Bond Girl (23 page)

Show-off.

“I wanted to ask you something,” he said.

“What?”

“Your birthday's coming up, isn't it?”

“Next month. April 16. How'd you know that?”

“I told you, Nancy will tell you anything if you're nice to her.”

I swear I blushed. It must have been the lychees.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I was wondering if you'd let me take you out on your birthday. I assume you're free?” Will was smooth, but he still could use some pointers in the art of seduction. Telling a girl you assume she has no plans on her birthday isn't flattering. Even if it was a month in advance.

“Really? Why do you
assume
that?”

“Bad choice of words. What I meant to say is: to the best of your knowledge, are you available to go out with me on your birthday? I want to book you early.”

“Much better. Well, I'm supposed to have dinner with my friends, but I can cancel. What do you want to do?”

“No intel. It's a surprise.”

Will signed the check, and we made our way toward the exit. It was still pouring, so we huddled under an awning at the deli next door. He jumped into the street to hail a cab, and I quickly followed him into the backseat. The rain pounded against the window so hard it sounded like someone was throwing handfuls of gravel at the taxi from the sidewalk. My hair, and the headband, were dripping wet. I shivered. He pulled me next to him so I was almost sitting on his lap.

“Thanks for dinner. I had a really nice time.” I sighed, the alcohol and endorphins making me feel like I was floating.

Will was quiet, a weighted silence that felt like an eternity. The only sound I could hear was the golfball-sized rain pounding on the roof of the cab. I was pretty sure when we got out that the top of the car was going to look like an English muffin.

“Listen, I need to talk to you about something,” he said as he shifted in the seat.

“What?” I was starting to get cold. If it weren't for the six lychee martinis, I was pretty sure I'd be hypothermic.

“I'm not ready to have a serious relationship. We have fun together, and I like hanging out with you, but I think we should keep it casual.”

“What?” I said sharply as I pulled away from him.

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it. It's been great hanging out with you this past year. But things could get pretty ugly for both of us if we started, you know, ‘dating' and it didn't work out. So let's not go there.”

“You're joking, right?” I worried that the headband was constricting the blood flow to my brain and that I hallucinated that he had just asked me out on my birthday—next month—and then told me he didn't want a girlfriend.

And women are supposed to be crazy?

“I don't want you to take it personally. I'm just being honest.”

He hiccuped, and I realized that trying to have a serious conversation would be a waste of time. What was the big deal, really? Tonight, he learned I don't like fish eggs, and I learned he doesn't want a girlfriend. Fair trade. Sorta.

“So, just so I'm . . . clear. You don't want to date me, but you want to keep hanging out and doing what we're doing. And you want to take me out for my birthday.”

“Yeah,” he said.

I pulled back and looked at his face. His eyes were bloodshot and cloudy from too much alcohol and too little sleep. Figuring that status quo was better than nothing, I smiled and said the only thing that I could think of to say: “Well, okay.”

Lucky for him, I didn't care about labels. All I cared about was my birthday surprise. Sometimes, I am way too easy to please.

Fifteen

Wet My Lips Wednesday

W
eird things were happening at work. March and April were scary as some well-known funds collapsed and the markets stopped operating smoothly. I had taken a lot of things for granted, I realized. One of those was my belief that Wall Street firms would always have enough money to stay in business. Apparently, that wasn't necessarily the case. I tried to learn as much as I could about what was happening, and what could possibly happen in the future, and before I knew it, it was mid-April and my twenty-fourth birthday was looming.

On my birthday, thankfully a Saturday, I woke to my ringing doorbell. My alarm clock read 8:45.

“Happy birthday!” Liv said when I opened the door to find her and Annie standing there with a huge bouquet of flowers and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. “How does it feel to be one year closer to thirty? I want to know, so I can spend the next eight months preparing for when I'm your age.” She loved the fact that I was a few months older than her. It meant that I would hit all the ages women didn't want to hit first, namely thirty. Whatever. She had been really jealous of me ages sixteen to twenty-one.

“It feels great, you pain in the ass.” I yawned. “Twenty-four doesn't feel a whole hell of a lot different than twenty-three did yesterday. What are you guys doing here so early?”

“We came to wish you a happy birthday before your hot date, you know, the one you're blowing us off for,” Annie said.

“Very funny.”

The truth was, I didn't mind getting up early. I had spent the week primping for my mystery date. I spent more than $500 on personal maintenance: a manicure, pedicure, wax, a triple oxygen facial, a haircut, highlights, body scrub, body wrap, and a massage. The seaweed wrap might have been a little excessive, but the ladies at the spa swore it would detoxify and firm my skin, and I saw no reason to skimp.

“Happy birthday, Alex,” Annie said as she opened the bottle of champagne. We clinked our glasses together, the bubbles making my eyes water. “So what are you and Mr. Will going to do tonight? Maybe the big surprise is that he finally agrees to meet at least one of your friends, you think?” she asked.

“He hasn't said. I figure he'll call or text me later with more info. Honestly, I'm just happy he wants to spend my birthday with me. We never hang out on weekends, so I'm considering this a small victory.”

Liv handed me a little gift bag stuffed with white tissue paper in an unsuccessful attempt to cover up a very obvious pink feather-topped object. Oh Lord. When I pulled the feathers out of the bag I found that they were attached to a clear plastic tube that held I didn't know what—socks? Whatever they were, they came in various colors: I could see red, pink, purple, and black.

“Go ahead, open it up!” Annie said, as her cheeks blushed a deep crimson. I pulled out the first tightly rolled cotton ball and shook it out. It took me a few seconds to figure out that I was holding the first of seven teeny-tiny pairs of days-of-the-week thong underwear. (And there were actually seven of them, so clearly Meg Ryan was incorrect when she told Billy Crystal in
When Harry Met Sally
that there are no Sunday undies because of God.) But these were not your normal days-of-the-week underwear; these were, hmm, how does one say this delicately? These were slutty-girl-every-day-of-the-freakin'-week underwear.

“Where . . . in the hell . . . did you guys get these?”

“I had nothing to do with it! I left Liv in charge of getting the gift. I would've gotten you a gift certificate for a spa or something!” Annie said in a rush.

“I think they're funny. It's not like anyone else will have them!” Liv countered defensively.

“No, certainly not,” I agreed. “If I had these when I was little, my mom wouldn't have had to write my name on my Jockeys before I went to camp.”

“These are my favorites,” Liv announced as she held up a white pair with the phrase “Wet My Lips Wednesday” emblazoned in hot pink above an even hotter pink lip print. “Come on, tell me these aren't the greatest things you've ever seen? Maybe you can wear a pair out tonight with Will, you think? Let me find Saturday.” I ripped the plastic sleeve out of her hand.

“Let's leave Saturday where it is, okay?” I said, through my laughter.

“Whatever he has planned, I hope you guys have an amazing time. I can't wait to hear about it tomorrow. If he manages to not screw the whole thing up, it will be like a scene from one of the movies on Lifetime,” Annie said dreamily. “I can see it now, it'll be called
Foreign Love Exchange,
you know, alluding to the fact that you met and then fell in love while trading on the stock exchange.”

“I hate to ruin your fairy tale, Annie, but I don't work on the stock exchange.”

“Who cares? You know what I mean. A big floor with lots of rowdy people is a big floor with lots of rowdy people.”

“Ahhh yes, big floors with rowdy people are where all good love stories begin, Annie. I'd also like to point out that there is no love story here. We aren't even dating.”

“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .”

“Hey, what are you going to wear?” Liv asked as she threw open the door to my closet. “You need to look hot.”

I showed them the outfit I had in mind as we finished the bottle of champagne. The day was off to a great start and was only going to get better.

I
've always prided myself on being the type of girl who can handle just about anything. I'm not easily rattled. I'm not clingy or dependent. I am, however, just a little bit, and I mean a teensy bit, neurotic. By the time 7:00
P.M.
rolled around and I was still sitting on my couch watching TV, I started to get upset. I had already sent Will two text messages, one at 6:00 and one at 6:30, both of them breezy and perfectly acceptable little notes asking what time he was picking me up or if I should meet him somewhere. But an hour later he still hadn't responded, so naturally my mind flashed to the only two possible scenarios that made any sense: he was dead or he was unconscious. In which case, how selfish was I to get upset over something as stupid as a birthday dinner as he lay bleeding from a massive head wound in some crowded inner-city emergency room? By 8:30, I had sent him three more text messages, progressing in tone from concern to mild pique to outright anger.

Text 1 (7:30):

SMS from Garrett, Alex:

Are you okay? Please call me. I'm getting nervous I haven't heard from you.

Text 2 (8:00):

SMS from Garrett, Alex:

If this is your idea of a birthday joke, running over my childhood pet would be more amusing. Call me.

Text 3 (8:30):

SMS from Garrett, Alex:

You better be dead.

Text 4 (an hour later):

SMS from Garrett, Alex:

Seriously it's 9:30. This isn't funny where are you?

I tried to calm myself.
Do not panic. Do not panic. There is an explanation for this. No one would intentionally do this to someone. I have seen episodes of
Jerry Springer
where people showed more compassion. There's an explanation; you just have to give him the benefit of the doubt until you hear it. The important thing here is to definitely, not, panic.

By 10:00, I had been reduced to tears, sitting on my windowsill, smoking cigarettes and biting my nails until my manicure was ruined. I stared at my phone, waiting for it to ring, but it remained silent. My brain still couldn't wrap itself around the possibility that Will had blown me off.

At 10:45, my phone finally beeped. Maybe I should have felt honored that he finally took the time to answer one of the numerous messages I'd sent him, in addition to a handful of phone calls that went right to voice mail. I opened my phone with the same fear and excitement I'd had when I opened up my response letter from UVA. Until I read it; then I just felt sick.

SMS from Patrick, William:

Really sorry, but not feeling well. Can't make it tonight. My bad, happy birthday.

Happy birthday? My bad? Seriously? This had quickly become the most disappointing, insulting, depressing birthday of my life. I washed my carefully applied makeup off my face, the water mixing with my tears. I threw my new clothes on the floor, shuffled into bed, and planned on staying there until I had to go to work on Monday. When Annie sent me a text message at eleven asking if I was having a blast, I replied:

Home. Asshole.

I buried my tearstained face under my pillows and silently cursed the day he was born. There was some small comfort in knowing that when you're at your lowest point, there's nowhere to go but up.

That is, until you sink so low you might as well be sitting in a noodle shop in China.

I
tried to ignore my doorman buzzing me the next morning, but when my phone started ringing incessantly, too, I finally forced myself to answer. Annie was in my lobby, and she wasn't going to leave. I opened the door in my pajamas, and judging from the look on Annie's face, I knew I looked as bad as I felt. So far, twenty-four was off to a fantastic start.

“Christ,” she said as she threw her arms around my neck and squeezed like she was trying to juice me. “He should be shot, Al. With a rifle . . . at close range . . . in the face.”

I nodded.

“What was his excuse?”

“He said he didn't feel well.”

“What do you mean he said he didn't feel well? Does he have anthrax? Bubonic plague? Anything else is completely unacceptable.”

“I know.” I sobbed.

She glanced at my hands. “What did you do to your manicure?”

I stared at my nails, which I had gnawed down to the cuticles. “I don't know,” I whimpered. “I guess I bit them off last night. It could be worse. I could have tried to slit my wrists with my corkscrew.”

“First thing: we're going to fix those hands. Come on, my treat. I need a mani anyway.”

I didn't want to leave my apartment. “I don't want a manicure. Of all the things about myself I need to fix, nail polish is really not high on the list.” I sat down on my couch and pulled a blanket up over my legs. Despite my best efforts not to, I began to sob. Annie sat down next to me.

“I'm so sorry, Alex. I know how much you were looking forward to last night. He's not worth it. You can do soooooooooo much better.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” I wailed. “I think I give off some kind of signal that only seriously delusional guys, and dogs, can hear. Everyone I date is an asshole, Annie, every last one. Why can't I ever like the nice guys?”

“You're attracted to the wrong things. You think the nice guys are sissies.”

“I've been fighting so hard to make sure I don't end up a doormat later in life, I didn't even realize I am one now. The irony is sickening.”

“You're not a doormat, and you haven't done anything wrong. He's been giving you just enough encouragement to keep you interested. This isn't about you, it's about him.
You
are just fine.”

“I have one foot in the loony bin and the other on a banana peel. I'm
not
fine. And I can't have a nervous breakdown on the trading floor. How am I going to go back there and deal with him and not lose my mind? How am I supposed to work with him after this?”

“We'll figure it out. Don't worry about that now.”

Good advice, except I could do nothing
except
think about it. “I'm going to have to quit my job. How can I go in and look at him every day after he did this to me? Chick was right; interoffice dating is a horrible idea. This is a disaster,” I moaned as I wiped my hands across my eyes.

“You're not going to quit your job; don't let him force you out of your career. You'll go in there and be the strong, determined Alex you've always been. Let's go, girl. Throw on some jeans.”

It was 12:30 when Annie and I entered the crowded salon and approached the polish carousel.

“Do you see ‘Ballet Slippers'?” she asked as she picked up bottle after bottle of pink polish to examine the labels. “I can't find it.”

“Have you ever thought about how stupid the names of these nail polishes are?” I asked, my foul mood rearing its ugly head. “I mean look at this: ‘East Hampton Cottage,' ‘Montauk Highway,' ‘Marshmallow,' ‘Blushing Bride.' Who comes up with this crap?” I picked up a bottle of dark brown polish and turned it upside down. “This one's called ‘Chocolate Kisses.' It's
brown,
Annie. ‘Chocolate Kisses'? Give me a break! It should be called ‘Shit Kicker.' ”

“I don't think women would be eager to paint their nails a color called ‘Shit Kicker,' ” she said, laughing.

I scowled. “Maybe that's what I'll do. I'll start my own line of nail polishes with better names. Names for the bitter women's circuit. I'll call it Angry Girl.”

“Okay,” she said, humoring me. “What's your idea of a better name for nail polish?”

“I'd replace ‘Montauk Highway' with ‘Jersey Turnpike.' Let's see, there could be ‘Overworked and Underpaid,' ‘Lying Cheating Bastard,' ‘Blood Sucker.' That would make a nice red, I think.”

“How about, ‘Prenup'? Or ‘Left at the Altar,' ” she suggested eagerly.

I made a fist and raised it in a mock cheer. “Excellent, yes! Hey, how about ‘Trailer Park.' That's a good one; I'd nuke ‘East Hampton Cottage' in favor of ‘Trailer Park.' There could be a market for this. Just think about how many women are doing this very same thing at this very same moment and more than half of them are probably depressed or pissed off like me. And if you're depressed or pissed off when you get your nails done, you really should be able to choose a color that reflects your mood. Is that really too much to ask?” I began to gesticulate wildly and my voice rose as I began talking in one long stream of consciousness. “You know, for example, let's say the guy you've been seeing stands you up on your birthday, you may not feel like putting a color called ‘A-list' on your nails. I'm not A-list, Annie. I'm at the very best B-list and there's no B-list polish here! Fucking Idiot. That's the color I want, Annie. Help me find ‘Fucking Idiot'; do you think it's in here somewhere?” I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the nail polish display. My eyes were wild, my cheeks flushed, my hair mussed. I looked like a lunatic.