by Jane Porter
The panes of glass are cold, and all the warmth in the kitchen rises to the ten-foot, ceiling. I hunch over the table, stare at the green tea box with the picture of a bear in a nightcap. I like the idea of a sleepy bear, and when the kettle finally boils, I fill a big mug with hot water, drop in my tea bag, turn off the kitchen light, and head back to my room.
I sit in the middle of my princess bed, hold my big mug, and think of Goldilocks. I think of all the different bowls of porridge she tried, all the different beds she lay down in before she got it right.
Maybe I need to take a page from Goldilocks’s book and get out more.
Maybe one bowl, one bed, isn’t enough. Maybe you have to try lots of porridges and lots of chairs and lots of beds before anything feels right. I never really sampled different chairs and beds.
Was that the mistake? Was that where I got it all wrong?
I think more on Goldilocks, think about how angry the bears were when they returned and discovered the little human-being girl asleep in Baby Bear’s bed. I don’t remember Papa or Mama Bear saying, “Oh, how sweet, let’s keep her.” If I remember right, they chased Goldilocks away, threatening to eat her.
What a bad story to read to little girls. Talk about passing on erroneous information.
I need better info.
I also need a life. As Olivia pointed out none too gently, I need to start meeting people, making friends, settling down into my single life in the city. I suppose that means I’ll even have to test the dating scene—not that I know where I’ll meet single guys.
Oh, God. A spike of panic. Am I really going to put myself on the market again? Yes.
I take a deep breath, hold a mental picture: Holly smiling, Holly laughing, Holly looking killer in tight brown suede pants and spike-heel boots.
Maybe tight jeans and spike-heel boots.
Maybe comfortable Levi’s and medium-heel boots in case the Bears come home and get pissed and threaten to eat me, and it becomes a Nike ad—you know, Just do it.
Anyway. The visual isn’t about wardrobe. Or bears. It’s about taking risks. Going for it. Putting myself out there.
I’ve been legally separated for six months, but I’ve been alone far longer than that. Jean-Marc and I slept in separate bedrooms since returning from St. Tropez. For ten months we tried to play the part; for ten months we kept the pretense going, but I’m done. Can’t pretend anymore.
The marriage is over. There’s no going back. The divorce isn’t final yet, but you could call me Holly Available.
Chapter Three
Less than twelve hours later, I’m at my desk at City Events, preparing to work through my lunch hour because I always feel as though I’m a day late and a dollar short in the team meetings, when Aimee phones and then Olivia suddenly appears and is hovering over me.
“I thought you were going to the gym,” Olivia says, hands on hips. She’s wearing a silk turtleneck the same misty gray as her eyes, a minuscule black pleated skirt, dark hose, and high heels with pointy toes. They’re probably very fashionable and very expensive, but I couldn’t tell you what they are, because I buy most of my shoes at the Nordstrom Rack.
“It doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to break free after all,” I say, sitting back in my chair and running a hand through my hair. At least it’s clean today, not quite so flat. “There’s so much I need to do.”
“But the front desk has a guest pass waiting for you.”
“I’ll try to go after work.” I smile with more confidence than I feel. I don’t really care about going to the gym. I can always do push-ups and crunches in the privacy of my own home.
“We talked about this,” Olivia persists, and it’s true. We did discuss my going to the gym earlier this morning, and I’d agreed to try Olivia’s state-of-the-art fitness facility, but I don’t remember committing to a lunchtime workout.
“I’m still trying to get through to the appropriate writer at the Examiner and Chronicle.”
“Good luck. You’ll be trying all day.”
“Why?”
“The feature writers aren’t going to give you what you want. They’re not interested.” Olivia says it kindly, though. “You’ll discover soon enough that newspapers have their own agenda. And they always will.”
“But you were the one that wanted me to get the write-up in the first place for next year’s Kid Fest.”
“It was worth a try.”
“So why won’t anyone bite? Everybody loves kids.”
“Everybody has kids.” Olivia nods to the phone, where the hold light is blinking. “Who’s on the phone?”
I had totally forgotten about the call. “Aimee,” I say, reaching for the phone.
“What does she want?”
Aimee is Olivia’s friend, not mine. “I don’t know. She called just as you walked up.”
“Talk to her.” Olivia perches on the corner of my desk, interested and prepared to wait.
I lift the phone, brace myself, knowing that a couple of drinks with Aimee doesn’t make us pals. “Aimee? Sorry about that. Olivia needed to talk to me just as you rang.”
“Is she still there?” Aimee asks, drawling a little. Aimee’s a tall, blonde Texan, with Texas-size breasts (implants) and a great Dallas twang. Aimee uses her twang (and implants) the way Olivia uses her exotic beauty.
“She is.”
“Tell her I’m working on your social life. That will get her off your back.”
I laugh. But Aimee’s serious. “Tell her,” Aimee insists.
But I don’t need to repeat what Aimee said; Olivia has heard for herself. “She’s setting you up?” Olivia asks.
“No.”
“Yes,” Aimee says.
Olivia lifts an eyebrow. “Anybody I know?”
“No,” I answer.’
“Yes,” Aimee says.
This is getting ridiculous. “I don’t need to be set up.”
“It’s not a setup,” Aimee soothes. “It’s just drinks.”
Not bothering even to hide her smile, Olivia rises, gives me a little pat on the shoulder. “Come see me when you’re through.” She stops, turns back to look at me. “And don’t forget the gym. I’ve got that trial membership all arranged for you, and it’s good for the next seven days. You can go every day.”
Great. I force a smile. “Thanks.”
Olivia leaves, and I put the phone back to my ear. “I’m sorry: Olivia’s added my personal life to her Day-Timer. It seems I’ve become part of her schedule.”
“She likes you.”
For a moment I don’t know what to say. It’s not sophisticated to be sentimental; it’s not hip or urban or anything remotely cool, but I can’t help the big lump blocking my throat. I really needed a job to be able to make the move to San Francisco, and City Events made my move possible. “Olivia’s a great person. I appreciate her taking a chance on me.”
“Honey, it wasn’t chance; it was pity. She knew if she didn’t hire you, no one else would.”
I open my mouth, drag in air, feel as if she’d given me a one-two punch in the gut when I least expected it.
“You had the worst-looking résumé she’d ever seen in her life,” Aimee continues blithely, and I can just picture her at her desk, inspecting her long, polished nails. They’re deep red.
At least they should be.
“But you small-town girls never think to put your money where you should. You should have had your resume professionally done. I bet you did it yourself, didn’t you?”
What is she talking about? I like my résumé. Yes, I did it myself, but laser-printed on great ivory paper with cool fonts (Garamond is a personal favorite), listing clearly my education and career objective. I know everything on my resume by heart: the college degree from University of California, Irvine, graduating with honors; the work experience my senior year in Irvine (that’s not including the summer I spent at Disneyland dressed up as Snow White); and then, after graduation, the temp work at the Fresno radio
station, the temp work at the PBS station, the temp work at the Fresno Bee, and finally full-time work at Grady & Grady Public Relations.
“My résumé isn’t that bad,” I say in my defense.
“This is San Francisco. If a golf tournament in Fresno is the pinnacle of your achievement—”
“I did lots of PR.” I’m chilly now, not just because she’s mocking my work, but she’s mocking Fresno, and I got enough of that when I went to UC Irvine. Californians love to make fun of Fresno, as if land that’s actually fertile and productive (never mind that it feeds millions of people around the world) is an embarrassment to a state famous for artificial tans, breasts, and Botox brows.
“Newsletters for customers,” I add, hating that I’m so defensive. I shouldn’t care what people say about Fresno. I wasn’t born there, didn’t grow up there. I just happened to be raised close by.
“I saw samples of your work.”
She drawls it out, and I wonder why she feels the need to point out all my failings. Does this make her feel so much better? Smarter? Does it give her great pleasure being right and me being wrong?
Taking a deep breath, I try to calm down. “Is Olivia sorry she hired me?”
“God, no. She’s glad you work for her. She thinks you’re great. A little misguided, but nothing serious. But that’s not why I called. I called because you”—Aimee pauses—”have an admirer.”
I nearly choke on my tongue. It’s not that I haven’t had admirers before—Jean-Marc’s good-looking in that French actor way—it’s Aimee’s tone. Aimee sounds bouncy again, extremely pleased. It’s as if I’d just been lifted off the FBI’s Most Wanted List of Underachieving Women. “Who is he?”
“Tom.”
“Tom?”
“Yes, Tom Lehman. From last night.”
I don’t remember a Tom Lehman. I barely remember last night. The music was really loud. The bar a complete crush. And I had more margaritas than I should have. Thank goodness I had the sense to cab it home instead of driving.
Too bad I didn’t remember leaving my car at work until I’d spent five minutes this morning trying to remember where I parked. By the time I’d hailed a cab, I was in a terrible mood. My mood wasn’t improved by Olivia greeting me at the door with a handful of guest passes for her gym.
“Tom’s quite taken with you,” Aimee adds.
“Tom,” I repeat.
“Lehman.”
I say nothing.
“He’d love to meet you for drinks Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? My brain has stopped processing language. Aimee’s making sounds, and I have no idea what she’s saying. Instead I’m trying to put a face with Tom Lehman. Tom. Thomas. Thomas Lehman. It’s a name that smacks of success. And I try to remember the group surrounding Olivia last night. There were quite a few guys...”Brown hair?” I hazard.
“Yes.”
That was an easy guess. Everybody last night was brunette—Asian, Latino, African-American, Caucasian. “Brown eyes?”
“No, blue. I’m pretty sure they’re blue.”
Brown hair, blue eyes. Reasonably attractive. “Is he tall?”
Aimee stalls. He’s not tall. “Is he short?” I persist.
“No. Not short. Just not ultra-tall.”
That means he’s short. And he’s probably a stockbroker or investment banker—two types I don’t have much in common with. “What does he do?”
“He’s an institutional trader.”
Stockbroker. Great. “Aimee, I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I’m not really dating yet.”
“It’s just drinks, Holly.”
“Yeah, but he’s going to think drinks are a date.”
“Not if you buy the drinks.”
My mouth opens, closes. I have to think about that. And while I’m thinking about Aimee’s reasoning, she’s focused on her mission. “So can I give him your number?”
“Aimee—”
“How about he just calls you there, at work?”
“I don’t—”
“Olivia won’t care. She gets personal calls all the time.”
I’m feeling pressed. Panicked. I don’t remember Tom Lehman, and although I’m flattered he’d like to have drinks with me, I can’t help wondering about his taste.
I saw myself yesterday. I know what he was looking at. It wasn’t my best day, not at all. And if he liked that...
“Let me just have him call. You two work it out.” Aimee’s rushing along, sensing my retreat. “I don’t really want to be in the middle of this anyway. I was just doing him a favor, and if you don’t want to go out with him, just tell him. He’s a nice guy. He’ll understand.”
“But—”
“Tell Olivia I’ll give her a ring in a bit. Bye.”
Click. Aimee’s hung up. I return the phone to the base and think, she’s good. She’s really good. I can see why she’s the fund-raising director for the Met Museum. She’d get people to part with their money in no time.
And now I get the opportunity to reject Tom Lehman to his face. Or his phone. Which in these days of wireless technology seem to be one and the same.
Tom calls at five minutes before three, just as David, Olivia’s boss, is summoning us to an emergency meeting.
“Leather and Lace Ball,” Olivia mouths as she passes my desk, arms laden with folders, laptop computer, and more. Even she’s looking brittle. David doesn’t call many meetings and rarely insists on a whole-company turnout.
“I’m coming,” I say, gathering my own folders and notepads and taking Tom Lehman off hold. “This is Holly.”
“How’re you doing, Holly?”
He says it’s Tom, but nothing in his voice resonates. I don’t remember meeting him, can’t picture him, feel no connection to him now. It’d be pointless to have drinks. Just because he’s a man and I’m a woman doesn’t mean we’d have anything in common. “Good.” What else can I say?
“I really enjoyed getting to know you last night.”
Getting to know him? Just how long did we talk? “Yes.”
Glancing up, I see everyone file into the glass-walled conference room, and the idea of being the last one to the meeting makes me warm and prickly—and not in a good way. “How do you know Aimee?”
“I don’t. She’s a friend of a friend of mine. We only met last night.”
Oh, God. I really don’t want to go out with him. Aimee doesn’t even know him. Aimee’s just passing out phone numbers because she’s bored today. “Listen, Tom—”
“So you’ve only been here three months?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you like San Fran?”
“It’s good.” The glass door to the conference room is closing. Everyone’s taking seats at the massive ebony-and-chrome table. Everyone’s there but me. “A little chilly.”
“It’ll warm up. Fall’s always nice. October especially.”
“You’re a native, then?”
“Hell, no. Moved here from Detroit.”
Ah. No wonder the weather doesn’t bother him. He’s used to humidity and ice storms. I didn’t have either in Visalia. “Listen, Tom—”
“So we’re on for drinks tomorrow night?”
“Uh...” I can see Olivia flip open her laptop, watch David take his position at the head of the table while everyone else settles into their chairs, pens lifted, ready to take copious notes. “I’ve a meeting—”
“You’ve got to go.”
“Right.”
“Promise me you’ll still have drinks—”
“Tom.”
“Promise.”
Olivia’s looking at me, frowning. I know exactly what she’s thinking: Holly, you get your ass in here now.
“Promise,” he repeats, a singsong in his voice.
Damn it. “I promise.”
“Give me your home number; I’ll call you later.”
I do not want to give him my home number.
I do not want to continue talking as if we’re old friends, but the meeting’s started, I’m terrible at fibbing, and I have to get off the phone.
I rattle off my number, hoping that perhaps he’ll write it down wrong, and say a hurried good-bye.
It’s not until I’m taking my place at the conference table that I realize I’ve just accepted—even if inadvertently—my first date in two years.
Two years since I went out with a man who wasn’t Jean-Marc.
Eighteen months since I had sex.
I’m in worse shape than I thought.
But David’s frothing at the mouth, and it takes me all of five seconds to realize this is not a good meeting; and all thoughts of Tom and drinks and the fact that I’ve just given my phone number to a man I know very little about fade from mind.
Did I already say this was not a good meeting? I’ve heard David lose his cool before, but at the moment he’s in the middle of a serious rant, and the rant has to do with his highly compensated, overrated staff making stupid mistakes. Fortunately, he’s directing most of the flying spit at the staff in charge of this year’s Hospice Foundation’s Leather & Lace Ball—Tessa and her team.
I catch Olivia’s eye. Olivia isn’t smiling, but there’s a certain fixed smugness at her mouth, which makes me think she’s enjoying this. Olivia used to be in charge of the ball—in fact, the ball’s wild popularity dates to Olivia’s involvement. A couple of years ago she insisted on pushing the edge of the envelope, moving the Leather & Lace away from a ‘70s Stevie Nicks fantasy to a very urban S and M fetish.
Of course everybody in polite society cluck-clucked, and there were many—and not just the Hospice Foundation’s board members—who inundated David and City Events with protests. For nearly ten years, City Events has organized the foundation’s ball, including underwriting huge chunks of money, ever since David’s partner died from AIDS and David learned the value of hospice care. So David allowed Olivia to overhaul the ball and make her changes.
The Leather & Lace Ball, under the first year of Olivia’s direction, cleared nearly a million dollars. The second year, 1.8 million. The third year, 2.6 million.
