Authors: Jessica Conant-Park,Susan Conant
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Boston (Mass.), #Cooks, #Women Graduate Students
Steamed (5 page)
No, no, no! I’d been so bleary eyed last night I couldn’t even remember whom I’d written to or what I’d said. I clicked on my mailbox and was terrified to see a message from someone called DinnerDude who had apparently read my message that morning. I groaned and shut my eyes in the superstitious hope that the message would evaporate. I opened my eyes.
Damn. DinnerDude’s message was still there. He thought our foodie user names were pretty funny, a comment that completely ticked me off since I couldn’t stand people who referred to themselves as
foodies
. He’d read in my profile that I was a “culinary whore,” a phrase he thought was hysterical. I couldn’t have written
that
, could I? The ill-chosen term implied that plied with the right risotto, I might just rip off my clothes and sprawl across the dinnerware to show my gratitude. My prospective date went on to write that he was thinking of investing in a new restaurant, Essence, and was going there this evening to check it out again and to speak with the owner and the chef. Because I was so into food, would I like to meet him there tonight?
foodies
. He’d read in my profile that I was a “culinary whore,” a phrase he thought was hysterical. I couldn’t have written
that
, could I? The ill-chosen term implied that plied with the right risotto, I might just rip off my clothes and sprawl across the dinnerware to show my gratitude. My prospective date went on to write that he was thinking of investing in a new restaurant, Essence, and was going there this evening to check it out again and to speak with the owner and the chef. Because I was so into food, would I like to meet him there tonight?
Suddenly, the man sounded interesting! And he apparently had money to fling about in investments. Perhaps what had doomed my previous romantic escapades had been food incompatibility! My relationship failures hadn’t been failures at all, but Mother Nature’s way of preventing the propagation of culinarily challenged people, natural selection aimed at eliminating poor palates from the gene pool. All along, I’d been meant for a man who shared my love of wonderful food. This DinnerDude had great possibilities. We could become the new hot Boston couple who invested together in zillions of spectacular restaurants and were written up in
Boston Magazine
as the premiere patrons of local eateries. With unusual confidence and positive thinking, I wrote an e-mail agreeing to meet DinnerDude at Essence. I then sent Heather a message saying she ought to start organizing my wedding.
Boston Magazine
as the premiere patrons of local eateries. With unusual confidence and positive thinking, I wrote an e-mail agreeing to meet DinnerDude at Essence. I then sent Heather a message saying she ought to start organizing my wedding.
The day planned itself. I had to clean myself up and find something sexy and yet appropriate to wear to dinner. My face was puffy from all of yesterday’s crying and late-night computer activities, and I generally looked pretty disgusting. I called Adrianna and left another pleading message, this time yelling incoherently about e-mail and restaurant dates. Okay, what would my fashionable friend tell me to do first? The solution leaped out at me: free makeover, of course!
I tossed on jeans and a fitted V-neck T-shirt, raced down the fire escape, didn’t even glance at Noah’s window, hopped in the Saturn, and sped down Route 9 to the Chestnut Hill Mall and charged toward the Lancôme counter.
A woman named Dana greeted me and listened while I explained yesterday’s mess in excruciating detail, ending with the heinous reality that I would have to see Noah the Jerk again, and probably soon, and that under no circumstances was he to be allowed to witness me looking so gross. And that I had this blind date tonight and better look damn good. Forty-five minutes later, I left the mall with a bag full of gorgeous products and words of encouragement from Dana.
I arrived home to find a gigantic bag outside my side door. I’d never left anything at Noah’s, so it couldn’t be the traditional returning of items belonging to an ex. I read the card taped to the bag: “Chloe, I’m not sure what is going on, but I can tell you’re having a wild weekend. Sorry I haven’t been able to call. I’m working the rest of today, but we’ll talk tomorrow. Thought you might need something special to wear . . . for an Internet date?!? Love, Adrianna.”
I took the bag inside, ripped it open, and pulled out the ultimate beautiful dress: straight cut, midcalf length, low across the chest, with thin straps over the shoulders. This stunner was made of some luxuriously silky material in a deep periwinkle blue. I looked at the label sewn in the back and smiled. Adrianna, it read. I knew she’d been slaving over this dress for weeks now: I’d suffered being stuck with pins the numerous times she’d had me model it for her. Ade had been working on a few designs that she hoped to sell to her posh hair clientele, and I’d been secretly coveting this creation during all those fitting sessions. The dress was perfect for the restaurant tonight—fancy but not too formal, sexy but not slutty. She’d even given me matching heels that tied around the ankle, and a pair of sheer nylons. I loved my best friend. I called her cell phone, poured out praise for the dress and thanks for her generosity, and said we’d talk the next day.
I checked my Back Bay Dates mailbox and found a note from my mystery man to confirm our plans for tonight and to tell me his name, which was Eric. The service had advised against sharing any identifying information until we were comfortable, and it said to meet in a public place. Eric didn’t give a last name but did go on to write that he had blond hair, was six feet tall, and would meet me at our table, which would be reserved under his first name. I wrote back that my name was Chloe and that I was five-five, had red hair, and looked forward to meeting him.
I puttered around the house for the rest of the afternoon: tidying and organizing, moving furniture, and paving the way for a new life of order and simplicity. Any woman who cleans her house before a date has the secret hope that the man she’s going out with will return with her to her spotless abode. According to some women, though, if you prepare for intimate encounters by shaving your legs, cleaning the apartment, and buying condoms, then absolutely nothing will happen; to guarantee a hot night of passion, you need hairy legs, a messy house, and faith in the rhythm method. Screw that. Clean-shaven neat freaks on the pill have sex, too. But my messy, half-painted walls might even things out in my favor. God, I’d love to have someone’s car parked behind mine all night. That would stick it to Noah. Not that I was in the habit of one-night stands with strange men. Still, I could make a sacrifice this one time if it meant causing Noah any unpleasantness whatsoever.
A full two and a half hours before I was to meet Eric, I began my preparations. I yanked down all my hair supplies for a repeat of yesterday’s marathon styling session and then hopped in the shower to scrub and douse myself with all my products. I even shaved about seven times. Clean and buffed, I turned off the faucet and wrapped my hair in a towel.
I have never understood the policy on applying lotion after a shower. On the one hand, you’re supposed to apply lotion to damp skin
immediately
after showering, and on the other hand, you’re forbidden to apply lotion after shaving because it can irritate the skin. Risking irritation, I slathered on gobs of Sweet Pea Lotion and even rubbed a little in places that a first date theoretically shouldn’t get near. When my hair was finally flatironed and the front clipped back, I dove into the Lancôme bag, spread my glorious cosmetics across the sink, and followed Dana’s application instructions precisely.
immediately
after showering, and on the other hand, you’re forbidden to apply lotion after shaving because it can irritate the skin. Risking irritation, I slathered on gobs of Sweet Pea Lotion and even rubbed a little in places that a first date theoretically shouldn’t get near. When my hair was finally flatironed and the front clipped back, I dove into the Lancôme bag, spread my glorious cosmetics across the sink, and followed Dana’s application instructions precisely.
Finally, the blue dress and matching shoes. Since I’d been the model for the dress, it fit perfectly and showed off all the right places. I did look pretty good, I had to admit. I sauntered out the back door and down the stairs, off to meet this blond Adonis named Eric who would whisk me off in a romantic whirlwind.
I ran smack into Noah, who was outside watering his puny little plants.
“Hey, gorgeous.” He flashed a hungry smile at me. “Where are you going all dressed up?” As though I could possibly be dolled up for any reason other than to please him. The nerve. I paused on the landing and with a great sense of superiority announced, “First of all, it’s none of your concern. And second, I really don’t want anything to do with you.”
As I stepped past him, he looked at me in some confusion. One of his harem not drooling over him? “All right . . .” he said slowly, drawing out the words to give himself time to regain his composure. He smiled flirtatiously, as though I were joking.
“Noah, I’m not an imbecile,” I said calmly. “I started my day yesterday by looking out my window to see a blonde tart emerging from your apartment.” Why did I say
tart
? Who says that? What am I all of a sudden, British?
tart
? Who says that? What am I all of a sudden, British?
But Noah’s face fell. Caught.
“Christ, Noah, do you think I don’t have feelings, that it wouldn’t be weird for me? Did you forget that I live upstairs?” I asked cooly.
“Chloe, I’m sorry you saw that, but I did tell you I didn’t want a girlfriend, and you seemed to be okay with that. I guess I should’ve known you’d get hurt.” Pig.
Before he could elaborate on his supposed sympathy for my wounded feelings, I cut him off and nailed him with a lecture on considerate behavior. “You know, I don’t care what you said to me. You don’t get to feel okay about behaving badly because of a technicality. I know you said all the necessary things, but you also
acted
like you were dating me, like you were interested in me. I don’t care so much about
you
in particular. What I care about is how little respect you’ve shown for me. I mean, honestly, it’s just rude to parade other women around in front of me. I take responsibility for my part in setting myself up for something like this, but you need to take responsibility, too. You’ve been all cuddly and cute with me, which, in the
human world
, indicates interest and a certain level of caring. You have an obligation to be careful with people, and you didn’t do that.”
acted
like you were dating me, like you were interested in me. I don’t care so much about
you
in particular. What I care about is how little respect you’ve shown for me. I mean, honestly, it’s just rude to parade other women around in front of me. I take responsibility for my part in setting myself up for something like this, but you need to take responsibility, too. You’ve been all cuddly and cute with me, which, in the
human world
, indicates interest and a certain level of caring. You have an obligation to be careful with people, and you didn’t do that.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way, Chloe,” was his lame response.
“I’m sorry it
is
that way.” Feeling pretty damn smart, I pivoted sharply and strutted sexily down the steps. Unfortunately, I managed to weaken my first-class moralizing when I reached my car, looked up to see Noah back at work on his plants, and shouted moronically, “You’re no Tom Hanks, you know!”
is
that way.” Feeling pretty damn smart, I pivoted sharply and strutted sexily down the steps. Unfortunately, I managed to weaken my first-class moralizing when I reached my car, looked up to see Noah back at work on his plants, and shouted moronically, “You’re no Tom Hanks, you know!”
“Are you sure you—?” started Noah, and I could see he was trying not to laugh.
Dammit, I meant to say Tom Cruise. Although, now that I thought about it, Tom Cruise had turned into a raving lunatic. I’d spent my formative years with Tom Cruise behaving like a normal, gorgeous celebrity and still couldn’t wrap my brain around the new nutjob he’d become.
“Yes,” I stammered. “Tom Hanks. A man known for his upstanding morality and loyalty. He’s been with the same woman for years. Mr. Cruise, on the other hand, ditched his wife, ran off with Penelope, and had a Scientology-laced manic phase in which he jumped on Oprah’s couch and hooked up with Katie Holmes after seeing her supposed
work
on
Dawson’s Creek
! Mr. Tom Hanks is a well-behaved citizen with ethics. And you, Noah Bishop, are no Tom Hanks!” Hoping I’d recovered, I ended with, “And I’m going on a date!”
work
on
Dawson’s Creek
! Mr. Tom Hanks is a well-behaved citizen with ethics. And you, Noah Bishop, are no Tom Hanks!” Hoping I’d recovered, I ended with, “And I’m going on a date!”
I opened the car door.
“You watch
Oprah
?” he called down after me.
Oprah
?” he called down after me.
“Shut up!”
I replayed my talk with Noah on the way to Essence. All in all, not disastrous, minus the severely fouled up Tom Hanks part.
I reached the South End and by the grace of some parking angel managed to find a space. Because it was Labor Day weekend, half of Boston was on the Cape, but I chose to see the parking availability as a good omen. If so, it foretold only short-term luck. What’s more, the good luck was strictly mine and certainly not my blind date’s.
FOUR
EVEN from the outside, Essence was a beautiful restaurant. Large windows faced the street. Through them, I could see the glimmer of candlelight flickering on the walls. A menu was encased in glass next to the front door. I snuck a quick peek and glimpsed the words Baby Artichoke and Shallot Ragout, enough to send me flying into the entryway. If Eric turned out to be a big loser, I would still get a scrumptious meal out of this night.
I was surprisingly relaxed as I told the hostess I was meeting someone named Eric. My usual first-date nerves were nonexistent, probably because I felt I had nothing to lose. The anonymity provided by Internet dating meant that if I chose, I’d have an easy way never to see this man again; I’d just cancel my Back Bay Dates account and vanish. The hostess introduced herself as Joelle. She was in her thirties, with short, curly dark hair. She had the look of a mom, a combination of warmth, huggability, and an air of parental authority you didn’t mess with. In other words, she struck me as a person to whom I could run screaming if this date sucked.
I followed Joelle to the back of the long restaurant. The walls were deep burgundy, and a long panel of ivory velvet hung from each window. The tables were covered in simple white linen with coordinating dishware, and tealight candles added a romantic glow to the cozy dining spots. Dark wood flooring led the way to an open kitchen at the far end of the restaurant. Joelle took me straight to the high-backed stools at a counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. She gestured to the man seated there and said, “Mr. Rafferty?”
“Ah, you must be Chloe,” Eric said as he swiveled around in his chair. “I’m Eric Rafferty, your fellow food afficionado for the evening.”
Hm, not immediately drop-dead gorgeous, but not monstrous either. Eric was as tall as he’d said, about six feet, with neatly trimmed dirty-blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses that framed brown eyes. His features were, well, normal—nothing distinctive, but nothing alarming either. No huge nose or enormous ears protruding from the sides of his head. But no smoldering eyes or sensuous mouth. Hardly the blond hunk I’d conjured. I quickly reminded myself that storybook love-at-first-sight attraction was purely fictional and that I’d better stop judging him and my potential attraction to him until the night was over.
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