by Haley Oliver
But Nicole seems to have a negative opinion of everything from the breadsticks, which she deems stale and tasteless, to the almond paste cookies, which I ordered in advance. She refuses to even nibble at them due to their "high caloric content." I am having a hard time pleasing her, and with each minute that passes I question my decision. Maybe Amanda's judgment is better than mine. Or maybe Nicole is just anxious and it's affecting her demeanor. How can one person's written words be so drastically contrary to their actions?
That is the one trait I instantly admired in Amanda. She is real, bearing no pretense, every minute of the day, even when she's trying to subtly correct me or overtly "win" with me.
"What are you smiling about? It certainly isn't the service in this place."
I can't tell her the real reason, so I lie, "I guess I'm happy you finally agreed to have dinner with me."
Nicole shrugs. "Well, I've come to learn that you're pretty popular on the seventh."
"With whom? Jane Fox?"
She looks at me like I just spit on her. "No, not with Jane." The way she says Jane's name sounds a bit like a squawking fowl. "With the Sway brothers. Apparently, they have nothing but praise for you and how well you've done for yourself."
I smirk and am about to respond when a sudden ruckus on the other side of the dining room draws our attention. The owner, Tony—I recognize him from my earlier recon mission to this—has brought out an accordion. He flashes a broad smile as he begins to serenade the diners. After a few minutes, other patrons begin to clap to the beat and some start to sing with him. People are laughing, and a couple even gets up and dances to the accordion music. The whole scene is lively and fun, reminding me of one great big Italian family. No wonder Nicole said she loves this place…
I turn to Nicole, but the smile dies on my lips.
"Ugh." She reshuffles the cloth napkin on her lap and swipes at a nonexistent speck on her shoulder. "Doesn't anyone have respect for a couple trying to have a private dinner? Some people have no class."
"Would you care to order dinner?" I ask skeptically. She looks at me like I sprouted a new limb and I sigh. I know I have my answer. I leave enough to cover the cost of the wine plus a hefty tip for the waiter who was undoubtedly demoralized by my date's complaints every time he approached the table, and we leave together, with Nicole complaining, loudly, that I was too generous with the tip.
The tension in my shoulders is considerable. Nicole is tapping away at the screen of her cell phone as I open the door for her, and I don't know why I don't summon my driver at this point and call it a night. Because I am competitive, stubborn, and plain stupid, that's why. When these traits come out in front of Amanda, I realize, she embraces them and skillfully redirects them. I'm thinking a lot about Amanda.
"It's a beautiful night. Shall we walk through the park?"
She rolls her eyes. "If we must."
"We could walk by the dog park. I know it's late, but there might be few late-night dog walkers," I suggest.
Nicole grunts then looks directly at me. "Is this what you do with all your dates?" She points to her boots again. "Did you forget? Chanel. Besides, I'm allergic to dogs. It's almost as strong as my allergy to children," she grumbles.
My brows knit in confusion. "What?"
"I'm so over this!" she exclaims again. "Can't we go to a club or something? What about that new place, Rage? The one where all the celebrities go."
"I didn't know you were the clubbing type," I mention as I lead her back to the limo.
Nicole scoffs, as if this is the first "joke" of the evening she actually finds funny. "Are you serious? And what—I suppose you thought I was the type who likes to walk through pigeon poop?"
I say nothing. The evening is a train wreck in slow motion. Drawing inspiration from my morbid musings, I try one last-ditch effort to pull Nicole out of her inexplicably impersonal shell. "Look. See that couple?" I point out an elderly pair sitting together beneath a bus shelter. "What do you think their story is?"
"Pardon me?" She crosses her arms over her chest, squints across the street, and then waves a hand, dismissing the scene. "They're old and waiting for city transportation."
"You don't see a couple who has been married for over fifty years? Who just got back from meeting their third grandchild? The man brought his sweetheart back to this bus stop because this is where they first met as sweethearts, and on that very bench are their initials surrounded by a heart. He scratched them there the day she agreed to marry him."
Nicole stares at me as though I'm a mental patient. "Wait, do you know those people?" she demands. "Please tell me you're not going to offer them a ride!"
When I don’t answer, she rolls down her window and yells across the street, "Hey, the subway is right there." She motions toward the descending stairway.
Nicole, seemingly satisfied, settles back into her seat and crosses one leg pointedly over the other. "Can we get that drink now?" I catch the driver's glance back at me in the mirror. "Yeah, let's go."
I turn away to look out the window. I'm thinking it's time to call it an evening.
Then I see her.
We're stopped at a traffic light and I look to my left, through the large café front window of a bistro called Dolce Vita. I crane closer, an obvious, impulsive shift in her direction, but Nicole's texting on her phone and I'm sure she doesn't notice.
No. The stunning brunette I see perched in the window of the bistro can't be Amanda. Can it? For a moment, I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me. No, no tricks. It's Amanda. She's talking, smiling. I watch as she throws her head back and laughs heartily. I swear I can almost hear it, the beautiful, rapturously free quality of her laugh, completely unself-conscious and looking to impress precisely no one.
Then, I realize she's not alone. A man is leaning in, looking pleased at her reaction. Amanda didn’t mention she had a date this weekend. But why would she? She doesn't run her schedule by me. Is this the man whom she'll be taking to the theater with the tickets I foolishly supplied her with? The man can't take his eyes off her; his hand is so close to hers as they sit at the intimate table for two.
Suddenly, I'm irrationally jealous. My heart pounds out an erratic rhythm. My fists curl at my sides. I feel like I'm losing my mind watching her. I'm unraveling, but it's the deception of the past few weeks falling away, the illusion I allowed myself to become mired in. I want to be that man sitting with her. I want to say the thing that inspires her beautiful laughter. I want to carry her bay breeze from the bar and watch her face light up when she sees me.
I'm with the wrong person tonight. And haven't I known it since Nicole flounced into my office that morning? How could I have been so blind?
"Who are you looking at?" Nicole leans over, invading my personal space, and I shift so she doesn't wind up on my lap. "You're not going to ask me to guess what those people are thinking, are you? In this part of the city—"
Whatever vile thing she's about to say chokes itself off. I want to breathe a sigh of relief, but in the next instant, she exclaims, "You have got to be kidding me. Did you know she would be here?"
"What? No. I had no idea Amanda would—"
"Amanda? Amanda who?" She jabs her finger toward the entryway. "I mean Jane Fox!"
I haven't noticed it before, being too distracted by my sighting of Amanda, but there are several girls from the firm sitting near each other, chatting with other men. Jane Fox's recognizable red hair is among them. Group date? Well, they seem to be having a much better time than the one I'm having. "I had no idea," I mumble.
"You were staring at her. You don't have a thing for her, do you? Is that why we are taking this particular route? You knew she'd be here?"
"I don't have a thing for Jane Fox," I say, deliberately placing an emphasis on my words. I think my intonation is lost on Nicole, not that it matters. "And, no, I didn't have a clue she'd be there."
We can both see that this date is a complete disaster. How did it happen? How did s
he go from the most interesting woman I know to a shallow bore? She is behaving nothing like the Nicole I know from her letters.
Or is it me? When I first invited Nicole to dinner weeks ago, a shallow woman was exactly what I expected, and I was fine with that. Somewhere along the line, my expectations rose. And, at this point, I'm pretty sure I know how it all happened.
"How's Lucy?" I ask suddenly.
"Lucy who?" Nicole is as frosty and inanimate as her faux diamond jewelry and doesn't warm an iota even when I mention the name of her beloved dog.
Fortunately, she seems relieved when I suggest we call it an evening.
As we pull up outside her building, she doesn't wait for me to open her door. Before I have a chance to get out, Nicole turns back to me, her perfectly made-up mouth drawn in a scowl. I didn't think a woman as beautiful as she was capable of such an ugly expression. "Well…bye."
She slams the door before I can say anything. I see the shadow of the driver glance back at me, and I wave him on. The limousine rolls away from the curb and out into the neon-washed city. "Keep driving," I tell him and see him tip his hat as my request registers. I fall back heavily into my seat, and prop myself up against the window. I watch the people of New York City hasten along the sidewalks, coming and going about their late-night business. I'm tempted to ask the driver to take us back by the bistro, but I know it's a bad idea.
One thing's for certain, and it's been evident since the moment the blonde walked into my office even if it did take me half the evening to admit the truth to myself.
The woman I've been corresponding with is not Nicole Preston.
Chapter Eleven
Amanda
Jane had billed this as a night off to de-stress, have some laughs, and get away from the grind of the office. The one item she conveniently forgot to add was that Dolce Vita was holding a speed dating event—something none of us had signed up for.
By the time we find out the truth, several of the girls gracefully bow out, which was well and good enough—some of them are either married or have significant others.
And then there were three—Jane, Valerie, and me. Jane manages to sign us up the second we walk through the door, and we are immediately off to the races. Jane’s machinations have my head spinning so fast I don't even have the good sense to tell her "no thanks, I'll be at the bar."
But… who knows? I guess this could be fun. Maybe this is exactly what I need to take my mind off Owen.
"I've never speed dated before," I whisper. "What…am I supposed to do here?"
"Each girl spends one minute with a prospective date in hopes of making a connection," Jane enthuses as we make our way over to the tables. "A looove connection."
"Who on earth can make a connection with another human being in the span of a minute?" I mutter as I sit down at my first designated dating table.
A man with a very toothy grin sits down and steals my attention before Jane can offer more of her opinion. "Hi, I'm Tom. I'm a research consultant. I was born in the middle of winter, but I hate ice and snow. I have two cats." He thrusts his open hand across the table and waits in earnest for my reaction.
I gulp and feel the heat of embarrassment flood my cheeks. Please don't let him think I am blushing. I give one last glare at Jane and thrust my hand into his with an equally wide smile. "Greetings, fine sir, I'm Emma Woodhouse, matchmaker extraordinaire and big-time meddler. A pleasure to meet you, Sir Tom."
Jane nearly chokes on her drink as she keeps one eye on me while trying to maintain a minute-conversation with the man across from her. She knows exactly what I'm playing at and that I've just changed the rules of her little game.
Personally, I think Jane Austen would be proud of my rendition.
Each minute-long date that comes after Tom is introduced to the likes of Ilsa Lund, lover of piano music and fugitive, Rose Dewitt Bukater, professional swimmer of the Atlantic Ocean, and Anna Karenina, not yet divorced and typically paranoid and jealous. By the time I reach the second to last table, I can see the smoke billowing from Jane's ears. I grin to myself and reach to take my last minute-date's hand, my falsity already poised on the curve of my lips.
"Hi, I'm Anthony." That's it, nothing more, nothing less.
I bestow upon him my sweetest, most innocent smile, and lean in across the table, darting my eyes from one side of the room to the other. Anthony follows my gaze and leans in close as well, listening as I speak softly. "My name is Maria," I whisper with the slightest hint of a Puerto Rican accent. I pause to look around once more. "My brother, Bernardo, would not approve of this meeting. My family is very strict about whom I date."
I watch as Anthony looks around. His eyes show caution and concern, yet they hold a sparkle of intrigue. My hand is still held in his strong, yet gentle, fingers. "I understand. Is that why you have been using all the aliases this evening? One might suspect you never intended to make a connection at this event."
I drop my eyes to the surface of the polished bistro table and glare at my warped reflection.
"'Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.' I will brave your brother, fair Maria," he whispers.
I pause and pull my hand free, lifting my head to fix him with a look of suspicion. "That's not in West Side Story."
Anthony shakes his head. "No, it's from Romeo and Juliet. The original Maria and Tony."
Okay, he has my attention. "Amanda."
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Amanda."
What can I say? Tonight was a night for reinvention, but I'm exhausted trying to be someone else. I can tackle my personal reinvention tomorrow, once I'm out of a job.
"Anthony," I say. "I think I'd like a drink."
His eyes glint. "Are you sure your brother would approve?"
As I look up to respond, my attention is captured by a limo stopped at the light outside the bistro window. Anthony notices my distraction.
"Who do you think's in there?" he points, and I shake my head sadly.
"I think it might be someone I used to know."
* * *
"So you fell for your first Jane Fox ploy," Valerie says as we step into the elevator together the next morning. "I'd say your Sway orientation has officially ended. Congrats!"
"You fell for it, too," I point out. "And you've been around a lot longer than I have."
"I haven't been around that long!" Valerie protests as I punch in our floor numbers. I laugh that she would take issue with my observation; it's not like I'm calling her out for being old. Val is in her midtwenties, petite, with honey-blonde hair and gorgeous hazel eyes that glow green as soon as you get her outside the building and into some natural light. Like most of the girls who work here, she's beautiful. She's also warm and has a bit of a serious streak. It's funny to think about her personality paired with Daniel Sway's. Val is the youngest Sway brother's secretary, and she's extremely good at keeping him in line, or so I've heard.
"What's wrong?" Valerie is peering at me. I realize I've pulled a spare string so hard on my blouse it's starting to unravel around the hem. "Amanda? Are you sure you're okay this morning?"
I'm not. In truth, my stomach is clenched in so many nervous knots I don't think there's any way to successfully unravel them. I'm trying not to think about what may or may not have happened on Owen and Nicole's date. Owen never called to tear into me about faking the notes from Nicole. Which, oddly, would have made this whole thing easier. He had to know, didn't he? I can't imagine that there's any possible way that the two of them spent the evening together without mentioning the memos.
"I need to stop on three." I tell Valerie, my eyes shooting to the floor numbers as we tick steadily upward. "I'm going to scour the break room for antacid."
"Your stomach hurts?" Valerie asks. "Yes, there should be some in the first-aid cabinet next to the Tylenol."
I nod my thanks and exit on three. Owen's memos are weighing my pocket down. I read them over again last night
—all of them—and again this morning. It's been hard, but I've kept the tears back. What I get are stomach knots instead. Of course, those might also have something to do with the full container of fudge ripple I downed while reading the memos.
And I get what I deserve, I remind myself as I pull open the first-aid cabinet in the kitchen. There's no way the memos weren't brought up on their date last night. So now I have to face the music.
Which means that in another hour or so, I'll be saying goodbye to Sway International and hello to the unemployment line.
I'm alone in the break room, so it doesn't seem to matter that a couple of tears are finally leaking out, skimming down my cheeks in a silent flow. I set the antacid bottle down beside a glass of water and withdraw the memos. I can't help myself. And I know I shouldn't plan on keeping them after today. Maybe I should just return them to Owen alongside my resignation.
I let my fingertip drift along his bold handwriting and sigh deeply, letting some of the tension release from my shoulders, the same way it always does anytime I see his familiar scrawl.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in." I shove the memos into my pocket and turn. Nicole glowers at me through a thick pair of false eyelashes.
I step back hard into the counter, practically bruising my tailbone. Wait, why am I feeling so flustered? Hold it together, Mandy. She barely knows who you are.
Then why is she glaring at me like I personally crashed her date with Owen last night?
"I'm just getting a glass of water." I grope behind me for the mug, but it slips off the counter and promptly smashes to shards of ceramic pieces on the linoleum. Tap water puddles beneath my heels as Nicole takes a quick step back, frowning deeply.
