Diary of a Working Girl (18 page)

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S e v e n

One Enchanted Evening

So, it was with glee that I left work, headed out on a little-black-dress shopping expedition, went for my complimentary blow-dry with the hair guru of France, cashed in a favor for a free manicure (from a nearby spa I have written about before), and dolled myself up for my big date. I took Swen’s advice and opted for the simple black dress—a strappy model that shows off my two always-skinny parts—my shoulders and back. I wasn’t sure if the chocolate croc shoes quite went with it, but they were so elegant that when I put them on, and inspected myself at just the right angle, craning my neck back just so, I kind of, sort of, almost could fancy myself Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
during that glamorous party scene, and so I made it work with a brown beaded necklace.

“Where
is
that Rusty Trawler?” I asked the mirror.

It would do.

Liam was early. Or maybe because I lost track of time peering 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 136

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into my vanity mirror pulling and piling my hair back to see whether a high chignon might suit me and dramatically reciting,

“Fred, I’d marry you for your money anytime,” I happened to be a bit late. This alone didn’t actually take all
that much
time, but that got me questioning the croc shoes to such lengths I felt positive some battle-ready fashionista would point out my fashion faux pas and mortify me on my first date. I stood in the doorway positive the shoes were fine, and then that they were not fine, until the time I was already supposed to have been sitting across from Liam.

And even though the walk would have taken ten minutes, I wound up wasting five bucks on a taxi, lugging along a larger purse that could accommodate safer black pumps in the case of crippling croc-shoe insecurity, and cursing the traffic on Park Avenue along the way.

He is sitting by the bar, drinking another scotch when I arrive.

“Stunning,” he says. “Absolutely stunning.” And then he leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek, just close enough to my lips to make me want to turn my mouth to his and start making out with him right there at the bar. I wipe the
Ally McBeal
hallucina-tion from my mind as he asks, “And how is the
auteur extraordinaire
today?”

“Perfectly wonderful, and you?” I reply, noticing my voice lift at the end as his does.

“Well, I conquered the world, saved the day, and managed to have some time at the gym, too. All in a day’s work, you know.”

“Of course,” I say. I consider I had kind of done the same, as during the course of the day, I garnered three numbers in one trip to the cafeteria with Tiffany (if that’s not conquering the world, what is?), saved the day with an expert excuse for Seth—sample sale a
t Girlshop.com—an
d although with all the primping, I hadn’t made it to the gym, I might as well have because the heroine of my 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 137

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current read,
Jemima J.
had done enough exercising for the both of us in the chapters I’d read this morning. That had to count for something. I suck in my abs in case it doesn’t.

The hostess arrives to take us to our table, and when we get there Liam scoots around to the seat I head for and pulls the chair out for me. I have never in my life had a man do this on my account. I didn’t think people did anymore, citing women’s lib as an excuse to forgo chivalry. I’m sure that’s exactly what feminists are fighting for right now—first the right to vote, then a female president and,
finally
, one day we can all hope for an end to door opening and chair etiquette.

Still, I’m not that naive. Believe me, I know that just because a guy acts like he is in it for more than the sex, that doesn’t neces-sarily mean he really is. But I choose not to focus on that possibility just yet. This is the first date, before any flaws are revealed, malevolent intentions discovered, or, on the other hand, (but not with a suave guy like Liam) that, nice as he may be, he is a crap kisser, and even worse in bed. And, aren’t
I
in it just for the sex anyway?

In the bliss that is first-date discovery, I indulge myself in allowing his cologne to waft through my nasal passages and cause fluttering in my chest as he, very expertly, slides my chair in. It is enough to make a woman swoon—that is, if people actually did swoon, outside of period novels and miniseries.

“So, do you come here a lot?” I ask, rather impressed that he knows the restaurants on the Citysearch Best list when he doesn’t even live here.

“Well, I know some of the people who run this spot. Business associates, you know.”

The guys I normally go out with only know people that wait tables, not the ones who own them. This is quite a change. I can’t 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 138

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help it, but I am suddenly picturing myself jet-setting to the coast—I don’t know which one, just the one people mean when they say, “I’m off to the coast”—wearing black Jackie O sunglasses and a string of pearls about my neck.

And, he really does know everyone, from the waiters to the chef, who comes out in his puffy white hat to see how we are enjoying our sushi, and sends out some special dishes for us to sample.

I feel like a celebrity, or at least, what I imagine a celebrity would feel like. I was a bit worried about conversation topics, since we hail from such distinct walks of life, and even prepared a little list before I left the house (working out, restaurants, the overabun-dance of commercialism in the modern world), but such efforts turned out to be completely unnecessary. Liam is hysterical and a very smart conversationalist.

We both order up fruity cocktails, which are the house specialty here, and Liam raises his glass. “To the blue and pink contents of both of these glasses staying where they ought, rather than on my lap,” he says, flashing that panty-tightening smile.

“Cheers to that,” I say, trying to sound a little British and continu-ing to attempt a sexy look as I navigate the forest of fruits, straws, and kitschy stirrers sprouting from my glass. I notice that in superhuman fashion, Liam has smoothly removed his straw, dumped the fruit into the glass and gently placed the stirrer on the table. This starts me wondering what types of superhuman tricks he can perform with the jungle of straps, hooks, and lace that are my undergarments.

“Is there anything you don’t like, Lane?” he asks, scanning the menu. “Because this food is designed for sharing.”

“Er, no,” I say, not wanting to sound unsophisticated in the world of sushi. It’s like the world is divided into two sorts of people—those who eat the skin of eels and find the word “fatty” an attractive culinary adjective, and those who stick to cooked crab 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 139

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and avocado. I know the importance of choosing the right team here. So, I push my fear of slimy sea animals aside in hopes of having the perfect date.

When the waitress returns for our order, Liam ticks off roll after roll of things I can only imagine have spent way too much time on the bottom of the ocean, and I smile like he’s ordering up ten pounds of caviar and warm blinis. I hear the word mozzarella in there somewhere and relish in the knowledge that at least that’s one thing I can recognize.

“So, tell me more about who Lane Silverman is,” he says, and I almost suffer a heart attack thinking we’ll be talking business and I’ll be lying up a hurricane the whole night, until he adds, “Aside from the award-winning journalist. This is, of course, a strictly business-free dinner.”

Breath once again escapes my lips, proving I have survived and successfully evaded the storm’s path. A business-free,
Cosmo
-free, M&M-free dinner—it’s a nice thought, and now that I’m feeling comfortable with Liam, actually seems like an attainable possibility.

And so, I try to find something intriguingly sexy to start off with.

A glance around the room for inspiration reveals lots of stylish women with perfectly straight hair and logo’d handbags fashioned in all sorts of fancy French bread shapes; men in crisp collared shirts and expertly weathered denim or freshly pressed slacks. This is not very conversation inspiring, until I notice a couple kissing at a corner table.

I reach for television dating show vernacular. “Let’s see, I enjoy long walks on the beach, kissing in the moonlight, and water sports.” Where
do
they come up with that stuff?

“Oh my God, I can’t believe it! I knew we’d be a perfect match when I spotted you across the bar—or rather, when you spotted my pants under the bar. (Eyebrow raise.) Are you also fun-loving, a 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 140

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people person, and (deep breath here) a dog person?” He places his hand across his chest, mawkishly awaiting my answer.

I can’t believe British cheesy dating show contestants are so similar to American ones. I thought they’d at least cite toast, afternoon tea, and something about the Royal Family. I guess it’s true what they say, people are just people, no matter where you go. “Why yes!

I do believe it must be fate. I also hate to play games, am a first-rate kisser, and a perfect 36-24-36, looking for someone who’s ready to settle down and start a family.” Suddenly, I panic that he might not get the joke and instead confuse me with some silly girl who wants nothing less than to tie a lasso around some guy and use him to play out her own personal fairy tale.

I am not that kind of girl. I know that men are living, breathing beings and not just some composite pasted together from male leads in movie posters ready to be plugged into your dream life at random. (Although, if you took a Brad Pitt, crossed him with a Ben Affleck, sprinkled a teensy bit of John Cusack—that would be one hell of a guy.) Anyway, I’m too young for kids.

“I hope you don’t hate all types of games,” he says lowering his lashes, and although I might normally relate this next action to a greasy pickup artist, when he winks at me, it is extremely sexy and on the mark.

And relaxing once again into our apparently kismet connection ( just kidding), I realize this is the perfect opportunity to bring the conversation to the next level. I imagine a sexy guy like Liam is into sexy women. “Well, I only indulge in those involving feathers and hot chocolate sauce,” I reply.

“I’ll check if they have that on the menu for dessert,” he says.

Inexplicably, I feel the need to keep recrossing my legs under the table.

Liam has served as such a great diversion from everything—

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perhaps too great, I think, as a sinking feeling takes over my chest when the check comes and it becomes apparent we’ll be parting ways soon. I know I shouldn’t care so much. I barely even know him. And I obviously can’t like him a lot because this is just supposed to be a little pre-getting-down-to-work-at-finding-my-M&M-to-start-on-the-path-to-award-winning-journalist fling. Still, I’ve never been very good at good-byes.

I don’t know how those women play it cool and just go home after a perfect date without a second thought. I know that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do; say something like, “Well, it’s been grand, but I have to wake up early tomorrow, so I’m off to bed.” This sounds a lot easier than it really is. I am already imagining the way he would nibble on my ear, while firmly holding my hair back, by the time he’s passing his credit card to the server (which he does without even allowing me to grab for my purse—

a move he accomplishes by taking hold of my hand and shaking his head—tingly, warmly, coolly, wow!), because the conversation tickled around the topic of sex—in a fun, not raunchy, way for the larger portion of the evening. Random thought: What you are finding sexy and fun while you’re doing it, would probably appear raunchy and cheap to an outsider, or more specifically, to a woman not on a date, who’s jealous and constantly rolling her eyes at your conversation (not that I have ever been this woman before).

And after my pink, orange, and teal cocktails, I am feeling ready to rip his clothes off and ask for a chocolate doggy bag. Especially after he’d spoon-fed me a warm chocolate ganache, bite-by-bite, refusing to stop until I’d finished each and every drop. The entire time it was as if I was playing a role in a movie, and as soon as we paid the bill, someone would yell, “Cut!” and then this whole thing would come to an abrupt end. We’d get up, Liam would re-21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:05 AM Page 142

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turn to his real life persona—bumbling, awkward, hardly able to float above flirting level—and I’d revert to daydreams for fulfillment. Things like this just don’t happen to me.

So, when we finally stand up and head for the door, I have no idea what is about to happen. Half of me hopes he asks to come up for the proverbial (wink, wink) cup of coffee and then it’s random affair done, on to more pressing matters; but the other half of me doesn’t want this to happen—hopes instead Liam will be a gentle-man and rather than scoop up all of the spoils right now, will save that juicy stuff for another time—like someone does when they really like you and respect you, too.

“It’s not like we’ve got all the time in the world, silly!” I say to myself in my head, or so I think.

“Time for what?” Or I’ve said it out loud and now sound like I’m auditioning for a Broadway rendition of
Sybil
.

“Er, oh, I was just looking at the time, sorry.”

“Are you dashing off to meet some other bloke now, then?”

“Of course. He’s picking me up in just a half hour at my place.”

(
Bloke
, adorable word—ahh, swoon.)

“Well, then, I’d better escort you home quickly,” he says, “so I can send him on his way.”