Bicoastal Babe (22 page)

I take a deep breath and try to imagine Liz Gordon faced with this dilemma. Liz would view it as a challenge to be conquered, a small obstacle to be kicked aside with a little hard work and a boatload of attitude. In fact, Liz wouldn’t wait for it to come to her – she’d go crashing out like a high-paid bounty hunter and
find
it! Which is exactly what I’m going to do.

And while I’m at it, I’m going to call Victor. And I’m going to ask him for a date tomorrow night. Rules be damned.

But I don’t have to call Victor, because in one of those rare, perfectly choreographed life moments, just as I reach for the phone, the phone rings and it is him. (Well, it wasn’t exactly
as
I reached for the phone. It was about the time I reached into the fridge for another processed cheese slice, but after the cheese slice, or maybe after the cheese slice after that, I was definitely going to call him. So same thing.)

“Are you busy tomorrow night?” he asks.

“Yes, I am.” Now that I have what I want, I am suddenly defiant about it.

“What about Friday night?”

“I’m busy then too.”

“Lindsey. Come on. You don’t know anyone in New York. What the hell are you doing two nights in a row?”

“I don’t have to tell you that!” I’m trying not to be defensive, but if he wanted a date tomorrow night, he should have called last night. And because he waited so long, he can kiss Friday good-bye too.

“You’re not playing games with me, are you?” He sounds teasing, like he can see right through my feminine ruse and knows damn well that on both nights I’ll most likely be on my couch with a pizza and a Netflix envelope on the coffee table.

But then I give myself a little punch in the arm in reminder that those days are long gone. I’m on the list at every hot restaurant and bar around town, and my job is to take advantage of it and milk it for everything its worth – with or without Victor Ragsdale.

“I have Saturday night free. But I have to check out some new clubs for work, so if you want to tag along, fine.”

“What time should I pick you up?”

“I’ll pick you up,” I tell him. He can take me to all the fancy dinners and parties he wants, but Saturday night is mine.

The next few days are perfect. I have plenty of time to get things accomplished for the job without the distraction of Victor. Yet I know I’ll see him on Saturday, which gives me something to look forward to and allows me to not stress about the standing of “us.”

I haven’t made any headway into rethinking the Internet study, but by hanging out around the Steve Madden shoe store and the Lush cosmetics boutique, I’ve managed to put together my New York teen panel, which had its first meeting yesterday afternoon.

The teens are great. They love being “experts” and feeling like their own thoughts and opinions are the basis for a real, live publication. I talked to them about everything I could think of: their lives, pastimes, music, movies, television, relationships, cool brands and not-cool brands. We also discussed their values, their opinions on world events, their perceptions of life, and their goals and dreams. Meanwhile, I stuffed them with snacks and caffeine, and let them take pictures of one another, so I think they had a lot of fun. I took their e-mail addresses and got their permission to contact them with any follow-up questions, and told them to come back in a month, same time, same place.

I also met with a celebrity stylist who frequently works with Beyoncé and Reese Witherspoon. As Liz told me, “If you want to understand the celeb thing, don’t go to the celeb – go to the people who handle them.” The stylist was a bit tight-lipped on any new fashions or cosmetics soon to be seen (God forbid someone find out about it before
People
magazine shows the celeb wearing it), but she did provide insight on how they attend fashion shows and take early cues from designers when looking ahead to upcoming vogue.

And then, armed with a million and one topics (and about a million more after a confusingly friendly phone call from Jen), I finally did street-corner duty, this time up in Central Park, about fifty yards away from the smoothie stand near the east entrance. I’ve learned by sight who to approach and who not to approach, and I’ve become very adept at differentiating native New Yorkers from Middle American tourists. This has all made my job much quicker and more proficient, and I can now understand how Jen gets so many interviews done in a day.

We’re halfway toward the next
Pulse
, and this time I have a lot to contribute. A LOT to contribute. And I know it’s good stuff. If you can believe it, I actually can’t wait to put the newsletter together. I still have that one nagging issue, but I also have a week plus to solve it, which I’m confident will happen. By Saturday, two days before leaving again for L.A., I’m in good shape.

Saturday night also goes well, with me dragging Victor from club to club, making him look around and describe the people: what they’re wearing, what they’re drinking, what they’re talking about… as I furiously scribble it all into my notebook. I hope he’s having fun, but if he’s not, tough shit.

Sunday night he takes me to a cocktail party at his friend’s penthouse.

“Does everything you do require dress pants and a tie?” I ask him.

“I don’t wear a tie to the Yankees game,” he tells me.

“I’d like to see that.”

“Maybe you will.”

I’m not complaining. Before Victor, the most elegant cuisine I indulged in on a regular basis was the “Rich Man’s Pancake” at Debbie’s House of Waffles back home, which was the same as the regular pancake, but with strawberry goop and a blob of whipped cream on top of the syrup. Don’t get me wrong: I love getting dressed up and going to fancy places with Victor. But every once in a blue moon, a girl can really go for kicking back with a greasy cheeseburger and a chocolate milk shake.

But on this particular evening, I’d eat raw snails off of breaded cow pies if they were called “gourmet,” because on this particular evening Victor is introducing me to his friends. Which is definitely a few degrees warmer on the relationship thermometer.

The party’s host is Patrick, a physician and old rugby teammate of Victor’s from college. As I reach out to shake his hand, I turn to Victor and ask, “You played rugby?” To which Patrick laughs and Victor gives us both a look of annoyance. Then he leads me into the main room, toward a group of three couples who are congregated together in a huddle of champagne glasses and expensive shoes. They all look beautiful and interesting, and I have to remind myself that I am beautiful and interesting too, with an overflowing reserve of fascinating conversation topics and intelligent opinions.

“I’d like you all to meet Lindsey,” he tells them, and then to me, “Lindsey, these are my nearest and dearest friends. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to snort a few lines in the little boys’ room.”

I look at his friends and they look at me. “Is he serious?” I ask nervously. They burst into laughter.

“Oh, my God, you are so cute!” One of the women, a thin redhead, squeezes my arm, then motions for a glass of champagne for me.

“Victor didn’t mention you. How long have you two been dating?” another woman asks me, this one a petite blonde who twirls the enormous rock on her finger and grips like Cling Wrap onto the man next to her.

“Uh… just a few weeks, I guess,” I stammer.

“Victor is terrible. He didn’t even introduce us,” says the redhead. “He just threw you at us and lumped us together as ‘his friends’.”

“That’s because he thinks we’re all the same!” the third woman says, and the men laugh.

“That’s because we are,” the blonde’s husband says flatly.

“We are not!” The redhead stamps her foot. “I will tell Lindsey exactly who we are.”

“Here we go,” her man mutters, and signals the waiter for another round of champagne.

“I’m Carrie, by the way, and obviously I am the Career Woman. Darcy over here is the Soccer Mom.” The petite blonde pretends to punch her. “And Lauren is the Pie Chart. She does some of everything: wife, mom, works part-time, studies African art, is working on her elusive first novel, and hosts dinner parties every first Saturday of the month. You can divide her up, just like a pie.”

“What flavor?” one of the men asks.

“Cherry. Definitely cherry,” the other one answers.

“I’d say pumpkin,” the other guy says. “Look at her hair.”

Lauren leans toward me. “Carrie loves to put people into buckets. That way she doesn’t have to really get to know anyone on an intimate level.”

“So not true,” Carrie retorts, as Victor walks up and pokes my elbow.

“Is she at it again?” he asks, pointing to Carrie. The group nods.

“Come on, Carrie. Do the guys,” Darcy says.

“Okay, the guys. Well, my husband, David, is the Tunnel Vision Entrepreneur. He thinks about nothing but building his law firm bigger and bigger, and every moment of his day goes into it.” I can hear a twinge of resentment here, and am not surprised when David pulls away a little and retorts, “Not
every
moment.”

But Carrie plows forward.

“Richard is the New Dad. He’s like David, but his tunnel vision is all about the baby. Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.”

“Fewer diapers for me to change.” Lauren laughs.

“And Michael, Darcy’s husband, he’s the Now What Guy.”

Michael stands back. “I’m the huh?”

“Well, his kids are toddlers by now, and let’s face it, they annoy him to hell with the running around and destroying the house all day. So he’s definitely over the New Dad phase. His career is mundane, and he’s stuck in one routine after another like a pit of quicksand. So he sits around, flipping channels and trying to ignore the kid noise, thinking, ‘Is this all there is? And if not, now what?’ So he’s the Now What Guy.”

While Michael doesn’t look too pleased with his bucket, he’s not really denying it either.

Satisfied with herself, Carrie lets out a huge breath of air and smiles at me. “So that’s us.”

“But wait,” I say. “What about Victor?”

“No, thanks,” Victor holds out his hand. “We can skip Victor.”

“No. No, no.” Carrie shakes a finger in his face. “Victor. Hmmmmm…”

We all watch her ponder for a minute, as if she’s a psychic who can’t quite feel the vibe. Then she looks up and says, “Of course! Victor is the Lag Behind.”

“The Lag Behind?” Victor clearly doesn’t like where this is going.

“All his friends are married and having kids, but Victor is the one who resists it all until the last possible second.”

“I’m just waiting to learn from all of
your
mistakes,” he tells the group.

“He hates his job with a passion, but has himself convinced that the money makes up for it. And it’s all about him. His toys, his golf, his women…” She looks up at me nervously, but I shake it off. “He’s the guy who hides his fear of growing up behind his selfishness, because for some crazy reason he thinks that selfishness is a more admirable quality than immaturity.”

“Carrie, the only craziness about this whole thing is you.” I can’t tell if Victor is upset, or merely going along with a game that obviously is played just about every time this group gets together.

“Spend some time with us, Lindsey,” she invites with a knowing smile. “And then tell me if I’m wrong.”

Victor pulls at my arm. “Come on. I’m going to introduce you to the
sane
people in the room.”

“We love you, Victor!” the girls shout as we walk away.

As we cross the room, I look at Victor quizzically. “I didn’t know you hated your job that much,” I start. Victor pretends he doesn’t hear me.

But then a second before we reach the sane people, Victor pulls me aside. “I want you to know something about what she said,” he tells me.

Wow. He’s going to reveal a deep, dark secret about himself. He’s going to explain his inner makeup: his fear of commitment, his anger at his parents’ dysfunctional relationship, his endless search (until now) for the girl who would sweep in and change everything about his life…

“I hang out with a lot of single people,” he says. “That Lag Behind thing is a crock of shit. Those are my only friends who are even close to being married. I’m not lagging behind anything.” I can tell he’s embarrassed, and doesn’t want me to view him as the dorky reject kid on the playground.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I understand.”

And suddenly I do understand. But not about Victor. I suddenly understand what it is that I need to change about the course of my trend newsletter – the missing link that’s going to make all those confusing numbers and percentages finally make sense. The new perspective that advertisers will use to create their ads and place their media. The new revolution of trend-tracking: buckets!

I
’ve had a lot of sexual fantasies in my day, and some of them pretty racy. But in my wildest dreams, I never imagined lying totally naked, getting felt up by an enormous, grunting, hairy Russian woman who speaks not a word of English. But you know what? It feels pretty damn good.

No, no. It’s not what you’re thinking. Carmen and I are at Beverly Hot Springs, the place that certain Los Angeles insiders consider the crème de la crème of pampering day spas. We just spent a relaxing hour soaking under their hot-springs waterfall, and now we’re lying on our stomachs on parallel tables, getting rubbed and scrubbed by twin babushkas with matching mustaches.

“So how was the teen panel?” Carmen asks, as the large hands knead her butt like two mounds of bread dough.

“Exhausting,” I tell her. “Ten hyper teenagers jacked up on caffeine and Hostess cupcakes, demanding that we do the panel in the swimming pool.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. It was great, though. I got fantastic pictures and quotes for the newsletter, and we did a little mini-focus group on some of the agency’s new commercials.”

The Russian women start pounding their fists on our backs, then they reach into a giant vat of sea salt and begin slathering it into our skin.

“Hey, wanna go out tonight?” Carmen asks.

“Sure. Where do you want to go?”