by Bridie Clark
In other words, we stalked him. Hard.
“You have got to talk to him,” said Bea, squinting to check if any miniquiche had gotten stuck in my teeth. “You must. I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t.” Harry raised his eyebrows and wisely took that as his cue to hit the bar.
Déjà vu. Two weeks before Randall’s graduation (a very traumatic event in our young lives, needless to say), Bea and I had spotted him through the window of the Annex, the local watering hole. Hearts aflutter, we’d emptied out our piddling student bank accounts to grease the bouncer.
“This is your last chance,” Bea coached as we made our way to the bar where Randall was waiting for a refill of his pitcher of beer. Our crush had really become my crush; Bea was slowly starting to warm up to Harry, who’d been pursuing her relentlessly all year.
Standing at the bar with our backs to Randall, trying desperately to look cool, we struggled for a plan, some entrance ramp into talking to him. Say hello? Too unoriginal. A girl couldn’t be so pedestrian when starting a conversation with a Greek god.
Twenty seconds of awkward vacillation later, Bea did the unthinkable. Pretending to trip on an uneven floorboard, she checked me hard with her right shoulder and sent me careening backward into Randall. He steadied my arms with his strong hands, and for one sweet, golden moment, I could feel his strong chest pressing against my back.
I peered up to find Randall looking down at me, amused. I was awestruck. And dumbstruck. I couldn’t move or breathe. He smiled—graciously, I might add, considering that I’d caused him to spill some of his freshly refilled pitcher down the front of his rugby shirt.
“Can I get you another pitcher?” I offered, shocked and proud that I’d been able to form words in his presence.
“Hmm. I don’t know, can you?” he asked, fingering the laminated ID I was holding in my hand. He grinned. It was as bad as fake IDs got. The girl in the picture had long, stringy white blond hair and freckles. I have my father’s olive skin and light brown eyes, and like most of my peers at the time, I was wearing my dark hair in the ubiquitous “Rachel” cut. Instead of freckles, I had a spotty, scarlet blush spreading like wildfire across my cheeks and down my chest … very alluring.
I stared at Randall. Forget witty banter—I was suddenly unable to connect syllables to form words.
“Hey, no worries,” Randall said finally, perhaps realizing that I’d exhausted myself with my first sentence. He asked the bartender to top off his pitcher and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which he handed to me. I mumbled my thanks, and he nodded good-bye, joining a group of his crew buddies at the pool table nearby.
No contest, this was the most exciting moment I’d ever experienced in my eighteen years of life. I felt dizzy and exhilarated—still too giddy, in fact, to start kicking myself for my nonexistent conversational skills. After I’d savored every precious drop of the beer he’d bought me (smuggling the empty bottle out in my purse, natch), Bea and I walked home in a daze, collapsed on her futon, and analyzed the entire encounter.
“I really think he liked you,” she murmured before dropping off to sleep—further cementing the bond of our friendship.
Weeks later, back home in Iowa, I gave the play-by-play to my mother at our kitchen table. “Randall Cox?” she repeated innocently. Then she proceeded to tell me about her old friendship with his mother, Lucille—what would have been the perfect fodder for conversation. Why hadn’t I mentioned my crush to her a few weeks earlier?
History could’ve been rewritten; the string of failed relationships and love-life disappointments that I’d go on to endure throughout my twenties could’ve been sidestepped. At age eighteen, I could’ve started living happily ever after.
So anyway, here was the second chance I’d been waiting a decade for. Hadn’t I evolved from that tongue-tied teenager into a confident, articulate woman? Yes, I thought, I’m going to talk to him—
I was still giving myself a pep talk when I saw Bea’s expression change.
“Hi, girls,” said a sonorous voice behind me. I turned around. There was Randall—staggeringly gorgeous Randall—extending his hand. I could hear my heart thudding like a bass drum.
“I think we were at Princeton together. Randall Cox,” he said. Beatrice shook his hand and introduced herself.
“Claire Truman,” I answered in a surprisingly calm voice that belied my inner percussion. “I think you were a senior when we were freshmen, right?” Hmm, yes, the memory is vague, my tone of voice implied. Little did he know I’d once saved an empty detergent bottle he’d used for three weeks. And I still remembered the color of the window curtains in his room, visible from the outside courtyard. And I knew his shoe size. And if I spent ten minutes looking for it, I was pretty confident that I could find that blurry snapshot of him outside of McCosh.
“Right. You’re both looking very grown up.” Randall kept his eyes on me as he said it. Wow. This dress. Men generally zoom right in on Beatrice, and she has to deflect them back to me. I was never going to take this dress off—well, unless Randall himself happened to ask me to.
“I’m going to refresh my drink,” said Bea with a twinkle in her eye. “Can I get either of you something?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Randall and I said at the same time. Then we laughed. Talking in unison? We were freaking adorable!
After Bea headed off, Randall and I moved seamlessly into the two staples of New York cocktail party chitchat: where we lived, where we worked. Even small talk with Randall was riveting—or maybe it was just the thrill of being able to stare directly at him while standing three feet apart.
“I went back to Goldman after getting my MBA,” he told me after I’d given my far less impressive synopsis, “and I live all the way uptown—Fifth Avenue and Eighty-second Street.”
“Right by the Met?”
Randall smiled modestly. “My terrace looks out over the Met, yeah. I wish I were home more to enjoy it, but the view from my office is all I’ve been seeing lately.”
Forget crazy real estate: My mind burned feverishly with the most important but as yet unanswered question. Was he single? Could a guy who looked so fabulous on paper and in person be unattached?
Of course not, I told myself. There’s got to be a Molly Simms doppelgänger lurking in the wings.
Not wanting to come right out and ask him, I took a roundabout route. “Didn’t you date Alexandra Dixon back in college?” I asked. Alexandra was the femme fatale.
“I did, you’ve got a great memory. Did you know Alex?”
“We took a few English classes together. She was such a nice girl.” Okay, so these were not exactly true statements: Alex Dixon and I had taken one class together, and she’d never looked at me once. I had no hard evidence that she was nice—only that she was stunning, brilliant, poised, and multilingual. I swear I never heard her speaking the same language twice. Since I didn’t necessarily want to remind Randall of those attributes, I’d pulled a more banal adjective out of thin air. Nice.
“Well, she’s doing amazingly well. Spent a year modeling in Milan, and then came back to the States for med school. Now she’s a neurosurgeon, if you can believe that!”
Of course I believed it.
“Wow,” I said lamely, “I bet not many models can make that transition. Are you guys still in touch?”
“No, we’re not. Haven’t been for years, unfortunately. She’s living in Chicago now, with her husband and two kids. Crazy, huh?”
“Two kids?” I repeated, mood brightening. At least his model-neurosurgeon ex sounded pretty tied down.
“So how about you?” he asked, his eyes focusing on me intensely. “Married? Kids?”
“Nope, not yet”—I could feel myself blushing—“I’ve been pretty focused on my career.”
“I hear that.” Randall looked at me again in a way that made my knees wobbly. “I ended something long term last year. My ex was a terrific girl, but I just couldn’t see myself marrying her. It didn’t seem fai
r to keep her hanging.”
My heart did secret backflips at the poor girl’s misfortune. “Well, I’m sure you have no problem meeting women.”
“Meeting women like you is much harder than you think,” he answered. “You know … smart, successful women who also happen to be beautiful?”
Had I just received the triple crown of compliments from Randall Cox? Smart? Successful? Beautiful? Was this actually happening?
“Listen, Claire, I know the party’s just getting going, but is there any chance you’d feel like grabbing dinner? The cheese puffs aren’t doing it for me.”
Remain calm. Remain cool. Do not dork out.
“I’d love that,” I squeaked.
Randall smiled. The next thing I knew, we were gliding together toward the door, Randall’s strong hand on the small of my back. I waved to Bea over my shoulder, and she gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
“You’re quiet, Claire. I’m talking too much about work,” Randall apologized, refilling my wineglass.
It was a slightly out-of-body experience, having a date with my biggest crush of the past decade. It might be comparable to sitting down to dine with some mega-watt celebrity and having to gracefully overcome the shock of being so close to a face you’d seen on billboards, on movie screens, on E! True Hollywood Story. Randall’s face had starred in my daydreams for so many years, replaced temporarily by lesser crushes but never completely retired. So, naturally, I was a little overwhelmed to find myself sitting across a small candlelit table from him at Il Cantinori—a perpetually hot date spot that Harry referred to as Il Can’t-Afford-Me.
“Not at all,” I answered, “It’s really amazing how much you’ve accomplished in such a short amount of time.” It was true, even if it did sound as though I were laying it on thick—Randall had a phenomenal résumé for such a young guy. Besides picking up his MBA from Harvard, he’d become the youngest managing director in the history of Goldman Sachs—an investment bank not exactly known for employing noncompetitive slackers. And he’d done it in one of the toughest economic climates imaginable.
“Well, I like to feel challenged,” Randall deferred humbly. His BlackBerry went off and he glanced at the screen. “I’m sorry, Claire, it’s Greg again. Really busy time at the office. I’ve got to take this quickly.”
Greg had called three times since we left the gallery. I checked my watch. It was now 10:45. Did Randall ever get a break from work? Poor guy! Although I often gave Bea a hard time about gabbing on her phone when we were together, I waited patiently as Randall gave his associate a series of indecipherable commands.
Actually, I was impressed by Randall’s work ethic, especially given that he could’ve coasted through life without lifting a finger. I knew from Mom that the Coxes lived large and that Randall could’ve chosen a far less arduous career path—as an ancient compass collector, say, or an unemployed actor—if he’d been so inclined. That he’d instead opted for the rigors and challenges of a fast-paced career said a lot about the kind of guy Randall was.
“Where were we?” he said a moment later, after the crisis had been averted. “Tell me more about your job. What kinds of books do you work on?”
“Well, I have a feeling it might be changing. Jackson Mayville—my boss since college—just announced his retirement, and it’s a bit unclear how his departure will affect my track at Peters and Pomfret.”
“I know Jackson. He’s a member at the Racquet Club. Nice guy. Lousy squash player, but a nice guy.”
I giggled, unable to imagine Jackson doing anything more athletic than tying his shoes. “He’s the best. I’ve learned a lot from him. I actually just found out about his retirement today. Pretty crushing news, although it’s great that he’ll get to spend more time with his grandkids.”
Randall chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t have much time to read these days. Actually—I really shouldn’t admit this to you, you’ll think I’m a complete cretin—but I did just finish a book that Vivian Grant published. It was a New York Times best seller, I think—about the nun who left her order to become a stripper? The title was really bad … what was it? It’s right on my bedside table, I can see the cover—”
“Naughty Habits?” I asked. Gordon had made a few cracks about it during last week’s editorial meeting. Naughty Habits had been on the Times Best Sellers list for six weeks already, which was a little depressing. Randall had read that?
“Exactly, Naughty Habits.” He bobbed his head, a thick lock of hair falling across his forehead. “Not great literature, I realize. Probably not even literature.” He looked at me with a sheepish grin. “I just ruined any shot at a second date, didn’t I?”
“Of course not,” I said, heart racing. Who cared if he wasn’t the literary type? Working as hard as he did, Randall probably had zero desire to dive into a book that felt like more work at the end of the day.
“You know, I’ve met Vivian Grant a few times,” Randall continued, “she’s a friend of my father’s. Smart woman. I know she’s always looking for good editors. I’d be happy to give her a call on your behalf, if you think you might be ready for a change. It can’t hurt to meet with her.”
Meet with Vivian Grant?
Grant was a big hitter who was widely known as the most hotheaded, ruthless woman in the industry. Her name seemed to be often met with eye rolling. Grant had her own imprint at Mather-Hollinger, another major publishing house, and she’d made her name and fortune by producing tabloid-inspired blockbusters and crass market stuff, including authors such as underage porn queen Mindi Murray, a despicable serial killer who’d terrorized Chicago for an entire year, and a roster of loudmouthed pundits from the furthest extremes of the political spectrum.
To be fair, these high-profile, lowbrow authors obfuscated some of the very intelligent, quality books she published. Grant had also thrown her weight behind some great novels, garnering a stratospheric level of success and recognition for a few previously unknown authors. I’d read one interview in which she’d complained—justifiably—that nobody ever seemed to give her kudos when she published a book of literary merit and that people were only interested in associating her with smuttier fare.
Whether people liked her or not, Vivian Grant was widely considered to be one of the most fascinating characters in the business—as well as one of the most successful. Meeting with a woman who’d single-handedly forged a huge publishing empire? It wasn’t an opportunity I should pass up, regardless of whether Grant Books was a place at which I wanted to work.
“That’d be really nice of you, Randall, thanks,” I answered. How sweet of him to take such an immediate interest in my career.
“My pleasure.” He typed himself a reminder in his BlackBerry.
A molten chocolate cake—sent over by the owner of the restaurant—arrived at the table, and I actually felt relaxed enough to enjoy it. I speared my fork in, letting the chocolate ooze out like lava.
“Couldn’t eat another bite.” Randall smiled, sitting back and patting his rock hard stomach. I put down my fork. Randall was probably used to dating models who considered dry watercress a hearty meal (and then spent two hours on a treadmill burning it off). Even though the chocolate cake was spectacular, there was no need to reveal—on our first date, at least—what a little piglet I could be.
“I’m so glad we bumped into each other at that party.” Randall reached across the table and laid his hand gently on mine.
With my other hand, I discreetly pinched my thigh. Had I actually been moping over James three hours earlier? And now I was gazing into the eyes of the most perfect man I’d ever encountered?
“To old acquaintances and new beginnings,” Randall said, raising his glass.
I lifted mine to meet his. Life was really looking up.
CHAPTER TWO
GREAT EXPECTATIONS
You’re chipper this morning!” observed Mara, my friend and fellow associate editor with whom I shared a cubicle wall.
“Amazing night.”
/> Mara Mendelson and I knew nitty-gritty details about each other’s love life that we’d be embarrassed to share with a diary. Last night’s date with Randall wouldn’t feel real until I’d downloaded it to her.
“Uh-oh. You look kind of goofy, Claire. You didn’t relapse with James again, did you?”
“I said amazing, Mara, not stupid. It’s a new guy. Actually, an old crush. His name is Randall, and—”
“Randall?! You mean the hottie you went to college with Randall? The really gorgeous one who looks kind of like Patrick Dempsey? Pabst Blue Ribbon Randall? Moms went to Vassar together Randall? Demigod Randall?”
“Okay,” I muttered, embarrassed, “I’ve mentioned him before?”
“Do you still have that blurry snapshot of him?” Mara laughed.
Resounding confirmation that I was the Queen of Overshare. Sure, she and I were really close—but that was just a sad level of detail to share about an adolescent crush that never went anywhere.
“So tell me absolutely everything.” Mara settled back in her swivel chair for the play-by-play. She twirled one of her flaming red corkscrew curls around her finger.
Mara and I had kept up a steady dialogue for the past five years, starting as assistants at P and P the same month and inching our way up the ranks together. She’d become one of my closest friends. Mara seemed immediately to know everything there was to know about the company and its players, instantly tapping into a huge network of friends within the industry—all drawn to her dry humor, booming laugh, and generous spirit. I thanked my lucky stars for our shared cubicle wall—not only had it allowed us to forge a great friendship, but it also gave me daily access to Mara’s smart, informed opinions about … well, everything.
“Hang on a sec, let me settle in first.” I waltzed around the corner to Jackson’s office to drop off the sticky bun and coffee I brought in for him every Friday morning (my little way of saying thank you for all the times he brought me home for family dinners). He wasn’t in yet.
