The Blonde Theory (9 page)

“Nice to meet you girls,” Scott said, shaking hands all around.

“So, Scott, what are you and Harper up to tonight?” Meg asked politely after the introductions were complete.

“I thought we’d start off with dinner at a nice little French bistro in Midtown called Café le Petit Pont,” he said with a charming smile. “It’s one of my favorites. Then we’ll see where the evening takes us.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Meg said. She turned to me and gave me a wide-eyed look that I assumed was supposed to have some sort of significance. I just wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

“I thought it would be a perfect little romantic spot,” Scott said, draping a protective arm around me. I snuggled close to him, like I figured a dumb blonde would do, and beamed stupidly at my friends.

“Can I see you in the kitchen for a moment, Harper?” Meg asked innocently. “I have a quick question for you.” I nodded and followed her into Emmie’s kitchen as Scott continued chatting with the girls.

“What is it?” I whispered once we were safely out of earshot.

“You have a perfect opportunity to act like a dumb blonde with the menu items at the restaurant,” she whispered back, her eyes gleaming.

I arched an eyebrow at her.

“This is perfect!” she continued excitedly. “I can’t believe he’s taking you to a French restaurant! You
have
to mispronounce your way through everything.”

I looked at her for a moment and shrugged. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

“Yes, yes!” Meg exclaimed, her voice still low, her eyes still shining. “Okay, and you also have to order frog legs or escargots or something and make a really big deal out of it, like you didn’t know what it was ahead of time.”

“Isn’t that too dumb?” I asked, not convinced.

“No, no!” Meg bubbled. “It’s perfect. It will be so funny!” Hmph, easy for her to say.

I stared at her for a moment then nodded in resignation.

“I guess I have to,” I said. “I signed up for this, didn’t I?”

“Oh, Harp, it’s going to be so great!” Meg exclaimed. “Now, get back out there and go on your date!”

“Do I have a choice?” I grumbled.

A
FTER HUGGING THE
girls good-bye and asking them to lock the door behind us, I was out on the street with Scott, who already had a town car idling by the curb. I was suddenly nervous now that the safety net of my girlfriends had been removed. It was somehow easier to act like a dumb blonde when I knew they were right there with me, prepared to play along. Suddenly, I was flying solo. But hey, I was used to working alone on major legal cases, right? I could do this. I gave myself a little internal pep talk. I took a deep breath and resolved to do my best to sound as empty-headed as possible.

“You have, like, a chauffeured car?” I breathed, looking at Scott with wide eyes as we approached the town car. I twirled my hair and looked up at him.

He laughed, his smile lighting up his chiseled face again. “Not exactly,” he said. “The hospital where I work has a car service. I just figured we could use it tonight for our date rather than trying to get taxis.”

“Like, definitely,” I agreed, still pretending to be incredibly impressed with the car service. Of course, in reality, I had a car service at my disposal, too, and I used it most nights when I worked late. It was one of the perks of being a partner at Booth, Fitzpatrick & McMahon. But I supposed that a professional NBA dancer wouldn’t be using one on a daily basis unless she had a sugar daddy. Like Scott. “This is, like, so awesome,” I breathed as the driver, dressed in a navy suit and matching chauffeur’s cap, hopped out to open the back door for us. I let Scott take my hand and “help” me into the car, resisting the urge to tell him I was perfectly capable of getting into an automobile by myself.

On the drive uptown, I concentrated on tossing my hair as many times as I thought was believable (until my neck started to hurt) and keeping my eyes so wide and vacant that I was sorely in need of eyedrops within the first few moments. Scott asked me questions about myself, but I deflected most of them as Emmie had suggested—by commenting minimally and then turning the spotlight back to him. Fortunately, this worked beautifully, as Scott’s favorite subject was apparently himself. By the time we got to the restaurant on 39th Street, I had learned that he was thirty-eight, that he had gone to Yale, that he and a partner had a private practice associated with Montefiore Regional Medical Center, that he was from Connecticut, and that his dad had been an ophthalmologist, too.

“You haven’t told me anything about yourself, Harper,” Scott said as he helped me out of the car in front of the restaurant. A big maroon canopy with the restaurant’s name extended the length of the building, and little bistro tables were set up outside on the street. “You’ll have to fill me in once we get a table.”

I giggled nervously.

“There’s, like, nothing really interesting to tell,” I said as he opened the door to Café le Petit Pont for me. “I’ve just been a dancer for, like, as long as I can remember. It’s, like, always been a dream of mine.”

I hesitated, hoping that Scott wouldn’t ask more. Because as much as I had prepared to behave like a dumb blonde, I’d run out of time to craft a convincing backstory. The fact was, I didn’t know much at all about dancing. Fortunately, Scott seemed to accept that as an answer. He took my hand as we approached the hostess stand.

“We have a reservation,” he announced to the hostess. “Under
Doctor
Scott Jacoby.” I swear, he stressed the word
doctor.
I wanted to laugh but resisted. Why would he have to throw in the fact that he was a doctor? That would be like me introducing myself to people loudly as “Harper Roberts,
Esquire.
” But the bubbly hostess seemed thrilled to be in his presence, giggling at him flirtatiously, despite the fact that I was standing right there beside him.

“Your table will be ready in just a moment,” she said. Then, I swear, she batted her eyes at him (more successfully than I had, I might add)! “So what kind of doctor
are
you?”

“An ophthalmologist,” Scott answered, puffing his chest out proudly. “That’s an eye doctor.”

“Wow, cool,” the hostess bubbled, completely ignoring me. I should have been annoyed, but it seemed like a better use of my time to take mental notes. Although brunette, the hostess seemed to have the dumb-blonde thing down a lot better than I did. I reminded myself to act more impressed with Scott’s status as a doctor during dinner, because, I supposed, that was what a dumb blonde would do, right? The hostess seemed like a pretty good person to emulate.

We were seated and Scott ordered a bottle of wine—without consulting me, which was the first thing of the evening that really got under my skin. I had such high hopes that Scott would turn out to be my type of guy. But my type of guy would at least be polite enough to consult his date about the wine selection. Right?

I tried valiantly to overlook the lapse. Maybe he’d just been nervous and forgotten to ask me.

“You’ll like it,” he reassured me, reaching across the table to pat my hand confidently. “Trust me.” I smiled and giggled, but inside, I was fighting a feeling of creeping annoyance. Yes, I knew I would like the wine—it was a Domaine de Mourchon Côtes de Rhône-Villages Grand Reserve, and I had actually stayed just outside the Domaine de Mourchon vineyard during a trip to a culinary school in Séguret, in the south of France, six years ago. But I knew I couldn’t tell Scott any of that. It wouldn’t quite fit with my dumb-blonde image, would it? Instead, I nodded tightly. After all, maybe this was the one area in which he was mannerless, and he’d be perfect in everything else. Besides, I
was
acting airheaded. I supposed it was understandable that he’d assume I didn’t know my wines.

“This wine looks really expensive, so it must be good,” I said in my best little-girl voice, giving Scott a little pouty face and bat of my eyes. Thankfully, I had perfected the eye-batting technique in the mirror, and Scott didn’t seem to be about to leap over the table and pull out an optical scope this time.

Instead, he nodded and reached across the table to give my hand a squeeze. “Nothing but the best for you, baby,” he said with a patronizing wink.

I smiled back, but only because I didn’t know what else to say. He was calling me
baby
? Because I approved of his selection of wine? Did guys really talk to women like that? No one had ever talked to me that way. But was it because, as my normal self, I intimidated and scared them? Was this what dating was like when you weren’t me?

I resolved to stop getting offended and to instead simply enjoy being as vacuous as possible. After all, maybe he wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was just picking up on my blonde cues and responding accordingly.

Steeling myself for more blonde ditziness, I opened the menu, which was all in French, and began flipping through.

“Do you need any help reading the menu, baby?” Scott asked, leaning across the table and putting a hand on my arm.

“No, I’m okay,” I assured him in a chirpy voice. “I, like, took a year of French in my high school. I’m, like, practically a native speaker.”

“Oh, are you?” Scott asked, looking amused.

“Oh yes,” I said dismissively and giggled. “I mean, I know
lots
of French words. Like
bonjour
and
au revoir.
” I purposely pronounced the words “boon-joor” and “ow reev-oyr.” Boy, I was good at this. Perhaps I should apply for an acting job on Emmie’s soap. Actually, I was glad Meg had suggested that I butcher the French language. It was easier than thinking up my own stunts. Scott looked at me solemnly and nodded.

“Yeah, that’s almost perfect, baby,” he said, looking amused. I nodded enthusiastically. “But are you sure you don’t need my help translating the menu?” Scott asked again, studying me with what appeared to be some level of genuine concern.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” I said with my cutest little grin, relishing the all-too-perfect opportunity to mispronounce my way through the appetizer, the salad, and the entrée courses.

The waiter appeared beside us a moment later, and I knew exactly what I wanted to order.

“I’ll start with the
cuisses grenouille,
” I said, pronouncing it “coo-ee-ess-ess gren-oo-ee-lee.” The waiter raised a curious eyebrow and I pretended not to notice. I was about to give my salad order when Scott interrupted.

“Baby, are you sure you want to order that?” he asked, looking concerned. “Do you know what that is?”

“Of course I do,” I said, doing my best to look wounded. “And yes, I want it. Is that okay?” I giggled.

Scott hesitated for a moment then relented, leaning back in his chair. I ordered the
salade de la maison,
mispronouncing the words, of course, then the
coquilles Saint-Jacques,
pronouncing it “cock-ay-lees saint jack-ess.”

Scott looked a bit concerned, but he didn’t protest this time. Instead, he ordered his own meal—a much less adventurous one than mine, I might add—and settled back in his chair as the confused-looking waiter walked away to bring us our appetizers.

I wish I could say that the date went wonderfully from there; that Scott was the charming gentleman he had, at first, appeared to be. But sadly, he wasn’t. Not at all. As he downed one glass of wine and then another, he loosened up a little, and his larger-than-life ego began to rear its head. I nibbled on the bread the waiter had placed on the table and slowly sipped my wine, trying to appear as vacant and wide-eyed as possible, while Scott launched into a monologue about his wealth, his fabulous job, and all the other things that were apparently supposed to make me believe he was the greatest man in the world.

Meanwhile, I struggled to keep my eyes big and round as I oohed and ahhed over the things he told me while trying to suppress my gag reflex.

I learned that Scott owned his own two-bedroom on the Upper East Side (on a cheaper block than mine, but of course I didn’t mention that); that he had two cars—a BMW he drove around town and a Jag he kept in a garage outside the city for his “weekends in the country”; and that he owned a summer share in an enormous house in the Hamptons. “Play your cards right, baby, and you might get to be my ‘plus one’ this summer.”

Did girls really fall for this?

“Oh good,” I muttered, not caring that I sounded sarcastic, because Scott was already far too absorbed in telling his stories to notice me much anyhow.

He told me all about his boat,
Lady Luck;
his mid-six-figure income; and his wild weekends in Vegas with his buddies, “where we drop tens of thousands like it’s nothing, baby.”

“So do you get to the gym much, Harper?” he asked, switching tracks rapidly. I blinked at him and almost said no (because in real life, I didn’t even own a gym membership, depending on my collection of workout DVDs to tone my body effortlessly, through osmosis or something), but then I remembered that I was supposed to be a dancer.

“I, like, get to use the weight room?” I said, remembering to add question marks at the ends of my sentences, as Emmie had advised. “At Madison Square Garden? Where the players work out? We’re, like, allowed to use the gym when they’re not using it.”

“So you must be in some shape,” Scott said approvingly, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was looking my body appreciatively up and down. Despite myself, I glanced down skep-tically, then noticed that my body actually
did
look pretty toned in this skintight dress (with the hidden help of the girdle, thank you very much). Well then! Who needed the gym—or to actually
watch
her workout DVDs—when she had some Spanx in her wardrobe?

“Thanks,” I chirped. “That’s, like, really cool of you to say that.”

“I’m in great shape, too, you know,” he said, leaning across the table conspiratorially. I peered at him strangely, but he didn’t seem to notice. Okay, this conversation was taking an odd turn. For once, I didn’t have to fake confusion; I really had no idea where he was going with this. He didn’t leave me wondering long.

He took my hands and looked into my eyes. “I’m like a well-oiled machine,” he whispered in a manner that I supposed was meant to be seductive (although I’d be quite alarmed if anyone was successfully seduced by this sort of talk). “I can go all night, baby. All night.”