Bicoastal Babe (8 page)

“Oh, gosh, that’s so nice. Thank you. But I really have to go.”

“So soon? You’re not even finished with your coffee.” He follows me back into the bedroom, where I’m scrambling to organize my clothes. Part of me wants to bolt out the door, but the other part of me has to know.

“Victor. I have to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“I had a few too many cocktails last night.”

He laughs, as if my confession is the biggest understatement in the history of man.

“And I don’t remember some of the details of the latter part of the evening. So could you tell me… did I… did we… well, you know… did we… do anything?”

He laughs again. “In your condition? No, Lindsey. I stopped needing to get girls drunk for sex in my junior year of college.”

Huh?

“Kidding. But yeah, you were pretty hammered. So I took you home, put you to bed, and that’s all she wrote. I slept on the couch.”

“Why didn’t you just drop me off at my apartment?”

“You forgot your address.”

“Oh. Right.”

“So if you’re declining the pleasure of my homemade salmon omelet, fine. But something tells me you won’t be declining the pleasure of dinner at Nobu tonight at nine thirty.”

He can’t really be asking me on a proper date. After seeing me like this? Maybe he’s still drunk from last night. Or maybe he hasn’t put in his contacts yet. Or maybe this is a cruel joke where I’ll get all dressed up and then he and his friends will hide across the street, laughing hysterically as I stand in the doorway, looking up and down the sidewalk, tears streaming down my face – stood up and humiliated.

“Lindsey? So do you wanna go?”

“Uh, you said Nobu? Really? Do you have a reservation?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just be ready at nine thirty. And write down your address on the way out. That is, if you remember it.”

He winks, walks into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. He doesn’t even shut the door. From down the hall I catch a glimpse of his naked body in the mirror as he peels off his tracksuit. His eyes look up in the reflection and catch my glance. He smiles devilishly, then steps into the shower.

I take it that’s my cue to go. But now that the coast is clear, I don’t want to go. I want to check out the apartment, troll the mantels for pictures of other women and signs of who he is and what might possess him to ask me on a real date.

Then it occurs to me: Maybe he likes me. Maybe I made him laugh or he thought I was cute or I said something brilliantly insightful (doubtful), or something real and legitimate like that. Maybe he just plain likes me.

Which, of course, is the best feeling in the world.

•   •   •

When I get home, the apartment has changed. Still tiny, but suddenly it’s the brightest, sunniest, happiest place in the world. Victor Ragsdale likes me! And is coming to pick me up in twelve short hours. Not much time. Must organize the day into a realistic schedule.

First thing – a little beauty sleep. Three hours, maybe four. Can’t be picked up for the most important date of my life with these hangover bags under my eyes. Next, leg and bikini wax – one hour. Facial and hair blowout – two hours. Quick tanning appointment, followed by manicure and pedicure – two more hours. Shop for Nobu-appropriate outfit – one hour max at Macy’s. Shower, dress, and makeup application – hour and a half. And that leaves a half hour to relax and enjoy a predate glass of wine. Perfect.

As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me that I’ve left no time for work. Okay, it’s one day. One day lost in an endless sea of trend-tracking brilliance that is sure to unfold, as my lucky stars have begun to finally align. One day. Screw it. I’ll start tomorrow. This date is too important to mess up.

•   •   •

By nine-thirty, I’m ready. Right on schedule. With my new little black dress and silk handbag (two hundred bucks, but considered a wise investment in my social future), I look smashing, if I do say so myself.

Victor is a little late, which is okay because it gives me the chance to have a second calm-my-nerves nipper of wine. I’ve straightened up the apartment and even washed the pile of dirty thong underwear that Jen left in the bathroom sink. Certainly not impressive, but it’s the best I can do.

So… When people say “fashionably late,” exactly how late do the parameters of “fashionable” extend? Is it different depending on the event? Is being a “fashionable” hour and forty-five minutes late for your nephew’s first birthday party (never heard the end of it, but worth it) different from being a “fashionable” fifteen minutes late to your boss’s daughter’s wedding? And what about for a date? I’ve never had a guy be this fashionably late for a date, so I’m not quite certain when it’s appropriate to put down the wine and start getting angry. Advice needed.

“Hello?” Holly answers the phone like she’s out of breath.

“How late is ‘fashionable’ when it comes to a date?”

“He’s not there yet?” I’d filled her in on the details earlier this afternoon, somewhere between my bikini wax and my professional shampoo.

“Wasn’t he supposed to be there a half hour ago?” she asks.

“Just answer the question.”

“Umm…” She ponders nervously. “Well… I’ve never…”

“Okay, look. Just distract me. I don’t want to start the night off in a mood.”

“Lindsey, I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly good explanation. Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine while you’re waiting?”

Silence.

“You’ve already had one.”

More silence.

“You’ve had two.”

More silence.

“Okay, listen. It’s New York. The traffic is probably crazy. I’m sure he’ll feel awful and have a bouquet of flowers and a great explanation –”

I hear a buzz on the wall.

“Holly – he’s here.”

“You see? Call me tomorrow. Have fun, sweetie.”

I hang up, clear my throat, and glare at the buzzer. Hmph! I won’t answer on the first buzz, or even the second. Make him wait. Make him sweat. I’ll be “fashionably late” in answering the door. See how he likes it.

Another buzz. Who am I kidding?

I dive at the panel. “Victor?”

“Lindsey, I’m downstairs. Come down.”

“Why don’t I buzz you up?”

“And walk up five flights of stairs? No, thanks. I’ll hold a cab.”

Wait a minute. Where’s my apology? Where are my flowers? He should come up to the door like a gentleman. And besides, I want to see him in my apartment. I want to take a mental snapshot of him standing here, being here, for when I wake up and realize this was all a dream – at least I’ll have the image stuck in my mind.

“Uh, Victor? I’m not quite ready yet. Can you just come up for a minute?”

A moment, and then I hear him sigh. “Fine.”

And a moment later here he is, standing in my apartment. He’s dashingly handsome in his dark gray suit, with a green silk handkerchief stuck in the breast pocket. He doesn’t seem to be wearing any apologies or holding any bouquets, but the image of him more than makes up for whatever it is he’s forgotten.

“You look ready to me,” he says.

I’ll take that as a compliment. “Thank you,” I gush. “I just have to…” My voice trails off as I turn toward the bathroom. I just have to what? Here, I’ll just shuffle some things around and make a little noise.

“Lindsey, we’re going to miss our reservation.” He sounds a little irritated, and I wonder, How
did
he get reservations at Nobu on such short notice? That’s hot. Major two-thumbs-up cool.

On the cab ride over, Victor asks all about my job and laughs when I tell him I’ve been in New York less than a week.

“I knew it!” he exclaims. “You are so
not
Manhattan!”

I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gives me a little squeeze and smiles. “It’s a good thing, Lindsey. Trust me. You’re very… I don’t know. Fresh. Does that make sense? You’re refreshing to me.”

In an ideal world I’d be described as capturing the look of the stylish, edgy New Yorker that I truly am at heart, not be made to sound like a stick of Doublemint gum following a whippet and a Mountain Dew. But when Victor takes my hand and whispers, “I like you,” all bets are off.

•   •   •

Nobu is beautiful. And Simon Cowell is sitting at the corner table. And when Victor said, “I have a reservation,” to the hostess, she smiled and replied (
without
asking his name), “Right this way, Mr. Ragsdale.”

“Do you like sake?” Victor asks, opening the menu.

“I’ve never had it. I don’t really go out for sushi. I usually get my sushi from the refrigerated bin at Pick ’n Save.”

Victor laughs. “What the hell is that?”

“That’s my corner grocery store at home in Chicago. Or it was.”

“Tell me you’re not serious.”

“Okay, I’m not serious. But I made you laugh.”

He laughs again.

“Well, I mean, that
was
my corner store, and I
have
eaten their sushi, but… Well, forget it.” I open my menu. “And I do like sake, by the way. Love it, actually.”

“Two sake martinis,” Victor tells the waitress.

“Certainly, Mr. Ragsdale.”

Victor goes back to the menu. “I’m going to order an assortment –”

“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “Are you wearing a sticker on your back that says, ‘Hello, My Name Is Mr. Ragsdale’?”

He laughs again. I’m three for three! “I just come here a lot.”

Really? With whom? How many women has Victor taken here? How many women has he sat at this very table with? Bad to ask. But I bet a lot.

“As I was saying… I’m going to order an assortment and let the chef make us whatever he wants. Adventure eating, I like to call it.”

Adventure eating. Has a trend-sounding ring to it. Mental note.

After he orders and we get our drinks, Victor sits back and loosens his tie. “So.” He smiles. “How do you like New York?”

“Oh, I love it! All the sights and sounds and smells. It’s so glamorous and energetic and fun and –”

“Lindsey. You sound like a tourism brochure. New York smells like a shit in a sauna.”

“You don’t like New York?”

“Yeah, you know. It’s home. I’ll never leave. So what else? What do you
really
like about it?”

Hmmm. What
do
I like about New York? I guess it’s hard to put into words. Words that don’t sound like a tourism brochure, that is.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I just do. Just the feeling I have here.”

“Ah, the Un-Reason.” He nods slowly.

“What’s the Un-Reason?”

“It’s what my mother used to say was the reason she loved my father. Trust me, she hated everything about the prick, but she still loved him for a reason she couldn’t explain. She used to call it the Un-Reason, and she swore it was the only reason that mattered.”

I feel a tear well up in my eye. “That’s incredibly romantic, Victor.”

“And that’s why you love New York. But then again, you just got here. You’ll find other reasons.”

“But reasons that don’t matter.”

“Nah. It’ll just mean that you’ll love it without it driving you crazy. That’s what you wanna shoot for.”

He grins and I grin back. Well, then, that’s what I’ll shoot for.

•   •   •

The rest of dinner is slow and delicious, and as the sake sets in I’m beginning to feel like New York royalty. I love the restaurant, with its dark, sharp decor contrasted by candle flames casting out a warm, glowing swirl. And in addition to being the most strikingly handsome man in the room, it turns out that Victor is the perfect gentleman (despite that he called our waiter a “fucking asshole” – albeit very quietly – when he forgot our tuna sashimi).

After dinner, Victor suggests a carriage ride in Central Park, and I just about fall over. It’s the most romantic, perfect, wonderful thing I’ve ever been asked. The night is warm, the park is peaceful, and Victor holds my hand in the carriage as we stare at the stars. It’s everything I’ve always dreamed of, aside from the fact that those horses actually fart quite a lot, and loudly I might add. But Victor laughed, so I did too. A silly little cute thing in our perfect night.

When the carriage pulls up to let us off, I notice that Victor’s building is right across the street. Without missing a beat, he kisses my hand and asks me up for a nightcap. A nightcap – so romantic. Guys don’t say that anymore. Jimmy Stewart and Cary Grant used to say that in old movies. Yes, I would love to have a nightcap, I answer, and float up the elevator to his dream apartment.

Once in, Victor dims the lights and opens a bottle of port. Sade softly swells from the stereo. I step into the bathroom to powder my nose, and that’s when it hits me: He’s brought me here to sleep with me.

Shit. What should I do? I’ve never had sex on the first date. It’s just not me – just not my thing. Well, except for after my office Christmas party three years ago with the bass player from the La Bamba cover band, but that doesn’t count because it wasn’t technically a date. And no, the junior prom is not considered a date either. So forget it. Doesn’t count.

I begin to panic, and realize that my left shoulder suddenly feels cold, and my right shoulder feels hot. I know what this is. It’s been a while, but in times of desperate decision-making, this happens without fail. It’s my inner angel and devil, come to fight for the purity of my soul.

Angel: Don’t do it.

Devil: Do it.

Angel: You never have sex on the first date.

Devil: There’s a first time for everything.

Angel: If you do it, he’ll think you’re a slut.

Devil: If you don’t, he’ll think you’re a prude – or worse, a tease.

Angel: You don’t want this.

Devil: Of course you want this. Look at him.

I quietly open the bathroom door a crack and peek out. Down the hallway I can see Victor setting our glasses of port onto the glass table by the sofa. Dreamy. Gorgeous. Shit. I shouldn’t have looked.

Angel: I’m telling you, you won’t respect yourself in the morning.

Devil: But you’ll be pissed that you shelled out twenty bucks for a wasted bikini wax.

Angel: You know the rules of basic social order. Send him away with a boner and he’ll be back to get rid of it.