I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

Pale as hell and with blue bags under her eyes, Nikki does look even more downcast than me.

  “What happened to you?” I ask.

  Nikki stares ahead, unfocused. “I bumped into Paul.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “We had coffee.”

  “And?”

  “He was nice and polite as you should be with your girlfriend’s sister. Every time I see him, them… I die a little inside.”

  “And Julia still has no idea?”

  Nikki massages her temples and shrugs. “Sometimes I think it was obvious something was happening with Paul when she swept in and stole him. Other times I think I’m so damn introverted that maybe it was obvious only to me, and neither Julia nor Paul have any idea how I felt.”

  “So the ‘time cures all ills’ motto doesn’t really work?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve spent the last two years hoping my sister’s love life will crumble to pieces. What does that say about me?”

  “That we can be spinsters together, all three of us.”

  “Woof.”

  Nikki shakes her head. “At least someone’s excited at the prospective.” She pats Chevron. “No, seriously, there’s no hope for me, but what’s your next move?”

  I stare out the window at Manhattan’s lights. “Grind Aurora into the ground and bring the whole Vanderbilt fashion empire down with her and her witch of a mother.”

  “You know Aurora Vanderbilt isn’t the real problem, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could’ve been anyone else in Richard’s room. It would’ve hurt just as much.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.”

  “Okay, you hate Aurora so it stung more. Fact remains, the real issue is that you have a crush on your boss and he doesn’t reciprocate.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “What then?”

  Hours spent analyzing the weekend showed a clear pattern in Richard’s behavior. Whenever we got closer or personal, Richard had a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde change of personality. Face changing from open and warm to that tough mask he always wears. The boss works hard at keeping his distance… Aurora Vanderbilt being the ultimate space-keeper.

  “I’m almost sure Richard reciprocates on some level…” I tell Nikki about the dinner, our day in LA, and the way he danced with me. “But he’s doing everything he can to fight his feelings.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s scared it could get serious.”

  “He’s your boss. It’s natural he’d have reservations.”

  “That’s not it. Richard’s scared of commitment after his incident at the altar.”

  “And you want a guy like that… why, exactly?”

  “Look at it this way: Gerard ticked off all the right boyfriend boxes, and he was a disaster. A perfect match on paper, a cheating scum in real life. Richard may seem like the wrong guy for so many reasons, but he’s not for the most important one.”

  “Which is?”

  “The way my pulse quickens whenever I’m next to him, or the drop in my stomach I get just thinking about him.”

  “So you have a crush, it won’t last forever. The beating heart, the stomach dives… they all disappear, eventually. You’ll get used to him and get over it.”

  I look away, afraid to meet Nikki’s eye.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “This is more than a silly crush.”

  “What? You’re in love with him now?”

  I shake my head. “In love is too much. But it’s something more than a crush.”

  “But you’ve never even kissed him.”

  I stare my roommate down. “Have you ever kissed Paul?”

  Nikki blushes. “Fair enough. So, what are you going to do?”

  “If Richard wants to play games, I’ll play right along with him.”

  Fourteen

  Never Play Games

  On Monday morning, I kick off a new game called the shoe game. Richard likes heels, so I’m going to give him a run for his money. Even if buying new shoes is financially verboten, I’ve hoarded for years and Carrie Bradshaw’s closet has nothing on mine.

  First, I shed the athleisure once and for all. If I can’t walk to Brooklyn in stiletto heels and a pencil skirt, I can surely change before getting to the office. As for grooming, I do my makeup with the same chirurgical care I used to adopt at Évoque and pin my hair in a bun with a stick. The bun is only temporary; at the right moment, the stick will come out and the hair will cascade over my shoulders in voluminous waves.

  Shoes. I go with nude patent leather pumps with a cute bow to accentuate the peep toe.

  Clothes. A military green halter-top over a taupe satin maxi skirt with a vertiginous slit.

  I carefully fold the top and skirt, place them in a garment bag, and fit them in my ever-present duffel bag that now has been compartmentalized. One side for me and one for Chevron. I pull on an old pair of black sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, and my running shoes.

  “Are you experiencing multiple personalities?” Nikki asks as I join her in the kitchenette.

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and smirk. From the neck up, I’m Upper East Side, from the neck down, I’m sick-day-at-home.

  “I’ll change at the office. Did you make coffee?”

  She nods.

  I pour some into a thermos, kiss Nikki goodbye, and leave for my morning walking commute with Chevron.

  When I get to the office, no one’s there so I use the restroom to get changed. Besides the need for privacy, the early hour will help with the ridiculous amount of work I have to do: write two or three pieces on Saturday night, buy and match pictures to each article, investigate Maison Vanderbilt, and maintain all my other regular features. Whoa.

  An hour later, it takes two steps through the door before Indira wolf whistles at me and asks, “Where are you going dressed up like that?”

  “Flash news: I dress posh. Love me or love me.” I’m tired of all this hipster, grunge, athleisure nonsense.

  Indira drops in her chair and spins toward me smiling. “Hell, girl. Love the attitude. How was LA?”

  I give her an upbeat version, leaving out Richard’s escapades and our argument, and focusing on my dance with Christian Slade instead.

  When Richard arrives, I oh-so-casually send a document to the printer and get up, removing the pin from my hair. The path from my desk to the print station and the one from the entrance door to Richard’s office are on two parallel lines in opposite directions. The boss hasn’t spotted me yet as he’s reading a text. When he finally looks up and we lock eyes, I silently count… one… two…

  On three, Richard’s gaze flicks down to my shoes.

  A second before we meet in the middle I say, “Morning, boss.”

  Let’s pretend nothing ever happened.

  Richard’s eyes—somewhat wide—snap back to my face.

  “Morning.” The boss gives me a curt nod and continues on his way.

  I get to the printer, retrieve my copy, and walk back. From behind his desk, Richard watches me like a hawk the entire time. He’s not the only one. Indira scrutinizes me with the slyness of a fox.

  In fact, as soon as I sit back at my desk, a chat window pops up on the computer screen.

  Mon, May 22 at 8:56 AM @PinkPanther has logged in

  Do you have a thing for the boss?

  Don’t lie

  Mon, May 22 at 8:59 AM @PoshSpice you are now logged in

  Okay, I do

  It’s easier to tell the truth via instant messaging. Full disclosure: I didn’t pick my chat nickname.

  I knew it!

  O.o

  Something happened in LA?

  Boss slept with my nemesis

  And the shoes are revenge?

  He seems to have a thing for footwear

  Yeah, he does

&n
bsp; At least for yours

  :)

  Think I’m hopeless?

  If someone can straighten up the boss…

  That’s you, girl

  Just be careful

  Will do

  Gotta get back to work

  Me too

  Mon, May 22 at 9:06 AM @PinkPanther has logged off

  Mon, May 22 at 9:07 AM @PoshSpice you are now logged off

  We exchange a got-your-back stare and resume our respective tasks.

  I spend the rest of the morning threading interviews with pieces of gossip and shuffling professional shots of the gala. At lunch, I take my break alone to call the ex-colleague, Melanie, who had the story on Maison Vanderbilt. She’s very skittish at first but then agrees to meet me tonight to tell me what she knows. After the call, I cut the break short, and my butt doesn’t leave its chair for the rest of the day.

  “Walker.” Richard’s voice startles me. “What are you still doing here?”

  I lift my gaze from the screen. Outside, it’s already dark, and the office is empty.

  “Adding the finishing touches to my LA posts. Christian will be happy with the piece on his charity.”

  Richard’s expression shifts oh-so-slightly from friendly to an enigmatic frown. The same one he had at Disney Hall when he took Christian’s place on the dance floor.

  “Sure he will,” the boss comments.

  “Want to see it?”

  “Maybe tomorrow. Why don’t you call it a night?”

  I look at the time. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I have an appointment at nine-thirty.”

  The frown deepens. “A date?”

  Richard’s gaze wanders to my thighs where the slit of my skirt has opened a bit too much.

  I cross my legs. “No, work. I’m meeting an ex-colleague to gather info on that Maison Vanderbilt story.”

  “Want company?”

  “No, it’s better if I talk to her alone. I don’t want to spook the source. Last thing I need is to walk in on her with a stranger. She still works at Évoque, and going behind their back isn’t easy.”

  “Is the appointment in Brooklyn?”

  “No, downtown.”

  “Get your stuff, I’m giving you a lift home.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s dark. You shouldn’t walk home alone this late.”

  I’m tempted to say I’m a big girl and point out that this is not the same New York of the eighties. But I’m so tired I’d gladly skip all the fuss of changing and walking home.

  “Come on, Chevron,” I call. “We’re going home.”

  “Woof.”

  I haven’t attached her leash yet so that as soon as we exit the office, Chevron launches herself into the hall.

  “Ouch!” someone screams.

  There’s a teenage girl sitting on the floor of our landing who’s trying to fend off Chevron’s overenthusiastic reception.

  I dash after the pup, trying to grab her by the collar while apologizing to the girl. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t expect someone to be out here. But she doesn’t bite, I promise.”

  “It’s okay,” the girl says, cuddling Chevron. “She’s the cutest thing.”

  I manage to drag my overexcited puppy off the girl, who looks a bit too sad for her age.

  “Hey, are you all right?” I ask.

  The girl rolls her eyes. “Yeah, just waiting for my mom to finish work.” She points at the door to her left.

  I follow her finger to a plaque on the wall.

  Vivian Hessington

  Attorney at Law

  Family Law — Divorce Attorney

  The only other door on our floor opens, and a tall guy with a mop of curly dark hair comes out.

  We all exchange a polite greeting and then his blue eyes widen when he spots the girl on the floor. “Tegan.”

  “Hi, Luke,” the girl says.

  The girl and the newcomer seem familiar with each other. Suddenly, I remember the shouted conversation I overheard the first day I came here. The woman was screaming for the man to keep out of her daughter’s life. And the man was yelling back how someone ought to intervene since her mother didn’t seem up to the task. So this Luke is Mr. Meddling. I read the plaque next to his door.

  Lucas Keller

  Psychologist

  Marriage Counseling, Couples Therapy, Family Specialist

  Mmm, interesting pairing.

  I never noticed we were sharing the floor with a divorce attorney and a couple therapist.

  “What is she doing?” Luke asks, sounding mad.

  “She’s working late,” the girl says. “Big surprise…”

  “Up,” Luke offers her a hand. “Come wait inside my office.”

  They disappear behind the door just as the elevator arrives. I attach Chevron’s leash and follow the boss inside.

  Richard scoffs. “What’s the point of having kids and then acting like they don’t exist?”

  “That seems a little harsh. You don’t know that girl’s mother. The woman is probably doing the best she can.”

  “It’s not the first time our neighbors have argued about the girl.”

  “Still not your place to judge.”

  Richard gives me a hard stare. “You seemed pretty quick on passing judgments yesterday.”

  Ah well, Richard, gut-wrenching jealousy does turn me into an ugly person.

  I can’t really say what I’m thinking, so I keep quiet, already regretting taking the boss up on his offer for a lift home.

  ***

  Richard drives some sort of vintage sports car. I’m not sure what the make is, but I gather at first glance what the car isn’t: cheap, ordinary, American. The wheel is on the wrong side so I have to mount from the left. Richard hops in next to me, starts the engine, and drives away at an alarming speed.

  After only two turns, I’m already convinced I’m going to die. Sitting on the left side of a car in a right-driving country is no fun. It gives me the impression we’ll slam into the opposing traffic at any second. I turn to Richard to protest but find I can’t.

  The boss is looking straight ahead with a fierce, assured expression. One hand on the wheel, the other on the gear stick. His feet work the pedals, and our speed increases once again.

  Then it hits me. That’s how James Bond gets all his women. It’s the sporty British car. Or the speed. The adrenaline? Oh, who am I kidding! It’s the pilot—and his stupidly sexy forearms!

  “Enjoying the ride?” said pilot asks.

  “More wondering if I’m going to make it home in one piece.” I sulk. “You always drive like this?”

  “I can slow down if it bothers you.”

  Please don’t. “Yeah, thank you.”

  “Oooooooooooooooowhoo,” Chevron howls her remonstrations at the reduction in speed.

  Richard laughs. “At least one of my girls knows how driving should be done.”

  His girls? How am I one of his girls? Does he mean one of the girls in his car?

  I spend the rest of the ride overanalyzing Richard’s choice of possessive pronoun and don’t even realize when he pulls onto my street.

  “Sure you don’t want company?” Richard asks.

  “No, thanks. As I said, my source is skittish.”

  “Look at you, already protecting your sources. Next thing I know, you’ll go for a Pulitzer.”

  I roll my eyes and exit the car, whistling for Chevron to follow me. When she jumps off, I secure her leash and lean my head back inside. “Thank you for the ride.” Richard is struggling to look me in the eye, and in the eye only, given how deep the neckline of my top is in this position. “See you in the morning.”

  “Morning. Good night, I mean,” he says, choked.

  With a smile, I close the door. Richard waits for me to get inside before he burns rubber.

  I barely have time to let Chevron in, say, “Hi,” to Nikki, and dash out again. I ignore my self-im
posed austerity regime and take a cab uptown. The nude heels are too high to walk comfortably in, and I’m too lazy to take the subway.

  My phone pings halfway through the ride. It’s a series of messages from Melanie, the ex-colleague who supposedly had the dirt on the Vanderbilts. I hope the office gossip is reliable. If after all my boasting to Richard I show up empty-handed, I’ll die of shame. And I can’t stand the thought of Aurora beating me once again, even if she isn’t aware that we’ve engaged in a new fight.

  I won’t be there tonight

  The person you need to talk to is waiting at table 18

  Please do not contact me again

  I almost expect to receive a follow-up, “your phone will self-destruct in ten seconds” message, but that’s it. Good thing I didn’t accept Richard’s offer to come along. I don’t even know who I’m meeting.

  The bar Melanie—or this other person—picked is not very spy movie. The vibe is more standard Manhattan post-work drink: low lights, lounge music, expensive cocktails. I follow the table numbering to eighteen where a woman in her middle/late thirties is sitting, a dry martini in front of her. Brown hair, blue eyes, dark suit—I lower my gaze—cool shoes. We’ll get along just fine.

  “Hello.” I stop next to the table. “I’m Blair Walker, Melanie’s friend.”

  “Oh, hi.” The woman gets up to shake my hand. “I’m Alison.”

  I sit opposite her and order a diet Coke, wanting to keep a clear head. To break the ice, we do a small round of get-to-know-you chitchat until she seems relaxed enough, and I move on to the real reason for this meeting.

  “So, Maison Vanderbilt. Mind if I take notes?” I ask, fishing in my bag for a notepad and a pen. How old-fashioned of me. I almost went and bought a tape recorder but it seemed a bit much, and I wasn’t sure a bar with music would’ve been the best place to use one.

  “Please, go ahead,” Alison says.

  “Okay, ready to get started?”

  She nods and takes a sip of her cocktail.

  “First, I need to know if you’d rather have your name on the record or if you want to remain an anonymous source.”

  “Anonymous.”

  “Good.” It’s not good. Anonymous sources pose an issue of credibility, and Richard is already all over me with this investigation. I hope at least Alison has some definitive proof. “So, Melanie didn’t tell me much over the phone. She only said you’re the one who came to her with a potential story two years ago and that she’d arrange this meeting.”