Romance Is My Day Job (16 page)

It boggles the mind that four months could go by in such a blur. Suddenly, it's July, my forty-first birthday, and my family has congregated at a table in a fancy French restaurant around the corner from me. I've long grown out of wanting birthday fanfare, but I know my mom would be unhappy if I stayed home, ordered takeout, and worked on knitting projects. For her, I muster up an appetite and wear a dress. When I don my usual jeans and shirt, she winces and thinks I'm depressed, which is not the case. She's a little scary, like the all-knowing mom who yanks you out of bed when she senses you're in a funk. But I'm doing okay, I assure her.

Cassie McBride doesn't have to deal with an overbearing mother because she's an orphan (her parents died in a car crash). If anything, she's raised by either animals in the woods or a kindly grandmother who then kicks the bucket and leaves Cassie a huge house with a wraparound porch and fully stocked kitchen so that she can whip up cookies to bring to her neighbors or the office. Also, given her natural tendency to be beautiful, Cassie would never wear her college clothes. Cassie is all about the sundress.

Luckily, I'm wearing a sundress, too.

“I'm fine, Mom. Really. It meant nothing.” Superman is a distant memory. I even sent his shirt back. Three Brenda Novak novels later, and I'm cured. Perhaps Mom had a little crush on Superman. He came close to Colin Firth's godliness. She and I will salivate over many romantic comedies in the future. There will be more birthdays like this, with her worrying about me, me telling her I'm fine.

It occurs to me that a year ago, I was sitting at this same table, fresh from another breakup, on that scary precipice of forty. Now I'm turning forty-one—yikes, can't go back now! My situation hasn't changed much. I definitely feel better about my life. Same job. Same apartment in Chelsea—at least for the past four years. A few more gray hairs. Who am I kidding, Cassie McBride would never be this old. Plus, she embraces all moments with family—that is, if she has one, usually long-lost brothers who own a ranch and have long-lost male half brothers who have an even bigger ranch.

I decide to embrace this moment even though I would rather be at my own studio-size ranch. Being out with family is probably a good idea for me.

“We're going to party!” my mother says excitedly. She's really into this. You can tell by her hip phrases. It's kind of funny, actually.

There's a new addition to the table, my brother's adorable boyfriend, Carlos. He is a dark-haired, brown-eyed Peruvian man, both an intellectual and a comic book geek, who is getting his master's degree in nonprofit management. Patrick is happy, relaxed, more active than I've ever seen him. For as long as I can remember, Patrick has been my rock, the one who helps me make big decisions, who drives people to the hospital and protects us all from evil. He's become our true patriarch. I thought I'd be jealous when he settled down, but his boyfriend had me at “I have Kylie Minogue on my iPod.” Carlos has brought sunshine to our family. He encourages Patrick to cook instead of eat at restaurants, to visit family as much as possible, and to soak up life. As I see it, my family has expanded.

My mom, of course, continues to be the queen bee over all events. This doesn't fade one iota, though I notice how much I rely on her for my entertainment, even if I hate going to restaurants. There are the little things I crave seeing, like how her nose flutters when she finds something hysterical, or the way her head swivels if she eats something particularly delicious. I tell her everything, and she listens, even if it's a bit of an overshare. Then there's her work ethic, as in work until you can't stand it anymore; I get that from her. Everyone loves Bonnie. In the past few decades, she's given up her dark brown hair for a short pixie style, frosted, like she's trying to be a blonde. Basically, my mother is still a goddess. She's also a mother and, as such, sometimes calls me five times a day to remind me of absolutely nothing. I'm not sure how I'd cope if she stopped doing this.

Don remains unchanged, continuing his role as the smartest one in the room, along with his penchant for making cutting remarks, rubbing his beard, and walking away in the middle of a sentence. Since spending more time in Manhattan, he's also taken to barking at dogs on the street. I remind myself that he's allegedly famous in his field and one of the world's great thinkers. Mostly now he's eyeing the red wine, his forbidden lover since he experienced some health problems and retired from academia.

Because forty-one is no big deal, I proposed staying home on my birthday, having a
Queer as Folk
marathon while I sink a fork in birthday cake topped with peanut M&M's and Cool Whip. My mother wasn't having it, though, and she's the boss.

So here we are: out in the open, muggy July air at a French restaurant, me popping an Ativan just as the waiter brings us our menus. Family dinners make me a little nervous and so do restaurants—something about the cluster of tables, an imposed time frame to sit still in one place. It's just how it is. My appetite dies slowly as I review the list of specials.

“Oooh, look, they have kidneys!” Mom shouts. She loves to read aloud every item on the menu. “Beet salad! Look at that delicious salmon terrine. What are you having, Patience? Maybe a little duck confit?”

“I'm not that hungry. Maybe the hanger steak.” This is my typical response.

Mom winces. “You'll get an appetizer, too. A little salad?”

“It's my birthday. No appetizer.” I know full well she'll order an appetizer for herself and give half of it to me. This is part of the routine. Now that we live so close to each other, it happens a couple of times a month. But the people around this table are my family, and I love them desperately. The banter is the same as it's always been. Our dynamic is one I'm used to and it comforts me. I still need a tranquilizer. It's my birthday.

“Hey, I'm a prime number this year,” I say.

Patrick and Carlos raise their eyebrows. They don't quite get my
A Beautiful Mind
obsession with prime numbers. Only Don does, because he's insane.

“That's right!” my mother says, playing along, though she doesn't really care about numbers. “It's going to be a
great
year!” She loves the word
great
. Everything is
great
. Did you see how Bessie organized her flower beds? They're
great
. The percussionist who makes so much noise next door, she's
great
.

The waiter comes around and takes our order. The bottle of wine goes fast. My mother orders a Sauvignon Blanc, telling the waiter that if he brings her Chardonnay, she “will vomit.” I watch the waiter to make sure he fully digests this information, since if my mother vomits later, I might hear about it the next morning as I'm stuffing my face with pancakes. Though I love it when my mother confides in me, I can't let anyone ruin my dessert foods.

“And now I'm going to tell the story of Patience's birth,” my mother announces, like clockwork.

Apparently, I was an easy birth, though a month late—for which my father was probably thankful since he didn't need to miss the '68 student riots in Paris—and I had to be induced. I didn't want to come out. Imagine that?

As I look around the table, I'm content. I could easily devote the rest of my days to social events with my family. They are wonderful people. Nothing needs to change. I'm in a good place.

And yet, all the books with their happily-ever-afters are ingrained in me. There's a better way to live, isn't there? I am allowed to dream. Maybe I can do that again, even though I'm exhausted right now. Cassie McBride would never indulge in this BS. She's up to her eyeballs in customers at the diner where she now works as a waitress (the knitting store was not lucrative). She has no idea that Jake Hunter can't stop staring at her, that he comes in for black coffee and a slice of pie every day. No, Cassie goes about her business, doesn't expect more, doesn't even want it. I should keep doing what I'm doing, which is work and family.

But when the cake comes, I do get this sudden wild yearning for more. More doesn't seem possible, especially at my age, especially after what I've been through. It's too late for me to start a family of my own. The men my age want someone younger, which makes me not want them.

But wouldn't it be amazing if I experienced magic of some kind—a romantic windfall?

That usually happens to Cassie. Just when she thinks her life is over, Jake Hunter appears out of nowhere and declares his undying love. I'd love for it to be easy, just this once. Let me just do nothing and have my soul mate show himself with a big neon sign. Would it be too spoiled of me to ask for this? I've worked so hard for so many years.

The cake emerges with a sparkling candle, the waiter singing “Happy Birthday” in French. Everyone sings.

The cake sits in front of me.

“Make a wish, Payshie,” Carlos says. He's so cute.

Hmmmm. What do I really want? A backstage pass to a Duran Duran concert. Yes, still, my obsession with this band frightens most people. Maybe I could have lots of money—of course. Something bigger? I could wish for world peace (though that's a little boring). My mother wants me to be a high-powered executive—but that doesn't suit me. I could wish to open a yarn store like Cassie McBride. But not in this economy, and besides, that's her dream (was her dream).

No, this one is all for me:

Let me be engaged within a year.

Huh. Where did that come from? A romantic windfall would be nice, but
engaged
, like with a ring? That's way too much. Oh well, I can't take the wish back.

I blow out the flame and dive into the cake, forgetting the wish entirely. Though I keep the candle, just in case.

 • • • 

A few weeks later, August 10, begins as an ordinary Monday. I take the 1 train to the office, edit romances, and come home eight hours later. A sense of elation fills me. My year is basically over. No more conferences, family reunions, or trips. I only have to edit books. It's been almost six months since Superman, and I'm happy to not be fixating on a boy. There is no one.

When I go home at night, I watch movies and read tabloids. My cheeseburger and fries are a phone call away, so I never need to cook. My Chelsea apartment is worth the kazillion dollars I pay in rent. The credit card debt accumulated in my twenties is at an all-time low—just in time for me to discover the Anthropologie store two blocks away. I have a cat who is not an asshole. I am peaceful and have everything I need.

Of course, it takes one moment to ripple these calm waters forever.

Like most, I check e-mail and Facebook every five minutes. I won't lie: Notifications and “likes” boost my self-esteem. It's early evening, and this intriguing friend request appears.

Sam Something-or-other.

Familiar name. I recognize it but not the context. I get a good feeling when I read his name, like
I know him.
High school and college friends have merged in my memory. Foggy brain or not, my curiosity is piqued and I accept the friendship. Who is this cool person again?

An instant message appears.

“Hi!!!” Sam writes.

He's one of those—the three-exclamation-point kind.

“Hello!” I write back, a little eager to get back to my tabloids but still intrigued. I love his enthusiasm so far. “Where do I know you from—high school or college?”

“High school.”

“Are you older or younger than me?” Might as well be complimentary and play dumb. I'm not stupid.

“I like that question. Older.”

It goes on in this vein until I have a flashback of a brazen, husky boy with curly brown hair entering a school cafeteria. The entire room breaks out into applause. He is both mortified and pleased, as if, yeah, this isn't the first time. The smiles in the hall. The feeling that he liked me. That dance.

I
do
know Sam. He's the boy who swung me around the dance floor. He was the daring Evel Knievel of our bucolic prep school. Here he is friending me, the wallflower from high school.

But why? I guess it doesn't matter. My high school self would go bananas, analyzing this to death. Cassie and I don't give it too much thought. We dismiss the interaction as unimportant. He'll go away or find another special friend. I've been through this before. You're not fooling me, Jake Hunter. You're a mirage, and I've fallen for you too many times. This Jake is just being polite, doing light socializing so that his friending me doesn't seem so impersonal. He is probably in a bar, feeling lonely, reaching out to the little redhead from high school. He will seem amazing to me at first, suave and self-assured, so complimentary, more handsome with each e-mail. But with every step forward, he will crumble, lose interest, and then disappear. I'm so ready for this to be a big pile of hot air.

But then Sam does the unthinkable and asks for my phone number so that we can “catch up.” Catch up on what?

For once, my usually cautious self takes a coffee break and I consider giving him the digits. What do you know? I didn't have to do anything to get this attention . . . and from a legend. How weird.

I'm fairly sure this will come to nothing, but that's okay since I have
The
Real Housewives of New York City
and a whole host of guilty pleasures to keep me company.

August 2009

It's a not-so-leisurely work-at-home Wednesday for me. Because I have at least two books—usually three—to edit per month, there is no shortage of work for me to do. I also have to gather information for the insides of the books, the dedications and the author bios, and then approve the back-cover copy (a.k.a. “jacket” copy on other books). I could work ahead on cover ideas for the next month. Should the couple be in clinch or can I have a studly-hero-alone cover where he's wearing a black leather jacket, staring hungrily at the female reader? There is an endless pile of reading: of slush, of manuscripts authors have just turned in (August is a busy time, by the way), of proposals for new contracts. I could be writing articles for genre newsletters. Tomorrow I have a big meeting for which I'd like to be overprepared. More on that in a minute.

Usually, I have focus, but today I just want to stare into space. I can do that, right? No one will know. There is no child for me to chase around the apartment. No reason for me to get out of these pajamas. The idea is so satisfying, that I could lounge and stare without detection. But I do have my mother's voice in my head. She's telling me to make myself get dressed, become a whirlpool of productivity, crush those deadlines, go beyond my limits, create a new blog, impress my peers, work until midnight every night—be that sick workhorse who never ever buckles under pressure (like her).

But I'm not that girl. I don't need to be that girl. For twenty years, I've been a diligent worker who's given up many nights and weekends to her job. I have oodles of time yet to be a perfect worker, especially now that love is no longer a priority. I'm a free agent, delirious to not have a husband, a boyfriend, or, best of all, another bad date. I will just enjoy peace on this one little Wednesday.

Then I spy on my night table the next-best thing to having a social life: the books of Emily Giffin, which is how I meet the dastardly Darcy Rhone of
Something Blue,
the new heroine of my life, the voice I'd like to have in my head along with my mother's.

Darcy goes after what she wants and gets it. She lives by her impulses, ignores that she might upset people. If she sees a pretty scarf in the window, she buys it, using her ex's credit card. The words that come out of her mouth are cold, hard truths. No nice-nice from her, though she's easily the most fun person at a party . . . until she sleeps with the guy you're in love with. But that's not why I love Darcy. Her bratty princess attitude is refreshing to me. Having been a pushover my whole life, I'd love to be a brat for a while. Buy me that dress. Now. Get me that chocolate, like, yesterday, expletive.

In
Something Blue,
Darcy finds herself pregnant and, without other resources, goes to England to mooch off a friend. She winds up falling in love with her friend, who keeps showing her how there's more to her than her bitchiness. How does Emily redeem such a loathsome—yet somehow easy-to-love—character? Even though I love my virtuous characters, I treasure those flawed heroines who showcase a spectrum of traits. A little sass to go with the nice. I could learn a lot from her. No more wasting time on people who waste my time. The only obligation I have is to please myself. And torture myself just a little.

For the millionth time, I go over to my computer and stare at
his
e-mail:

I saw Along Came Polly and it reminded me of you. By the way, your hair looks great!!—Superman

That was three weeks ago. Imagine, six months go by with nothing, and
poof,
the ex-boyfriend resurfaces, just as I predicted. And I'm still staring at the e-mail . . . because I must be bored.

At least Superman remembered my forty-first birthday and still checks my Facebook updates. Now that nearly a month has passed, I accept the fact that Superman wants to drop me a note, not get back together. I wouldn't even want to be with him. But why now?

And then that Sam guy friended me a couple days ago.

Crazy things have been happening to me for weeks now, ever since I made that birthday wish. Last week, I went on a surprise train excursion (sort of like what Darcy might do). I took an Ambien and, in my delirious haze, booked myself a trip out of town to visit friends—embarrassing, but not the worst thing I've done on Ambien (e-mailing subtle hints about my sex life to my father; writing haiku in the voice of Charlotte from
Sex and the City
and sending them to my longtime gay boyfriend Langdon, a bleached-blond radio personality in Los Angeles; and eating the contents of my refrigerator). The Ambien helped me press “Order Ticket.” So I went, soaked up this leisurely visit, and returned home, revived. It was my Darcy moment of acting on impulse.

But impulse doesn't always pay the bills, so I edit throughout the day, taking Facebook breaks every half hour. By the afternoon, I feel spent, just in time to hear a
ding
. Someone is instant-messaging me. I wake up my computer.

Sam: Hi!!!!

Me: Hello to you too.

Sam: Can I call you, Red?

Hmmmm. Can he call me “Red” or can he phone me? It's all about comma placement. This Sam person from Taft seems a little psycho. Why would he want to talk to me on the phone this early? We've been Facebook friends for only two days. Is he that drunk and desperate? He told me he lives in Israel—maybe if I lived five thousand miles from home, I would want to connect with all my friends, too. Poor guy. What would Darcy do?

Me: It's a little soon in the relationship.

Sam: But I'm in Israel. This is the land of aggression.

I laugh out loud. I don't know anything about Israel, just that there's some conflict with the Palestinians. I'm not sure what the conflict is, though. Very Darcy of me indeed. But this boy says all the right things. I find out he speaks French fluently, just like me. This Sam might not be gainfully employed; maybe he's writing a book. People e-mail me all the time for publishing advice. I would do the same thing and I don't mind this. It's just nice to know up front. The bottom line is that I need more information since my memories of Sam come only from that bird's-eye view in high school.

Me: How about we talk this weekend? After I get to know you a little better.

Sam: Okay!!!

I get this happy feeling when I see all the exclamation points, the
okay,
like he's willing to wait until I feel comfortable. It makes me sad, too. Maybe he wants a friend. There's something sweet about waiting to talk to me. Sam might not be a pest after all. How could he bother me if he's living in Israel? It's possible he's sitting in his apartment, feeling the same sense of solitude. Because I'm now Darcy, I push thoughts of Sam out of my mind.

I remember that I have a meeting tomorrow with handsome middle-aged model/dating guru Tarken (this isn't his real name). For a second, I'm tempted to call the whole thing off, but I can't. This could be progress, and I need to do things differently if I want change. Though I work exclusively on romance novels, Harlequin has launched a new nonfiction line. I adore nonfiction and celebrities, so what better combination than a book written by a celebrity? Some of my alone time is spent perusing celebrity memoirs—Star Jones, the Kardashians, Jackie Chan, Joe Torre. You name it, I want to read it.

Tarken's work and profile immediately capture my attention. How to date more effectively, like the world doesn't have enough dating how-to books, but what's one more? Why am I the one reviewing this proposal? When I first thumb through his work, I see the guy I grew up dreaming I'd marry: white, gleaming teeth; one of those guys who rolls out of bed and is red-carpet ready, probably has his hair brushed by vestal virgins. It tickles my cockles that he wants
me
to buy his project. And the timing is strange.

With the teachings of Darcy Rhone in mind, I prepare for hours to meet Tarken the next day. Should I wear a pantsuit? No, that might be too formal. If I wear too-tight clothes, I'll look like an unprofessional tramp. My mother always dresses impeccably, and she taught me not to slouch when it comes to work events. I can hear her voice telling me,
He's just a guy. Do your job.
Maturity wins out as I select boring semiconservative attire—black pants, blue button-down, heels. This guy will appraise me based on what I'm wearing, so I go for bland. I need to be that forty-plus professional—except for the hair. For three hours, I straighten the long red mane into submission. It's what Darcy would want me to do.

 • • • 

The next day, my questions are ready, attire perfect, nails manicured. If this were ten years ago, I'd have stayed up the entire night playing out the scenario, concocting ways to be charming, like that romantic-comedy girl. Tarken would experience overpowering surprise at how beautiful I am. We'd start dating, because celebrities often date quiet editors.

This time, I don't lose a wink of sleep. I do, however, overprepare, research Tarken and the market of readers who might love his book. I'm the perfect editor for this project since I was that single girl looking for love. I've dated too much. I've made so many mistakes. If I'd had a stud model/dating expert at my elbow telling me how to play it, my life might have turned out differently. For the meeting, I write pages and pages of questions. This is very unlike Darcy, who would wing it.

Now it's time. I'm barely even nervous, just happy to have a new editorial experience. Maturity is a great tranquilizer.

I get that phone call from the receptionist saying my guests are here. When I go out and get that first look, for an instant, I feel that rush—a new person. Tarken comes over and gives me a hug. My shy wallflower self rejoices, mentally deeming him more beautiful in the flesh: dark eyes, rugged and tan, a movie-star smile. Then he hugs the receptionist and my colleague. The pheromones are flying in the office, which is hilarious to witness because, well, there aren't a whole lot of guys on our floor (though the ones we have are phenomenal gents). It's obvious to me that Tarken isn't remotely related to my Prince Charming. I mean, let's be serious. How nerve-wracking would that be? To play the part of his girlfriend, I'd have to share him with everyone. Plus, I'd need to pull my shit together—like all the time. No panic attacks, ever. No hanging out with grubby hair and pajamas. Can you imagine? We'd go to a restaurant and everyone would look at him, not me. I made that mistake with Superman. Plus, I'd have to wear a bikini, like everywhere! Even going out to dinner with Superman tried my patience, since waitstaff ogled him and ignored me. Plus, Tarken is the type who'd send back his steak three times—I can just tell. That would drive me nuts.

Honestly, I feel like I deserve a big hot-fudge sundae since, for once, I'm not eyeing someone as a future romantic partner. There are no insane dreams, no feeling that I could be happy with him. It wouldn't work.

I have no romantic prospects. None. And it feels pretty great.

We go toward the conference room. I'm just a woman walking down the hall. Happy by herself, fine with the buzzing inner world she would rather keep to herself. I look back at Tarken, who's chatting up everyone around him like he was born in a litter of women.

The woman of Tarken's dreams is probably a more laid-back kind of girl. Like Darcy, she jumps on a plane to Fiji and laughs uproariously amid the rollicking waves. She gets trashed doing tequila shots, loves exotic shellfish, and glides down the street in skyscraper heels. Her leopard-spotted bikini—she has several—comes off at a moment's notice. When she tans on his yacht, she doesn't think about seasickness or the fact that out in the middle of the ocean,
there is no escape
.
Titanic
and
Jaws
didn't traumatize her one bit. Waxing is her middle name, too. In fact, female maintenance is a priority for her. She has fabulous eyebrows and eats lots of fresh vegetables, referring to them as “veggies.” She might read one of the books I edit, but this is all we have in common—except I'd probably enjoy her company and adventuresome spirit.

I wouldn't even want to be Tarken's type. The idea of learning from him and his imaginary girlfriend excites me more. So here goes. I will soak up any new knowledge.

We talk for at least an hour—his entourage, my colleagues, back and forth with a lot of laughter. I forget to be nervous, which is to Tarken's credit. He is educated, too, which is a nice surprise, along with charming and funny. My neuroses drift under the crack of the closed door and I just smile.
You are not my future boyfriend. That's okay.
I tried wearing a bikini once. Maybe I will again, but now I want my cheeseburgers.

The meeting adjourns and I walk with the group toward the exit. My day goes by normally after this. I keep remembering the gist of his project, which is to put your best foot forward (and your boobs). Even though I don't wind up working on the book, I keep the lessons with me.