Bad Boy (10 page)

“Honey, you can’t go on like this,” Tracie said as she sat down at the table. Laura pulled a small dish from the oven. On it was a tiny bit of bread smeared with something and decorated artfully with a few leaves.

“Have a cheese savory,” said Laura cheerfully, ignoring Tracie completely. She was already drinking a glass of red wine and poured some out for Tracie. Tracie couldn’t resist, but she knew she’d hate herself in the morning. It was funny
‌
—after only a few days, the two of them were acting like a long-married couple.

“Laura, this is impossible,” she said as she popped the savory into her mouth. Then she couldn’t do anything except make animal noises because it was so delicious. All thoughts of dieting left her head. “Can’t we have these for dinner?” she asked. Laura laughed. “Don’t worry. Everything is that good.”

Laura was telling the truth. Tracie only came back to her senses after the flan that her guest had made for dessert. Only then
‌
—replete with food and guilt
‌
—did she begin to shake her head. “We’re getting fat. I can’t take this rich food every night.”

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“Don’t be silly,” Laura said in her best Julia Child imitation. “What’s rich about a little sour cream and truffles and foie gras and cheese?” She winked. “It’s not like I’m baking farm cakes.” But she might as well be. Laura’s cooking was rich.

With some difficulty, Tracie got up from the table and dragged herself over to the sofa. She was stuffed. “Okay,” she said. “That was it. I’m locking up the pans and from now on we’re spending our lunchtimes at the gym.”

“I am not friendly enough with gymnasiums to call them by their first names,” Laura sniffed. “I don’t
do
gymnasiums.”

“You didn’t do them in Sacramento. You
do
do them here,” Tracie told her. “And you are way too talented not to be cooking. You’ve got to go out and find some catering jobs. Better yet, get a job as a chef. You always wanted to do that.”

“Hey, babe, you’re not doing your transformation on
me
,” Laura said. “You’re doing one on Jon, and even that’s not a good idea. It’ll end in tears, as my mother used to say.”

“Your mother used to tell you sex felt bad,” Tracie said as she attempted to find the place where her waistline had been only a few days before. Now it wasn’t just the top button but the entire zipper of her slacks that had to be loosened. “Jon
asked
me to do this.”

“Yeah? Well don’t you see that every single thing you’re going to do will be a criticism of him? At some point, he’s really going to resent it. Maybe my mother lied, but there’s an old
_p. 95
Chinese saying: Why does he hate me so? I never did anything for him. That’s based on truth.”

“Don’t be silly,” Tracie said. “Jon will be grateful for anything I do to help him.”

“Mmm? Remember when you used to try to do diet consulting for me?”

“You didn’t ask me to! And I stopped!”

“Look,” Laura explained, “if Jon doesn’t resent it,
Phil
is going to start to. Too much attention paid to someone else.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tracie asked, then wondered if Phil would drop by that night, as he said he might. “Phil doesn’t notice anything I do. I’d
like
it if he was jealous.”

“We shall see,” Laura told her, and blinked like an owl. Tracie hated it when she acted wise.

“We shall see. And maybe we won’t. But we will be at the gym,” Tracie told her. “Beth and some of the girls from work go there three days a week. So are we.” She got up and put her arm on Laura’s much higher shoulder. “You’re gonna look great on the StairMaster,” Tracie predicted.

Seventies music blared in the background of Simon’s Gym. A roomful of women were working the circuit. “Susan went out with a guy, and when they started making out, she found out he was wearing a toupee,” Sara, one of the junior reporters at the
Times,
said.

“That’s a pucker,” Beth answered.

“What’s a pucker?” Tracie asked, sitting at the rowing machine, her head bent between
_p. 96
her knees. She was so tired, she thought she might puke.

“It’s the female equivalent of a wilt,” Sara explained. She held her finger up and indicated the loss of an erection. “So accountants are a pucker.”

“What else?” Tracie asked, still breathing heavily.

“Shoe salesmen,” Laura offered from the StairMaster, raising her left knee to her waist. The seventies album continued, “Let’s all celebrate and have a good time.”

“Brokers
‌
—stock or real estate. And security guards,” Sara chimed in while doing a warm-up side stretch to the left.

“Did you ever date a security guard?” Laura asked Sara.

“As if,” Sara said as she side-stretched to the right.

“Oh, computer guys,” Beth added as she changed the weights on the new device she was about to mount. It looked frightening and maybe sexual. “Seattle is full of them. They’re a bore. For some reason, they think you really care about their serial ports.” The music stopped for a minute and so did all the women. Then Kool & the Gang started in.

Sara grabbed a sweat towel and wiped off her brow. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Mothers always try to set you up with guys in the computer industry. But they’re like lepers. I think they all ought to be forced to wear bells around their necks and yell ‘Unclean, unclean’ when they come at you.”

_p. 97
“Mothers?” Tracie asked, remembering her article and wincing.

“No. Geeks,” Sara explained. “Unless, of course, they’re vested.” Sara never quite got another person’s joke, but she was sweet. Laura, who only liked sweet pastries, rolled her eyes. “I’m not into marrying for money, but I heard Allison talking, and she knows exactly how much every stock is worth. She said she’s looking for some guy who’s floated his own IPO, whatever that is.”

“Allison,” Tracie said dismissively. “As if a rich man would look at her.”

“You don’t think Allison’s beautiful?” Sara asked.

“Nah,” Tracie said. “She looks too much like Sharon Stone, but with a better ass.”

“Hey, girls, speaking of asses,” called Beth. “It’s bicycle time.”

“No, let’s do the treadmill first.”

“Let’s eat lunch first,” Sara suggested. “I’m starved.”

“How about naptime first?” Laura asked, wiping the sweat off her upper lip.

They moved past the line of stationary bikes. The four of them each stepped onto a treadmill, punched in numbers, and started to walk. “So we know what we don’t like, but what is it about challenging boys we do like? Why are we addicted to difficult men?” Tracie asked.

“They’re such a big challenge,” Sara said. “There’re loads of them at the
Times.
”

They were stepping in sync and their arms
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swung. “Yeah. It isn’t easy to get a bad boy to love you, but you feel like if they did, it would really be an accomplishment,” Beth added.

“I think they appeal to our maternal instinct,” Laura responded.

“Get outta town!” Sara and Beth answered at the same time.

Tracie wished she had her Post-its.

“No. Listen,” Laura continued. “It’s like we get to practice on them. You know, they need attention like an infant.”

“I think it’s because they’re easy,” Beth said.

“Boy, are they
not
easy,” Sara added.

“But they are in a way,” Beth asserted. “You never get really close to them, so you never have to test your own ability to love.”

All of them stopped, silent. For a moment, none of them wanted to meet one another’s eyes. Even Tracie, the reporter, felt uncomfortable.

They all dismounted the treadmills and proceeded to the bicycles.

They were late getting back to the office from the gym. Beth was gathering her papers in a frenzy while also trying to brush her hair. Tracie entered her cubicle area. “Come on, you’ll be late. Your hair looks fine. And Marcus will ignore you anyway.”

“I just hate these meetings.”

“Everyone does. But today I’m going to beard the lion in his den. I’ve got a really great feature idea.”

_p. 99
Beth looked at her doubtfully as she exited her office and Tracie followed her down the hall. “You’re crazy. Why discuss it in front of everyone and let him humiliate you?”

“Because I think I can get support from everyone. This is a really good idea. Funny. Cute.”

“And we all know how Marcus loves funny and cute.”

As the door to the conference room opened, Tracie could see that the meeting had been in progress for a while. She turned and shot Beth a look to tell her they were screwed. As she took her seat, she tried not to make eye contact with Marcus. He sat at the head of the table, an unlit cigarette jiggling in the corner of his mouth as he talked. “Nice of you to join us, ladies. Beth, did you get your piece on the new mayor finished?”

“Not quite, but I can get it in tomorrow.”

“It better be good.” He turned his attention to Tracie. “As for you, I want a feature on Memorial Day.” Tracie tried not to show her excitement. It was the only holiday she cared about. She’d been hoping for this, and she had even planned to do some interviews with World War II veterans. She tried, though, not to show any enthusiasm. Marcus kept going around the table. “As for you, Tim, I’d like the indoor picnic story by Friday. And Sara, you get the author interview. I think this week Susann Baker Edmonds is in town,” Marcus added, yawning.

Sara huffed as Allison tried getting Marcus’s
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attention by flinging back her perfect blond mane. “Uh, Marcus? I thought I could cover the Radiohead concert.”

“Forget it. You just want to sleep with them,” Marcus said nonchalantly. “Well, if there aren’t any more ideas or pitches, class is dismissed.” He stood up.

“Actually, I have an
‌
—”

“Ah, the lovely Miss Higgins. Last Moment Higgins?” Marcus asked, and walked up behind Tracie.

“I’m sorry,” Tracie said.

“I’m Sorry Higgins. I. S. Higgins. Don’t Edit Me Higgins. Yes?” He put his hands on her shoulders.

She hated it when he did that. Though she really didn’t like making eye contact with him, either. “I have this idea for a . . . well, for a makeover piece.”

“What? Like those women’s magazines do? The beauteous Allison tried to thrust one of those at me, and even
she
couldn’t get me to bite . . .” He must have smiled at Allison, because she had a look on her face that was like a child being noticed by her daddy. “Although I was very tempted. But not by the story. But as for you, Miss Higgins, the answer is no.”

“Wait,” Tracie snapped back, then twisted around in her chair to look at him. “I thought we could do it a little differently. I thought, well, there are so many computer nerds with money here that we could do a man
‌
—I mean watch a man get made over from a nerd to, you know, someone like you.”

_p. 101
“Miserable and alcoholic,” Tim murmured under his breath.

Marcus shot him a harsh glance. “I heard that.” He looked down at Tracie. “What do you really mean, Tracie?”

She swallowed hard. “You know, sort of a spoof on those girlie makeovers. But also a real service article. Where a doofus could get a cool haircut, hip clothes. The dorky restaurants to avoid and the cool ones to go to. We could take a person and do a real
Pilgrim’s Progress
.”

“Could be cute. But how would you find someone who would agree to do it?”

“It would make the guy look like a real meat loaf,” Tim said, sharing his opinion with the group.

“That makes you a candidate,” Marcus shot back at him as he went to the door to leave. He paused and turned back to the table. “But that reminds me of something. It’s time we did a survey piece about the best meat loaf in Seattle. Tracie, you take it.” Marcus looked at Tracie. “I want a big piece with a lot of local places described in a positive way.”

Tracie couldn’t believe it. “And do they all win for best meat loaf?” she asked. “We wouldn’t want to make any of our advertisers mad.”

Marcus didn’t even blink. “Only one winner, but a lot of four-star meat loaves. And Allison, could I see you in my office?” He pulled the door handle and slid out of the room.

_p. 102
Jon was straightening up, getting rid of the takeout containers, pizza boxes, and back issues of computer magazines he had piled up. In his vast living room, there was a dusty but complete home gym, a fabulous entertainment system, half a dozen computers, and a small sofa. Once he got his new laptop, he’d finally unhook all of these. The doorbell rang and he looked down at his wrist, then realized there was no watch. Was it seven already? He looked up at one of the computer consoles. It was 7:20. He chucked the boxes in his arms into the hall closet and went to the sofa and picked up the rest of the magazines, threw them in the closet, too, and then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door. He slid the door open.

Tracie walked in, looked around, and hit her head with her hand. “Do you live here, or is this where you perform surgery? And the least you could do is listen to music instead of the business station KIRO. Did your stock fall or something?”

“I didn’t even hear that it was on,” Jon said. “What’s the matter?” he asked, unsuccessfully trying to keep the plaintive note out of his voice.

“I don’t have time to begin the list,” Tracie
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said. “It doesn’t matter, though. Rule Number Three: Never show them where you live.”
[rule3]

Jon pulled out a Wizard 2000 and started to enter Tracie’s wisdom into it. He’d already memoed himself on her other commandments. He was almost ready to keyboard it, when
‌
—

“Put that down!” Tracie told him.

“I’m just using it for notes,” he protested. Tracie took it from his hand and put it firmly on the aluminum coffee table.

“Not anymore.” She took off her jacket and handed it to him. He was about to hang it in the closet, but then he remembered the pizza boxes and thought better of it, smoothing the suede, folding it, and putting it over the back of the sofa. Tracie put down her bag, walked to the window, and turned around to face him. “So, back to Rule Number Three: Never show them where you live. No girl is going to come over here. It would ruin everything.”