by Jane Porter
But I’m not fast enough for Katie, and she leans on the car horn once, twice, and as I run out of my apartment, I see Cindy pull back the blinds upstairs and stare out. I can just picture the note I’ll get beneath my door later: Holly, per contract, section 3a of IIb, no cars in driveway and no honking. This is your last and final warning. Next infraction will result in an immediate impounding of family and friends.
But once we’re out, I forget all about Cindy and her rules and just have fun. Kirk, it turns out, is a part-time DJ, part-time journalist (he writes for a popular magazine in the city), and knows everyone, including the bouncer, who lets us scoot past those waiting in line, straight into the club’s VIP room.
The club is thumping, the heavy bass vibrating the floor as we take the stairs up to the private lounge.
I’ve never been in a VIP lounge, and while Kirk offers to buy the first round and goes in search of the cocktail waitress, I sink into one of the low purple velvet couches with scarlet silk throw pillows, thinking that I’ve finally arrived.
That is, until I look around and see lots of girls with really great tans, bare legs, tiny skirts, and painfully high heels. It’s like a Paris Hilton convention, and I’m Paris’s chaperone.
(Furious Note to Self: jeans and black top aren’t cool club clothes after all.)
Kirk returns with martini-style cocktails: cucumber cosmo—not my favorite drink by a long shot, but he paid for them and I’m not about to look any more fuddy-duddy by turning my nose up at the drink of the hour.
Sipping our cocktails, Kirk and I stand at the window overlooking the dance floor below. Katie’s already dancing. She’s wearing one of those itty-bitty skirts, and as more people converge on the dance floor, I lose her in the crowd.
“Is Katie going to be okay?” I ask Kirk.
Kirk, who keeps his head shaved and looks remarkably like Andre Agassi, gives me a look. “Katie’s in her element. We won’t see her until they kick us out.”
I’m impressed. “Who is she dancing with?”
“Herself. She meets people on the dance floor.” He grins at my expression. “Our Katie’s not shy.”
Kirk is hailed by a couple across the room who look familiar, but I can’t place them. He heads over to talk to them, and I watch him shake hands with the guy and lean forward to kiss the girl’s cheek. They talk for a few minutes, and then Kirk returns, joining me on the velvet sofa where I’ve curled up, feeling quite cozy and content to people-watch.
“You’re not going to dance?” Kirk asks.
I don’t even recognize the song, but I don’t tell him that. “Maybe later. This is just fun being here.”
One of Kirk’s very dark eyebrows lifts. “You don’t get out much, do you?”
I laugh, lean back into the squishy velvet cushions. “Is it that obvious?”
Kirk puts his feet up on the clear Lucite coffee table. “Yes.”
I sip from my glass, hoping the cucumber cosmo has grown on me. It hasn’t. I do my best not to wrinkle my nose. It’s not strongly flavored, but I do feel as if I were out at a Thai restaurant eating a little cucumber salad.
“You’re a writer?” I ask him.
“Sort of.” He tips his head back against the cushion, and he’s got an amazing profile: strong, masculine features, defined Roman nose, square jaw, dense eyelashes. If he had hair, he’d be beautiful. “I write, but I’m not obsessed with it.”
“Are you obsessed with being a DJ?” I persist.
One of his dark eyebrows lifts. “Are you obsessed with being an event planner?”
Thank God he doesn’t take himself so seriously. “You’re not Greek, are you?”
“Do you have a problem with Greeks?”
“No. They’re gorgeous. And I love Greek food.”
“I agree. But no, I’m not Greek.” He drains his martini. “Armenian. My dad’s full. My mom’s half.”
“And your last name is Benneyan?” “No.”
“Shuklian?”
“No.”
“Ekezian. Kirkorian. Morsalian—”
“No. No. No. But you do know a lot of Armenians.”
“Central California.”
“That’s where my mom’s from. Fresno.”
I nod quite seriously. “I used to live there.”
Kirk shoots me a side glance. “Should I express my condolences?”
I nearly punch him in the arm, going so far as to make a fist and wave it in the air. “It’s not that bad,” I protest, but even my protest sounds halfhearted to me. “Why does everyone have to knock Fresno?”
“Because we can.” He lifts an arm, biceps rippling as he gestures to the cocktail waitress across the room. “So Katie said you work at City Events.”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of it, then?”
“Olivia’s hired me a couple of times to DJ different events.”
I groan. “Don’t tell me you’ve dated Olivia, too!”
His eyes crease, and he grins. “No. Olivia’s easy to look at, but I prefer men.”
My jaw nearly drops just as the cocktail waitress appears to take our drink order.
“Another round?” Kirk asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. “How about a different drink?”
“That was a terrible drink, wasn’t it?”
“Awful,” I agree, and reach into my purse, extract cash from my wallet. “But I’ll buy this round, and let’s try something else.”
Kirk and I end up dancing later, and Katie finds us on the dance floor, tugs the guys she’s dancing with over to join us. For the next hour we’re all dancing and shouting over the music and sweating (at least I’m sweating), and by the time we escape the club, it’s after one. I don’t think I’ve been out this late in, well... in years. At least not since college.
I’ve only had a couple of drinks. And after several hours on the dance floor, my feet are killing me. I’m dying to rip my clothes off and climb into bed butt naked, but I had fun. Fun.
Is that weird, or what?
Monday arrives, and it’s work. After work it’s the gym, and I’m just glad when Monday’s over and Tuesday arrives, because that leaves only four more days in the workweek.
After I escape Olivia’s evil eye, I go out to dinner with Josh and Tessa, who act as if they barely tolerate each other, but I’m beginning to think are secretly seeing each other. We go to a little Cuban place in the Mission district, eat great food, drink more mojitos than we should, and then I cab it home.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to be out of the office most of the day on appointments, trying to generate new business, so I dress for success the next morning, spend extra time at home in the bathroom in front of the mirror, polishing my appearance, and the extra effort pays off. As I leave for work, I know I’ve come together okay. I feel like—and it sounds foolish, but it’s true—a million bucks.
Or a cool thousand.
But either way, it’s a heck of a lot better than what I’ve felt like this past year.
In the office I check my e-mail, return a few phone calls, attend a brief team meeting before grabbing a cab for the financial district.
Five minutes later as I walk down the street, portfolio beneath my arm, the San Francisco sun glinting overhead, and reflecting off the shining towers on California Street, from the corner of my eye I see heads turning. I pretend I don’t notice, but I do. On the outside I feel good. On the inside I feel... great.
Damn. I had to wait a long time to get this feeling. But it came. Shiny, bouncy hair. Clear skin. A couple of pounds knocked off. It helps that I chose flattering trousers and a fitted blouse that makes me look curvy on top with a nice, small waist. I’m wearing heels, too, which will kill me later, but I’m feeling no pain now, and as I walk, I just let it go.
I reach for the door of One California Street, and suddenly an arm stretches out above my head, opens the door for me, and I try not to smile too broadly as I glance up and nod my thanks. I’m not a particularly polished princess, and I think that deep down, m
en don’t really want princesses that are too sophisticated, too demanding. They want someone like me. Attractive but not plastic, smart and yet fundamentally kind. I can’t believe men really want the hard, beautiful bitchy royals out there. They want real, don’t they? They’ll want me, won’t they?
I press the elevator Up button, enter the elevator when the doors open, press 21 and step back.
Three men have entered with me, and they, too, press their floors and step back, and we’re all standing there, staring ahead. In the reflection I see one man looking at me. Watching me.
Glancing up, I see a shimmer of my face in the reflective stainless steel of the elevator ceiling, and for a moment I understand what this man sees—good hair, good face, good look—but instinctively I know that what he wants isn’t me.
He has his own idea of me. His own wish for me. I’d be the woman he needs, not the woman I probably am, and it crosses my mind that all the hair and clothes and makeup we women wear just add to the deception. Our exterior covers more than it reveals.
I’m not always so impeccably groomed, and I don’t want to be Barbie. And yet to get the attention, many of us put our best face forward, the carefully plucked, arched eyebrow, the flawless foundation, the smooth matte lip liner with the smoother tawny lipstick. It’s the illusion of a perfect face, but for me it’s not my real face. My real face is like me. Crooked. Flawed. Likable if you get to know it. But most men don’t get to know it. They get to know the shiny Holly, the Holly who cleans up well, the one who can talk sports and make pleasant conversation, and for most men, it’s enough.
For most men, that’s what they want. Well, that and nice tits and a hopefully cellulite-light ass. Oh, and also hot in bed, and a mouth that’s big enough to give a great blow job. And the desire, too, to give frequent head. Have I forgotten anything?
I don’t think so.
The elevator opens at the sixteenth floor, again at the nineteenth, and for a moment it’s just the guy who looked at me, and then the elevator stops at the twenty-first floor, and as I get off, the guy suddenly speaks.
“Have a good one,” he says.
And I turn, look at him. He’s tall, broad-shouldered in his dark suit, and he has a strong face with a hint of a cleft in his chin. I smile gratefully. “Thanks. You, too.”
The doors close.
I stand there for a moment, feeling a wave of regret. The bittersweet sense that I lost something somewhere. What was it? Opportunity? Hope? A dream?
Then I reach for the door of Bloomberg, Bloomberg and Silverman and exhale hard, fiercely, growing my thicker skin. It’s going to be okay. Everything will be just fine. And now it’s time to sell. Not just City Events, but myself. Because after all, that’s what clients are buying.
The clients bought. City Events, with me coordinating, will plan their holiday office party, a dignified supper party at a dignified restaurant, and yet with style and flare, because Bloomberg, Bloomberg and Silverman is a law firm for today’s generation, and today’s generation wants more than sound legal advice—they want sensitive sophistication and compassion.
Leaving the law firm, I’m just about to hail a cab when my cell phone rings. I answer without checking the number.
It’s Brian. “Where are you?” he asks.
“Financial district.” It’s easy to inject warmth into my voice. I’m glad to hear from him. I had this horrible feeling he was just going to cut me out of his life. “Just about to cab it back to the office.”
“Cab it to Market instead. Meet me for a late lunch.”
I glance at my watch, knowing that Olivia will be pacing, waiting for an update on my meeting with the law firm. “I don’t think I’ve time.”
“Of course you do. You haven’t taken a lunch today, and you deserve a lunch if you’re out pounding the pavement.”
He’s right, and yet I hesitate.
Brian sighs. “Olivia takes lunch every day.”
“She’s my boss. She can do what she wants.”
He makes a rough sound. “Ain’t that the truth.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, and I give in. “Okay: Where?”
He names the restaurant, and I tell him I’ll need a few minutes. I get there in less time than I think, and yet he’s got a table at the window, and I see him as I enter the restaurant. His long legs define the space; his big upper body takes up even more room. Jean-Marc was fairly tall, but not like this. Not big and broad like this.
We order lunch. I want the chicken salad, and Brian does the soup-and-salad combo. We both reach for the sourdough rolls between us. I tear mine open, and Brian slathers his with butter. I’d like to slather my dry bits of bread with butter, too, but I’m supposed to be focusing on my goals. You know, the weight and attitude goals, where I put myself first, and take care of me, but giving up butter is a serious sacrifice.
I grew up close to Hanford and Tulare, capitals of California’s dairy industry. Remembering the dairies reminds me that it’s been ages since I was last home. I miss the valley. I miss the orchards and the fields and the farmers visiting town wearing their green John Deere baseball caps and their snug Wranglers and their weathered boots.
My favorite farmer of all was my friend Paige’s father, Paul. Paul was the kindest man you could hope to meet, and he had the bluest eyes. When he looked at his wife and daughters, you knew he loved them, knew he’d do anything for them. And he did. He was rock solid, rooted to the soil, and if I could have been his daughter, I would have.
“So how’s it going?” Brian says, leaning forward, expression frankly curious.
“Good.”
“Really?”
I do a quick inner scan, and I’m warm inside. Relaxed. “Really.”
“I’m glad,” he answers, and I believe him.
Returning to the office, I spot Olivia in the conference room talking to the man I hung out with in the VIP lounge Saturday night. Kirk, Katie’s friend, the DJ/journalist guy.
I hesitate in the lobby, uncertain whether I should go to my desk or stick my head into the conference room and say hello. Would Olivia be pissed that I’ve interrupted her meeting? Would it be rude of me not to say hello? But before I can make a decision, Kirk is rising from the boardroom table and heading my way.
“Holly,” he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”
“You came to see me?”
He pulls out a driver’s license and hands it to me. “Yours, I believe.”
It is mine. “How...?”
“You must have dropped it when they carded you. The bouncer called me. He remembered you’d come with me, and I thought you’d miss it sooner or later.”
I would have, too, and glancing at my driver’s license, I see the address printed on the front, and it’s my old address in Fresno, the one in Old Fig, where I used to live with Jean-Marc. “Thanks.”
I can see Olivia hovering in the background. I don’t know if she’s waiting to speak with Kirk again or waiting to talk to me, but I’m suddenly in no hurry to get rid of Kirk. I’m tired of feeling as if I have to jump every time Olivia opens her mouth, tired of feeling half-rate, second-best, tired of the pins and needles, the worry, the guilt. I’ve done a good job here. I work hard; I help others; I’m a team player.
“Thirsty?” I ask Kirk. “Would you like coffee, soda? Bottle of water?”
“Water would be great.”
“Follow me.” I lead him out of the lobby, away from Olivia, toward our minuscule break room.
Kirk takes the water I give him, twists off the cap. “Olivia was telling me about the Leather and Lace Ball. Apparently it’s going to be bigger and better than ever this year.”
Olivia said all that? My eyebrows lift. Interesting. But it’s also one more reason for me not to trust Olivia.
But Kirk wants to know more about the Leather & Lace Ball because he used to attend a number of years ago, so I fill him in as much as I can, talking about changes, new t
hings happening, and how at this year’s event there are the usual fun things but also an increased effort at public education the night of the ball.
I glance up as a shadow passes in the hall, and I think it’s Olivia, but it’s not. It’s David. I haven’t seen David in two weeks. He’s been off on another trip—something to do with the new office he’s planning on opening in Los Angeles next summer—and I put my water down as he enters the break room.
“David,” I say, and gesture to Kirk. “This is my friend Kirk—”
“Yahnian,” David finishes for me, extending his hand to Kirk. “You write for the Guardian. I love your column.”
Kirk registers surprise as well as pleasure. He shakes David’s hand. “Thanks. It’s nice to hear.”
“What did you think of the article the Chronicle ran?” David asks.
“A great piece, especially coming from the mainstream media.” Kirk leans back against the break-room counter, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve just written a column in response to the Chronicle story. It’ll be in Sunday’s edition.”
“I’ll look for it.”
My cell phone rings, and I reach into my bag. “Excuse me,” I murmur, and leave the conference room to take the call.
It’s Josh. “Well?” he demands. “Just who is that guy anyway?”
“Why? Are you interested in him, too?”
“Interested in a guy?” Josh pauses, hugely offended. “Holly, I’m not gay.”
“I didn’t say you were—”
“So why would I be interested in a guy?”
“I don’t know.”
He swears. And I’ve never heard Josh swear. “I’m sorry, Josh,” I say. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“It’s fine.” But he’s disgruntled and defensive. “And not that it’s any of your business,” he adds, even more prickly than before, “but I’m crazy about Tessa.” And he hangs up on me.
His cubicle is just a couple of feet away, so I walk over and stand next to his desk. “Josh.”
“Gay.” He’s fuming.
“Josh, I didn’t think you were—”
“Do you think Tessa believes I’m gay?”