“Well, I mean, that was my corner store, and I have eaten their sushi, but… Well, forget it.” I open my menu. “And I do like sake, by the way. Love it, actually.”
“Two sake martinis,” Victor tells the waitress.
“Certainly, Mr. Ragsdale.”
Victor goes back to the menu. “I’m going to order an assortment –”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Are you wearing a sticker on your back that says, ‘Hello, My Name Is Mr. Ragsdale’?”
He laughs again. I’m three for three! “I just come here a lot.”
Really? With whom? How many women has Victor taken here? How many women has he sat at this very table with? Bad to ask. But I bet a lot.
“As I was saying… I’m going to order an assortment and let the chef make us whatever he wants. Adventure eating, I like to call it.”
Adventure eating. Has a trend-sounding ring to it. Mental note.
After he orders and we get our drinks, Victor sits back and loosens his tie. “So.” He smiles. “How do you like New York?”
“Oh, I love it! All the sights and sounds and smells. It’s so glamorous and energetic and fun and –”
“Lindsey. You sound like a tourism brochure. New York smells like a shit in a sauna.”
“You don’t like New York?”
“Yeah, you know. It’s home. I’ll never leave. So what else? What do you really like about it?”
Hmmm. What do I like about New York? I guess it’s hard to put into words. Words that don’t sound like a tourism brochure, that is.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I just do. Just the feeling I have here.”
“Ah, the Un-Reason.” He nods slowly.
“What’s the Un-Reason?”
“It’s what my mother used to say was the reason she loved my father. Trust me, she hated everything about the prick, but she still loved him for a reason she couldn’t explain. She used to call it the Un-Reason, and she swore it was the only reason that mattered.”
I feel a tear well up in my eye. “That’s incredibly romantic, Victor.”
“And that’s why you love New York. But then again, you just got here. You’ll find other reasons.”
“But reasons that don’t matter.”
“Nah. It’ll just mean that you’ll love it without it driving you crazy. That’s what you wanna shoot for.”
He grins and I grin back. Well, then, that’s what I’ll shoot for.
• • •
The rest of dinner is slow and delicious, and as the sake sets in I’m beginning to feel like New York royalty. I love the restaurant, with its dark, sharp decor contrasted by candle flames casting out a warm, glowing swirl. And in addition to being the most strikingly handsome man in the room, it turns out that Victor is the perfect gentleman (despite that he called our waiter a “fucking asshole” – albeit very quietly – when he forgot our tuna sashimi).
After dinner, Victor suggests a carriage ride in Central Park, and I just about fall over. It’s the most romantic, perfect, wonderful thing I’ve ever been asked. The night is warm, the park is peaceful, and Victor holds my hand in the carriage as we stare at the stars. It’s everything I’ve always dreamed of, aside from the fact that those horses actually fart quite a lot, and loudly I might add. But Victor laughed, so I did too. A silly little cute thing in our perfect night.
When the carriage pulls up to let us off, I notice that Victor’s building is right across the street. Without missing a beat, he kisses my hand and asks me up for a nightcap. A nightcap – so romantic. Guys don’t say that anymore. Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant used to say that in old movies. Yes, I would love to have a nightcap, I answer, and float up the elevator to his dream apartment.
Once in, Victor dims the lights and opens a bottle of port. Sade softly swells from the stereo. I step into the bathroom to powder my nose, and that’s when it hits me: He’s brought me here to sleep with me.
Shit. What should I do? I’ve never had sex on the first date. It’s just not me – just not my thing. Well, except for after my office Christmas party three years ago with the bass player from the La Bamba cover band, but that doesn’t count because it wasn’t technically a date. And no, the junior prom is not considered a date either. So forget it. Doesn’t count.
I begin to panic, and realize that my left shoulder suddenly feels cold, and my right shoulder feels hot. I know what this is. It’s been a while, but in times of desperate decision-making, this happens without fail. It’s my inner angel and devil, come to fight for the purity of my soul.
Angel: Don’t do it.
Devil: Do it.
Angel: You never have sex on the first date.
Devil: There’s a first time for everything.
Angel: If you do it, he’ll think you’re a slut.
Devil: If you don’t, he’ll think you’re a prude – or worse, a tease.
Angel: You don’t want this.
Devil: Of course you want this. Look at him.
I quietly open the bathroom door a crack and peek out. Down the hallway I can see Victor setting our glasses of port onto the glass table by the sofa. Dreamy. Gorgeous. Shit. I shouldn’t have looked.
Angel: I’m telling you, you won’t respect yourself in the morning.
Devil: But you’ll be pissed that you shelled out twenty bucks for a wasted bikini wax.
Angel: You know the rules of basic social order. Send him away with a boner and he’ll be back to get rid of it.
Devil: He spent almost two hundred bucks on dinner. He deserves a little dessert.
I take a deep breath.
Angel: Don’t do it.
Devil: Do it.
Why does the devil always get the last word?
I leave the bathroom feeling strong, fully prepared to turn Victor away and make him wait. The angel is right. The angel is always right.
And then he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me – soft, wet, and full on my lips, and his fingers caress my back before slowly sliding down my zipper. A warm tingle rises up the length of my body and I realize that suddenly both my shoulders feel hot. My angel is gone. And as my devil wisely pointed out, there’s a first time for everything.
Chapter 9
Last night can’t be a dream. If it were a dream, I would be waking up in my ratty Marvin the Martian T-shirt, with my feet smashed up against the bottom of that crappy futon in the brownstone apartment. Instead I am waking up naked, swirling in the luxurious silk sheets of Victor’s four-poster oak bed. The sun shines in through the window, casting a lazy glow into the room. Mmmmm. Happy.
Last night was like a fantasy. I’ve been in New York less than a week, and already I’ve been to the yummiest restaurant, surrounded by the coolest people, with the sexiest guy in the world.
I roll over and look at Victor, who is sleeping on his back. A faint snore gurgles in his throat, and I giggle quietly, so as not to wake him up. Which is a complete waste of time, as a moment later the cell phone in my purse begins to blare out a creepy, electronic version of Britney Spears’s “Baby One More Time,” which the punk at the Verizon store had classified as “classic rock” before programming into the memory. Victor jumps.
“Hmph.” He rubs his eyes. “What the hell is that?”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Its just my cell phone. Go back to sleep.” I smooth back his hair and kiss him on the forehead. Finally the cell phone stops.
Then starts again a minute later. I look at the clock: six-fifteen.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Lindsey, it’s Jen.”
“Hold on.” I leap out of bed and grab Victor’s bathrobe, then tiptoe into the living room. Why is she calling so early?
“Jen, it’s six-fifteen in the morning. Doesn’t that make it three-fifteen in L.A.?”
“Yeah, I just got home. Where are you? I tried the apartment but you didn’t answer.”
“Why are you calling so early?”
“Listen, Lindsey. I need you to do something for me today. Re
member I told you that for all the trend ideas we get, we have to confirm them with on-the-street interviews?”
Oh, for God’s sake. Is one morning of basking in the bliss of my dream date before punching the time clock too much to ask?
I sigh. “All right. Tell me what you need.”
“Do you have a pen?”
No.
“Yes. Go ahead.”
“I need you to do some interviews today. Go to the corner of Fifth and Nineteenth. They’re opening a new boutique called Intermix and it’s going to be jammed. Talk to as many cool-looking people as you can about the following. Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Ambiguous endings. Movies and TV shows where you’re not really sure what happens in the end. Like, it could be one thing or the other, and you can decide for yourself how you think it ended.”
“What?”
“I’m noticing it a lot in new indie movies, and people on the way out seem to like it. Just an idea, but could be the next big thing, so I want to check it out.”
“Okay.” I yawn. “What else?”
“Finger food. I’ve been to two restaurants now where they don’t have silverware. You eat everything with your hands. Very chic.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
“Pinstripes. Check out how many women you see wearing them. On anything. Shirts, pants, shoes, handbags, whatever. If you see someone, ask them about it.”
“Ask them what?”
She sighs impatiently. “Ask them anything. Where they got it, why they bought it, if they think it’s trendy, what look they think it creates. Just wing it. Find out if it’s something we should be paying attention to.”
“Fine.”
“That’s all for now. How are you doing otherwise?”
“I’m doing great! New York is amazing.”
Pause. “I mean on your trends.”
“Well, you know, I’m getting my feet wet…”
I peek into the bedroom and notice that Victor has gotten up. I can hear the shower running, which means that my chances at getting some morning cuddling (or perhaps a repeat of last night’s performance) are probably blown.
“Jen, I have to go.”
“So you never answered me – where are you, anyway?”
“I’m at a friend’s.”
“Girl or boy?”
“Jen.”
“You said you didn’t have any friends in New York.”
“Jen.”
She laughs. “You little tramp! Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”
I hang up the phone. Instant bad mood. Just add water.
“Business call so early?” Victor walks out of the bathroom in a towel.
“I’m sorry about that.” I grab a pencil from his desk and scratch down, Intermix—Fifth and Nineteenth on a Post-it.
“No worries, babe. I have to get to work anyway.” I guess that’s my cue to gather up and get lost.
“Thanks for dinner, Victor.”
He smiles. “Thanks for dessert.”
Ewww. Did he really just say that? He comes over and kisses me on the lips. “Don’t make such a face. I’m kidding.”
Thank God.
• • •
The Un-Reason.
It echoes in my mind all the way back to the apartment. It takes on a soft, slow melody as I hum to its rhythm in the shower. It looks beautiful on paper as I scrawl it over every centimeter of white space on the Manhattan subway map. I wouldn’t have taken Victor Ragsdale for such a romantic. But good surprises are always welcome.
I sit down at the computer to type up a short questionnaire for the street interviews. What did Jen want me to ask about? I have to think about this for a second. Should’ve written it down. Pinstripes were one. Ugh. I haven’t worn a pinstripe since my Zena jeans from the eighth grade got cut into rags at the car wash fund-raiser for our class trip to New Orleans. Can’t these designers come up with fashion trends that are actually new?
Finger food. Okay, I can see that one. It’s sort of sexy, if you think about it. I remember reading an article in Cosmo that gave instructions on how to turn a man on while eating, even during a casual dinner at a greasy burger joint: Eat as much as possible with our fingers, and do a lot of slow finger licking so as to subconsciously suggest what else we can do with our lips and tongue, given what we just did to that delicious fried mozzarella stick. Which, by the way, is a trend that will never go out of style.
But what was the third one? Shit. For the life of me I cannot remember. I also can’t find the address to the store, though I do remember its name: Intermix. But where was it? Fifth Avenue and something. Did I leave the Post-it at Victor’s? Shit.
I rack my brain for a few minutes, then feel it drifting back toward last night. Why is it that when you first have sex, you automatically evaluate your new lover in the context of your last one? Sex with Steve was okay, more on the ordinary side, but appropriate given the circumstances. (If you think you’re actually going to marry someone, that’s not the person with whom to drag out your dog collar and nipple clamps.) Ordinary is very suitable.
But sex with Steve and with Victor was like night and day. Steve was the kind of guy who’d click off the light, slide into bed, and pull down his boxers to save you the trouble. Victor, on the other hand, is the kind of guy who throws you upside down, clamps your wrists above your head, and bites your shoulder as he rips off your panties. So much for the soft, slow kisses in the living room. Once we stumbled into the boudoir, Victor pounced on me like a growling pit bull on a T-bone. I came home with a few scratches and teeth marks, but for the first time in my life, I felt devoured. Shivers run up my spine as I think about it, and I feel a shot of nervous excitement in my stomach. There’s a dangerous energy to Victor, which may be why I like him. Come to think of it, just like New York.
• • •
I am standing in front of this boutique, Intermix, trying not to get sideswiped by the shoppers pushing in and out of the door. A photographer has been hired to capture the excitement of the opening, and he keeps waving me aside in irritation as he aims his lens. Apparently, my backpack and clipboard are not fashion accessories that scream “photo op.”
At least this time I have something to follow. My survey is short and alleviates the need for me to stand there blindly, pulling questions out of my ass like Stuttering John at the Governors Ball.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a quick mantra. I am cool. I am magnetic. I am a goddess of urban chic. These people want me. They want to talk to me. They’re just waiting for me to approach.
“Excuse me,” I say to a young woman in brown boots and a suede beret. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
“Fuck off.”
“Thanks!” I nod. And on to the next. Can’t break the momentum.
“Excuse me.” I wave down a guy wearing khakis with a sports jacket slung over his arm.
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
He keeps walking. Not a word. Did he hear me? Of course he heard me. Fine. Whatever. On to the next.
“Excuse me.” I’m starting to sound a little more forceful now, causing a young guy wearing ripped jeans and a T-shirt that says JESUS YO to actually stop and turn around.
“Would you mind answering a few questions for me? It’ll only take two or three minutes.”
“What do I get out of it?” he asks.
“Uh…” Good question.
“Listen, man. If you want two minutes of my time, you’d better make it worth it. Or at least make me feel like it is.”
Man. He called me Man.
“Well, I’m a trend forecaster for a major advertising agency. I need opinions from stylish people like yourself. You look… very stylish.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, you’re exactly what we’re looking for. Young, cool, hip… you seem like you’d have great opinions to contribute about trends and stuf
f.”
“Yeah, you see?” His look takes a turn toward smarmy, but I’m not in the position to be selective. “So what about you – you from around here?”
“Listen, I need to do, like, fifty of these today. Can we just get through it?”
“All right, all right. Hit me.”
Hooray!
“Okay. Let’s start with pinstripes. Have you noticed any fashions lately that are bringing back the pin-striped look?”
“Ummm… yeah – on chicks, though. I took this chick out who had pinstripes on her shoes. It’s pretty badass, I guess.”
“Great! And why do you think that look is cool right now?”
“Uh, I guess it looks like the eighties, but also looks modern at the same time? Is that an answer?”
I nod and furiously scratch down his answers on the questionnaire.
But as we move through the survey, I find myself wondering how I’m going to possibly belt out fifty of these in one afternoon. It takes more than two minutes, first of all. And I can’t even remember that last topic that Jen wanted me to ask about.
“Well, very good,” I tell the guy ten minutes later. “Thank you.”
“No problem, man. Anytime you want.” He winks and saunters down the sidewalk. I’m hungry now, and I have to go the bathroom. Of course, no store in Manhattan will let you use their facilities, which may explain why the sidewalk grates seem to emote the scent of fresh pee at any given moment.
“Pardon me.” I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to see a sharply dressed woman staring at me coldly. “I’m the manager of Intermix. Can I ask, what are you doing?”
“I’m doing a questionnaire. For… well… I’m a trend forecaster, and this seemed like a really good place to –”
“We’re opening our store today, and as you can see, there’s a lot going on. But having you standing outside accosting our customers is very disturbing – to us and to them. You’re going to have to leave.”
“But I –”
“I’m sorry. If you must do it, please do it down the block.” She turns abruptly and goes back into the store.
I watch her through the window as she plasters on a fake smile and greets her hungry shoppers. I notice the irritated photographer who has stopped to eat a slice of pizza, which he’s folded up like a sandwich and is shoving into his mouth standing up. He’s heard the whole thing, and nods at me with his mouth full.
Bicoastal Babe Page 7
