The Blonde Theory (13 page)

I felt more demoralized than ever as I walked slowly back to the bathroom to heap the wet towels into a basket to take down to the laundry room in the basement of the building. I’d just been everything I hated—a stupid, helpless woman who couldn’t do the simplest of tasks by herself. I never wanted to
need
a man, and this morning, I had. It left me feeling powerless and pathetic.

Even worse was the fact that I’d had a better time kneeling in toilet water with some random handyman than I had on any date I’d been out on in the last three years. This did not seem to be a good sign. Nor did it reflect well on my dating life. I resolved to throw more energy into The Blonde Theory. Sadly, it seemed to be my last chance.

Chapter Nine

T
hat evening, after half an hour of scrubbing my bedroom floor after work, I arrived a few minutes before eight at the entrance to Semana, a trendy new Zagat-rated Spanish restaurant a few blocks from my apartment that changed its menu each week based on the produce and herbs that were currently in season. Colin White, the first guy from NYSoulmate.com, had called my cell earlier in the afternoon to make sure that I liked Spanish food, which earned him extra points in my eyes, because a guy like Scott Jacoby (sorry, that’s
Doctor
Scott Jacoby) wouldn’t have bothered to ask. Colin had made a reservation for us at eight and asked me to meet him outside the restaurant.

By the time I arrived, I was actually feeling optimistic about the date. Sure, I wasn’t going as
me,
but Colin White had sounded nice on the phone, and his NYSoulmate.com profile photo had looked downright hot. Maybe there could be some sparks between us if I didn’t screw it up by getting all lawyerly. His sexy baritone was still ringing in my ear after our phone conversation earlier in the day.

“I’m looking forward to meeting you,” he had said on the phone, his voice low and deep. “You sound like just my type.” Hmm, I doubted he’d be saying that if he knew what I really did for a living. Let’s face it: The Colin Whites of the world just didn’t go out with lawyers.

“You do, too,” I had said peppily, carefully to keep my voice elevated an octave, as Emmie had trained me to do. After all, Colin sounded nice. And wasn’t there just something about that name that conjured up sexy images of Colin Firth and Colin Farrell— rolled into one? Now
that
was worth acting dumb for.

Besides, after my morning, I was feeling a renewed sense of urgency as well as the pressure to maintain the blonde persona throughout the date, without cracking under the pressure of agitation, as I unfortunately had with Scott. And if I could have a good time sopping up toilet water with a handyman, then I shouldn’t have a problem having a good time with a hot mortgage broker who had already expressed an interest in me, right? And I wouldn’t even need to act as blatantly empty-headed as I had with Scott the other night. Hurrah for me!

Emmie, under duress from me, had also conceded a little ground on the outfit issue and had let me dress a bit less ridiculously when I had reminded her that not all dumb blondes dress like cheap hookers. In retrospect, I was starting to realize that perhaps she was deriving a bit too much enjoyment from dressing me in a way that, let’s face it, made me look like a total fool.

I still wasn’t dressed the way I normally would for a date—far from it, in fact—but Emmie had relented and allowed me to wear a short, low-cut black Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and decent black heels instead of the lime-green skintight sheath and clear sandals she’d had in mind. I’d drawn the line at clear heels (I was playing a dumb blonde, not a stripper), and now I was thankful I had taken a stand.

My dress was still tighter than I was comfortable with, but all things considered I looked relatively normal—for a brainless blonde.

Emmie had insisted on overdone makeup again (although I had put my foot down on the blue eyeshadow issue, and we had compromised on a copper color with thick eyeliner), and it actually didn’t look too bad. I didn’t usually wear much makeup—except to darken my light lashes and to conceal my under-eye circles—and as much as it pained me to admit it, Emmie did have a way with a set of makeup brushes. She’d made me look more glamorous than I had expected, although I was still resenting the too-bright pink lipstick she insisted I wear. (“A
real
dumb blonde would never be without bright lipstick or teased hair,” she had said sternly.)

So, looking far more presentable than I had the other night, and shifting nervously from foot to foot, I waited in front of Semana, scanning the crowds for my approaching date.

“Harper?” came a deep voice from behind me as I scanned the street uptown. I spun around and found myself face-to-face with a man who looked like he’d just been cut from a magazine ad.

I recognized him immediately from his profile photo and for a moment found it difficult to breathe properly. In person, he was even more attractive than I had expected. His hair was jet black, his eyes were bright blue, and his tanned skin was perfect, stretched over sharp, handsome features. When he smiled, he had deep dimples. I almost wanted to pinch his perfectly sculpted cheeks. But that probably wouldn’t have been appropriate, would it? Thankfully, I managed to refrain.

“Yes,” I said with a smile, extending my hand out of habit before I remembered that dumb blondes probably didn’t shake hands. Fortunately, he saved me from having to fake a limp-fish handshake by picking my hand up and kissing it instead.

Ooh, points for heart-melting charm. It was almost a shame that I’d have to spend the night acting instead of simply drooling at the man across the table. Then again, I reminded myself, the real me would never have been his type. Or at least I assumed. Fine, so an empty-headed bartender I would be. Maybe this Blonde Theory would be worth it if this was the caliber of the guys I’d get to go out with. My heart hadn’t stopped thudding in my chest since he’d arrived.

“How did you know it was me?” I asked him as he looked up at me after kissing my hand.

He winked one gorgeously piercing eye at me. “You looked so beautiful in your profile photo,” he said without missing a beat. Boy, this one was suave. Almost too suave. Especially considering that my face was partially obscured in the photo. But this was interesting. Did he really think
I
was beautiful? I flushed involuntarily. “And you are the most gorgeous woman on Third Avenue right now,” he added, sounding slicker by the minute. “How could I miss you?”

Okay, I knew when I was being given a line. I mean, I was just
pretending
to be a dumb blonde, remember? I wasn’t supposed to genuinely buy this stuff. But still, his words made me blush. It wasn’t every day that guys like this complimented my appearance. Heck, it wasn’t every day that
any
guys paid me a compliment. At least with a straight face. Maybe I
could
get used to dating like a dumb blonde.

I briefly wondered why I hadn’t chosen to become a bartender instead of a lawyer. Realizing that I was on a date with someone like Colin White—gorgeous, and apparently smart and successful—was almost enough to make me want to rethink my entire career plan. Was it too late to enroll in bartending school? Perhaps my life plan was fundamentally flawed. Hmm.

Colin held the door open for me and I walked inside the restaurant. As my eyes adjusted to the lowered light, Colin touched me lightly on the elbow and steered me toward the hostess stand in a way that I might have found offensive if he weren’t so handsome. Amazing how his gorgeously sharp features made me want to forgive and overlook anything that I might ordinarily construe as negative.

He gave the hostess our name, and we were seated immediately, in part, I suspect, because the blushing woman appeared to be as taken in by Colin’s warm smile and chiseled features as I was. I wanted very much to believe that his personality matched his good looks—that he was as sweet and wholesome as he was polished and perfect.

I knew I was deceiving myself. But tonight, it didn’t matter. Did it?

“So, Harper,” he began in a slow, confident, deep voice once we were seated. He looked across the candlelit table at me and smiled. “Your profile says you’re a bartender?”

“Yes,” I said demurely and then added a blonde-worthy giggle, because I feared my answer had sounded too staid and, heaven forbid, too intelligent. I flipped my hair over my shoulder for good measure and smiled as vacantly as I could at him. “I, like, love bartending,” I chirped, trying to sound as excited about my job as possible. After all, I
was
kind of excited about it at the moment. It sure seemed to net me better men than my real job did. But I digress.

“Well, that sounds very exciting,” he said in a voice that sounded almost patronizing. But perhaps I was reading into it. He smiled at me. “How long have you been doing that, Harper?”

“Oh, on and off for ten years,” I bubbled. “I just love working behind the bar. It’s such a thrill.” I giggled for emphasis and he smiled more widely at me, apparently intrigued. I still couldn’t understand what about empty-headedness seemed to appeal to guys, but hey, I wasn’t going to knock it tonight. I could be as vacant as Colin wanted as long as it kept him gazing adoringly at me.

Hot guys never gazed adoringly at me. Ever. I hadn’t realized how nice it felt. I wanted to bask in it for as long as possible, even if
technically
I didn’t
quite
deserve the adoration, considering that I was being adored under false pretenses.

“I’ll bet it is,” he said warmly. He looked deeply into my eyes, as if he were about to say something momentous. “So what’s it like, Harper? Being a bartender?”

“Oh,” I said, then tittered for effect. “Um, it’s, like, really awesome. I mean, I get to meet all kinds of, like, cool people. And I like making drinks.” I batted my eyes in what I hoped was a convincing manner. Fortunately, he didn’t appear fazed, so I assumed that my batting skills had improved.

“Really?” Colin asked, still appearing quite intrigued. I resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze. I wasn’t used to being stared at this intently. It was a little unnerving, actually. “Tell me about it.”

Okay, this was new. The guy actually wanted me to talk? That was great and very flattering. There was just one problem. I had never bartended, and I hadn’t thought of planning this out ahead of time. I didn’t know what to say.

“Um,” I said, then hesitated. I glanced over to the restaurant’s bar, where a blonde bartender—not a lot unlike me, I supposed—was shaking a martini. “I, uh, like shaking things,” I said, then immediately cringed, because really, who would say a thing like that? But Colin merely smiled and nodded as if he understood.

“You must be good at it,” he said, and I was about to smile back when I noticed that he actually wouldn’t have noticed if I did, as he was currently staring at my breasts instead of my face. I cleared my throat, which got his attention. His eyes shifted upward with what appeared to be an abundance of reluctance, then he smiled slowly.

“Thanks,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. He smiled widely and went back to looking at my breasts.

After ordering drinks (A Limón and Sprite for me; a vodka gimlet for him. Aren’t gimlets for sixty-five-year-old men?), we chatted comfortably, Colin asking interested questions (“So what brought you to Manhattan?”), me giving airheaded answers (“An airplane.”), him asking me follow-up questions with an arched eyebrow (“No
.
I mean, why did you move here?”), me giving incomplete follow-up answers (“Oh. Because my friends had, like, moved here already.”), and him staring at my breasts. All in all, it went well, I think.

We moved on to our main courses—a New York strip steak with a lime, onion, and garlic marinade for him and a big bowl of paella for me—and to another round of drinks (What was with the gimlets?). The more Bacardi that slipped down my throat, the more comfortable I felt talking to Colin as a dumb blonde. Interestingly, the act seemed to come more naturally when I was the slightest bit tipsy, much as I’d once discovered, on a trip to France, that I was a better French speaker when I was a few sheets to the wind. (Then again, does being able to enunciate
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”
before laughing hysterically at my own wit really count as fluency? Perhaps not.)

When we were finished with our meals, Colin suggested, with that arch of his eyebrow that seemed to get sexier with every Bacardi Limón and Sprite I downed, that we order two glasses of Martini & Rossi prosecco and split the restaurant’s specialty flan for dessert. Never one to turn down sparkling wine—or dessert (Calories? What calories?)—I immediately agreed.

“I, like, love flan,” I said, feeling a little drunk but still remembering to insert the word
like
everywhere. See? I was a natural. “I’m a flan fan.”

“So, Harper,” Colin began, apparently choosing to ignore my pun—a pun that was admittedly so bad that it probably didn’t actually even qualify as a pun. “I have to ask you. What made you try out this dating site? You must meet guys all the time.”

“Uh,” I paused and cleared my throat to buy some time. Okay, so this was the problem with getting tipsy while acting. I was just a tad bit slower with my answers. “Uh, you first,” I said finally. “You’re really hot,” I said (perhaps a little too bluntly). “I’m sure you meet women all the time.”

“Okay,” Colin said with a laugh. “Me first. Well, as you know, I’m a mortgage broker. Most of my colleagues are men. And the vast majority of the people I work with are couples, looking to buy their first apartment in the city. I can’t exactly date those women, since they’re coming in with their husbands.”

“But there must be women looking to buy apartments, too,” I said quickly, thinking of my own apartment. After all, I’d worked with a broker when I’d bought mine, although he had been about thirty years older than Colin and about two hundred pounds heavier. Just my luck. “You know, single women, I mean.”

“Well, sure,” Colin said after a moment of studying my breasts, which seemed to be the fallback position for his eyes any time he needed to think. He raised his eyes to look at me. Ah, so he
could
locate my face. Hurrah! “But those women don’t need to go out with someone. They can take care of themselves.”

I looked at him in confusion for a moment. I wasn’t sure whether his words truly didn’t make any sense—or whether I was simply having trouble understanding them thanks to the Bacardi- and champagne-induced fog I was currently in. I decided, however, that the fog wasn’t that thick. No, he really wasn’t making sense.

“What do you mean?” I asked after a moment, being careful to tilt my head to the side, speak in a high-pitched voice, and accentuate my question with a giggle and a vacant smile. “What does it matter that they can, like, take care of themselves?” I took a breath and added as blankly as possible, “I don’t get it.” Really. I didn’t get it.