Eye Candy

  People can get pretty childish working in children’s publishing, and I don’t mean that in a good way. One day last month I was thinking about my problems with Rita and about how competitive everyone was at FurryBear. And I remembered someone once said, “Children’s books are a bunny-eat-bunny business.”

  I think about that on the subway every morning on my way to work.

  The picturebook series Saralynn gave me to work on is called Wings to Imagination. It’s about all the winged creatures in the world, and about how birds fly thousands of miles every year when they migrate, and imagining what it would be like if we could do it, too.

  I know, I know. It isn’t like great literature—hell, it isn’t even FurryBear—but it was flattering that Saralynn thinks I’m ready to edit a whole series. Especially since she gave the assignment to me in front of Rita.

  So, I had other things to think about this week. Plus, my father had gallbladder surgery, and I spent one afternoon in Beth Israel visiting him and listening to him complain about getting old.

  But yes, I did think about guys some of the time. I had dates to reminisce about. With Brad and Jack. And still one date to go—Colin O’Connor. I thought a lot about Colin and hoped he’d turn out to be nice. Or even someone I could be crazy about, the way Ann-Marie is crazy about Lou.

  Saturday night, still cold, a half moon low in the purple sky over Central Park, I took a bus across town to Second Avenue.

  There are bars up and down Second Avenue, sports bars, singles bars, old-timey bars and pubs, many of them with Irish names. But I knew Ryan’s on the corner of Sixty-seventh Street from high school days. My Stuyvesant High friends and I used to meet there because the bartenders had a very lenient attitude about carding. It was basically a yuppie hangout, guys in suits three-deep at the bar after work, later giving way to the Dockers-and-Polo-shirt crowd.

  Red bricks in front framed a big picture window filled with blinking red and green neon beer signs. Clusters of people leaned against the building, smoking furtively as if they were criminals, smoking quickly, without any enjoyment, getting it out of the way like a quick pee, so they could go back inside to rejoin their friends.

  I was wearing a scoop-necked black top, long-sleeved and sheer, over a short, straight white skirt with a skinny, black belt. At the last moment, I thought maybe I was too dressed up for a bar date. So I took off my heels and slipped into a pair of flat, red sandals. And I pulled my hair back into a simple, schoolgirl ponytail.

  I could see guys turn to stare at me as I made my way to the entrance to Ryan’s. “Yo, are you looking for me?” a beefy guy in a blue and orange Mets hoodie shouted. Some other guys laughed.

  I didn’t turn around. I pushed open the door and stepped inside. That familiar beery smell. My eyes scanned the long, mahogany bar. A wall of shiny, clean glasses glimmered, suspended upside down over the bar. Two of the bartenders were women, wearing tight black tube tops with RYAN’S in white type across their chests.

  A TV above the bar showed a Yankees game with the sound off, but no one seemed to be watching. The mostly well-dressed crowd was talking, tilting glasses to their mouths, laughing, hooking up.

  Where was Colin?

  I stepped away from the bar, side-stepped an aproned waiter holding a tray of glasses and empty bottles above his head, and peered down the row of dark green booths against the far wall.

  Yes. A dark-haired guy in a black Polo shirt sat alone at a booth for two. Unsure, I nodded in his direction. He smiled and raised his beer bottle to me.

  Nice smile, I thought, as I eased myself into the seat across from him. “Hi, Colin. Sorry I’m late.”

  He cupped his ear. “Sorry. That woman has the loudest laugh on earth.” He pointed to the booth behind him, to a woman with her back turned, bright orange hair cascading down her shoulders.

  “I just said ‘hi,’ ” I shouted, leaning across the table.

  The woman tossed back her head and laughed again.

  He raised his bottle, a Corona with a lime. “Buy you a drink?”

  “I’ll have the same.”

  He waved to a waitress, but she looked right past him. He shrugged and pushed the bowl of peanuts toward me. “Dig in. I love peanuts, don’t you?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Ever fly First Class on American? They warm up the nuts. That’s the best. Warmed-up nuts.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Was that supposed to be like something dirty? He waved again to the waitress and this time got her attention.

  He was definitely cute. Great smile, and blue eyes that were . . . I don’t know . . . merry. They seemed to be seeing something funny all the time.

  “Do you fly First Class often?” I asked.

  “No. Never.”

  We both laughed.

  At the far end of the bar, the sound of shattering glasses. One of the bartenders must have dropped a tray. Wild applause and laughter.

  Why do people always applaud broken glass?

  “Do you travel a lot?” I asked, a little hypnotized by those blue eyes.

  He shrugged. “From one room to the other. I have a pretty big apartment.”

  The waitress brought my beer. I raised it and tilted it to his. “Cheers.”

  “Are you a model?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?” Had he forgotten what I said in my ad?

  “I know a lot of models come here. You know. These bars get a reputation as a model hangout. That’s why you see all these guys in designer suits. They think that’ll impress the models. And of course, it does.”

  He laughed. I didn’t really think it was very funny.

  “Is that why you come here?”

  He laughed. “I came here to meet you.”

  I took a long sip of my beer, eyeing him the whole time. “My dad wanted me to be a model. But I never wanted to. He sent me to a modeling school when I was twelve. But I hated it. I felt . . . you know . . . awkward.”

  His eyes flashed. “Twelve is an awkward age.”

  “Colin, are you laughing at me?”

  He dropped his beer bottle to the table, just barely stopped it from toppling over. “Who’s Colin?”

  I swallowed. “Oops. You’re not Colin?”

  He reached his right hand out for me to shake. “My name is Shelly Olsen. Nice to meet you . . . ?”

  “Lindy Sampson. But you’re the wrong guy.” I turned to the bar. Now I recognized the guy at the end from his photo—Colin. He had dark hair and from this distance looked like Shelly.

  “Thanks for the beer, but I made a mistake. I’m supposed to be meeting that guy over there.”

  Shelly held on to my hand. “But he isn’t as nice as me. Look at that cruel smile. That’s cold. And look how tight those jeans are. I think he’s gay, Lindy. Yeah, with those jeans, he’s definitely gay. You’d better stay here with me.”

  I laughed. “Very funny.” I slid out of the booth. What a stupid mistake. Embarrassing. Well, maybe it’s something for Colin and me to laugh about.

  “Sorry about the mix-up, Shelly.”

  “No, wait. I like you. I mean . . .” He scribbled on the cocktail napkin and pushed it toward me. “My number. Call me, okay? I mean, really.”

  I liked him, too, I realized. He was funny and cute. Sometimes mistakes are for the good, right?

  I jammed the napkin into my bag. Then I hurried to the bar.

  “I’m sorry—I just can’t sleep with you on our first date!” Shelly shouted after me. People laughed. I laughed, too. Maybe I’d have a chance to pay him back someday.

  “Colin, hi. I’m sorry. I made the stupidest mistake. I thought he was you!” I pointed to Shelly, who raised his bottle in a salute to us.

  “Jeez,” said Colin. “He does look a little like me. Why is he grinning at us like that?”

  “You know, I’m not sure.”

  Up close, Colin didn’t resemble Shelly that much. For one thing, he had a beard—or at least, his chin and cheeks were so stubbly, it loo
ked like he’d have to shave two or three times a day. And he had that deep cleft in his chin I remembered from his photo. He was very handsome—broad forehead, strong chin. His eyes were dark brown, almost the same color as his short, wavy hair.

  He wore a gray hoodie over his faded jeans, and I immediately felt overdressed again.

  Maybe he saw how uncomfortable I felt because he smiled and said, “You look just like your photo, Lindy. No, much better. Would you like to go somewhere quieter and grab some dinner?”

  So that’s what we did. We found a Japanese place across the street and shared big platters of sushi and drank way too much sake, and talked—mainly about movies. Because Colin was really into movies, all kinds, Jackie Chan Hong Kong films, and old black-and-white films, and foreign films from all over. He told me he hangs out at the Walter Reade, the little movie theater at Lincoln Center that shows foreign films and undiscovered directors, and at the Film Forum downtown. And we talked about animation. Colin is really into animation, Japanese anime, new computer graphics techniques, and old Looney Tunes cartoons.

  Whew! It was like taking a full-semester film course at dinner. But I loved it because I like movies, too. And it was just exciting to be around someone who cared about something so much.

  Well, I liked Colin a lot. I was sorry to see the evening end. But it was two a.m. and I started to yawn. He held my arm as we stepped out to the street to find a taxi. I felt wobbly, kind of dizzy. The sidewalk seemed to tilt up and down. I leaned against him for support.

  How much sake did I drink?

  A lot, I guess. Because taxis went by, and we were kissing. I thought I would fall if he didn’t hold me up. But he slid his arms around me and held me and I don’t know how long we were standing there at the curb, kissing, my hands around his neck.

  Did someone whistle at us from outside the bar across the street? I heard cars honking and another taxi rolled by. But I needed to be held, and I needed to be kissed.

  Are you the guy, Colin? Are you the guy?

  The question in my mind as I opened my mouth to him. Not really thinking at all, so warm from the sake and from his strong arms around me.

  And then we were pressed together in the back of a taxi. I could see the black leather cap on the head of the driver as he leaned over the wheel, coffee cup in one hand, Mets game on the radio, and . . . where were we going?

  Colin’s apartment, all white walls and high ceilings and a tall Casablanca movie poster on one wall, Bogart and What’s-her-name in a clinch, and another poster, all Japanese lettering and a samurai with raised sword. No time to admire the posters because I’m in his bedroom. Did he undress me or did I? My head swimming, not really trashed, but happy.

  And we make love, kissing furiously the whole time. We don’t know each other’s bodies, but it isn’t awkward. His bristly cheek brushing mine, his eyes wide as if in amazement. Yes, it feels good, even when I look up at him when it’s over and wonder who he is and where I am, and how did this happen to me?

  Are you the guy? Are you?

  He nuzzles his scratchy face into my neck. “That was nice,” he whispers.

  Nice. Yeah.

  He wants me to stay all night. He holds on as if he won’t let me leave. But I want to go home. To think? No. To sleep.

  We make a plan to meet tomorrow afternoon in the Village. He kisses my hands. So romantic.

  Am I really doing this? Do I know anything about him? Does he think I’m just another Internet screw? Eye Candy. I put myself online to get laid.

  Is that what he thinks?

  Well, I’m all for the new technology.

  He put me in a taxi and I bounced through the park to the West Side. I fumbled in my bag for money to pay the driver. And lurched out onto the sidewalk, the air warmer, almost stuffy, suddenly, or was it just me?

  I wasn’t tired or dizzy any longer. I felt totally wired.

  Into the building. I jabbed the elevator button, eager to get upstairs and tell Ann-Marie about Colin. If she was asleep, I’d wake her up. I knew she’d be so happy I found someone I liked.

  It took the car a long time to come down. The doors opened and the two gay guys from apartment six stepped out, walking Snapsy, their miniature poodle.

  I said hi to Snapsy and jumped into the elevator. It’s funny, I know all the dogs’ names in the building, but I don’t know any of the people’s names. I guess that’s a New York thing.

  I found the apartment dark. Ann-Marie wasn’t home. Probably out with Lou. And Luisa was at work.

  I stepped into my bedroom and checked the phone machine. One message. I recognized the voice immediately:

  “Hi, Lindy, this is Jack Smith. Listen, I had such a great time last Saturday, you know, at the play and everything. I thought maybe I’d catch you at home and we could . . . see each other maybe next week. So . . . I’ll try you again and—”

  I jumped, startled, when the phone rang before the message had ended. This must be Jack, trying again, I thought. Calling this early in the morning?

  I really didn’t want to talk to him, but the machine was still rewinding and wouldn’t pick up. So I lifted the receiver and clicked on the cordless phone. “Hello?”

  I heard someone clear his throat.

  “Hello? This is Lindy. Who is this?”

  Then I heard hoarse breathing. Open-mouthed and slow.

  “Hello? Who’s there?”

  No reply.

  I felt a cold tingle at the back of my neck. “Hello—?”

  I heard soft, slow breathing.

  Someone at the other end. Someone listening to me. So close. Like being in the room with me.

  A sharp intake of breath.

  “Hello? Is someone there?” I didn’t feel frightened, just annoyed.

  More soft, steady breathing, just loud enough to be heard.

  “Who’s there? Who is this?”

  No answer. A phlegmy cough in my ear.

  I clicked off the phone, shaking my head. How stupid. Was that supposed to be sexy? Was it supposed to scare me? I tossed the phone onto the bed.

  I kicked away my sandals and started to pull off my top. I stopped when I heard the front door open.

  Footsteps in the livingroom. The front door clicked shut.

  I froze.

  A chill tightened the back of my neck.

  First the creepy phone call, and now . . .

  More footsteps, heavy thuds on the hardwood floor. Then whoever it was bumped something, the table next to the couch, probably.

  I heard a muttered curse. In a voice I didn’t recognize. A cough.

  Dragging footsteps now, scraping the floor.

  I took a breath and finally found my voice. “Who’s there? Ann-Marie? Is that you?”

  10

  You totally freaked?”

  “No. Not really,” I said. “Well . . . just a little. I mean, you’d think crazy things, too, wouldn’t you, if you had a sick phone call and then someone came creeping into the apartment?”

  Colin squinted at me over the round lenses of his blue sunglasses. “And so you screamed?”

  It was the next day, a sunny Sunday afternoon, the sky blue and clear as glass, the Bleecker Street side-walks crowded with tourists window-shopping in the tiny stores and drinking espressos at little, round tables in front of cafés. Families enjoying the first nice day of spring, lots of babies in strollers and dogs eagerly tugging at their leashes, and kids on skateboards and silvery razor scooters.

  “I only screamed a little,” I said.

  “Lindy, how do you scream only a little?”

  “Like this. Eeek.”

  We both laughed.

  Holding hands, we made our way past a group of Asian tourists trying to squeeze into a tiny boutique of Native American jewelry. A Hess oil truck making a delivery at the corner blocked the street, so traffic was backed up and not moving. Drivers honked and honked, as if that would speed up the oil delivery.

  “And it was just your roommate Ann-Mar
ie coming home?” Colin asked. “You called out, right? Why didn’t she answer you?”

  “Too wasted,” I said. “I don’t think she remembered her name.”

  Colin snickered. “You hungry?”

  I nodded. “A quick lunch. I have to get back home. I have two manuscripts to read.”

  He got a pouty look on his face. Did he expect me to go back to his apartment with him and make love all afternoon?

  Actually, I wouldn’t mind. . . .

  He looked so cute. He hadn’t shaved, and his face was covered in black stubble. He had his hair brushed forward. With that cleft in his chin, he looked like a young George Clooney. He wore a loose-fitting gray sweater over faded jeans torn at one knee.

  We squeezed into a tiny sandwich place on Fourth Street. “You don’t look like a mortgage banker today,” I said, wiping coffee stains off the menu with my napkin.

  “I’m not really. I sort of do PR work. I recruit clients. You know. Go out to lunch with people. Be charming.” He flashed me a phony smile.

  I laughed. “You’re recruiting me?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Definitely.”

  “How did you get into that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s my dad’s company.”

  I stared at him. “I see.”

  He raised both hands as if shielding himself. “Okay, okay. You know my guilty secret. My family is rich. So now you hate me?”

  I laughed. “How do you know I’m not filthy rich?”

  “You work in children’s books.”

  A frazzled-looking, young waitress with pierced eyebrows and a blue heart tattoo on one side of her throat squeezed through the narrow aisle to take our order. Colin ordered a chef’s salad.

  “Hey, that’s what I was going to order,” I said.

  He grinned. “See? We’re totally in synch.”

  I rolled my eyes and ordered the chef’s salad. “Now tell me your life story, Mr. Rich Guy.”