6
Tuesday morning I handed in my Kegel story. Tuesday morning Deirdre announced she was off to an important meeting and returned three hours later with a manicure and new highlights. While I was waiting for her feedback, Keith Kretchmer poked his head into my cube. “Hey, don’t tell anyone, but Stacy in legal had a nose job.” I was trying to remember who Stacy was and what her nose looked like when he said, “Hush-hush, Molly?”
“Hush-hush, Keith.”
A moment later I heard him next door, saying, “Hey, Emily, don’t tell anyone but—”
I put on my headphones and Lady Gaga and assessed the male employees in the office on their date-ability. The pickings were slim. And the answer to the ever-ongoing burning question: Why do I know so many great available women and no available men? At some point all the men who were now paired, attached, snapped up, or spoken for had to be available, right? Wasn’t there a layover time when these men were on the market? A transition week, an hour or two between their ex-girlfriend and their new fiancée, their last wife and their current marriage? Then I remembered how the third Mrs. Naboshek was already choosing china patterns before the second Mrs. Naboshek—idiot, chowderhead Mrs. Naboshek—had tuned in to the end of her marriage.
I began with Keith. A knuckle-cracker. Gum-snapper. The first to spread any office scuttlebutt. And married.
Next came Wolfie, the art director. Wolfie’s a germaphobe; he keeps a pump-size bottle of Purell on his desk. We went out for pizza once. When the waitress brought our water glasses, he used a napkin to clean off her fingerprints. Wolfie’s married to a nursing student.
Brady—the cloud administrator. His title’s one of the jokes at the office. Brady’s so tall people say he’s personal friends with the cloud. Married.
Joel Mooy—restaurant reviewer. On his fourth wife.
Ronald Miller—celeb reporter. Between stories Ron sits in his cubicle eating cannoli and studying Italian on Rosetta. Engaged to a stylist named Gina.
Gavin—Deirdre’s assistant. Long-term boyfriend.
Wyatt from editorial hustled by. I didn’t know Wyatt’s dating status. He was an intern.
I turned off Lady Gaga just as Emily appeared over our adjoining wall. “Do you want to look at new pictures of Rory?” she asked.
“Some other time,” I said, meaning never.
Rory is Emily’s boyfriend. Her long-distance boyfriend. A ski instructor she met in Idaho. Her photos of him are the ones he posts on his Facebook page. Rory is Emily’s imaginary boyfriend.
The sound of bracelets and necklaces was heading our way. Emily popped down. She likes to look busy in case Deirdre stops in her cubicle.
Deirdre stopped in my cubicle. “I read the panties piece, it’s good,” she said.
I did one of my nonchalant smile-shrugs. “Thanks.” What I really wanted to do was jump up and down like a cocker spaniel lapping up attention. Really? Really? Good? You’re pleased? Tell me more! “Nice to hear,” I said.
“And the Nora piece?”
“More research tonight!” I said.
So much for sitting on my laurels. And ass.
* * *
“What if someone wants to date you?” Angela asked. “What if they think you’re their soul mate?”
We were standing in front of the events board in the lobby of the Hotel Pennsylvania, named not because it’s in Pennsylvania, but because it’s across the street from scenic Penn Station.
“Here it is,” I said. I pointed to the listing for SpeedLove. “Second floor.” We took the stairs.
“What is it with hotels and carpeting?” Angela said. “Is there a rule somewhere that no carpeting may be sold to hotels unless it’s ugly?” Two sparkly, miniskirted women tottered ahead of us in high heels. They belonged in an elevator, not on a staircase.
“No one’s going to pick me,” I said to Angela. “I’m here to report, not flirt.” I’d purposely dressed like a convent student: long sleeves, long skirt, and flats. Angela’s outfit wasn’t much sexier, only a notch above her usual sweats and T-shirt, but she still managed to look cute. “You flirt,” I told her.
“I’m not here to meet someone,” she said. “If I really wanted to meet someone, I’d be too embarrassed to be here.”
The second-floor landing opened onto a long hallway filled with single men and women, thirty-four to forty-five. The reason I so quickly ascertained everyone’s age and marital status was because the event was being held for single men and women, thirty-four to forty-five. The website was quite specific about the requirements, saying that if you didn’t fall into the stated age range, you were going to be out of place. The SpeedLove site guaranteed an even mix of men and women. I had guaranteed Angela that if she accompanied me on my Nora research, I’d buy her a month’s supply of Twinkies and tuna sandwiches.
Lined up at a registration table, the love candidates were sticking badge numbers on their well-cut suit jackets and plunging cocktail dresses. Angela and I looked like the cleaning crew. She frowned at the other participants. “I thought the instructions said dress code smart casual. These people are dressed for Hollywood opening.”
“The men all look sixty,” I said.
“No wonder they call it SpeedLove.”
A woman in rhinestones, brandishing a clipboard, told us, “The bar’s through those doors.”
“Sounds good to me,” Angela said.
I pulled her back by the collar. “We have to register first.”
We waited in line behind the two miniskirts, one of whom was reapplying mascara and the other removing a piece of gum from her mouth, sticking it in a foil wrapper.
When it was our turn, we were greeted by a woman my grandma Shirley would’ve described as rode hard and put away wet. Leathery with too much makeup. I can’t even begin to tell you how this made me. Was this woman running SpeedLove so she’d have the best shot at meeting the applicants? Had she given up on love so thoroughly that she figured maybe she could at least make a buck off somebody else’s attempts? And why was I assuming she didn’t have some hot, twenty-five-year-old lover waiting upstairs in a Hotel Pennsylvania suite?
“Welcome,” she said, her smile big and welcoming. Her name tag said Fern. I felt immediate remorse for thinking Fern should have taken better care of her skin. “I hope you find what you’re looking for!”
“I’m looking for my name tag,” Angela said. “Angela Leffel.”
“Jeri Jacobs,” I said.
Angela gave me a look. I gave Angela a look. Her dimples appeared. “Can my friend Jeri Jacobs and I sit together?” she asked.
“We don’t recommend that,” Fern said. “It gets competitive.” Fern checked her list. “Prepaid. Excellent. Badges twenty-two and twelve. Apply them to the front of your shirts.” She eyeballed Angela. “Your T-shirt.” She handed us score sheets and pens with the SpeedLove logo. “Mingle in the bar and we’ll be giving directions shortly.”
I dropped my keepsake pen into my tote and stepped aside for the man in line behind us. He looked thirty-four-to-forty-five-ish, cute, chagrined. Blue-jeaned and T-shirted with a shaved head. And a sunburn. He smiled at Angela. She smiled at him.
“I should be more open to this,” she said, as we headed to the doors that would lead me to a vodka tonic. I’d told Angela she was not allowed to tweet during the evening. Otherwise the Twinkies-and-tuna-fish deal was off. It was like telling a four-pack-a-day smoker she can’t light up. She elbowed her way to the bar and said, “A double, please! Of anything.” She surveyed the crowd. “If you spot cute Mr. Shaved Head, nudge me.”
I now know how speed-dating companies make their money. Two words: cash bar. Throw fifty nervous people into a room, toss in a bartender, and you’re contributing to the GNP. It was like a seventh-grade mixer except the students were all drinking. The setting was also unsettling—one of those windowless business conference rooms, set up like a sad French café with three rows of small tables, a chair on either side of each table. Angela w
as chatting with the bartender. I was attempting to scribble notes inside my tote bag, hoping I looked like I was shuffling for my wallet. Atmosphere of hope, fun, nervous tension, loneliness. Just as I was about to interrupt Angela and her new bartender friend to order my drink, I heard the harsh whine of a microphone being tested, followed by a tap-tap-tap and Fern, on the opposite side of the room, saying, “Can you hear me? Can you hear me?” The train conductors in Penn Station could have heard her. Fern kept tapping and testing until the conversations died down. She giggled and said, “I feel love in the air!” I felt fear. Fern was holding a silver cowbell.
Here’s what we had to do: Find the table corresponding to our badge number for our first date. After each date, when Fern rang her cowbell, the women would remain seated while the men shifted over one table. She reminded us to be sure to write down the names of our dates and check off the ones we wanted to see again. Dates would last four minutes. About the same time it takes to soft-boil an egg. But Fern assured us four was the magic number and more than enough time to determine if you clicked. Every man would meet every woman, there’d be one twenty-minute bathroom break halfway through, and under no circumstances were we permitted to exchange phone numbers or business cards. When we got home, we should submit our choices on the SpeedLove website, and within a day or two we’d receive e-mails with the names and contact information of our matches. We were at the dating version of sorority rush. “Any questions?” Fern said.
“Why the dim lighting?” someone asked.
“Whose idea was the lame Bono music?” someone else asked.
“Have fun!” Fern said. She rang her bell and off we went.
Hurrying to table twenty-two, I sat across from a nice-looking man whose red tie matched his red pocket kerchief. Under first impressions this guy was tidy. Gray hair neatly combed and parted. Perfectly folded kerchief peeking out in a little triangle. Already I knew he used shoe trees and lined up his sock drawer.
“Hello there”—he leaned closer to my face—“brown eyes.”
Hello, what? What could I say? Hello there, bifocals? I read his name tag. “Hello, Howard Mandel.” I pretended to be writing down Howard Mandel but wrote corny line.
Fern was right. Four minutes lasts a long time. I learned Howard was a retired paper-goods salesman, divorced fifteen years, still looking for that special woman, and was a whiz-bang golfer until he threw out his back.
“You should go to Dr. Russell Edley,” I said. “One of the most reliable chiropractors in the city. Upper East Side. I’ll write down his number.”
“No exchanging numbers!” Howard was also not a rule breaker. Fern rang her cowbell and Howard moved on.
I met Douglas the retired office manager, followed by Eugene the retired advertising guy, and Wayne the retired lab-technician guy, and Myron the retired travel-agent guy. I met James Ward Leonard, a retired man with three names. The men were pleasant. Polite. Nothing exciting. Sixty-year-old Bill Pullmans and Greg Kinnears.
I asked questions. Reporter questions. Why did you choose speed dating? Are you hoping to meet your soul mate? Are you hoping to meet the one?
When anyone asked, “So, how about you, Jeri?” I made stuff up, a different story for each man. I’m a physicist. A circus clown. A lighthouse guard. Ballerina. I pose nude for an art studio.
“Really?” Myron the retired travel agent said. “Nude? What do you really do?”
Nobody questioned circus clown or lighthouse guard.
I glanced over at table twelve and saw Angela looking bored senseless. And cute. The bell clanged and cute Mr. Shaved Head moved into the seat across from mine.
“Hello, Jeri,” he said, reading my name tag.
“Hello, Charlie Niebank,” I said, reading his. I learned he was a high school swim coach, thirty-six years old, amicably divorced, no kids, and wrote a blog for his school’s athletic department.
“Do you have a Twitter account?” I asked.
“Pardon me?” he said.
“Wait until you meet Angela. Over at table twelve. She’s a social-media expert and loves bloggers.”
Charlie looked in the direction of Angela’s table, turned back to me, looking confused.
“And swimming,” I said. “I’m sure she must love swimming. She’s cute. Friendly. Loyal.” I had just described a puppy. “I know you’ll hit it off.”
The bell rang. Time for the twenty-minute bathroom break. Charlie stood, shook my hand. “It was interesting meeting you, friend of Angela,” he said.
Other than the sounds of flushing toilets and running faucets, the ladies’ room was weirdly quiet. I thought of Fern saying, “It gets competitive.”
“I haven’t gotten to the cute one yet,” Angela whispered to me. She was applying lip gloss and fixing her hair.
“His name’s Charlie,” I whispered back.
“Charlie! I love the name Charlie.”
“A swim coach.”
“I adore swim coaches!”
“How many swim coaches have you met?”
“None. Maybe that’s why I haven’t met the right guy yet.”
By the end of the night she was in love. “I hope Charlie picks me back,” she said. We were in a taxi heading to our apartment building.
“He will. And he was the only man there who’s not a member of AARP.”
“Maybe we should have dressed up.”
“That wouldn’t have made those people any younger. SpeedLove should screen better, vet the participants to make sure they aren’t lying.”
“If they did that, Jeri Jacobs, they’d have kicked out Jeri Jacobs. Did you get any good lines for your article?”
“Nothing that’s not depressing.”
“You aren’t going to pick anyone, are you?”
“Of course not. Tonight made me appreciate Russell even more.”
In our lobby Angela said, “Charlie and I really connected. I could really feel it.”
On the elevator she said, “Chemistry’s the one thing you can’t make up. It’s either there or not.”
As we stepped out to our hallway, my next-door neighbor Kevin was pounding on his front door. He was clad only in boxer shorts, and his pale complexion looked paler than usual. “C’mon, Lacey!” he was saying. “Don’t be like that. I’m sorry!”
7
You might not assume that a chiropractor boyfriend is an entrée into a glamorous world, but you’d be surprised. Russell’s patients are grateful to him. He straightens their backs, unkinks their necks, and aligns their spines. They, in return, invite him to parties.
Sarah Greer’s debut mystery had already received a starred review from Publishers Weekly and been reviewed by the bible of the publishing world, People magazine. A bikinied Sarah had shown up on Page Six of the Post. John Grisham had blurbed her front cover. Her book party was being hosted in the twelfth-floor Central Park South apartment of Sarah’s sister. I didn’t know Sarah or her sister, but after Russell introduced me to Sarah, and Sarah to me, and Sarah shepherded Russell off to meet her publicist with the bad L4 vertebra, I helped myself to a vodka tonic. I watched people who knew each other talk to one another. I wasn’t in a chatty mood. That afternoon I’d received an e-mail from Fern at SpeedLove asking why I hadn’t submitted any picks, but then apologizing because none of the men had selected me. She offered me a 20 percent discount so I could try again along with a PS adding some personal advice. She’d received comments such as “bad attitude” and “felt like the Spanish Inquisition.” Perhaps be more open-minded next time, she wrote. And dress a little sexier.
I was plenty open-minded. I was at a party filled with strangers watching my boyfriend be escorted around by the guest of honor. I sipped my drink, making myself pretend to be deep in thought, as opposed to the way I felt: totally unpopular. About the time I was kicking myself, thinking, What the hell are you doing here? Why aren’t you home finishing your Nora story?—I spotted Veeva Penney. Live and in person, fabled agent Veeva Penney. I’d seen her
interviewed on television enough times to be familiar with her hearty laugh. Her broad gestures. Her louder-than-room-level voice. She was holding court next to the hors d’oeuvres table next to a table stacked with Sarah Greer’s books.
Veeva’s name first popped up in the trades in the early nineties after her big feud with superagent Swifty Lazar over a power play for Al Pacino. Veeva won the feud, but not exactly fair and square. A week later Swifty died of kidney failure, and Veeva became ten times more powerful than ever. People would say, “That Veeva Penney—she’ll negotiate to death!”
She’s as top an agent as top agents get. How could I not introduce myself? I was a writer. Writers need agents. I had my secret collection of essays. Or short stories. I was still figuring that out. We could meet. She could sell my stories. I could get my column. My sisters could host a book party for me. All I had to do was waltz over to the pigs in a blanket and shake Veeva’s hand.
I also had to pee. That’s the other thing I had to do. I’m never my best with a full bladder. I was intimidated by Veeva, and stalling. I’ll do loads of things without much thought—many now qualify as major regrets—but presenting myself to Veeva Penney would require some extra aplomb and maybe another vodka tonic. I couldn’t even go up and say, “Hi, I’m a friend of Sarah’s,” and I certainly wasn’t going to say, “Hi, I’m dating Sarah’s chiropractor.”
I set my empty glass on a passing tray and headed to a powder room off a hallway between the kitchen and the front entryway. Bathroom radar is one of my talents. Only my radar wasn’t doing me any favors. Cameron Duncan was standing a few feet from the closed door.
“Molly!”
“Cameron.”
“Hello.”
“Are you the bathroom attendant?” I asked, my attempt at sounding clever. But I probably sounded more like a wedding guest lost in a hotel.
“I’m waiting for a friend,” he said. “Good to see you, Molly.” He sounded sincere, which I found sincerely perplexing.
What Nora Knew Page 7
