What Pretty Girls Are Made Of (9 page)

Bowling was our activity of choice. A few frames in, David proved to be a great bowling coach, though my bowling seemed to get better only when alcohol was involved.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s play one more game.”

“I’m in. I can handle one more,” I said. I was having fun but felt like I was with a buddy.

He replied, “Let’s make a bet. If you win, you get a home-cooked meal by none other than yours truly.” I nodded and he continued. “If I win, what’s my prize?”

I hated being put on the spot for a bet. Like in truth or dare as a kid, I never liked coming up with the truth question. Too much pressure.

“If you win,” I said, “I’ll buy you dinner at the restaurant of your choice?”

“Oh, come on. Really? I’m offering to cook for you and you’re taking me to dinner? I’m going to say that if I win . . .”

“Yes?” I questioned. What would he throw on the table?

“You, Alison, have to have sex with me.”

WHAT? Straightforward, much?
I wanted to laugh in his face, but then I thought
about Kenny and blushed, since a sex bet with him would’ve been exciting. To David, I bluffed.

“Okay, David. You’re on,” I said, smiling. Since “loosen up” seemed to be the message for the night, I went with it. Who was this guy?

“Really?” he replied, not hiding his surprise.

“Really,” I said sweetly, jokingly, yet with eyes squinted and brows arched, never intending to pay off my debt. Seeing no hint of romance in his proposal, I decided we were just friends.

But as David’s bowling score increased, he became overly touchy-feely with me. After winning handily, he awkwardly kissed me good night outside of the bowling alley, his prize looming over us.

“I had fun tonight,” he said after our kiss. “Do you want to head back to my apartment? After all, I do have to collect.”

So not subtle. So not happening.

“Thank you for a fun night, but I’m going to head back to my apartment and call it a night.” (Do you think he got the hint?) “Thank you for the bowling lesson. Your tips were spot-on,” I said, with an attempt at cheer.

He was saying something about when he would collect as I shut the door to my taxi.

“Have a good rest of the night,” I told him, cutting him off. Perhaps I was too focused on my date later in the week with Kenny to let myself feel anything for David.

Monday morning.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Ali Baba

I’m sure at this point you have recognized your actions and have returned to your pleasant self. Now what I need from you today is to send a package to corporate with all of the new items you said you received from the warehouse as well as for you to ask Ira to cut a check for me to give to Elliott’s school for $1400 to the auction committee. I bought a beautiful pair of Bulgari earrings at the school fundraiser. Ciao.

This email was only one of about twenty from Sally waiting for me. There was one from David as well.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Hi

Good morning, Alison. I hope you had a good rest of the night and a great weekend. Last week was quite a time around my office and this week promises to be another one. I had a lot of fun with you at Bowlmor and would like to take you out again. What do you think?

No mention of collecting. Nice. But I was sure now that David was a strikeout. I called him right after receiving his email.

“The subscriber’s voice mail you have called is full. Please try your call again later,” said the automatic woman who intercepted my phone call.

Didn’t she realize that it would help me greatly to be able to leave my “Thank you for a fun night; I would like to be friends—without benefits” message on his voice mail?

Okay, it would have been easier to leave David a message, especially since I wasn’t sure how he would react, but I would have said the same thing to him if he’d answered the call. I always preferred when I received that courtesy and tried to do the same. But since I couldn’t reach him, it was time for plan B: send an email.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Hi

Hey David,

I had a great weekend, thanks—hope you did too, especially after your long work week. I feel very awkward writing what should be said over the phone, but when I just called your cell, your mailbox was full.

I have had a lot of fun with you (and my bowling has definitely improved) but I think that we are better suited as friends. I wish you the best of luck finding someone special—she will be a lucky girl.

Fondly,

Alison

Nine minutes later, I received his reply.

From: [email protected]

TO: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Hi

I agree . . . on all counts.

Have a great one.

My face flushed. Not the answer I expected. Why ask me out again? Or push for sex?
I ended it with you and now you’re rejecting me?

But at the end of the day, I was happy not to lead David on and to focus on the good-looking man on the eleventh floor of my building. Next!

Before my date with Kenny,
I
met up with Zeke, the tall, blond, Norwegian head of Hotbox, for an early drink. Zeke wanted to talk about things unrelated to Sally Steele Cosmetics, and was careful to request drinks over the phone versus over email. As Hotbox was our outsourced Internet e-commerce company, I had frequently communicated with Zeke and his team since receiving my “viral media” fauxmotion. Hotbox was immersed in redesigning our website, among other things, and had its own difficulties with Sally.

There was an unspoken understanding between Zeke and me about the hair tearing (or hair losing!) experience of working with the Makeup Mongrel. Sally had reprimanded Zeke and individual members of his team for issues that were outside of their control and then berated me when the glitches couldn’t be solved. We’d become familiar with each other in a short time with daily contact over the phone and in meetings.

Zeke suggested we meet at Grand Central, before I was set to meet Kenny around 8 p.m. Could it be that sending out my résumé had released a message into the universe that I was available and looking? For men
and
jobs? I wasn’t sure if I believed in the theories of
The Secret
, but I was happy with whatever energy was newly coming my way.

“Alison,” Zeke said over wine and appetizers, “I’ll be candid. I would not have any desire to keep the Sally Steele account if you weren’t our point person.”

Is this business, or is he flirting with me? Oh stop, Alison. Keep your ego in check.

“Working with you is truly a joy,” he said, resting his hands on the table and smiling. “So I have a question for you.”

“Yes?” I asked, not sure if it would involve a paycheck, sex, or both.

“I want you to consider working for my team.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and took a swig of white. He was trying to get me to come in-house, not to his house. A job offer—thank God!

“And would you spare me from working on the Sally Steele campaign?” I asked with a smile.

“Well, I think that it would make sense for you to stay on the campaign. You have grown the business so much, and I think that you could do wonders with it if you were on our side.”

I need to get away from that Beast.

“Interesting, Zeke,” I said. “And thank you. But I have to think about it. I don’t necessarily want to leave Sally to gain Sally, to be honest.”

“Just think about it, Alison. We love working with you and want to keep a relationship with you for as long as possible.”

He paused for a second and looked me straight in the eye.

“I’m no fool, and I know you know that. I also know that you aren’t long for your company. Frankly, I don’t understand how you work for that woman at all. That was clearly off the record.” He chuckled.

And that was that. He understood the situation. And he wasn’t flirting with me.

I left Grand Central feeling like a ball of energy. Desire and positivity ignited inside my stomach. And the glass and a half of wine that I’d drunk certainly helped.

Kenny was already sitting in a booth at the Fitzpatrick Hotel bar, where we’d planned on meeting, just two blocks from our apartment building. He stood to greet me, smelling freshly showered and with wet hair that highlighted his eyes.

“I feel so far away,” he said when we sat. “These tables are huge. Would you mind if I sat in the corner with you?” I smiled as he slid into the navy leather seat next to me.

“What’s your favorite food?” he asked me as we both watched a plate of curly fries make their way to the table across from us.

“Ice cream—most specifically, Caramel Cone from Häagen-Dazs,” I answered without missing a beat, watching as a small smile crept across his lips.

“Ice cream?” he questioned.

I nodded firmly. “Yours? Fries, perhaps?”

“For me,” he said, “anything my mom cooks. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. Most specifically, her meatloaf. I just love it.”

“I hope your mom’s meatloaf is better than my mom’s. I don’t like meatloaf. Meatloaf nights were code for eating at the next-door neighbor’s house where I grew up.”

He laughed quietly. Kenny was soft-spoken, but also clear and confident, even when we talked about our pet peeves. Mine: mixing fruit and chocolate. Why would anyone mess up the purity of chocolate cake with some sort of fruity drizzle? His: people who spoke too loudly.

I want to kiss this man. He’s talking and I can’t focus; I just want to kiss him.

“Can I walk you home?” he asked at the perfect decibel level after three hours that felt like twenty minutes.

“Of course you can. I hope it’s not too far out of your way,” I said coyly.

“It would be my pleasure.” Kenny held my hand as we walked back to good ol’ Fifty. It was weird walking into our building together. I would often say my good-nights to dates to the left or right of the building entrance so that the doormen (who knew everything) didn’t have something extra to gossip about. The security of living in a protected building was fantastic. Having everyone know all of your business—not so great.

When we got into the elevator, I pushed the tenth- and eleventh-floor buttons. I wasn’t versed in intrabuilding first-date etiquette.

“Can I walk you to your door?” Kenny asked as we ascended.

“Yes, that would be great—thanks.” At the tenth floor, we walked down the hall to my side of the building.

“I had fun tonight, neighbor,” he said.

Kiss time?
I hoped so.

“I did, too,” I replied, waiting.

And with a staccato peck on the lips—perfectly appropriate and a total letdown—he said one more good-night before heading into the stairwell.

At work the next day,
I barely got anything done. Had Kenny had as much fun last night as I had? I spent most of the day Gchatting online with my girlfriends, overanalyzing the situation. I needed to stop thinking about it and focus on my upcoming weekend trip to QVC—my first to the Q!—in T minus three days.