Hysterical Blondeness (2 page)

What fools these mortals be!

Shakespeare

The coast was clear, or so it
seemed. Paul noticed his blue striped necktie hung on the doorknob of their front door like how his old frat house buddies used to signal the room was “in use.” So amusing. He removed the tie and stuffed it in the pocket of his leather jacket. It would just get wet out here.

He was glad he’d bought this place. It was perfect for him. Two blocks from Lake Union so he could kayak whenever he wanted to, close to
work, and so affordable with his two housemates.

He’d thought about shedding his two bosom buddies and getting some real privacy, but they were so much fun and their rent kept the property taxes paid. He had to admit he’d miss their crazy ways if he put them out in the cold.

A light Seattle rain drizzled over the edges of the porch roof as it sheltered him and his date, the lovely Danielle Wylie from Accessories.

“What a terrific place you have, Paul.”

“Thank you, Dani, I was lucky to have found it before the market exploded. It was a fixer-upper, though.” A moth fluttered around the arts and crafts porch light he and the girls had picked out and installed together. He glanced through the small stained-glass window into the house just in case some odd forms resembling his housemates came dancing out of the shadows through the colored glass light.

He put his key in the lock and twisted the deadbolt back, then swung the door open for his guest. He flicked on the hall light. “Welcome.” He gestured for her to go ahead of him.

Danielle Wylie moved herself with the style
and grace that came from finishing school, or money, or both. If he could bottle it, he’d make a fortune. He wondered at the amazingness that was her back end as she swayed ahead of him. Her long blonde hair swished like a horse’s tail. Swish. Swish. He was mesmerized.

“Let me take your coat,” he said, approaching her.

She offered herself backward, and he slid her black coat off her bare arms. She certainly had the right stuff, back and front. He’d been a little surprised when she’d agreed to have dinner with him—twice, even.

“Can I get you a glass of wine?” he offered.

“That would be lovely,” she replied.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know the rituals. It had been a while, but he knew his way around a woman.

Hanging Dani’s coat in the small closet by the door, he noticed Patricia’s Burberry plaid raincoat with its matching umbrella she’d nabbed on super sale. Gosh, did she forget to take it today? He had a vision of her all wet and huddled in a doorway somewhere with a soggy cat in her arms like Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

Wait, that was ridiculous. He knew perfectly well she and Pinky had gone to a double feature at the Grand Illusion Theater—a
Thin Man
festival. Patricia fancied herself very Myrna Loy. She called certain dresses she owned her plus-size Myrna Loy dresses. He learned all these names from being forced to watch old movies every Friday night for the last five years.

“Love the lunch boxes. Yours?” Dani gestured to the hall display of over thirty vintage lunch boxes that greeted them as they came in the entry. Patricia had put the Dudley Do-Right lunch box, his favorite, in a place of honor so he would see it every time he entered the house.

“Pinky’s. We all help her look for them now. It helps to have a purpose when you go into one of those giant antique malls. And on eBay, of course.”

“Cute,” she commented. Dani lightly touched each lunch box on the midlevel shelves with one finger as she passed. Then she walked into their living room and made herself comfortable on the sofa.

“It’s too bad about the rain. Otherwise we could go out on the deck. October is usually our best weather around here.” Paul walked to the
open kitchen and pulled out the bottle of Vouvray he’d put in to chill before he’d left for work. There was a sticky note attached to the label:

Va-va-va Vouvray! Go for it, Stud.

He ripped it off and stuffed it in his jeans pocket.

“Oh, this is cozy. October in Los Angeles is so boring. Just sun, sun, and more sun.”

“What a drag,” Paul said, hoping she wouldn’t notice his slightly sarcastic tone.

“Who took all the great photographs?”

“That would be Patricia, housemate number two.” Paul moved to show her the sepia-tinted photos hung on one wall of the living room. “These are her Pioneer Square photos. I love how she makes them look as if they could have been taken fifty years ago. She documents buildings that are going to be demolished, too, like this one, the triangle building under the monorail they tore down to build Westlake Center.

“Patricia has quite an eye. I’ve always told her she should become a photojournalist. She’s sold quite a few of her photos, too.” Paul realized he’d gone on about Patricia’s photographs just
a little too much. But he was very proud of her creative efforts and loved to show them off to company.

He looked over to see Dani’s foot jumping like an impatient kid in a waiting room. She uncrossed her legs and looked up at him.

“Your place has such a man’s touch, Paul, with all the wood and earthy colors and all. I suppose that’s okay with your housemates since they live downstairs, right? Upstairs is the manly part, downstairs must be the girl stuff. Well, partly, I guess, with the photos and lunch boxes and all that jazz.” Dani seemed to have lost her train of thought. “I mean, I knew right away you were straight even with your job and all,” she blathered, but no eyebrow, which he appreciated. “Because you are so
guy
—you know what I mean? You aren’t, like—sleeping with the downstairs girls, are you?”

He returned from the kitchen and poured wine into two glasses. He wasn’t sure how to reply to her comments. “I assure you nothing out of the ordinary is going on here. My housemates are just friends. I live my life up here, they live their life down there, happy as clams.”

Of course, he didn’t mention how their lives
had become a very intermingled affair and that his downstairs girls ate most of their meals with him as cook, and that their own downstairs mini-kitchen had probably grown cobwebs except for the microwave and the coffeepot. No, he didn’t mention any of that.

She took her wine glass and smiled brightly at him. Paul took a gulp of his wine on that note and took up the other end of the sofa. Dani was certainly friendly. He hadn’t thought to make any moves on her this early, but maybe he should try a less subtle approach in his dating technique and break his dry spell.

Asta, their very huge Maine coon cat, sauntered in from downstairs. He’d probably been sleeping in one of the girls’ rooms. He jumped on the sofa and tried to make nice to the guest. Paul knew that was just a precursor to biting her. “
Scram
, Asta.”

“Oh, what a cute kitty, and so huge,” Dani proclaimed, but didn’t attempt to touch Asta. A wise move, Paul thought.

“So how did you get to be a buyer’s assistant anyway?” she asked. The cat jumped off in a huff without biting anyone.

“It all comes from speaking Italian and my
grandfather back in New York being in the garment business. I’d taken a summer job in the men’s department of Nordquist’s after college, you know, in between finding a real job?”

“M-hm,” she mumbled as she sipped wine.

“They’ve had this same buyer for years and he doesn’t speak Italian. He’d always had an assistant, but the woman in that position had gotten married and left the company. So they put out a job posting on the bulletin board and I figured I’d get a free trip to Italy out of it, and I did.” Paul took his glasses off and cleaned them with his sweater vest, a habit, he realized, connected to his tendency to sink into retrospective thought.

“And you liked it so much you stayed?”

“More like I liked the paychecks. But over the years I’ve come to really enjoy the buying trips, and I get to see my grandparents back East so often. Henri is a good guy to work with, too. I have a degree in liberal arts, English, fiction writing, that sort of thing. It helps with all the levels of communication I find myself involved in.”

“How old are you, Paul?”

“Thirty.”

Somehow he felt the dark cloud of judgment descending upon him. He supposed it didn’t
sound like he was uber-ambitious. The creeping feeling of someone taking note that you’re not the top executive in some corporation, nor do you intend to become one—the expected fast track for guys you see in movies but not real life—worked its way up from his gut to his head. It left rather a stale taste in his mouth. He liked his job. Was that such a problem?

During their two dinners they’d spent most of the time talking about her: what schools she’d attended, what her goals were. All her life she’d wanted to become a buyer and work in the fashion business. She’d gotten a degree in fashion merchandising along with a four-year degree in something else. Paul couldn’t remember what. Business, maybe? So, hey, she could be some high-powered CEO herself.

Anything he said at this point would just sound like an excuse. There was nothing wrong with his job. It was cool traveling all over the place, and he felt a sort of kinship with his grandfather as he went about his business. He was a smart buyer, too. His department was in a terrific profit upswing and the company loved that.

He’d spent a total of no more than six hours with this woman, and suddenly he had serious
doubts about his continuing with the evening. Sure, the short black skirt and glowing sunlit blonde mane had been major motivators. She was pretty. She smelled good, like expensive perfume and salon-done hair.

But he didn’t feel much like seducing her anymore. He was having a little argument in his head. It was like Pinky and Patricia had gotten in there and were chiding him for going for someone with “the look” instead of a “kindred spirit,” as they put it. Where was his sense of character? Where was his brain?

In his pants, no doubt. But now it was shifting back to his head. What a pity. A guy should make his head shut up sometimes.

“You’re very cute, you know. Talk Italian to me.”

“Just randomly? Or in context?”

Oh, God, he sounded like Pinky now. What fool would talk himself out of a girl’s advances, no matter what her motivation was? They were both sober, consenting adults, after all.

Something was nagging at him besides the ghost of his two housemates’ lectures. Did Dani, in the back of that blonde head of hers, think that he could advance her chances of being made
buyer? Surely she couldn’t be that misguided, could she?

“Paul, I’ve applied for a job as a ladies’ shoe buyer. We could end up going to Italy together. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

“Say, you don’t think dating me could actually improve your chances of getting that job as a buyer, do you? Because you’ve got what it takes already. You don’t need me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt for you to give me a good recommendation, now, would it?” She gave him a pouty-lipped blue-eyed stare. Then she set her wine glass down—and his, too. She rolled right on over to him and ran her hand up his neck, maneuvering herself into a very body-oriented kiss. His glasses fogged up from her wine-scented breath.

As he endured her kiss he considered his options and hoped it would end fairly soon so he could offer her a nice Oreo or something.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have done that.” She paused. Her nose was just millimeters away from his. She looked cross-eyed from this angle. Like Asta when he came and sat on Paul’s chest in the morning.

Now is your chance, boy, just say,
Oh, yes, oh,
yes, let’s go for it! I’ll give you a recommendation!

“Um, would you like an Oreo with your wine?” Paul accidentally thumped his knee against hers as he moved slightly out of her grasp. She awkwardly withdrew her lovely body from his side and glared at him.

“I think we might be moving a wee bit fast.” Oh, a classic,
classic
line. The exit-this-way line.

“Are you, like, serious? Because you are a very sexy guy, Paul. You’ve got that whole Colin Firth thing going on, you know?”

“I’m just a very conservative fellow.” He swooped up his wine and cooled himself off with a hearty swig. “The old-fashioned type, I guess. I like to take things slowly.” I’m obviously a giant idiot, too, he thought.
Fesso
, as Pinky would say.

She brightened up. “Well, that’s sweet.” She patted his leg. “And I’d love an Oreo with my wine.” She scooted herself back into the comfort of the sofa of many colors.

That’s what the girls called it—the sofa of many colors, because it had four different colors of chenille decorating the thing. He’d objected, but they’d pushed it off as very brown and eclectic and masculine with its wooden trim. Craftsman style, they’d said.

Now, why did he think about things like that in the middle of times like this? Was he descending into domestic hell? It was all the fault of those two crazy girls. He shuddered and jumped up to get the Oreos.

Oreos, Oreos, let’s hope those two chocolate monsters hadn’t consumed them all. Wasn’t Patricia back on a diet? Paul rummaged in the junk drawer—home of all bad evil
junk
food. Score. He plated up a half dozen and tried to show some class to his guest. Although Oreos hardly qualified.

Oh, yes. Sitting on his sofa, eating Oreos with the hot girl. Smooth.

“Yum.” She munched her cookie. “Wicked, aren’t they?”

Paul twisted his open and scraped the white
guts
, as he and the girls called them, against his teeth. “Wicked,” he replied, consuming the innards of his Oreo.

Maybe he could talk himself back into some shallow sex with Dani Wylie. But tragically, he actually
was
the old-fashioned type. He had to be in love with a woman to take her to bed. And the naked truth was, he wasn’t even slightly in love with Dani Wylie.

She grinned at him. She had Oreo in her teeth.

“
Mooooooon River, blah blah blah blah blah
,” he heard a long drawn-out duet like two cats mating outside on his front porch. He sat up rod-straight. Those…those bitches! They’d promised him at least four hours.

There was a long, silent pause, some obviously hushed conversation, then the turning of the lock.
The turning of the lock!