Playing with Matches

by Hannah Orenstein

  At 6 p.m., I blow-dry my hair into submission. I rarely style it like this, but Jonathan prefers it sleek. Over the hum of the hair dryer, I hear our front door groan shut.

  “Hi!” I call, voice echoing off the white tile walls of the tiny bathroom. I’m bent over with my head between my knees, the nozzle of the blow dryer aimed toward the nape of my neck.

  I hear the familiar drop of Caroline’s purse on the couch and the skittering of Orlando’s paws down the hall, followed by footsteps.

  “Hey,” she says, leaning against the hallway wall, just outside the bathroom door. She crosses her arms and slumps her head against the doorframe.

  We haven’t really spoken since we left the party in Jersey. The silence wasn’t exactly on purpose, even though I waited to get out of bed until after Caroline had headed to her shift at Flower Power this morning. It was unnecessary; I’m not mad at her. And I don’t think she’s mad-mad at me. Our friendship is just strained right now.

  I straighten up, click off the hair dyer, and put down the toilet lid. “Take a seat.”

  She sits and watches me finish my hair. I blow the final pieces straight and brush the resulting silky mane into place. The blowout makes me look rich, like the women in the Bliss database.

  “Want me to do your makeup?” she asks.

  A truce? “I was hoping you’d ask.”

  She switches places with me, pulling her makeup bag out from underneath the sink. I hug my knees to my chest as she starts to blend tinted moisturizer up and out over my cheekbones.

  “Where are you going tonight?”

  “Jonathan’s taking me out for dinner.”

  “Where’s he taking you?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere nice, he says.”

  I don’t want to tell her my hunch that he’s going to ask me to move in with him tonight.

  “Mm.”

  There’s a short silence as she caps the moisturizer and rummages through her bag to find Orgasm, the cheekily named NARS blush, and swirls it over my cheeks. I look right at her, but she avoids my gaze. It’s not my fault that my life is sort of, almost coming together and Caroline’s has stalled. In college, she was always the one with the life worth talking about—the glitzy internship at SNL, her lavish spring break trip to Belize, that time an America’s Next Top Model contestant offered her coke while in line for the bathroom at Fat Baby. And now she’s lost. We don’t know how to navigate this new dynamic.

  Caroline applies liquid liner to my lash line and flicks it out into a perfect cat eye. She repeats the technique on the other side. “Open.”

  Before I can even readjust to the light, she holds the eyelash curler frighteningly close to my eyeball and squeezes it over my lashes. I’m tempted to blink but can’t.

  “Didn’t you say you have a date tonight?” I ask.

  “No, not a date.” She releases the eyelash curler. “Grace is coming over later with a bottle of wine. We’re gonna order in Chinese and watch The Graduate again.”

  “Oh, again? Nice. I’m jealous.”

  Her voice goes flat. “No, you’re not. You actually have real plans tonight.”

  Her surly mood makes me nervous, especially when she’s holding a pointed mascara wand so close to my face. I make a last-ditch attempt to steer the conversation back onto happy turf.

  “Hey, did Grace go out with that guy from Bliss yet?”

  “Oh, yes!” She grabs my chin. “Hold still, I’m trying to do your mascara. Yeah, she said he was a pompous asshole.”

  “What?” It sounds like a whine.

  Even if I’m not yet confident in my own matchmaking skills, I had assumed that Allison would know a good match when she saw one. She had seemed so confident during the meeting. They all had.

  “He kept bragging about how he’s a CEO. But he’s, like, the CEO of his own company. He doesn’t have any other employees—just an intern.” Caroline rolls her eyes.

  Grace doesn’t put up with bullshit. She’s the kind of girl who posts all those really serious, heavy articles from The Atlantic on Facebook about the Syrian refugee crisis and how we need to put an end to female genital mutilation in the Third World. Fluffed-up startup titles wouldn’t impress her.

  “Argh. She was a champ for going through with that, though. It really put me in a good light at work.”

  “I know.” She sounds tense, like our fight in Jersey is still playing in her head.

  I hate it when she sulks. I try to coax her out of her bad mood. “So, how was work today? How are things with Barbara?” Her boss.

  She rolls her eyes dramatically. “The worst.” There’s a hint of relish in her voice. I know she wants to give me the scoop on whatever ridiculous demand Barbara shoved on her today, and she does. It’s a long, complicated story about filling an order of herbs for a reiki healer who runs a practice out of her living room in Montauk and involves Barbara, Barbara’s ex-husband, Barbara’s ex-husband’s dog walker, and a confusing chain of events I can barely follow. She tells the story slowly, indulging in every detail. If she’s aware I still need to get dressed, she doesn’t show it.

  I owe her this—sitting here to listen, even if this small allowance of friendship makes me late for Jonathan. Caroline and I need each other, even when what’s between us feels insurmountable. That’s why she’s here, painting me up with half of Sephora’s finery. She wants to be here with me, here for me, even when it hurts. That’s real love.

  Caroline steps back to admire her handiwork. She sighs heavily. “You clean up good, kid.”

  I get up and check out my reflection in the mirror. “No, you’re just talented,” I correct her. I really do look polished. “Thanks. I love you.”

  “I know.” She opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it. “Go get dressed.”

  I pull an olive green halter dress from my closet. It looks like nothing else I own. The color makes my eyes glow green and reveals just enough of my chest to be considered alluring. The fabric of the dress clings to my waist and swishes around my thighs. I bought it on impulse when Jonathan and I first started dating. I was high on him and Paris and the prospect of transforming into a chic, cosmopolitan, jet-setting swan. I’m not that girl yet. But maybe, if I keep wearing the dress around real chic, cosmopolitan jet-setters, I might become her one day.

  Jonathan texts. He’s in a cab one minute away. I spritz on the perfume Mom bought me for graduation, step into nude pumps, and head outside.

  Sure enough, a yellow car is pulling up right outside my building. Jonathan rolls down the window and lets out a low whistle.

  “Hey there, beautiful,” he says, letting his eyes roam over my body. “Come on in.” Then he instructs the driver, “Twentieth between Park and Broadway, please.”

  It’s only been two days since I saw him, but it feels so good to slide across the pleather seat and kiss him. I missed him. Even though I want to sniff out any clues about moving in together, he first asks about my day. Last year, Jonathan had graduated and was already working at the bank, and I was still stuck in school. I felt like a child sometimes, embarrassed to tell him about my professors and my midterms when he had an impressive job and a ludicrous salary. Now that I’m employed, too—and not just working, but working in the most scintillating industry—I can’t get enough of showing off my gorgeous grown-up life in front of him. He listens and laughs and cringes at all the right parts.

  The drive is short, and I don’t bother pretending to offer to pay for the cab. Jonathan made more this week than I’ll make this month. I stand on the curb as a trio of women a few years older than I am enters Gramercy Tavern. One gives me the once-over. I flick my hair over my shoulder and give Jonathan another kiss when he joins me. He smells like sea salt.

  If you’ve ever flipped through Vogue and wondered exactly who was purchasing $1,200 monogrammed spoons or artisanal leather sandals designed specifically to wear in St. Barts, well, the Gramercy Tavern crowd would answer your question. The food is award-winning, bu
t above all else, the restaurant is a place to be seen. The dining room is furnished with colorful abstract murals and intricate white crown molding. The host who leads us to our table looks like a baby-faced Ryan Gosling. When he hands us the menus, I wonder if the prices are in another currency—like maybe Canadian dollars. Jonathan puts down his menu, leans his elbows on the table, and takes one of my hands in his.

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to come to Steve’s party this weekend. I know I should’ve been there. I feel really bad about it.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Work comes first.” I have that line down pat by now.

  “Sometimes, yeah,” he says, shrugging. “But I don’t ever want you to feel like I take you for granted.”

  “I don’t feel taken for granted,” I say defensively.

  “Good. I’m glad.” He rubs my hand, his thumb massaging the spot where a diamond might be one day. “That’s why we’re here. I’m so sorry, I wanted to do something special to make up for it.”

  He knows how to make me feel important when it counts. It’s enough for me. And in turn, I like to think that I make him feel important, too, especially when he’s at the bottom of the totem pole at work and the youngest child of parents who weren’t always attentive.

  The waiter comes to take our order. Jonathan scans the menu on the spot, trailing his finger down the long list of expensive bottles. We both know that he has no idea how to choose a wine, but he would never admit that to the waiter. He orders a bottle of Malbec, then the rabbit appetizer and the flank steak. I ask for the fig-infused foie gras and the lobster ravioli. When the wine comes, the waiter pours a drop of it into a glass for Jonathan to taste. He swirls it around in his glass and makes a show of sniffing it before tasting it.

  “Excellent,” he pronounces.

  The waiter pours us each a glass. I sit back in my seat, satisfied, and watch my glass fill with the inky liquid. Jonathan and I look like we belong here, and that makes my skin buzz. I didn’t know that restaurants this luxurious even existed before I met him. If only the girls I went to high school with could see me now.

  Jonathan is explaining the complex details of a deal he’s working on at the office when my phone rings. Normally, I would ignore it, but since Bliss is a 24/7 job, I feel obligated to at least glance at the caller ID. I pull my phone out of my bag. It’s Adam.

  “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. It’s for work. Would you mind if I take this?”

  Jonathan holds up his hands and laughs. “The tables have turned, workaholic. Go ahead.”

  “Hello?” I totter my way through the restaurant and push open the heavy glass door. Another woman lingers nearby on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette. I’m dying for a drag.

  “Hey,” Adam says. “Sorry for not texting you back earlier. Is this a good time?”

  “Um . . . I guess I have a minute?” I steer away from the restaurant and drift a few paces up the sidewalk.

  “Good.”

  “I’d love to hear about the date.” I only hope he talks fast.

  “Have you spoken to Mindy yet?”

  “Not yet,” I lie. I haven’t figured out how to gently tell him Mindy’s not interested.

  He pauses. “This is confidential, right? You won’t tell her what I say?”

  “One hundred percent confidential.” That’s not true at all. Giving Mindy feedback is part of what she pays $700 a month for.

  “All right. Well, she was cute and sweet. Not exactly my type, but we had a great time anyway.”

  Damn it. Maybe my instincts aren’t right after all.

  “What do you mean, not your type?”

  “Eh . . . ?” His voice jumps an octave. I recognize that tone. He’s trying to phrase this in the least insulting way possible. “I thought she was a little ditzy.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Adam, she’s ridiculously successful.”

  “Sure, doing what, reality TV? Takes real intellect, I’m sure.”

  “Wow. Okay. Well, then.” I don’t do a very good job of masking the irritation in my voice.

  “Listen, we had a lot of fun anyway. Thanks for setting us up.” His southern drawl makes this sound sincere.

  “Yeah, of course. No problem.”

  “And if you ever have another girl for me, I’m happy to go out again. I trust you.”

  Our appetizers have arrived by the time I return. Jonathan hasn’t touched his. Instead, he’s tapping away on his BlackBerry. He doesn’t acknowledge me as I take a seat. I wait for him to finish the email, nudging my fork into the foie gras without actually lifting it to my mouth. I’m starving. Finally, he sets his phone down. We finish our appetizers, then our entrées, then the bottle of wine. We’re too stuffed for dessert. It’s been two decadent, heady hours since I first got into his cab, but he still hasn’t asked me to move in with him. Didn’t he just discuss this last week with Mary-Kate? Isn’t that what this fancy dinner is all about? It’s tough to focus on whatever Jonathan is saying; half of me wants to blurt out something about moving in together, but the other half knows it’s better to wait for him to bring up the subject first. I don’t want to sound pushy. The waiter brings over the check, which is close to $200. Jonathan doesn’t flinch. He signs the receipt with a flourish and flips the bill book shut.

  Back at his place, he leads me into the bedroom and doesn’t bother to turn on the lights. He wraps his arms around my waist and places a trail of kisses down my neck. I can’t help but swoon. My disappointment fades away and I feel like putty in his arms.

  “God, this dress is incredible on you,” he says, untying the knot at the nape of my neck. The dress slides over my body like water down to the floor. “You know I love you, right?”

  I tilt my head back to kiss him. “Right.”

  If only I had known then that it would be my last blissful night, I would have savored it.

  — Chapter 10 —

  “Oh, hi. It’s you,” Georgie says when she opens the door at Bliss’s brownstone the next day. She parts her lips into what might be considered a smile, but it doesn’t extend all the way to her eyes. She hasn’t exactly been quick to embrace me.

  I need to make serious headway on finding a second match for Mindy before her month’s membership is up, so it’s time to get over my social anxiety and make nice with the other matchmakers. They can teach me which idiots to ignore and which fine specimens to follow up with—because I learned the hard way yesterday that my judgment isn’t as finely honed as I had hoped.

  Today, Georgie wears white denim shorts and a flimsy white camisole under a fire-engine-red kimono. She cocks her head and motions for me to cross the threshold into the building and lets the door swing shut. When she turns to climb the marble stairs, a fire-breathing dragon embroidered between her shoulder blades stares back at me. Does she ever wear real clothes, or just repurposed lingerie?

  I follow her up the stairs, past a half dozen ornate gold wall sconces and a Grecian-style sculpture of a nude woman on the landing, and down the hall. She pushes open a door to a sitting room. Allison, Zoe, and one of the other matchmakers from the meeting last week lounge on an enormous brown tufted leather couch in the middle of the room, flanked by end tables with identical vases of orchids spilling over the top. The walls are paneled in a sexy, dark crocodile print, broken up only by what looks like a Warhol over the fireplace. It’s a lot to take in at once, and I can’t help but blurt out something stupid.

  “That can’t be real, is it?” I ask, pointing at the painting.

  “Why wouldn’t it be real?” Georgie asks. There’s a mocking edge to her voice.

  “Because it must cost, what, millions?”

  “Knockoffs are tacky. Andy was a friend of Bliss’s investor’s dad.”

  I wish I had kept my mouth shut. Manhattan makes middle-class life mortifying.

  Georgie settles into one of the armchairs across from the couch, and I sit down in its pair.

  Allison, the sweet one, asks about Mindy’s date. I tell
her all about it—how I tracked down Adam on Instagram and followed him to the bar, how sure I was that they’d be a hit, and how both of them claimed to have had fun together, despite no interest in a second date.

  “I know how frustrating that can be,” she says, nodding sympathetically. “Especially after you put all that effort into setting up the date.”

  “Right!”

  “Clients don’t always know what’s best for them. See if you can push them toward agreeing to go out again. Worst-case scenario, they have a drink and leave; best-case scenario, they realize they actually like each other a lot. And it’ll look better if you can show Penelope that your clients go out on second and third dates.”

  “You can do that? Make your clients go out again?”

  “Hey, they’re paying us big bucks for our ‘expertise,’ ” Zoe, the one with pastel pink hair, says, putting snarky scare quotes around the word “expertise.” “When we say jump, they ask how high.”

  “But that’s the thing. I don’t really have any expertise. It’s not like I know what to tell women who want to get married. I’m only twenty-two.” Georgie, Allison, and Zoe are all in their mid-or late twenties, and I feel self-conscious and immature when I admit this.

  Zoe laughs. “None of us have any expertise!”

  “You don’t?” It’s a relief to hear.

  “No way.” Zoe shakes her head emphatically. “Sure, we might talk to dudes all day about what they’re looking for in a relationship, but it would be a mistake to think that any of us have unlocked this magical secret about how to find love. Impostor syndrome’s real.”