“Yes.”
“Well,” she pauses to purse together her lips in a “you won’t believe this!” way, “evidently he called her today. Called her!”
“Okay.” I scratch my head at the base of one of my two loose braids. “And? She talked to him, I take it?”
“Not really.” Jackie looks so suddenly nonchalant, delivering drama in traditional Jackie style, then settling back into a “that’s life for ya!” kind of mode.
“And?” I want to know more. Details! I can’t believe I’m just now hearing this. Well, I guess it did only happen today…
“She was pretty pissed, and totally taken off guard, obviously,” Jackie says. “She told him to fuck off or something like that, then hung up.”
I can’t picture Robin, no matter how pissed she was at the douchebag who fathered Rose, telling someone to fuck off. She’s always so kind and a little shy, pretty reserved. She’s gotten more bold and self-confident ever since she became a mom, and definitely since Bobby came into her life. She certainly seems more self-assured, but I still can’t picture her getting to the point of telling someone off like that.
“All right,” I say, urging with my hand for Jackie to continue with the story. “And? What happened then?” Jackie has a way of coloring things, so I figure Robin’s eff-you reaction is added for dramatic effect.
“She said she told him she’ll talk to him when she’s good and ready, that’s all,” Jackie says. She fingers her rock of a wedding ring absentmindedly. “And good for her! Brandon’s such a loser.” She rolls her eyes. “Can’t believe Sophie ever dated such a douche.”
“Well,” I say. I stand up and retrieve my recently turned-on phone, which is now vibrating on the coffee table. “I hope he listens to Robin and doesn’t call again. She’ll call on her own time, I’m sure.”
“I bet Bobby’s mad as hell.” Jackie crosses her arms and shakes her head. “I can’t imagine having to deal with that.”
“We’ll have to be super supportive and there for her,” I say, mindlessly flipping through the small string of new text messages from Claire.
“As always,” Jackie says. She digs through her bag, this time removing a pack of cigarettes.
I set down my phone. “So, when do you think this Rick guy will call?” Curiosity over my first date is starting to eat at me. I guess Operation Blind Date is a real thing, after all. Part of me kind of figured it wouldn’t pull through.
“I just met him last night,” Jackie replies. She withdraws a cigarette and tosses the pack my way. “At Delicious, where I told you I’d been finding some hottie-hots.”
I stick the thin cigarette between my lips and motion for Jackie to follow me out back.
“So he might call me today? Tomorrow?” I slide open the back door without much effort.
“Yup. Said he was eager to meet you and that he’d love a date some time this week.” She flicks her lighter a few times and, with a grin and a spark, mutters out, “You’ll totally hit it off.”
***
“How about the characters? Their development? What do we think of the pedantic nature of some of them?” asks Steve in his usual serious “literary voice.” Steve’s the book club leader, and also the one who chose Pride and Prejudice, which I did not manage to finish last night thanks to the gossip fest with Jackie.
“Mr. Collins!” Susie, the elderly (and highly opinionated) woman to my right, exclaims. “What a character! So overwhelmingly self-assured. Such a pedantic character!”
“Mr. Wickham’s pedantic, too,” another book club-goer chimes in, a man whose name escapes me.
“No!” Susie retorts. “Not at all!”
“I actually found Mr. Wickham to be a bit charming,” says Erin, an English Literature major from UDub.
“Superficially!” comes another voice, to which Steve gives a strong nod.
“That’s precisely the point of his character,” Erin says boldly. “He’s so insipid. It’s a true sign of Austen’s genius. He’s superficially winsome, but truly loathsome, a complete wrong-doer.”
“Which,” Steve adds, “I think is a bold statement of Ms. Austen. Referencing the militia in these terms, at these times.”
Everyone solemnly shakes their head, and I’m sitting there, Lara’s worn and half-read copy of one of the world’s greatest and most-beloved books weighing heavily on my lap. Its weight is nothing, though, in comparison to the guilt I feel for being completely clueless about basically everything and anything the club is discussing. I mean, had I even read about a Mr. Wickham yet?
“I thought there were a lot of pedantic elements in setting and action, too,” Steve says, stroking his mustache.
I carefully look about the small, silent room, scolding myself for even showing up tonight. It would have been so much better to have just stayed at home, feigned illness or something. Honestly, if they’d assigned a Bill Bryson book, or hell, maybe some Ayn Rand, I’d be able to get through it without a hitch, I’m sure.
“Well, Mr. Darcy is ever the true charming character,” Susie says dreamily. Again, everyone nods, some of the other ladies sighing, too.
“I thought the moral codes of the society and the times was interesting,” Steve says. He looks around, his eyes locking with mine for a moment, then moving on to the next person.
Phew, I think. Moral codes of the times? Would they be any different from today?
To be safe, though, and to at least act like I’m a part of this discussion, I nod long and slow, and I sound an “Mmmhmm,” then throw in a long-winded “Mmmmm.”
“Great!” Steve exclaims. “Glad I’m not the only one who noticed that. Emily!”
My eyes grow wide, and I feel a gaping hole deepen in my stomach.
“The moral code, am I right?” Steve crosses his arms and looks at me in a considerably satisfied fashion.
“Moral code?” I repeat. I slightly look to my left and my right; all eyes are on me. “Moral…code…”
“Yes, like with Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy…” I twirl the amber ring around my ring finger rapidly.
“The moral code upheld by society, in general, even!” Steve presses on jubilantly. “You agree?”
I could kill Steve right now. How dare he single me out and ask me a question about moral codes of British society from, what year? When was this book even written? Oh dear, I think, swallowing the giant frog in my throat as I look down at the fading book cover. Why do I put myself in situations like this?
I rack my mind for something that I have read in the book, something that stands out.
Come on, Emily, think! What stands out?!
Then, from nowhere, the heavens open up, and something I read does stand out! I mean, what a name! How could I forget it?
“Well,” I begin, shifting in the cold, metal foldaway chair, “I don’t know about the moral, or immoral, or even amoral, actions,” (yes, I’m sounding good right now!) “of Mr. Darcy, but that Fitzwilliam character!” I scoff and make a look of satisfaction.
Everyone’s staring at me, most faces just deadpan.
Hmmm, I think. Maybe I stumped even the Austenites here.
***
“That’s all right,” Ben, an attractive twenty-something book club-goer with a real hipster sense of style says to me at the refreshments table when the exhausting discussion of Pride and Prejudice finally concludes. “I didn’t finish the book, either.” He gives me a sideways grin as he helps himself to a glass of punch.
“Oh,” I say sheepishly. “Yeah, well. Guess I didn’t hide that very well, now did I?”
Ben laughs and takes a cookie from the tray. “Fitzwilliam, Darcy; Jane, Austen. Who can keep these names straight, anyway?” He winks and takes a bite of cookie. “Now, next book’s my choice, and that one I will be sure to read.”
I hope I’m not flushing. Really, I love reading, and I’m a pretty well-read person, but sometimes I miss the boat. Tonight has not been the best example of my literary skills.
“It’s a favorite of mine,” Ben says. He slips a thumb under the one brown suspender that’s actually fastened over his shoulder, the other strap hanging loosely at his side.
A nice guy like Ben. Now there’s an idea!
Ben leans gently against the refreshment table, cocking his head a tad to one side. His light brown hair is done up slickly, a big and gelled wave in the front and a sort of duck’s rear at the back, reminiscent of the 50s. The color of his hair couldn’t be a better complement for his deep blue eyes and lightly tanned skin.
“My girlfriend loves the book, too,” he says.
Or not.
I briefly and loosely run my eyes over the room. Epic fail, I think.
“Maybe you’ll read it.” He points his cookie at me.
“What is it?” I ask, snapping to.
“The Great Railway Bazaar, by Pau—“
“Paul Theroux!” I finish, brimming with excitement now. “Read it! Loved it! And,” I cheerfully crunch down on my cookie, “will definitely read it again.”
“Cool,” he says, rocking back on his wingtip-clad-heels. “It’s a book for men and women, for young and old, for everyone.”
“For the traveling spirit, too,” I add in with a smile.
“For the traveling spirit, yeah.” Ben smiles and snags another cookie. “So there won’t be a chance there will be another mix-up with characters, now will there?”
I laugh. “And there won’t be a chance that we won’t finish the book, either.”
Chapter Eleven
“You look gorgeous!” Lara enthuses. “Wear my pearl earrings, for sure.” She holds out her palm with the two pearly beauties. “They complete the ensemble.”
“It might be too much.” I look at myself in Lara’s guest bathroom mirror.
“It’s not too much.” She pushes her hand further out. “Come on. This is a first date. What’s a little more sparkle-sparkle?”
I turn my face from left to right, then back to center. I can’t picture pearl earrings with this outfit—or with the rest of the jewelry I’ve chosen.
I’m wearing a flowing, ankle-length, white cotton skirt and a denim Oxford with the buttons halfway undone, revealing a lacy black camisole underneath. It was one of the things I got from that lingerie catalogue Jackie had. The moment I slightly showed interest in the item, Jackie had my credit card in one hand and a phone in the other. Before I knew it I was the owner of a black lace, ribbon-tied camisole that cost three hundred bucks. What was I thinking? I wasn’t, which is why I also bought the matching thong underwear, which I’m also wearing (and which also cost a small fortune).
I’ve opted for five or so inches worth of leather and silver bracelets on each wrist, and I’ve gone with all silver and pewter rings, including the gender-revealing Norwegian ring that ended up only confusing and frustrating Robin. Apparently she was up to an even fifteen-fifteen prediction of the gender before she gave up and returned the ring, telling me she’d stick with the sonogram results.
“I don’t think the pearl earrings go with the rest of my stuff,” I say to Lara. “I’ve got a mix of things already.”
“Exactly. It’s already eclectic.” She begins to pin a pearl earring in my already heavily bejeweled ear. “What’s a little more…eclecticity?” She giggles and I concede, putting the second earring in myself.
“Okay!” Lara stands back to take in my date-ready look. “Fantastic!”
“You sure?” I turn back to the mirror for one final look. “I feel pretty great, and,” I glance at Lara, “if I do say so myself, I look pretty damn hot.”
“Definitely!” She hands me the brown clutch she’s lending me for my blind date with Rick.
“Okay. Here goes my first blind date.” I make my way to the living room. “Operation Blind Date commences now.” I tuck the clutch under my arm.
“I’m sure Jackie picked someone easy on the eyes,” Lara reassures me. She opens her front door.
“Just hope he’s also easy on the ears,” I say. “She says he’s a booky kind of guy, and after the other night at the book club.” I roll my eyes in self-humiliation.
“I really can’t believe you didn’t read that book,” she says, her voice tinted with playful disappointment. “It’s a classic.”
“So are a billion others. Not enough time to read them all.” I step out into the surprisingly warm evening air.
“You here, all alone with Beebee,” she says. “Couldn’t think of a better opportunity for you to delve into a good book.”
“Well, when Jack comes a-knockin’,” I jest.
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the cat-sitting, by the way.”
“No prob.” I look around the parking lot for the taxi I called. I spot the navy-blue cab and turn to Lara. “There’s my ride. Wish me luck!” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll give you back your earrings ASAP.”
“No worries. Have fun!”
***
“Emily?” a deep voice asks from behind.
I turn in my seat at the bar. “Rick?” I ask, then bite down rather sexily on my bottom lip. It’s a trick I’ve seen Claire do countless times to snag a table at a totally packed club or restaurant. Just because she’s married doesn’t mean she’s forgotten a few tricks to get a girl and her group of friends what they want.
“That’d be me. Pleasure to meet you,” the tall, dark, blue-eyed sight for sore eyes replies.
Rick extends his hand, and when I slip mine into it he brings it up to his lips. “Pleasure is all mine,” he says. He kisses it, and, giving an enticing smile, slowly brings my hand back down. “All my pleasure.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say in a coquettish way. “Trouble finding me here?”
Delicious, the bar where Jackie met Rick, is packed tonight, even though it’s the middle of the week. Capitol Hill is a neighborhood that’s usually hopping seven days a week, anyhow, and Delicious is no exception. I just read in the Seattle Weekly that Delicious is the “biggest and hippest straight bar” in Capitol Hill.
“Jackie said to look for a gorgeous brunette with a lot of jewelry and a voluptuous body,” Rick says saucily.
I try my best not to laugh. Voluptuous body? Curvy, okay. Average C-cup breasts, all right. Voluptuous? That’s one I’ve never heard before.
“That’s me,” I say slyly, going along with it.
Rick holds out his hand, and I step up and off of my barstool.
“I’ve got us a nice little booth in the corner.” He holds up two fingers to the bartender, looks at me, then says, “I’ve ordered us the Rick Reynolds Specialty.”
“Ohhh,” I coo, following him to the small booth. “What’s the Rick Reynolds Specialty?”
Judging by the crafty grin, the gel-spiked black hair, the dimpled chin, and the fact that he’s ordered for me (have guys not heard of feminism?), and ordered something he’s no doubt named after himself, the Rick Reynolds Specialty could be a helping of cheese with a side of slime, but I won’t judge just yet. I’m open-minded. I’m going to have fun. This Operation Blind Date is going to be a fun and exhilarating adventure!
“The Rick Reynolds Speciality is a secret,” Rick says.
I tuck the large plumes of my flowy skirt into the booth and drum my fingers on the table.
“So,” I flirt, “Rick Reynolds, what have you got planned for our date tonight?”
“Drinks here,” he says breezily. “Dinner at a Michelin-rated joint downtown.”
I give a smile of approval. “Sounds very nice.”
“You like seafood?” he asks as a waitress brings two martini glasses filled with a bright green liquid to our table. I was right. This could very well be slime.
I look from the cocktail to Rick. “I’m a
Boston girl,” I say, my accent giving away my Bostonian heritage the moment I say the name of the city. “I was born eating clam chowder, fish and chips, cod, steamed clams… You name it, I’m a seafood girl.”
“Fantastic.” He holds up his glass. “To a great blind date.”
We clink glasses, and I take an experimental sip of the green concoction. “Mmm. That’s delicious.” It actually is.
“A delicious cocktail,” Rick says after a sip, “from Delicious.” He winks, then leans back in his seat, resting his arm along the top of the booth. Rick’s definitely attractive, seems confident and relaxed, and he has fine taste in cocktails and dining. A Michelin restaurant on the agenda, and seafood for a Boston girl? Not a bad blind date.
Thirty minutes in and two tasty cocktails down, I’m finding my first blind date to be rather successful. Not to sound cynical, but I’m actually surprised. Blind dates can be really tricky things, especially when the girl setting you up thinks that anything with a you-know-what between their legs, a sportster with the valet, an open wallet, a bright white smile, and a firm handshake that just might include a pinky ring is datable material. Rick Reynolds, at least the-first-half-hour-Rick-Reynolds, is turning out to be a nice date, though. Kudos to Jackie.
“Jackie says you like to read,” Rick says. He pulls on his cocktail while keeping his eyes trained on mine.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m part of a book club.”
“What are you reading?”
I tell him that I’ve just delved back into an all-time favorite of mine, when he says, “Never read him. He any good?”
“Any good?” Part of me is totally aghast that Rick hasn’t read or even heard of Paul Theroux, but I’m also feeling flirty. “He’s only the very best travel writer ever!” I exclaim. “He’s from Medford, Mass, too. Like to think of him as a neighbor. A fellow traveler and idol of mine.” I notice I’m starting to lose or bore Rick, so I say, “You should give him a try. You’ll be pleased.”
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 10
