Anyway, Daphne and Jess agree that my white pants are fabulous, and Daphne insists that she can hem them, no problem. They agree that the silk halter is flattering, too. It displays what little cleavage I have and is tight in just the right places (which adheres to another of Jess’s fashion rules—if the pants are loose, the top should be tight—or vice versa). And the fuchsia shrug is the perfect finishing touch.
“In case the restaurant is chilly,” Jess says.
“Or in case Richard keeps the air low in his apartment…” Daphne says, giggling as I spin in front of the mirror on my tiptoes. I have to admit that I do look pretty good. Above all, the thought of being finished with our spree holds tremendous appeal. I really hate shopping. If I won the lottery, one of the first things I’d do is hire a personal shopper—for groceries, clothing, Christmas presents, everything. So I change quickly, hurry over to the cash register and toss down my Amex, purchasing the ensemble guaranteed to give me confidence and make Richard swoon.
That night, I can tell straightaway that Jess and Daphne were right about the outfit. For starters, I fit right in with the crowd at Spice Market, the lavish duplex restaurant in the Meatpacking District. More important, Richard comes right out and tells me that I look fantastic.
“I’ve never seen you in anything like that,” Richard says as we follow the maître d’ to our table. His hand rests for a beat on the small of my back. “But I guess I’ve never seen you outside of a work function…”
“You, either,” I say, admiring Richard’s corduroy jacket.
I’m suddenly reminded of Richard’s flamboyantly gay ex-assistant Jared Lewison. Jared used to keep cards marked 1 through 10 at his desk and would rate people’s outfits as they walked by (behind their backs, of course) as if he were a gymnastics judge at the Olympics. Michael, who was pretty good friends with Jared, derived much amusement from the exercise, passing on the results to the rest of us. In fact, I owe Jared gratitude for teaching me one of life’s crucial lessons: do not wear patent leather after Labor Day. Michael informed me that I earned myself a 3 for that fashion lapse.
I ask Richard now if he knew about Jared Lewison’s cards.
“Sure did,” Richard says. “Apparently I was regularly rated between a two and a four…With a high score of six.”
“What were you wearing when you got the six?” I ask as our waitress, wearing an orange kimono, delivers us our menu.
“I think it was some kind of turtleneck sweater,” he says, laughing.
I smile, recognizing that I’m no longer nervous.
Richard looks as if he’s still considering Jared’s cards as he says, “I heard that if you had on any sort of Louis Vuitton or Prada, Jared automatically gave you an extra point, while if you wore anything from the Gap, or God forbid, Old Navy, you were docked three points.”
I laugh and then say, “Where is ol’ Jared now?”
“I’m not sure. But something tells me he’s sitting at a bar somewhere with his fashionista friends, all of them telling each other how fabulous they look.”
I smirk as I recall another Jared story.
“What?” Richard says.
“Nothing,” I say, as I spot a man who I am pretty sure is Chris Noth sidle up to the bar with a gorgeous blonde. He is way shorter than I thought he’d be, and I think to myself, Mr. Medium. “I’m just smiling.”
“C’mon. What’s so funny?” Richard says again, because it’s clear that I’m smirking rather than merely smiling. There is a difference between a smirk and smile—which is especially apparent to the recipient.
“I was just thinking of something Jared did to you once,” I say.
“And what was that?” he says, looking worried. Or at least pretending to look worried.
“Well, I heard that he went through your garbage and found a postcard with rather colorful sexual references.”
He looks sheepish and says, “Now, when was all this?”
It’s hardly a denial, which I point out by saying, “So it happened more than once?”
He makes a hand motion as if to say, Continue with your evidence.
“I dunno. It was about three years ago. I heard that Jared suspected you of sleeping with some woman in the art department,” I say, trying to remember her name.
“Lydia,” he says.
I snap and point at him. “That’s the one. So it was true?”
He nods. “I was, in fact, sleeping with her…But I didn’t think she signed her name to that postcard.”
“She didn’t,” I say. “Jared recognized her handwriting. He trotted the postcard and a handwriting sample from her notepad all over the office. That was one of his proudest moments.”
“Wow. He was good,” Richard says.
“And so were you, apparently. At least according to Lydia.”
I surprise myself with this last comment as I’ve never been one for sexual innuendo. As we study our menus, both of us still smiling, I try to analyze why I feel so open with Richard. I decide that it has less to do with him (although he does put me at ease) and more to do with my divorce and new mindset. I hate to be jaded, but I can’t help feeling that all my fears about marriage were confirmed when Ben and I broke up. I’m not sure I believe in permanent monogamy anymore, and in any case, I don’t plan on attempting it again.
Therefore, I don’t need to follow any rules. If I thought I was free when I didn’t want children, I’m especially free now that I don’t even want a husband. Instead of playing hard to get or worrying about perception, I can do exactly what strikes my fancy. Which at the moment is to flirt outrageously with a very hot colleague.
As the night progresses, Richard and I fall into an easy rhythm of talking, laughing, and mocking each other in a way you only can when you feel comfortable with someone and like them a lot. No topics are off-limits. We cover the basics, but spice them up with shock value and humor. We talk about work—and about publishing in general. We talk about travel, books, music, and families. We talk about past relationships.
When we touch on Ben, I expect to feel a bit sad or defensive, but I am neither of these things. I find myself embracing the past tense with a strange sense of relief: I felt, he was, we were. Then I look into Richard’s eyes and say, “Enough of all of that.”
He nods in agreement as I mentally shift back to the present, feeling happy to be in Richard’s company, happy to be moving on.
Fourteen
Despite the success of that first date with Richard, and our nightcap at his apartment afterward (I teased him that only old men use the term nightcap), we don’t even kiss on that first date. Or the one after that. I’m not sure what the delay is—because it’s safe to say that neither of us is playing things close to vest, nor are we striving to be prim and proper. I also know that I am very attracted to Richard, and I can tell that he is attracted to me. And I’m positive that the wait has nothing to do with Ben; I refuse to dwell on him.
So the only explanation is that we are relishing the growing sexual tension and intrigue. I’ve always enjoyed going to work, but never has the office been such an enticing, tantalizing playground. I come in early every day, hungry for Richard’s first phone call. I end up working late every night, to make up for my three-hour chunks of time spent e-mailing a man sitting two floors away. When we pass each other in the halls, we exchange formal pleasantries before returning to our offices and e-mailing things like, “You look hot.”…“No, you look hot.”
So I suppose it’s fitting that our first kiss happens at work.
It is a late Monday night—close to ten o’clock—and I’ve just e-mailed Richard a question about one of my authors. As I wait for his reply, he suddenly appears in my doorway with the answer.
I jump and say, “Shit, Richard! You scared me.”
He gives me his standard-issue grin and then makes a sarcastic comment, something about my guilty conscience.
I shake my head, smiling. Then I stand and head for the door.
“W
here do you think you’re going?” he asks, blocking me.
Our bodies touch—and the contact gives me a little rush.
“To the copier,” I say, attempting to exit again.
He blocks me again and then pulls me back into my office, closing the door behind us.
“What’s the big idea?” I say, knowing exactly what his big idea is.
His face comes closer to mine. I tilt my head to the right, my preferred angle to kiss. At the same second, he tilts his head to the right. Our lips meet effortlessly, softly. Then more urgently. We swiftly become two movie stars, making out in a forbidden place. I am watching myself kiss Richard, aware of how good we must look. Richard is the sort of man who can make any woman look good.
He backs me up, over to my desk, where he lifts me up and puts me down with the exact right mix of passion and care. His hands slide under my bare thighs. I am glad I wore a skirt today. And—hallelujah!—lacy, matching underwear. Sometimes things really do work out; I make a mental note to remember this small blessing the next time I’m complaining about bad luck, when, say, I am stuck in a middle seat on a flight between two oversized passengers.
Richard keeps kissing me, mostly on the lips, but also on my neck and collarbone. The man is an expert, and there’s really no doubt about where he got his experience. I think of Lydia in the art department—and so many other women before me. Some he met at work, others from bars or restaurants or blind dates or the subway. But I don’t care about any of them. I don’t care if he’s seeing other women right now. I just want him to keep touching me, everywhere, right under these fluorescent lights.
“Will you come back to my place?” Richard breathes in my ear.
I nod and whisper, “Yeah,” as he continues to kiss my neck. My hands are on his back—which feels stronger than I imagined. I decide that forty-eight is not very old. He presses harder against me. Not so old at all.
“Now?” he says.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “But you’ll need to stop kissing me first.”
There are a few more false stops before we finally disentangle ourselves and breathlessly formulate a plan: I am to go get a cab and wait for him while he picks up his things in his office. We kiss one more time. Then he opens my door. I consider it a victory when we are only spotted by Jimmy, the janitor on my floor, who nods hello. In truth, though, I really don’t care who knows about us. I am beginning to wear our relationship as a badge of honor. An outward emblem of my well-adjusted, “pick myself up by my bootstraps” mentality. I am no victim, no embittered divorcée. And Richard is proof of that.
I get a cab right away and wait for Richard. He hops in a moment later, swinging his briefcase in by his feet. We do not kiss in the cab, but we never stop touching. He tells me, more than once, that he can’t wait to get me home.
When we do get to his apartment, we head straight for his bedroom. I am glad he doesn’t ask me if I want something to drink. Because I don’t. I’m glad we don’t sit on the couch and talk. Because I just want to be in his bed, touching him. And within two minutes of the dead bolt being locked behind us, that’s exactly where we are, exactly what I am doing.
Everything about Richard is cool and smooth—his sheets, his music (Sam Cooke), even his choice of pets—an uppity Siamese cat named Rex who is disdainfully surveying us from his windowsill. There is only one awkward beat—the predictable one where Richard stops, looks at me, and says, “Do I need to get something?”
“Are you…fine?” I ask, thinking of Lydia again and the disease that rhymes with her name.
“Oh, yeah. I’m completely fine,” Richard says, kissing the inside of my left thigh. “But…are you on the pill?”
I breathe a yes.
“Of course you are,” he says. His comment jolts my mind back to Ben and babies, and I can’t help but feel a quick jab of longing. I tell myself that my ex-husband is likely doing the same thing with Tucker. Or someone like her. I tell myself to stay in the moment. I tell myself that I would so much rather be here with Richard than having a baby. It’s no contest. No contest at all.
Moments later, Richard and I are having sex.
“You’re so good,” he whispers to me at one point.
“You say that to all the girls,” I whisper back.
“No. I don’t,” he says. “I say only what I mean.”
I smile because I believe him. There is nothing gratuitous about Richard.
We both come, seconds apart, but do not cuddle in the aftermath. I already sensed that Richard is not the cuddling kind, and that is fine with me. I can skip the cuddling as long as there is some sense of lingering connection, physical or otherwise. Richard and I have both. We sit side by side, leaning against his pillows and leather headboard. We are still undressed, but covered up to our waists with his taupe sheets. His arm is draped over mine, his fingers resting on my wrist, occasionally tapping my skin.
We talk about work, but not in a “we have nothing else to talk about” sort of a way. More in the “tell me what I don’t already know” kind of way. He asks me if I love what I do, and I tell him yes.
“What do you like the best about your job?” he says.
I consider all the standard answers that editors give—stuff about loving books and the written word and escaping to a different world. Of course that’s all true, but that’s not what I love most about editing. There’s something else—something that has more to do with discovering a fresh talent.
“It’s hard to explain,” I say. “But I guess it’s that rush I get when I read something and feel hooked. When I think, ‘This person can really, really write,’ and I just have to work with her.”
Richard smiles and takes my hand as if to say, Go on.
So I do. I say, “You know that almost smug feeling you have in high school when you listen to a band before they get really big—and then you can say, ‘Oh, Depeche Mode? I’ve been listening to them forever. I just love their old stuff’?”
Richard laughs and nods.
“Well, that’s what it’s like to uncover a new author,” I say. “Like you were in on the secret first.” I suddenly feel self-conscious, like I’ve exposed too much of myself.
“So what about you?” I say. “What do you like best about your job?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Richard says. “I guess I like that it’s personality-driven…And I like contributing to a book’s success…that feeling when everything is clicking for a book and an author and you’re getting a whole bunch of reviews…But sometimes it feels so all-or-nothing. Like, ‘what have you done for me lately?’ You know how that goes.”
I nod. I know exactly how that goes.
He continues, “And there are many more times when you can’t get shit for a book. Which really sucks when you like the book and like the author…”
I nod again. It’s heartbreaking when you love a book that fails. And it always seems to happen to the nicest authors.
Richard says, “And I don’t know…publicity tends to breed a certain kind of person who feels the need to try to take credit for everything and who can’t seem to ever quite turn off that publicist persona. It’s like they’re perpetually in schmooze mode and in a rush to get into the spotlight all the time.”
“You’re not that way,” I say, thinking that Richard is just naturally in the spotlight. He’s not rushing to get there.
“God. I sure hope not. Because I’ll tell you, Parr, there is nothing that makes me loathe my job more than heading to some sort of industry cocktail party and watching all the hyperpublicists chase around media folks to introduce themselves while not-that-subtly trying to pitch their projects and doing the whole nametag surfing thing. It’s brutal.”
“Nametag surfing?”
“You know—when someone starts talking to you like they’re your new best friend. Then, when they think you’re not looking, they glance down at your nametag really quickly to see who you are. And if they deem you worthy—and important enough—they’ll keep talki
ng to you. It’s sort of like peeking at someone’s cleavage. And man, if there is someone from the Times or something at one of those things, it’s like a feeding frenzy. I can’t imagine why those guys even show up to those things, unless they just need some sort of cheap ego boost.”
I laugh and say, “Yeah, but nobody has to read your nametag, Richard.”
“That’s true,” he says with feigned bravado.
His phone rings, but he doesn’t even glance in its direction. I return the gesture when my cell spits out Jess’s personal ring tone, The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony.” But then she rings again. And again.
“I better get that,” I say. “It’s Jess. Sounds important.”
Richard knows that Jess is my best friend and roommate. He leans over, kisses my cheek, and says, “Go ahead. Call her back.”
I retrieve my underwear on the floor next to the bed, put it on as quickly as possible, and walk the five or six steps over to Richard’s ottoman where I dropped my purse. I find my phone and call Jess at home.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“I’m with Richard,” I say, liking the way those words sound. I hope that I’ll be saying them for a while. “What’s going on?”
“He dumped me,” she says. Her voice cracks as if she’s been crying or is about to. “He says he still loves his wife. He wants to make it work with her.”