I was dying for a cup of coffee. Should I order one and sip it while I waited? No. That would be weird. And probably rude. Plus, there was nowhere to rest the cup without getting in people’s way as they moved along the counter to order and pay.
I glanced down at my watch. It was two-ten. So Kevin was ten minutes late. Big deal. Ten minutes late was actually on time in New York City. I should have been fifteen minutes late, so I’d be an extra-fashionable five minutes late.
I didn’t know what to do with my hands; I was pocketless. Eloise had dressed me in a pale silver-gray camisole topped by a mesh black cardigan with only the top button buttoned, black stretch capris and low-heeled black leather mules. I’d told Kevin I’d be wearing black. No other women in head-to-toe black waited by the pastry counter, so there was no way he couldn’t recognize me.
Two-fifteen. The door opened and a bunch of people entered. A couple with a baby in a stroller. Three teenage girls. A guy carrying a laptop. I started feeling self-conscious, so I pretended to study the blackboard menu hanging on the wall behind the counter.
I eyed T-Shirt Man in the overstuffed chair. He glanced up at me for a split second, then returned his attention to his newspaper. Geez. I didn’t even merit a checkout. I hated that. A checkout or lack thereof was how you knew if you looked good in what you were wearing or if it was a bad hair day. Great. Yesterday had been a fine hair day.
Two-twenty. I pretended to study the menu again. My palms were beginning to sweat, but I couldn’t wipe them on my pants. I was starting to feel more and more self-conscious. Did people think I’d been stood up? Had I been stood up?
Two-twenty-three. Suddenly, T-Shirt Man was staring at me. He gestured at me to come over. I sent him a questioning look, and again he waved me over. So maybe it was a good hair day after all. Given that Kevin Adams was a very rude twenty minutes late, I saw no reason to pass up meeting a cute guy. With my luck, T-Shirt Man probably just wanted me to get him a napkin or a plastic spoon. I ventured over with a tentative smile.
“Hi,” he said to me. “Are you Jane Gregg, by any chance?”
Huh? How did he know my name?
And then I saw the navy-blue sweater folded over the arm on the far side of his chair.
“I’m Kevin Adams.” He extended his hand.
I felt my ears start to burn. “Why didn’t you come over when I walked in? I’ve been standing right over there for the past twenty minutes. Didn’t you think it was me?”
“Yeah, I knew right away, but my legs are killing me from playing squash.” He smiled and revealed a gummy mouth. “My friend wiped the court with me. And I was so into this article about the Federal Reserve, I figured I’d finish it, then get up and let you know I was here. But every time I moved a muscle—” he exaggerated a grimace “—I was, like, whoa, dude, sit back down.”
It was rare to want to pick up a pot of boiling water and pour it slowly over a person’s head, but that was what I wanted to do to Kevin Adams at the moment. And because we were in a coffee lounge, there were two pots simmering on the burners, just waiting for me to lose it.
A total stranger had managed to humiliate me before our “date” had even begun. A gummy stranger, at that.
“So have a seat,” Kevin said, gesturing to the chair next to him. There was a dusting of powdered sugar square in the center of the cushion.
You don’t have to marry him, I reminded myself. You just have to develop a casual relationship so that you can invite him to Dana’s wedding.
If you don’t tell him off and stomp out, you deserve him, I warned myself. He’s clearly an A-level rude jerk. But he fit the bill to a T. He lived in a brownstone.
Couldn’t you cut me a break? I asked my brain. You were there. You went to high school with Gnatasha Nutley. She made your life miserable. She made you feel like the ugliest, dullest girl in town. She stole Robby Evers away from you before you even had a chance to feel his arms around you. You’re just going to have to swallow your pride now in the name of saving it later.
“You have really beautiful eyes,” Kevin Adams said.
Score one for Kevin Adams. He’d slightly redeemed himself. Maybe I’d judged him too hastily?
Yeah, and maybe one stupid compliment from a total jerk was all it took to make everything okay. I might have been desperate, but I wasn’t stupid.
I dusted off the powdered sugar, sat down and smiled at my potential wedding date.
At three o’clock, Kevin Adams gingerly stood up. He made low, grunting sounds and contorted his features like the guys who lifted weights at the health club I’d stopped going to. I wasn’t sure if he was really in pain or just a total wuss.
“So, I had a really nice time,” he said, slipping the blue sweater over his head.
He had a nice body, I noticed, eyeing him as the sweater was over his face. Flat stomach, long legs. And he was really cute. Not Pierce Brosnan, but then who was, besides Jeremy?
So what if Kevin wasn’t Mr. Manners? Not every guy had been raised well. Sometimes women had to train their men. The issue wasn’t that he’d started the date without me and then invited me to join him when he was damned good and ready. Nor that he’d asked me to get him another soup cup of coffee while I got my own. The issue was that he was good-looking, male and lived on the Upper West Side in a brownstone. He was only gummy when he smiled.
I decided right then and there to accept a second date. If he asked. I’d gotten the impression that he liked me. Our date hadn’t been very long, but we’d talked easily. Mostly about how great Amanda and Jeff were.
“So, um, Jane,” he said, grabbing his knapsack. “I’ll give you a call.”
Oh. Everyone knew what that meant. An I’ll Call meant: I wasn’t attracted to you, but you’re a nice person, so, take care. Why couldn’t guys just say something like that outright? Why raise false hopes?
Kevin leaned forward awkwardly and air-kissed me.
I woke up on Sunday morning to pouring rain and a headache. Eloise had taken me out for Mexican last night; she’d insisted that a few stiff frozen margaritas would clear my mind of Kevin Adams. She’d been right. But now I had both a migraine and my memory restored.
At least I wouldn’t have to go out in the downpour for The New York Times. I’d been smart enough to pick one up last night at the newsstand where Eloise had flirted with the Indian clerk.
I threw the comforter off me and shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Oh man! I mentally whined. I should have bought milk last night. I opened the fridge and shook the quart of skim. There was just a trickle left.
This clearly wasn’t going to be a great day, but it had to be better than yesterday. Amanda had called last night to hear if she’d sparked a love match. I sugarcoated the report by telling her that Kevin and I didn’t seem to have chemistry, but that if he called again, I’d be happy to go out again. Which he wouldn’t. No way would I tell her the guy was a big fat jerk. Amanda had done me a favor by fixing me up. Plus, I couldn’t afford to re-alienate my wedding date resource’s boyfriend.
I flopped back into bed and lugged the heavy Times onto my stomach, dumping the sections I never read onto the floor (Automobiles, Sports, Money & Business, the front section). I grabbed Styles and turned to the wedding announcements. I always liked to look for people I knew. Maybe three times in my life I’d recognized a name. Two from college and one from Posh, an intern who’d left a long time ago. The main reason I read the wedding section was to check ages and jobs to see how I stacked up against them.
Lots of twenty-seven-year-olds were getting hitched. Elementary teachers at private schools were aplenty, as were Internet executives like Larry Fishkill. Ugh. In a couple of months I’d have the joy of seeing Dana and Larry’s faces smiling at me from these pages.
I scanned the names—and stopped breathing.
Max Reardon’s smiling face stared at me. His arm was around a pretty redhead with freckles. Reardon and Carmichael, the headline read.
&nb
sp; Max Reardon, 28, and Cheryl Carmichael, 26, both Equity Analysts at the Bank of New York, were married yesterday at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in the bride’s hometown of…
Tears plopped on the newsprint before I even realized I was crying.
I ran into the kitchen and opened the cabinet under the sink. But I broke into sobs before I could even utter Eloise’s name.
The phone rang. My legs were useless. I couldn’t even manage to stand.
The answering machine clicked on. “Omigod! Jane, it’s Dana! I can’t believe this! Larry and I are sitting here reading the paper and having breakfast, and guess who got married in The Times? Your ex, Max! Remember him? Omigod, can you believe it? The wife’s so pretty! Doesn’t she remind you of Natasha a little? Everyone’s so excited that Natasha’s coming to the wedding! Did you buy the shoes? Call me later. Bye!”
I tried and tried to turn off the alarm clock, but it kept buzzing. And then I realized it was the telephone. I sat up, forcing open my eyes. It was six-thirty in the morning.
My sheets smelled like stale smoke. I’d gone through two and a half packs of cigarettes yesterday. Amanda had valiantly stayed through the first chain-smoked pack and a half, but when her eyes had become as red rimmed and watery from the smoke as mine were from sobbing, I’d had to force her to leave. Eloise had emptied the ashtray for me every time it hit five butts and sprayed Lysol after each half pack.
The nicotine must have done serious damage to my brain cells. Because unless I was mistaken, I’d actually agreed to go on more blind dates with acquaintances of Amanda’s boyfriend. Eloise had convinced me that giving up and arriving solo at the wedding would only make the Maxes and Kevins of the world win. But hadn’t they? Who had the energy to fight them anymore? I was going to end up like Great-aunt Gertie. I might as well just accept it.
And then Aunt Ina had called to ask if I was okay about Max’s wedding announcement. Her motherly concern had been so comforting that I’d almost burst into tears on the phone. Until I’d remembered that a woman with a supposedly wonderful new boyfriend wouldn’t be so upset about an old flame’s wedding.
Amanda had said she’d take care of everything. She’d whipped out the cell phone, and suddenly I had four new blind dates all set up. Three for this week (Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) and one for next week (Tuesday). If Blind Date #1 worked out, I could cancel #2, and so on and so on.
“Yeah but, what if they’re all busts?” I’d asked. “Then what?”
Dead silence had followed. We’d agreed to worry about that at Friday’s Flirt Night Roundtable.
The phone shrilled again. I snatched the cordless. “’Lo,” I croaked into the receiver.
“Jane? Natasha. I’m so surprised to get you! I thought I’d be leaving a message, since you said you usually stay at your boyfriend’s. Otherwise I wouldn’t have called so early.”
Why was the Gnat calling me at home, anyway? She was work. Not a personal friend.
“Jane? Did I wake you?”
“Um, no, I was actually doing my yoga tape.” I breathed deeply, held and exhaled. “My boyfriend’s away on business for a few days, so…”
“Oh, good then! I wanted to let you know I was planning to stop by the office this morning, if that’s okay. Oh, I just realized I could have left you a message there, but you don’t have a direct line, and I never remember your extension so…Anyway, I spent a good chunk of the weekend sketching out a first draft of Chapter One, based on what you said. You know, about starting at the present and letting the past unfold as required. Great idea, Janey. I think I’ve got some good stuff down on paper.”
I leaned back against my smoky pillows. My hair reeked.
The Gnat was a little too awake for me. How could she be so coherent and on top of things at six-thirty in the morning?
“So I’d really like you take a look before I flesh it all out,” Natasha added. “I mainly focused on why I signed the legal papers while you-know-who was practically inside me.”
I cringed. That was just what I needed on a Monday morning following the Sunday morning I learned that my one and only serious boyfriend had gotten married: an earful on how Natasha had signed each letter of her name to the grinding motion of The Actor’s expert sexual strokes.
I sat up and forced myself to focus. “Okay, so, um, it has to be later than ten, since that’s when our editorial meeting usually ends.”
“Ten’s great,” Natasha said. “See you later!”
I hung up and fell back against the pillows.
Was she allowed to call me at home? I’d have to set a few ground rules with the Gnat. She might have been a faux celebrity, but I didn’t work twenty-four/seven. I was about to date twenty-four/seven, but that was another story. Who did she think she was, anyway, calling me at home?
This totally sucked. I couldn’t wallow in my misery with my family, and now I couldn’t even wallow at work. After all, I supposedly led a fabulous life, making a 100K a year with a boyfriend who owned a brownstone. That woman wouldn’t care that her ex-boyfriend had gotten married. In the bride’s hometown, no less.
But the real Jane Gregg did. Very, very much. So much so that she’d lit an extra candle in St. Monica’s yesterday—to say goodbye to whatever lingering hope she’d unconsciously hung on to about Max realizing he’d made a mistake by dumping her.
Eloise had insisted it wasn’t pathetic of me. It was closure, she’d said.
“Oh, oh, oh-oh” Squeak. Squeak. Squeeeeeeak. “Ohhhhhhhhhhh! Oh yeah!”
I banged against the wall and covered my face with my smoky pillow.
Four
“The baby just pooped, everyone!” Gwen Welle announced from the speakerphone.
Even when she was on maternity leave, I couldn’t escape her. She insisted on calling in for editorial meetings. Like anything important ever went on at these weekly wastes of time.
Could you tell I was in a bad mood?
The editorial staff of Posh Publishing had been in the conference room for half an hour, and all I’d learned was that a singer whose career had died in the eighties had signed on for a tell-all, as had a computer geek who insisted he’d been ruined by Bill Gates. Plus, our managing editor, Paulette Igerman, complained to Remke that Jeremy had changed the publication date of a book without alerting her. Paulette seemed to be the only woman alive immune to Jeremy’s charisma. I didn’t get it. Eloise was sure that Paulette was a lesbian.
“Morgan, order in a Continental breakfast for Jane’s meeting with Nutley,” Remke said, tapping his pen on the agenda. “Keep it under twenty.”
I smiled. Morgan glanced at me with contempt. So, I’d done it. I’d crossed that golden line with Remke. I was now too important to order a fruit plate, a platter of Danishes and a gallon of orange juice from the gourmet deli down the street for my own meeting with an author. Morgan had to order it for me. That was something.
I felt Jeremy’s gaze pass over me for a moment. What did he think of me? I honestly didn’t know. I did know that he considered me hardworking. Gwen had offered that tidbit of praise from Jeremy in each of my performance reviews. And he seemed to think I had potential to be a good editor; he often entrusted me to do preliminary line-edits on his projects. But would he ever look at me? I mean, really look at me? Sometimes I had the feeling that Jeremy felt sorry for me. And other women like me. Which didn’t include Morgan Morgan. Women who’d grown up on Thoroughbred farms weren’t to be pitied when their twenty-thousand-a-year salaries were subsidized by their parents.
Jeremy knew I lived in a dumpy building and couldn’t take taxis because I couldn’t afford them. He’d seen me arrive at work every morning subway-sweaty in my Gap and Ann Taylor on-sale clothes. He knew I spent summers on a beach towel on the Great Lawn in Central Park, with a cooler of iced tea, manuscripts and tuna-fish sandwiches I made myself.
And I knew he spent his summers in East Hampton, dining on fifty-dollar lobster caught that day from an ocean he sailed on.
“It’s the third from the last in your pile, Williaaam,” Morgan said, a satisfied smile on her flat face.
Remke was trying to decide whether to do the sex addict’s memoir in mass-market size or trade. Everyone at Posh had made a copy of the manuscript to read. It was really steamy stuff.
Remke pulled out the profit and loss statement and scowled at it. “Morgan, take this back to Ian, tell him to run it at three hundred pages, mass-market, at $6.99. The content justifies it. Plus, we’ll give it a really hot title.” Remke passed the P&L to Morgan. “Agreed, Black?”
Jeremy nodded. He was leaning back in his chair as though he were at the dentist. Remke sat at the head of the table, as always. Jeremy sat at Remke’s left. The speakerphone was placed at Gwen’s usual seat, to Remke’s right. Paulette was next to Jeremy. I was in the chair next to Gwen’s empty seat. Across the table, Morgan sat in a chair next to the empty seat beside Paulette.
We both knew our places. But I was moving up. Morgan would be busy for years trotting up and down the hall to the one-or two-person departments that made up Posh’s publishing empire.
“Hello,” Gwen snapped over the crackle of the speaker-phone, reminding everyone she was on the line. “William, we’re on your dime long distance, so let’s wrap up, okay? So, Jane, how’s the Nutley tell-all going, anyway?” She had on her phony concerned voice. “If there’s anything you need help with, you know I’m just a phone call away, right?”
“Right,” I chirped. Yeah, right was more like it. Even if I had a problem with the Gnat’s manuscript, I wouldn’t call Gwen. I’d have to listen to The Baby stories for twenty minutes first. What was it about new mothers? Why did they think anyone was interested in their Kegel exercises or the color of their infants’ excrement? New mothers never shut up. Everything they said was so scary and sickening, it was a wonder any childless woman ever got pregnant on purpose.
See Jane Date Page 6
