Mister Romance

by Leisa Rayven

  Just as I’m about to tell him how wrong he is, he closes the door. I sigh in frustration and give the driver my address, and when we pull into traffic and head east, I lean my head back and think about tonight’s events.

  On the one hand, I know without a doubt this story is going to be as hot as Hades when I get more details. On the other, my resolve about Max’s charms not working on me isn’t quite as rock solid as I thought. There’s no doubt he’s gorgeous, and he can certainly flirt when the mood takes him, but is that him being himself? Or him being the Max he wants me to believe is real?

  Whatever the answer, I know I’m going to have to develop a tolerance for how he makes me feel, or I’ll end up as just one more giddy client on his roster. To that end, I conjure up negative thoughts about him all the way home.

  EIGHT

  Look Before You Buy

  The next day, Asha and I are wandering through the bustle and noise of the Brooklyn Flea market while I regale her with the revelation that Mister Romance and Irish Kieran are the same man.

  “Holy snapping duckshit, Edie, are you serious?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  She stops dead and whips off her Jackie O sunglasses in dramatic fashion. “So, that whole Kieran ploy was just to scope you out?”

  “Seems that way.”

  “And you went on your whole anti-love, fuck-relationships rant, and he stills said he’s going to win you over? Was he drunk?”

  “He actually said he’s going to make me fall in love with him. Like this is some big game, and my affection is the prize.”

  She gives me an incredulous look. “I hope he realizes he’s going to lose. Of all the women in the world to bet on going gooey for him, you’re the least likely. I invested two-hundred dollars into that date, thinking it was a down payment on a potential boyfriend for you. It turns out I was buying a delusional fool. God!” She stomps off while sucking angrily on her organic wheatgrass smoothie.

  “To be fair,” I say. “You did get great value for money. I mean, that’s still forty-eight-hundred dollars less than his regular going rate.”

  “And he’s not even Irish?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, man! I got all hot-and-bothered over his accent for nothing. What a dick.” She stops in front of one of the stalls and sniffs some homemade soap. “I was so sure he was into you, too. The way he spoke about you ... Edie, what I wouldn’t give for some guy to get that same wistful expression when he talks about me. Of course, I’d like it to be a real man with real emotions and not some faking faker who fakes, but still ...” She moves down the line of displays, smelling samples as she goes. “I’ll say one thing for Max – the dude is a committed actor. I was totally picking up what he was laying down.” She holds the soap out to me. “Ooh, smell this.”

  I lean forward and breathe in, and I’m surprised that the familiar aroma gives me goosebumps.

  “Lemongrass,” Asha says. “That’s exactly what Kieran ... shit, I mean Max smells like.” She pulls a couple of dollars out of her purse and hands them to the vendor.

  “Why are you buying it if it reminds you of Max?” I ask.

  She pops the soap into her tote. “He may be a dick, but he still smelled delicious.”

  We head down the aisle of tents and browse the crazy collection of wares. It’s still early, so some people haven’t finished setting up, but if you ever doubted that Brooklyn has become the hipster capital of the world, you only need come to these markets to get proof. Everything is artisanal, free-range, and organic, even the furniture. There’s some dude selling cat-fur scarves. He doesn’t skin cats, mind you; that would be wrong on so many levels. No, he just spins the excess fur from his five Persians into wool and then lovingly knits it into neck warmers, no doubt while listening to sixties bands on vinyl and sipping his free-range, organic, recycled tea.

  The mere thought makes me shudder.

  Cat-man catches me staring and gives me a smile. Or, at least I think it’s a smile. His beard is so epic, it’s hard to tell.

  “Pussy warmer?” he asks, gesturing to his collection.

  I have a suspicion he started this whole thing for the express purpose of asking women that when they pass.

  “No, thanks,” I say, trying not to act as skeeved-out as I feel. “I’m all good in the pussy wool department.”

  Beside me, Asha snorts. “You can say that again.” As we walk away, she whispers, “This is your gentle sisterly reminder to get yourself a Brazilian. It’s been a while.”

  “How the hell do you know my waxing schedule?”

  “You walk funny the day after you get it done. That hasn’t happened in over a month.”

  Dammit, she’s right. I make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Francesca as soon as possible.

  We’re just about to reach the end of the aisle, when both of our phones ding. We stop and check our screens.

 

  Asha and I turn to each other and say simultaneously, “Nannabeth,” and then pick up the pace.

  “Why does she always have to text like a thirteen-year-old?” Asha asks.

  “You know she dresses like a teenager. It’s only natural she should text like one.”

  When we turn the corner, we head toward a large yellow tent, under which we can see Nannabeth bustling around, getting her wares organized for the morning rush. Today she’s wearing one of her tamer ensembles–a bright pink midriff top, floral overalls, and red Chucks. From this distance, when her back is turned, she even looks like a teenage girl. It’s only when you get closer and notice the wrinkly skin around her waist and the streaks of grey in her mess of curly red hair, that you realize she’s an old woman in disguise.

  “Hey, Nannabeth!”

  She turns, and when she sees us, her face lights up behind her trendy purple glasses.

  “My girls! My beautiful but sleepy-headed girls. Thought you’d never get here. It’s almost lunchtime.”

  She pulls us both into a hug, and as usual, we grunt in pain. The woman may be five-foot-three and would blow away in a strong breeze, but she’s still as strong as an ox.

  “Nan,” I say, my voice straining beneath her vice-like grip, “It’s 7.30 in the morning, which is barely breakfast time. And to be fair, we were both up before six this morning, even though it’s Saturday.”

  She pulls back and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m up at 4am every day. I’ve told you girls before that life’s too short to spend it sleeping. Still, I’m grateful you could come and help today. I couldn’t cope without you.”

  Nan usually has a couple of neighbors helping each Saturday, but occasionally they’re unavailable, and she gets Ash and me to step in. We don’t mind. Working with Nan is never dull.

  “Okay, darlings,” she says as she grabs a nearby trestle table and unfolds its legs. “Help me get these up. I’m running behind. Moby was sick this morning, so I couldn’t get out of the house until he was all tucked into bed. Poor thing looked so small and pale when I left, I might have to duck home at lunchtime to make sure he’s okay.”

  Asha and I exchange a smile as we set up the tables.

  Nan saying she has to ‘duck home’ to check on Moby is hilarious, mainly because Moby is a duck. Think about that. She named him Moby Duck.

  At first, Asha gave her props for her shout-out to Herman Melville, but Nan insisted she named him after the music artist. I thought she was kidding, until I discovered she does indeed have all of his albums. It still makes me laugh.

  Another fun fact is that Moby is a girl. The duck, not the musician. When Nan first brought her tiny duckling home, she just assumed it was a boy, and by the time ‘he’ got around to laying his first egg, Nan was set in her ways and couldn’t face the inconvenience of a sex change. So, yeah. Moby has been Nan’s faux-transgender best friend and roommate since Grandad died, and Nan wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I pull a tray of duck
eggs out of a basket and place them carefully on the table. “Whoa. Moby’s been busy this week.”

  Nan nods proudly. “He’s been binge-watching Game of Thrones. The stress of all the character deaths sometimes makes him pop twice a day. It’s fantastic for his laying but not so good for his blood pressure.”

  It’s also hilarious that even though Nan has barely had a single sick day in all of her seventy-five years, Moby seems to be suffering from three or four chronic illnesses at any one time.

  “So, Eden,” Nan says, as she stacks some crates to display her fruit and veggies. “How’s your love life? Found a nice boy yet?”

  I sigh. “Nan, how come you always ask me that question and never Ash?”

  “Because I know your sister is at least looking. You’re not.”

  “So? You’ve managed to live a full and happy life without a man for over a decade.”

  “It’s not the same. You don’t even have a duck.”

  “I’ll go and get a duck today if it will stop you from hassling me about men.”

  “Actually, Nan,” Ash says, shooting me a look. “Eden had a date last night.”

  Nan stops dead and stares at me. “Eden Marigold Tate – why didn’t you tell me? I want to know everything.”

  Asha pushes her sunglasses up onto her head before setting up Nanna’s cashbox. “Oh, Nan, this guy was hot. Like, seriously, stupidly hot.” She grabs her bag and fishes out her bar of recently purchased soap. “And the best thing was, he smelled like this.”

  Nan takes a whiff then lets out a low whistle. “Wowee. Sounds like a dreamboat.” She turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “When’s the wedding? I need to buy a new pantsuit.”

  I throw the cloth I was using to dust the table at Asha, who bats it away and giggles.

  “Ash is exaggerating, Nan. He wasn’t all that. And he turned out to be a total douche, so I won’t be seeing him again.”

  “Except you will be,” Ash says. “For at least three dates.”

  “Different guy,” I clarify to Nan.

  “Did he smell just as good as the first guy?” she asks.

  Asha grins. “Yes. Maybe even better.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “She liked the first guy. She’s not that keen on the second guy.”

  “Actually,” I say. “The second guy is just a business contact. I have no interest in him beyond a professional relationship.”

  “But this business guy is still hot?” Nan asks.

  “So hot!” Ash says.

  Nan looks at her in confusion. “Then why isn’t she dating him?”

  God, this conversation is going nowhere, fast.

  “Nan, let me make this as simple as possible. I’m not dating anyone. I don’t wish to date anyone. I’m single and happy, and I’m not changing that any time soon. Don’t listen to a word Asha says. She’s just being a brat.”

  Nan throws up her hands. “You girls go and get my hopes up just to shatter them like glass. You know I’m not going to be around forever, right? I’d like to hold at least one chubby grandchild before I die. Stop baby blocking me, and put those nice, young uteruses to good use!”

  As frustrating as Nan’s obsession with my dating schedule is, I laugh as she continues to mumble about my aging baby-maker while we finish setting up.

  Twenty minutes later, we’ve just gotten everything into place when customers start arriving, and the three of us go to work.

  For years, Nannabeth’s stall has been one of the most popular at the market. Apart from her amazing range of fresh fruit, veggies, and herbs, she also has her own brand of honey. Believe it or not, she raises bees, right in the heart of Brooklyn. Amazing what you can achieve when you’ve lived in the same apartment building for sixty years and have claimed the entire giant rooftop as your own private hobby farm.

  Down at the other end of the tent are several boxes of old records, as well as a collection of furniture pieces and bric-a-brac dating from the sixties to the eighties. All of the secondhand wares sell incredibly well, even the ugly stuff. Nothing is ever out of fashion in Brooklyn.

  As the morning rush hits us, the first few hours fly by, but by mid-morning things have calmed down. We’ve just hit our first big lull when a familiar platinum blonde in head-to-toe Chanel approaches Asha. In the midst of the reclaimed, recycled, and pre-loved nirvana of the markets, she’s kind of out of place.

  “Joanna!” Asha says, and I recognize that thing she does when she’s sort of pleased to see someone and sort of not. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I wander over, and Asha grabs me by the arm. “You remember my sister, Eden. You guys met at last year’s Christmas party, remember?”

  I wave and smile as Joanna almost squeals, “Of course! Hiiiiii, Eden!”

  I remember Joanna well. When we first met, she’d gone into disturbing detail about how her ex-boyfriend had given her gonorrhea and that until she finished the medication, she had to keep extra underwear in her drawer at work ‘just in case’. Never having had gonorrhea myself, I had no idea what she was talking about. Then she drilled me for a solid ten minutes about my sex life, including a full assessment of how many STDs I’d had. It wasn’t fun. She’s one of those people who over-shares at every opportunity and expects you to do the same. She’s also constantly smiling and yet never seems happy.

  “What are you doing here?” Asha asks. “I thought Midtown was about as far as you like to roam from the Upper East Side. Isn’t Brooklyn a little out of your comfort zone?”

  Joanna nods and looks around as if she’s assessing an alien planet. “Yes, but you told me about how cute your Nan’s stall was, so I thought I’d come check it out.” She looks over to where Nan is dealing with a young couple looking at furniture. “Oh, my God. Are things so tight that she has to sell her furniture? That’s so sad.”

  Asha laughs. “No. She just has a lot of elderly friends, and when they pass, she helps out their families by selling their possessions for top dollar.” Asha points at a small, scuffed mahogany plant stand. “She just sold that for two-hundred dollars.

  Joanna scrunches up her nose. “Wow. But it’s, like, way old.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Some would even say antique.”

  “You know who has cool antiques?” Joanna asks, her face lighting up. “Pottery Barn. They look old, but they smell new. Your gran should totally check it out.”

  “Yeah, Ash,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “You should tell Nan about Pottery Barn. You know how much she loves it when people replace rather than recycle.”

  Joanna spies the bottles of honey and grabs two. “Ooh! Honey facial, here I come.”

  “Take your time browsing,” I say to Joanna as I tug on Asha’s arm. “We’ll be right over here if you need us.”

  I pull my sister over to the produce section and keep an eye on Joanna as I whisper, “So, you guys are outside-of-work friends now? That’s a new twist.”

  My sister gets the same expression she always does when she knows she’s done something wrong but doesn’t want to admit it.

  “Ahhh, I might have invited her down here so she’d think we were friends.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because, she has tickets to see Kingdom of Stone tomorrow night and I was angling to be her date.”

  “What the heck is Kingdom of Stone.”

  “A band. A really good one.”

  Joanna glances over and waves at us. When Asha and I smile and wave back, she heads down to look at Nannabeth’s collection of homemade Fimo jewelry from the eighties. “So gnarly!” she squeals. “It’s like ugly-chic.”

  I turn to Asha. “So, you prostituted yourself to see some band?”

  “Not some band, Edie. The band. They’re the biggest thing to come out of the east village in years, and I happen to love their music.”

  “And ...?” Knowing Asha, I’m sure there’s more to it than a few catchy tunes.

  Asha slumps. “And I think I’m i
n love with their bass player. He’s gorgeous, and from reading articles about them, I think he has the soul of a poet. He writes a lot of their songs.”

  “So you’re lusting after him? Okay. I can get on board with that. Does he have a girlfriend?”

  She crosses her arms. “I’m not looking to be his girlfriend. I’m not one of those delusional women who thinks he’s going to bring me up onstage and fall in love with me. It’s a harmless rock star fantasy. Everybody has one. I remember when you used to have Justin Timberlake posters all over your room.”

  “That’s different. JT could dance. There’s nothing sexier than a man who can dance.”

  A short distance away, Joanna holds up an ugly flower necklace. “Girls! Don’t you just love it?”

  “So much love,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.

  “She’s not that bad,” Asha whispers. “Plus, she was the one who told us about Mister Romance, so I figure we kind of owe her one.”

  Joanna walks over with her collection of items and drops them in front of us. “How much for all of this?”

  Ash goes through her pile and adds everything up. “Thirty-five.”

  Joanna reaches into her purse and pulls out some cash. “I think I’m going wear the flowery thing tomorrow night. Do you think?”

  “Totally,” says Ash. “You should wear it with that cute red dress you rocked at work the other day.”

  “Yes! So cute, right?” Joanna turns to me. “Did Ash tell you we’re seeing the Stoners tomorrow night?” When I hesitate, she says, “That’s what the fans call the Kingdom of Stone guys. I’m pretty sure they’re not real stoners. Or maybe they are. Who am I to judge, right? Anyway, I’m good friends with their manager, so if you want me to get a ticket for you, too, I totally could.”

  “Uh ... thanks, but I don’t really know their stuff.”

  She waves off my concern. “Who cares? They’re hot guys playing rock music. What’s not to like, right?”

  I smile as I wrap up her purchases, and when I give them to her, she grabs my hand and leans forward in a conspiratorial way. “So, Eden, did Asha tell you about the whole ...” She looks around. “... Mister Romance legend?”