“Well, I would love to help you.”
“You would?” I could hug him.
“But you should know that what’s trendy right now is certainly going to be yesterday’s trash by the time your newsletter is put to use in any new advertising.”
“Well said. So let’s talk next season.”
“And that’s where I can’t really help. If I knew the answer to that, believe me, darling, I’d be over at Ono sipping a Starfruit Manhattan, not folding sweaters in an overpriced boutique.”
I am silent.
“Now,” he continues, “that leaves you with two questions.”
Still silent.
“One, you should be asking me what a Starfruit Manhattan is, and why its my drink of choice at this particular juncture. And two, you should be asking me if there’s anyone I know on the buying end of this enterprise who could be of more assistance to you in your quest for next year’s zeitgeist.”
“Yes!” I practically shout. “Both of those. Please.”
He laughs. “You’re not from New York, are you?”
“Listen. If you hook me up with someone who can help me, I will buy you ten Starfruit Manhattans at the club of your choice.”
“No, thank you, darling. I have all the friends I need. But I will give you the name of one of our designers. And you’ll have to take it from there.”
Ten minutes later, I have a new pair of Versace socks (sixteen dollars), a black shopping bag that says VERSACE (free, but had to ask for larger bag, as to visibly showcase new purchase to passersby), and most important, a name: Jean-Louis Francouer, junior designer for next spring’s Versace line. (Priceless.)
• • •
This calls for some cocktails. I’ve paid my dues with a significant dent into the fashion/style arena, and I figure I can put that one aside for now and start investigating the club scene. Of course, it is only five thirty, and rumor has it the clubs don’t kick in until midnight. But there’s nothing like a good happy hour to get the party started.
“Take me to Le Cirque,” I tell the taxi driver. With the money I’m spending on cabs, I probably could’ve sprung for one of those cashmere sweaters. I really must learn to love that subway system. But tonight is celebration time, so the subway can wait.
I plunk myself down at the bar and smile at the bartender. “I’ll have a Starfruit Manhattan, please.”
He leans forward on his elbows and smiles back. “What’s that?”
“Forget it. I’ll have the trendiest drink on your menu.”
“Our trendiest drink?”
“That’s right. And your personal expert opinion on what makes it so trendy.”
“This some kind of survey?”
“Of sorts. So, think trendy.”
“Think trendy. Well, I suppose I could start you off with a Cirque de Soleil. I get a few requests for that from time to time.”
My brow darkens. “Sounds like a house drink.”
“Ah, but consider the house.”
Good point. A moment later he sets before me a tall, beautiful cocktail with a blue swirl twisting down the middle of the liquid and pink sugar circling the rim of the glass. “Nineteen-fifty.”
“That had better come with the expert opinion.”
“My expert opinion is that if it tastes good, you’ll probably order another. Maybe a third. And you might even tell your friends. Hence popularity, or trendiness, as you say.”
“That gets me nowhere.”
“Hey, girl. I just mix what I’m asked for.”
Hmph. Better take a look around.
Plenty of people downing swanky-looking drinks, and none of them really appear to want the survey girl interrupting their conversation. This job requires bravado. Which, of course, comes with another drink. Or two…
• • •
… Which eventually leads to the survey girl hanging on to the bar for dear life as the rest of the room swirls around her in a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors.
It’s two hours later, and I am BOMBED. When did I become such a lightweight? Lunch might’ve helped. But it’s too late for lunch, so I order another drink and attempt to recall why I’m here in the first place. That’s right. Of course. To do my job. To approach hip-looking strangers and try to get some answers.
“Are you Victor Ragsdale?” I slur to the guy sitting next to me at the bar.
He looks at me like I’m insane. “No, sorry.”
“Oh, right. You’re not him.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I plunk a bill down on the bar. “Keep the change,” I tell the bartender.
He picks it up like a wet rag. “This is a ten.”
“Mmm-hmmmm. Well, then, here’s a twenty.”
I grab my drink and turn away.
“Hey, do you want your ten back?”
“Just keep ’em comin’, tough guy.”
God, it’s bad. Verbal evidence that I now believe I am Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. But back to business.
“Are you Victor Ragsdale?”
The guy on my other side checks out my rack. “No, but I could be if that’s what you’d like.”
“Shove off.” I think I might puke. Another swig of this sin-juice should temper the rumbling in my throat and stomach. That bartender was right: This stuff goes down like the nectar of the gods.
An arm butts into my personal space, some guy waving his gold card at the bartender. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“Are you Victor Ragsdale?” I can barely push the words out.
“No.” I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. “But I am.”
I try to turn my head. My eyes swim, then focus on a visage that’s vaguely, gorgeously familiar.
“We meet again. Little Miss New Yorker. Lindsey Miller, I believe?” My heart stops. It’s him. It’s really, truly him.
And the next thing I remember, I’m waking up with a pounding headache, on a beautiful, soft, four-poster bed that most assuredly does not live in my apartment.
Chapter 8
I am sleeping in a strange bed. Bad sign. I don’t remember how I got here. Also a bad sign. I can see my purse on a chair next to the bed. That’s a good sign. I am wearing a pair of men’s flannel pajamas. Well, that one could go either way, but given the first two signs, I’d say it’s leaning more toward bad.
Sitting up is rough. I rub my head, trying to recall the events that landed me here, and a cloudy haze of random sounds and faces begins to seep back into my memory. Then I take a look around the room.
Wow, this bedroom is beautiful. Square and spacious, with shiny dark hardwood floors and lush, expensive furniture – it is a little masculine – but still about a thousand scores above my apartment. Outside the window I can see an amazing view of what must be Central Park. I walk around the room, running my hand over the richly painted walls, when something catches my eye. It is a black bathrobe slung over a French chair in the corner. The robe is monogrammed VR, and suddenly I remember. Victor Ragsdale!
I am at Victor Ragsdale’s apartment. Oh, my God. What did I say to him? How did I get here? What happened when I got here? And where is he?
I calm my nerves for a moment, then creep out the bedroom door, trying not to make any noise. Glancing around, I see the rest of the apartment is as roomy and stunning as the bedroom.
As I stand there gawking, Victor walks out of the kitchen with a big, steaming cup of coffee.
“I see you’re up.” He reaches the cup my way. “Well, then, this one is yours.”
He hands me the coffee and I make some kind of squeaking sound. I can’t even speak. Victor is such a ray of beauty, with his black hair and dark eyes, standing here in a gray-and-white tracksuit.
“I just went for a run. I figured you’d still be sleeping when I got back.” He looks at my (his) pajamas and smiles. “Hey, those look cute on you. If you need the bathroom, it’s right in there.” He points.
Yes, I need the bathroom. Along with a bottle of aspirin, a gallon of water, earplugs to
dim the pounding inside my head, a long shower, my toothbrush, an outfit to put on that doesn’t scream “walk of shame,” and most of all, my cosmetic bag. I also feel the pressing need to know exactly what transpired before I woke up in these pajamas.
Which is all forgotten the second I see my face in the mirror. I gasp in horror. A hideous mess of yesterday’s makeup, I now resemble a large, acne-plagued raccoon, with a stamp of mascara circling both eyes and a patch of zits starting to sprout beneath my cakey, day-old foundation.
God, why couldn’t I have woken up when he was out? I wash my face and pinch my cheeks until they’re pink, hoping it’ll distract attention from the zits. I also take the liberty of using Victor’s toothbrush, which I dry on a towel so he won’t know. I have to go back out there, I know. I’ll just have to breeze right by him and get out fast.
But when I open the bathroom door, Victor is standing there, about to knock. “I thought you might want some breakfast. I make a mean salmon omelet.”
“Oh, gosh, that’s so nice. Thank you. But I really have to go.”
“So soon? You’re not even finished with your coffee.” He follows me back into the bedroom, where I’m scrambling to organize my clothes. Part of me wants to bolt out the door, but the other part of me has to know.
“Victor. I have to ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“I had a few too many cocktails last night.”
He laughs, as if my confession is the biggest understatement in the history of man.
“And I don’t remember some of the details of the latter part of the evening. So could you tell me… did I… did we… well, you know… did we… do anything?”
He laughs again. “In your condition? No, Lindsey. I stopped needing to get girls drunk for sex in my junior year of college.”
Huh?
“Kidding. But yeah, you were pretty hammered. So I took you home, put you to bed, and that’s all she wrote. I slept on the couch.”
“Why didn’t you just drop me off at my apartment?”
“You forgot your address.”
“Oh. Right.”
“So if you’re declining the pleasure of my homemade salmon omelet, fine. But something tells me you won’t be declining the pleasure of dinner at Nobu tonight at nine thirty.”
He can’t really be asking me on a proper date. After seeing me like this? Maybe he’s still drunk from last night. Or maybe he hasn’t put in his contacts yet. Or maybe this is a cruel joke where I’ll get all dressed up and then he and his friends will hide across the street, laughing hysterically as I stand in the doorway, looking up and down the sidewalk, tears streaming down my face – stood up and humiliated.
“Lindsey? So do you wanna go?”
“Uh, you said Nobu? Really? Do you have a reservation?”
“Don’t worry about it. Just be ready at nine thirty. And write down your address on the way out. That is, if you remember it.”
He winks, walks into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. He doesn’t even shut the door. From down the hall I catch a glimpse of his naked body in the mirror as he peels off his tracksuit. His eyes look up in the reflection and catch my glance. He smiles devilishly, then steps into the shower.
I take it that’s my cue to go. But now that the coast is clear, I don’t want to go. I want to check out the apartment, troll the mantels for pictures of other women and signs of who he is and what might possess him to ask me on a real date.
Then it occurs to me: Maybe he likes me. Maybe I made him laugh or he thought I was cute or I said something brilliantly insightful (doubtful), or something real and legitimate like that. Maybe he just plain likes me.
Which, of course, is the best feeling in the world.
• • •
When I get home, the apartment has changed. Still tiny, but suddenly it’s the brightest, sunniest, happiest place in the world. Victor Ragsdale likes me! And is coming to pick me up in twelve short hours. Not much time. Must organize the day into a realistic schedule.
First thing – a little beauty sleep. Three hours, maybe four. Can’t be picked up for the most important date of my life with these hangover bags under my eyes. Next, leg and bikini wax – one hour. Facial and hair blowout – two hours. Quick tanning appointment, followed by manicure and pedicure – two more hours. Shop for Nobu-appropriate outfit – one hour max at Macy’s. Shower, dress, and makeup application – hour and a half. And that leaves a half hour to relax and enjoy a predate glass of wine. Perfect.
As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me that I’ve left no time for work. Okay, it’s one day. One day lost in an endless sea of trend-tracking brilliance that is sure to unfold, as my lucky stars have begun to finally align. One day. Screw it. I’ll start tomorrow. This date is too important to mess up.
• • •
By nine-thirty, I’m ready. Right on schedule. With my new little black dress and silk handbag (two hundred bucks, but considered a wise investment in my social future), I look smashing, if I do say so myself.
Victor is a little late, which is okay because it gives me the chance to have a second calm-my-nerves nipper of wine. I’ve straightened up the apartment and even washed the pile of dirty thong underwear that Jen left in the bathroom sink. Certainly not impressive, but it’s the best I can do.
So… When people say “fashionably late,” exactly how late do the parameters of “fashionable” extend? Is it different depending on the event? Is being a “fashionable” hour and forty-five minutes late for your nephew’s first birthday party (never heard the end of it, but worth it) different from being a “fashionable” fifteen minutes late to your boss’s daughter’s wedding? And what about for a date? I’ve never had a guy be this fashionably late for a date, so I’m not quite certain when it’s appropriate to put down the wine and start getting angry. Advice needed.
“Hello?” Holly answers the phone like she’s out of breath.
“How late is ‘fashionable’ when it comes to a date?”
“He’s not there yet?” I’d filled her in on the details earlier this afternoon, somewhere between my bikini wax and my professional shampoo.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be there a half hour ago?” she asks.
“Just answer the question.”
“Umm…” She ponders nervously. “Well… I’ve never…”
“Okay, look. Just distract me. I don’t want to start the night off in a mood.”
“Lindsey, I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly good explanation. Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine while you’re waiting?”
Silence.
“You’ve already had one.”
More silence.
“You’ve had two.”
More silence.
“Okay, listen. It’s New York. The traffic is probably crazy. I’m sure he’ll feel awful and have a bouquet of flowers and a great explanation –”
I hear a buzz on the wall.
“Holly – he’s here.”
“You see? Call me tomorrow. Have fun, sweetie.”
I hang up, clear my throat, and glare at the buzzer. Hmph! I won’t answer on the first buzz, or even the second. Make him wait. Make him sweat. I’ll be “fashionably late” in answering the door. See how he likes it.
Another buzz. Who am I kidding?
I dive at the panel. “Victor?”
“Lindsey, I’m downstairs. Come down.”
“Why don’t I buzz you up?”
“And walk up five flights of stairs? No, thanks. I’ll hold a cab.”
Wait a minute. Where’s my apology? Where are my flowers? He should come up to the door like a gentleman. And besides, I want to see him in my apartment. I want to take a mental snapshot of him standing here, being here, for when I wake up and realize this was all a dream – at least I’ll have the image stuck in my mind.
“Uh, Victor? I’m not quite ready yet. Can you just come up for a minute?”
A moment, and then I hear him sigh. “Fine.”
And a moment later here he is, standing in my apartment. He’s dashingly handsome in his dark gray suit, with a green silk handkerchief stuck in the breast pocket. He doesn’t seem to be wearing any apologies or holding any bouquets, but the image of him more than makes up for whatever it is he’s forgotten.
“You look ready to me,” he says.
I’ll take that as a compliment. “Thank you,” I gush. “I just have to…” My voice trails off as I turn toward the bathroom. I just have to what? Here, I’ll just shuffle some things around and make a little noise.
“Lindsey, we’re going to miss our reservation.” He sounds a little irritated, and I wonder, How did he get reservations at Nobu on such short notice? That’s hot. Major two-thumbs-up cool.
On the cab ride over, Victor asks all about my job and laughs when I tell him I’ve been in New York less than a week.
“I knew it!” he exclaims. “You are so not Manhattan!”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gives me a little squeeze and smiles. “It’s a good thing, Lindsey. Trust me. You’re very… I don’t know. Fresh. Does that make sense? You’re refreshing to me.”
In an ideal world I’d be described as capturing the look of the stylish, edgy New Yorker that I truly am at heart, not be made to sound like a stick of Doublemint gum following a whippet and a Mountain Dew. But when Victor takes my hand and whispers, “I like you,” all bets are off.
• • •
Nobu is beautiful. And Simon Cowell is sitting at the corner table. And when Victor said, “I have a reservation,” to the hostess, she smiled and replied (without asking his name), “Right this way, Mr. Ragsdale.”
“Do you like sake?” Victor asks, opening the menu.
“I’ve never had it. I don’t really go out for sushi. I usually get my sushi from the refrigerated bin at Pick ’n Save.”
Victor laughs. “What the hell is that?”
“That’s my corner grocery store at home in Chicago. Or it was.”
“Tell me you’re not serious.”
“Okay, I’m not serious. But I made you laugh.”
He laughs again.
Bicoastal Babe Page 6
