by Jody Gehrman
“Yes, she did,” his mother agrees, her jaw tight.
Wanda smiles sweetly, then turns her attention back to me.
I lean toward her, lowering my voice self-consciously. “The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy. How much do even you know about him? I could end up dismembered.”
“I can’t reveal my sources,” she says. “I’m not even going to tell you his name—hence the anonymous part. But I will tell you this: he’s a perfect gentleman, well-bred with impeccable manners. Plus, he’s unspeakably hot.”
“If he’s so awesome, why would he be willing to go along with this?”
She gapes at me, indignant. “Men completely get this whole setup. It’s only women who struggle with it. Guys understand the power of isolating an encounter for maximum eroticism. Just because he’s open to a new, exciting experience doesn’t make him a sleaze.”
“Yeah. Okay. I see that.”
She stabs a strawberry with her fork and waves it at me. “Besides, you seriously need to get laid.”
“Hey!” I glance around, none too eager for the entire room to know I’m sexually deprived. “I’m fine being alone for now.”
“You are so far from fine, it’s not even funny. That little prick Derek messed with your head.”
She’s talking about Derek Ensler, this outdoor enthusiast I dated last year. Rock climbing was his religion. His idea of a romantic weekend away involved freeze-dried meals, backpacks and bouldering. Totally not me. When we broke up I burned every polar fleece item I owned. He ditched me for his personal trainer. Not the happiest chapter of my dating history.
“I’m over him,” I grumble, reluctant to rehash that mess.
“I know, but he left tangible scars. He’s almost as guilty as The Stick when it comes to damaging your self-esteem.” She chews the strawberry thoughtfully, then adds, “I think one night with a stranger who gets just how sexy you are would jump-start your confidence and kick you into high gear.”
I sigh. “Will you accept ‘I’ll think about it’?”
“No.” She laughs when she sees my pouty expression. “Okay! For now! But you’re going to say yes. I can feel it.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her right now, but there’s no way I’ll ever agree to her scheme. A blind date’s bad enough, but a blind date with a guy who expects me to fulfill his every fantasy? After outdoorsy Derek and the ego-deflating setbacks at work, I’m barely ready to inch my way into the shallow end of the dating pool. Yet here’s Wanda, urging me to do a backflip off the high dive. As much as I’d like to support her new venture, I can’t be her lab rat this time. I’ll let her cool down a little, and if it comes up again I’ll give her a firm no. For now, let her think she’s worked her magic.
Chapter Five
Gioioso
“We’ve been courting Gioioso for way too long. We’re tired of dating, it’s time to commit.” Felicity looks unusually severe in her dark tailored suit. She paces around the conference room like a panther sizing up her prey. “This meeting is our big shot, and I don’t intend to blow it.”
It’s Wednesday morning, and Felicity’s gathered three creative teams around the table to brainstorm: Dylan and Luke, Carrie and Matt, Simon and me. Felicity is unusually tense, which in turn makes all of us twitchy. Also, she happens to be right about Gioioso. If we don’t land this account at the big pitch in two weeks, we’ve wasted months courting a client we’ll never work with, and that represents dollars we’ll never get back.
“So, what do we really know about Gioioso?” Felicity looks around expectantly, eyes wide.
Dylan, always confident in that jovial, frat boy way that makes me cringe, pipes up first. “Plus-size clothing for women, very upmarket.”
“And very Italian.” Carrie swings her blond bob flirtatiously. “Gioioso means ‘joyous.’”
“Also sometimes translates as ‘buxom.’” Luke’s eyes flit to me with a crooked smile.
Yes. Buxom. I got that from the Google Translate page, too. Cheerful fat girls. Just my thing. I notice Carrie shooting a furtive glance my way. She and Matt exchange a quick smile. Looks like I’m the elephant in the room. I sometimes wonder how I got hired here at all. Maybe it was a diversity mandate; they had to fill their fat-girl quota.
Carrie, always eager to get in on a private joke, adds slyly, “They have an extensive line of plus-size undergarments.”
Just in case anyone wasn’t already thinking about that fucking picture, now they are. Thanks, Carrie.
Felicity turns to Simon and me, eyebrows arched in expectation. “Thoughts?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking...” My throat seizes up the way it always does when I try to speak in front of a group. I clear it and start again. “The plus-size market needs a fresh approach. Most of the comparable clothing lines in the U.S. have a distinctly dowdy look. Totally unsexy.”
“It’s hard to make a size sixteen look remotely appealing, let alone sexy.” Felicity looks around at everyone, as if challenging us to disagree.
“Exactly.” Dylan, who backs up everything Felicity has ever uttered, nods solemnly.
Simon’s dark eyes dart to me quickly before focusing on Felicity. “What I think Ruby meant to say is that one possible concept here could be ‘big is beautiful.’”
Felicity looks bored. “Dove did that with their fat-girls-in-their-underwear campaign years ago. Very tired. Something else?”
“What if we emphasize how Italian the clothes are?” Matt suggests. “You know, link them with Italian allure.”
“Tell me more,” Felicity says, leaning forward, her clavicles jutting out.
* * *
After the meeting, Simon and I run around the corner to grab lattes and talk strategy. As my art director, the visual half of our creative team, he’s one of my only real allies at work. He never intimidates me; I feel safe batting around ideas with him. At the same time, we’re not that close. I know he lives with his boyfriend, Adam, that he dreams of directing films, that he’s from Nebraska. In general, though, he emanates a crisp, cool distance that discourages chumminess.
So I’m taken aback when he lights a cigarette outside the cafe and says, “You know you’ve got to stop this shrinking violet shit, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
He jerks his head toward our office building. “You had an idea in there, a good one, and you let her shoot it down before you even spit it out.”
“She wasn’t going to listen.” I shrug.
He points his cigarette at me. I have a desperate impulse to snatch it from his fingers and take a long drag, but I resist. “That’s what I’m talking about! That little shrug, the puppy with its tail between its legs. If you’re going to make it in this business, you’ve got to at least fake some confidence.”
Later, when we’re back at our desks, his comment keeps coming back to me. Simon’s saying the same thing Wanda keeps harping on. Deep down I know they’re right. I’ve been stuck in a holding pattern for at least three years now. Nothing about my life expresses the real Ruby Sugars. I’m so sick of keeping that girl under wraps. Maybe if I can learn to feel more comfortable in my skin, more attractive and powerful, I won’t be so submissive and scared at work.
I pick up the phone and punch in Wanda’s number before I can second-guess myself. She answers with, “Shit, hell, motherfucker!”
“Charming. Hello to you, too.”
“Sorry.” She drops the phone with a clatter, then picks it up again. “I’m getting a bikini wax. Seriously, Pierre, can’t you give me morphine or something?”
“Should I call back later?” I ask.
“No, maybe you can take my mind off this torture—ow! Son of a bitch! What’s up?”
I finish my latte, then take a deep breath. “You’re right.”
/> “I’m always right.”
“About this date thing. Maybe it will help. Anyway, it’s not like my self-esteem can get much lower.” I close my eyes and say it quickly, afraid I’ll lose my nerve if I don’t spit it out right away. “I’ll meet him this weekend if he’s still interested.”
“Oh my god, that’s so great! I knew you’d do it.” She lets out a little squeal. “Hey, Pierre! That friend I told you about? She’s finally going to get laid!”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t! I promise!”
We hang up, and Simon raises his eyebrows at me. “A date?”
“I’m trying to take your advice. No more shrinking violet.”
He grins. “Atta girl.”
Chapter Six
Rooftop Venture
Wanda fixes me with a stern look that says unmistakably, You’re not getting out of this. We’re in an elevator, headed to yet another of her endless parties. It’s Friday night, almost eleven, and my pj’s have been calling my name for an hour, but Wanda’s determined to drag me along and show me a good time. My “fantasy date” has been scheduled for tomorrow night; she thinks if I sit at home tonight I’ll fret and worry and probably pluck my eyebrows until my face is totally hairless. Though she may have ordered business cards that proclaim her a “fantasy matchmaker,” her real job is professional party girl, and tonight she’s determined to go to work.
“Who’s throwing this again?” We’re in an ultraswanky apartment building on Russian Hill, and the party’s on the roof. Since it’s January and freezing out, the whole venture just sounds cold.
“Violet Radford.” Wanda pulls a tube of lip-gloss from her purse and applies a thick layer. “Her dad owns Radford hotels? She’s really fun when she’s not on painkillers.”
“Oh. Nice.” I try for upbeat but it comes out snarky.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a bacchanal scene. Wow. It looks like a Lil Wayne music video up here. There’s a massive hot tub, lots of heat lamps, a great big bar, hundreds of tiki torches and so many half-naked people grinding to hip-hop the pheromones shimmer off them like steam.
“Huh. Don’t her neighbors complain?” I ask.
“When Daddy owns the building, people make exceptions.”
“Must be nice.”
Wanda tugs me toward the bar. “That chip on your shoulder? Not a pretty look.”
“Shut up,” I say, smiling.
The party’s so crowded we’re forced to elbow our way through the mob gathered around the bar. Everyone here is scantily clad supermodel material. I tug at my shirt self-consciously.
We’re inching closer to the bartender when a man suddenly rushes up to Wanda and wraps an arm around her possessively. Wanda tends to know everyone, so I’m used to backing off while she kiss-kisses with her posse, but the perplexed look on her face tells me something’s not right here.
“There you are!” the guy coos, gazing down into her face with pure adoration. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
I hear a little gasp and turn to see a pretty, willowy girl in glasses looking on with a pained expression.
His arm still wrapped around Wanda, the guy turns back to the girl in glasses and beams. “Sarah, I’d like to you to meet my wife.” He faces away from Sarah long enough to flash Wanda a pleading look.
I watch as Wanda decides to help him out. She extends one hand to Sarah and offers a convincingly wifey smile—polite and frosty all at once. “Hi, I’m Wanda. Nice to meet you.”
The man continues in a hurried voice. “Sarah’s one of my best students. Anyway, what are you drinking, darling?”
“Dirty martini,” she replies smoothly. “Two. Actually, four.”
Sarah mumbles something and slips off into the crowd. The blond guy lets out a huge sigh of relief. He’s tall, Nordic, with a commanding air. When he signals to the bartender she gets our drinks right away. As he hands us two martinis each, he says, “Oh god, thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver.”
“You’re welcome.” Wanda raises one eyebrow. “Trouble with the ladies?”
He laughs. “Occupational hazard.”
“You teach?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m a linguistics professor at Berkeley.” He looks sheepish. “Me plus alcohol plus undergraduates equals very awkward. Sorry, my name’s Ethan.”
We introduce ourselves properly and move away from the crowded bar zone, scoring some cushy patio furniture. We huddle close to the heat lamp, admire the spectacular view and make party conversation. Ethan, we learn, grew up in Copenhagen and speaks six languages. He’s really charming and smart and funny. I can see right away he’s smitten with Wanda, which is pretty much the norm. Girlfriend isn’t nicknamed Sparkle for nothing. She dazzles people. It’s just her way. She hasn’t been serious about anyone for quite a while though. Watching her with Ethan, I feel a peculiar sort of premonition. They look incredibly right together. Though Wanda generally flirts with everyone, including little old men and gas-station attendants, she’s being strangely standoffish with Ethan. That tells me more than if she were hanging all over him.
When we leave around one, Wanda slips an arm through mine and hails a taxi with her free hand. “See? That was fun. And you still have your eyebrows, so it was a success.”
“You really like him,” I say, studying her profile as we settle into the cab.
“Who?”
I jab her with my elbow. “You’re fooling nobody.”
“Oh, Ethan? He was nice.” She says it without conviction.
“Oh my god, you really like him!” I cry, excited now.
“What? No. You’re reading into—”
“Wanda, I know you! When you truly dig someone, which happens hardly ever, you act all distant. I haven’t seen you like this since Professor Bayliss!”
A dark expression flits across her face. I regret my choice of words right away. Professor Bayliss was Wanda’s mentor at UC Santa Cruz; she had a torrid affair with him the semester I met her. When she caught him in the prop closet with another young ingenue, she was so crushed she dropped out of school. She claims she’s over it, but I have my doubts.
“I order you to go out with Ethan,” I tell her. “He’s worth looking into.”
“He’s not my type.” She stares out the window, her face guarded and inscrutable.
Chapter Seven
Mysterious Stranger
“Ouch!” I jerk away as Wanda pokes me with her eyeliner.
“Oops! Sorry.” She leans back to study my face. “Almost done.”
It’s seven-thirty. Wanda’s been working on my makeup for forty minutes. She’s drinking pinot noir and I desperately want a glass, but she’s hidden the bottle, saying it will make my face all ruddy. She’s right—wine does have that effect on my pale complexion—but I’m so nervous, I don’t really care.
She squints at her handiwork, then claps her hands. “Fabulous! Okay, go put on the dress!” I stand and head for the mirror, but she stops me. “No! I want you to get the whole effect at once.”
I slip into Wanda’s huge walk-in closet, grumbling but obedient. I slip off the silk kimono and put on my lingerie first: burgundy lace push-up bra, matching lace panties and garter belt, thigh-high black silk stockings. The feel of the stockings as I unroll them, the sight of my own creamy skin as I fasten the garters, gives me a shiver of pleasure. Next I pull my outfit from the hanger. We decided on Nana’s emerald-green wiggle dress. It cinches in at the waist, hugs my curves, and looks fantastic with the gold patent leather heels I bought today at Wanda’s urging. Slipping them on, then slinging Nana’s mink stole over my shoulders, I step back out into Wanda’s bedroom.
“Ta-da!” I cry, arms outstretched.
Wanda’s at t
he stereo, putting on Eartha Kitt. She spins around, and when she sees me her eyes light up. “Oh my God, Ruby! Oh. My. God.”
“What’s wrong?”
She waves me over to the full-length mirror at last. “Just look at yourself, you tart!”
I hurry over to the mirror. When I see myself, I actually catch my breath. My dark hair’s been highlighted with streaks of burgundy and styled to glossy perfection. The green dress brings out the emerald flecks in my hazel eyes and does wonders for my figure. Wanda’s worked some kind of magic on my makeup; my mouth is full and red, my eyelashes look impossibly long. I shrug off the mink and admire my exposed shoulders, the deep décolletage enhanced by the industrial strength push-up bra.
“Kapow!” Wanda pronounces.
I turn to her, my nerves suddenly making me lightheaded. “You really think he’ll like me?”
“Ruby.” She grabs my shoulders and pins me with a solemn look. “Get a grip. You’re smart, you’re funny and you’re built like Sophia Loren. If this guy doesn’t realize how lucky he is, he’s a walking corpse.”
I smile. “Thanks. For everything.”
“My pleasure. Now go out there and make me proud, you wanton slut!”
* * *
I have no idea what my face is doing when I get my first glimpse of my date. The emotions pinging around inside me are so chaotic, I probably look like a cartoon character who’s just been clobbered with a two-by-four—complete with stars and exclamation marks spinning around my head.
He’s breathtaking.
Seriously. People throw that word around, but my breath literally catches when I see him.
I know it’s him the second I enter the lobby. He watches me intently as my heels sink into the plush carpet. It’s an opulent yet cozy boutique hotel, slightly removed from the tourist frenzy of Union Square, tucked into a discreet side street on Nob Hill. It’s full of old-world charm, very masculine yet elegant, with sparkly chandeliers and oversize furniture. He’s sitting in a tobacco-colored leather chair facing the entrance, and he’s just put down a demitasse, which looks absurdly dainty in his big hands. His short dark hair is styled carelessly, and his white linen shirt sets off his subtle tan. He’s got broad shoulders and the lean, lanky build of a swimmer; as he rises from the chair I see his torso tapers to a slim waist followed by long legs clad in impeccably tailored trousers. He looks confident, but it’s not the smug, leering self-assurance of Dylan and my other frat boy coworkers; his posture telegraphs the silent, self-assured power of someone who is used to giving orders. The stubble on his jaw contrasts nicely with his expensive clothes, adding just a touch of scruff to all that polish.