by Gigi Garrett
I know that if I have a client who can afford it, I can surely rent it, so I’m imagining this will be an easy-peasy job, even with an early-twenties-style hangover.
When I’m meeting a client for the first time, I usually try to see them before they see me. I want to be certain that I know more about them than they know about me. From a block away, I’m pretty sure I’ve scoped out my client. He’s about my age and dressed in a fitted suit. His shoes look nice; even from a distance I can tell they’re leather and polished, almost shining in the blinding sunlight.
Since he’s a referral from an old client, I don’t know much about him other than the fact that his name is Harry, he needs an apartment, and he needs it fast. My favorite type of client.
“Lo-ttie?” he asks as I approach.
I stop dead in my tracks when I realize he’s British, and my name sounds like a beautiful ballad when he says it. Even with my slightly blurry hangover vision, I realize he’s incredibly handsome. His suit is very fitted, and I catch myself looking too closely at the way it outlines his crotch. Maybe I’m still drunk.
“So nice to meet you, Harry,” I say, making eye contact. His handshake is as firm as mine and I try to ignore the tingles it causes down my spine. It’s from my hangover, I tell myself. My central nervous system is probably shutting down. I might need to see a doctor. This is all Elsa May’s fault.
Okay, mostly Elsa May’s fault.
“I don’t always dress like this on Saturdays,” he says, catching my eye. “Although you’ll never see me wearing a sports jersey with someone else’s name like all these American blokes. I think I’ve seen a dozen for Eli Manning in the last week alone.”
But you should always dress like this, I think. You should even go to sleep like this. And I’m totally with him on the jersey thing. It’s grown men playing dress-up.
“I came right from a meeting,” he explains. “I’m a bit of a workaholic, so I guess I’m in the proper city.”
Check, check, check. He is my type. To a perfect T.
“Shall we go in?” I ask, pointing to the 666 Greenwich Street entrance. I still feel trembly. It’s as if my fantasy man stepped right off the page from that silly sheet Elsa May had me fill out.
“After you,” Harry says, pulling open the door for me. This makes me swoon, which isn’t a good feeling in addition to my hangover. I steady myself on the railing.
“This place is one of my favorites in Manhattan,” I say. “I take it you just moved here?”
“Transferred from London. I know, I’m such an unlucky chap, right?”
“I love London,” I say. “Studied abroad there.” Then I put on my serious broker face. “But I can assure you that Manhattan has everything London does, and maybe even a little bit more.”
“I’ll reserve judgment for now,” Harry says flirtatiously. Or maybe it wasn’t flirtatiously. Maybe that’s just his accent. Can anyone not sound flirty with a British accent?
“Good morning, Muhammad,” I say to the doorman. “I’m going to show Harry here eight-fifteen.”
Muhammad nods, and Harry and I get on the elevator together. After a few seconds, it’s Harry who finally pushes the button for the eighth floor.
For the first time ever, I’m fumbling at my routine. This apartment better actually sell itself. Usually within the first five minutes, I’ve sized up my clients’ weaknesses and how I’m going to hard-sell them. But right now, the only sizing up I’m doing is of what his body looks like under the suit.
Get it together, Lottie. This must be what happens when you start breaking all your rules. You are going to write Elsa May after this appointment and tell her we are done with this faux bachelorette thing.
Harry begins to whistle, and I realize I’m being the worst broker ever.
“All the apartments are loft-style,” I say. “Some of them are studios and others are one-bedroom. Eight fifteen is one of the few corner apartments, which means extra square footage, and it has a direct sunset view.”
I know that I sound like a generic Zillow real estate description, but I’m too worked up over the fact that my seemingly dream guy is standing just four feet away from me.
But, he probably has a wife. I check his left hand. No ring.
Then I quickly look down at my own left hand. Holy shit, I’m still wearing the ring. I’ve finally met a guy who seems to fulfill everything I’m looking for, and I’m wearing an engagement ring. Worse, a borrowed engagement ring from an imaginary fiancé.
Harry insists I exit the elevator before him, which makes my heart drop a few floors. As I do, I slyly slip my left hand out of sight.
I turn the key to the unit and push open the door to 815. As I do, Harry says, “I love it. I’ll take it.”
“Are you serious?” I say. “I had this whole spiel planned.”
“Let me confess something: I already did the online virtual tour,” he explains. He points to the kitchen. “Granite countertops.” He points to the window. “Western exposure. Sunsets on the Hudson.” He starts to list on his fingers: “Hardwood floors, concierge service, the West Village. What else is there to say? It’s perfect.”
I want to reply, “You’re perfect too,” but instead I smile.
“Well, that makes my weekend,” I finally say, trying to not wonder if he’s this easygoing in all aspects of his life. I compose myself for the hundredth time. “And I know you’ll be happy here. I live around here too, and it feels more like home than anywhere else I’ve been. Maybe it’ll be that way for you too?”
And even though I know better, I point toward the extra bedroom with my right hand while keeping my left hand firmly behind my back. “It’s great that this place has room for guests—or even a roommate.”
I’m totally digging into his life. I might as well be holding a shovel. Usually I do this in order to rent a place, but right now I’m doing it for totally personal—not to mention unprofessional—reasons.
Harry shakes his head. “No roommate. I’m a bachelor.” And I blush because I think he knows exactly what I’m thinking—and it’s not business.
“I’ll get the paperwork lined up for you to sign at the office Monday,” I say, steering the conversation back on track. “This is the type of place that you have to grab immediately because it’s going to be gone in a flash.”
“Thanks, Lottie,” he says. “And one more thing: Is your number a work number or a personal number?”
“Work,” I say.
Harry leans in close. His breath—no joke—smells like mint and flowers. “Would it be too forward to ask for your personal one?” he asks. I smile so big that my cheek muscles nearly cramp.
While I’ve never mixed business with pleasure (it’s like my uncle, a bartender, says, “your first drink is your last call”), I’d do that for Harry.
But I hesitate for a millisecond, and while I do, Harry’s face scrunches up. He’s looking at my left hand, which I have just accidently revealed.
“Oh my,” he says, apologetically. “I didn’t see your ring until now. I don’t know how I could’ve missed it. It’s beautiful. Congratulations!” he exclaims. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as a bloody bastard. I’m not like that. Truly.” He pretends to wipe sweat of his brow. It’s adorable. “Forgive me?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Don’t worry,” I say, but catch myself before launching into an explanation.
If I explain the truth, he’ll think I’m crazy and won’t want to date me or rent the apartment. “I’m getting married in Italy on March fourth,” I say like an idiot.
And just like that, my dream guy thinks I’m engaged. And just like that, it’s over.
I’m quickly realizing the problem with pretending to be someone else is that you start to forget who you actually are.
Chapter 4
“I’m coming your way, Mia,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “I’m stuck in Hangover Station and can’t catch a ride out.” She sighs into the line. “
My boss is already texting me about returning the ring, so make sure you bring it.”
“Oh, I have it with me and I’ll happily give it back. This ring is getting me in major trouble. Maybe there’s some curse that happens to women who pretend to be engaged?”
“Trouble and Lottie in the same sentence? That’s a combination you don’t hear often. I like it. Maybe you should keep the ring a little longer. I’m not above blackmailing my boss.”
“Not happening,” I say. “This ring is going back.”
I start down the steep steps to the Christopher Street station. “I’m getting on the subway. See you soon.”
“Bring Gatorade,” Mia shouts into the phone. “Purple. Large size. Please.”
I sit on the train, my left hand curled into a fist. How could something so small ruin my chance with my dream guy? But this is what I deserve for pretending to be something I’m not. For pretending to be someone I’m not.
Mental note: Call Elsa May and make sure she doesn’t think any more fake bachelorettes are on the docket. I’m done.
* * *
Jane and Mia have melded into the couch. They are both enveloped in fuzzy blankets, and there’s an empty pizza box on the ottoman. They’re the perfect vignette for laziness, and even my type A–self wants to join in.
“We’re watching The Bachelorette,” Jane says. “For my research,” she clarifies, pointing to a pen and paper on the coffee table.
“Uh-huh,” I say, pulling two mammoth Gatorades out of a plastic shopping bag.
Jane and Mia reach up for them like they’re the elixir of life. When you’re this hungover, they pretty much are.
“I have a headache too,” I admit, snuggling in between the two of them on the couch. “This is why you’re only supposed to have one bachelorette party in your life. The aftereffects are brutal.”
“But it was so much fun,” Jane says genuinely. “And surprisingly so for something that has origins in such enforced patriarchy.”
Mia nods and turns to me. “I’ll translate that: hashtag bachelorettes do have more fun. Elsa May was right on that one.”
“It was exciting . . . for one night,” I say, looking down at the ring, then yanking it off my finger. “But here.” I place it in Mia’s hand while taking a huge gulp of her Gatorade. “Ta-da. I’m Single, Boring Lottie again.”
“Aww,” Jane says. “I was very much looking forward to your Tuscan wedding.” Which makes all of us laugh.
“Well,” Mia says as she tucks the ring into a velvet black box and sets it on the ottoman. “If you bump into Fun Lottie again, give her my phone number. She was awesome.”
I laugh. “Did last night really happen?” I ask, gesturing to the ring. “And get this, the drama kept going this morning.” I tell them the story of how I both met and lost the man of my dreams in one hour.
Mia and Jane listen intently—after first breaking to pause the TV. When I’m finished, Jane gapes at me.
“So what are you going to do?” she asks. “I mean, you can’t let the man of your dreams slip away. It’s sounds like a plot out of a romance novel.” She looks up with a white face. “I read those for research.”
“I’m going to do nothing, of course,” I say. “If I try to explain, he thinks I’m crazy and doesn’t want to date me. If I do nothing, he doesn’t date me. Either way, we’re not dating. Who would want to date a woman who pretends to be engaged for attention? Plus, if I don’t say anything, at least I can still get the commission.”
I take another gulp of Gatorade. “I deserve this situation after last night. I have a rule about not dating clients, anyway. It was wrong to even consider that.”
I try to play out scenarios where it could work out with me and Harry, but there are none.
I go on: “What we would tell our kids? Oh yeah, Mommy was pretending to be engaged but then she met Daddy.” I stick out my bottom lip. “Pathetic. This is why I live by my dating rules.”
Mia sticks out her tongue. “I bet you have a rule for wiping your ass too.”
No, only a rule about toilet paper, I think.
Then Mia’s green eyes glimmer. She pulls her laptop off a side table and opens it. “What’s his last name?” she demands.
“We’re not doing this,” I say. “I don’t Google men. Period. It ruins the whole get-to-know-you experience and starts the relationship on the wrong foot. Besides, the entire thing was over before it even started.”
Mia’s fingers are poised on the keyboard. “Lottie, really. Enter 2017 and join the rest of us. Everyone Googles now.” She shakes her head. “You really need to up your social media game. It’s important to have a solid digital footprint, both for your career and for personal life.”
“ ‘Digital footprint’?” I repeat. I can see Jane taking mental notes.
Mia types her own name into Google. Images of her looking like a fashion model flood the screen. “It’s important to show your best face,” she says. “On the internet, you get to control your image for the most part. Plus, stalking via the internet is so fun. I believe it’s even legal, which seems hard to believe.”
Her green eyes focus on mine. “So, Harry blank,” she demands.
“I’m so not telling you his last name,” I say, taking the laptop away from her. “I agreed to the bachelorette party, but that’s it. I’m back to being rule-abiding, no-online-stalking Lottie.”
I open up my email. “It’s almost noon and I haven’t exercised. Hell, this is the first time I’ve checked my email. I need to get back on track.”
Mia sighs her signature I’m-annoyed-with-Lottie sigh and restarts The Bachelorette.
“Would you ever be on this show?” Jane asks her as the rose ceremony unfolds on TV.
Mia shrugs. “I’d only be on The Bachelorette, not The Bachelor. Life’s a lot less heartbreaking when you’re the one in control.”
Jane nods and chugs her Gatorade.
“Agreed,” I chime in, taking another swig of Mia’s drink.
I retrieve the laptop, pull up my inbox, and let out an audible groan.
“What now, Eeyore?” Mia asks.
“Listen to this,” I say, looking at an email with the ominous subject line “Last Night,” and then read aloud from the email:
“ ‘Hi, Lottie. This is Tyler. Not sure if you remember much since it was your bachelorette party after all, but we met last night. My brother’s looking for a place downtown and you gave me your card and said you could help. Could you meet us tomorrow to check out a few places? I know you’d probably rather spend the weekend with your fiancé, but having my brother live on my couch is getting old. Like prehipster Brooklyn old. Thanks! Tyler.’ ”
Mia starts laughing.
“This is not funny,” I say over and over again while nudging her. “Stop laughing.”
Jane looks at me with the same look as before. “What are you going to do?”
I’m about to answer “nothing,” but I stop myself. Wouldn’t that be unprofessional? Not to mention that a young male investment banker looking for a place downtown is one of the easiest sells ever. Show him an apartment with a bar around the block and an Equinox gym nearby, and he’s basically sold.
Mia stops laughing and looks at me. “Are you really thinking about this? Is Straight-Edge Lottie going to pretend to be Betrothed-Lottie again to get a sale?” She laughs again. “Damn, you really are serious about your job.”
“I’ve never turned away a potential broker fee,” I say. “Plus, my karma’s already screwed now. I can’t get the dream guy, but I can rent the heck out of an apartment.”
Mia whisks the laptop away from me. She types “Tyler King” into Google. Images of rings pop up.
They’re funkier than normal rings—some are metallic and others hammered, distressed gold—but very cool.
She snaps her fingers. “I thought I knew that name. He’s a majorly up-and-coming designer. We sell two of his rings at Trinity Jewels. They’re totally geared to the artsy, be-different
crowd, but he’s definitely got a buzz around him.”
“That’s right,” I say, flashing back to last night. “He mentioned he was a ring designer. But get this: the funny and ironic part is that he’s against marriage.”
“Men,” Jane scoffs.
Mia types a few more things into the search bar and brings up his Facebook picture.
“Hold the iPhone. Forget the fairy tale Brit all together,” she says. “Tyler’s gorgeous. Go for him.”
Jane nods enthusiastically. “Totally a Mr. Darcy.” Both Mia and I give her a look. “Jane Austen reference,” she explains.
“Mr. Darcy or not, he’s a big no.” I count using my fingers. “One, he’s the opposite of my type. Two, he also thinks I’m engaged. Three, this is a work thing. Four, stop Googling. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“So what are you going to do?” Mia asks, clicking away on the laptop. “Oh wait,” she says, pointing to a photograph of Tyler on Facebook with his arm around a brunette who could be Gisele Bündchen’s little sister. “Looks like he has a girlfriend, though,” she says with utter disappointment.
I shake my head while trying to ignore how pretty she is. “Harry, not Tyler, is my dream guy. And it doesn’t matter anyway.” I take the diamond ring from the box and put it back on. “I’m engaged, remember?”
“I like this new naughty Lottie,” Mia says. She pushes the laptop back to me. “Write him back.” She raises her enviously thick eyebrows. “I dare you. Downtown is right by my work. You can borrow the faux engagement ring for a few hours tomorrow. I have to go into work anyway.” She dramatically curls into a fetal position. “It’s almost the holiday season, which means overtime for me. It’s so wonderful to work at a jeweler when you’re single. Truly.”
I smile. “Fine.” I take the laptop and write Tyler the same form email I write all potential clients to gather information. “If I can get a commission out of this whole bachelorette fiasco, maybe it’ll actually have been worth it. And it’s just one afternoon, right?” I stand up. “I need to go work out. This day has been too weird. I need to sweat until I’m the real me again.”
