The Perfect Find

by Tia Williams

“Stop noticing me.”

  “Can’t stop, won’t stop.” He picked up a rubber band ball from her desk and tossed it between his hands. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “No personal information.”

  “No longer applies.”

  “You’re right. Shoot.”

  “When we were shooting Greta Blumen, you said you had everything riding on this job. Why?”

  Jenna took a long sip of water, wracking her brain for a way to package the story. Something pithy, tied in a bow, cute. But all that came to her was the ugly truth.

  “I begged your mom for this job. Actually, begged is an understatement. I called her from Virginia, groveling. I took a salary that was less than what I was making fifteen years ago, just so she would hire me. My exact words were, ‘Please, I’m desperate, I need this, I’ll take whatever you offer.’” Jenna chewed her lip. “If I don’t do well here, I will have humiliated myself. And I doubt I’ll get hired anywhere again.”

  “Why?”

  “This industry is very ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ And I disappeared for a long time. Plus, I might have burned some important bridges when I left.” She realized her voice was shaking a little. “This is my last chance.”

  Jenna averted her eyes from Eric’s. She couldn’t believe she’d expressed her fears out loud, at work, and to him.

  “Jenna. Look at me.” She did.

  “We’ll figure out this project. You won’t humiliate yourself. You can’t, not while you have me. Not have me, have me. But you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll move into my cubicle. I’ll slay dragons. I’ll do whatever. Just know that I won’t stop until you win.”

  “Why be so committed to helping me?” she asked softly. “You’re one of my people now. I care about what happens to you.” He paused, and frowned. “You actually begged my mom?”

  “There was no alternative. If I didn’t do it, I’d just fade away. I was in a terrible place. Dead inside, afraid of my own shadow. There were weeks where, the only way I kept track of time was because I remembered that every four days I needed to take a shower.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “Rock bottom.”

  “But…why?” He whispered this, as if the gravity of this news deserved hushed tones.

  “Everything I devoted my life to, professionally and personally, was suddenly gone. I had a breakup that was, for all intents and purposes, a divorce. My career was over. Then came the depression, and my daily cocktail of Ambien, Xanax and Prozac. After a while, I got used to feeling horrible. It was easier than figuring out how to start over.” She paused. “A couple months ago, I decided that I’d had enough. I would’ve done anything to get my life back. Begging for this job was just a moment of extreme weakness.”

  “No, that was extreme strength,” he said, looking at her with awe. “You dragged yourself out of a hole, despite having to lean on Darcy Vale to do it. You’re tough as shit, Jenna.”

  She never thought of it that way. All she felt about the past two years was shame. “I generally feel more lame than tough, but I’m getting there.” She plucked a bunch of yellow Skittles out of her bowl and arranged them into a smiley face on her desk. She had to change the energy in her office, or she was going to have another nervous breakdown.

  Chuckling, she said, “Want to know what’s really lame?”

  “Everything about Tyga?”

  “Yes, but no. I’m being set up, tonight.”

  “Word?” he said, and then laughed—just a shade too long. “Yo, this is gonna be too epic. I wish I could watch.” He paused. “Not in a weird way.”

  “It won’t be epic, it’s just a set-up. One must manage one’s expectations.”

  “I can’t imagine you on a blind date. You’re so, like, so unintentionally funny and…interesting in this very specific way…” He stopped. “This dude isn’t gonna know what hit him. Listen, can you meet him in public, like at a bar? I could be your wingman.”

  “I’m having a dinner party at my house tonight, and my girlfriend Billie’s bringing him. I don’t even know his name.” She disassembled the smiley face, popping the candy into her mouth, one by one. “Why am I nervous? It’s so silly.”

  “He should be nervous. You’re smart. You’re accomplished.

  You wear lace bras under see-through tank tops at dive bars.”

  Jenna gasped. “Stop noticing me!” she repeated, throwing a Skittle at him. Eric ducked, grinning. And then, out of this comfortably jokey moment, she had a crazy thought.

  “Hey. Do you want to come?”

  “To your party? Like, where you live?”

  “Why not? It’s going to be small, just my two best friends. And this date guy. Billie suggested I invite a friend from work, and well, you’re my friend from work.”

  “I’m in,” he said. “I have to see this.”

  “Maybe I do need a wingman. Not Billie or Elodie, but a guy who can vouch for me.”

  “I’m so gifted at wingmanning. Four of my girlfriends are still dating dudes I introduced them to at a house party I threw… in November of twelfth grade.”

  “Well, that’s impressive,” said Jenna. “Oh, and bring your friend Tim! He sounds fascinating…two Broadway legend dads?”

  “No. Tim’s unqualified to attend civilized social gatherings.”

  “Bring him! I want fresh, young energy.”

  “Ooookay. But if your house burns down, don’t hold me responsible.” Eric tried to mask his excitement. He didn’t know what he anticipated more, getting a peak into Jenna’s personal world—or meeting The Guy.

  “I so want to fast-forward six hours,” she said, popping the last Skittle in her mouth. “I’m a hell of a hostess. You’ll see!”

  www.stylezine.com

  Just Jenna: Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador

  Q: My best friend Megan just got promoted to partner at her law firm, so I’m throwing her a huge party at my fab new apartment. I know it’s Megan’s celebration, but I sort of feel like it’s my night, too. What the hell do I wear?

  -@DressDistressInToronto

  A: Every time I throw something at my home it feels like it’s my debutante ball. So exciting, right? It’s your opportunity to flaunt your decorating and hostessing prowess! And what you wear sets the tone. Before choosing an outfit, decide on what kind of night you want to have. Are you throwing the kind of fete where guests end up getting lucky in your bathroom? Rock a tarty tube dress with cut-outs. Planning to introduce hallucinogens after dessert? Wear a far-out, haute hippie ensemble. Itching for an evening of classed-up chicery recalling a Jazz Age Parisian salon (my kind of party)? Go with a flapperesque cocktail dress. You’re creating the ambience, so dress accordingly. Good luck, and congrats to Megan, Esquire!

  Check out Nordstrom.com for after-eight dresses made for entertaining.

  CHAPTER 14

  By 7:30, Jenna had worked herself into a frenzy of anticipation. It had been years since she planned a dinner party, but she realized that she’d retained muscle memory. She also realized that she no longer had a budget. So, in a twenty-four hour period, she called in several favors and abused the one credit card she allowed herself.

  Jenna reached out to her old caterer, Jilly Demarco at Jilly’s Eats, and planned a gorgeous Frenchy menu: Belgian endive salad, Coq au Vin and potatoes au gratin for dinner, and, for dessert, croquembouche (she’d always been such a loyal client, that Jilly provided her services on credit). Her outfit was perfection—an authentic 1920’s tango dress that Philip Lim modernized for her as a 33rd birthday present, complete with satin gloves. She’d donated it to Darling’s archives, where it was displayed in a glass case in the lobby—but she’d pulled a couple of strings to liberate it for the night. Then, she had Elodie’s ex, Guy Donazo, an art director at Grey Advertising, make a custom designed place setting for each guest in lilting, gold filigree calligraphy. She’d even called Hermes’ publicist, who she’d alwa
ys had a great relationship with—and they lent her an extraordinarily rare, vintage private label dinnerware set. She even charged a breathtaking, too-expensive side chair and throw pillows, which she agonized over for forty-five minutes at Roche Bobois. Diptyque Baise candles were burning, and Adele was crooning about setting fire to the rain. Even her help for the night, a pretty Peruvian aspiring actress named Lula, was impeccable (Jenna was paying for her services by referring her to two top agents that Brian had built houses for). Lula was preparing appetizers, wearing a lovely ballerina bun and a simple black DVF dress of Billie’s.

  She’d thought of everything. Most importantly, she’d made Billie and Elodie swear not to mention her and Eric’s make out session. Billie agreed, but Elodie laughed (“Forget? How? The sight is emblazoned on my brain in lights.”) So, Jenna in-boxed them contracts she drew up, forbidding them to speak on it—no signature, no admittance.

  Jenna might’ve overextended herself on posh details she couldn’t afford, but it felt worth it. Orchestrating this beautiful night was soul-affirming, which was what she needed.

  This would be a Pinterest-perfect party. An elegant backdrop for an elegant evening of clever conversation, exquisite food—and possibly meeting her husband.

  Jenna perched herself in her new armchair with her hands folded, awaiting her guests. Only a half an hour before the magic began.

  As promised, Eric was the first to arrive. As he stood inside her doorway, effortlessly crisp in a navy sweater and dark jeans scrunched around wheat-colored boots, he was trying to quell his mood—which was intense annoyance.

  He’d been nervous enough, bringing his most unpredictable friend to Jenna’s house. Making it worse? Tim took it upon himself to invite his tacky girlfriend, Carlita, even though Eric expressly asked him not to do this. Carlita was inappropriate at ratchet parties, so he could only imagine how she’d behave in a swanky situation—which was what Eric knew Jenna’s dinner party would be. And once he got a look at her beautiful apartment, he realized he’d been correct.

  Did it always look so fancy? he wondered. Or just for tonight?

  He and Tim had grown up surrounded by upper middle class trappings, but their reality as adults was far grungier. They were about seedy underground clubs and after-hours pizza. And he was certain that Carlita had never attended a dinner with place settings. He prayed they both chose benign, non-controversial things to talk about, like the pleasant fall weather.

  “Hiiii, Eric! So happy you’re here,” exclaimed Jenna. She ushered the three of them into her house, beaming. “You must be Tim and Carlita, please come in! Carlita, your bangs are adorable.” Carlita was one of those women who, no matter her mood, always looked fed up. The stripper—who was saving her money for dental school—was club-ready in a neon green, microscopic tube dress from Strawberry’s. Her nails were covered in newspaper print decals, and her bouncy black weave was freshly cut in Cleopatra bangs. She looked like Princess Tiana reimagined as South Beach’s surliest exotic dancer.

  Carlita raised her chin at Jenna. “Girl, you did your thing on Project Runway. You know Michael Kors?”

  Eric squelched his exasperation. “She was a judge on America’s Modeling Competition.”

  “Oooh, what’s Tyra Banks like?”

  “That’s America’s Next Top Model,” said Jenna. “But I do know Michael. He’d love you. He’d fall over himself to get you in some camel suede jodhpurs.”

  And then Carlita did something unusual. She smiled, sort of. Tim, a wiry sprite in an ascot, took Jenna’s hand and kissed it.

  “Enchante.”

  “Enchante, yourself!”

  “It’s our distinct pleasure to have been invited to your abode,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you give off an Olivia Pope vibe?”

  “Kerry Washington? Bless you.” She squeezed his hand. “Can I get you all something to drink?”

  “You got the drink with the leaves in it?” Carlita looked hopeful. Eric rubbed a temple.

  “A mojito! Excuse me, I’ll go give Lula your drink orders.” The second Jenna disappeared, Eric lit into Tim.

  “What did I tell you about the ascot? Take it off.”

  “Carlita, I told you this shit was wack.”

  “Don’t blame your scarf struggle on me, nigga. You wanted to look fancy.”

  “Me? You’re the one who almost wore that fluffy, Easter Sunday dress,” said Tim. “E, I was like, are you going to your First Communion? You about to meet Kate Middleton?”

  “Just take it off,” hissed Eric.

  Tim slipped it off his neck and looked around the room. “I gotta say, there’s a disconnect between this broad’s taste and her neighborhood. This block is a fucking slum. She’s living in a studio-plus, but has Hermes dinnerware? Like, it’s both confusing and titillating.”

  Eric’s head was pounding. “Just stop talking, Tim. Do not embarrass me tonight. Don’t call her Olivia Pope, and don’t use Jenna and ‘titillating’ in the same sentence. Just…be normal.”

  “I am normal!”

  “We normal, E! Chill,” said Carlita.

  Jenna came back with a breathtaking Lula, who handed out the drinks. Then, she pulled Eric to the side.

  “So what do you think?” she asked. Jenna looked like a deb on the morning of her Sweet Sixteen. She grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the table. “So pretty right? Look at the little brown paper bags on each plate…I had the menu written on them and there’s a delicious gruyere cheese biscuit inside! Couldn’t you die?”

  “I’m dead. I love it,” he said, looking around. “Everything’s dope. And you look…” He stopped himself from going too far. “Pretty. He’s lucky.”

  “Thank you.” Jenna smoothed down her dress, and then raised her drink to Eric. “Here’s hoping he isn’t a troll.”

  He clinked his glass to hers. “So where is he?”

  “He should be here any minute—perfect timing. First hors’ d’oeuvres, cocktails and conversation, then the three-course dinner, then aperitifs and dessert. Then everyone leaves and I watch Clue in my pajamas.” She was standing with Eric, but talking to herself. She started counting things off on her fingers. “Okay, Lula already heated up the appetizers, so those are fresh, and then…”

  “You’re so intense.”

  “I’m in hostess mode,” she said, wringing her hands. “I just want it to be perfect.”

  Just then, her front door bell rang and she buzzed up Billie, her husband Jay, and Elodie. Promptly, Elodie stomped over to Eric and gave him a strong, breasty hug.

  “Heartbreaker!”

  “Kimora Lee Simmons!”

  She leaned into his ear and said, “It’s hard to recognize you without your arm halfway up Jenna’s dress.”

  “Jenna said she made you sign a contract,” whispered Eric. “You think I’m scared of that girl? I can’t act like that night didn’t happen. I’m just happy you two are cool now. All her angst over you was making me anxious, and getting worked up about anything besides my mutual funds fucks with my spirituality.”

  “Hi Eric, I’m Billie!” She edged past Elodie and hugged him, too. “So lovely to meet in person. I’ve heard tons about you.” And then, Billie, who actually did honor Jenna’s contract, said, “Um… no I haven’t. I don’t know anything about anything.”

  Jay Lane, a ruggedly handsome forty-two-year old, was both a passionate community activist and one of America’s leading literary poets. He’d managed to retain a healthy hint of rough-around-the-edges toughness from his street background. The combination resulted in a complicated intensity that made Fordham’s female students come to his Voices of the Diaspora class in smokey eyes and deep-V tees.

  He sized Eric up, gave him a pound and said, “The future of American cinema! I did some research on you. I like you, man. You’re young, but you have gravitas.”

  “Gravitas? Wow. I like you, too, professor.” If it were possible for Eric to blush, this would’ve been the moment.


  Eric introduced Carlita and Tim to the group, and everyone said their hellos. Then the buzzer rang again, and everyone’s head swiveled toward the door. Jenna pressed her buzzer, and seconds later The Guy emerged.

  “Hiii,” everyone said, in unison.

  “Well hello,” he said, a little overwhelmed by the cluster of seven people, inspecting him like he was under glass.

  “Welcome! I’m Jenna,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “I’m Jimmy Crockett,” he said, and actually tipped his hat. Which was a fedora. An attractive caramel-skinned guy with salt-and-pepper hair, he was wearing, as Billie promised, artfully scuffed Chucks, black skinny jeans (skintight skinny jeans) and a faded, red-and-navy striped,

  Linus-esque tee that was either vintage or from Urban Outfitters.

  Jenna’s first thought was, He’s fifty and dresses like this?

  Then, her mind plummeted into the “what if” set-up spiral.

  What if this works? Will my friends love him? Will he understand that, after 10pm, I have little to no sexual stamina and will tap out after ten minutes? What will we look like together? At what point will the things I like about him become the things I loathe? Can I love him enough to get to the part where I like him again? IS HE THE ONE?

  Jenna shook off her stream-of-consciousness musing, and introduced him to the room. He was polite and gave firm handshakes, looking everyone in the eye. But when he got to Eric, he stopped and pointed at him.

  “What have you got, there?”

  Eric realized that he was still holding the wine bag he’d picked up from his local liquor store. He had no idea what vintage, type, or brand it was—he just picked out the most special-looking bottle. “Red wine.”

  “Can I see that?”

  Shrugging, Eric pulled the bottle out of the bag. Jimmy inspected the bottle. He nodded. “Beringer Napa Valley. Not bad, young man. Vanilla bean and blackberry undertones. Great starter wine. I prefer something a bit more refined, more savory. You’ll have to try the 2005 Guiseppe Mascarello Borolo I brought.”

  Eric was too taken aback to say anything but, “I’ll do that.”