“I . . . uh . . . wondered if anyone was walking east.” Clearly, he hadn’t expected Candy to be in the dressing room as well.
She eyed him, on her guard. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“Me too,” I said. That should keep Candy off the scent and hopefully telegraph to Jack that I was punting. “But thanks anyway.” I almost added, “Maybe another time,” but bit my tongue.
“Okay, well . . . I’ll be heading on out now. Got to get back to the Waldorf before room service packs it in for the night.”
I picked up on his hint. “A posh place like that doesn’t keep the kitchen open twenty-four hours?” I tsk-tsked. “I’m sure if you’re hungry you can grab a McDonald’s. Or meet Jem and Nell over at Pinky’s. That is, if you’re not concerned about that no-fraternization clause.” Had I fed him enough clues about my roommates’ whereabouts and my own plans to join him later, I wondered.
“I’m not into noisy bars tonight. But thanks for the suggestion, Liz.”
“Have a good night, now,” I told him.
“I fully intend to,” he replied, waved at Candy, then walked away down the hall.
“Whew, that was a close shave,” Candy sighed after I closed the door.
“Sure was,” I agreed.
“He’s real cute, ya know? And not an asshole like most guys I know.”
I smiled. “If you say so.” I knew she was right.
I made it to the Waldorf-Astoria about a half hour later. It was wonderful to spend time together without having to edit our behavior.
“How’d you ditch Candy?” Jack asked me, as he poured each of us a glass of champagne.
“Allegra showed up and they pretty much forgot I was there.”
Jack arched an eyebrow. “Allegra?”
“Whoops! Oh, God, I promised Candy I wouldn’t say anything. It just came out of my mouth like it was common knowledge. Let’s just say that you and I aren’t the only happy couple to have emerged from the depths of Bad Date.”
“It’s probably a good thing for us if more than one person knows about them. Knowledge is power.” He held his glass aloft. “To us.”
“To us.” Laughing, I entwined our arms and fed him the champagne from my flute.
Jack took me in his arms. “Can you stay the night?” he murmured, nuzzling my ear. He took a sip of champagne and I licked the taste from his lips.
“Too risky. Nell and Jem still don’t know about us. I told them I needed to hang around the dressing room to speak with Candy and would try to meet up with them at Pinky’s if it didn’t get too late.” I smoothed my hands over his chest and slipped his blazer down over his arms. “But I might have time for a quickie,” I teased. “I’ll miss you tonight, though,” I added softly. I would have liked nothing better than to have been able to awaken in the cozy warmth and security of Jack’s morning embrace.
“I’ll miss you too, Liz.” Jack removed the champagne glass from my hand and put it on the bureau. “Turn around.”
I complied and he unzipped my dress. “I’ve got another little bit of intelligence for you,” I teased, as Jack slid the straps of my dress over my bare shoulders. I could feel his hardness against me as he stood behind me, his hands covering my breasts.
“Then say it quickly because in about fifteen seconds, the only vocal thing I want you to be able to do is moan.”
I spoke as rapidly as I could. “Rick Byron sent me a bouquet of roses and a suggestive card. They were in my dressing room when I got to the studio this evening. A month or so ago, he invited me to a secret meeting where he tried to woo me to ghostwrite copy for him to say on the show because he hated what the writers were giving him.”
“And . . . ?” Jack edged me over to the bed, giving his hands free rein over my extremely willing body. Words were beginning to fail me.
“And I refused. And now it seems like he was asking me on a date. Candy couldn’t help but see the flowers when she came into the dressing room tonight, and I showed her the card, too. For insurance purposes. That’s who Candy thought I was waiting for tonight after the show. Rick, I mean. He’s also been phoning me a couple of times a week, both at work and on my cell, but I have no intention of returning any of his calls.”
“Should I be jealous? Do I need to bust his jaw?” he murmured.
“You must be joking,” I whispered, taking his lower lip in mine.
“So Hollywood’s Reigning Hunk isn’t turning my lady’s head . . . is that what you’re saying?”
I smiled ecstatically at him. “You bet that’s what I’m saying. Your lady. Wow. That’s the first time you’ve said anything like that, I think. Jack Rafferty, nothing makes me happier than being your lady.”
“Good answer,” he whispered, grazing his mouth over my midsection.
Moan.
Jack was nibbling at my panties with his lips and teeth. I could feel his warm breath through the fabric. He hooked his fingers through the waistband and slid them down past my thighs, over my calves, grazing my bare ankles. I kicked them onto the floor. I felt like I was melting into the mattress when he parted my legs and buried his face between my thighs. His hands caressed my midriff and moved upward to my breasts, his fingertips lightly teasing my nipples. I exploded in shades of magenta and violet.
I reached out my arms for him. Jack moved his body up along the length of the bed and we held each other tightly. I burrowed my face into his chest, kissing the patch of hair that peeked out from the top of his white broadcloth shirt, then rested my head against him, allowing myself to drift off to a state of half-sleep, eyes closed.
A few minutes later, hungry again for my lover, I began to unbutton his shirt. “We still have time to get naked,” I whispered in Jack’s ear. I reached down and fumbled with his belt, trying to unbuckle it while he was still lying down.
Jack laughed softly, then rose from the bed. “Let me help you,” he said, quickly divesting himself of his wardrobe.
When he slid inside me I felt like he was coming home.
Nell was the only one in the apartment when I unlocked the door as quietly as I could at around one A.M. “Jem went over to Carl’s place for the night,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m using your computer.”
I noticed that she was on the Internet. “I tried to call to say I was running late,” I lied, “so you wouldn’t worry. But I guess you were online. I figured you would have gone on home once it got past eleven o’clock or so.”
“That was some long conversation with Candy,” Nell said casually, waiting to access a Web site. She glared impatiently at the screen. “Come on, you slow-poke. Hurry up! Liz, we should think about getting DSL in here. You could cook breakfast in the time it takes this thing to connect. You smell like Moulton-Brown shampoo,” she added, without missing a beat or changing inflection. “Are you sure you were with Candy?”
“Who are you, my mother?”
“Gotcha!” Nell said triumphantly to the computer monitor, as I reflexively flinched. She looked over at me and her eye fell on my knitting basket, where the unsalvageable tangle of Irish tweed, courtesy of Johnnie Walker, sat atop the still untouched skeins like a clump of cooked spaghetti. “You weren’t talking to Candy at all, were you?” she said with a confident smile. “Miami . . . knitting . . . I seem to remember the three of us standing around in the kitchen on Valentine’s Day, drinking some red cocktail that Jem had concocted, bemoaning our manlessness, and you said you were never going to cook another dinner or knit another sweater for an undeserving creep again as long as you lived.”
I looked at the wicker basket. “How do you know I’m not making a sweater for myself? Or you? Or Jem?”
“It’s not for Jem because the color wouldn’t do a thing for her complexion. It’s not for me because I don’t wear sweaters you could swim in and what you were working on is clearly for someone who wears at least a forty-two, and it’s not for you because you don’t wear big sweaters either and you never keep what you knit for yourself. QE
D,” she concluded, tapping a few keys.
“QED?”
“I may be a natural blonde but contrary to popular belief, I did a lot more than file my nails and pass notes during algebra. QED, something major is going on between you and Mr. Miami.”
I felt my hand involuntarily fly to my mouth.
“Don’t be shocked, Liz. I was the one who practically introduced you guys the day we auditioned. It’s not exactly a total surprise.”
“Jack’s not an ‘undeserving creep,’ by the way. Though you and Jem were thoroughly convinced he was trying to get me off the show.”
Nell shrugged. “If you want to know the God’s honest truth, and maybe it’s a bit mean to admit it, I was afraid that if you found a great guy, then we three—Jem and you and I—well, we just wouldn’t be ‘us’ anymore. I always sort of thought of us as the Three Musketeers: all for one and one for all, you know? But now Jem has someone, so it’s all a moot point anyway. And you seem really happy, too, so it’s none of my business. I’d love to be half as happy as you and Jem seem to be. But if I were you and Jack, I’d be on high alert insofar as Bad Date goes. Someone catches you two and you’re both off the show.” She returned to the screen. “Speaking of getting kicked off the show, my number is pretty much up unless I can snag myself a disaster date in the next few weeks.”
I stood behind her and looked at the screen. “What are you up to?”
“People are always meeting each other online. In chat rooms. And you always hear about how when they finally get together face to face, it’s usually a recipe for disaster because it’s so easy to misrepresent yourself when you’re online. You know, it’s like phone sex.” Nell lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Hi, Bob. How are you tonight? What do I look like? I’m five-feet-nine with a body like Pamela Anderson, only it’s all real. Yes, I’m wearing a thong. It’s red. Red satin. And I have a Ph.D. in astrophysics.” She resumed her normal speaking voice. “Like they say, ‘On the Internet, no one knows you’re a dog.’ ”
“But you’re not a dog, Nell.”
“So maybe I’m one of the few people in cyberspace who isn’t faking it when they’re talking about how they look. But, okay, take this guy, for example,” she continued, pointing at the screen. “What’s his name?” She leaned forward to peer closer at the monitor. “A.J. something. Where did you go, A.J.? Hey, come back! Here we go. His full name is A.J. Stevens. Okay, A.J. Stevens,” Nell said, talking to the screen, “the way you described yourself to me, you sound like you look like a Ken doll. No one looks like a Ken doll in real life, A.J. Liz, what do you bet this guy is like sixtyfive years old and balding with a beer gut?”
“Sounds perfect for you,” I deadpanned.
Nell broke into a grin. “Damn straight!” She raised her hand for a high-five. “And I found him in just the perfect place for a Park Avenue trust-fundette to meet Mr. Wrong.”
I looked at the screen, watching her type a flirtatious sentence to her new cyber pen pal. “Where the hell are you e-mailing this A.J. guy, Nell?”
My roommate was laughing her ass off. “In a Future Farmers of America chat room! Isn’t it the best!?”
She was right. Nell sprays herself with Deep Woods Off! before she watches the Nature Channel.
“Yee-haw!” Nell whooped. “Now this guy thinks I’m Ellie Clampett. Another day or so of this and he should be hooked.” She crooked her finger at the screen. “Come on, big boy. Come to Momma. Momma needs a new pair of Manolos.” She flashed me a million-dollar grin. “One step closer to the jackpot,” she crowed.
I looked over Nell’s shoulder and watched her fabricating fiction for the farmer. She continued to type furiously. “His family’s dairy farm is upstate—less than three hours away—so he can just come on down to the big city in his Ford pickup and take me for a hayride. And it’s going to be one helluva hayride, Liz.” A few moments later, she stared at the screen, looking stumped.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“I don’t know how to answer this one. Help me out here, Liz. Your brain works so much faster than mine does. A.J. wants me to tell him, in rhyme, how I feel right this moment. Jeez! What am I supposed to write?” Nell slid away from the desk, rose, and practically pulled me into the chair. “You write something, please,” she pleaded.
“Nell!”
“C’mon, Liz. Just pretend you’re me. A.J.’ll never know you aren’t. Like I said, on the Internet, no one knows you’re a dog.”
I glared at Nell. “Oh, thanks a whole helluva lot.”
Nell sank to her knees and pretended to beg.
“Which one of is—or isn’t—the dog, here? You’ve got me all confused,” I said.
“Me, too. I’ll owe you big-time for this,” Nell said, an urgent look in her eyes.
I looked at the screen and scrolled up to read the rest of Nell’s chat with A.J. so I could get into character. I felt like a latter-day Cyrano de Bergerac, only with a considerably daintier nose. “How do I—you— feel right now? In rhyme? That’s what I’m—we’re supposed to tell A.J.?”
Nell nodded.
I typed, as Nell leaned over my shoulder:
I’m thrilled a guy from way upstate
Would want to take me on a date
“Ooh, I like that. This is fun,” she giggled.
“You’re right, actually, it is.” I added a second couplet.
Oh, lucky me! What perfect karma
To find a hunky dairy “farma”
“Oh, Liz, that’s a hoot. As corny as Kansas in August.”
“Isn’t that what you want? Should we add more to it or send it?” I was getting into this, almost wishing Nell would ask me to continue to “ghost” her for another few stanzas. I thought about Rick Byron’s ghostwriting proposition and smiled to myself, still glad I’d declined it.
“Heck, let’s send it now,” Nell said with finality. “If we—I mean I—write too much, he might think this comes naturally to me, and ask me to send him dopey rhymes off the cuff all the time, and then where would I be?” Nell’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oops, I didn’t mean to say that your rhyme was dopey, Liz. And right after you did me such a big favor.”
“You’re right; it is dopey,” I acknowledged. “Not the kindest reflection on you, though. Maybe I should have made you sound more like Emily Dickinson.”
“I’m glad you didn’t try. It wouldn’t have fit with the Ellie Clampett act I was doing for him.”
My second wind was now gone. I needed to switch off my brain and go to bed. Maybe the angels would be good to me tonight and send me a yummy dream about Jack. I missed him already. “I’ve got a big day ahead of me; if it’s not too much trouble, can you sign off my computer in the next few minutes or so? I need to get some sleep,” I told Nell.
Nell smiled at me, seated herself at the desk, and typed “Gotta say goodnight now, I need my beauty rest,” then got off-line. “Thanks a zillion, Liz.” She gave my shoulder a little squeeze and nodded at the computer. “I think you may have temporarily saved my Bad Date butt.”
“Well,” I sighed, “that’s what friends are for. Goodnight, Nell.”
She went into her own bedroom, happily humming the theme from Green Acres.
25/
Moving On
I spent a sleepless night, dreading getting up in the morning to face the wrath of Jason and F.X. I really had no excuses to offer them. And I was sick of lying.
Coffee and prune danish—my all-time favorite breakfast food—were waiting for me when I got to work. My two bosses looked grim.
“Liz, you’ve been with the agency ever since you graduated from college,” F.X. began.
“And we adore you—don’t get us wrong,” Jason said, completing F.X.’s sentence. “But you’ve managed to get two strikes against you within just a few weeks.”
“In baseball, you get three strikes,” I offered meekly.
F.X. tried to smile. “The only thing advertising and baseball have in common are pitch
es. Lillian was gunning for you after you walked out of the Snatch meeting.”
“I blanked,” I confessed. “Dried up. And I thought it would be the worser part of valor to admit that I had no third campaign to present rather than just walk out. That way, maybe my behavior could have been interpreted as a sudden stomach virus, like, I don’t know, bad clams or something. I know it was unfortunate that Lord Kitchener happens to be Lillian Swallow’s inamorata, but you have to agree that the product wasn’t an easy one to come up with a campaign for, given its name.”
Jason couldn’t suppress his laugh. “Actually, that’s why we assigned you the account. F.X. and I put our heads together before we asked you to do the copywriting and we couldn’t come up with anything better.”
“In fact, what we came up with was worse,” F.X concurred, “but writer’s block is no excuse.”
I reached for another mini danish. At least I would be fed well this morning.
“So what happened in Miami?” Jason asked me.
“I missed the meeting.”
F.X. adjusted his glasses on his nose. “Speaking of stomach viruses, Jason said something about food poisoning. You seemed fine on Bad Date last night. By the way, that was the most entertaining episode yet. Are you sure you can’t get me a date with Candy?”
“Candy’s not batting right-handed anymore, for the time being, if you catch my drift,” I told F.X. “And as of last week, you were still married with children which is why you didn’t go down to South Beach.” I paused. “Uh-oh. We’re talking about Miami again.”
“So what did happen down there, Liz?” Jason sniffed the milk as though he smelled feet, decided it was still good, and poured about a quarter of an ounce into his coffee cup.
I decided to tell them the truth. Adding in enough specifics to keep them titillated, yet leaving out Jack’s name. “My priorities used to be work, work, work. So no wonder my relationships suffered in the bargain. I used to love my job, guys. Don’t get me wrong. Maybe what I did in Miami, missing the Numbers Crunchers meeting, was some form of ‘acting out.’ I don’t know. But I’m fully aware that I haven’t been giving SSA a hundred percent for a while. My blood doesn’t race with every challenging new ad campaign. Lately, I feel like a curmudgeonly ‘what-do-any-of-us-need-this-for’ Andy Rooney type.”
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