Bicoastal Babe (20 page)

And four hours later I am right on schedule – ahead of it, even. I set the alarm a half hour early, so as to hit the tanning place before shopping. The spray tan is so cool! You stand there naked and it shoots you with a light, cool mist for about a minute; then you walk out with your whole body bronzed and glowing. If I didn’t know better, I might mistake myself for someone who just spent a week in sunny California!

It comes with a warning, though – don’t swim, bathe, or even sweat for at least four hours. Wear loose, casual clothing that you don’t mind getting a little brown – at least until the color sets and you can shower off the bronzer. And for maximum wear, do not exfoliate for one week. Got it. For added assurance, I stand in front of the fan extra long, so it’s nice and dry before I go back out into the heat.

Walking into Barneys, I slow down to a saunter as I pass the cosmetics, then stroll my way past the shoes and handbags and back toward the fine apparel. I have only about thirty minutes, but to look at my sense of poise and composure, you’d think I had all the time in the world. I browse through the regular-priced dresses for a few moments, pretending to be interested, and politely decline the help of the saleslady. Then I make a beeline for the deep-discount rack, and scour through it like a beaver digging for birch bark.

“Can I start a room for you, dear?” The same saleslady smiles at me with a knowing look. She knows my type: can’t quite afford the majority of the store, but desperately needs something that’s still in season within her budget.

I take three dresses into the fitting room – one plain black, one pale pink, and one a creamy, soft blue that I believe Crayola refers to as “cornflower.” Each one slides onto my body like butter, and I’m delighted to realize that they all fit perfectly. Did I lose a few pounds in L.A.? They all look so beautiful that I’m going to have to try them on again in order to decide.

First the black. You can’t go wrong with black. The famed little black dress. Always classy, always sexy, always appropriate. And slimming too. Okay, the black is definitely in the running.

I reach for the pink, then do a double take and gasp in horror. All along the inner lining of the dress is a deep rim of ghastly brown. What? I can’t buy this! Why didn’t I notice this before?

Oh, shit. It slowly occurs to me that I didn’t notice it before because it wasn’t there before – before my spray tan bronzed off all over it, that is. I’ve ruined this dress. It’s ruined. I clamp shut my eyes and reach over for the cornflower. I can’t bear to look. I cannot remotely afford all three of these dresses, and even if I buy the pink or the blue, I won’t be able to wear it tonight. Oh, whew. The blue one isn’t half as bad. You can barely notice it.

Okay, I tell myself. Keep calm. It’s only the pink. So lay out the options. I can try to slip it back on the rack without the saleslady noticing. Or I can be honest and tell her what happened. Or I can shove it into the next fitting room, take the black dress, and get the hell over to the checkout. I glance at my watch. I have ten minutes until I have to meet Jen. What would Victor do? Well, that’s a no-brainer. Okay, so what would Danny Wynn do?

I am a horrible person. I don’t deserve any of these dresses. And why did I have to get the guys involved? This is the last thing they’d want to fight over. But there they are, their faces flashing back and forth in my mind as my head bobs between the black dress in my left hand and the pink dress in my right.
Aaargh!

Five minutes later, I slap the pink dress onto the counter and tell the saleslady that I’m
really
in a hurry.

“Oh, goodness!” she exclaims. “This dress is damaged. Look at the discoloring.” I lean over and wince at the brown stains. “Did you know that you get a twenty percent discount for this?”

Now I know what you’re thinking. But listen, I also know for a fact that in the same situation, a tremendous amount of you would’ve bet on black without a second thought – so don’t even start with me.

“Fantastic,” I tell her. “Let’s wrap it up.”

W
hen I sit down with Jen for lunch, I am all business.

“Here’s what I’m doing this week,” I announce. “I’ll be getting more results in from the Internet study, so I’ll be going through the numbers and formulating a template for how we’re going to track them in the newsletter. I’ll also be putting together the New York end of the teen panel, and I’ll host the first meeting at the apartment.”

“The apartment’s a little small,” she says flatly.

“Okay, so at a restaurant. Or Central Park. Wherever. I’ll also do a couple of meetings and leave one day open for on-the-street stuff. But the questions need to be shorter, so we can fit more in.”

“Fine,” she says with a tiny smirk.

I want to know what she’s thinking. The look on her face baffles me, and though she seems to be agreeing with my approach, I don’t trust her for a second. There’s a lot going on in those eyes, but she’s not tipping her hand quite yet. She seems like she’s trying to read me, to paint a complete mental picture of where I stand so she knows exactly what she can and can’t get away with.

“So Liz was out there a whole week, huh?” She brings this up casually but pointedly, already knowing the answer.

I nod, aware that she’s probably dying to know everything that went on, and signal for the waitress. “May I have some more iced tea, please?”

“Interesting, don’t you think?” Jen asks.

“What’s interesting about it?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just think it’s interesting.” Pause. “Did she have any other meetings while she was there?”

Why is she asking me this? What is she looking for? I know Liz had other meetings, but I have no idea what they were about, and I’m sure it’s none of our business.

“I don’t know. Why?”

She shrugs again. “Just curious.”

What I’m curious about is if a dry cleaner can get the spray-tan stains out of my dress in less than three hours. I didn’t mention to Jen that I have a date tonight, and she doesn’t leave for L.A. until tomorrow, so I’m really hoping she won’t be around when Victor arrives to pick me up.

A half hour later I am pleading with the little Indian dry cleaner to give me a rush job on the dress, and he’s taking me for everything I have.

“Thirty dollars,” he demands.

“Twenty-five.” I say this firmly, as if I’m bargaining for a clay pot at a roadside market in New Delhi. But he shakes his head. He has all the power in this relationship.

“Thirty.”

“Fine,” I tell him. “But I need it at six o’clock. SIX O’CLOCK.” I reach for a pen and write in big bold letters on his pad: 6:00. TONIGHT.

“Very well.” He nods and waves me out the door.

•   •   •

“Where are you going?”

Unfortunately Jen has walked in the door from her interviews just in time to catch my final primping preparation for the evening. Yes, I have the dress back from the Indian, and I’ve even managed to pull my hair up into a French twist that looks halfway decent. But the outfit needs a little something, and I can’t figure out what.

“I have a date.”

“Pretty fancy date. With the Wall Street guy?”

“Uh-huh.” I slide a deep-cherry lipstick across my mouth and smack my lips. The cherry color looks nice against the pale pink dress, but it’s still not quite enough.

Jen peels off her suit to reveal a lacy black bra and panties. She reaches for a can of Pringles and flops down on the futon. Somehow this girl manages to look sexy even while she’s stuffing her face with greasy potato chips.

“So where’s he taking you?” she asks, spitting out chip crumbs as she talks.

“I’m not sure. Some black-tie thing. And this time would you mind putting some clothes on before he gets here?”

Jen gets up and comes over to the bathroom, where I am trying to apply the second coat of mascara to my lashes. She licks her fingers and leans up against the door.

“Lindsey, are you in a bad mood?”

“No.”

“So why are you being so snappy to me? I’m only asking about your big night.” Suddenly Jen’s eyes seem to have transformed from those of a sneaky serpent to those of a sad puppy dog.

I give her a sidelong glance and go back to my mascara.

“I’m serious,” she says, sounding hurt. “You look really nice, by the way.”

“All right.” I put down the mascara and turn to face her. “What do you want?”

She shrugs innocently. “I don’t want anything, Lindsey. But you know what? That dress could use a little more zing. Just something small.” She turns back toward the living room and walks over to her suitcase.

Okay, what in the hell is going on here? Jen is actually being nice to me. It can’t be real. I don’t think this girl is capable of pouring a bowl of cereal without having an ulterior motive.

“Here, try this.” She holds out a sparkling gold charm bracelet. “I think this’ll do the trick.”

The bracelet is beautiful, and very hesitantly I hold out my arm. She slips the bracelet on and clasps it for me, then stands back for a full view.

“Perfect!” she exclaims.

“Listen, Jen…” I’d love to wear the bracelet, but I feel nervous, like I’m being sucked into something dangerous that I can’t quite put my finger on. “I can’t say with complete certainty that I’ll be back tonight.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well, I certainly hope not.”

“And I won’t have the chance to return this before you leave for L.A.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder, and by instinct, I back away. But she smiles and says, “Don’t worry about it. Give it to me next time I see you. It really completes the outfit – you have to take it.”

I feel like I’m in a creepy episode of
The Twilight Zone,
but before I can respond, a loud buzz rings out through the apartment.

“He’s here,” she says, and pushes me toward the door. “Have fun!”

A moment later I emerge onto the sidewalk. Victor is leaning against a black Town Car, decked out in a killer tuxedo, smoking a cigarette with a devilish grin. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, but it seems like two eons. Should I hug him? Should I kiss him?

“So how’s the California girl?” he drawls. “All tan and toned.” He looks me up and down approvingly. “Get any work done out there?” Is he joking, or does he really think my job is all about lying by the pool and faking interviews?

“As a matter of fact, I got a lot of work done,” I retort. “A lot more than I did when I was frolicking around Manhattan with the likes of you.”

“Ah, but wasn’t it fun?” He tosses his cigarette into the street. Then he sweeps me up in his arms and plants one on me. Then he spins me around, opens the door of the black car, and guides me in. “The Rainbow Room,” he says to the driver.

“So. Is this little shindig for your work?” I ask.

“Nah. It’s a charity thing. I do it every year. Good food. Good publicity. But you’ll hate it – trust me.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“It’s a bunch of old-money thirty-somethings who love the sound of their own boring voices. Socialites, you might say. God, I hate that shit.”

His cell phone rings, and just as he goes to answer it, I clamp my hand over his firmly. He looks up in surprise. I glance at the phone and shake my head ever so slightly. Then I slowly slide my hand up and onto his knee. “Victor,” I say softly. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Caught in a momentary trance, he looks into my eyes, then down across my cherry lips, and as if pulled by a slow gravitational force, he leans in to kiss me.

•   •   •

I don’t know what Victor is talking about. I’m having the time of my life. This charity ball is the most elegant, enchanting event I’ve ever been to. It’s at the Rainbow Room, which is in Rockefeller Center, up on the sixty-fifth floor with a stunning panoramic view of the whole city. The main ballroom, where our event is being hosted, has a lavish dining room and dance floor, with an eight-man orchestra performing big-band swing tunes. My grandpa used to play these songs on his record player when I was young, and my cousins and I would dance around the living room floor until we dropped from exhaustion. The music brings me right back there, so I love it and I don’t want it to end.

Once we’re in the ballroom, a waiter sweeps by and slides champagne glasses into our hands so quickly that I barely notice, until I look down and see the crisp, bubbly wine fizzing its happiness up at me.

“Can we dance?” I ask Victor. I can hear the longing hope in my voice, like a kid begging for ice cream as the family station wagon rolls past the local Dairy Queen.

Victor rolls his eyes. “Sure, Lindsey. As soon as I morph into someone who remotely resembles
anyone
who would
ever
attempt swing dancing.”

I teasingly point to all the “socialites” on the dance floor. “And you call them boring?”

“Wait till they start talking,” he answers, then tugs on my hand. “Here, they’re seating us for dinner.”

After we find our seats, I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room. The maitre d’ tells me that the main restroom is under construction, but that the other one is right down the hall.

It’s a single bathroom, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I just hate primping (not to mention peeing) in the presence of other people. It feels like the worst invasion of privacy imaginable. You feel cramped and claustrophobic in the stall, then pushed and rushed at the mirror, like all the other women are staring at you and thinking how vain you are for taking so long to apply your lipstick.

Plus the fact that women are gross. Now, I’ve mistakenly walked into a men’s public restroom, and the view (and smell) can be downright repugnant. But what men don’t realize is, the ladies’ bathroom is sometimes not much better. I have absolutely no idea who these women are, because no one would dare commit such unspeakable crimes in front of someone else… but they certainly do leave the evidence: pee all over the seats, toilets un-flushed (and sometimes un-flushed with no toilet paper in them!), used toilet-paper wads scattered on the floor, used tampons hanging out of the receptacle, water splashed all over the counter – it’s like the Tasmanian Devil tore through the room and left feminine-hygiene chaos in his wake. Again, I have no idea who these women are, but for some reason they seem to have more respect for single bathrooms. Single bathrooms never seem nearly as nasty or unpleasant as the big multi-stalls. So especially on a night like tonight, a single bathroom is very much appreciated.