoken with anyone who drinks scotch. (!!!!)
“Do you ladies just pour drinks over innocent men for kicks, or is it a professional sort of thing?”
“I’m a, um, a writer,” I say, catching myself from saying I’m somebody’s assistant down on Wall Street. Or worse, that I’m undercover looking for the love of my life; I wonder exactly how many milliseconds it would take after saying something like that until he “forgot” his dinner meeting actually started five seconds ago.
“Well, why so glum about it, Hemmingway? Tough day on the keys?”
(!!!!) “I’m, uh, working through a really tough assignment right now,” I say, thinking how simple it sounds in those terms.
“I’m Lane, by the way,” I say, changing topics before my size XXL mouth gets me into trouble. “And this is Joanne,” an elbow in my ribs prompts me to add. My gosh, this man is beautiful. He’s beautiful in the sort of way that makes you aware of the estrogen pumping through your body. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
I experience a full-on flush of paranoia/neurosis/jealousy as Sexy British Man shakes Joanne’s hand. I try not to stare, but I can’t rip my eyes away. I cast myself in the role of sixth-grader uncomfortable in her own skin, hating her best friend whom he might actually wind up liking better. And as I try to tell her without the words, “This is my ass! The one you told me to get,” I semiconsciously shake my hair in what I hope is a sexy gesture. (!!!!)
“Joanne has a boyfriend,” I say in knee-jerk fashion on behalf of said sixth-grade girl before I realize what I’ve done. Idiot. My eyes widen when the knowledge that my pettiness has escaped from my head out into the world.
Sexy British Man smiles as if I’ve said the funniest thing in the world. This action encourages busy little she-hormones to infiltrate in light horse brigade fashion (biological equivalents of flatirons, long-wearing mascara, and an impossible-to-find Kevyn Aucoin concealer brush) into every muscle, organ, and bone. The result is a rapid rotation of hair twisting, décolletage caressing, and lip pouting that I can only hope looks sexy. When I nearly knock over cosmo number two, I am less than confident that my hopes are being realized.
“I’m Liam, and I don’t have a boyfriend.” We find this amusing. We’d find anything he said amusing.
Before I can drag in the reigns on the tornado of activity that is currently my female sexual reproductive system, the sixth-grader once again takes over and I’m intimidated by how tall and slender Joanne is. In yet another universal imbalance, my friend looks stunning, despite the fact she “doesn’t understand” how anyone can bear to wear foundation, blush, or lipstick; “It’s just so gross to put stuff on your face.” Joanne is stunning, even in a Hello Kitty T-shirt and anti-fit paint-splattered jeans.
Liam, as it turns out is here (I swear to God) trying to set up the U.S. edition of his magazine.
I urge sixth-grader to retreat, but, find myself moving closer to the bar, turning my head from Joanne, to block her from the conversation, anyway. I wave off responsibility in the face of biological instinct (the she-hormones have begun unpacking the heavy artillery: their anticellulite seaweed wraps, instalifting serums, collagen injections). I dismiss further misgivings with the rationale that I’ve gotten a bit rusty at this sort of thing what with my own noncompetitive status at work these days.
The magazine is Beautiful—a well-known UK magazine. I’ve read it!
Then he tells us it’s not only his magazine, but he owns the publishing company. Well, his father owns it anyway!!!!
“Oh my gosh, the list is so long,” I say, when he asks me which publications I contribute to. I feel a sharp pain in my calf and realize Joanne has just given me a swift kick. I hadn’t realized she was so strong. I’m suddenly reminded of a commercial from my youth, in which dancers in black unitards sing, “You tell one lie, it leads to another, tell two lies, leads to another,” and then I think of the saying “white lie” and consider that this one is more of a slight beigey one that couldn’t really hurt anyone, not too much, anyway. All I want to do is meet a man that I don’t have to feel any pressure about and here I am bringing work into the whole thing again.
“How long are you here for?” I ask, smoothing my hair back behind my ears.
“For one more month right now, while I find an office and work out all the legal details. And then I’ll be back one month after that to get the project off the ground.”
“Are you staying in this hotel?”
“No, actually we have an apartment just down the road.” It’s probably all marble and filled with artwork in heavy gilt frames. I bet there’s a huge claw-foot tub, with a hands-free phone next to it, so he can work right around the clock—even while soaping himself up with L’Occitane shower gel (!!!!). I love a man who’s devoted to his career.
“Where are you?” His voice lifts in the most adorable way at the “you,” which could justifiably refer to my brain—which has momentarily vacated to a junior four apartment in the Louis the XV style—as easily as it could my residence.
“I live in the Village, and Joanne’s on the Lower East Side.” I love saying I live in the Village—it sounds so bohemian and free-spirited.
“One of my favorite restaurants is in the Village. Have you ever been to Union Square Cafe? I guess that’s really Union Square, but it’s close enough.”
Have I ever been to Union Square Cafe? I do get to go to a lot of fancy restaurants I could never afford, for reviews and parties—another job-perk—but I haven’t been to that one. This doesn’t stop me from lying though, for absolutely no apparent reason.
“Of course. I think it’s divine.” I don’t think I’ve ever used that word in my life. Somehow, of all the hats I have been wearing lately, I have found myself in Zsa Zsa Gabor’s
“I go to business lunches there quite often. The service is outstanding, and the food is out of this world.”
I’m nodding and moaning “mmm” like a complete moron. When I catch myself, I ask, “So are you having lots of meetings with writers and editors to pull your staff together?” Confidence has finally made that welcome transfer from my martini glass to my brain.
“Well, we haven’t really nailed down the whole team yet. We do have a few people in mind, though.” He lists a couple of really big names that just about everyone would know from their presence in the society pages, and so, I assume my personal inquiry should end here. It’s not as if I can compete with those people.
“Have you got anyone in mind that you think would be good?” he asks, “What about yourself? Who did you say you write for again?”
(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) M-m-m-eee? Who exactly did I say I write for again? I don’t think I mentioned anyone. But what am I supposed to say? Oh yeah—nobody you ever heard of? I can’t say that. I just can’t. Tell one lie … “Well, I’m doing a lot of work with Cosmopolitan right now.” It’s true really—this assignment is a lot of work—and it is going on right now. And then I remember my most recent success. “And the Post.” Even to my ear that sounds impressive.
“Cosmo, really? That’s just the sort of background we’re looking for. Why, I just mentioned that as a pub to recruit from today. Would you be interested in coming to work for us?”
Now hold on. He hasn’t seen my writing or even heard of me before, but he wants me to come work for him? It sounds crazy. But, I guess, it’s just as I assumed: when you drop a name like Cosmo, it gets you in the door. That’s why Lisa gets to write articles about her favorite underwear, and I would get laughed out of the business for merely suggesting it. With experience like that, what else do you need to know, really? I don’t want to seem too eager, so I try to ask some more questions before I jump on his lap, screaming “Yes!
Yes!” And the questions I pose about circulation, percentage of local content and design change are enough, I think, to make me sound like a professional. Before he has the chance to think otherwise, I quickly seal the deal.
And then, before he dashes off for his meeting, we seal another, very sweet deal. “I hope you don’t have any policies about dating people you work with,” he says. “I know how you Americans can be; but I’ve decided that I will not leave for my meeting until you agree to have dinner with me tomorrow.”
Me and my policies about dating people I work with? I hold myself back from throwing myself on the floor in a fit of laughter, and from the hyperextended shape of Joanne’s cheeks and its ripened hue, I figure she’s struggling to do the same.
No matter how great Seth already is in my mind, Liam is stunning and charming all on his own—absolutely no imagination required. And I mean, come on, he fills the British requirement without stretching the category to absurdity, the way I normally do. As I feel my anticipation tighten around my abdomen, I think Joanne was right on the mark: Mr. Right Now, indeed.
Now she rescues me again: “Didn’t you say that event tomorrow night was cancelled, Lane?”
“Yes. Yes, The event. It is. It’s cancelled. I love you—I mean—I’d love to.”
Seth can wait. I’ve still basically got the whole two months left! Liam smiles and his eyes glimmer, even in the dim light. The effect is stunning. And then he takes my hand and kisses it—slowly and softly. When he’s returned it to my side he says, “Why don’t we meet at Sushi Samba at eight o’clock?” I’m not sure I’ve caught my breath enough to muster a response.
But, miracle above all, I manage to say, “That sounds great. I can’t wait.” Perfect. I’m a walking nursery rhyme. Hickory dickory dock, Lane please plug your mouth up with a sock.
He kisses Joanne’s hand, not as lingeringly as he did mine—believe me, I watch very carefully—and says, “A pleasure.” He turns to go, looks back over his shoulder and says, “Cheers.”
Diary of a Working Girl Page 12
