Diary of a Working Girl (27 page)

I can’t imagine it.

He does his best to seem excited though, (“Bring on the freebies!” he teases) and if I’m not mistaken, Tom quickly assumes the role of pseudo-celebrity-for-a-day, acting embarrassed and hum-bled when passersby begin gawking (which they always do with a photographer around), but secretly enjoying the whispers and hub-bub (“I saw him in a movie once; isn’t that the guy from that Ford commercial?”). This is surprising. Tom doesn’t seem the look-at-me type. But that’s just the thing that makes it, well, endearing.

Like I’ve just got a peak of something.

I imagine Liam, on the other hand, would be used to this sort of thing, being at the almost-head of a huge media giant. He would enjoy the whole thing outright—signing autographs, ready with quotable remarks. But Tom is no Liam.

I thought a lot about this comparison when I went to preview the stock at the shops over the weekend—to pull things for Tom. I couldn’t help it, because selecting the clothing for him, and thinking about things like his waist size and inseam is very personal and causes you to think about someone without any clothes on. Also, I was overcome with that wonderful feeling you get when shopping for a boyfriend. You know, when you get to say things like, “Oh, he has
very
long legs,” or “He wouldn’t dare wear anything with a 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 211

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logo” to the salesperson, who is fancying a fantastically handsome man and enviously inspecting you.

Only, of course, Tom is not my boyfriend. He’s just my boss. A very sweet boss, whose inner thigh I happened to have measured, but a boss all the same. And he has a girlfriend. And, obviously, there’s Liam—who spends more time in my own bed these days than his own, making the most of his time before leaving for London in just two day’s time. This will probably kill me, but I can’t think about it. The break will be good for me. Or at least for my career, as I’ve only two weeks left on this assignment and just one bad date ending in a snubbed kiss to show for it.

I

At Calvin Klein, Tom emerges from the dressing room, and I nearly keel over.

“Oh. My. God,” I can’t help but say, whistling like a horny construction worker. He is stunning. The pale green shirt, the tie in a subtly darker shade of green, a deep charcoal suit, which is draping and hugging in all the right places over his surprisingly athletic build. When he does the little spin (with his arms out and his eyes wide in expectation of my reaction), I notice—and I know you’ve caught wind of this observation pattern by now—a fantastic butt.

Simply extraordinary.

Of course I can’t see the entire butt. But there is just enough peaking out below the jacket that I can surely get a taste of what the whole thing looks like. And it is extraordinary. I know I have said this already, but wow!

“So, what do you think?” he asks, looking just the perfect mix of unsure and sort-of, kind-of confident.

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There is a certain joy in teaching when two people come from different backgrounds, isn’t there? I mean, you know, with friends, which, at this point, I guess we are. Not every boss has your article framed for you, right? I guess I hadn’t really thought too much of it, since I haven’t had too many bosses to compare Tom with. But that really was very nice. My own mother hadn’t even thought of that. And the way he just had it hanging there for me when I arrived the next morning. That was very sweet.

“You look breathtaking,” I say, shaking my head to emphasize the point and trying to keep my eyes on his face, rather than grazing up and down his body, which again, I might add is really something else. Lucky boa-wearing bitchy girlfriend.

Not that I care. Liam is already Rico Suave—no education necessary. But there isn’t all that much fun in that, is there? There would be no makeovers in Liam Land, as Liam is perfect right off the rack. But we have all sorts of fun doing other things, different things.

“Really?” he says, raising his eyebrows here in an adorably unsure way.

“I’m sure your girlfriend will just melt when she sees you like this.”

Here, he does what he always does whenever she comes up.

Clams up. Turns around to go back into the dressing room. I should probably stop bringing her up if it gets him so upset, but then, what is he doing with her if she is so bad? He doesn’t seem like the sort of person who’d stay in it just for his parent’s sake.

I wonder if maybe one of them is dying and this was their last wish. I could see if that is the case.

“Wait a minute, we’ve got to take the photo,” says Bill, our base-ball cap–wearing, gum-chewing photographer.

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Here’s where I switch into creative mode, suggesting we go by the sleek leather chair and pillar and have Tom sit right down, with his back bent a bit and his legs open, in a really casual sort of way. If there’s one thing I know, it’s what positions a man looks best in. Bill agrees with this (surprising, since photographers usually have their own vision of what they want to shoot, and just politely nod and smile at suggestions from people who think they know what’s best).

Of course, he has Tom do all sorts of other poses—some standing (during which Tom seems to be getting a bit red in the face) and one where he is checking his watch, which looks quite professional.

And right after he puts down his hand after this shot, he looks right at me and smiles and then unsmiles and does something very un-Tom. Something, I’m imagining his evil girlfriend and evil girlfriend-loving sick parent would hate.

He says, “I saw you checking out my butt.”

And although those words alone—from Tom—would have been enough, it’s the way he holds my glance that gets me rouged.

Before I have a chance to really consider that my boss has just accused me (if rightfully) of looking at his ass, and that he seems to have enjoyed this, his unsmile returns to smile position and I am free to rationalize that I have imagined the whole thing.

Taking full advantage of such freedom, I smile back. Ahh, denial.

“Thanks for this. It’s surprisingly enjoyable,” he’s saying, un-fazed with the photog snipping some unposed shots.

“You’re welcome.”

Tom nods, smiling and turns back to the dressing room.

For the second time today I am extremely happy to be friends with Tom. I’ve never had a male friend like him before. It’s different. Rather nice.

Since everything fits so well, Tom decides to take the whole lot, 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 214

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and the publicist has arranged to give him a forty percent discount.

It’s really a great deal. The day goes on. Pink, Brooks Brothers, Burberry, Bergdorf Goodman, Emporio Armani. He’s mastered subtle tweeds, light checks, pinstripes.

At the end, Tom insists on taking me for dinner, but I explain that I have “a prior engagement,” which is to say, one of two last romp sessions with Liam before he goes home.

I settle for a quick glass of wine at The Peninsula’s pricey Pen-Top bar, which, I add, after choosing it, will cost as much as an entire meal anyway. He can expense it, so it doesn’t matter that I’ve made a decadent choice to top off what has felt like a thoroughly decadent day.

Now, if I can just zoom out for a moment, I would like to pat myself on the back for never having told Tom or anyone else at the office about Liam, as it has been hard to keep the secret, since everyone knows that offices and gossip go hand in hand (especially offices inhabited by the likes of John and Tiffany). And let’s face it, when you’re happy, you want to let the whole world know. Don’t think I haven’t missed the wonderful jolt that goes along with coming in, after a fabulous evening, and gloating about it.

Joanne made me promise to keep the Liam thing quiet. “Just in case it doesn’t work out and you do meet someone at work.”

I couldn’t see any chance of that, but I just didn’t feel like mingling my two worlds anyhow. Like stripes and polka dots, they didn’t seem to go together.

But what happens when you start socializing with people from work outside of work is that you inevitably start talking about personal things that you shouldn’t. Tom is back in his own suit now, which although not nearly as sexy as the new digs, does suit his personality, in a way. To me, he feels like the old Tom again. And I 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 215

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think, he probably feels the same way, as he is back to being sarcastic and wry.

“I’m just like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
,” he says, “but, of course, without the red hair, knockout legs, and, well, obviously the sex with Richard Gere.”

I am so glad that Tom and I are buddies. This sort of friendship will surely last even after I have finished at Smith Barney. Surely.

“And without being a hooker—or is there something I don’t know?” I say, suggesting he may have a second job.

“I’m not the one with the
secret appointment
. . .”

“It’s not a secret,” I say.

“So, what type of appointment have you got? Another fabulous writing assignment? Making over men all around town so you can get them to look just the way you like them? You’re stag-ing a coup, aren’t you? Little by little, one by one, you will get everyone with a Y chromosome to dress just as you want. . . .”

He’s waving his fingers here, like I’m doing something
Twilight
Zone
worthy.

“No, I’m just meeting Li—” and I stop midsentence while knowing full well that Tom is a smart man, and no matter what I say here, he will now know that I am seeing someone who is probably a
someone
. Shit. I am getting panicky. My palms are clammy. I am not sure why, because it is pretty clear at this point that I am not going to meet someone who is
someone
at Smith Barney, and so I shouldn’t really care. But I do.

Word will get out, and everyone will know I am involved—by the time it churns through the rumor mill (I hear those HR

people are the worst) I’ll be listed as married with children. But the wine is going to my head a bit, and this is actually a good thing, because I relax and realize that Tom is not a gossipmonger.

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I can’t picture him standing by the watercooler talking to anyone about anything, much less any
one
. It’s fine. So why do I still feel irked?

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Lane,” he says, and I note that this is the first time he’s used my real name in quite some time. And I’m not sure if it’s because I value Tom’s opinion and I would like to see what he thinks of Liam, since everyone else I know seems to have a negative view, or if I just want to bring our friendship to a closer level, but I decide to spill the beans.

And so I go on. And on. And before I know it, I’m telling him how wonderfully suave Liam is, and how he knows all the right places to take me and all the right things to say. And I don’t think this is really why I like Liam so much, but I can’t talk about all of the intimate things—the under and over the covers things. He asks all of the questions that someone really interested in what you’re talking about would—where’d you meet? How long have you been together? Is he nice to you? Is he very proud of your career?

But he never once offers an opinion. Only listens to the answers and shakes his head every now and then.

This method proves very powerful in allowing me to continue gabbing away, and I tell him about how I’d dreamed of meeting someone like Liam my entire life, and how I was so afraid I’d never meet The One before, and about all the nights I’d spent alone in the years previous.

“I can’t believe someone like you would ever be alone,” he says, which I think is very sweet.

In the taxi ride back home, I am a bit nervous that I’ve come off as a very shallow girl, one really worthy of the nickname Ab Fab.

All I’ve spoken about is expensive dinners and nice clothing and how successful and good-looking Liam is. While I was talking, I didn’t mean it to come out this way. I’d only thought I was ex-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 217

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plaining why I love him so much. But it’s very difficult to explain something so mysterious and all-powerful, and so I’m sure Tom understands that. But why do I keep worrying that he thinks I’m awful?

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F o u r t e e n

A “Splendid” Good-Bye

“I’m really going to miss your ass, I mean, um, you,” Liam is saying, as he runs his fingers through my hair. We are on my couch, the scene of what will most likely be our last encounter (we are both exhausted now) for a month. I love the way his fingers feel on me. I love the way he looks in a reclining position. It has been a whole month and I am still feeling the tingles from every touch, rather than being bored or disgusted by his presence. In all honesty, this is the first time since high school that my interest has been so strong in just one person. And Liam is smart and funny and successful. I really think this could be it for me.

Lying here with him right now, the thought that I’ll have to concentrate on the article after he leaves flits in and out of my mind. I’m wishing we could just lie here forever. Although, holding in my stomach in this sitting-up position could become a bit painful. It occurs to me again that I would give up this ar-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 219

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ticle for him, if that’s what it would take to do this every day of my life.

I’ll bet the job at
Beautiful
will start as soon as he comes back. So I ask him about this.

“I don’t want to talk business now, Lane. Let’s just enjoy each other,” he says soothingly.

And I guess he’s right. I am kind of ruining the mood.