Diary of a Working Girl

by Daniella Brodsky

  “All right, you’re angry. But I have a proposal. Since I’ve heard that you did wind up meeting someone after you finished this piece, I would like you to do a follow-up—you know, give the ladies out there a little hope that after all the rough stuff, there comes all the great stuff.”

  Now that definitely sounded totally up my alley, but I was angry.

  “I’m not sure I want to work with you again,” I said, unsure where I’d suddenly acquired this spike of bravery.

  “All right,” she said, dragging out the syllables, like we were bargaining. “Fine. If it’s four dollars a word you want, then that’s what we’ll give you.”

  I was silent. I couldn’t believe she had the audacity to think that my feelings could be bought for four dollars a word!

  “Okay, four-fifty, but that’s my final offer.”

  Well, what’s dignity, really? My feelings are fine now anyhow. And I owe it to my people. They need me. They are my people. (And you know how I feel about my people.) And it gets better. They liked the story about my wonderful Tom so much that Cosmo had me continue writing about our trials, tribulations, romance, and growth for every issue! After all that time reading about other people’s romances, not only do I get to have my own, I get to let other people enjoy it!

  Tom was hesitant since he’s so private and all, and there were to be photos of us with each column. But when I insisted he wear the globe tie and showed him the story about us, he was touched.

  “How could I deny you the pleasure of telling the world how wonderful I am? I won’t take no for an answer, Ab Fab.”

  Could you just die? He is so wonderful. And you know, I think he’s getting into this whole celebrity thing. He checks Page Six each day for news about us, although he says it’s just to “learn more about the Ab Fab world.”

  I’d insisted Chris shoot our photos for the column, since he’s the only one who consistently takes great pictures of me. When we arrived at Chris’s apartment for our shoot, he was staring intently at a Polaroid, smiling. I walked over to see who it was.

  “Number twenty-six?” I asked.

  “Oh Lane, number twenty-six is right.”

  “Did you finally meet him?” I asked.

  “Meet him? Oh, I did a lot more than meet him.”

  “So was he everything we’d hoped? Witty, funny, intelligent?”

  “Oh, no, he’s absolutely none of those things at all. In fact, he’s completely thick.”

  “So then why are you so happy?” I asked, confused.

  “Because now I can stop this ridiculous fascination with him and get on with my life.”

  Surely this couldn’t be. I mean, we’d joked around about how amazing these guys probably are, but there’s no way Chris really entertained the idea that he would one day fall in love with the guy from the Polaroid that he’d only ever spoken to in photographer lingo like, “Good. That’s good. Now to the left. Now stick your butt out. Go ahead and spread your legs wider.”

  Well, I guess that could be construed as intimate, but Chris—levelheaded, always together, Chris—was just as much of a dreamer as I was?

  “Your article really helped me get past the whole thing.”

  Now that you know how our future turns out, there’s the little unresolved matter of filling in the blanks you are definitely due. Before Tom took on the role of Prince Charming and showed up with one very stylish pump, he had a nudge from a real-life fairy godmother, who for once skipped the lofty, empty statements and got straight to the point. Let’s call her Joanne. For all the times my faithful friend implored me to remove my head from the clouds, when she read my article and my question about fate, along with the entire two hundred and fifty pages of Diary of a Working Girl, she took matters into her own hands.

  She realized I had, in fact, learned an important lesson about what meeting my M&M is really all about. But she also knew I had a history of taking things a bit too far. Pairing my now sullen outlook with the hints that had revealed themselves to me in my diary, she came to the same conclusion I had—that Tom and I were a perfect match.

  Waking the next morning before seven (I should have realized how uncharacteristic this was for her), she took the liberty of leaving a message for Tom that she had an important package for him. While I prepared for my investigation, she delivered the package herself and sat waiting while he read every word, clucking his tongue and muttering things like, “My tie was not that bad! I’ve had it since the first day I worked here. It’s a monumental tie, really it is.” She also said he did a whole lot of blushing.

  When he was through, my insightful pal asked outright: “You broke it off with your girlfriend way back before Lane even started probing you about her, didn’t you?”

  Before he answered, she whipped out her own copy and backed up her argument with legalese like, “If you’ll refer to page twenty-two, section three which reads, ‘I asked Tom if his girlfriend would mind another woman picking out his ties, and he just turned away and said, It’s fine.’ We have here a clear indication that a private man like you was unable to share such a personal matter as a breakup with someone whom he had strong feelings for because he was afraid of the possibility of rejection. Am I correct in this assertion, Mr. Reiner?”

  Joanne has honed these contract negotiation skills over many years of arguing that, no, her production company was not going to pay to have a doggie au pair on set at a photo shoot.

  “But,” Tom argued with Joanne, “I gave her a note telling her how I felt on the day she left here in a state over Liam—page two hundred—and she never said anything about it!”

  Joanne said, “Tom, if I know Lane, and I do, she would have told me all about that note, had she seen it. Was she not flustered? Is it not possible she lost it?”

  Joanne tells me he took on a face like he was figuring out a quadratic equation and then said, “But what type of a girl takes a job just to find someone who fulfills the requirements of the man she has been dreaming about since pigtail days?”

  But even before Joanne could go on with the three-pronged defense plan she’d prepared, citing cinematic obsessions, weaknesses for all things whimsical, and even (this is so sweet) how lovable and human this all makes me, he answered for himself.

  “The kind of girl that has used her magical powers to cast a home-brewed, black-magic love-spell on me. I’m even talking like her now, with run-on sentences and audibly hyphenated words. I’m using exclamation points!”

  When he let out a big, long sigh, he said, “If she wants a fairy tale, then by God, she’s going to get one! Now where are those ridiculously pointy shoes she hobbles around in and hides in her overhead cabinet in case she feels the need to change in the middle of the day?”

  Joanne says he was a man possessed, trying to decide between the croc and the caramel-colored pumps. He held them both up and proclaimed, “For the life of me, I will never be the kind of man to understand the unique merits of one pair of shoes versus another!”

  But just as Joanne was about to offer up the suggestion of the croc, he recalled reading that passage in my diary and suggested before she had the chance, that this would be the perfect choice.

  Joanne smiled triumphantly.

  Maybe needing your friend to approach your would-be love interest to show him the light is not the quintessential picture of romance, and I’ll admit this bothered me for a moment or two (three, tops), but that’s not the point, is it?

  The point is it’s my romance. And it’s a real romance—fabulous in its reality of all the pieces of me, fitting with all the pieces of him. Different pieces with bits sticking out here and there, some in the right places, some in the wrong places—but bits that each of us has room to contain within us. And, well, it does make for a good story.

  You already know the next part—the shoe, the flower, me as Cinderella, the kiss, palms on asses.

  There was a lot of work to do on my last day at Smith Barney. When finally, the papers for the merger were signed an
d everything I’d ever fax, file, or e-mail for the Mergers and Acquisitions Department of Smith Barney was faxed, filed, or e-mailed, I began packing the personal belongings I’d accumulated over the last two months. I untacked the card Tom had given me that first day with the flowers, I took down the job-well-done posters he’d made on expense day. John stood, looking over the cubey wall.

  “You two were so obvious,” he said. “I think that blind guy in the cafeteria knew before either of you did.”

  John, master number-cruncher, discreetly perfect boyfriend, clairvoyant.

  “Well, I’m glad we were a great source of entertainment for you.”

  “You know? I hate to admit it, but I’m really going to miss you. Still, it’s just as well, because I couldn’t very well e-mail animals that remind me of you to you.”

  My phone buzzed.

  “Ab Fab, can I see you in my office?” Tom asked over the telephone.

  I leaned back to glimpse him glimpsing me.

  “And don’t even think about touching my ass. This is a place of business after all.”

  “I would never do a thing like that,” I replied, hand over heart, eyelashes fluttering, loving this office romance so much that I really hated to think this was my last day.

  “So, what can I do for you?” I asked as I slipped into the seat opposite his desk, wearing the croc heels, which I had changed into when I arrived.

  “Well,” he began, trying to look serious and failing, “You did a great job on the design for that presentation. And apparently it worked.”

  I’m sure you had something to do with the success of the meeting,” I insisted.

  “No really, it was all you—that woman from AT&T called and said, ‘You know, I was on the fence, but that beautiful design finally brought me to my decision.’”

  I rolled my eyes to emphasize that I was not buying this brand of logic.

  “Whatever you want to believe, but either way, I would like to outsource all of our proposal designs to you. We pay a lot for that sort of thing and I know you really enjoyed it.”

  “You’re not just doing this because I’m your girlfriend?” I asked, and as soon as I did, I realized the mistake I’d made.

  What the heck was I thinking calling myself his girlfriend right away like that?

  “No, actually, it’s despite the fact that you’re my girlfriend.”

  Adorable man, really.

  Tiffany and I shrieked in instant message mode after I spent hours typing in for her what had happened.

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: Get out!

  Lame2001: Isn’t it amazing?!?$#%**

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: Which part?

  Lame2001: Me and Tom, of course!

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: I couldn’t think of a better match. But you have some seriously jealous women on your hands now!

  Lame200l: Do you think?

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: Oh baby. I know! Do you think yours is the only instant message window I have open right now? Why do you think I didn’t type a word all through your story? I was sending instant messages to just about everyone on our floor!

  Lame2001: You really are the queen of gossip.

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Lame2001: That’s right sister! So you better keep feeding me gossip when I’m outta here.

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: It is my duty and I take it seriously. And as long as you’ve spilled all your gossip to me, and you promise to keep a secret I’ve got something for you….

  Lame200l: What? What?!!

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: I’ve got a special someone right here, too….

  Lame2001: Who? You’re killing me.

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: You really haven’t guessed?

  Lame2001: Oh my god! Out with it already!!

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: Deep breath…. John.

  Lame2001: John across the cubey wall?

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: Who do you think forwarded him all those animal pictures poking fun at Tom’s ex-girlfriend?

  Lame200l: No way!

  Tiffanybabeoliscious: And by the way…there is no ‘spaghetti incident.’ John made that up so you’d start wondering about Tom, because he thought you two would be great together

  When I left at the end of that day, I had to sign a whole pile of confidentiality contracts. At the bottom of the stack, I came across a pink sheet. I began reading the same jargon the others started with.

  “I, Lane Silverman, ex-employee of Smith Barney, promise to maintain under the strictest confidentiality…” when I came to the part about what it was that I was agreeing to.

  “…that I will devote this entire weekend to getting to know Tom the Boyfriend and will not once return to my apartment during the entire period spanning Friday, May 29th to Sunday, June 1st.”

  I brought the pile of papers into Tom’s office and said, ‘I’ve just one problem with this last document.”

  He took a deep breath, folded his hands, prayer-style on his desk, and said, “Yes?”

  “Well, I need to go home and get some clothes first.”

  “I regret to inform you that you’ll do no such thing,” he said, matter-of-factly. “There’s no need for clothes where we’re going.”

  Friday night went, to quote someone I once knew, “splendidly.” And for that matter, Saturday and Sunday, too—all of which were spent in Tom’s apartment—which does not have one inch of marble nor a claw-foot tub. It does have ugly black leather couches, a Barcalounger, and sports paraphernalia, though. This suits him perfectly, and after a little while, I’m sure we can work on it. If I subtly introduce a vase here, an Oriental rug there, he’ll barely notice.

  True to his claim, there was no clothing necessary. And he is, without the need of suave rehearsed lines, a fantastic lover, who doesn’t concentrate on creative positions and scenes, but instead on smiling, and genuinely enjoying every second, without the need to say so with meaningless words.

  After, he strokes his hands on my little pooch of a belly and says, “Now this is adorable,” and kisses it, squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe. This method of passing time in a bedroom is equally, if not far superiorly, enjoyable. Only, it’s not really a method. It’s a natural, wonderful phenomenon that comes from a place that Liam does not have within his otherwise flawless body—a heart.

  And there were other wonderful moments aside from those on the bed—eating Chinese take-out wrapped in sheets at Tom’s dinning room table, fighting over the one fortune cookie, which I won thanks to a tricky maneuver involving pulling said sheet from one very private area. I read from the tiny strip aloud, hoping for a wise insight into our future: “If no one hears the tree fall in the woods, has it really fallen?”

  Sure, there was no wisdom there, but it offered plenty of opportunities for jokes.

  “If nobody sees Ab Fab’s breasts under her sheet, are they really there?”

  And, of course, that just lead to a thorough investigation to find out. (As it turns out they were.)

  “If Tom wears his globe-covered tie with nothing else, is it still ugly?” I try my hand.

  “Lane, that’s really not the same kind of question, I see you’re trying to be funny, but, c’mon—you can do better than that. But, hey, if you really want to see me in my tie, with absolutely nothing else on, I’m not going to argue….”

  The very last point I need to cover is the little question of fate. I got my answer one day when Tom and I were picnicking in Central Park, envisioning the recent fights the couples spread out on blankets had engaged in.

  He’d floored me with his imaginative interpretation of a scuffle. He described one tall woman sitting with a short, angry-looking man as flirting with divorce after a particularly ugly scene, which erupted when she offered to sit him on her lap at a movie so he could see over a hatted woman. “It threw off the whole power balance,” he said, sighing. Tom turned his attention from the couple, and settled the fate matter once and for all.

&
nbsp; “Ab Fab,” he said, “it was nothing less than fate that brought you to apply for a job at my company that you were totally unqualified for, in hopes of meeting a bite-sized chocolate candy, or whatever the heck you call it, to write an article about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I can’t think of a way the gods could have given me a better gift.”

  And that’s when he said for the first time, “I love you. Don’t ever change.”

  It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t the way I envisioned it (and believe me, I’ve dedicated many an hour to envisioning it). But it was true. And therefore, rather than a dream come true, it was a truth that became a dream—one I replay again and again.

  New Edition Exclusive Bonus Chapter

  Eight Months Later

  “I’m late. I’m late, for a very important date.” Though I’ve been pronouncing this with equal measures of genuine anxiety and feigned rabbit anxiety—replete with teeth sucking—for the past twenty minutes, I still haven’t managed to get out of my apartment.

  After a final assemblage of cosmetics, cash, and mobile phone, I sprint to the door, feeling for keys, purse, and coat along the way. Shimmying into my shoe, I press my heel down onto a sharp rock lodged in my insole. Pain rockets up my leg. How do you manage stepping on a pebble in a Manhattan studio apartment?

  Leaning against the jamb, I scoop off the suede pump and feel around the offending area with my fingers. Wobbly-footed, I make contact with the jagged bit and shoo it away. Out flies a diamond. This is not a usual occurrence for me.

  Reflexively, I feel at my earrings—left is fine, right is fine except that where there should be a giant diamond, the kind someone like me should never be given from a man they love just in case something like this happens, there is nothing. Despite the refreshed surge of pain, I shove back on my shoe, drop to hands and knees, and scramble to the foot of the coffee table, where the gem so nice I’ve never been comfortable enough to stop fidgeting with has landed. Unsure what else to do, I nestle the faceted stone inside the zip pouch I use to store odds and ends in my handbag. This mishap could be construed as an odd omen for a big night, but I’m a much more rational woman these days. I’m certainly not going to read anything into this random accident, the way I did when I thought a paperclip sort-of-heart on my desk meant I was destined to take an insane magazine assignment in which I had to meet Mr. Right in sixty-one days. I’m much wiser about my romantics now. I know that the suicide dive of my giant earring worth more than everything I’ve ever owned in my life times everything I’ve ever owned in my life, on the very night in which my boyfriend said he needed to speak with me about something very important, in a tone that gave me indigestion for the past three days he’s been away in London—the very place that scamp Liam pretended to be from!—is not a sign that all these things that have made me so happy are coming to an end. It’s all just—what did that book, Rational Thinking, say?—”a meaningless coincidence, one of infinite outcomes that can, at random, be produced by any series of events in the universe.” There, it’s meaningless.