When I was sure I would tumble down right there at the corner, our lips parted and, ravenously, we searched inside each other’s mouths while his hands made their way at once around the back of my neck, along my cheek apples, at the lengths of my hair.
Although his collection of Park Avenue ladies probably hadn’t prepared him for such forwardness, I just couldn’t help myself from at least feeling, if only over the pants, that stellar ass I’d been doodling on paper scraps all day. “What could you possibly need all of these for?” John asked when I’d inquired after an extra notepad for the third time. Liam’s butt was like the last piece of Godiva chocolate daring me from a dish within arm’s length; though I’d been good for hours—I finally had to have it. I felt him smile at my touch, so I gather it was fine by him.
While we kissed the light switched from green to red and back again ten, maybe twenty times.
WALK. DON’T WALK. WALK. DON’T WALK.
We didn’t care.
An encouraging honk for our benefit.
Again I felt his smile.
When we parted and lips and tongues reluctantly returned to rightful owners, he lingered, his lids still low, as if his mind couldn’t quite let go.
I was a femme fatale dangereuse. Ahhh. The power in my left pinky alone could transform a man into a pillar of salt.
And when finally, his sparkly blue eyes were revealed, he whispered. “Woah.” He shook his head and shoulders, as if shivering. “You are amazing, Lane. I could stand here and do this forever.” His voice broke down to a whisper. “Breathtaking.”
I really couldn’t have imagined it better myself.
For once, I was glad my building had no doorman, because the things we managed to do standing upright in front of 555 West Thirteenth Street would surely have been grounds for eviction. Who knows how long we would have been at it if Mrs. Kramer from the third floor hadn’t returned from walking her Chihuahua and let out a big “Ahem!” to prompt us to move out of the way.
So… if I were a Girl Scout, and they had a patch for self-control, I would have used a big plastic safety needle to sew mine on proudly. Saying good-bye at my door after we’d gotten all warmed up like that was one difficult feat, let me tell you. But, since I am not a Girl Scout, and I am not supposed to be liking Liam this much, and should not, by all rights, be smiling this much in my bed, fantasizing about the butt under the pants of a man who does not work at my company and is not allowed to be my M&M, I, for one brief second, taste regret. I should have just gone for it. Any girl in her right mind would have gotten it over with. Out of the way. Just cleared the path to success.
But then the dreamy effects of the cocktails take hold and the wonderful movie of memories play in my mind. Common sense seems to have drifted miles away.
Executive assistant-y duties are becoming second nature to me by the following week. I’m finding my way through the ins and outs. It turns out Seth is a wonder at converting currencies, and even though I’ve pushed our date off for next week, he doesn’t seem to mind helping me out. In just one hour he brings the sheets back to me at our established meeting place— the copy room.
Tiffany and I have lunched a couple of times, and although we work not twenty feet from each other, we mainly communicate through instant messages, talking about this one and that one—I absolutely love office gossip! Who knew I’d been missing out for so long? And John, sweet as he is, is a bit of a gossipmonger himself. I’m not sure what his motivation is, but he’s taken to e-mailing me all sorts of links of wild animals on the internet and writing the words: “Tom’s Boar,” “Tom’s Tarantula,” “Tom’s Barracuda” in the subject line when one reminds him of our boss’s girlfriend. I feel badly for Tom, since he’s so nice and all, but I can’t help thinking there must be some redeeming quality in her if he’s in love with her.
Tom himself hasn’t one bad quality, as far as I could see. When I get in each morning he’s already on the phone with Europe, I imagine making deals or wheelin’ and dealin’. Busy as he is, Tom always acknowledges my arrival with a friendly wave. My “To Do” pile is always in the same wire basket next to the entrance to my cubey, each task clearly marked with instructions, which uniformly include the words “please” and “thank you.” The work is easy and nobody’s staring over my shoulder all day. I get the jobs done and I’m left alone. If every boss was this logical the entire boss joke genre would just fade away.
Sitting at my desk using my post-work free time to spell out L-I-A-M in writing utensils on my blotter, I realize something amazing. There are no curved letters in his name! I am just realizing there are also no curved letters in my own name when it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t be going out with Seth at all. Time has sped by and it’s the day before my second date with Mr. Right Now, and my heart, and all of my filthy thoughts, for that matter, all belong to Liam. Liam. Wondrous, sex-god Liam. At he most inconvenient times he pops into my head: I’m bringing coffee to Tom, taking telephone messages, filing papers when I picture him naked, nibbling at different bits of me. Sometimes I have him standing me up against a wall in some alleyway, Nine and a Half Weeks-style, ripping my skirt up out of the way.
I’m having the best imaginary sex life. It’s so good. I don’t even want to share it with my friends. I want to keep it all to myself. I kind of have to anyway because the only people I could really share it with are irritatingly rational and have this awful habit of reprimanding me for doing the wrong thing.
When Joanne asks me how things are going, I say, “Oh, perfect.”
“Excuse me, I must have the wrong number,” she says, and proceeds to push in the buttons in a rather annoying fashion. “Hello? Hello? I’m looking for my friend Lane, the one who feels it necessary to share with me every detail of her life, including when she’s about to pee. Any idea where I might find her?”
I inform her I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. She ignores my blatant lies as if I haven’t even spoken.
‘Oh, no. You’ve got it bad. The Mr. Right Now Backfire. I’ve seen this before. It’s rare, but it happens.”
I could all but see her shaking her head, rolling her eyes, burying her face in her palm. And so, I do the best thing I can think of—pretend.
“Really, Joanne, what the hell are you talking about?” The Backfire. Damn. Please don’t let it be the Backfire. Not happening to me. Not right now.
“Now, instead of spending your time fantasizing like a lunatic about someone at work before you get to know him—a path, which might, despite how ridiculous it sounds, could actually help your situation—you’re wasting time fantasizing like a lunatic about someone who will not only not help you with your article, but will probably break your heart. He was supposed to be Mr. Right Now! Lane, what have we learned in the past!” (I am not putting a question mark here because she is clearly not waiting for an answer.)
She goes on. “Did I not tell you to just sleep with him and get it over with! Then he could’ve just been an asshole and not called and you’d be on your way to finishing this article! Have I not taught you anything!” (Again statements posing as questions.)
The Backfire. The Backfire. I’ve been burned. My heart is racing with the severity of the pickle I’ve gotten myself into. I swipe my desk surface clear of the writing utensil design of Mr. Right Now’s name, as if that might help, as if that might somehow prove Joanne wrong.
You know what? I realize a horrible, embarrassing fact as I’m reconstructing Liam’s name (I feel lonely without it): I don’t even know his last name.
“I bet you don’t even know his last name,” Joanne quips.
“Sure I do.” It’s Backfire.
“Well, what is it then? Backfire?”
“I’m not having this conversation,” I say, growing annoyed and falling into a panic, despite the fact I am surer than ever that after tomorrow I will obviously never have any interest in him other than a professional one.
I swallow a chuckle at the memory o
f Mrs. Kramer’s “Ahem!” I’m totally getting used to the idea of saying good-bye to romantic Liam and hello to boss-man Liam. I do wonder, though, how much room he’s got under his desk? This is a strictly professional curiosity. Maybe it’s one of those desks that are really more like a table with lots of room for all sorts of “meetings” one may hold there…
“Well, I’ll just say one thing, and then I won’t bring it up again, ever.”
Right. Because there will be no need. Because I’m never going to think about him again, except as my boss, Mr. Backfire. Is there… ahem… anything I can do to, er, I mean, for you, Mr. Backfire? “Yes?” I ask, indignantly. If I could just, somehow, make this out to be all Joanne’s fault, maybe I can go through with sabotaging my career by throwing this assignment in the toilet and sleeping with a future boss. Then I could just go ahead and look forward to many bawdy evenings with one Mr. Liam Backfire. Right?
“Don’t forget what you have at stake here. You’ve got your whole career riding on this assignment and with your head in La-La-Liam-Land, you’ll never do what you have to do.”
I guess not.
Hmmph. Well, I’ll show her, anyway! I’ll have sex with Liam, and it will be great, and then I’ll just continue on as planned. That will show her.
Doesn’t sound like such an awful plan, does it?
When I record this conversation in Diary of a Working Girl, I realize just how right Joanne is.
I’m making this assignment very difficult on myself. But what about my happiness? How many times do you get to meet Mr. Right?
Judging from the throngs of women heading out to bars on the weekends with blown-out hair, painstakingly applied make up, and desperate eyes, I’m guessing, not very often. What if Mr. Right is Liam? And, look, my first week is only half over and I’ve already got a date with Seth—I’ve put it off, but men love when women play hard to get, don’t they? Isn’t this what everyone is always telling me I do wrong? For someone who’s never had a lot of prospects before, I think I’m on a pretty good track. And writing in this diary (that’s you!) each day will make the process of actually writing the article simple enough. I think I’ve got a firm hold on the situation. So, it won’t matter too much if I just stop writing about this project for a bit, and switch to oohing and aahing over Liam. CENSORED!!!!!!!!
Eight
Serafina
Tonight Liam is taking me to Serafina. The only other time I’ve been to Serafina, a very rude man in dark sunglasses did not “Give a shit if you write about nightlife, even if it’s for the fucking New York Times.” He handed my business card back to me like it was one of those donation sheets peddled by a posing blind man in the street. I hung my head and pushed my way through the throngs of would-be entrants to leave the way I came. I hadn’t really wanted to go that time anyway. It was a friend of mine who was dying to get inside and mix with the Hiltons and the Keisselstein-Cords.
I never understand the allure of places like this. Why set your sights on going somewhere that doesn’t want you in the first place, and then insults you by charging sixteen dollars for a cosmo? If you did get inside, you’d spend the whole night worrying that your fake Gucci would be discovered.
I’d rather my local pub, where they’re always glad to see me, and would never think of charging more than five dollars for a drink of anything.
I’ve also got an aversion to the slick men who frequent these establishments. I can’t even stand talking to them. It’s always, “And were you in the Hamptons last weekend?” and “Have you been to the Mondrian in LA.?” “Screw that,” I told Chris one night, after a couple of hours at the swanky Lotus club. I was only there because I had to review it, I told him when he pointed out the obvious. “Isn’t that Madonna over there?” he said. I turned so fast my neck cranked. “Nah, you don’t care, not at all.” This is the thing about people who know you—they don’t let you get away with anything.
“Because I’m here for work! I do have an image to uphold,” I told him.
So, if, in fact, it’s true that if one of those guys ever did ask me on a date, I’d rather eat my own hand, then you’re probably asking why, then, I’m going on a date with a slick guy like that?
First of all, Liam wasn’t wearing sunglasses when I met him, at night, in a bar. Second, he can’t possibly be part of that ridiculous scene—he’s British! And, third, I’ve already gone on a date with him to a thoroughly acceptable spot (Sushi Samba isn’t trendy; it’s a classic for Chrissake) and had a fantastic time, and so I know firsthand he is not like those other guys, dropping their jaws at the sight of pin-straight blond hair and a size twenty-three waist, sticking out between a half shirt and low-rider jeans.
Also, there’s that butt.
The food at Serafina is good enough, and I note with some pleasure, that Liam knows the difference between Blue Point and Malpêque oysters and orders his filet mignon at the perfect medium rare. Tonight he’s wearing a shirt so blue that against them, his eyes run the risk of blinding passersby with their brilliance. They might just be the eighth wonder of the world. We split the most wonderful bottle of some French Le Something 1994 Cabernet, and I am feeling, if possible, even more warm and fuzzy than when I first spotted him at the entrance to the restaurant, just a half-hour earlier.
The dinner goes by without a hitch. I can’t talk about my job for obvious reasons, and so I steer the conversation to more relevant topics—mainly him, him, and him.
Thankfully, he doesn’t mind talking about himself at all. Normally, I might find this annoying, but his life is so wonderfully fascinating I find myself wanting to know the color shirt he wore when this happened, what sort of toothpaste he was using at that point, whether he preferred his potatoes mashed or scalloped.
In his first year of grammar school, Liam had a teacher by the name of Mrs. Smithy, who made up a song with everyone’s name in it, followed by their hobby, so that the class could get to know each other. She’d asked the students to tell the class their favorite hobby on the first day, so she could put the song together, and each child called out answers like “drawing,” “painting,” and “swimming.”
When she got to Liam, he didn’t hesitate when belting out, “kissing girls.” Everyone giggled. But he had an older brother, and apparently, this was all he spoke about. Liam said he was a “sponge” back then, soaking up everything his brother thought was cool.
Obviously, the teacher asked him to select another, and to that he said, like a cautious attorney, “I’ll have to get back to you.” Mrs. Smithy nearly fell over and promptly called his mother up to school.
After the meeting Liam overheard his mother telling his father what had happened. The father laughed and joked, “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a little gigolo, there.” Liam’s mother was shaking her head trying not to laugh when she spotted Liam listening at the door. He shouted, “I’m a gigolo! I’m a gigolo!” skipping about chanting the mysterious word.
From that moment on, he had a new nickname. Gigolo’s mother let the teacher know that he also enjoyed the hobby of piano playing, which he hadn’t—yet. So, she signed him up for lessons, the fruits of which, to this day, remain the ability to play the lower key arrangement of “Chopsticks.” Wouldn’t you know it? I happen to be well versed in the upper portion! We’re due for an ensemble the next time we’re at his apartment, which is fitted with a piano; all of their family homes are now—just for the joke.
“That is one very expensive joke,” I comment.
He just waves it off, as if to say, “Money is nothing to me.” And while this might normally be taken for a showy display, I find it endearing and, well, sexy—although I can’t say exactly why.
When the main course comes out, we’re covering the ground of his fascinating high school years, when he became the top rugby player. Even after his thorough explanation involving a chart drawn on a napkin—a real cloth napkin! (What a loon! He said he would pay for it, “obviously”)—I still don’t get it. What’s better
about passing backward?
He tells me he once had his heart broken “right in two” by a woman five years his elder. She was a neighbor—twenty-five, when was merely twenty. All the while they were having their “affair,” which he called it because it was the biggest secret Gigolo’s ever had, neither of them told a soul. She would make stinging remarks like “You’re too young for me,” and “You know this can never last,” though her actions spoke differently.
Since she didn’t seem to mean them, he would toss those comments to the wind. She was merely rationalizing to herself about being with a younger man. Obviously, she really loved him, he’d tell himself. He couldn’t love this much alone. Besides, she’d told him she did. Sure it would be at the oddest times—after she’d had a particularly bad day, the sole purpose of a three A.M. telephone call—but she would let slip those three words, and after so much deprivation, when Liam would hear them, they were savored. But later, it would always be the same: He’d ask her about it; she’d deny ever saying it at all. It was tragic.
I tear up at his recounting of it. Liam reaches over and collects the tears from the corner of my eye with a gentle touch.
Even his finger has a deep soul, capable of rich emotions that most men can’t comprehend.
Diary of a Working Girl Page 14