“But I don’t know what to do. Is it too weird? I should just forget the whole thing, right?”
“Wait a second,” Angela says. “Let me try to understand. He’s gorgeous. He works for one of the most prestigious ad agencies in New York—no, not in New York, in the world. Which happens to pay its people a ton of money. He sent you flowers. He called you beautiful.” She ticks off each point on her French-manicured fingers. “Call me crazy, but I am failing to see the problem.”
“Maybe it’s too soon,” I stammer. Kevin starts to say something in support of this argument but Angela cuts him off.
“It’s been three months. Which would normally not be a huge amount of time. But in your special circumstances, there’s none of the maybe-we’ll-get-back-together nonsense. Brendan’s embracing a whole new life. You need to move on as soon as possible, and you’ve sworn off the Internet. So I can’t think of a better way than a whirlwind romance with a secret admirer. Let the guy spoil you a little if he wants. It would do you good.”
“Don’t rush her if she’s not ready,” says Kevin.
Angela shushes him. “You should call him, but not tonight. I mean, you want him to know you’re interested, but you can’t afford to look too eager.”
I digest her counsel with the last sip of my first Bellini. The gorgeous waiter replaces it without being asked.
“He’s probably a psycho. He could be some kind of deranged deviant. Or he could have chronic bad breath. Or a heinous accent. Or a tiny penis.” Kevin rattles off a laundry list of potential pitfalls. “I’m not so sure. These things only tend to work out in the movies.”
“That’s what I thought!” While I know what I want to do, I have no idea what I should do. I hate it when my two most trusted advisers disagree.
Angela snaps at Kevin, “Penis size is irrelevant here. What Zoë needs is to be taken out on the town, shown a good time. It’s not like she has to sleep with him on the first date. Some of us have more patience than you.”
“Don’t give me that look. If women want to come home with me after one dinner, that’s my business. It’s not like you haven’t done it.”
“I have not,” Angela sniffs and flips her expertly highlighted mane so the lightest pieces fall to frame her face. She re-crosses her legs daintily, and positions herself at an angle so that most of the bar can see her over-the-knee python boots. Kevin raises his eyebrows. “First dates that last a whole long weekend don’t count,” she explains with a laugh.
I clear my throat and say, “I’m going to call him.”
This snaps Kevin and Angela out of their side conversation. “Not now!” they say in unison.
“Of course not now,” I say. “Tomorrow. In the afternoon. Definitely not before then.”
Angela nods her enthusiastic approval. Kevin shrugs his conditional acceptance and changes the subject to work. I briefly consider sharing the Niles Sperm Saga, but divulging that level of client confidence would constitute grounds for immediate and summary firing. Even if Carol happened to be in one of her best, most medicated moods when she found out.
For now at least, it will have to remain one of our few secrets. The three of us have shared almost everything forever. Angela and I were roommates as college freshmen. I was impressed with her immediately, and I know she found me a bit sheltered for her taste, but I won her over quickly. By which I don’t mean I dazzled her with my charm, but that day one of college life was way less intimidating when faced with an instant friend, provided courtesy of whoever matched roomies at the office of student life.
That first night, the resident assistants led everyone in our dorm through a series of hokey ice breaker activities. Kevin was not so slyly checking out Angela, as was every guy in the circle. We played this game where every person had to say three things about themselves, two true and one false. The rest of the group had to try to deduce the fake statement. Kevin correctly surmised that while Angela had indeed read the entirety of War and Peace, by her own volition, and she won her high school talent competition handily, with a belly dance performance that scandalized the administration of her small town school, she had never, ever gone back and changed the answer on a test once she’d marked her choice.
Angela was mildly impressed, and Kevin was completely smitten. He became her first collegiate kiss later that night, but things between them fizzled when the upper class guys arrived on campus two days later. Kevin, being boyish and fickle, took the let down in stride and turned his attention to me. We realized we had tons in common, but I didn’t want to spend my freshman year tied down to the first boy who spoke to me, even if we were freakishly and instantly in tune to one another. I suppose I was blinded, too, by the steady parade of hot older boys who came by our room every day, mainly in search of Angela. But somehow, during those first weeks at Princeton, we three slightly lost kids forged a bond that’s lasted through our four years there and beyond.
I’m thrilled we all ended up in New York, that Kevin lives in the apartment across the hall, and Angela’s a short cab ride away. I can’t imagine my life without these two, even though keeping up with them financially is impossible.
I bet it hasn’t occurred to either of them that, if I want to stay in my place, I will need to do more than cut back on restaurant spending. I’ll have to start shopping for a roommate. I’ve been putting it off, hoping to produce more commission checks out of thin air, because sharing the apartment with some random feels like such a huge step back. I’m too old for all the nonsense that comes with breaking in a new roommate, and I feel like a bit of a loser for not being able to swing the place by myself.
Which is all the more reason I cannot risk losing my job over a good story involving Niles’ bodily fluids, so I’m relieved when Angela changes the subject and starts going on about how her latest intern can’t walk in heels and that it’s strange that human resources doesn’t see that as an automatic disqualifier for employment at the world’s most recognized fashion magazine.
My worries about Niles must conjure him up, because I have a message from him on the way out of the bar. As I watch the night shift glitterati trickle in, I listen to Niles explain to my voicemail that he’s not a pervert and he wants to make sure this morning’s events remain strictly confidential. He says he only agreed to the scheme because his career is the most important thing in his life. Which you’d think would be strange to hear from a man who’s spent the past several months talking about impregnating his wife. But his priorities aren’t my problem. Thankfully people like him exist in droves, or I’d be unemployed.
THREE
Super Hot Secret Admirer Guy is at his window when I arrive at work the next morning. He sees me, waves and makes the universal hand signal for telephone. “Call me,” he mouths. I need to do it now. If Carol’s on a tear, I won’t have a free moment once she returns.
I’m reaching for my phone when Marvin comes up behind me and shoves a paper under my nose. I shrug at the man in the window. He nods and makes an exaggerated sad face, like a little kid would make, by sticking out his lower lip.
Marvin cuts right to the chase. “I took the liberty of doing a bit more due diligence. Your mystery man’s name is Oscar Thornton. Of course I Googled him. He’s a senior vice president with Takamura Brothers. He did a stint at Salonen & Salonen but it doesn’t say when. Over the course of his career, he’s worked on everything from Major League Baseball teams to vodka to prescription arthritis drugs.”
I flip through the sheaf of papers. Oscar Thornton has been quoted in what looks like a wide range of ad industry publications. He donates to the Democratic Party regularly, and he ran the New York Marathon five years ago in a very impressive three and a half hours. That’s all Google knows. There’s very little in the way of personal background information.
“Does it even say how old he is?” I ask.
“No. But based on his graduation year, he’s forty-two.”
“A real grown-up,” I mutter.
Marvin regar
ds me curiously. He squints and assesses my nascent wrinkles. “What does that make him, nine years older than you?”
“Ten.”
“Maybe you need an actual adult. That was part of Brendan’s problem.”
“Brendan’s problem was that he wanted to sleep with men.”
“Not true. Brendan’s problem was that he was too much of a child to let anyone know who he really was.”
I ponder whether this could be true, for about half a second, and wonder how much I should value the insights of a man who’s wearing a tie with little whales on it. They’re all smiling and spouting spray from their blowholes.
I’m about to say something to this effect when I notice a dark cloud come over Marvin’s face. That can only mean one thing.
Carol barrels into the bullpen. Her blouse has come un-tucked, and her eye shadow looks as if it was applied with a paint roller, which can’t mean anything good. “Why the fuck weren’t you at the mandatory staff meeting yesterday?” she demands, visibly pleased at the prospect of making me squirm.
“I was at the fertility clinic with Niles Townsend’s, err, you know.”
Her expression undergoes a sea change. “Of course you were.” The corners of her mouth turn upward into a pinched smile. “How did that go?”
“Fine,” I tell her, which isn’t exactly the truth, but she’s way too volatile to listen to a lengthy rehash. On a well-medicated day, Carol might find humor in my disgusting recount of yesterday morning’s endeavors, but this is clearly not one of those days. She’s turning away, and I exhale, thinking the crisis has subsided, but then she spins back towards me.
“Those flowers!” she announces.
“Yes?” I can’t imagine what I’ve done wrong with regard to my roses. My desk is made of particleboard—not a surface she’d be concerned about protecting.
“I don’t like their feng shui.”
I blink at her, confused. We’re always moving our desks around. We’ve positioned the trash cans, to avert bad luck, more times than I can remember. Last July, she abolished all colored pushpins from our bulletin boards in favor of clear ones. She’s even ordered pictures of mountains and water for every cubicle on the advice of one specialist. But I’m failing to see what possible problem pink roses could present. They’re in water. And water’s good for getting rich, if I recall correctly.
“The flowers, Zoë, have too much Yang. Or Yin. Or whatever the feminine one is, and that is not good for financial gain. Take them home with you tonight.” She scans the room, arms folded across her couture-covered chest. Everyone’s off the phone, listening to her, as much because she’s too loud to talk over, as because they’re interested in what she’s saying. “Now everyone get back to work before I start firing people.”
I stifle a laugh as she stomps away into the sanctuary of her private office. She’s muttering to herself that she could make twenty times the money if she just sacked all of our sorry asses. Her door slams shut and Marvin whispers, “Call him. He looks promising.”
Carol’s door flies open before I can respond. “Oh, and Zoë?” my boss sticks her head into the hallway and shouts. “Touch up your highlights.” She retreats again and the door crashes shut behind her.
If I was a new employee, I’d die of mortification. But she’s just being mean. I know this for sure, and not because I had my hair done on Saturday. Carol once had too much to drink at the holiday party and announced to everyone within earshot that she’s jealous of my naturally blonde hair. Honestly, I could wear my true color. But I blonde it up a notch, first and foremost out of habit, and also because stylists in New York don’t seem to understand the meaning of “just a cut.” They blink at you like you’re severely limited if you dare to suggest exiting a salon for under $300. Maybe my highlights are dispensable. God knows I should trim some expenses.
As Marvin scoots back to his desk, I spy Mystery Man in his office across the way, working on his laptop.
I fish my make-up case from my top desk drawer, make sure I look presentable, start to dial the number from the florist’s card, but hang up after I press the fifth digit. My colleagues may look busy now, but as soon as they catch wind of what I’m doing, they’ll circle me like a pack of hyenas.
I decide to go outside and use my cell phone. Carol’s yelling at someone on speaker, in her office. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t notice me slink by, but her assistant’s eyebrows go up as she watches me tiptoe past. I dive into the elevator, descend to the lobby, push through the revolving doors, make sure I don’t know anyone within a twenty-foot radius, and dial.
It rings twice before a deep, manly voice answers, “Oscar Thornton.”
“Alright. I’ll have a drink with you.”
“Where are you? I can’t see you.”
I can’t see him either, but I picture him walking to his window and looking for me. I’m glad he can’t see me huddled with all the banished smokers by the building entrance.
“I’m outside, on my cell phone. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t exactly have a nice private office like you.”
“I missed you yesterday morning. I was worried I might have picked a day you were out,” he says. “Where’ve you been?”
Delivering semen for a client. Wait. Maybe I shouldn’t say that. “You know, meetings.”
He drops the line of questioning and asks, “How about tonight, then?”
My mind goes blank. I was expecting more small talk. He wants to go out tonight? What do I have tonight? What night is tonight? Think, Zoë. It’s Thursday. I have ZUMBA. At seven. With Angela. I could skip that. I glance down at my navy blue suit. I don’t want to meet Oscar in this.
“Are you there?” Oscar asks.
“Uh, yes, I’m here. Tonight could work, but it would have to be later, like maybe around nine-thirty?”
“No problem. I’ll see you at nine-thirty at Nobu. Does that work for you?”
“Sure.”
“Great. I’ll have my assistant make the reservation. See you tonight.”
As we hang up, I realize he never asked my name. I’ve just made a date for tonight, at a very expensive restaurant, with a man who doesn’t even know my name.
I palm my phone for a moment, decide calling back to introduce myself might be awkward and head back into the building. Date or no date, I still have the little problem of my rent, which is due in two weeks. So maybe I should get back to my desk.
The newest item in my inbox is a message from Marvin, asking, “So?”
I turn around in my chair. “We’re going out tonight,” I whisper. He flashes me the thumbs up sign.
Two hours later, I’m in the middle of an in-depth market analysis with a third-year corporate lawyer who doesn’t want to understand why he can’t have both more money and a more pleasant working environment.
He’s telling me for the fourteenth time that he deserves better than this because he graduated from Harvard, when Sibyl parades into the bullpen with a dozen red roses. I pretend not to notice, because this time, I know they’re not for me, but they are gorgeous. Long stemmed and perfectly arranged without any distracting baby’s breath. Oscar’s tasteful pink arrangement pales in comparison.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head when she plops them on my desk. I mouth, thank you, without interrupting the client on the phone, and dive for the card, which is addressed exactly like yesterday’s, except this time, nobody’s ripped the envelope open on my behalf. As my young lawyer drones on about “feeling undervalued,” I read the handwritten missive. It distracts me from the urge to snap at him that he should feel lucky to have a job.
“So sorry I didn’t ask your name. Maybe it’s nerves. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’ll be at Nobu at 9:30, waiting and hoping you’re still interested. –O.T.”
Wow.
But there’s no time to savor the only-in-the-movies-does-this-really-happen quality of the moment, because the sound of Carol’s voice jolts me out of my little happy plac
e. It’s coming through the glass walls of her office, since she’s shrieking at top volume. “You cretins can go screw yourselves! I always get my fucking money and if I have to fucking sue you jack-offs, I am going to get full fucking freight for this deal! Who the fuck do you fucking think you are? Fuckers!”
She keeps going like this, and amazingly, she gets louder with each chain of expletives. Carol curses like a sailor. All the time. And she can use the f-word as every part of speech. It’s a wonder they can’t hear her across the street at Takamura Brothers.
My client, on the phone, certainly can. Loud and clear. “I’m sorry,” he says, “But what the heck is going on over there?”
I’ve been through this before. I feign ignorance. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you hear that? It sounds like someone’s standing next to you, yelling obscenities.”
“How odd,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. “I don’t hear anyone. Maybe you’re picking up someone’s cellular conversation.”
“Maybe,” he says, but sounds doubtful. Carol picks that exact moment to come storming out of her office, slamming the door behind her. She’s yelling at her assistant now. “Tell that fucking fucker if he calls back he can fucking talk to my fucking lawyers!”
“You seriously don’t hear anything?” my client asks. “You seriously don’t hear a woman screaming the f-word, over and over again?”
“No. I’m sorry I don’t.” I glance over at Carol, who’s paused for oxygen. I can tell, from extensive past experience, that she’s not quite done. She’s inhaling through her mouth and snorting the air out through her nose, and her ears are burning bright red. It would be futile to motion at her to lower her voice so I say brightly into the headset, “If you’re still hearing another person’s conversation, why don’t we hang up and I’ll call you back in a minute?”
“Okay. Or, actually, let me call you back at four.”
Even better, I think as I consult the calendar. She’ll be out at a meeting then.
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken Page 3