Diary of a Working Girl (30 page)

in a pool of self-pity can, that this guy would be perfect for me, and therefore continue to do what any lonely girl would do: Mentally I tear his companion to shreds. Her boring J. Crew look—she must be frigid; her plain-Jane hair—probably doesn’t own a shred of lingerie; her driving moccasins—surely a rich girl who just doesn’t know what life is all about. She probably doesn’t even work at all, just has Daddy pay the mortgage. I am shaking my head in disgust at what men see in women, and why they don’t see it in me when suddenly, there is a shot of 151 in front of my face.

“Bottoms up!” screams Jenn’s new beau.

The one other time I’d ever had this shot, I was playing hostess at a New Year’s Eve party. It was during the first of my relationships with a Not-Funny-Enough, Not-Smart-Enough, but sweet and in love with me guy. One thing I knew I was handing out pigs in a blanket, the next thing I knew it was noon the following day.

Therefore, I’m sure you can see why the shot seems like a good idea to me at the moment. I clink cheers with the two idiots I am making company with and let the exceedingly hot liquid make its way down my throat. A bit dribbles down my chin and I go to wipe it, but a pile of napkins is thrust in my direction before I actually make contact.

“Can I get that for you?” asks a redheaded guy.

Can someone really ask that in an attempt at a pickup line?

Surely this could be awarded some type of cheesiness citation. But I am feeling the effects of the alcohol already (this is strong stuff) and, well, I’m actually delighted at the attention.

“Sure.”

The couple in the corner is now kissing, it feels, just to show me how happy they are. Redheaded Guy wipes my chin, taking his time, and probably less interested in the possibility that some alcohol has made its way to other regions, and more interested in the 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 236

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possibility of exploring those other regions, he expertly trails the heap of napkins along my cheek and down my jawline towards my neck.

I am disgusting and cheap for allowing this, but I don’t care.

Mid-wipe, my cell phone rings. Whatever I may have said about getting past everything and tomorrow being the start of a brand-new me, well, I forget all about that, and consider the possibility that this may be Liam. Without thinking, I grab my purse, take a look at Jenn, who is already lip-locked (even in this hurried state, I am in-tune enough to guess from her behavior that she’s probably here for reasons similar to my own), and run out the door to answer the call in quiet.

I’m sure it’s Liam.

It is.

“Hello?” I say, trying to keep the world straight by leaning against a wall, as it is currently spinning uncontrollably.

“How’s it going, sweetheart?” he asks. And now that it’s really him, I’m not sure what to say. But the way he said sweetheart is sending all sorts of pins and needles into my stomach and I remember this feeling and it is fantastic. Does this mean it was just a case of mistakenly writing the wrong number? Or is he calling to seal the deal now that he’s given me ample time to call and find out the truth?

Instinctively (or rather, because I’m drunk off my ass), I swim past the pins and needles and find my bitchy woman-scorned tone.

“Liam, I want you to tell me right now what the hell is going on here?”

I am not sure how he will react to this because I have never used any tone other than the adorable sex-kitten variety on him before.

But whatever effect the bitchy woman-scorned voice may have had is somewhat diminished by the long pause that follows. Rather 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 237

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than concentrating on keeping up this tone, I am deciding whether this is a guilt-driven or shock-driven pause.

And then the silence is broken when he starts to laugh. First it’s a small, light hiccup of a laugh, and then it’s a full-blown, all-out yuck-fest, with intermittent sighs to catch his breath.

Laughing? Wait. This is a good sign.

No, a great sign.

He has no idea why I would be angry. He thinks I am putting him on. Yes! This is perfect. Obviously, you cannot feign this type of laughter—never, and now it is so clear. I was being paranoid. A lunatic. Perhaps I should be admitted to an asylum.

I get that wave of relief that comes over you after you wake up from a nightmare and discover that whatever horror you’d gone through was not real. Of course! It was just that he’d mistakenly written the wrong number. Hadn’t that been exactly what Joanne was trying to get at when she asked how quickly he’d written the number? And I’d just ignored the question. Joanne, she’s so smart!

(I now choose to ignore her final summation of the situation, which involved the word “asshole” on the grounds that I was telling the story only from my point of view, which you know is only one side of the truth.)

“You’re bloody hysterical, Lane. You know that? I wish I could give you a big hug right now.”

“I wish you could, too,” I say, trying to sound cute.

“Are you waking up for work now?” I ask, imagining it must be like five in the morning there, and his hair is probably so adorably pushed up on one side.

“What? Now?” he asks, and I am suddenly confused and paranoid, thinking I’ve caught him in a lie and he’s not in London at all. His voice is rather clear for just having woken up.

But then he calms my fears again. “No, yeah, well, I set my 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 238

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alarm to make sure I’d catch you when you’d probably be coming home. I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about you. And chocolate cake. And your bed. And your floor. And . . .”

That last
and
can only mean one thing, and that is exactly what I’ve been dying to hear. I really couldn’t have fantasized about this telephone call any better than it really is going, except that I probably would have added, “I love you, Lane,” somewhere in there.

But, still, this is perfectly fine. I am worlds ahead of where I had been just seconds earlier. I am feeling normal again (albeit having trouble standing up straight), and so I leave all of the negativity (and my off-again friend Jenn) behind and walk home talking with Liam on the cell, discussing all of the things we wish we could do to each other. And I start to tell him the story about
The Wizard of Oz
, and he’s listening, he really is, but he has to cut me off in the middle to get ready for work. Which is totally understandable. At least I got a bit out. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to finish up the bits about the wedding scene and the Tiffany diamond he offers to Dorothy the next time we speak. And when finally, I am in my bed once again, sure we are absolutely perfect—Liam and I—where hours earlier I lay in the lowest of spirits, I feel that once again, all is as it should be.

I

Iget to work the following morning by the grace of God. I am so hungover I can barely see, and even though there is no sun in the sky, I am wearing the darkest sunglasses I own (okay, the only sunglasses I own, but you get the point). And now that everything is back to normal on the Liam front, I really have to get serious about the project we are working on, as tomorrow afternoon is our meeting with the telecom companies. I have to make all of the final decisions, and proof all of the copy, and make sure that the order is perfect before it goes off to the printer. It’s a long day, 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 239

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and it’s not really until noon that my brain is at a fully functioning level. John is very sweet to me, and gathering that I have drunk my sorrows away a bit, he keeps bringing cups of water by my cubey.

Tom doesn’t really seem to be himself today. The only conversation we’d had was in the morning, when I’d returned his jacket and let him know that everything was just fine with Liam. And if I’m not mistaken, he was a bit short with me then—avoiding my face when I spoke to him, and since then, his door, which is normally open to us at all times, is firmly closed. Perhaps he’s angry that I took off early yesterday, in the middle of such a big project over something that was obviously blown out of proportion, and so I make sure to work very hard today to show him that I am still dedicated. I’m sure if the meeting goes well, this will all blow over.

It’s after midnight by the time I have the proofs one hundred percent ready. I have never been pegged as the detail-oriented type, but I have taken extra-special care on this project with every single dot of ink that will wind up on the page. With a project like this, there is so much riding on the deal—employee bonuses, jobs even—that you can’t help but feel a strong sense of responsibility, above and beyond the sort that comes with naming the wrong hue of lipstick that Sarah Jessica Parker wore to the Oscars.

But all of that extra time making sure that each statement follows the
Strunk and White
guidelines, that each date is formatted in the exact same manner, and that every single page looks absolutely perfect, our print department will now have to work overnight to get the piece done. I use my womanly charms to ease the situation, arriving with a big smile and sodas for all, and keep the guys company for the first couple of hours—handing out cookies and candy from the vending machine. And while I’m sitting on a high stool, watching the guys work, I wonder if perhaps I’m not dragging this day out because when I no longer have this project to use as an 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 240

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excuse for procrastination, I will be back to panic mode as I will only have one week left before my article is due.

I

Before I know it, it’s 2 P.M. the next afternoon, and I’m in the conference room, removing the cellophane from the sandwiches and salads I’ve ordered for the meeting. At each place, I gently lay down a copy of our proposal, which really is stunning and very convincing. The solid metal cover—in the shape of an old-fashioned telephone, bound with an actual, real telephone cord, looks just stunning.

An hour later, we are beginning and there are over fifteen people gathered to listen to what Tom has to say. He looks very professional in one of the suits we’d bought at Thomas Pink, and when one of the women from AT&T compliments him on his tie, he looks over at me and winks. I feel a wave of something unfa-miliar during the second she takes to smooth her finger over the tie—something like pride, but with a tinge of something else that causes me to watch the whole scenario and follow her freakishly long fingers until they are firmly curled around her coffee mug at the other end of the table. I mean, he has a girlfriend
and
, I can’t help but think, this is a
business meeting
; she could be a bit more professional.

He takes full control of the meeting. We’d gone over his spiel the day before, John and I acting the part of the potential clients, unable to help ourselves asking stupid questions like, “That’s all well and good, but what type of dressing is on this salad?”

As I said, he wasn’t in the greatest mood, and so, didn’t even crack that half-smile once. But, today, he couldn’t be more smiley or gracious.

In fact, when he gets right down to business, I am really blown 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 241

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away. I have never seen him do his thing before, and it is impressive. He is charismatic; he knows what all of the charts mean; he has the answers to every question: “The largest portions of users . . .” “In American and international studies conducted via . . .”

With each point he makes, you can see the faces at the table take on a look of surprise and interest, as if they’ve just heard something that they wouldn’t have expected to. And although I am there really just acting like an important part of the team, to make our department seem much larger and stronger than it actually is, he never once treats me with anything less than the highest respect.

The meeting is long—literally six hours—and by the time we’ve wrapped it all up and called cars for all of the attendees, it’s ten o’clock. I figure that Tom will be wiped out, but just the opposite; he is electric with energy from our apparent success. I am awestruck by how dedicated he is to his job. It’s like, well, like me.

I know that feeling of getting what you want because you worked hard for it. You can see that he was made for this position. He shines under the pressure; thrives on the challenge. Tom Reiner, managing director extraordinaire.

When we are all back by our desks and packing up, he walks over to the cubes and says, “We really all must celebrate. C’mon, we don’t have any work tomorrow anyway. We deserve it. You guys have done a fabulous job, and Mr. Tamaka has already called me from his cell phone, hinting that this is pretty much a done deal. I couldn’t have done it without the two of you. I promised you a fabulous dinner, and that’s what you’re going to get.”

“I would love to,” John says. “But my girlfriend and I are celebrating our anniversary tonight.”

John has a girlfriend. Of course John has a girlfriend. He is sensitive and intuitive and sweet. I, on the other hand, am a shallow 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 242

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jerk, suspecting that he is bad with the ladies. God, can I be shallow.

I look at him now, smiling, as he really is such a sweetheart, and surely, a fantastic boyfriend. I remember the other day, when I was so upset by Liam, John was so sensitive to my feelings. He knew exactly what to say, and what not to say. A girl would be lucky to have someone so intuitive and caring to go home to. I look at him now and notice the slight lines around his eyes and his mouth—

smile lines. John is a good guy—not the kind you come across every day. I guess if you let them, people can amaze you every day.

I’m more than willing to make this night last, as now that the project is done and it’s back to the reason I’m actually here, I couldn’t be more delighted for an excuse to drag the night out a bit longer.