Diary of a Working Girl (16 page)

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while away the day alone, so that it can be broadcast into homes around America and everyone can feel sorry for them, like in the movies.

Despite the fact that I might be falling in love with Seth, I am still able to rejoice in the attention of other men. I made a concerted effort, when allowing that other boy to carry my bag (containing exactly one small coffee), to stop comparing him to Seth (who I’ve already surmised has a more romantic way about him, a nicer butt, and a more confident demeanor).

When I was smiling like a schoolgirl today in the cafeteria with Tom, and he asked me what was so damn amusing, I resisted the urge to say I am in love. Instead, I said “Oh, I’m just thinking how happy I am here!”

And he said, “You really must have needed to get out of your apartment badly, Ab Fab.”

Since love was in the air (in the air surrounding me, anyway) and I couldn’t stop thinking about how great it would be when Seth and I are going out on double dates and business dinners with Tom and his girlfriend, I brought the subject of her up.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you been with your girlfriend?” I asked. I was already picturing the four of us watching a polo match, dressed in white.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do mind you asking, but three years, if you must know,” he said.

“So, how’d you meet?”

“I wasn’t aware I was lunching with a representative from the Spanish Inquisition. But, if you must know, and I’m sure if you’ve asked, you must, I’ll tell you. I get this strange feeling that if I don’t, you’ll just keep asking until I do. So here goes.

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We were introduced by our parents, who’d met on vacation and apparently had nothing better to talk about than their unfortunately single children. My mother pushed and pushed until I said I’d go out with her—Whitney—and so, finally I did.

That was three years ago. She’s a real estate broker. She’s from Westchester. And that’s all you’re getting. Happy?”

I thought it was rather strange, him being so snippy about her, and not once saying something like, “She has the most amazing sense of humor,” or “You’d really like her.” I always hoped that would be the sort of thing a guy would say about me when I wasn’t around. But I chalked it up to the fact that some people just don’t like to discuss their private lives and went back to imagining what mine would soon be like.

I

After work,when I’m taking a sip of a frosty Miller Light at the long oak bar at Due South, the pub across from the Traveler’s Building, I begin talking about Seth, who I’m still set to go out with tomorrow. We are at this bar because Joanne is suddenly very interested in my male-rich environment and wanted to see what I’ve been gushing about for the past few days. According to Tiffany, some of the guys from work spill over here so I thought it would give Joanne a taste. But there really aren’t that many people here at all. What could they possibly be doing? Working?

After I’ve told her about how great it will be when Seth and I start double-dating with other work couples she shoves a palm in my face.

“Oh no. You are not doing this again. Not when you’ve got so much riding on this assignment.” She shakes her head, taking a sip of her cosmo and grabs for her box of Parliaments.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not
doing
any-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 121

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thing! I’m just preparing myself for my date. I’m working overtime, if you must know the truth—picking out my outfit, taking it to the dry cleaner, scheduling manicures and pedicures. It’s a lot of work, Joanne.”
I
don’t even believe what I’m saying as it’s coming out.

“Are you out of your mind? You know exactly what I’m talking about. You did the same thing with James, and you’ve done it with every other guy you’ve ever gone out with. You build it up so much in your mind that the only thing you can get after that is disappointment. Just take things as they come. Do you think Peter and I sit around staring into each other’s eyes all night when I get home from work?”

I had pictured this very thing many late nights alone in my bed, but I’m guessing that would be the improper response by the way her face is turning green.

“No, Lane, we don’t. I get home. He asks why I didn’t feed the cat before I left. I ask him why his wet towel is still lying on the floor from yesterday and then we fight about what we’re going to eat for dinner. And
we
love each other. That’s life Lane. Not this fantasy world you’re living in.”

Why is it that any time you are getting the tiniest opportunity to be optimistic someone has to come in and ruin it with talk of this

“real world” we’re all supposed to be living in? When I’m miserable and I call Joanne up to cry, she unfailingly keeps putting the phone down to say things like, “I love you, too, honey,” and “Oh, babe, can you rub my back for a minute?” But now I’m looking for her to support my positive outlook, she has to tear it to shreds and stamp all over it. I don’t know what to say.

“Is everything okay with you guys?” I try, deciding I’d rather not get into an argument at this particular moment.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” she says and finishes the second half of her cosmo in one sip.

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And I’m trying to support her and bring her spirits up by whooping at her fantastic victory over the potable when, out of the corner of my eye, I see one Mr. Tom Reiner. And next to him, wearing the scowl of the century, is the girl from the picture on his desk, Glamour Shot hairdo and all.

I turn in my seat to face the bar so he won’t see how shocked I am at what this woman looks like in person.

I’ve got my hand over my face and Joanne asks, “What? What?

You look like you’ve just watched a credit card company repossess your entire wardrobe.”

It’s too late. I can’t hide. He’s seen me. And the hostess is taking him to a table, which requires him to cross right by me. I’m hoping I can seem supportive and complimentary, but I’ve just never been good at hiding things.

“Ab Fab, fancy seeing you here,” he says, looking more at my feet than my face. His
girlfriend
is looking at me from head to toe and back again in that horrible way that, that, well,
I
do when I’m sizing up the competition, which is ridiculous, since I am practically definitely maybe going to marry Seth.

“This is Whitney; Whitney, this is Ab, um, Lane, my assistant.”

I put my hand out, and it takes her a second to take hold of it with her dragon-nailed hand. When she does, it’s with a birdlike grip I can barely feel.

“Charmed,” she says, clearly not meaning it. And then she turns to Tom and says, “I think we should go to the table now. If we’re not going to a
real
restaurant, then the least we can do is eat at a table—rather than at the bar—like civilized people.”

I look at my plate of boneless chicken wings here and should probably feel like a barbarian, but instead, I stab one with a fork and go, “Mmmmm,” waving them off, with a closed-mouthed, mid-chew grin.

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Tom looks as if he’s going to flash that award-winning smile, but thinks better of it, waves and follows his Ivana Trump look-alike to a corner table.

“That’s your boss?” Joanne asks, with disbelief.

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, he’s so—young. And cute. How come you never mentioned him?”

I look at them; she appears to be fixing his hair, licking her finger and trying to smooth down a flyaway. I would have never guessed he’d be one for the mother type. I’m relieved I can’t see his face.

If I could pick a woman for Tom, she’d be wonderful, stylish, smart, funny. I’m mentally cataloging my girlfriends to think of a single one, but I’m the only one who doesn’t automatically receive the “And Guest” invitations these days.

“What’s to mention? He’s a sweet guy and all, but definitely not M&M material. Did you catch a load of that tie? And anyway, he has a girlfriend.”

“Whatever,” she says. “I’ve had enough of downtown. Wanna head back to the real world?”

I

“You know what you need?” Joanne perks up in the taxi,as if she’s just found the cure for cancer. “You need to have some random hookup with a guy that you do not have to worry yourself sick about with stupid questions about him being your Kit Kat or whatever.”

“M&M.”

She doesn’t skip a beat. “It’s unnatural dealing with this twenty-four/seven. I think you’re in danger of going mad and I don’t mean that in a romantic HBO version of
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way, so don’t even go there. It’s hard enough meeting anyone, wondering whether you should go on a second date, much less whether you can spend the rest of your life with them, before you’ve even had dessert. I really am afraid you may short-circuit. That’s it.

We’re going uptown to a posh spot where none of these guys would ever go.”

The jury is still out on whether or not I am going mad. It is possible, perhaps, that some might say I am a smidge too excited about my date with Seth. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m merely enjoying myself. Thoroughly. The pressure is there, but only a bit, since I’m still only in week one, and everything seems to be progressing swimmingly. Still, I’m never one to argue when it comes to meeting Mr. Right Now, who has many merits, which are thoroughly indisputable.

Mr. Right Now is Joanne’s term. She’s always telling me I should enjoy the single life because, once you are in a serious relationship, “You’ll never be able to touch another man’s ass.”

I can’t imagine being so unhappy with your own man’s ass that you’d want another one, but I will never judge Joanne’s relationship again. The one time we’d gotten down to talking about her sex life and she said they had sex on average once a week, I nearly fell off my seat laughing. What kind of relationship is that? Certainly not one I’d ever imagined. I’d thought it was a joke. Apparently it wasn’t.

First she grew angry—eyes widening to perfect circles, brows raised so high they disappeared into her hairline—and glared at me like she was about to pounce. But after the scariest twenty seconds of my life, all she said was “Lane, you’ll never change, will you?”

So now I just concentrate on my own love life. To each his own.

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from feeling desperate should my mission fail. It’s the best of both worlds really.

Twenty minutes and an eight-dollar cab ride later we are ordering another round of drinks at Cherry in the W Hotel. I have spent the last decade trying to meet men this way, and it has never proven successful before, but there’s always that stubborn inkling of hope in the back of your mind that
this time
will be different.

“You’re so lucky you’re single,” Joanne says, and I can’t believe she’s bringing this up again.

For someone who fancies herself knowledgeable in the ways of the world, she sure doesn’t know the first thing about how unlucky the single life is. And I’m just about to start in about how before I met Seth the weekends stretched out ahead of me like torture tests—a series of never-ending hours to be occupied by various modes of distraction (mainly complaining about how there’s nothing good to eat anymore; in desperation, eating something fattening; complaining about how I just ate something fattening; wondering what I’ll eat next)—punctuated only by overindulgent sleeping jags, when I feel a tap at my shoulder, and hear the words,

“Excuse me.”

I jump, and in the process, land my pink drink right in the lap of the unfortunate speaker. The first thing I see is a wet lap. And then I notice that the wet is rather embarrassingly placed over the crotch of a rather exquisite pair of navy pants, which, looking up, I notice, is actually part of a rather exquisite suit, over a sleek button-down shirt, on a rather nice frame, and, finally, topped by one of the most beautiful faces I’ve ever seen on a man. Watery blue eyes, small, in that sort of squinty, sexy way, strong brows (I am an avid fan of the strong brow on men), a well-defined jawline, and almost nonexistent lips. Most people like big, full lips, but I like tiny, skinny ones. There’s no reason, really. I just do. Perhaps it’s something to 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 126

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do with those Ken dolls I played with as a kid—they all had the tiniest lips. And I might add here that this guy knows exactly how to choose a tie. His is a beautiful, discreet, checked pattern with a hint of blue that perfectly compliments the shirt and the eyes and—whoa!

“Do you have the time?” he asks in an English accent (an English accent! I’ve spilled a drink on the most beautiful man ever to step foot in a W Hotel bar, who has, above all things coveted, an English accent!), as if nothing has happened.

I want to apologize, offer to lick it off if necessary, but, instead, look at my wrist, and say, “Six-thirty.” Thank God I’d settled on that watch at Century 21. Apparently miracles never cease!

“Great. Then I’ve time for you to spill one more drink on me before my dinner meeting. What’ll it be?”

I look over at Joanne, and in that no hands/words needed language that we communicate in, ask how to proceed here.

And in the no hands/words needed language, she lets it be known through a flick of a brow and the slightest turn of a cheek, that I should order another cosmopolitan, introduce myself, and attempt to refrain from regarding him as an obsessed ’N Sync fan would Joey Fatone.

Gosh she’s helpful when she doesn’t open her mouth.