by Alyson Noel
Changing from my boring, Atlas-approved, fake pearl earrings to my favorite gold-and-emerald chandeliers I’d bought on a trip to Bombay, I released my hair from its usual headache-inducing French twist and let it fall loose and wild down my back. Then I folded over the waistband of my navy blue skirt, which hiked it up a good inch and a half, and slipped into a pair of nonapproved but supercute wedge-heel pumps. Then, looking in the mirror, I assessed my two-minute makeover from strict scary prison warden to style-conscious stewardess. And then I crossed my fingers, ran out the door, and hoped I wouldn’t run into Lawrence.
But by the time I was standing in front of Dane’s building, gazing up at all intimidating forty-four floors, I started to feel incredibly small and nervous. I mean, who was I kidding? Midtown was teeming with all kinds of gorgeous, chic, professional, well-heeled women, and I was gonna try to impress someone with my poly cotton blouse, plastic wings, and flammable skirt?
Because even though the average American woman was supposedly five feet four and a size fourteen, here in Manhattan that statistic was more like five feet ten and a size two. And although I was currently one inch taller and several sizes smaller than the national average, in these parts I might as well be invisible.
I mean, in the movie version of my life, I would be played by Blossom the Powerpuff girl. And even though she might be adorable and feisty—with genuine, kick-ass, save-the-world abilities—she was still no match for all those long, languorous, Jessica Rabbit types that were currently cast opposite me in this cutthroat world of big-city dating.
Buttoning my blazer, I rode the elevator all the way to the eighteenth floor, lecturing myself the entire way for getting so excited about seeing this Dane guy, who probably wasn’t all that hot, was most certainly married, and in all likelihood was a big fat jerk. Because let’s face it, anyone who shows up at the last minute like that, expecting the entire plane to wait for him while recklessly bumping someone out of a first-class seat is obviously an entitled elitist who should be avoided at all costs. And I had so successfully convinced myself of this that by the time I reached his floor, I was determined to just grab my manuscript and get the hell out of there.
Standing in front of the shiny black quarter-moon-shaped desk, I struggled to get the attention of a receptionist with a rolling chair and a headset who for no apparent reason seemed dead set on ignoring me.
“Hi,” I said, waving at her as she quickly swiveled away while an endless stream of chatter drifted into her mouthpiece. “Uh, excuse me, but I’m sort of in a hurry, and I’m here to see Dane Richards? My name’s Hailey Lane?” I stood there lamely, with no way of telling if any of that had penetrated.
I watched as, with no sign of acknowledgment, she rolled her way back, punched on her keyboard, squinted at the computer screen, then reached into a cubby and retrieved a thick manila envelope with a big white label bearing the name HAILY LAIN.
I stared at it for a moment, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot for wearing my coolest shoes for someone who couldn’t even spell my name right. Then I crammed the envelope into my overstuffed bag and headed for the elevator.
And the second I was seated on the bus to JFK, I flipped through my manuscript, searching for coffee stains, fingerprints, DNA—any sort of clue that would show me Dane had been curious enough to at least glance through it. But the only pen markings and page creases I found were the ones I remembered making, which only proved that Mr. Dane Richards, Esq., wasn’t even curious enough about the first page to flip through to the last.
And since everyone knows how nosy lawyers are, it was pretty clear I’d just gotten my first bad review.
After surviving a five-hour flight to Missoula with two nearly empty beverage carts and just twenty-four sandwiches to feed 128 passengers, I was in the hotel gym, riding the recumbent bike and reading the latest issue of Author! magazine when my cell phone rang. Immersed in an article titled, “Bring Your Characters to Work!” I answered without checking the display.
“Hailey? Is that you?”
Oh great. It was my mom. I promptly dropped the magazine on the floor and settled in for what I knew would be a long, emotionally draining conversation.
“I have a surprise for you!” she squealed, sounding way too excited for my comfort.
“Yeah?” I said, already dreading whatever it might be.
“I’m coming to New York! To visit with you and Michael!”
“Oh . . . that’s . . . great,” I mumbled, staring at my reflection in the mirrored wall, wondering how I could deter her. I mean, there was no way I could allow that to happen, since I hadn’t quite gotten around to telling her about Michael and me. I’d been hoping I could put it off for, I don’t know, a year? Maybe two? “Um, when were you thinking of coming?”
“Day after tomorrow!”
“Oh. Well. That really is a surprise,” I said, frantically brainstorming for one very good reason why this visit could never, ever happen. “How long were you planning on staying?”
“Two days, two nights,” she singsonged.
“But have you checked the flights? Because they’re really overselling them these days, so there’s a good chance you won’t even get on,” I warned. Just because my flight privileges extend to her didn’t mean there’d be a seat.
“I already checked, and it’s wide open. I get in at three, and I’ve even booked a room at the SoHo Grand. I didn’t want you to worry about putting me up.”
“You’re staying in SoHo?” I asked. I don’t know which was the bigger surprise, her visit or her room reservation. My mom’s always been the more conservative midtown hotel type, not the hip downtown boutique type.
“Yes, and I’ve made dinner reservations at Spice! I hear that’s the hot new place.”
First SoHo and now Spice. . . . Was she watching Sex and the City reruns on TBS? “Well, it might just be me,” I warned. “Michael’s flying so much I hardly see him anymore.” I laughed nervously.
“Well that will just give us a chance to catch up then, won’t it? It’s been so long since your last visit. What has it been, a year? Year and a half? You know, for someone who flies for free, you really don’t make it home much, do you?”
I just sat there breathing in and out, determined to rise above that last little dig of hers. “Okay,” I said finally. “I get in at five tomorrow. If you want to wait, we can ride into the city together.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just grab a cab and head to the hotel. We can meet there later.”
“Do you need me to put you on the standby list?” I asked.
“That would be great. And if you could list me for first class, I’d really appreciate it.”
By the time I’d made it to Broadway, I was resigned to the inevitable, knowing exactly how the evening would go. First, my mom would give me a quick once-over and say, “Oh, so that’s how you’re wearing your hair these days.” Then she’d smile politely and ask how I’ve been. And then, without any further ado, she’d plunge right into the whole point of her two-thousand-mile transcontinental journey. Touching me lightly on the arm, she’d lean toward me, and in the voice of a conspirator ask, “Have you two set a date yet?”
I shook my head and pushed through the Coke-bottle glass doors, heading straight for the noisy, packed bar and squinting in the dim light as I searched the crowd of after-work revelers, still not quite believing I’d really find her here among New York’s trendiest.
Then suddenly I was enveloped in a Gucci-clad hug while a cloud of Christian Dior Addict hung over my head. “Mom?” I asked tentatively, pulling away and scanning for just one familiar feature on the face of the woman who gave birth to me nearly three decades ago. “Are you in there?” I joked, knowing I was gaping, but unable to stop.
“What do you think?” she asked, smiling and twirling like a seasoned catwalker.
“You look so . . . different,” I said while taking in the formerly brunette bob that had somehow turned a sunny, buttery blond. And the br
ight blue eyes that I could’ve sworn were once brown. Not to mention the shiny, full lips that used to be . . . not quite so full.
“I had a few things done,” she whispered. “So?” She smiled, waiting for the verdict.
I continued to stare, taking in the creaseless, evenly pigmented skin and the abundant cleavage peeking out of her low-cut sweater. “Um, you look great. Really,” I said, secretly wondering if I’d missed a crucial episode of The Swan.
“Well, I feel great. It’s like a new beginning! And I’ve got so much to tell you!” She smiled, exposing shiny new teeth. “But first, I want you to meet my friends.”
She led me over to the bar, where two dark-haired Wall Street types were waiting. “This is Mark,” she said, pointing to a guy in a charcoal suit and pink polka dot tie that he’d already loosened in some kind of after-hours, “let’s get this party started” rebellion. “And this is Daniel.” She motioned toward a slightly balding version of Mark.
“Hey.” I smiled, feeling like an awkward twelve-year-old, watching my makeover mom flirt with two men who were obviously much closer to my age demographic than hers.
“Can I get you a drink?” Mark asked.
“Um, what are you drinking?” I peered at my mom’s glass.
“I’m having an apple martini!” she said, sounding like she might already be on her second.
“Hmm, I think I’ll just have a glass of wine,” I said, sliding onto the stool between them.
“So, Cindy tells me you’re both from California.” Daniel smiled.
I glanced quickly at my mom, who was giving me a look I couldn’t quite read. And not knowing what was going on, though positive that something was, I answered as vaguely as possible. “Yup, born and raised in the OC.” I nodded.
“We were actually roommates for a number of years, but then Hailey got a job with the airlines and flew away.” She took a sip of her drink and giggled fondly at this charming little nugget of revised history.
Roommates? Was she serious? I mean, I guess in a way it was true . . . but still. I shook my head, taking in her fluffy bleached hair, her prominently displayed cleavage, and the martini glass half full of tart fuel. . . . Oh my God—my mom’s on the prowl!
I watched as she smiled flirtatiously, knowing there was no way I could go through with this. It was way too disturbing, and could quite possibly send me to therapy for the next twenty years. “Uh, Cindy, don’t we have dinner reservations?” I asked, tapping the face on the Cartier watch she’d given me when I started my freshman year of college, and then threatened to repossess when I dropped out two years later.
“Oh, you’re right, we should get going,” she said, tossing off her martini in one hearty swig.
I watched as Daniel and Mark flung a stack of bills onto the bar and rose as though they were joining us. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” I said, giving a determined little half wave and tugging on my mom’s sleeve, anxious to put an end to this creepy charade.
“But I’ve invited them to join us,” she said, smiling happily. “Won’t that be fun?”
I looked at Daniel and Mark, wondering which one was supposed to be mine. Then I followed meekly behind as we exited the hotel and hailed a cab on the street.
Somewhere between the cinnamon-scented lentil soup and the cardamom ice cream it was pretty obvious that Cindy and Daniel were hitting it off. Which left me with way too much attention from Mark.
“So where to now?” my mom asked, sounding like a rebellious teenager about to break curfew.
“Well, there’s this new club a couple blocks over. We can grab a cocktail and listen to some live jazz,” Daniel offered, sliding even closer and tracing his finger down the length of her arm.
“Uh, if you don’t mind, I think I’m just gonna head home,” I said, giving Cindy a pointed look.
“But the night is young!” she said in protest.
“Yeah, well, I flew all day and I’m pretty exhausted,” I said, yawning for effect.
“Well, I flew all day too, and I feel great!” She smiled.
“Well, you weren’t exactly wearing a polyester apron and pushing a two-hundred-pound beverage cart, were you, Cindy?” I narrowed my eyes at her.
But she just shrugged and reached for her purse, retrieving a plastic key card from her Louis Vuitton wallet and tossing it to me. “Here. We’re in suite three-oh-six. I’ll meet up with you later,” she said.
I sat there in shock, feeling the hard edge of that plastic key dig deep into my palm, as I watched my mom dip her head toward Daniel and laugh softly as he whispered in her ear.
Then I shook my head, grabbed my purse, and hurried for the door, pretending I didn’t hear when Mark called out after me.
Heading down the hall, I felt so annoyed with Cindy that I actually considered going back downstairs, grabbing a cab, and traveling uptown to my sickly little pull-out couch. But as I slid the key card into the lock, opened the door, and took in the hip, clean, well-appointed room, I realized that going back to my meager apartment would only serve in punishing me. And really, hadn’t I been through enough already?
I kicked off my heels, climbed out of my jeans, and tossed my top over the back of a chair. Then I padded into the bathroom, eager to try all of the high-end amenities that now, in my single-income existence, I could no longer afford to buy. And after washing my face, slathering myself with lemon-scented lotion, and spritzing on some of my mom’s cool new perfume, I slipped between the luxurious high-thread-count sheets and watched the hotel-provided goldfish swim laps in his chic, minimalist bowl. Then I rolled over, looked at the clock, and waited.
If a stowaway is suspected, do
not attempt to collect a fare.
“You’re still asleep?”
I opened my eyes to find my mom shaking my shoulder and peering down at me.
“What time is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes and squinting at her.
“Time to get up!” she sang, opening the drapes and inviting the cruel morning light into the room.
I blinked at the clock next to the bed, not believing it was really ten thirty. I hadn’t slept that late since I’d flown international last spring. Then I shook my head and looked at her again. Was she just now getting back?
“I’ve got big plans!” she said, smiling excitedly and tweaking my foot through the thick cotton duvet.
I glanced at the other bed—the one she should have slept in—and saw that the sheets were still pressed and tight. Then I turned back toward her, noticing she was dressed in last night’s clothes, with last night’s mascara faded softly across her cheeks. And then it dawned on me: Oh, my God! My mother just completed the morning-after walk of shame!
“Are you just now getting in?” I asked, gaping at her.
“Hurry up and get in the shower,” she said, deftly avoiding my question. “We’re booked for brunch at Tavern on the Green in less than an hour. And then I thought we’d spend the day shopping!”
I watched as she busied herself with the flower arrangement at the far end of the room. “Mom, I think we should talk,” I said, determined to get to the bottom of her bizarre behavior and even more bizarre appearance.
“There’s plenty of time to talk over brunch,” she said, concentrating on the flowers and refusing to look at me. “Now go get ready.”
Before I could even swallow my first sip of cappuccino my mother looked right at me and said, “I want to know what’s going on with Michael and you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, stalling for time, wondering how I could avoid this altogether.
“Hailey, please. I know something’s wrong. I just wish you’d trust me enough to tell me.”
“Oh, well, should I confide in you as my former roommate Cindy? Or as my mother?” I asked, giving her an accusing look as she took a sudden interest in the hashbrowns she normally avoids. “Well, you’ll have to forgive my confusion,” I continued. “I mean, last I heard we weren’t exactly related.” I glared at her, willing
her to look up. But when she finally did, something about her expression made me regret everything I’d just said.
“Oh Hailey,” she sighed, giving me an embarrassed look. “There’s no way you could ever understand.”
“Try me.” I took a sip of coffee and waited.
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “You’re young, and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I’m not sure you can comprehend how differently things can turn out from how you expected.”
“Oh really? Well, for your information, I’ve had a few surprises tossed my way lately. Why, just the other day I got home early and caught Michael in bed—with a man! There, how’s that for a little life detour?” I said, realizing too late that I’d just played right into her well-manicured hands.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” She reached across the table and grabbed my arm.
But I just shrugged and took a swig of mimosa.
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” she asked.
I shook my head and looked at her. “I couldn’t,” I whispered, hearing my voice crack.
“But you can tell me anything!”
“Mom, please. That’s so not true. You’ve disapproved of practically every decision I’ve ever made! In college, when I decided to major in English, you said I should major in business. When I took the job with Atlas, you said I was wasting my life. And you pretty much stood by that until I met Michael. Then suddenly everything was great, because I was dating a man whose office was a cockpitl” I shook my head. “It’s like, Michael was the only thing in my life that ever met with your approval. So excuse me for not rushing out to share the news!”
“But you’ve always made me proud,” she said, squinting like she does when she’s about to cry but doesn’t want her mascara to run.
“And would you like to know what Michael said?” I asked. I was on a roll now; there was no stopping me. “He said he’d never considered marrying me because I was too oldl” I sat back and folded my arms across my chest. There, whatcha gonna say about that?