Skinnydipping (27 page)

“Oh my God, my mouth is watering. I’m starving,” said my friend
Jennifer, putting her napkin in her lap in anticipation. “So, what’s the occasion?”

Victoria looked at me. “Tell them!” she said.

“Let’s drink our champagne first,” I said mysteriously.

“Victoria knows?” said Jennifer. “Then why don’t we know?”

“I haven’t decided about something yet,” I said. “Can we talk about something else?”

“No!” they said. They all looked at me expectantly. Victoria looked like she would burst.

“OK, listen, this is totally confidential and you can’t tell
anyone
,” I said at last, leaning in. “It’s just that I’ve been offered a role on a new television show … a reality show … starring … Sybil Hunter,” I said.

“No. Way.” Jennifer stared at me. “I love her morning show! I watch it every day when I’m getting ready for work!” Ovation was Jennifer’s favorite network. She was the only reason I’d ever heard anything about the channel. “Wait … I read an article in her magazine about a reality show she was developing. You’re going to be on …
Domestic Goddess?
!”

“Well … I haven’t exactly said yes yet. But I think I will.”

Samantha, my old college roommate I’d reconnected with, rolled her eyes. “Really, Faith? Have you ever seen those shows? They’re horrible!” she said.

“No, they’re not, they’re awesome!” Jennifer said.

“But the people on them … do you want Faith to be one of those people?”

“I think she can handle herself,” Jennifer said. “And what great exposure! Sybil Hunter is everywhere.” She imitated the announcer’s voice: “You love her recipes. You love her products. You envy the way she can throw a party. Nobody knows how to celebrate a holiday or create an empire like she does. Sybil will make your day better—you can count on it!”

“I know, they play that constantly,” said Victoria, who had a TV in her salon. “I love all the shots of Sybil. Sybil beating cake batter
by hand, Sybil kneading dough, Sybil decorating cookies, Sybil arranging flowers, Sybil in her craft studio, Sybil picking heirloom tomatoes, Sybil feeding her rare chickens, Sybil grooming her lovable Newfoundland.” Victoria stuck her finger in her mouth, a simulated gagging.

“Don’t mock my idol!” I demanded. “That’s not fair. Feeding chickens is the least of what she does. Sybil Hunter is an icon. She makes the best products I’ve ever used. Her recipes are perfect. She’s one of the first female self-made billionaires in this country. No woman has ever done what she’s done, in business or for the domestic arts!”

“Did you just say ‘domestic arts’? Who are you?” said Jennifer.

“She’s a muffin baker, of course she loves Sybil Hunter,” said Victoria.

“And I’m not ashamed!” I proclaimed. “She
is
a domestic goddess,
and
a mogul. And I’m going to be one, too.”

“Whatever, Faith. You live in a closet on the Upper East Side. Where are you going to put your chickens?” Victoria said. “Where are you going to keep your collection of antique rolling pins? Are you going to wear those heels when you weed your heirloom tomatoes?”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing. “Just you wait and see. Sybil’s as much if not more of a businesswoman than anything. She can cook and arrange flowers but she can also run a board meeting, design a killer ad campaign, and build a billion-dollar company.”

“Does that mean you’re actually going to say yes to this?” asked Samantha, looking horrified. “You’re actually going to be on a reality TV show? Are you sure you want to do that?”

“You know …” I said, thoughtfully. “I just might.”

“Well, if you do it, then don’t lose yourself,” Samantha advised. “They want you because of who you are. Don’t become one of those reality TV clones. Separate from the pack.”

“First muffins, then the world!” Victoria said, holding up her champagne glass. We all toasted. “By the way,” she said, after taking a sip, “did you end up having any leftovers from the show? I fucking
love
those muffins.”

“We ran out before the end of the show. We were definitely a crowd favorite,” I said with pride.

When the food came, we devoured it like any respectable group of famished and champagne-fueled women would, leaving only a pile of mussel shells and a couple of fries. “We are
not
getting dessert,” Victoria decided. “We’ve got to go dance this off.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But first, let’s have a game plan. I’m thinking that getting this show is a sign.”

Victoria rolled her eyes. “Here we go,” she said.

“I’m serious. None of you would describe my love life as particularly, well …”

“Lucky?” Samantha suggested.

“Functional?” offered Jennifer.

“Sane?” said Victoria.

“Successful,”
I decided.

They all nodded.

“Well, I think what’s been going on with me is that I keep looking for a man to save me. But Sybil Hunter definitely does
not
have a man, right?”

“Not anymore,” said Victoria. “Not since her husband died.”

“And she had her greatest success after that happened,” I said, “the point being that I think my getting this show is a sign that I need to stop looking for men to save me. I need to save myself.”

“Why not?” Victoria said. “You always end up dumping the men who want you anyway. Maybe you should give it a rest.”

“Exactly. So, I’m just proclaiming to you that I am
not
going to this club tonight to look for a man. I’m through with them. Through!”

“Where have I heard this before?” Jennifer said.

“No, I’m serious this time!” I said. “We’re going to Spring Seven, to see and be seen, to dance, to have girls’ night. No boys allowed. Are you with me?”

“Sure,” said Victoria.

“I’m in,” said Jennifer. “Unless I meet somebody.”

Everybody else nodded their assent, with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
We split the bill—I chipped in the very last of my cash—and after a stop in the restroom to refresh lipstick and arrange hair and check wardrobe, we all maneuvered in our heels over the cobblestones on Little West Twelfth Street to the club. Spring Seven was just around the corner from Pastis, in the heart of the meatpacking district. I wasn’t worried whether we’d get in. Victoria used to date the bouncer, and we all looked hot, even if we were older than the average crowd there. We walked to the front of the line and the bouncer winked at Victoria and let us in.

The club was packed for a Tuesday, full of its usual beautiful people. My friends voraciously and blatantly eyed every good-looking guy we passed on the way in, but I didn’t. I was so over that. I certainly didn’t have time to invest in another good-looking guy with too much money and no personality, or vice versa. It was time to focus on
me.

“Let’s get a drink!” I yelled over the booming music, and pointed to the bar. We all moved through the crowd up to the bar. I paused. I really wanted something sweet and girly and fun, but I decided to be good. I ordered a raspberry vodka with a lime wedge. We toasted Sybil Hunter and then we all headed out to the dance floor.

When girls dance together in a little cluster on the dance floor of a hot club, men are going to try to get in on the action. Within thirty seconds, half our group was bumping and grinding with whoever had moved in on them. Victoria was trying to choose between two arty-looking guys vying for her attention. I shut my eyes. I didn’t even want to see who might be trying to dance with me. I just wanted to dance, by myself, to release this beautiful surge of energy I was feeling—a surge of my own power. Then I backed into somebody.

I turned around and found myself face to face with a tall, athletic-looking man with wavy hair and blue eyes that seemed to look right into my soul. I swallowed, then in the haughtiest voice I could summon, I said, “
Excuse me.
Trying to dance here.”

He grinned. I couldn’t help noticing his adorable dimples. “Wow. Cold. It’s like a meat locker in here. Can I get you a sweater? A parka? Mukluks?”

I smiled, in spite of myself. “I won’t be cold much longer if you keep sweating me,” I said. Was I already flirting with someone? I was beyond help.

“Pardon me, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat and backed off, but he didn’t stop looking at me with that funny little grin and those blue eyes. I had to admit, I was intrigued. Guiltily, I remembered my resolve.
You’re not interested
, I reminded myself.

I looked around. Jennifer was draped over the guy she’d been dancing with, and Victoria had obviously picked the more punk-rock of her two suitors. I felt my resolve weakening. He was still looking at me. I started subtly grooving toward him, and he quickly cut the distance between us. We were both smiling, and it was the strangest feeling—almost a recognition. “Do I know you?” I said.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Faith.”

He put his hand over his heart. “I love that name. And I have it.”

“You have what?”

“Faith,” he said.

“Really. Well, you don’t have me.”

“Not yet,” he said, moving in rhythm to the music with his eyes locked onto mine. I could feel the heat between us.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Harris.”

“Nice to meet you, Harris,” I said, holding out my hand, and looking him up and down. “You’re pretty cute.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he said, taking my hand in his, then twirling me around, probably so he could get a better look at me.

I waited for him to return the compliment. He didn’t. I was even more intrigued. We really started dancing, moving together in a perfect rhythm. It felt disconcertingly natural, sexy, harmonious. Our faces were inches apart as the song ended.

“Harris!” We both moved quickly away from each other at the sound of his name, like teenagers caught making out in a car. Over his shoulder, I saw an indignant-looking girl with long blonde hair and
a teeny black dress. “What are you doing? I’ve been looking all over for you!”

I raised my eyebrows at him. He looked embarrassed. “I’ve been out here the whole time,” he said to the girl, obviously irritated. He looked back and forth between her and me, as if he were comparing us. I think I held up pretty well, although her skirt was at least three inches shorter than mine. She grabbed his arm. “C’mon, let’s go over here,” she said, giving me a dark look. As she pulled him away, he looked back over his shoulder at me, grinned, and shrugged.

“Player,” I muttered. I joined my friends at the bar, ordered another raspberry vodka, and distractedly listened to Victoria and my other friends point out cute guys in the club. But I was replaying the dance with Harris in my head, trying to figure out what just happened. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Hey.” It was him. And his grin. And his beautiful eyes.

“Hey, yourself,” I said.

“Would you like to finish our dance?”

I looked over his shoulder. “Are you allowed?” I said. “Or will your babysitter tell you it’s time to go home?”

He rolled his eyes. “That girl? I just met her tonight. I was working that angle—until I found a more interesting one.” He gave me a sly, suggestive look. He was irresistible, player or not. I checked my sleaze meter. Nothing.

“Well … since we never finished the dance …”

He took my hand and led me away. I looked back at my friends, a silent apology for breaking my vow so easily.

We danced without stopping for the next hour, until we were both sweating. “I need another drink,” I said. We went to the bar and he ordered me a raspberry vodka. “How did you know what I was drinking?” I said.

“Actually, I noticed you before, when you came in. I saw that’s what you ordered. I was standing right next to you at the bar.”

“Really?” What was wrong with my radar, that I hadn’t immediately picked up on him? “Well, now what I really want is a margarita.”
I was buzzed enough that I’d stopped caring about my waistline. “I’m through being virtuous.”

“Your mother would be proud,” he said.

“Oh no she wouldn’t,” I said. “And don’t get me started on my mother.”

“I won’t get you started on yours if you don’t get me started on mine,” he said.

“Agreed,” I said. “So what do you do?”

“I’m one of those despicable lawyers.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” I said.

“I appreciate it,” he said. “Hey, you want to go sit down?”

We ducked into a dark booth with our drinks, and he put his arm around me, as if we’d been together for years. Our intimacy was instant. I told him all about my muffin business, and he told me about the firm where he worked. He was an only child, and so was I. Beyond that, we didn’t talk about our families—I didn’t want to go there, and apparently neither did he. “I’m so tired of this scene,” he told me. “I hardly ever go to clubs anymore. I just came tonight for a friend’s birthday.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I don’t do it much anymore, either. It’s not like you ever meet anybody good at a club.”