Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  And the back of this man is just as perfect as the front. There are shoulders so broad you could enjoy a leisurely picnic on them. And peeking slightly from the hem of his jacket, I see a beautiful, round ass. I am so hot I could easily be employed for egg frying. Seth, who?

  “Holy shit,” Joanne comments, I think, because she’s caught the same egg-frying rear view.

  “Get your eyes off my man’s butt,” I say, snapping in a Z-formation. “Remember what you said? When you have one man’s butt, you can’t have another.”

  “I’m just looking,” she says, raising her hands in defense, looking a bit forlorn.

  “Is he not the hottest man in the entire universe?” I ask, not so much for approval as for a starting block to a conversation I am more than ready to start. Now that there is really something to talk about there is no stopping me.

  “Those eyes,” she says with a far-off tone.

  I finish the thought, “Those lips, that butt, that accent—”

  “All right, all right, I get the picture,” Joanne says. “But,” she continues, and I don’t like the sound of that but one bit, “You have really weaved quite a web for yourself here. You’d better hope you get that article finished, now that you’ve allowed him to think you’re a regular contributor to Cosmopolitan.”

  “Really, enough with the reality checks.” She’s CNN—all bad news, all the time.

  Uncharacteristically apologetic, she says, “Okay, okay, just don’t get head-over-heels for him right off the bat, alright? You don’t know him at all.”

  “C’mon, I know that! He’s just Mr. Right Now! You’re the one who said I should have a fling with someone outside of the office in the first place. You know what the deal is. I’m not even thinking about him anymore.”

  Despite what I said to Joanne, during the taxi ride home, my head is spinning with Liam. I think about our date the following evening (What am I going to wear? Which magazine was that twenty-four-hour water diet article in?), and the fact that said British magazine mogul has offered me a position writing for his brand new U.S. magazine—a really big deal the whole industry is buzzing about—on the sole principle that I write for one of the most successful magazines in the country. Only I haven’t exactly, er, written for it yet.

  Not that I am going to continue thinking about him, because he doesn’t even work for my company, and so he’s off-limits as my M&M anyway, but wouldn’t it be just amazing if we wound up falling madly in love and then worked side-by-side at Beautiful? We’d go to press events and Patrick McMullen would snap our photo and the fashion magazine correspondents would ask who we ware wearing, and they’d toss their heads back in laughter when we both replied, “Gucci.” We’d topple Anna Wintour from her reign at the top, and when he went up at the Magazine Publisher’s Association Awards to accept the title of Best Women’s Magazine, Liam could say, “I couldn’t have done it without the love of my life, my wonderful Lane.” Now that’s a life I could get used to. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

  Seven

  One Enchanted Evening

  So, it was with glee that I left work the next day, headed out on a little black-dress shopping expedition, cashed in my complimentary blow-dry with the hair guru of France, called in a favor for a free manicure, and dolled myself up for my big date. I took Swen’s advice and opted for the simple black dress—a strappy model that shows off my two always-skinny parts—my shoulders and back. I wasn’t sure if the chocolate croc shoes quite went with it, but they were so elegant that when I put them on and inspected myself at just the right angle, craning my neck back just so, I kind of, sort of, almost could fancy myself Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s during that glamorous party scene. I added a brown beaded necklace and it pulled the whole thing together.

  “Where is that Rusty Trawler?” I ask the mirror as I pick up my bag to go.

  Maybe not exactly like Audrey Hepburn.

  Liam is early. Or maybe because I lost track of time peering into my vanity mirror, pulling and piling my hair back to see whether a high chignon might suit me and dramatically reciting, “Fred, I’d marry you for your money anytime,” I happen to be a bit late. This alone didn’t actually take all that much time, but that got me questioning the croc shoes. I stood in the doorway positive the shoes were fine, and then that they were not fine, until the time I was already supposed to have been sitting across from Liam. And even though the walk would have taken ten minutes, I wound up wasting five bucks on a taxi, lugging along a larger purse that could accommodate safer black pumps in the case of crippling croc-shoe insecurity, cursing the crawling Park Avenue traffic along the way.

  He’s at the bar drinking another scotch when I arrive.

  “Stunning,” he says. “Absolutely stunning.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek, just close enough to my lips that I’m tempted to turn my mouth to his and start making out with him right at the bar. I wipe the Ally McBeal hallucination from my mind as he asks, “And how is the auteur extraordinaire today?”

  “Perfectly wonderful, and you?” I reply, noticing my voice lift at the end as his does. See, this exposure to new kinds of people is already having a metamorphic affect on me.

  “Well, I conquered the world, saved the day, and managed to have some time at the gym, too. All in a day’s work, you know.”

  “Of course,” I say. I consider I had kind of done the same, as during the course of the day, I garnered three numbers in one trip to the cafeteria with Tiffany (if that’s not conquering the world, what is?), saved the day with an expert excuse for Seth—exclusive sample sale—and although I hadn’t made it to the gym, I might as well have because the heroine of my current read, Jemima J. had done enough exercising for the both of us in the chapters I read this morning. That had to count for something. I suck in my abs in case it doesn’t.

  The hostess arrives to take us to our table, and when we get there Liam scoots around to the seat I head for and pulls the chair out for me. I have never in my life had a man do this on my account. I didn’t think people did anymore, using women’s lib as an excuse to forgo chivalry and foster laziness. I’m sure that’s exactly what feminists are fighting for right now—first the right to vote, then a female president and, finally, one day we can all hope for an end to door opening and chair etiquette.

  Still, I’m not that naive. Believe me, I know that just because a guy acts like he’s in it for more than the sex, that doesn’t necessarily mean he is. But I choose not to focus on that possibility just yet. This is the first date, before flaws are revealed, malevolent intentions discovered, or, on the other hand, (but surely not with a suave guy like Liam) that, nice as he may be, he’s a crap kisser, and even worse in bed. Besides, aren’t I in it just for the sex anyway?

  In the bliss that is first-date discovery, I indulge myself in allowing his cologne to waft through my nasal passages and flutter my chest as he, expertly, leans close to slide my chair in. It’s enough to make a woman swoon—that is, if people actually did swoon outside of period novels and miniseries.

  “Do you come here a lot?” I ask, rather impressed he knows the restaurants on the Citysearch Best list when he doesn’t even live here.

  “Well, I know some of the people who run this spot. Business associates, you know.”

  The guys I normally go out with only know people that wait tables, not the ones who own them. This is quite a change. I can’t help it; I’m suddenly picturing myself in Jackie O sunglasses and a string of pearls, jet-setting to the coast—I don’t know which one, just the one people mean when they say, “I’m off to the coast.”

  Liam really does know everyone, from the waiters to the chef, who emerges in his puffy white hat to bring out some special amuse-bouche for us to sample.

  I feel like a celebrity, or at least what I imagine a celebrity would feel like. I had been worried about conversation topics since we hail from such distinct walks of life, and even prepared a little lis
t featuring such gems as working out, restaurants, and the overabundance of commercialism in the modern world. But such efforts turned out to be completely unnecessary. Liam is hysterical and a wonderful conversationalist.

  We both order fruity cocktails, which are the house specialty here, and when they arrive Liam raises his glass. “To the blue and pink contents of these glasses staying where they ought, rather than on my lap,” he says, flashing that panty-tightening smile.

  “Cheers to that,” I say, trying to sound a little British and a little sexy as I navigate the forest of fruits, straws, and stirrers sprouting from my glass. I notice that superhuman Liam has smoothly removed his straw, dumped the fruit into the glass and gently placed the stirrer on the table. This starts me wondering about the superhuman tricks he can perform with the jungle of straps, hooks, and lace that are my undergarments.

  “Is there anything you don’t like, Lane?” he asks, scanning the menu. “Because this food is designed for sharing.”

  “Er, no,” I say, not wanting to sound unsophisticated in the world of sushi. It’s like the world is divided into two sorts of people—those who eat the skin of eels and find the word “fatty” an attractive culinary adjective, and those who stick to cooked crab and avocado. I know the importance of choosing the right team. So, I push my fear of slimy sea animals aside in hopes of having the perfect date.

  When the waitress returns for our order Liam ticks off roll after roll of ingredients I can only imagine have spent way too much time on the bottom of the ocean, and I smile like he’s ordering up ten pounds of caviar and warm blinis. I hear the word mozzarella in there somewhere and relish in the knowledge that at least that’s one thing I recognize.

  “Tell me more about who Lane Silverman is,” he says, and I almost suffer a heart attack thinking we’ll be talking business and I’ll be lying up a hurricane the whole night, until he adds, “Aside from the award-winning journalist. This is, of course, a strictly business-free dinner.”

  Breath once again escapes my lips, proving I have survived and successfully evaded the storm’s path. A business-free, Cosmo-free, M&M-free dinner—it’s a nice thought, which, now I’m feeling comfortable with Liam, actually seems like an attainable possibility. I try to find something intriguingly sexy to start with.

  A glance around the room for inspiration reveals lots of stylish women with perfectly straight hair and logo’d handbags fashioned in all sorts of fancy French bread shapes; men in crisp collared shirts and expertly weathered denim or freshly pressed slacks. There’s nothing conversation inspiring until I notice a couple kissing at a corner table.

  I reach for cheeky television dating show vernacular. “Let’s see, I enjoy long walks on the beach, kissing in the moonlight, and water sports.” Where do they come up with that stuff?

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” He catches the joke right away and bats it back. “I knew we’d be a perfect match when I spotted you across the bar—or rather, when you spotted my pants under the bar.” His eyebrow lifts. “Are you also fun-loving, a people person, and,” he breathes deeply, “a dog person?” He places his hand across his chest, mawkishly awaiting my answer.

  I can’t believe British cheesy dating show contestants are so similar to American ones. I thought they’d at least bring up toast, afternoon tea, and something about the Royal family. I guess it’s true what they say, people are just people, no matter where you go. “Why yes! I do believe it must be fate. I also hate to play games, am a first-rate kisser, and a perfect 36-24-36, looking for someone who’s ready to settle down and start a family.” Suddenly, I panic that he might not get the joke and think I’m some silly girl who wants to tie a lasso around some guy and use him to play out her own personal fairy tale.

  I know that men are living, breathing beings and not just some composite pasted together from male leads in movie posters, ready to be plugged into your dream life at random. (Although, if you took a Brad Pitt, crossed him with a Ben Affleck, sprinkled in a teensy bit of John Cusack—that would be one hell of a guy.) And besides, I’m too young for kids.

  “I hope you don’t hate all types of games,” he says lowering his lashes. I might normally relate his next action to a greasy pickup artist, but when he winks at me, it feels sexy and on the mark.

  Relaxing once again into our apparently kismet connection (just kidding of course), I realize this is the perfect opportunity to bring the conversation to the next level. I imagine a sexy guy like Liam is into sexy women. “Well, I only indulge in those involving feathers and hot chocolate sauce,” I reply.

  “I’ll check if they have that on the menu for dessert,” he says. Inexplicably, I keep re-crossing my legs under the table.

  Liam serves as such a great diversion from everything. Perhaps too great, I think, as the check comes and a sinking feeling descends over my chest at the idea that we’ll be parting ways soon. I know I shouldn’t care. I barely even know him. And I obviously can’t like him a lot because this is just supposed to be a little pre-getting-down-to-work-at-finding-my-M&M-to-start-on-the-path-to-award-winning-journalist fling. Still, I’ve never been very good at good-byes. Or practicality.

  I don’t know how those women play it cool and just go home after a perfect date without a second thought. I know that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do; say something like, “Well it’s been grand, but I have to wake up early tomorrow, so I’m off to bed.” This sounds a lot easier than it really is. By the time he’s passing his credit card to the server, I’m already imagining the way he would nibble on my ear while firmly holding my hair back. To make matters worse, the conversation tickles around the topic of sex, and so after my pink, orange, and teal cocktails, I’m ready to rip his clothes off and ask for a chocolate doggy bag.

  Did I mention he spoon-fed me a warm chocolate ganache, bite-by-bite, refusing to stop until I’d finished each and every drop. His eyes followed every movement of my tongue, darting around to lick off chocolate here and there. The entire time it was as if I was playing a role in a movie, and as soon as we paid the bill, someone would yell. “Cut!” and then this ridiculously perfect thing would come to an abrupt end. We’d get up, Liam would return to his real life persona—bumbling, awkward, hardly able to flirt coherently, and I’d revert to daydreams. Things like this just don’t happen to me.

  When finally we head for the door, I have no idea what to expect. Half of me hopes he asks to come up for the proverbial cup of coffee and then it’s random affair done, on to more pressing matters; but the other half doesn’t want this to happen—hopes instead Liam will be a gentleman and rather than scoop up all of the spoils right now, will save that juicy stuff for another time—like someone does when they really like you and respect you, too.

  “It’s not like we’ve got all the time in the world, silly!” I say to myself in my head, or so I think.

  “Time for what?” he asks.

  “Er, oh, I was just looking at the time, sorry.”

  “Are you dashing off to meet some other bloke now, then?”

  “Of course. He’s picking me up in a half hour at my place.” (Bloke, adorable word—ahh, swoon.)

  “Well, then, I’d better escort you home quickly,” he says, “So I can send him on his way.”

  I know this is the most childish of games we play with ourselves, but the idea of a man being jealous of another fictional man who might be showering me with fictional attention is fabulous. And even though there will be no sending of anyone on anyone else’s way, the idea that he even thinks to say this gives me dissection fodder for weeks. I’ll have Joanne in a constant state of stage two non-listening in no time.

  He starts walking me back to my apartment, and I relax a bit at the prospect of another twenty minutes of fantasy time.

  I’m sure here you’re wondering what happens next.

  Will she just go for it?

  Is the combination of multicolored cocktail consumption and the temptation of a breathtaking British man—who has b
asically just had sex via chocolate with yours truly—going to send her straight on to what the birds and bees have been whispering into her ear all evening, and fulfill her Mr. Right Now mission?

  Or is this hopeless romantic, well, hopeless, and saving herself for a possible future Liam encounter, despite the fact that she knows someone like Liam will only further complicate her current predicament?

  As I lie in bed, wearing nothing but the blankets around me, all warm and tingly, smiling from ear to ear, I’ll tell you what you’re dying to know.

  The best thing about our walk is that we barely spoke at all. He held my hand and traced his thumb across the back of my palm. That very block I’d walked along a million times before seemed shiny and new and brilliant “When did they plant those baby trees?” I wondered. “Isn’t that coffee shop with the cane chairs just the cutest?” I mused. Every building was magnificent and regal; every light had a warm glow.

  Cars must have passed, but I didn’t notice. Even as I recount now, I see empty streets—a scene whose every yellow line, whose every awning, lamppost, and NO PARKING sign existed solely for our benefit. Normally, I’d find silence a bad thing and make a fool of myself, attempting to fill the void with useless chitchat. “Why don’t they make crustless bread if that’s the posh way to eat sandwiches?” is one gem I keep for such occasions.

  But this was infinitely nicer. If a camera was following us, it would have stopped at our feet, which were perfectly in step, and lingered by our hands, which were warm and probably emitting a halo of light—a manifestation of feeling, and then the camera would have zoomed in, finally, at the space between us, which was getting smaller and smaller as we continued south.

  When our stride was interrupted at the northern corner of Union Square by a red streetlight, we slowly turned our heads toward each other. He looked at me, smiling without actually moving his mouth at all and then, his lids slowly descended, snuggling his beautiful eyes beneath feathery skin and lashes. A rarely achieved, age-sixteen-potency wave of simultaneous warmth and chill smashed me. He inched his face close to mine, until his lips hovered just millimeters away. I could feel them, soft curves and moist warmth, although he hadn’t yet allowed them to actually touch mine. His breath was audible—such a strikingly personal sound—and I could feel my back, the lungs beneath, shaking in anticipation. Soft as a feather floating to the ground, finally we touched in an explosion of Magic Kingdom proportions. Neither of us moved for what must have been twenty-seven years.