Bicoastal Babe (17 page)

But I’m too embarrassed. Actually, the more I think about it, I highly doubt if I had any “accidents” (aside from getting my head smashed open like the kids from
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
). I would have known. It would’ve been written in the doctors report. I would’ve been able to tell somehow.

But I’m still too embarrassed over the whole incident, and especially that it was caused because I defied his instructions and disrespected his expertise.

As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me that I have the whole week to decide how to handle this, and whether I can get up the courage to face him again. The whole week – that is, if I can find a spare moment away from Liz.

W
hen I arrive at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Liz is sitting at a table by the pool, with a stack of magazines next to her lounge chair. She’s talking on her cell phone, and she looks very upset. She motions me over, then says, “We’ll have to talk about this later,” into the phone and hangs up abruptly.

“I hope you’re hungry,” she tells me. “I couldn’t decide, so I ordered three things for breakfast, figuring we could share.” Her eyes shift to my forehead and she tries to hide her dismay. “My God, you poor thing. It looks like you ran head-on into a sledgehammer.”

“It looks worse today because it’s starting to bruise,” I say, flagging over the cabana boy. “I’ll have an iced tea, please.” Then to Liz, “But you know what? So be it. It’s my mangled forehead, and I wear it proudly.”

“That’s my girl. Fuck ’em all. Now let’s talk about trends.” She leans in and suddenly her tone turns serious. All business. “You said yesterday that you feel clueless – but that’s your insecurity talking. I bet you’re not as clueless as you think. Tell me what you
do
know.”

“Well, I’m starting to wonder if there even is any logic to this. If you look through those magazines, there are no new ideas. Just retreads of ideas and styles from the past, with maybe an updated feel to them. Even activities. Look at yoga – how popular it was in the seventies and early eighties. Then nothing for fifteen years, and look at it now. It’s like the world runs out of ideas and decides to reach back and pull something out of the used-trend bin, and suddenly it’s the big new craze.”

“Do you notice any patterns?”

“Patterns?”

“It’s an interesting theory. But it can’t be random. Nothing is random. There has to be some kind of pattern for how these styles evolve, some kind of time line for rebirth.”

“I guess I could try to put some theories together,” I say hesitantly.

“Do try. But it’s not nearly enough. Part of what you said is wrong. There are plenty of new things, Lindsey. Don’t let your frustration about this close your mind. There’s new everything. This is not just about fashion and beauty. It’s about food and drink, music and entertainment, sports and leisure, vacation destinations, sex and relationships, politics and ethics, ways thinking and communicating… just about anything you can imagine that changes with the times that we can put a pulse on. Just think about it. The possibilities are limitless. Very exciting, don’t you think?”

“It is – but also very intimidating. It seems like too big a world for two people to conquer, going back and forth between two cities.”

“So what do you suggest?” Her eyebrows rise.

“I don’t know.” I am struggling. “Something bigger. Maybe a questionnaire on the Internet or something. Thousands of people could fill it out and we could keep track of all those things without having to spend all our time harassing people on street corners.”

“Excellent idea. How often should we track it?”

Like I know. “Um… every month? That would be enough to notice significant changes, right?”

“Sounds good to me. Write it up. Don’t leave anything out.”

“But how will we be able to tell if the respondents are trendy people?”

Liz laughs. “Don’t think that just because you had a brainstorm, you’re getting out of street-corner duty, young lady. If that were the case, I’d ship you both to Toledo and save the agency some overhead.”

The cabana boy arrives with a massive tray of food, and Liz and I toast to our progress with forkfuls of delicious eggs Benedict and salmon crepes. After we eat, she tells me to go home and work on the questionnaire. “It’s going to take a lot longer than you think,” she postulates. “But I still want it finished by tomorrow morning. We’ve got a ton of work to do.”

“What are you going to do for the rest of the day?” I ask her. I’m disappointed that I have to leave. For the first time since I took this job, I’m starting to feel inspired, like this trend-tracking thing actually may be doable. I don’t want to go home. I want to stay with her.

“Lindsey. I own a major advertising agency. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. Now shuffle along. Meet me again tomorrow – same time, same place.”

On the way home, I think about Liz and how nice it is of her to stay out here and help me like this. Then I remember how upset she seemed on the phone when I got to the hotel. As nice as it may be, it occurs to me that someone of her stature taking an entire week away from the office to tend to a trend newsletter seems a bit… unusual. But then again, maybe this newsletter is a bigger deal than I thought it was. Which puts me under even more pressure.

Don’t think about the pressure, I tell myself. Just focus on your homework.

I can’t imagine this questionnaire will be all that hard. Carmen said she’d be home tonight, so maybe she can proofread it when I’m finished, just to make sure I didn’t leave anything out. And then maybe we’ll even have time to hit some of the trendy nightclubs I’ve been avoiding all week. Despite that my head looks like a pound of raw hamburger meat, I am totally in the mood to party.

The anticipation of a productive and fun evening has suddenly consumed me, and, if you can believe this in a thousand billion years, has even made me forget to call Victor Ragsdale.

•   •   •

And eight hours later, with a clutter of words swimming in front of my eyes in an exhausted blur, I realize that Liz was right again – that this questionnaire is taking a
lot
longer than I expected. Fortunately Carmen is helping me, and we’ve had a good time trying to tap into every single nook and cranny of popular lifestyle and culture to leave no trend stone unturned. Unfortunately, our questionnaire has grown to almost a thousand questions.

Favorite snack foods. Favorite perfume brands. Favorite actors under age thirty-five. Favorite outdoor activities. Favorite indoor activities. Favorite blog. Favorite music groups and artists. Coolest reality show. Favorite things to do on a Saturday night. Favorite things to do on a Sunday morning. Life goals. Political parties. Last clothing brand bought. Store in the mall that most reflects own personal style. Amount of time spent talking on the phone, reading, watching TV, exercising, etc. Last diet you were on, length of the diet, and how many pounds lost. Favorite acne product. Favorite anti-aging product. Favorite spa treatment. The list is endless.

“Carmen. This is impossible. No one’s going to answer this questionnaire. It’ll take them four hours to fill out!”

“I know. We have to cut it down. Severely.”

“But these are all relevant questions.”

“We can do it. We just have to be more efficient.”

“I’m tired,” I whine. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

“You’re fucking lucky,” she laughs. “That I’m helping you out. Now break out a bottle of wine and let’s plow through this.”

She is a great friend. She stays until three in the morning. She never complains. She helps me contract, combine, and whittle down the questions to a reasonable length, and in the end, as we’re about to collapse, we have to admit that it’s pretty damn good. I hug Carmen good night, e-mail the questionnaire to Liz and Jen, and fall into bed, exhausted.

•   •   •

The early-morning sunshine wakes me up, and I jump out of bed with bright eyes and a bushy tail. I have newfound energy. I am finally ready for this challenge and I’m going to tackle it with vigor.

I have plenty of time before going to meet Liz, so I decide to walk down to Starbucks to get some fresh California morning air. But I’m barely out the door when the phone rings.

“Well, if it isn’t the luckiest girl in the world.” It’s Jen. And she’s being sarcastic.

I don’t respond for a moment. I really don’t know what to say to her. She’s the betrayer. She called Liz and told her everything, obviously to get me fired. Then again, who could blame her? I was ruining the newsletter and putting her in a very tough position. Not to mention that if she didn’t call Liz, I’d still be floundering, instead of potentially starting to pull things together.

So I decide to dodge the topic – to let it slide. Clearly she’s thinking the same thing, because all recent incidents are left unmentioned.

“I got your questionnaire,” she says, all business.

“Did you read it?”

“Yeah.” Pause. “As much as it pains me to say, it actually looks pretty good.” I must be hallucinating. “We’re going to field it tomorrow. But it was your bright idea, so you’re in charge of it.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s a lot of work, Lindsey. I’m just letting you know.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence.

“So I met your boyfriend,” she says. I jump to attention.

“What?”

“What’s-his-name.”

“Victor?”

“Yeah. Victor. He came over here wondering where the hell you were.”

“What did he say?” I ask anxiously.

“He said, ‘Where the hell is Lindsey?’”

“What did you tell him?”

“What do you think I told him? I told him you were still in California.”

I have to call him immediately. It’s eleven A.M. in New York. He’ll be at work, but maybe he’ll still pick up.

“He’s cute,” she offers. “If you like that type.”

“Listen, Jen, I have to hang up now. I’m supposed to meet Liz at her hotel in fifteen minutes.” This is not true – I still have an hour to get there, but I don’t want one more second to go by without calling Victor.

“Is there anything you need me to do out here?” I ask quickly.

“Sounds to me like you and Liz are doing just fine on your own.” The sarcasm again, and I realize where it’s coming from – that she’s jealous because Liz is out here giving me attention, helping me, believing in me. Jen Savage. Jealous of me. Seething in it, no doubt. And not a damn thing she can do about it. I make a note to put this moment on mental hold, so I can kick back later tonight and fully bask in the enjoyment of it.

I hang up with Jen and immediately dial Victor’s number. And he does pick up!

“Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey,” he says. “You’ll do anything to get out of a lap dance.”

“You’ll still get it.” I smile. “But I’m going to make you wait.”

“Waiting will make it all the sweeter. So where the hell are you?”

“I’m so sorry. I have to stay here another week. My boss is out here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I heard.”

That’s right. He met Jen at the apartment. I grimace as I wonder what else he heard.

“Do all your roommates answer the door in their underwear?” he asks. “I saw her little-boy boobs.”

The next time I see her, I swear, I’m going to tear those little boobs right off. Then I’m going to superglue them to the side of her head. And then –

“Lindsey?”

“Sorry. She’s an extraterrestrial from the planet Wanton Hose Beast – thinly disguised as my trend-tracking counterpart. Ignore her.”

“So how’ve you been?” he asks. “Tell me quick. I’ve got a meeting in about one minute.”

“You never have time to talk.” I pout.

“I’m busy, darlin’. Plus, I’m a guy. We’re not phone creatures. So when are you back?”

“Next Sunday, I think.”

“I’ve got an event Monday night. Black-tie. Up for it?”

“Definitely!” In one second, my mind races with thoughts of a dress, jewelry, hair, shoes… Must find some time to get a tan before going back.

“I’ll pick you up at eight-thirty next Monday night.”

“Victor? Will you call me before then?” I realize that I sound like a little kid asking to be read a bedtime story, but I don’t really care. I can’t go another week wondering if I’ll hear from him.

“I will call you before then. But I’m not a phone talker. I’m just warning you.”

“Well, then you shouldn’t date someone who’s out of town fifty percent of the time,” I snap, surprising myself.

“Hey, hey! Feisty girl. I like that. Very sexy.”

“Victor—”

“Lindsey. I wanna see you. I’m just not good on the phone. I’m telling you: The Y chromosome repels the phone gene. It’s a scientific fact. But I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

The Y chromosome. I shake my head. That may be true, but the X chromosome attracts the phone gene like the HOT DOUGHNUTS NOW! sign at Krispy Kreme after one too many rum and Cokes, that’s for damn sure. But it’s all good. All of it. And as Victor pointed out, waiting only makes it all the sweeter.

•   •   •

“I’m impressed,” Liz tells me when I sit down. “This questionnaire is solid. Send it to our researcher at the agency and she’ll field it. But when the numbers start coming back, the analysis is all yours.”

“Got it.” You couldn’t wipe the grin off my face if you had a bucket of bleach and an industrial mop.

“So what else? What have you noticed?” she asks.

And as a matter of fact, I have noticed something. “It seems like whenever a new trend emerges, it’s either one step up from something that’s already popular, or a complete one-eighty away.”

“For example?”

“For example, shoes. Here’s the one-eighty. Last summer it was all about flip-flops with six-inch heels. This summer it’s all about flats. Or underwear. Last year all you saw were boy briefs. This summer it’s sexy thongs. One extreme to the other. But then you look at pants. Last summer the capris came back. And they’re still here, but now they’re cool only if they have huge rolled-up cuffs. So that trend was just a slight evolution.”

“Hmmmm.” Liz mulls it over. “I like it. Go with it.”

“I will!”

“But not before you go home and change into something more businesslike. You’ve got appointments this afternoon.”