Of course I can’t see the entire butt. But there is just enough peaking out below the jacket that I can surely get a taste of what the whole thing looks like. And it is extraordinary. I know I have said this already, but wow!
“So, what do you think?” he asks, looking just the perfect balance of unsure and sort-of, kind-of confident.
There is a certain joy in teaching each other since we come from entirely different backgrounds, isn’t there? I mean, I feel close to him; I guess we are friends at this point, aren’t we? Not any old boss has your article framed for you, right? That’s a friendly gesture for sure. I guess I hadn’t really thought too much of it, since I haven’t had many bosses for comparison. But that really was very thoughtful. My own mother hadn’t even thought of that. And the way he had it hanging there for me when I arrived the next morning was a nice touch.
“You look breathtaking,” I say, shaking my head to emphasize the point. I focus all my attention on trying to keep my eyes on his face, rather than grazing up and down his body, which again, I might add is really something else. Lucky boa-wearing bitchy girlfriend.
Not that I feel jealous or anything. Liam is already Rico Suave—no education necessary folks. But while there’s satisfaction there isn’t all that much fun in that, is there? There would be no makeovers in Liam Land, as Liam is perfect right off the rack. But we have all sorts of fun doing other things, different things.
“Really?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as if despite all his comical preening he’s unsure.
“I’m sure your girlfriend will just melt when she sees you like this.”
I’m sorry I said it because instantly he goes rigid and clams up like he always does when she comes up. Quickly, he turns to go back into the dressing room. I should probably stop bringing her up if it gets him so upset; I don’t know why I haven’t yet. But then, what is he doing with her anyway if she’s so bad? He doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’d stay in it just for his parent’s sake.
I wonder if maybe one of them is dying and this was their last wish. I could understand if that were the case.
“Wait a minute, we’ve got to take the photo,” says Bill, our baseball cap-wearing, gum-chewing photographer.
Tom stops just short of the curtain and spins back, avoiding my gaze.
I have to think fast to reestablish the mood, so I switch onto creative mode, suggesting we go to the sleek leather chair by the ornate pillar and have Tom sit down, bent forward a bit with his legs wide, in a really casual way. If there’s one thing I know, it’s what positions a man looks best in. Bill agrees, which is surprising, since photographers usually have their own vision of what they want to shoot, and politely nod and smile, while secretly cringing at suggestions from people who think they know what’s best. Of course, he has Tom pose in all sorts of other positions—some standing (during which Tom seems to he getting a bit red in the face), and one where he’s checking his watch, which turned out quite professional.
Right after he lowers his hand after the watch shot, he looks directly at me and smiles. He turns serious and does something very un-Tom. Something I’m imagining his evil girlfriend would hate.
He says, “I saw you checking out my butt.”
And although those words alone—from Tom—would have been enough, it’s the way he holds my glance that gets me rouged.
Before I have a chance to consider that my boss has just accused me (rightfully) of looking at his ass, and that he seems to have enjoyed this, his smile returns, and with it the serious note, and I’m free to rationalize that I have imagined the whole thing.
Taking full advantage of such freedom, I smile back. Ah, denial.
“Thanks for this. It’s surprisingly enjoyable,” he’s saying, unfazed by the photog slipping in some candid shots.
“You’re welcome.” It feels good to do something nice for Tom.
Tom nods, smiling, and turns back to the dressing room.
I’ve never had a male friend like him before. He’s different than anyone I know. It’s rather a nice change.
Since everything fits so well, Tom decides to take the whole lot, and the publicist has arranged to give him a forty percent discount. It’s more than a great deal. The day goes on. Pink, Brooks Brothers, Burberry, Bergdorf Goodman, Emporio Armani. By the time the sun sets he’s mastered subtle tweeds, light checks, and pinstripes.
“Come on Ab Fab, why don’t you let me take you out to dinner,” he pauses, and then adds, “as a thank you.” “I can’t,” I explain. “I have a prior engagement.” I don’t know why I say so like it’s a school function rather than one of the last romp sessions with Liam before he goes home, but I have, haven’t I? And if I’m honest, I feel a nugget of disappointment at the idea of missing a fun dinner with Tom. It’s been a great day and I’m loath for it to end.
I settle instead for his consolatory offer of a quick glass of wine at The Peninsula’s pricey Pen-Top bar, which, I add, after choosing it, will cost as much as an entire meal anyway. I’m already regretting my pricey choice; I’ve gone overboard with all the decadence, inspired to properly top off what has felt like a thoroughly over-the-top day.
He says, “That’s what expense accounts are for, right?” in a way that makes me think he is definitely not expensing this drink. “What are you smiling at?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
Tom shrugs. “Women,” he groans, which sends us into hysterics.
Now, if I can just zoom out for a moment, I would like to pat myself on the back for never having told Tom or anyone else at the office about Liam; it’s been difficult to keep the secret, since everyone knows that offices and gossip go hand in hand (especially offices inhabited by the likes of John and Tiffany). And let’s face it, when you’re happy, you want to let the whole world know. Don’t think I haven’t missed the wonderful jolt that goes along with coming in, after a fabulous evening, and gloating about it.
It was Joanne who made me promise to keep the Liam thing quiet. “Just in case it doesn’t work out and you do meet someone at work.”
I couldn’t see any chance of that, but I didn’t feel like mingling my two worlds anyhow. Like stripes and polka dots, they didn’t seem to go together.
But what happens when you start socializing with people from work outside of work is that you inevitably start talking about personal things that you shouldn’t discuss. Tom is back in his own suit now, which although not nearly as sexy as the new digs, does suit his personality in a way. To me, he feels like the old Tom again. And I think, he probably feels the same way, as he is back to being as sarcastic and wry as ever.
“I’m just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman,” he says, “but, of course, without the red hair, knockout legs, and, well, obviously I’m not keen to have sex with Richard Gere.”
“And without being a hooker—or is there something I don’t know?” I say.
“I’m not the one with the secret appointment…”
“It’s not a secret,” I say.
“So, what type of appointment is it? Another fabulous writing assignment? Making over men all around town so you can get them to look just the way you like them? You’re staging a coup, aren’t you? Little by little, one by one, you’ll get everyone with a Y chromosome to dress just as you want… .” He’s waving his fingers, like I’m doing something Twilight Zone worthy.
“No, I’m just meeting Li—” I start, but cut myself off, knowing full well that Tom is a smart man, and no matter what I say next, he’ll now know that I’m seeing someone who is probably a man. Shit. I get panicky; it feels like a mistake, that I’ve somehow blown my cover. My palms go clammy. I’m not sure why I’m getting so bent out of shape because it’s clear at this point that I’m not interesting in meeting Mr. Right at Smith Barney, no matter what it might cost me, and so I shouldn’t really care, right? But I do. Clearly I do. I exhale and try to force out the anxiety. Liam is the really important thing here.
Still, if word ge
ts out, by the time it churns through the rumor mill (I hear those HR people are the worst), I’ll be written off as married with children. Suddenly, I feel the wine go to my head, and this is actually a good thing, because I relax instantly, and realize that Tom isn’t going to gossip. It’s not his style. I can’t picture him standing by the water cooler talking to anyone about anything, much less anyone. At work he works. So why do I still feel irked?
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Lane.” he says. I note this is the first time he’s used my real name in quite some time. I’m not sure if it’s because I value Tom’s opinion and would like to see what he thinks of Liam, since everyone else seems to have a negative view, or if I just want to ratchet our friendship up a notch on the closeness scale, but I decide to spill the beans.
And so I go on. And on. And before I know it I’m telling him how suave Liam is, and how he knows all the right places to take me and all the right things to say. And I don’t think this is really why I like Liam so much, but I can’t seem to talk about all the intimate things. Tom asks all the questions that someone really interested in what you’re talking about would—where’d you meet? How long have you been together? Is he nice to you? Is he proud of your career? But he never once offers an opinion. Only listens to the answers and nods his head every now and then.
His manner of listening encourages me to continue gabbing away, and I tell him about how I’d dreamed of meeting someone like Liam my entire life, and how I was so afraid I’d never meet The One before him, and about all the nights I’d spent alone previously.
“I can’t believe someone like you would ever be alone,” he says.
“That’s very sweet of you to say,” I tell him. “It means a lot coming from you.” He smiles firmly, rubs at his forehead. “Well, it means a lot that it means a lot.” He shakes his head without shifting his gaze. “I can’t believe it. You’ve got me talking like you now. I think that’s my cue, Ab Fab,” he says, and settles the tab.
In the taxi ride back home, I’m nervous that I’ve come off as shallow, someone really worthy of the nickname Ab Fab. All I’ve spoken about is expensive dinners and nice clothing and how successful and good-looking Liam is, though I don’t care about those things at all, really. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I’d only thought I was explaining why I love him so much without actually talking about the physical stuff or sounding like a pathetic fairytale addict. I’m sure Tom understands that. So why do I keep worrying that he thinks I’m awful?
Fourteen
A “Splendid” Good-Bye
“I’m really going to miss your ass, I mean, um, you,” Liam is saying, as he runs his fingers through my hair. We’re on my couch, the scene of what will most likely be our last encounter (the sheer acrobatics of it have exhausted us both) for a month. I love the way his fingers feel on the base of my skull. I love the way he looks in a reclining position. It has been a whole month and I am still feeling tingles from every touch, rather than being bored or put off by his presence, as I normally am at this point in a relationship. In all honesty, this is the first time since high school that my interest has been focused so strongly on just one person. And Liam is smart and funny and successful, too. I really think this could be it for me.
Lying here with him now, the thought that I’ll have to concentrate on the article when he leaves flits in and out of my mind. I’m wishing we could just lie here forever, even though holding in my stomach like this could become painful. It occurs to me again that I would give up this article for him, if that’s what it would take to feel this way every day of my life.
I’ll bet the job at Beautiful will start as soon as he comes back. So I ask him about this.
“I don’t want to talk business now, Lane. Let’s just enjoy each other,” he says, so soothingly I’m ashamed to have brought it up.
He continues, “When I’m sleeping all alone in my lonely bed in London, I’ll be thinking of you. I’ll have only your love to keep me warm.”
It’s not really that cold now, since it’s spring and all, but it is a wonderful thought—imagining him imagining me. Besides, he probably has central air-conditioning, which can often feel chillier than a winter’s day!
I lay back into his chest, thinking over the last month, sighing at the dreamy haze over the whole thing. The memories weave together in the most beautiful patina. We fit together perfectly. The candlelit dinners, the exquisite lovemaking, the randy late-night telephone calls from his office imploring he come over immediately. And then there was that hint about going to Provence (which was never brought up again, but of course, the summer is very far off), and other future-oriented allusions, like restaurants we must try and movies we must see. Then there are the gifts and the compliments: “You are so beautiful,” and “My god I love the way you kiss!” and most of all, the feeling—there is no way in the world I can feel this much without him feeling the same way. There must be some law of physics under which this is just not possible.
Before Liam leaves, he takes a full hour to gush over how much he’ll miss me. Even though I know he’ll be gone, it’s so romantic I can’t help but feel supremely satisfied. He takes another half hour merely to kiss me good-bye, and when, finally he’s at my door, and grabs both sides of my neck, looks me in the eye, and shakes his head, I can only assume, it’s a gesture of disbelief at the intensity of this farewell, this thing we’ve built, finally, wonderfully.
“Splendid,” is what he says. And then he turns to go.
I watch him walk to the elevator, watch him until the door slides to conceal him; I run to the window and watch him turn right, past the deli, wondering why he’s going in the wrong direction, and feeling a preview of what it will be like to be disconnected from his whereabouts, his to-dos and me-dos. “Until we meet again,” I say wanly to his figure, disappearing behind the flower display at the corner bodega, the one in competition with my regular deli below, as if he’s gone to them, the other team, and out of reach. Silly thought, isn’t it?
Fifteen
The True Meaning of Splendid
Is there nothing more moving than the feeling of woe when two lovers cannot be together? I take to wearing black—a Sicilian widow miscast in the role of executive assistant, speaking in hushed tones and shaking her head whenever there’s a chance.
It’s evening. Samantha and I are at a bar, again drinking. I finish my parting story. “And the last word he said was, ‘Splendid.’” I sigh and look to the ceiling, as if heaven is caught there in the air ventilation duct.
“What’s splendid?” Samantha is saying. She takes a sip of wine, leans her elbow on the bar, rests her chin on it, and with a deep breath, continues. “The fact that he is separated from his loooooooovvvvvvve? That he is woebegone and devastated?” She presses the back of her hand to her forehead here, all Scarlet O’Hara-like. “How will you be able to live without each other for a whole month? Oh the horror! The horror!”
I am really getting sick of the negativity surrounding me these days. When Liam returns, I’ll have to set up a meeting between the two of them so Samantha can see how great he is once and for all. I bring the conversation around to a topic I’m more comfortable with. “So where is Mr. Seth taking you tonight?”
This is their third date. While she enjoys mocking me, I take the high road: I’m thrilled for her. I mean, Seth is a good guy. He’s not my type, but everyone’s got their own checklist.
“He did the sweetest thing the other day!” she says, smacking my arm—rather roughly.
“What’s that?” I ask, wondering whether there’s another side to Seth that I may have missed.
“Well, I told him that I had to start reading the Wall Street Journal now that I’m working for that financial advertising agency, and so, he ordered me a subscription. He instructed them to tuck a little card in with the first delivery, and it said, “To the financial wizard-to-be!”
I can’t help it, my eyebrows raise and the corners of my mouth descend
into a frown.
“What?” she asks. “Isn’t that sweet?”
“Sure!” I say, trying to act like I’ve never heard anything more romantic. It is thoughtful. But really. A newspaper? And a financial newspaper at that? Even the way he phrased it. Surely something passionate could never be paired with the word ‘wizard’? What could be more unromantic?
“Lane? Are you in there? Don’t you understand that the most romantic thing someone can do is to think of something unique that would be important to only you? Flowers take no effort, honey.”
Right, and that’s why florists can’t even order enough flowers on Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day, right? I’m starting to wonder if Samantha and I really are meant to be friends at all. She’s just so—weird. I mean Joanne is obsessed with the whole practical thing, but at least she’s good for a romantic Pete story every once and again, and besides, she seems to be loosening up since the thing we don’t talk about almost happened.
“Name one thing that Liam has done for you that showed he really knew you. Not that he knew women, but that he knew Lane—what makes her tick. Did you ever mention something and then he remembered it and honored it with a unique token?”
Well, Liam and I don’t really talk about me all that much. We don’t really talk that much at all. But that’s because we don’t need words. We speak the language of love. And that involves fingers and toes and stomachs and thighs… and chocolate!
But, you know, I do know quite a lot about him. I know about his family, his business, his multiple global dwellings, his money, his favorite restaurants, that woman who broke his heart, and that he’s allergic to broccoli. I guess, in comparison, it would be accurate to say that he doesn’t know much about me.
But that is so easy to fix!
I’ll just raise the subject of me and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to spend an entire evening poring over my photo albums—the mall hair from high school, the snaps of me crawling out of my diapers. It’ll be a hoot!
Diary of a Working Girl Page 20
