Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

“You can; you can,” I gently persuade after he says he can’t go on with this story. “I’ve never shared it before,” he says, pursing his lips. Bravely, he recovers and forges ahead with the narrative. After she abruptly cut him out of her life, he told me, he’s never been able to bare his heart to another woman.

  The poor thing, I find myself thinking. There is too much pain in the world. I resist the impulse to jump across the table and stroke his face. I declare my life’s mission: If it’s the last thing I do, I will get Liam to bare his heart to me. After all, I’m a different kind of woman. I am Ab Fab; I smile at the name’s creator—the boss who belongs to that other world, which is threatening my happiness and my sanity. Ab Fab. That really is funny. “Ab Fab, can you bring the faxes?” I get the urge to share it with Liam, but I don’t want to interrupt his monologue on his childhood summers at his family home in Provence. It’s a good thing I don’t because he says, “I would love to take you there this summer when the weather is like heaven on earth.”

  I am overcome with hatred for that stupid, awful woman who took his heart and didn’t even appreciate it. At the same time, I’m consumed with the desire to show him with every inch of me that I can love better than she can. I bet they never even went to his home in Provence. Score one, Lane Silverman.

  Obviously, though, I cannot fall in love with Mr. Right Now Backfire. Obviously, I cannot see his home in Provence, I don’t even like the countryside (although you can wear all of those great Liberty print sundresses that never seem right in the city). I’m not even close to falling in love with him.

  He orders one warm chocolate cake with crème fraiche to go, and asks, would I mind if we share it at my apartment?

  His place is out of the question, as his father has surprised him with a visit and is staying there overnight. “I suppose we could go,” he says, “but then we’d have to share our pudding with him.”

  He’s so witty, we giggle all the way to Thirteenth Street. I’m giddy with anticipation; I can barely wait to see what the hell we are about to do with our dessert. When my building comes into view I panic, though. I’m embarrassed of my tiny, dingy apartment. Then, with the distinct feeling that Omar Tuama, our taxi driver, is enjoying the view from his rearview mirror, I once again feel Liam’s hot breath close to my face, and then his lips and then his tongue, and then, oh…

  He doesn’t seem to lift even an eyebrow at my rickety old lobby with its lack of chair or couch or table even, makes no mention of my ancient jiggly elevator, or even my tiny apartment. Not that I would care if he did, this being our last time together and all.

  “You’ve done great things with the space,” he says, looking around and tossing his jacket over the sofa arm. “It’s very charming.”

  I return the compliment. “You are very charming. And so I will get the spoons,” I say, heading for the kitchen.

  “There’s no need for spoons,” he says, pulling me back from the kitchen with a hand on either side of my waist.

  And while I may have thought myself well versed in the things one could do with a warm chocolate cake and crème fraiche, I must now admit I’ve barely scratched the surface…

  Despite what you may think, not a lick of it finds its way onto my sheets. Liam is very skilled in the chocolate and lovemaking department. And, this time, going to sleep, with nothing but my sheets around me, I don’t have to think over the Liam I spent the evening with to keep myself warm. I actually have the Liam I spent the evening with to keep me warm (although I swear this will definitely, positively be the last time).

  With an arm looped under my side, and another one stroking my middle, his mouth lingers by my neck. He says right into my skin. “You are a breathtaking woman.”

  And the breathtaking woman and the breathtaking man fall asleep.

  Not three hours later, I wake, turn, and stare at this wonder in my bed, looking adorable and so human snuggled in my fax fur throw. I lean in and kiss him gently behind his ear, meander to his cheek, and eventually, his mouth. Never does protest and say, “I’m sleeping!” as others have in the past.

  In fact nothing he says is audible at all. It’s more like a hungry, language of desire that only we understand. I couldn’t even explain it to you, because really, no two other people have ever experienced anything like this. It’s just too bad this will be the last time they do.

  Nine

  Plan B

  The following week my assignment becomes difficult to concentrate on. The millions of men around me have morphed into faceless, barely noticeable droids. And that is probably because my plan to sleep and desist has gone awfully awry. I realize the extent of this one night, when I’m once again zoning out at the lovely length of Liam’s bare limbs and tight buttocks. After a few too many glasses of wine and a whopping four hours doing the most enjoyable things, glancing at my sleeping wunderkind, I get a fabulous idea. I absolutely cannot believe it has taken so long to come up with this! It was staring me in the face (and plenty of other places I won’t mention here) the whole time! Lane Silverman is about to save the day—and her sanity.

  I tiptoe to my computer and pop an e-mail over to Karen, my editor at Cosmo, suggesting I switch the whole thing around, so the thesis is instead that meeting The One happens when and where you least expect it. In my excitement and urgency, I add some convincing arguments of both personal and professional natures that seem appropriate and poignant. Glancing back at Liam (who’s just made the cutest little grunt) and reading it once again over a glass of wine, I’m amazed I was able to capture my feelings so perfectly, and so I click to send.

  I am really thinking like an award-winning journalist now. I’m surely on my way. And so I find myself on the way back to my Mr. Right Now Backfire, now Mr. Right.

  But when I am awoken at 7 a.m. by the jingle of a new e-mail, I delicately slip out from Liam’s arm and over to the computer to learn that my editor doesn’t quite see things my way. What is she doing up so early anyway? Sitting poised and ready to record the hour, minute, and second I screw up? She probably logs it in her day planner: 7 a.m.—Monitor Lane Silverman’s screw-up status.

  Lane,

  While I am glad you find me the most thoughtful, wonderful, fantastic, open-minded editor you have ever worked with, I regret to inform that you will have to stick with the original plan. Yes, Liam does sound absolutely “dreamy,” as you put it, and a “real” British accent does put him on a whole other level, but it looks like you’ll have to table your bloke for some other time, sweetie. If it really is an “otherworldly” love, perhaps the two of you will be meant to be in your next life. I guess this is what they mean when they say, “sacrifice for your art.” I do hope that you don’t think me a cold bitch for this, but if you really want to go for it with Liam, then I’ll pay you a finder’s fee for the story idea and pass it along to another writer. That’s the best I can do. This is Cosmo, after all—not some supermarket tabloid—so consider your choice wisely. But from what you’ve told me of your electricity, cable, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Citibank Visa bills, I gather you’ll want to stick with writing the story. It’s your call, darling.

  Best,

  Karen

  P.S.: If you decide to skip out on Liam, would you mind passing my number on to him? Thanks. You’re a peach.

  Surely I did not mention the tower of bills, ready to topple over on my desk, to my editor at Cosmo. I would never do a thing like that. It’s so unprofessional. And childish. So obviously not me.

  Let me just take a look….

  Crap. I. Am. A. Moron. I take a moment to collect my hopes from the basement, where they have now crashed down and look over at the two hundred pounds of fleeting happiness on my bed.

  There is a reason people use the phrase “too good to be true.” I am about to become well versed in it.

  I’ll have to continue with the original article plan. There is, however, no way I’m giving Liam’s number to that editor. She’s probably blond and five foot ten, dressed perfectly in a
matching sweater set and trim leather pants. In your dreams, Karen.

  I respond to Karen’s e-mail, letting her know that I will absolutely wash Liam out of my hair as of this moment and continue on as planned with the original article. I do apologize, I add, but it seems I have misplaced his number, and therefore, will unfortunately be unable to pass hers on (noting, of course, if I should ever happen to run into him again, I will surely do my best to play the part of Cupid).

  One month, one week, and one day to sort this out.

  Time for a new plan.

  Ten

  Plan C

  And with that, my one night of peace and normalcy and bliss since this whole thing began is over. Time to call in the troops for Plan C. I email Seth first thing when I get to the office to see if he is up to going out this evening. I spend the better portion of the day silently reciting the mantra, “Seth is The One. Liam is not.” I type it into a Word document over and over again mimicking the logic teachers use when they have children write repeatedly on the chalkboard, “I will not pull Sally’s hair.” The possibility of hiring a hypnotist to permanently implant this idea into my brain crosses my mind more than once. I will not think about Liam.

  I will not think of his soft, squishy lips, the salty-sweet smell of sweat on his body, or the way he was trying to tell a scary story but kept getting cut off by the laughing spells that infectiously overtook us.

  Seth. Seth. Seth. Seth’s Good Points. I name a new document, type the words at the top in bold, and begin a bulleted list:

  Excellent copier repair skills

  To date—not one instance of typing “their” where he meant “there,” or vice versa

  Cute butt (not as cute as Liam’s)

  Sweet

  Flirty

  Works at my company

  Is very good at converting currencies

  I am just stapling this list as an addendum to Seth’s official checklist when I realize: currency—Liam certainly isn’t miserly with his. The first gift of a dozen white roses was absolutely gorgeous. The card read, simply, as if I’d written it myself, Perfection! The second was a tastefully naughty powder pink teddy from La Petite Coquette, a place I have never been able to afford even window-shopping at. The card read, Wear me. The third was another arrangement of twelve white roses, sent to my apartment with a card that read, These are so beautiful I can’t help but think of you when I see them.

  Could you just die?

  And you know what else? Liam makes me feel so sexy. He’s always telling me that sex has never been so fulfilling before. So “innovative.” I am sexy in sweatpants. I am sexy in an old T-shirt. Basically, I am just sexy. As a matter of fact, I am existing inside the warm confines of a sex cocoon, where even crossing the street serves as an aphrodisiac. Career, family, friends, all come in a definitive second to the main attraction of life—carnal knowledge.

  Can you feel any closer to someone than when they are walking towards you—arms grazing sides you have bit, licked, sucked; mouth opening to reveal the tiniest peek of a tongue that has been intimate with peaks and valleys of your body’s topography that now feel illicitly exposed, though covered in clothing?

  I am a beauty queen, a goddess. Why has no man made me feel this way before?

  Checklist #128 Liam (Last Name TBD)

  1. Reads NYTimes:

  Notes: No actual proof, but, media career basically demands this, so, definitely yes.

  2. Has job that will allow for romantic trips to exotic locales; always insists we fly first class, feeding sorbet with a tiny silver spoon:

  Notes: Lives in exotic locale! Works in exotic locale! Has family summer home in exotic locale! Warm chocolate cake!

  3. Puts passion above common sense/practically:

  Notes: Reference memory of warm chocolate cake (stain from which he still cannot remove from his shirt), also reference little powder pink thing from La Petite Coquette, which defies common sense with its very existence as $380 non—supportive series of lace strands that serve no purpose other than to be anti—practical and pro—passion.

  4. Is British (depending on nature of remainder of checklist, this can, on occasion be fulfilled with valid British heritage documented on family tree, but British accent is most desirable):

  Notes: No family tree necessary! Woo hoo!

  5. Makes me get That Feeling:

  Notes: Reference dates one to five, as well as the 23,400 or so minutes since I first saw him, during which skirking responsibility, dropping things, and completely forgetting where I am going and why are commonalities.

  6. Knows how to be direct, e.g., Richard Gere, Pretty woman:

  Notes: See #3 above (warm chocolate cake incident).

  7. Has roses waiting for me I get home (even when I am working at home he always finds a way):

  Notes: Twice! No woman’s intuition needed here!!!!!

  8. I am unable to pass a Victoria’s Secret without dashing inside to find some new lacy, sexy thing with all sorts of straps that go God—Knows—where to surprise him with, and when I do he never says something as ridiculous as, “You must get dressed now, we are meeting my parents in ten minutes”:

  Notes: See newly acquired Victoria’s Secret credit card bill.

  9. He is so Beautiful, maybe not to everyone, but to me, that I wake up in the middle of the night and spend hours just staring at the angle of his jaw line, the arch of his brow:

  Notes: Although am aware that beauty can be fleeting, HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  10. If we ever do argue, it is always with bitter rage, arms flailing, and tears burning in front of a fountain in Central Park or by the tree in Rockefeller Center, or somewhere equally cinematic. But, then, without fail, we make amends—always meeting in the middle between his home and mine (this is perfectly in sync as we both have the urge for reconciliation at the same moment); and come together in the most passionate lovemaking we’ve ever experienced (once we’ve gotten inside, of course), and thank God that we have found each other. After, we spend the night laughing uncontrollably at the littlest things, like the way he says parents with the same A sound as in apple, while I pronounce it like “air,” and coming to revolutionary realizations about things—like how amazing it is that people now only drink bottled water, when before they’d never thought twice about drinking from a tap:

  Notes: Have actually shared this criterion with Liam, and he insisted we act out an argument right in front of Central Park fountain (Rockefeller Center tree obviously not in the spring time). He was fantastic actor, screaming,” How could you possibly have made love to the Frenchman when you knew it would tear my soul right from my body, leaving a gaping hole that will always bear your name!!!!!” We then met at the top of Union Square, dramatically made amends, and went home to, well, you know. Giddy and sweaty, little to no effort was required to find folly in the fact that he wears tight red underwear! And doesn’t plan on changing this habit anytime soon!!!!!!!!!!

  11. Witty statements are always on the tip of his tongue:

  Notes: Best to date (via telephone): “Why am I not in your bed being naughty right now?”

  12. He teaches me things I never even knew I had to learn:

  Notes: Slimy sushi tolerance, chocolate cake versatility.

  If every last one of my friends moved to Costa Rica I don’t think I’d mind in the slightest. Of course, I’d act all teary-eyed when we exchanged good-byes and well-wishes, but shamefully, all I’d really be thinking is, okay, hurry up and go already so I can get hack to Liam! What’s the holdup?

  Liam would never waste time with pleasantries and formalities like that. He gets right to the point. He can’t stand to have the distance of clothing between us—no matter how filmy and sheer the garments I’ve taken to wearing around him may be. Sometimes we don’t even make it to hello.

  Instead, the second he arrives at my door, he’ll say, “I haven’t been able to think of anything
but you all day.” Perhaps I should feel bad about this—he’s got a job to do after all. But I thrill at the idea of being irresistible. After a few days of this, I actually feel irresistible, as if someone should name a fragrance after me.

  He begins unbuttoning buttons, often tearing garments right off my body (the expense is nothing in comparison to the pleasure of letting the moment take you). He’ll barely close the door before we’re on the floor innovatively straddling each other. I barely recognize myself. To think I’m the same girl who used to fret about walking around in front of a boy in her underwear! Well, this is Liam’s effect on me.

  You might think this an odd way for a millionaire to conduct himself. And that’s one of his most intriguing points; he tosses aside all the stereotypes of class. He’s much more like a leather biker jacket sort. He’ll curse at any opportunity—toss profanities around like adverbs. I’d like to know how many millionaires you know who’d say, “This steak is fucking fantastic.”

  I’d never known cursing to be so sexy. It adds intensity to everything.

  “You are so fucking hot,” and “I want you so fucking badly.”