What Men Want (7 page)

“Tell him I'll miss him for Christmas,” I said, hating to share this intimate thought with her. “And tell him that it just won't—”

“Hold, please!” she said like a drill sergeant, suddenly cutting me off. “I have another call.”

“Just tell him that I love him and that I'm so sorry things worked out this way.” I went on, talking to the void. “It won't seem like Christmas if I'm on my own, without him.”

T
he idea of going off on an out-of-town assignment—something I did more often before the column—initially gives me an adrenaline jolt. Getting my reservation for the plane and the hotel, notifying everyone that I'll be away, dashing to the airport to chase a story representing a major city paper, and then writing it according to how I, Jenny George, pursue the facts and set them down for the world to see and for history to record.

Then the true picture emerges. The cab gets enmeshed in a paralyzing thicket of traffic. I teeter-totter to the gate in those fabulous-looking suede heels that I bought, against my better judgment, and sure enough, not only are they starting to pinch, the balls of my feet are starting to burn and feel raw.

I'm hyperventilating. I'm going to miss my flight,
and all of the others for that day are solidly booked, although I haven't checked first class because I'd resort to that only in an emergency. So assuming the gods are looking down at me positively, and I arrive at the airport in time to make the flight, I am now subjected, as is every other passenger, to a security check that makes me fixate on the potential dangers of getting into an aircraft with dozens of strangers.

Don't think I fit the terrorist profile. Not a blue-eyed blonde in Donna Karan slacks and a cashmere sweater from Express, right? Oh, and yes, don't forget the delicate heels. But, hey, you never know, I could be a designer decoy.

I'm pulled apart from the other passengers and a handheld metal detector that reminds me of a billy club is run smoothly over my arms, legs and torso, and unless it can detect pockets of cellulite, and the fact that I'm the only one of my friends who hasn't gone on a low-carb diet, I think I'm clear to go. As usual, of course, I'm thinking of some smart-ass remark to make, but then realize that I had better shut my mouth. These days no one working airport security has a sense of humor.

Following the lead of the person before me, I take off my jacket, then my shoes, put them back on, and get the green light to go. I glance at my watch and take off for the exit gate, arriving just as the doors are about to close.

“WAAAAIIIIITTT,” I yell, and it's obvious that
there's a benevolent God because the attendant waves me through. Moments later, I haul my suitcase into the overhead compartment. Then I sit down, belt myself in, and in minutes we're airborne. I close my eyes and then open them in relief when we're soaring above the city.

Only then do I allow myself to think about what Chris told me that morning. He had an appointment with the client and the casting director of his agency to discuss the profile of the girl that they wanted to represent Model Thin. Over the course of the next few days, they were going to start casting calls.

Am I secure, convinced that the man loves me, and unconcerned about the possibility of him being attracted to one of the candidates because he's always been faithful? Get real. I may be reasonably good-looking, and fairly accomplished, but so what?

Do I have alabaster skin?

Am I six feet tall?

Am I model thin?

Do I have perfect cheekbones?

Big pouty lips?

Perfectly straight white teeth, or rather perfect white veneers?

No, and you can be sure that the woman they'd pick would be someone out of his deepest fantasies, not the kind of woman that ordinary guys meet in bars or at their jobs or even see walking on the streets. No, this creature would be some rarefied
beauty who spent her days in front of cameras for
Vogue, Bazaar
and
Allure.
This would be a visionary creature who would convince average American women, overweight or not, that they had to head for the supermarket for a drink that would radically change their lives, inviting the kind of happiness and satisfaction that until now they had only dreamed about.

So for no reason other than the fact that she was born with the right face and body, the woman that they picked would be paid enough to retire, for life, after a couple of years of standing in front of cameras and endorsing the useless drink.

How did I feel about that? Cool, accepting, nonchalant? Are you out of your mind? I'm consumed with angst. Why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut? Why, of all names, did I come up with one that used the word MODEL! Couldn't I just have suggested “Makeover Magic” or “Magic Malted”? Then Chris could use cartoon characters or magicians, or any fanciful characters that illustrators could create on the page and then animate. It was a good thing that I was a print journalist rather than a trial lawyer. I'd probably blurt out something that would condemn my client to a life behind bars.

While it wasn't Chris's job to get involved in the casting, I had no doubt that he would. If you were a straight guy and the office was going to be filled with top models between the ages of eighteen and
twenty-five from the city's most prominent modeling agencies, would you go to the deli for lunch or mosey down to the casting department to check out the runway show?

I remember a friend who was an editor at the
New York Times
telling me about the time that Robert Redford came to the paper for an editorial meeting. No big deal, right? They were sophisticated people. The women were liberated. That was until Redford set foot on West Forty-third Street. Windows were flung open. Heads were hanging out of them. There was a stampede to the corridor as the oh-so-sophisticated
feminist
reporters who went gaga wanted to steal a look at him. Beauty was a magnet.

It's not that anyone would describe Chris as a skirt chaser. Au contraire, he's pretty laid-back. But he does have twenty-twenty vision, and he is all male and at a moment's notice is ready to jump into the sack. With me out of town now, what was the rush to come home? So those kind of thoughts haunted my consciousness for the entire flight. Instead of using the uninterrupted calm to go over reams of documents that I had carted along in my shoulder bag—almost dislocating my shoulder from the weight—I stared out the window, neurotically chipping away at my nail polish, fantasizing about who Chris would be going home with and where it would all lead.

And me? I'd become a prizewinning reporter
sleeping alone with nothing but old newspapers scattered around me, and cartons filled with notebooks with hastily written scribbles everywhere. I'd have plenty of time to write articles, and even books, because my schedule would be wide open without a boyfriend, or husband, or male companionship of any sort.

At the very least, I vowed that although I was destined to spend Christmas alone, I'd get back in time to spend New Year's with Chris. December 31 is always trying for me. I'm not big on celebrations. Maybe because the majority of my New Year's Eves have been spent in the company of girlfriends or family, or just home alone in front of the TV, rather than with the perfect date.

My ideal New Year's? To stay at home alone with a boyfriend, or at most, the two of us with another couple of close friends, sharing a sumptuous dinner of filet mignon or lobster, or maybe bouillabaisse with its heady aroma scenting the house. How depressing to be out at a jam-packed New Year's party with strangers all around you, everyone up at 3:00 a.m., starting to feel sick. It's something that you do to hide your emptiness, like walking alone on an empty street and crying out to fill the void.

Several hours later, I calmed down as I glanced out the window and saw turquoise water all around me. We were descending, getting closer and closer to the tiny island paradise of St. Croix. After a bump, then
my sigh of relief, I sat back as we taxied to the airport gate. I stepped down the narrow metal staircase into a warm pool of sunlight and unclouded blue sky toward the arrivals building that's bungalow-size compared to New York's JFK Airport.

Eighty-five degrees at least, the world aglow in late afternoon sunlight. I peeled off my cardigan and then lifted my bags and headed into the terminal. It's hard to keep your mind on work in a place like this when everyone you see is wearing shirts and shorts in bright colors and you see bare, tanned skin instead of cheeks flushed by the cold. The pace of normal life slackens and what's foremost on your mind are things like banana daiquiris and conch fritters and finding a comfortable chair facing the water.

At the front desk of the hotel where I was staying, my initial concern was that someone would recognize me. While I was not going to pretend I was someone else (not ethically acceptable), I wasn't going to advertise my identity either, thus the hair pulled up into a ponytail and the orange aviator glasses. I'd say my name was Jennifer, instead of Jenny, maybe Jennifer Allison, using my middle name and stopping after that. In the gift shop I found a white baseball cap that worked to hide most of my hair. This was not the Jenny George wearing the neat Calvin Klein gabardine blazer that New Yorkers saw twice a week in the thumbnail-size photo in their newspaper.

There are times when it's an advantage not to be statuesque with hip-length hair or the face of a runway model. Right now being the five-foot-six, blue-eyed former cheerleader with standard-issue blond layered hair helped me melt into the crowd.

A porter carried my bag up to a room with a king-size bed. He flung open the dark wooden plantation-style shutters, flooding the room with light and an unending panorama of calm turquoise water. The walls are sponge-painted pale yellow and the bed is covered with a perfectly pressed white linen duvet cover with matching king-size pillowcases. On the desk, opposite the bed, there is a tray holding a cornucopia of fresh pineapple and wedges of mangoes and papaya, surrounded by red and purple berries. He flicked on the bathroom light and I saw that it was the size of a small bedroom, all white marble except for small diamonds of lapis blue. A milk-glass shelf holds a stack of perfectly folded white towels and on top of it a folded white terry bathrobe with the name of the hotel embroidered in gold.

“Is there anything else that you need?” he asked.

Just the perfect man, I was tempted to say, but I didn't because he probably had access to a supply of available men. I tipped him, closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, running my hand along the fresh, white cover. So here I was, all alone. I reached for the phone and after figuring out the complex equation of outside operator, credit-card number
and phone number, I sat back and waited. After eight rings, I hung up. I looked at my watch, it was only six o'clock. Chris was probably still at the office. Another dozen-plus digits or so and the phone finally started to ring again.

Should I ask how the casting went? Would it look as if I was totally insecure and desperate to know what happened? And if I didn't, would he think that I was far away and now oblivious to what his life was like? I was about to hang up when he answered.

“Hey,” I said softly. “I'm really sorry that I had to leave without talking to you.”

“It's okay Jen, I got your message.”

Was he stoned? He sounded even more mellow than usual. Was it the connection?

“So what's going on?” I said. “What are you doing tonight?”

“A few of us are going to Carmine's,” he said. Carmine's was a West Side Italian restaurant that served family-size portions of great food. Well, at least, he was in a group. And no doubt he'd come out with enough garlic on his breath to keep werewolves at bay. If he had already found himself a date for the night, he probably wouldn't be taking her to Carmine's.

“Think of me when you have the seafood linguine,” I said, instantly craving the jumbo shrimp and the plump steamed mussels, not to mention the nuggets of garlic, the size of peanuts, that were part of every plate.

“Think of me when you're snorkeling.”

“Chris…”

“What?”

“I miss you, damn it.”

“I miss you too,” he said. “I feel abandoned, this really sucks.”

“Buy a ticket.”

“We're in the middle of planning the campaign right now, Jen, and casting already has someone in mind. The client's thrilled and we're on a tight deadline to go shoot.”

“What's the girl like?”

He whistled softly, as though he was entertaining his innermost fantasy. “Pretty amazing.”

Was that a migraine aura in front of my eyes, or just the hammering of a major artery in my head? It might even be the first sign of an aneurism, hard to tell.

“So you're moving along,” I said, massaging my temples, aware only a moment later of the possible implications of my words.

“Yeah,” he said, obviously not picking up on them.

“What's her name?” I asked for no particular reason.

“Bridget,” he said.

“Bardot?”

He laughed. “Just Bridget. She doesn't use a last name. I guess it just makes it easier for people to remember her.”

“Well, say hello for me,” I said breezily.

 

After that I didn't want to go sit by the water or even go near it. What I wanted was a pill that would put me into a long, twilight sleep in the protective cocoon of my king-size bed. The timing of the whole trip was miserable, no matter how you looked at it, and I felt helpless, like someone knowing and dreading the fact that they were watching two trains about to collide. My whole relationship was about to implode. Worse yet was knowing that I was single-handedly responsible. I thought of calling a private investigator to follow Chris to either put my mind at ease or know as soon as possible that our relationship had crash-landed into the gutter.

Bridget, Bridget. Why did the name of a girl who used only one name annoy me beyond my wildest dreams? Probably used just one name because everything else that went with it sounded ridiculous.

Bridget Smith? Bridget Conklin? Bridget Jones? Bridget Wannamaker? It was a stupid name, phony, pretentious. It shouted out that you were a Bardot wanna-be. Maybe I should just drop George and tell everyone that my name was Jennifer. Or Jen, to save newspaper space—a three-letter byline.