“Yes, yes, I know, Mrs. Warner called to complain, but there’s no fire. Just my toaster.”
“Good morning,” Ralph the doorman said. “I was calling to let you know you have a visitor down here? A Mr. Ryan Wilkinson?”
Fucking Ryan.
“Well, don’t send him up,” I said as I slipped on my gold Manolo Blahniks and reached for my Burberry plaid scarf. “I’m on my way to work. Just hold him there.”
“Will do.”
I left the kitchen window cracked open to air out the smoke and headed out. Riding in the elevator, I tried to tick off the toy-transport trips on my calendar. Today I was slated to pick up porcelain dolls at the Madame Priscilla Doll Factory in West Harlem. Tomorrow it was Toys “R” Us, then the bike shop in Queens . . . or was it the other way around?
Down in the lobby, I summoned my courage and refined my pitch, trying to ensnare my kind doorman Ralph in my toy distribution scheme.
“Ralph, I have a proposition for you.”
He blinked at me, pushing back his cap and pointing a thumb behind him.
Leaning against the faux marble wall was a tall man in a pressed denim shirt and black cashmere coat. His posture was perfect, he had one hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants in a very GQ way, and I had a feeling this was someone I would like to know. But why was Ralph twitching toward the hottie?
“Your visitor?” Ralph prompted me.
I squinted, suddenly remembering. “Ryan?” All the thrill of meeting a new man faded as I recognized the old ball and chain from high school.
“Hey, Madison . . . hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” I said brightly. I’d be better if you’d stop calling me ... and now stalking me in my own building!
“Your building is right on my way to work,” Ryan went on. “I pass it every day, so today I just thought, what the hell, I’ll stop in and see if you want to join me for breakfast.”
Which just points up all of your annoying qualities: pedantic, persistent . . . As the evil thoughts simmered, I found myself questioning his attire. “What happened to your uniform?” I asked. “Is it at the cleaners?”
He glanced down at his clothes, which, I must admit, revealed impeccable fashion sense. “I got out of the Navy years ago. Didn’t your mother tell you?”
If she mentioned it, I ignored her. “Oh.” I didn’t want to admit that I’d actually worried about him when the war broke out in Iraq—but only in a friendly way. I checked my watch. “Damn. I am so late for work.” I gave Ryan a sour look. “Do you mind? I really have to run.”
“No problem,” he said. “I’ll run with you.”
Not after my head explodes, I thought as I turned back to the doorman. “Ralph, big favor. I know you have long hours here, but we’ve got this toy drive going at work and—”
“Sure, I’ll donate,” Ralph said. “Anything for the kids.”
“No, I’ve got the toys—thousands of them. It’s just that I need help transporting them around town. Time and muscle.” I held up my arm, as if my mighty biceps might bop under my camel sweater. “What do you say? Can you give me a hand?”
“Sorry, Ms. Greenwood, but my wife is already screaming about the hours I put in here. Some days, the kids are in bed by the time I get home.” Ralph winced. “I just can’t see spending any more time away from home.”
“Oh . . . okay.” I tried to hide my disappointment. “Thanks, anyway. Let me know if you can think of somebody. Anyone with time on their hands, okay?”
“Will do, Ms. Greenwood.”
I turned toward the door, and Ryan fell into step beside me.
You, again, I wanted to growl as we walked under the garland-covered archway, out onto the sidewalk. Thank God he didn’t notice the mistletoe hanging from the arch. I told those idiots on the co-op board that it was a bad idea!
“Great day!” Ryan said. “Warm for December.”
My response was something between a grunt and a hmm; I figured that an actual word might unnecessarily encourage the guy. Why is it that a sophisticated life form like Homo sapiens, a creature in the top level of the hierarchy, cannot sense when he is not wanted, the way a dog smells a human’s fear? What a handy trait that would be.
“So isn’t that a coincidence?” he said. “My office is just a few blocks from here.”
“Really.” Excuse me if I don’t jump for joy.
What was it about this guy that got my goat? Without staring I let my eyes cruise his face—still smooth, with high cheekbones; his hair—longer now, spiked a little, nice and full; and his eyes—those damned gorgeous eyes. Amazing how a guy who scored bonus points in the looks category could bomb in the personal chemistry portion of the competition. But despite the physical allure, Ryan irked me.
“I think I can help you,” Ryan said.
“Pardon me?”
“With the toys. I could probably help you move them.”
I stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and squeezed my eyes shut. Shit. I’d just stepped right into it. When I looked again, he was still there, watching me with all the eagerness of a puppy in the park.
“It’s a worthy cause, right?” he said. “And I can steal the time from work.”
“Yes, I think it’s worthwhile,” I muttered. “Right now the only way these toys will get to the children who desire them is if I make it happen.” I paused. If I accepted his help, I would have to establish ground rules. “But here’s the thing. If we do this together, it’s because we both want the end result.” I looked him in the eye. “This is not a ploy to get us together. Because, at the risk of being brutally honest, there’s no spark between us, Ryan. Nada, nothing, zippo.” There, I’d said it, earning myself a place in the Super Bitch Hall of Fame.
He nodded. “I knew that.”
I had to give him credit; the guy could land on his feet with aplomb.
“How soon can you start?” I asked. “I mean, you’ll probably need to talk to your boss.”
He shrugged. “I’m my own boss. Well, I do have a partner, but he won’t have a problem with it. Let me run it by him.”
My ears perked up. “A partner?” Maybe I had pegged Ryan all wrong. Maybe he was already involved in a committed man-to-man relationship.
“In the firm.”
“What exactly do you do, Ryan?”
“Building design,” he answered casually. “I’m an architectural engineer. Got most of my training in the Navy. My partner would probably help with the toys, but his wife just had a baby. Todd isn’t getting too much sleep.”
Okay, he’s got a straight business partner. Ryan was still playing the hetero game, much to my dismay. I nodded. On paper, Ryan would be quite a catch. If only I could stand to be with him for more than five minutes.
“This is my train,” I said, pausing by the Ninety-sixth Street station. I reached into the pocket of my purse for a business card. “You can call me at work. Talk to your partner, and we’ll see if we can work something out.” For the children, I reminded myself. I will make this sacrifice for the children, even if it kills me.
When I got to the office, I managed to reschedule the doll delivery for that day, just to give myself a little breathing space. While I was on the phone, an eager voice mail came in from Ryan. Then I called Leo at the network, where he had hobbled in because he hates to miss more than a day of dirt on who’s hot and who’s not in his soap story lines. Although Leo wasn’t a writer, he had become one of those network middle managers who dance on the fringes of the writers’ teams, offering story arc ideas, stretching characters, and basically kicking the writers in the ass when they sat on a plot point for too long.
When he answered the phone, I blurted out, “Fucking Ryan.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s back. He was stalking me at my apartment this morning.”
“Oh, and I was hoping this was an obscene phone call.” Leo paused. “So? How does he look?”
“Fabulous. I think he’s been shopping at Ferrag
amo. I still hate him.”
“Big sigh. I’ll have you know, it took me an hour to get to work this morning.” He lowered his voice. “And the worst part was that I had to go down the stairs from the garret on my ass. These crutches are not the glamorous conversation piece I imagined. So what else is new?”
“Ryan is going to be my partner in the toy-moving project.”
“What? I thought you hated him.”
“I do, but I’m desperate.”
“Santa slut.”
“Oh, Leo, give me a break! I’m digging deep here, trying to come up with people. It’s made me rethink everything. I mean, I’m wondering if this program is really worth it.” I lowered my voice. “It’s certainly not earning me any brownie points at work, and it’s sucking up all my free time during the Christmas season, when I need free time to hunt down someone to spend Christmas with.”
I could feel Nicole listening in from the next cubicle. When I craned my neck toward her, she picked up a file and headed into Barry’s office. Great. Now my personal life would be posted in the next internal office e-mail. Nicole needed to get a life so she could pull her nose out of mine.
“Listen, Bob Crachitt,” Leo was saying, “we need to have a talk. Of course the toy program is worth it. Isn’t that what Christmas is about? Children? Giving? Charity? Don’t make me hobble over there and spank you, girl.”
I sighed. “I don’t know. Working with Ryan . . . ugh!”
“Maybe he’ll bail out,” Leo said. “Once he figures out that you’re not interested.”
“He’s already called to confirm,” I said, not sure what to hope for. “We’re on for a toy delivery in the morning.”
“Oh, well . . . how can I cheer you up? Listen, maybe I was a little hard on you and your skyrocketing standards for a mate. Yes, you’re picky, but with good reason. Okay, Virginia? There is a Santa Claus, and the right man will fall into your lap when you least expect it. When you stop trying so hard? That’s when you’ll find him.”
“Are you reading from a fortune cookie?” I asked him. “Or do you have that old nugget on a bumper sticker over your desk?”
Leo laughed. “Busted!”
That evening I rode the escalator to the eighth floor of Bloomingdale’s, rising into the heavenly sights and sounds of Christmas. Frank would be here in a few minutes, but first, I wanted to soak up the atmosphere.
When I asked Frank to meet me on the eighth floor of Bloomingdale’s, he didn’t know it was a test. Call me crazy, but the test is a protocol that must be administered to any guy I date at Christmastime. If the male candidate cannot pass the test, then he is not worth the investment. And the test is quite simple. The candidate needs to meet me at Bloomie’s and simply appreciate the virtual cozy Christmasland those wizards of retail create on the eighth floor. A simple “This is wonderful,” is all I ask.
You’d be surprised at the candidates who fail the test. Some come so close—a borderline grade—but I have to maintain my standards.
Case in point: the Wall Street investment banker who agreed to meet me at Bloomingdale’s, but once he arrived refused to get out of the company limo. When his cell called my cell and he told me to meet him in the car by the Lexington Avenue exit, I knew it was over. In my book, if you don’t like Christmas, you are not a keeper. Listen, I suffered through childhood with a cheapskate father. The last thing I need in my life—or my bed—is an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Even before the escalator reached my floor, the sounds and scents came wafting down, scents of pine and cinnamon potpourri and candles. A trio of carolers trolled their merry cheer from the tiny mezzanine. Deep breath. Big goofy grin. Can’t help myself once the Christmas sentiment washes over me. I stepped carefully off the escalator in my skinny-heeled Manolo Blahniks. There is nothing like the eighth floor of Bloomingdale’s at Christmastime.
It’s a wonder that I don’t blow a whole week’s pay here, and at times I’ve toyed with the notion. I lift shiny glass ornaments from their bins and imagine how they would look on my tree. I peer at the delicate displays of gingerbread houses and chocolate-mint sticks. Those sticks would be the perfect gift for the host of that last-minute Christmas party. You know, the one thrown by your distant friend’s friend that you get dragged along to. Once I bought a gloriously romantic box of chocolates set in a Victorian box adorned with ribbon and lace. That box would have made a spectacular host gift, if I could have managed to restrain myself from snacking on the chocolates.
I wandered over to a separate room lined with huge wooden armoires thrown open to display fat candles and a vast assortment of wreaths adorned with pinecones or fruit or glittery white snowflakes. Although my co-op association has a rule against hanging anything on the apartment door, residents blatantly ignore it. I held up a full green wreath with a fat red bow and tried to picture it against the gray of my apartment door.
“Madison?”
I glanced up and spotted Frank, looking dapper in a navy business suit with a periwinkle blue shirt. His hooded eyes seemed very official, which gave me a moment of panic. He wasn’t happy here. He hated Christmas. He was going to fail the test.
I swallowed hard, trying to think of a way to coach him without breaking the rules.
“Isn’t this wonderful?” I gushed. I held the wreath up to my face, smiling at him through the center of the circle. The red ribbon dropped down into my face, and I blew it away.
“Very nice,” Frank said, lifting the ribbon. I was laughing when he leaned in toward the wreath and kissed me on the lips.
Right in the Christmas department of Bloomingdale’s!
“Mmm.” I had to clamp my lips down on his to keep from laughing right into his mouth. His move surprised me, but I had to give him credit for his spontaneity. And there was a real drive in his kiss. Like he’d do a heck of a lot more than kiss me if we weren’t on the eighth floor of Bloomingdale’s on a Wednesday evening.
The kiss ended, and I took a deep breath. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “Wow.”
I lowered the wreath, holding it out so he could look at it again. “I was thinking of this for the front door of my apartment. I always decorate my place. Well, usually other years more than this year, but I always have a tree-trimming party.”
He nodded. “It’s nice. Do you need help hanging it?”
I blinked. Was he inviting himself over? I mean, the vibe was strong between us, and I could tell he was into me. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to move quite so fast. “We’ll see. I haven’t made a final decision yet, but you should come to my party. It’s next Friday, the nineteenth.” Was it too early to put that out there? I wasn’t sure how much I liked Frank yet. On the other hand, would it hurt to have one more single man over thirty at my party? If I wanted to pass him on, Nicole and the other girls from the office could always hold a silent auction for him.
“Sounds good.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket and put his hands in his pocket. “They do a nice job here, don’t they? New Yorkers do know how to kick it up at Christmas. The whole city gets a little bit nicer.”
As he spoke, my heart grew about eight sizes larger, just like the Dr. Seuss character. I was falling in love with this guy. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “I know a great little place nearby where they serve a kick-butt margarita.”
He moved next to me and slid an arm around my waist, his hand cupping my hip. Surprising, these physical displays in public. But somehow Frank made it work. “Now you’re talking,” he said.
We held hands all the way down seven escalators. And as we ducked under the blinking lights of Bloomie’s Lexington Avenue awning, I remembered how great it felt to be a woman in love in Manhattan.
Okay, maybe just a little in love. But hey, we take what we can get.
29
December 10, 2003, 6:45 P.M.
By the time we’d finished our coconut shrimp, I knew something was not right.
Although Frank was fun to talk to, he was putting the pressure on
so hard, I felt as if I were hanging from the fender of a stock car as he drove us madly careening around the track.
He wanted to hold my hand while we ate. He had to sit beside me. He had to kiss me between bites. He wanted to feed me from his fork. Hey, I’m all for romance, but a concubine I am not. Besides, I hoped to come back to Cabana, one of my favorite Cuban restaurants on the East Side, and if I didn’t do something drastic to make the wait staff stop giggling behind their menus, my reputation would sink lower than yesterday’s black bean soup.
Disentangling my hand from his, I went on with my story. “So anyway, my friend Sugar, the one I was telling you about? She’s on that morning show.”
“‘Scott and Todd in the Morning’?”
“No, she’s not that lucky. She’s the Sugar of ‘Mornings with Cream and Sugar.’ Anyway. Sugar is in the public eye all the time, and sometimes guests pop into the radio station unannounced, and though it might be someone famous like Jennifer Aniston or Tom Hanks, she absolutely does not recognize them. She once told Andre Leon Talley, the grand pooh-bah of fashion, that he was statuesque and ought to think about modeling. Then there’s the time when J. Lo walked in and she asked her—”
“Wait!” Frank interrupted, blowing on his fork. “You’ve got to taste this salmon.”
“No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “Anyway, she asked J. Lo to—”
“Really. Taste it!”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re gonna love it,” he said, shoving it toward my lips.
“Frank!” I craned my neck back, trying not to make a scene by whacking his hand and sending salmon sailing across to the next table. “Would you stop trying to feed me already? I’ve been managing a fork since I was one, and I hate it when you shove something into my mouth when I’m in the middle of a story.”
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 24
