The Blonde Theory (5 page)
If you were into that whole slutty look.
Which I wasn’t.
But who knew I could pull off trampy so well? Hmm, this was a new side to myself.
“I looked hotter in my Armani suit,” I said antagonistically. Besides, what did she mean when she said she’d get me a date? So now she was my stylist
and
my pimp?
“Well, I think you look a little masculine in your Armani suit,” Emmie said with a grin. I frowned at her. “Besides,” she added, “you look
dumber
in this, and that’s the key.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you look hot, too,” said a deep voice from the direction of the door. Emmie and I both whirled around, startled.
Framed in the doorway stood Matt James, one of the big-name stars of the show, a thirtysomething actor with jet-black hair, sharp green eyes, a strong jaw, and boyish dimples. He played defense attorney Patrick Carr, the embattled Good Samaritan whose plotline currently had him embroiled in some sort of conflict with the mother of his identical twin brother’s baby. I’d never admit it to Emmie, but I didn’t catch
The Rich and the Damned
often, even with my new ability to TiVo it and watch it at night. I just found soap operas far-fetched, melodramatic, and boring. Imagine that.
But the actors on them sure were cute. I had the uncomfortable suspicion that I was blushing.
As for Matt James in particular, I was embarrassed to say that I’d had a bit of a crush on him—inconceivably illogical as that was—since we’d first met at one of the show’s wrap parties just after Peter and I had broken up. I had still been deep within my post-Peter depression and hadn’t been looking to date anyone at all, but I would have had to be blind to have not noticed Matt. I mean, obviously, a guy who plays a hunky lawyer on a daytime soap is going to be attractive. All of Emmie’s co-stars were. But there was something about Matt that struck me so deeply from the beginning, I turned into a blushing fool nearly every time he was around. And that was
so
not me. I usually stayed cool, calm, and collected no matter what. Matt somehow always seemed to turn my brain—and my knees—to mush just by existing in my general vicinity.
Unlike the other actors on the show, most of whom struck me as stuck-up and kind of empty-headed, Matt had always seemed to have an unexpected depth. He sounded intelligent when he spoke. His eyes sparkled intently, and he tilted his head thoughtfully when he listened. He had a smile for everyone. His happiness and kindness appeared genuine.
Then again, as I constantly reminded myself whenever I saw him, he was an
actor
. It was his
job
to make people think he was a genuinely good guy. I wouldn’t be fooled. There was no such thing as a genuinely good guy. At least not a genuinely good soap-star guy.
Of course, it was ridiculous to have a crush on some random daytime soap actor. I had never even told Emmie about my attraction because I knew she would laugh at me. I knew she found him attractive, too, but she had dated another star on the show when she’d first started there—an actor named Rob Baker—and learned the hard way how difficult it was to work with an ex after a breakup. It still bugged her to see him around. She had vowed she would never date another co-worker. Easy for her to say. She never had a shortage of men throwing themselves at her away from the set.
“Hey, Em,” Matt said cheerfully as he approached us, eyeing us warily as we dug through the wardrobe closet. He appeared to be smirking a bit, though I hardly noticed. I was trying desperately to control my blushing, but it appeared to be futile; my cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“Well, what have we here?” he asked, turning to me with sparkling eyes and putting a hand on my elbow to hold me at arm’s length. His eyes ran up and down the length of my body, still clad in the skintight fuchsia dress, and I suddenly felt the urge to cover up. I crossed my arms and looked at him defiantly, giving him my best reserved-for-the-courtroom hard-ass glare—which, for the record, is a little hard to do when your cheeks are lit up like Rudolph’s red nose.
“Nice to see you again, Harper,” he said with just enough of a glint in his eye that his words didn’t sound entirely genuine. “Nice dress.” Okay, now it was a full-out smirk.
“Stealing from the wardrobe closet?” he asked Emmie, an eyebrow arched.
“Not stealing,” she said defensively. “Just borrowing.”
“Hmm,” Matt said thoughtfully, turning back to me, grinning like a little boy now. Emmie and I were both squirming uncomfortably, and he seemed to be enjoying every second of it. “Harper, with your hot-shot lawyer job and all, I’d think you’d have enough money to buy your own clothes. Or are you considering a career change?”
“Shut up, Matt,” Emmie snapped, shooting him a warning look.
“So what
are
you doing?” he finally asked, cutting to the chase. I tried to ignore the way his big green eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked back and forth between us. Big green eyes are my weakness. Well, one of my weaknesses.
“None of your business, Matt James,” Emmie said. Uh-oh, she was full-naming him. She clearly meant business. I, of course, was staying silent, trying to think of all sorts of cold things—ice, the North Pole, sticking my head in the freezer—to cool my cheeks. This was beyond embarrassing.
“Hmmm,” Matt said again, his green eyes twinkling with infuriating adorableness as he looked at us slyly. “And yet it strikes me that it
is
my business, seeing that I’m now inadvertently an accomplice in your little steal-from-the-wardrobe-closet scheme.”
“Borrow,” Emmie corrected impatiently. “Borrow-from-the-wardrobe-closet.”
“Ah,” Matt said, arching an eyebrow. “
Borrow
. Of course.”
“Anyhow, it’s still none of your business,” Emmie said sourly.
“It would seem not,” he said finally, looking back and forth between us. He grinned again and raked a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I have the feeling that when I find out about it, though, I’m going to get a kick out of it.”
“There’s nothing to find out,” Emmie snapped.
“Right,” Matt said. He winked at me and I forced myself to glare back at him. Glaring seemed so much classier than drooling. He smiled at me, apparently unfazed. “Okay, well then, ladies, I’ll leave you to playing dress-up. I’m due on Sound Stage Two. It seems that young Mrs. Cohen’s eighty-five-year-old husband is in a coma and she needs a lawyer to help her figure out how to legally pull the plug.”
“Important stuff,” I muttered.
“Ah, I knew you were listening,” Matt said, turning to me. “Apparently that dress hasn’t squeezed all of the brain cells out of you yet.”
I made a face. He grinned back, his gaze even.
“Just one more thing, Matt,” I heard Emmie say innocently beside me. There was something in her voice that made me turn and look at her. She was smiling in a way that made me suddenly uncomfortable.
“Yes?” Matt asked, waiting expectantly.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked. Suddenly, I realized exactly what she was leading up to. I opened my mouth to say something, but it was too late. Oh no. I felt my cheeks heating up again.
“Nothing,” Matt said with a shrug. “Why?”
“Harper has a firm dinner tomorrow night,” Emmie said, refusing to look at me because she knew very well that I was currently shooting death-ray stares in her direction. “She had this really hot, really great guy lined up to go with, but the plans just fell through.” She shot me a look, and I made a desperate face at her. She grinned. “Apparently he’s some big-shot lawyer in DC, and the president just called him away.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head, but Emmie ignored me. “Anyhow, it would be a shame for Harper to go alone. And I thought that maybe spending the evening with a bunch of lawyers would be great research for your role on the show. Do you want to go with her?”
“Oh,” said Matt, looking temporarily unsure as he glanced at me and then back at Emmie. I felt an unexpected lump in my throat, and suddenly my knees seemed weak. I knew I was still blushing furiously. This was humiliating. He didn’t even
want
to go with me. Of course he didn’t. I was sure he had much better things to do than take pity on some frumpy lawyer who couldn’t get her own date to events. Emmie’s story hadn’t even sounded remotely truthful. Sheesh.
“Actually, I’d love to go,” Matt said, turning to look straight at me, his green eyes boring into mine. I felt my eyes widen with surprise. “That is, if it’s okay with you, Harper,” he added cautiously.
“Uh, yeah, it’s fine,” I said, caught totally off-guard. What I wanted to say was,
You don’t have to come with me just because you feel sorry for me and because Emmie put you on the spot.
But of course, I couldn’t say that. Emmie was grinning triumphantly beside me, I noticed out of the corner of my eye. I made a mental note to strangle her later. “But don’t feel like you have to come,” I said, suddenly defensive. “I mean, I can get a date on my own, you know.”
Okay, so that just sounded childish. Not to mention the fact that it was entirely untrue. Embarrassing as this fix-up was, at least I’d have a date to the dinner.
“No, I’d love to go,” Matt said kindly, a little too hastily to be believed. “Emmie’s right. It would be great research.”
Despite myself, I could feel my heart sink. Of course. That’s what this was about. He could kill two birds with one stone: He’d be the humanitarian of the evening for escorting the undatable lawyer to the dinner, and he’d also score some free lawyer lessons. It was Matt James’s lucky day.
But I was too humiliated now to change my mind and turn him down. On top of that, I really
did
need a date.
“Great,” I finally said softly. “Thanks.” I gave him my address and phone number.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow night, then,” Matt said, turning back with a grin after he reached the doorway. “Oh, and Harper?”
“Yes?” I asked cautiously.
“Don’t wear that dress,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know much about being a lawyer. But I don’t think the senior partners would approve.” He winked. “See you tomorrow night.”
Then, with a wave over his shoulder, he was gone, leaving me to stare after him openmouthed. Finally, I turned to Emmie, ready to tear into her.
“Are you blushing?” she asked me suspiciously.
“Uh, no,” I said. I was a terrible liar. I could feel my cheeks get even hotter. “Emmie, why did you do that? I’m humiliated.”
Emmie just shrugged. “You needed a date,” she said casually. “And I’m sure Matt is happy to go with you. It will help him with his role. Besides,” she added, giving me a sidelong glance, “he owes me a favor.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed, because of course that would be stupid. “Of course. A favor.”
“Okay, Harper, I know you’re in a rush, so we have to do this quickly,” Emmie said, snapping me back to attention. She looked wholly oblivious to what she’d just put me through.
“Do what?” I asked, trying to snap out of the feeling-sorry-for-myself haze.
“I have to teach you how to act like a dumb blonde,” Emmie said impatiently. “And we need to start right away.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” I asked, tugging at the top of my fuchsia dress, wondering why they didn’t build more support into these things. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like talking about dating anymore. I just felt defeated. But I suppose that was all the more reason to get to work on The Blonde Theory, wasn’t it?
“Patience, Harper, patience. And no, we can’t wait until tomorrow. Tonight’s the first night of The Blonde Theory, and that means you have to start playing the part today. The girls will kill me if we show up and you’re still the same old Harper. I promised them a dumb blonde, and a dumb blonde they will have.”
I sighed. She had a point.
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. I took a deep breath and resigned myself to whatever it was I had gotten myself into. “What do I have to do?”
B
y the time I had left the soap-opera set, the promised roast beef sandwich in hand, Emmie had taught me how to insert the word
like
into sentences every few words instead of speaking concisely, to bat my eyes shyly rather than stare people down confidently, to carry myself with my bosom thrust perkily upward instead of standing with my shoulders back and my head held high. She had taught me how to gaze at someone in consternation over simple points rather than following every move in a conversation, to exclaim, mystified, “I don’t understand!,” and to speak an octave higher than normal instead of keeping my voice low and assured. She had even talked me through fictitious backgrounds in my new profession. I was now Harper Roberts, New York Knicks City Dancer.
Not that that was even realistic. Thirty-five-year-old women who hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in months couldn’t pass for NBA dancers, could they? But Emmie dismissed my objections out of hand.
In short, Emmie had taught me how to be the complete opposite of me. And I was doing a frighteningly good job of it. As I’d looked at myself in the mirror, the fuchsia dress clinging to my curves, my hair teased with a can of Aqua Net and false eyelashes that looked like giant spiders glued to my eyelids, I almost believed that I was a few tuna cans short of a Jessica Simpson. I even
felt
dumber as I trudged back to my office that afternoon—having changed back into my suit—chomping hungrily on my sandwich and dreading the evening ahead.
Y
OU MIGHT
wonder why I feel that I need to resort to something as drastic as The Blonde Theory. After all, you might say,
She seems to have it pretty much together. Why does she feel like she has to fake being someone else?
Easy for you to say. You don’t have a dating history that reads like a train wreck. Or maybe you do. But if that’s the case, you probably wouldn’t be asking me why I’m trying out The Blonde Theory. Right?
Okay, let’s just study this for a moment:
Boyfriend Number One: Jack. I’m eighteen; he’s twenty-two; we seem to be a perfect match. He looks into my eyes, tells me he loves me, sends me flowers, writes me love letters...and then seven months into our relationship announces that he’d like to get married and have kids soon. “But, Jack,” I say, “I want to finish college. I want to go to law school. I’m not ready for kids yet.” He protests; I relent and say that maybe I’ll think about it once I’ve finished college, because after all, I’m only eighteen, and I don’t realize that you aren’t supposed to give up all your dreams just because the guy you stare dreamily at says so. No, he tells me, I want kids within a year. “But, Jack,” I say again, “I’m not ready.” Three weeks later, Jack calls and tells me that God spoke to him in the car and told him that Southern Baptists (which he is) shouldn’t date Catholics (which I am). Two months later, he’s planning his wedding to Southern Baptist Suzy, a month after that they’re married, nine months later they welcome Jack Jr. into the world.
Okay,
I think.
It’s not me. It’s a religious thing. It’s not about me.
Boyfriend Number Two: James. I’m nineteen. He’s twenty-three. The complete opposite of Jack. Probably never seen the inside of a church.
Good,
I think.
God won’t speak to him in the car.
We date for two years. James works as a newspaper reporter in Columbus. When I find out the spring of my final year that I’ve gotten into Harvard Law, I’m ecstatic. James is upset. “But you were supposed to stay here and go to law school in Ohio,” he says, sulking over the celebratory champagne I ordered to break the great news to him. I never said that, I protest. It’s always been my dream to go to Harvard. “But now I’m in the picture,” James says angrily. “Your dreams should take me into account.” They do, I assure him. You can come with me and work at a newspaper in Massachusetts, I say. Or I’ll visit all the time and move back as soon as I’m done with school. “I hate Boston,” James tells me, although I know he’s never been there. Two weeks later, James leaves me a message on my answering machine. “I love you, but I’m not
in
love with you anymore,” he says cheerfully. “I’m ending this. I’m sure we’ll stay friends.” I try calling him back, but he never answers his phone.
Okay,
I think.
It’s not me. It’s because he doesn’t want to move. It’s not about me.
Boyfriend Number Three: Dusty. I’m twenty-two. He’s twenty-three. He plays guitar in a rock band. I meet him at Ned Devine’s Irish Pub in Faneuil Hall. I’m drunk—too drunk to realize that I am not exactly compatible with a rock guitarist who hasn’t been to college.
I’ll go out on a limb,
I think the next day when I’m sober and trying to rationalize my new crush.
I’ve never dated a musician before. Maybe I need someone creative.
Soon, creative translates into alcoholic, which translates into unreliable. We date for a year. Clearly, I should break up with him, since I’m fairly sure he’s cheating on me, and he spends much of his time stumbling around in a drunken stupor. But I feel sorry for him. And so I am caught off-guard when
he
breaks up with
me
on our one-year anniversary. “You spend too much time with your nose buried in a book,” he says, then belches. “Would you mind asking the bartender to send me another Jäger Bomb on your way out?”
Okay,
I think.
It’s not me. It’s because he’s an alcoholic who spends his life in smoky bars. It’s not about me.
Boyfriends Numbers Four, Five, and Six: Greg, age twenty-five; Brad, age twenty-seven; Griff, age twenty-six. After Dusty, I go the other way and date three Harvard students for a few months each. Greg is in a few of my law classes and breaks up with me after three months the day after our professor calls me up to the front of the class to announce that I’ve earned the most prestigious internship in the whole class. “You’re always trying to one-up me, aren’t you?” Greg mutters sourly on the way out. “Don’t bother calling.” Brad is getting his master’s in public policy and has already spent some time working on Capitol Hill. We differ in our political opinions and after a lengthy fight two and a half months into the relationship, he explodes at me. “The other girls I’ve dated all share my viewpoints! What’s wrong with you that you don’t?” he yells at me. I have opinions of my own, I shout back. “Well, I wish you didn’t!” he yells back. For once, I am the one to dump the guy. But I notice he doesn’t seem too upset about it. Then there’s Griff, another law student. It works out fine for a while. Then one day, when things seem to be going beautifully, Griff tells me curtly that he can’t see me anymore. Why, I ask, stricken. “I shouldn’t have to explain it,” Griff says, glaring at me. “You’re supposed to be the smart one here, aren’t you?”
Okay,
I think.
It’s not me. It’s because they all have issues. It’s not about me.
But by the time I get to Peter six years after breaking up with Griff, I’m beginning to wonder...
Is it me?
After all, the common threads among the breakup speeches are that I’m too smart. I don’t know my place. I’m not ready to have kids. I’m too driven. Are we starting to see a theme here?
Maybe I should just give up, buy five or six cats, subscribe to
Reader’s Digest,
and commit to being an old maid. Or the neighborhood’s resident Crazy Old Cat Lady. But I’m not ready to do that yet. I’m only thirty-five. I’m not horrible once you peel back all the layers of my scary lawyerness. Surely there’s a nice, smart, successful, cute guy who could like me for me if my job doesn’t get in the way. Right? Besides, I’m allergic to cats.
This is the only reason I’ve allowed Emmie to persuade me that a tube top, a miniskirt, and masquerading as an NBA dancer are the way to go this evening. Against my better judgment, The Blonde Theory is on.
W
E MET AT
7
PM
at the trendy rooftop bar of the Hotel Gansevoort in the Meatpacking District. Meg came in a rumpled black linen dress, straight from a late evening at the
Mod
office; Emmie came with a full face of makeup, an Amy Tangerine love tee, and a worn pair of Robin’s Jeans with the signature wing stitching on the back pockets; Jill came in a slim-cut crisp white shirt, a black pencil skirt, and, of course, her diamond wedding ring, roughly the size of a disco ball and no less attention grabbing.
I, on the other hand, slunk out of the elevator, feeling humiliated, in a tight pink halter top, a short white denim skirt, and nude sandals with three-and-a-half-inch stacked heels—all of them designer labels, of course, although I still couldn’t fathom how any designer in his or her right mind would make clothes like this. And what if I ran into someone I knew? I didn’t think any of the partners at my firm were hip enough to come here, but it would be horrifying if they did. How had I let my friends talk me into this?
“Tell me again why I have to wear this outfit,” I growled at Emmie as the three girls collapsed in giggles. I mean, this was
humiliating.
Worse than humiliating. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like this...and yet here I was, proudly sporting it at one of the trendiest bars in Manhattan to the apparently endless amusement of my three best friends.
“Because a real dumb blonde wouldn’t have the taste to pick out the clothes that hang in your closet, now, would she?” Emmie asked between giggles.
“Besides, you look hot,” Meg choked out between full-out laughs. I made a face at her. “I’d take you home, hot mama,” she sputtered out before doubling over again.
“I cannot believe I am doing this,” I muttered to no one in particular, feeling none too amused. While they giggled, I adjusted the halter top to make sure I was as covered as possible and yanked down on the hem of the white skirt, trying to conceal as much thigh as I could. I wasn’t sure this outfit was such a good idea, as the color of my thighs more or less matched the color of the white denim. But Emmie, who was still doubled over, had assured me that I looked good.
“Okay, okay,” I said, sitting down at the table with them. “I’m not going to get any of these supposed dates tonight if the three of you are cackling like lunatics.” I took a deep breath and looked at them reluctantly. “So what’s the game plan?”
Apparently, Meg, the boss of this absurd operation, had decided that I would start off our little experience with a big bang—acting as ridiculously dumb as possible from the outset. She started to explain.
“Do I really need to act that bad?” I interrupted, looking around the table for support but finding none among the girls, who were all grinning at me broadly. So I took a big swig of the Bacardi Limontini they had ordered for me. At least it gave me
some
kind of support, albeit not the very tangibly helpful kind. “Can’t I just be borderline ditzy?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was begging. “I mean, I’ve known lots of girls who weren’t exactly rocket scientists, but they weren’t laughingstocks, either.”
“Nope.” Meg shook her head firmly. “Tonight we have to kick this experiment off the right way. Full-on ditziness, as dumb as you can possibly be. Those are the rules.”
“Now, are you in?” Jill chimed in, her eyes sparkling. “Or are you chickening out?”
I glared at her for a second, then sighed in resignation. My friends obviously knew me way too well. They knew all the right buttons to push—and they were currently pushing them with glee.
“So what do I have to do?” I asked carefully. Meg rubbed her hands together, her eyes sparkling. She actually looked surprisingly like a cartoon villain—or one of those scary guys from those Old West movies, plotting mercilessly against the heroes. So was it any wonder that I felt like the hero who was about to take a major fall?
“Tonight, you’re Harper Roberts, New York Knicks dancer,” Meg said, clapping her hands together as Emmie and Jill giggled. I moaned. I mean, I’d known it was coming, but I still couldn’t exactly envision myself as a high-kicking, split-doing, bouncy dancer type. Was it too late to talk my way out of it? I mean, hey, maybe the girls would take pity on me and let me slide by as, say, a waitress or a bartender or something.
“You know, I don’t exactly
look
like an NBA dancer type,” I protested, gesturing down to my admittedly un-dancer-like body. Not that I was fat. Actually, I was pleased at how slender I had managed to stay at thirty-five—a result, no doubt, of the long hours I often worked while forgetting to eat. But see, when I went to basketball games—which was actually pretty often during the NBA season each year—I eat hot dogs and drink beers in the bleachers. I don’t leap across the court in acrobatic displays. Heck, I sometimes had trouble climbing the bleachers without getting winded. Hence the less-flexible-than-the-average-pom-pom-girl body and lack of dancer-friendly body parts.
“That’s true,” Meg said with a frown. Hey, wait a minute. She wasn’t supposed to agree with me so readily! I made a mental note to add an additional fifty sit-ups to my morning exercise routine. Eh, who was I kidding? I’d be lucky if I rolled out of bed with enough energy to walk to the Starbucks on the corner, never mind actually do exercises, despite the stack of hand weights, yoga mats, and encouraging-looking Denise Austin DVDs currently gathering dust in the corner of my living room. I had long operated under the theory that buying as much workout gear as possible was one step closer to actually having that perfectly fit body I dreamed of rather than the slightly round-around-the-edges and jiggly-in-all-the-wrong places one that nature—and my own laziness—had bestowed upon me.
“How about you be a
retired
New York Knicks dancer?” Jill asked, smiling at me.
“Unh-unh, no way, I’m thirty-five,” I said, shooting her a look. “I’m too young to be a
retired
anything.”
“I guess that just leaves
current
New York Knicks dancer then,” Meg said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. Rats, she had me trapped.
“Gooooooo Knicks!” squealed Emmie, loudly enough that the people at the adjoining tables turned to stare. “She’s a Knicks dancer,” Emmie explained loudly to their questioning glances. They smiled tentatively at me as I groaned.
