“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Jessica taunts in a playground voice. She’s pointing at a tasteful arrangement of pink roses on the reception desk and waving a florist’s card at my nose.
“Lucky Sibyl,” I reply, assuming she means the receptionist, a doe eyed twenty-two-year-old waif who garners more than her fair share of male attention.
“Not Sibyl,” Jessica laughs. “You! Those are for you. And just look at the card.” She hands it over. “Someone wants to take you on a da-ate.”
I’m starting to seethe. “Who told you it was okay to read my mail?”
“It wasn’t exactly addressed to you,” Jessica pouts, and crosses her arms over her chest.
I read the envelope, and she’s not lying. It’s addressed to “The Beautiful Woman Whose Desk Faces Out the Fifth Floor Window (Madison side).” Unless the sender’s blind, that has to mean me. The only other person whose desk faces out that window is Marvin, a middle-aged recovering lawyer with a growing paunch and a shrinking hairline.
I tear it open. “You’ve been looking sad lately. Drink? P.S. I’m across the street, one floor up from you.” I flip the card over, hoping for more, but there’s no name, just a 212 phone number.
I can’t help it. I dash across the office to my desk and peer out. There’s no one in the windows across the way.
Of course it’s possible the florist made a mistake. Maybe the flowers and note were intended for someone else entirely. Somewhere, down the block, two nearly star-crossed souls have missed each other due to a mislabeled delivery. Some hapless man who made this bold gesture keeps pacing to his window, wondering why the object of his affections isn’t even bothering to look at him. He’s dejected, then despondent, then enraged. Maybe he’ll get a gun and mow her down for ignoring him. I’ll read about it on the front page of the Post, and somehow it’ll be my fault, because I took delivery of roses intended for some other woman.
Jessica is squinting out my window like a sailor scanning the horizon for land. She’s on her tiptoes, which makes her pants rise even farther up her calves. Finally satisfied that I wasn’t lying when I said he wasn’t there, she demands, “Are you going to go out with him?”
“I think it might be just the thing, you know, to get you out of your funk,” adds Marvin, who lives for office gossip. “Are you sure you’ve never seen him?”
“I spend most of my time looking down at the street. And I’m not in a funk.”
“Sure you are,” Marvin cajoles, and the others nod their agreement. “Not that I can blame you. Anyone whose fiancé calls off the Wedding of the Year with less than a month to spare is entitled to a bit of a sulk. So are you going to go out with him?”
“Let’s just watch and see if the mystery man appears,” I say, with as much authority as I can muster. While I want to press my nose to the glass and stare up at the windows of 749 Madison until I spot signs of life (preferably hot, masculine life), I force myself into my chair, and try to look busy.
Of course I can’t concentrate. My right brain is galloping at breakneck pace to places it has no business going and my left brain is powerless to stop it. What if everything, including my humiliation at the hands of Brendan, happens for a reason? Maybe I was supposed to waste my twenties in a holding pattern so I could meet the man of my dreams by virtue of coincidental office geography on this exact day. Maybe I needed the emotional scarring of a cancelled wedding to prove my worthiness for real love. I wonder what he’s like. What does he want from life? Maybe we’re each others’ long missing puzzle pieces, meant to fit together. The little voice in my head shrieks at me to pull myself out of my death spiral into fantasy land and Get. A. Grip. She tells me he is probably horribly flawed. Socially inept. Whiny. Blighted by bad breath, ear hair and stooped posture. He’s damaged, desperate and eager to blame a woman for his sexual deficiencies.
No. Life cannot possibly be so unfair that it would charge back and kick me again just as I’m working to pick myself up and dust myself off. I’ve been a good person. I don’t deserve more rotten love luck. Isn’t it enough that I got dumped a week before my wedding? Or that my first and only post-break-up Match date failed to mention he was quadriplegic—after he told me he enjoyed skiing and hiking, and arranged to meet me at a basement restaurant with no handicap access? Instead of bringing me out of my slump, that date sent me home panicked that I am a horrible person because I had the audacity to think, that no matter how angry the poor guy was at the world, I deserved a heads up on his condition.
I tell the little voice that there’s no harm in nurturing a little hope. That shuts her up.
Oh please, I beg whatever higher power determines such matters, please let him be at least a little cute and a lot nice.
TWO
He doesn’t appear. Not during the lunch I scarf at my computer, pretending to work, but stealing furtive glances across the street and up. Not in the tiresome afternoon hours that drag by.
With every passing minute in which the mystery man fails to show himself, I become increasingly convinced there’s been a mistake. The flowers must have been meant for someone else, in some other window, on some other block. But a small, okay, maybe a not-so-small, part of me still wants a glimpse of this secret admirer. Not that I’m even considering his offer. He could be a serial killer. Normal guys don’t send roses to women they don’t know. And even if they do, things like this only end well in the movies.
But curiosity is natural, right? I’d be a freak if I weren’t a little interested. I just want to see him, and then I’ll get right back to work. I congratulate myself for suppressing the urge to call my best friend Angela and hash out all the possible outcomes. When you work in a bullpen, everyone knows your business. You don’t need to go broadcasting your innermost thoughts for public consumption by making unnecessary personal phone calls.
Still, I check my make-up at fifteen minute intervals for the rest of the day, and run a brush through my hair way more frequently than usual. If my secret admirer decides to appear, I might as well look nice. I kill way too much time alternately staring out the window and at my own reflection. I hate how my make-up mirror magnifies every pore, but in the good news column, I’ve always loved my round blue eyes. Plus my hair is looking good these days, despite Carol’s frequent snarky remarks about it. Maybe the expensive salon I now patronize on Angela’s advice isn’t a luxury after all. Her genius of a hairdresser convinced me to add subtle layers, because “they would emphasize my heart shaped face and good cheekbones.” He was right, and my new haircut is the most flattering one I’ve ever had. Too bad it doesn’t hide my nose. It’s what I would change about myself if I could transform one thing. I’ve never liked it. I think it resembles one of those bad early-eighties ski slope nose jobs. Lucky me: I was born this way. I didn’t pay a one-trick surgeon thousands of dollars for the effect.
I snap the compact shut and check the window again. Nothing. I spin my chair the other way and tell myself I will return all four calls on my list before looking again.
I’m not the only one who spends the better part of the afternoon watching. Carol is tied up in meetings outside the office for most of the day, so Jessica doesn’t need to fabricate an excuse to hang by my window. She keeps buzzing around my desk, twittering, “Still not there!” As if I need clarification.
Marvin, on the other hand, takes it upon himself to do a bit of recon. At lunchtime, he marches right across Madison Avenue and uses what he calls his “immeasurable deductive powers” (meaning he consults the building directory) to discover that, if indeed the flowers came from an occupant of that particular building, the sender works at Takamura Brothers, a very prestigious advertising agency.
As soon as Marvin delivers his report, Jessica skulks over and says, “You know, all advertising execs are jerks.”
“Don’t you think that’s slightly unfair?” I ask, as I quietly admit to myself that I’m more than a little excited to know more about my mystery man.
Jessica
ignores my admonition and adds the zinger. “And so many of them are gay!”
“Now that’s mean,” Marvin says. “Obviously, if Mister X here were gay, he’d be sending flowers to me, not to Zoë.”
That makes sense. But what if Jessica’s right? What if I’ve wasted most of my work day staking out a gay man who doesn’t know he’s gay? One who makes overtures towards anonymous women because he knows the odds of an actual connection are remote? Or worse, one who knows his sexual preference but won’t admit it? I’ve been down that road once and have no desire to travel it again. And did I mention I work on commission? If I don’t close deals, Carol doesn’t pay me.
Thankfully, Sibyl’s perky cheerleader voice pages Jessica to reception. As she strides away, Marvin wheels his chair close to mine and rests his hand on my knee. He leans in to whispering range, and his tie, a green number flecked with pink flamingoes, falls towards my lap. “Don’t listen to her. She’s jealous of you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sniff. “Who in their right mind would be jealous of me?”
“I never said she was in her right mind,” Marvin laughs as he pushes himself back in the general direction of his desk, which is roughly behind mine in the bullpen. “I have to get back to the grind. Bills to pay and all that. But call me if hot stuff makes an appearance.”
By five in the afternoon, I’ve abandoned all pretenses of working and I’m staring out the window, willing him to appear. By 6:45, I reluctantly tear myself away because if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for Angela and Kevin. As I re-touch my lipstick for the hundred-fifty-seventh time today and shut down my computer, there is still no movement in the windows across the way.
I take the elevator down to the lobby only to realize I’ve forgotten my coat. Running back up will make me late, but there’s an autumn chill in the air, which is strange and unseasonable for the week after Labor Day. It makes me think it won’t be long before I’m going to work and heading home in the dark.
I retrace my steps and head back up. The lights in our reception area have been dimmed for the night, but a few of my colleagues are still hard at work. Thankfully, I bet Jessica’s gone. She’s never around much after five. I’m fumbling for my key card when the doors fly open in my face and Marvin almost mows me down.
“He’s there and he’s gorgeous!” he announces breathlessly. “So I raced out here to see if I could catch you.”
We practically smash into each other as we try to crush through the doors at the same time. “Wait!” I yell, then stop myself and lower my voice. “I can’t go running over there. Try to look casual.” I smooth my hair and my skirt and walk to my desk, using every iota of self control to force my gaze away from the windows. I scoop my coat off the back of my chair and whirl around, nonchalantly, I hope, to put it on. As I do so, I steal a glance across the way. He’s in the window, standing up and talking on the phone. He’s got his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened.
Marvin didn’t lie. He’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. He’s got those chiseled cheekbones I thought only existed in Renaissance art and on models in Armani fragrance advertisements. His dark hair is slicked back in New York fashion, but not too severely. It’s hard to tell how old he is from here, but I’d guess about forty. I wonder whether that’s too old.
He sees me and smiles. It lights up his whole face. I smile back. He waves. I keep smiling, like an idiot, and then, having no experience with such scenarios and having no idea how to keep a silent, trans-Madison Avenue flirtation going, I shoot him what I hope is a coy look, and hurry out of his line of sight.
“That’s it, baby!” Marvin calls after me. “Make him work for it!”
I’m not sure that’s what I’m doing. It feels more like running away, but I turn towards Marvin and give him a little wink.
“Three Bellinis,” Angela announces authoritatively to our waiter, a college-age Adonis, who looks like a recent import from Italy. She flips her cascading brunette locks and gives him a practiced smile to soften her bossy tone.
“Certo,” he replies, and flashes a smile back at her. I don’t speak Italian but I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that means something close to certainly. Before he can step away to fill our order, Kevin says, “Actually, make that two Bellinis and one Beck’s.” He hands over his credit card so the bartender can start a tab, which Kevin will pay when we decide to close it out. The best thing about my job is that, if I do well with candidates like Niles, I’ll be able to stop my friends from subsidizing so many of our outings. Neither one of them has ever tried to make me feel badly about our economic gap, but after all these years, I still suffer pangs of guilt and anxiety when they pick upscale places. And if I’m being honest, it was much easier to ignore the disparity when I was engaged to Brendan. He almost always paid for both of us.
As the waiter, thus reinstructed, retreats, Kevin explains, “It’s bad enough if someone sees me in here. I can’t be drinking a Bellini to boot. The Councilman is supposed to be a man of the people.”
“Supposed to be is right,” I say. “No man of the people I know avoids Hamptons traffic in his own helicopter.”
Angela nods her agreement and her diamond earrings (two carats, each ear, a gift from a deposed Burmese prince) sparkle in the soft light of the bar, which is festooned with more candles than a Diptyque store.
Kevin frowns. He manages the mayoral campaign of a Democratic Councilman, and freakishly popular former prosecutor, from Brooklyn. He’s one of those obscenely wealthy politicians who claims to understand the average voter, because he drinks beer and occasionally takes the subway when the cameras are watching. He’s also the frontrunner, by a healthy double digit margin, which is why Kevin can skip out of work and meet us for cocktails.
Angela rolls her eyes and says, “Right. Now remind me again, where did you go to school? Wasn’t it a little place called Princeton? And, just incidentally, what kind of suit is that you’re wearing?”
“Zegna,” Kevin admits grumpily. “But I got it at the outlets.”
Angela and I laugh. Kevin’s not a snob, but he’s definitely a clothes horse. Always was, and always will be. No wonder Brendan suspected he was gay. Women, on the other hand, generally seem to appreciate Kevin’s super stylish European newscaster look. He picked up most of his fashion sense from his first roommate, a pretty, wispy guy with a penchant for makeup, cross dressing and sexual partners of both genders. Kevin brought him home to Summit, New Jersey for Thanksgiving freshman year, in a calculated move to horrify his Catholic parents.
In his line of work, I don’t think it would matter if Kevin did prefer men. What’s important is his ability to help the candidate connect with as many people as possible, so Kevin’s rightly concerned about his populist image. We’re perched on micro-suede covered stools around a marble topped table in the latest of a string of fashion cafes to open in New York. I can’t even remember which designer owns this particular establishment, but whoever the proprietor is, he’s banking on the notion that, whatever the market’s doing, people aren’t ready to cut back when it comes to either entertainment or image. The waiters are from the old country, and the walls display a rotating collection of photographs by Mario Testino. The portions of what limited food they serve are minuscule, and around eleven, once the post-work crowd disappears, velvet ropes spring up on the sidewalk outside to discourage the under-primped from even trying.
Angela tells me that, after midnight, they suspend this pretty blonde girl from the ceiling. She wears a pink fairy costume, complete with glittery wings. She has a “magic wand” and taps people on the shoulder to admit them to the VIP room upstairs. Sometimes she taps a series of people and sings, “You. You. And You. Not You. Not You. You.”
You get the idea. We’re here because Angela, my best friend and assistant associate shoe editor at Vogue magazine, has declared it the new place for the fall. And now, at just after 7:30, it’s mostly full of young, conservatively dressed professionals. I can sip
my aperitif comfortably, knowing we’ll be long gone before the Fairy Door-Mother flies out on her trapeze to judge my accessories.
The bartender returns with our drinks. Two champagne flutes and a bottle of beer.
“A man of the people would drink Bud,” Angela says.
“You are so not tricking me into asking if they have Bud.” Kevin pours his imported lager into a glass, takes a sip and loosens his tie.
Angela asks me, “How’s it going with Niles?”
Niles Townsend is married to her cousin. Angela referred him to me when her cousin confided that he was feeling put-upon and underpaid. That’s the only reason I’m working with him, a fact Carol reminds me of almost daily. Usually, I’m only entrusted with the careers of more junior people. But I’ll say this for Niles: the man can follow directions. Angela told him to be sure to ask for me, and, for better or worse, he did. I think he was a little shocked when he did the math on my college graduation year, but he seems to have forgotten his hesitations. As this morning’s events illustrate, he’s altogether too comfortable with me now.
“Fine,” I answer. “He’s considering various possibilities.”
“Well, get him something that pays well,” Angela advises. “My cousin’s eyeing this mansion in Westchester, you know, for the six children she wants.”
I resist the urge to share my knowledge of Niles and Susie’s fertility problems and say, “I’ll do my best, but, you guys, something really strange happened at work today.”
“What’s Carol done now?” asks Kevin. It’s a legitimate question. Her antics can be pretty amusing, especially when viewed from a distance. “Did she make you all feng shui your desks again?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s not Carol at all, actually.” I recount the saga of my mysterious admirer, starting with the flowers, and ending with my glimpse of him. I mention that he’s gorgeous at least seven or eight times. I produce his unsigned card from my purse and slap it onto the table as evidence.
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken Page 2
