“Thanks for indulging me. It’s just so great to be back in the city. I wanted to celebrate a little,” he said.
First night back in the city + plans with me + alone = Date?
“Please, it’s my pleasure. It’s one of the more exciting business meetings that I’ve had in a while.” Could I have possibly sounded more dorky? And why had I mentioned business?
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” He leaned forward on the table, pushing his shirtsleeves up to expose his (quite masculine!) forearms.
He’s “glad to hear that” + slow, forward lean = Date?
I took a sip of margarita. A long, long sip. I knew I shouldn’t get drunk, but the instinct to give myself to the moment—and escape this vise of awkwardness—was strong. If only I knew what this was. I wish I could talk with Tess—she would know what this was. No, I took that back. She would tell me that I should hold back regardless of what this was and then she would grill me as to whether I really liked him, until I became convinced that not only was he not the one, but that the very concept of finding “the one” was flawed.
I looked over at Colin surreptitiously while he eyed his menu. He had to have flaws. Everyone has flaws, right? His head was down now. I could make out just the faintest pattern of…was that a patch of baldness? No, that was the light…but it might be thinning just a tad. Colin looked up suddenly. I was caught. I froze for a second. Our eyes locked. Then his face gave way to a warm, beautiful smile that made me feel as if I’d melted into a gelatinous, gooey mess in front of him. Okay, Tess, I thought to myself, he has no flaws, I’m sorry.
“So, do you know what you want?”
Could that be a double entendre?
“I’m having the enchilada, my standard,” he offered. “You should try the shrimp with mole sauce. It’s delicious, if you don’t mind garlic.”
Recommending garlic? Not a date.
“So, how did you find this place?”
“My ex-girlfriend used to live upstairs… Oh, I see Paco. I’ll be right back.”
I really don’t know how much more explicit he could be. Ex-girlfriend mention + escape from table for chat with his pal Paco = Not a Date. I could feel disappointment flood my body.
When he returned to the table, I was ready for business. At least he didn’t have to know how silly and misguided my imagination had been. I could still save face. I ran through the breakdown of what he needed to do for the interview, explained the format, and gave him a list of proposed dates and locations for the taping. Colin listened patiently, asked pertinent questions and nodded encouragingly throughout my presentation. When I finished, I sat back in my chair, hands folded. He looked back at me, a sly smile creeping onto his face.
“Well, now I have some questions for you,” he said.
I must have looked a bit startled as he leaned forward and touched my forearm (touched my forearm!) and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it deeply personal.”(Dare I even say it…hope crept back into my sad heart…rhymes with late!)
For the next ten minutes or so, he began to question me about my background, my family and my interests, as if he were, well, “interested.” I was at a loss. I didn’t know how I was supposed to behave, how candid I should be. In at least two instances, I even noticed that I had become fully engaged in the conversation, free of my usual omniscient observer voice. I lost track of time, of my “date self,” and, alas, of the number of margaritas I had merrily imbibed.
And I felt okay with that. The room had melted into soft focus, my food tasted delicious, the music was divine, and I felt like I could sit there together with Colin forever. Maybe, I thought, it’s okay not to know. I sighed audibly.
“What are you thinking about?”
My mind went blank. I felt sure that he must know what I was thinking about. Wasn’t it all over my face? I’m in love with you! I’m thinking about our children’s bone structure! I’m hoping that you’re going bald so that women lose interest in you and you don’t stray from me ever!
“What are you thinking?”
“Hey, I asked you first!”
“No, no, no. I’m the journalist,” I teased.
“Oh, right,” he smiled. “And I’m the subject.”
“Exactly.”
“And, as such, you are in the position of power.”
“Absolutely.” I smiled, liking the inference, despite the fact that I knew how far from reality that assessment was.
“I guess I have to tell you what I’m thinking, then.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Okay, then, I was thinking—” he paused seductively “—about my mother.”
I felt the cold shock of his answer slap me squarely in the face.
Colin chuckled (a deep, raw, easy laugh of course), realizing the impact of what he had said.
“Let me finish.” He leaned forward. “I was thinking about how I should trust my mother’s opinion more.”
I shifted in my seat, trying on the new explanation, not sure whether it had helped.
“The interviewer needs more clarification.”
“Hmm…the interviewee might become embarrassed.”
“The interviewer insists.”
He looked, I thought, for the first time, almost shy.
“I’m just kidding.” I had to let him off the hook. “Let the viewer decide.”
Colin didn’t respond at first, just smiled with his eyes cast downward.
“My mother—” he paused “—said that you were a lovely young woman.”
I felt a confident smile spread slowly across my face as under the table I squeezed the side of my chair for dear life.
Date.
“Hello…Hellooo. I know you’re there, Lena Elizabeth Sharpe. Lena. Lena? Now I’m worried. You’re worrying me. I know you would automatically come to the phone for your dearest friend in the world, Jake Dunn, if you heard him calling…so I’ll wait. Okay, now I’m getting impatient. How will I pass the time? Maybe I’ll start by recounting your brief but oh-so-steamy fling with the coat-check boy at Lotus. Okay, you forced me. Mrs. Sharpe, Mr. Sharpe, if either of you are there, I apologize, but I do this all in the effort of teaching some phone manners to your daughter who has once again stood me up for our breakfast meeting. His name was Rico. Yes Rico—”
“Jake?” I answered finally. I had been in the middle of a deep sleep and couldn’t tell if I had dreamed that the phone was ringing or if it really had.
“Ha! You are there.”
“What time is it?”
“Noonish, I think.”
“Wait, we weren’t meeting until one, I thought.”
“Oh, I know. I was just building the drama. And why are you screening my calls. Don’t you know you’re to be reachable for me at all times?”
“I guess I just lost track of my priorities there for a moment.”
“Don’t let it happen again.” He was only half kidding. “Can you get down here, say, now?”
“Oh, Jake, I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.”
“Wait, whoa, hey now. Explain yourself, young lady.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.” I was smiling to myself now as I let the previous evening’s surrealness wash over me, relieved that it wasn’t a dream.
“Um, at the beginning. And in vivid, graphic detail, please.”
“I need a second just to process it all myself.”
“Okay, here’s the deal. Multitask for me. Get in the shower, ‘process,’ and then get your lovely ass down to Kenmare and Delancey. Stat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s better.”
I lay motionless in my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the better moments of the night before in vivid, graphic detail. It was almost as if I were able to be there again, only I could smooth over the anxiety-ridden parts and meld together the beautifully surprising ones.
He had walked me back to my apartment—to the door, not just to the corner like so many others who believed that tha
t was far enough to be chivalrous and convenient enough to get a cab on the Avenue. I’m a “lovely young woman,” I said to myself, smiling.
Of course, my bliss soon gave way to a mild panic as my mind raced down the list of morning-after questions. What next? How did we leave things? Did he know I was joking when I told that story about the thing? Did my breath smell? Oh God, what time was it? Oh Jake! I sprang out of bed and sprinted for the shower.
My hair was still dripping wet when I got out of the cab at Jake’s pronounced destination.
“Oh, my lady, I didn’t realize that we had advanced to cab transportation during the daytime hours.”
“I was afraid to be late. You might have started calling up my ex-boyfriends.”
“Mmm…good idea for next time.”
“So, what’s up with this mysterious location?”
He looked me up and down suspiciously. Clearly I would not be able to simply skirt the issue of my previous night’s dalliance. “Okay, Sharpe, but don’t think you’re getting off the hook.”
“I’m not trying to get off the hook,” I smiled. I couldn’t stop smiling.
He held my gaze for a second longer, cocked a glib, half smile and turned on his heel.
“Follow me.” He proceeded forward to an abandoned storefront, quite casually kicked the door in, and called to me impatiently from the other side.
“Uh, Jake—this is eerily reminding me of the Brady Bunch episode when Bobby gets in trouble for going into the condemned building to save the cat.”
“Um, while I applaud the Brady allusion, Lady Lena, I must implore you not to be such a Marcia.”
“Okay, but if Mike and Carol come down here, I’m so blaming it all on you.”
I stepped through the makeshift door to find a dusty, dilapidated interior. Jake stood in the middle, leaning against a rusty pipe with expectant eyes.
“What do you think?”
“I love it?” That seemed to be the only acceptable answer.
“Are you kidding me? It’s horrible. But that’s not the point.” He waved away the space’s present state as if it were just a minor annoyance.
“Okay, enough with the suspense. What really is the point here?”
“I’ve decided that this will be the site of my first art opening.”
“Wait. What? Didn’t we just talk on Thursday? When did you become an aspiring artist?” Truth be told, Jake was a talented painter, but he was one of those people who was talented at so many things.
“Oh, you silly, silly girl. Don’t you know me well enough at this point to understand that I’m much, much, much, much, much too smart to be an artist?” The very word dripped off his tongue with condescension. He was definitely worked up. “Hello? Sell my soul and sacrifice my lifestyle so that one day—if I’m frightfully lucky—my backbreaking work can hang over some pretentious fuck’s living room sofa? I don’t think so.” Was he shuddering with disdain?
“So, enlighten me then,” I said flatly.
“I am going to be—” he paused for dramatic effect “—an art dealer.”
“So—” I paused, just to annoy him “—you’re going to be the one selling the paintings to the pretentious fucks.”
“Exactement!” And then he added quickly, “For an obscenely immoral commission.” I thought he might burst with excitement.
“But, and I do mean this respectfully, what do you really know about art?”
Jake lowered his head, shaking it back and forth as if he were more disappointed in me than usual.
“Lena, Lena, Lena. I’ll walk you through this gently.” He clasped his hands together and began pacing. “In all the time that you’ve known me, I’ve been throwing parties, have I not?”
“You have.”
“And tell me. Who are the people that always, always, always want to crash these parties, but are always woefully unsuccessful? Think Lena.”
“Lame, uptown people?”
“Very good! Now, it’s a rather simple equation that I actually fault myself for not arriving upon sooner.”
“What’s the equation, Jake?” If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was crazy. Sometimes, I still had to wonder.
“Rich people want what I have, what I like. They want the lifestyle, the street cred, the beautiful women, the finger on the pulse of this city, if you will.” He was frantic now. “And, of course, we both know that they will never, ever get that from me. But…but! I would be more than happy to provide them with the illusion of this dream. Sort of like a nice poster print of a famous work of art.”
“So, it’s really a charitable venture?”
“Perfectly captured, Ms. Sharpe!” And then he paused. “Oh, I can’t even stand it—have you seen the things that these people buy? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.” This point seemed to plague him. “And I can throw parties while I’m at it.” His body relaxed, he was spent. “Don’t you just love it when things make sense?”
“How are you going to get this place in shape?” I cringed with visions of myself splattered with paint and plaster.
“That part’s even better! I can leave it practically as is—uptowners love thinking they’ve found something…raw.” His eyes gleamed.
“Oh, Jake. You’re too much.”
He took my hand and gave me a twirl, wrapping me up in his embrace. “Does that mean—” he lowered his voice seductively “—that I’m finally enough for you?”
“I’m the one who’s not enough for you and we both know it.”
“Tease!” He spun me out of his embrace with a laugh. “All right. Let’s get out of here before the cops come.”
“Jake! I knew we weren’t supposed to be in here!”
“Oh relax, Lena, I’m going to get the lease. I just haven’t done all the paperwork.”
“Like write a paper check or pay with paper money.”
“Something like that,” he smiled. “Okay, I’m starving. Let’s run over to Habana. I’ll buy you a mojito to make it up to you.”
We slid into our booth at Café Habana and ordered our usuals without a glance at the menu.
“And two mojitos please, señorita.” Jake winked at the tan, taut waitress, who giggled a shy “de nada” and floated away.
“You’re very sweet, but I don’t know if I can look at another drink right now.”
“Oh, yes.” Jake’s eyes lit up with the delightful anticipation of another “Lena losing it” story. “What was it—another martini marathon? Or was it a cosmopolitan collision? I warned you about the pink drinks, didn’t I?”
“Margaritas,” I said.
“Ah. So, you’re in Tex-Mex detox today, huh? How many did it take?”
I thought for a second. “Three, I guess. I wasn’t keeping track.”
“Three?” Jake’s voice reeked of disappointment. “You are such a girl.”
“It wasn’t just the alcohol.”
“Oh, it wasn’t just the alcohol.” He had a way of making me feel like I’d said more than I should have. “Oooh, were we experimenting with the more adventurous opiates?” He couldn’t have looked more pleased.
“No, I think it was the company.”
“What? Let’s see. I hope to God it wasn’t Nick.”
“It’s not Nick.”
“You met someone new? Did we not just talk on Thursday?”
“I sort of knew him already. You sort of know him, too.”
“Hmm…okay, cut the mystery act, Miss Marple. Who?”
“Colin,” I blurted out his name in an excited stage whisper.
“Colin Bates?” Jake raised his voice.
“Shhh!” I panicked.
“What? Why?” He seemed annoyed.
“Someone here could know him. He could be here for all I know.”
“Oh, please, I’m sure Lord Colin hasn’t stirred from his mansion yet.”
“He’s not like that, Jake.”
“Is that so?”
“Jake, he’s really great. Last nigh
t was…” I searched for the word that would properly convey the magical quality of the previous night without using the automatically gag inducing word magical.
“Magical,” I sighed, knowing the reply already.
“Oh, God.” Jake’s face contorted in disgust.
“Jake, stop it. I’m serious.”
“What happened to your whole ethical dilemma about dating someone from the show, anyway?”
In fact, the dilemma was still there, growing uncomfortably in the back of my mind. Before last night, it hadn’t seemed necessary to address it, but now things were different. At least I hoped they were.
“I’ll deal with that in my own time,” I said unconvincingly.
“May I remind you that you don’t even know him?”
“I’m getting to know him—”
“Well, when you get to know what a spoiled-ass jerk he is, let me know.”
“Jake, I don’t get it. Since when do you hate Colin? You don’t even know him.”
He ignored me. “Jesus, please tell me you’re not going to go through this whole thing again.”
“Go through what again?”
“This.” He was getting agitated.
“What?” So was I.
“This whole thing where you make him into something he’s not. Just don’t put this one on a pedestal, okay?”
The waitress set down our drinks. I took a sip of mojito, it tasted sour and acidic, and felt the previous night’s unexpected, unbelievable magic slowly wash away.
I stirred my cappuccino nervously. I had just given Tess an abbreviated version of the Colin experience. I didn’t have the energy for the full-on dissection that I would usually give to such monumental encounters—or the resiliency to absorb a Tess reality check.
“Well, see where it goes,” Tess said absently. Her mind was elsewhere, I realized, as I noticed her gaze predictably wander to the current coffee-maker on duty, referred to by us, his acolytes, as Macho Macchiato.
“What can I do to make you go talk to him?” I said, watching her watching him.
“I have talked to him,” Tess replied. “He gave me change for a five last week.”
We both stared at him intently.
“I think it’s his eyes,” Tess remarked with finality.
Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe Page 8