Diary of a Working Girl (39 page)

What the heck was I thinking calling myself his girlfriend right away like that? I find myself once again scanning for spy cameras to foil my rep as a relationship guru.

“No, actually, it’s despite the fact that you’re my girlfriend.”

See, that’s why they pay me the big bucks!

Adorable man, really.

Did I mention he was wearing that awful tie that day? The one

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with the golf clubs? And did I mention the fact that he went back to wearing awful ties and the same old suits he had before?

As long as I’m mentioning it, I might as well tell you that I wouldn’t have it any other way. I want Tom to be Tom.
Sometimes
, when we’re going somewhere really special, and I go out and buy him a new shirt or pants he might claim otherwise, but on the whole, really that’s the truth. I’m even starting to believe there might be something to his “ahead of the trend” theory. I actually read in
GQ
recently that kitschy ties are making a comeback!

Tiffany and I shrieked in instant message mode after I spent hours typing in what had happened, while she sat quietly (this means no typing), a few yards away in her cubicle. (We have just gotten so used to communicating this way, and I’ll miss her, so I figured this would be an apropos good-bye.) Tiffanybabeoliscious: Get out! J

Lame2001: Isn’t it amazing?!?$#%**

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Which part?

Lame2001: Me and Tom, of course!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: I couldn’t think of a better match. But you have some seriously jealous women on your hands now!

Lame2001: Do you think?

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Oh baby, I know! Do you think yours is the only instant message window I have open right now? Why do you think I didn’t type a word all through your story? I was sending instant messages to just about everyone on our floor!

Lame2001:You really are the queen of gossip.

Tiffanybabeoliscious: But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lame2001: That’s right sister! So you better keep feeding me the gossip when I’m outta here.

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Tiffanybabeoliscious: It is my duty and I take it seriously. And as long as you’ve spilled all of your gossip to me, and you promise to keep a secret, I’ve got something for you. . . .

Lame2001: What? What?!!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: I’ve got a special someone right here, too. . . .

Lame2001: Who? You’re absolutely killing me here.

Tiffanybabeoliscious:You really haven’t guessed?

Lame2001: Oh my god! Out with it already!!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Deep breath . . . John.

Lame2001: John across the cubey wall?

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Who do you think forwarded him all of those images of Tom’s ex-girlfriend? J

Lame2001: No way!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: And by the way . . . there is no ‘spaghetti incident.’ John made that up so you’d start wondering about Tom, because he thought you two would be great together.

You know, it’s not really that crazy. I could definitely see how they would compliment each other. After all, opposites attract, and if you let them, people will shock and delight you every day, and in my case, even if you think you’ve already got them pegged. And believe me, when I finally got John to admit to his “secret” relationship by justifying that the only one in the office that you have to worry about when it comes to gossip is his girlfriend, and he agreed to have dinner with Tom and I (definitely spaghetti), it is easy to see that those two are just perfect together.

I

When I left at the end of that day, I had to sign a whole pile of contracts about confidentiality. At the bottom of the pile, which 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 309

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was about twenty pages thick, I came across a pink sheet. I began reading the same jargon that the others started out with.

“I, Lane Silverman, ex-employee of Smith Barney, promise to maintain under the strictest confidentiality, blah blah blah,” when I came to the part about what it was that I was agreeing to.

“I will devote this entire weekend to getting to know Tom the Boyfriend and will not once return to my apartment during the entire period spanning from Friday, May 29th to Sunday, June 1st.”

I brought the pile of papers into his office and said, “I’ve just one problem with this last document.”

He took a deep breath, folded his hands, prayer-style on his desk, and said, “Yes?”

“Well, I need to go home and get some clothes first.”

“I regret to inform you that you’ll do no such thing,” he said, very matter-of-factly. “There is no need for clothes where we are going.”

Friday night went, to quote someone I once knew, “splendidly.”

And for that matter, Saturday and Sunday, too—all of which were spent in Tom’s apartment—which does not have one inch of marble or a claw-foot bathtub. It does have lots of ugly black leather couches and Barcaloungers and sports paraphernalia, though. This suits him perfectly, and after a little while, I’m sure we can work on it. If I subtly introduce a vase here, an Oriental rug there, he’ll barely even notice.

True to his claim, there was no clothing necessary. And he is, without the need of suave rehearsed lines, a fantastic lover, who doesn’t concentrate on creative positions and
Nine and a Half
Weeks
–type scenes, but instead on smiling, and genuinely enjoying every second, without the need to say so with meaningless, faceless words.

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And after, he strokes his hands on my little pooch of a belly and says, “Now
this
is adorable,” and kisses it, and squeezes me so tightly I can barely breathe. This method of passing time in a bedroom is equally, if not far superiorly, effective (and if I happen to throw in an “Oh, Tom” here and there, well, I can’t help myself).

Only, it is not really a method. It is a natural, wonderful thing that comes from a place that Liam does not have within his otherwise flawless body—a heart.

And there were other wonderful moments aside from those on the bed—eating Chinese take-out wrapped in sheets at Tom’s dining room table, fighting over the one fortune cookie, which I won (through a tricky maneuver involving pulling said sheet off of one very private area) and read aloud, which to our dismay, offered no deep insight into our future: “If no one hears the tree fall in the woods, has it really fallen?”

But it offered plenty of opportunities for jokes.

“If nobody sees Ab Fab’s breasts under her sheet, are they really there?”

And, of course, that just lead to a thorough investigation to find out. (As it turns out they were.)

“If Tom wears his globe-covered tie with nothing else, is it still ugly?” I try my hand.

“Lane, that’s really not the same kind of question. I see you’re trying to be funny, but, c’mon—you can do better than that. But, hey, if you really want to see me in my tie, with absolutely nothing else on, I’m not going to argue. . . .”

The very last point I need to cover is one that is very important to me. And that is the little question of fate. And I got my answer one day while Tom and I were whiling away the day in Central Park, envisioning all of the most recent fights that the various couples spread out on blankets had gotten into.