Diary of a Working Girl (17 page)

“Are you sure I shouldn’t buy
you
a drink?” I venture.

“Oh, not a chance. Then I’d owe
you
something, and I’m rather enjoying things in their current state. Now that you feel bad for making it look as if I’ve taken a pee in my suit, you’ve no choice but to sit here with me while I finish my drink. It’s the only polite thing to do.”

Polite? I would have stayed there with him until he begged me to leave, calling over bouncers to rip my arms and legs from him.

And then, with the most subtle gesture I have ever been witness 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 127

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to, he calls the waitress over, passes his credit card into her palm, and orders up one “mountain” of napkins, a cosmo for me, one for Joanne (even though she hasn’t nearly finished hers yet) and a scotch for himself.

A scotch! (I am tipsy and highly attracted to this man, so using exclamation points to excess is now unavoidable.) I’ve never spoken with anyone who drank scotch. (!!!!)

“Do you ladies just pour drinks over innocent men for kicks, or is it a professional sort of thing?”

“I’m a, um, a writer,” I say, catching myself from saying I am somebody’s assistant. Or even worse, that I am undercover looking for the love of my life; I wonder exactly how many milliseconds it would take after saying something like that until he “forgot” his dinner meeting actually started five seconds ago.

“Well, why so glum about it, Hemmingway? Tough day on the keys?”

(!!!!) “I’m, uh, working through a really tough assignment right now,” I say, thinking how simple it sounds in those terms—like when somebody advises you along the lines of, “You’ll just have to move on.”

“I’m Lane, by the way,” I say, changing topics before my size XXL mouth gets me into trouble. “And this is Joanne,” an elbow in my ribs prompts me to add. My gosh, this man is beautiful. He’s beautiful in the sort of way that makes you very aware of the presence of estrogen in your body. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) I experience a full-on flush of paranoia/neurosis/jealousy as Sexy British Man shakes Joanne’s hand. I cast myself in the role of sixth-grade girl uncomfortable in her own skin, hating her best friend whom he might actually wind up liking better. And as I try to tell her without words, “This is my ass!” I semiconsciously shake my hair in what I hope is a sexy gesture. (!!!!) 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 128

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“Joanne has a boyfriend,” I say in knee-jerk fashion on behalf of said sixth-grade girl, before I realize what I’ve done. Idiot. My eyes widen when the knowledge that my pettiness has now escaped through osmosis from its hiding place in my head out into the world.

Sexy British Man smiles as if I’ve said the funniest thing in the world. This action further encourages the busy little she-hormones that have now infiltrated with their sexy gear (biological versions of flatirons, long-wearing mascara, and multicolor concealer) into every muscle, organ, and bone that make up Lane Silverman. The result is rapid rotation of hair twisting, décolletage caressing, and lip pouting that I can only hope looks as sexy as I feel (!!!!). When I nearly knock over cosmo number two, I am feeling less than confident that my hopes are being realized.

Before I can drag in the reigns on the tornado of activity that is currently my female sexual reproductive system, the sixth-grader once again takes over and I am overcome with how tall and skinny Joanne is. In yet another universal imbalance, my friend looks stunning, despite the fact she “doesn’t understand” how anyone can bear to wear foundation, blush, or lipstick; “It’s just so gross to put stuff on your face.” The girl looks stunning, even with the Hello Kitty T-shirt and anti-fit paint-splattered jeans that must be twenty sizes too big for her.

I urge sixth-grader to retreat, but, still find myself moving closer to the bar, turning my head from Joanne, to block her from the conversation, anyway. I wave off responsibility in the face of biological instinct (the she-hormones have begun unpacking the heavy artillery: their anticellulite seaweed wraps, instalifting serums, collagen injections). I dismiss any further misgivings with the ra-tionale that I’ve gotten a bit rusty at this sort of thing what with my own noncompetitive status at work these days.

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“I’m Liam. I don’t have a boyfriend.” We find this amusing.

We’d find anything he said amusing.

Liam, as it turns out, is here (I swear to God) trying to set up the U.S. edition of his magazine,
Beautiful
. He owns a publishing company. Well, his father owns it anyway (!!!!).
Beautiful
is a well-known magazine in the U.K. I’ve read it!

“Oh my gosh, the list is so long,” I say, when he asks me which publications I contribute to. I feel a sharp pain in my calf and realize Joanne has just given me a swift kick. I hadn’t realized she was so strong. I am suddenly reminded of a commercial from my youth, where dancers are dressed in black to look menacing, and they sing a song that goes, “You tell one lie, it leads to another, tell two lies, leads to another,” and then I think of the saying “white lie” and consider that this one is more of a slight beigey lie that couldn’t really hurt anyone, too much, anyway. All I want to do is meet a man that I don’t have to feel any pressure about and here I am bringing work into the whole thing again.

“How long are you here for?” I ask, smoothing my hair back behind my ears.

“For one more month right now, while I find an office and work out all the legal details. And then I’ll be back one month after that to get the project off of the ground.”

“Are you staying in this hotel?”

“No, actually we have an apartment just down the road.”

It’s probably all marble and filled with artwork in heavy gilt frames. I bet there’s a huge claw-foot tub, with a hands-free phone next to it, so he can work right around the clock—even while soaping himself up with the scents of L’Occitane (!!!!). I love a man who’s devoted to his career.

“Where are you?” His voice lifts in the most adorable way at the

“you,” which could justifiably refer to my brain—which has mo-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 130

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mentarily vacated to a junior four apartment in the Louis the XV

style—as well as my residence.

“I live in the Village, and Joanne’s on the Lower East Side.” I love saying I live in the Village—it sounds so bohemian and free-spirited.

“One of my favorite restaurants is in the Village. Have you ever been to Union Square Cafe? I guess that’s really Union Square, but it’s close enough.”

Have I ever been to Union Square Cafe? I do get to go to a lot of fancy restaurants, for reviews and parties—another great job perk—but I hadn’t yet been to that one. This didn’t stop me from lying though, for absolutely no apparent reason.

“Of course. I think it’s divine.” I don’t think I’ve ever used that word in my life. Somehow, through all of the hats I have been wearing lately, I have found myself in Zsa Zsa Gabor’s.

“I go to business lunches there quite often. The service is out-standing, and the food is out of this world.”

I’m shaking my head and moaning “mmm” like a complete moron. When I catch myself, I ask, “So are you having lots of meetings with writers and editors to pull your staff together?” feeling the confidence finally make that welcome transfer from my martini glass to my brain.

“Well, we haven’t really nailed down the whole team yet. We do have a few people in mind, though.” He lists a couple of really big names that just about everyone would know from their presence in the society pages, and so, I assume my personal inquiry should end here. It’s not as if I can compete with those people.

“Have you got anyone in mind that you think would be good?

What about yourself? Who did you say you write for again?”

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) M-m-m-eee? Who did I say I write for again? Oh yeah—nobody you ever heard of? I can’t say that. I just can’t.
Tell one lie
. . . “Well, I’m doing a lot of 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 131

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work with
Cosmopolitan
right now.” It’s true really—this assignment
is
a lot of work—and it is going on right now. And then I remember my most recent success. “And the
Post
.”

“
Cosmo
, really? That’s just the sort of background we’re looking for. Why, I just mentioned that as a place to recruit from today.

Would you be interested in coming to work for us?”

Now, hold on. He hasn’t seen my writing or even heard of me before, but he wants me to come work for him? It sounds crazy.

But, I guess, when you drop a name like
Cosmo
, it gets you in the door. That’s why Lisa gets to write articles about the real-life stuff that happens to her, and I normally don’t. With experience like that, what else do you need to know, really? I don’t want to seem too eager, so I try to ask some more questions before I jump on his lap, screaming “Yes! Yes!” And the questions I pose about circula-tion, percentage of local content and design change are enough, I think, to make me sound like a true professional. So, I quickly seal the deal.

And then, before he dashes off for his meeting, we seal another, very sweet deal. “I hope you don’t have any policies about dating people you work with, because I have to leave for my meeting now, but I have decided that I will not leave this spot until you agree to have dinner with me tomorrow,” he says.

Me and policies about dating people I work with—I hold myself back from throwing myself on the floor in a fit of laughter, and from the hyperextended shape of Joanne’s cheeks and its ripened hue, I figure she is doing the same.

No matter how great Seth already is in my mind, Liam is stunning and charming already—absolutely no imagination required on my part. And I mean, come on, he fills the British requirement (without stretching the category to breaking point with proof like talking about knights!) (!!!!!!!!!!) As I feel my anticipation once 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 132

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again tighten around my lower abdomen, I think Joanne’s advice was right on the mark this time around: Mr. Right Now,
indeed
.

Now, she rescues me again: “Didn’t you say that event tomorrow night was cancelled, Lane?”

“Yes. Yes. The event. It is. It’s cancelled. I love you—I mean—

I’d love to.”

Seth can wait. I’ve still basically got the whole two months left!

He smiles and his eyes glimmer, even in the dim light. The effect is absolutely stunning. And when he takes my hand to kiss it—so slowly and softly—and then says, “Why don’t we meet at Sushi Samba at eight o’clock?” I am not sure I have caught my breath enough to muster a response.

But, miracle above all, I manage to say, “That sounds great. I can’t wait.” Perfect. I’m a walking nursery rhyme. Hickory dick-ory dock, Lane please block your mouth up with a sock.

He kisses Joanne’s hand, not as lingeringly as he did mine—believe me, I watch very carefully—says, “A pleasure,” and turns to go. “Cheers.”

And the back of this man is just as perfect as the front. There are shoulders so broad you could enjoy a leisurely picnic on them. And then there is, peeking slightly from the hem of his jacket, a beautiful, round ass. I am so hot I could easily be employed for egg fry-ing. Seth, who?

“Holy shit,” Joanne comments, I think, because she’s caught the same rear view.

“Get your eyes off my man’s butt,” I say, snapping in that I-take-no-crap Z-formation. “Remember? When you have one man’s butt, you can’t have another.”

“I’m just looking,” she says, putting her hand up in defense and looking a bit forlorn.

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much for approval as for a starting block to getting down to a conversation I am more than ready to start at this point. Now that there is really something to talk about there is no stopping me.

“Those eyes,” she says with a far-off tone.

I finish the thought, “Those lips, that butt, that accent—”

“All right, all right, I get the picture,” Joanne says. “But,” she continues, and I don’t like the sound of that
but
one bit, “You have really weaved quite a web for yourself here. You’d better hope you get that article finished, now that you’ve allowed him to think you’re a regular contributor to
Cosmopolitan
.”

Really, enough already with the reality checks. She’s CNN—all bad news, all the time. “Like I’m not already worried to shreds about that. You don’t need to make it worse.”

Apologetically (shocker), she says, “Okay, okay, just don’t get so head-over-heels for him right off the bat, alright? You don’t know him at all yet.”

“C’mon, I know that! He’s just Mr. Right Now! You’re the one who said I should have a fling with someone outside of the office in the first place. You know what the deal is. I’m not even thinking about him anymore.”

I

Despite what I said to Joanne, during the taxi ride home, my head is spinning with Liam. I think about our date on the following evening (What am I going to wear? How will I lose twelve pounds by tomorrow night? Which magazine was that twenty-four-hour water diet article in?), and the fact that said British magazine mogul has offered me a position writing for his magazine in the U.S., on the sole principle that I write for one of the most successful magazines in the country, which I haven’t exactly, er, written for yet.

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Not that I am going to continue thinking about him, because, first of all, he doesn’t even work in my company, and so he is off-limits as my M&M anyway, but, wouldn’t it be just amazing if we wound up falling madly in love and then worked side-by-side at
Beautiful
? We’d go to press events and Patrick McMullen would snap our photo and the fashion magazine correspondents would ask who I was wearing, and they’d toss their heads back in laughter when we both replied, “Gucci.” We’d topple Anna Wintour from her reign at the top, and when he went up at the Magazine Publisher’s Association Awards to accept the title of Best Women’s Magazine, he could say, “I couldn’t have done it without the love of my life, my wonderful Lane.” Now that is a life I could get used to! (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!