Romantically Challenged (8 page)

“You think I went out and bought a bra and wrote your name and number in it? Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know. You tell me. Maybe you’re crazy. Or maybe it’s the only way you can get a date.”

“I have no problem getting dates.”

That I believed.

“Why don’t you just admit that it’s yours?”

I hated conceding, but I was cornered. “Okay, even if I assume you’re not lying and this really is my bra, why would I have given it to you?”

“To prove to me that you could take your bra off without removing your dress first. You told me you could do it, but I didn’t believe you, so we bet on it. I lost.”

That did sound like something I might do after four or five martinis.

“I was really impressed,” he continued. “I’d never seen anyone do that before. Do you want me to show you how you did it?”

“No.” I knew how it was done. “Assuming you’re not making all this up, what happened next?”

“I paid up and bought you two more drinks. Then I went into the stock room to clean up before closing. When I came back, you were sprawled across the bar sound asleep.”

That definitely sounded like me.

“I tried to wake you, but you were out for the night. I ended up carrying you up to your room.”

“You carried me?”

“At first I just tried to help you walk on your own, but you kept falling down. Eventually I gave up and carried you the rest of the way.”

“How did you know what room I was in?” I was still hoping I could catch him in a lie to prove that he was making all this up.

“You charged your drinks to your room, counselor. The room number was on the receipt.”

Damn. “So what happened when you brought me upstairs?” I didn’t really want to know, but at this point I had to.

“What do you think happened?” He flashed me a wicked grin. 

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice rising. “That’s why I’m asking.” It’s hard to remain calm when you’re being humiliated.

“I was a perfect gentleman. I just laid you down on the bed and left.”

I gave him a look that told him I didn’t believe him. I knew how I got when I’d had a few drinks. I wouldn’t have wanted him to leave.

“I swear,” he said and held up his right hand. “I didn’t even peek.”

 “So when did I give you my bra?”

“You didn’t exactly give it to me. It was more like you left it for me. I found it under your barstool the next day. I tried to return it, but you’d already checked out.”

“And when did I write my name and number in it?”

“That I don’t know. Maybe when I was in the stock room. All I can tell you for certain is that it had to be some point before you passed out.”

The waitress who’d been hovering for the last ten minutes came to the table and asked for our order. Joe asked her to give us another minute then opened his menu.

“What looks good?” he asked.

All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. Fast. I looked at my watch. “I think I may have to cut this short.”

“C’mon, you need to eat.”

“My stomach’s upset,” I said, and it gurgled as if on cue. “Whatever I eat now will just make me feel worse.” I stuffed the bra and the smaller bags into the shopping bag and pulled out my wallet. I found a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table. “You stay and eat. Lunch is on me.”

“Don’t do this,” he said and tried to stuff the twenty in my purse.

I threw it back on the table. “It’s my way of saying thank you for carrying me up to my room.” I slid out of the booth and held up the shopping bag. “And for returning my bra.”

I walked out of the restaurant and practically ran to the valet stand. I was determined not to burst into tears until I was alone in my car. I heard Joe calling me, but I ignored him and handed the valet my ticket.

“Julie, wait.” He was standing next to me. He no longer looked so attractive.

“Joe, I really need to get back to the office. I have a conference call this afternoon, and a meeting with my boss before that, and I really just need to go.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you. I honestly thought the whole thing was funny and I thought you would think so to.”

“It was. But I need to leave.” It was getting harder not to cry with him standing next to me.

“If you don’t want to eat, then let’s take a walk. We can go down to the pier and play video games and forget this ever happened.”

I saw my silver sedan round the corner. “Goodbye, Joe,” was all I said before I sped away. I waited until I passed two stop lights before I allowed the tears to roll down my cheeks.  

I could picture the scene in my head. It played over and over again like a video in an endless loop. I desperately wanted to shut the machine, but I couldn’t. Each time the track ended, it replayed itself.

I’d passed out in the hotel bar, my butt still planted on the barstool, my head and arms sprawled out in front of me. Joe walks in and sees me. He calls my name, but I don’t answer. He shakes my shoulders, but he can’t rouse me. He slaps my face (gently, he’s not one of those guys that beats up on women) to try to wake me, but without success. He realizes the inevitable.

He pries me off the bar stool and cradles me in his arms. He carries me out to the elevators, staggering under the weight of both me and my bridesmaid dress. He makes it to the elevators, but just barely. He leans against the wall for support until the car arrives. When the door opens, he steps in and falls to his knees, dropping me on the floor. He pushes the button for the ninth floor. He thanks God for the elevator.

When the car stops at my floor he realizes that there’s no way he can make it to the end of the hall with me in his arms. He curses me for having a room so far from the elevators, then picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. When he reaches Room 923 he pulls my matching teal purse out of his jacket pocket with his right hand, balancing me on his shoulder with his left. He fumbles, but eventually finds the key. He swipes the key card and pushes the door open.

He walks inside and flips me onto the bed. I fall onto the blue and gold flowered spread with my arms outstretched, one leg falling to the floor. He pushes the fallen leg onto the bed, then notices the drool dribbling down the side of my face. “Why me?” he mumbles to himself before slamming the door shut behind him and heading back to the elevators.   

I could never face this man again.

Postmortem

Simone was walking towards the escalators when I pulled into the parking garage. When she spotted me, she stopped and waited for me to catch up.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.” I thought I’d fixed my makeup in the rearview mirror. Apparently not. Someday I’d remember to buy waterproof mascara.

“I’m serious. What happened?”

“Nothing.” She looked doubtful. “Really. It just didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.” My voice cracked and the tears started flowing again. We rode the escalator from the garage to the lobby, then I headed towards the elevator bank marked floors twenty-one through thirty-five.

“You’re not going to the office looking like that,” she said.

“What am I supposed to do? Take the rest of the day off?”

“That’s a great idea. Maybe I’ll join you.”

I smiled for the first time since I’d left Joe. “Rosenthal would love that.”

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse. “Massage or facial? I have a twenty percent off coupon for the spa at the Century City Hotel.”
It sounded like heaven but, “I can’t. I have a meeting with Rosenthal at two-thirty and a conference call at three.”

“So cancel. Tell him you’re sick.”

I shook my head. “He knows I had a lunch date. He’d probably just think I got lucky and I’m off somewhere getting laid.”
“Not a chance. We all know how virginal you are.”

“Thanks, Simone.” She had a lot of admirable qualities, but compassion wasn’t one of them.

She looked at her watch. “It’s only two o’clock. Take a walk with me and I’ll buy you a chamomile tea.”

“I hate tea.”

“Then I’ll buy you a cup of coffee!”

Simone led me to the Coffee Bean in the lobby of our building, and ordered two vanilla lattes and a giant chocolate chip cookie. We sat down at a table for two with our sugar and steaming cups. I spilled my guts and Simone laughed out loud.

“You are totally overreacting.”

“No, I’m not. I was completely humiliated.”

“Some day you’re going to look back on this and laugh,” which just started her on another wave of giggles.

I told her I doubted it, but she was laughing so hard she didn’t hear me.

“Are you going to see him again?” she asked when her laughing fit had finally subsided.

“Did you listen to a word I said? That was the most humiliating experience of my life.” A slight exaggeration, but I was on a roll. “Every time I see him I will have to relive that nightmare. No, I’m definitely not seeing him again.”

“We’ll see.” She looked at her watch. “C’mon, let’s go fix your makeup. You don’t want to go upstairs looking like that. You know how nosy Rosenthal is. Although I’m sure he would get a kick out of this one.” This launched her into a whole new cycle of hysterics.

I kept telling Simone it wasn’t funny, but that just made her laugh harder. By the time we reached the thirty-second floor, even I was giggling.

* * *

I sank into Rosenthal’s black leather couch. He had the corner suite with views of both the mountains and the city.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied for both our benefits. I was sure he didn’t really care, nor did I want to tell him. “How was yours?”

Rosenthal proceeded to bore me with every minute detail of his lunch hour. I nodded and occasionally commented just so he would think I was listening. After the lunch story, Rosenthal opined about lawyer-client relationships, the qualities needed for a successful television show, and the prospects for the Lakers in the upcoming season. There is no area in which Rosenthal does not consider himself an expert.

At five minutes to three, Rosenthal finally filled me in on the Rosebud Productions case. At three o’clock, he called Mark Parsons, Rosebud’s general counsel.

Mark’s voice boomed through the speaker phone. “Julie,” he asked, “has Bruce brought you up to speed?”

“I think so,” I said. “One of your production executives fired his assistant and she’s claiming sexual harassment.”

“You’ve got the facts right, but the genders wrong. The executive is Rita Levin and her former assistant is Jared Kinelli.”

“That’s a new twist.”

“Unfortunately, not for Rita. She was involved in a similar suit when she worked at Worldwide. It settled out of court.”

“Confidentially, I hope.”

“Yes, but not before a complaint was filed, so its all public record.”

Not good. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come in and interview Ms. Levin.” It was always best to get the facts in person. Besides, it was a good excuse to get out of the office for a few hours.

“I’ll have her assistant call you to set up a meeting.”

“She has a new assistant already?”

“He’s a temp.”

* * *

This case didn’t sound particularly exciting, but a new case I could throw myself into was just what I needed to forget about my date with Joe. I went back to my office and checked my voice mail. The first message was from my mother wanting to know if I was still alive. The second was from Kaitlyn wanting to know about the date. And the third was from Joe: “I just wanted to say again that I’m really sorry about this afternoon. I’d love to make it up to you. No surprises this time. I promise. Call me.”

I called my mother back first, before I forgot again. Luckily she wasn’t home, so I got away with just leaving a message that I’d talk to her over the weekend. Although that might seem like I merely put off the inevitable one more week, I’d actually accomplished something. My parents and I normally spoke once a week. By pushing off the conversation to the following weekend, I’d reduced the number of  “When are you going to get married/You’re not getting any younger you know” phone calls per year from fifty-two (plus birthdays) to fifty-one (plus birthdays). When it comes to preserving sanity, every little bit helps.

Next I returned Kaitlyn’s call.

“I can’t believe you waited this long to call me back,” Kaitlyn shouted into the phone.

“I had a meeting right after lunch,” I said in my defense. “I do have to do some work you know.”

“All right, stop your whining and just tell me who he is already.”

I told her the whole story.

“Look at it this way,” Kaitlyn said, “at least you got your bra back.”

Only Kaitlyn could find the upside in that date.

“So when are you gonna call him back?”

“I’m not calling him back. He completely humiliated me.” Why did no one understand this?

“Perhaps wrapping your bra up like a present and giving it to you in the middle of a restaurant wasn’t the best idea he ever had, but he apologized. Besides, you have to call him back. There are too many unanswered questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as does he live in Los Angeles? If you’re assuming he does, then why was he bartending in New Jersey? If not, then what’s he doing in L.A.?”

Good points, but not worth calling him back for. “I think he lives here. When I told him where to meet for lunch he didn’t ask for directions.”

“That doesn’t mean anything—guys never ask for directions. You also forgot to get his work story.”

That answer I already knew. “I’m sure he’s a wannabe. He’s good-looking, so he’s probably an actor. They’re the worst. Although he’s smart, so he could be a writer too.”

“What if he’s just a bartender?”

“Nobody in L.A. is just a bartender. They’re all wannabe somethings.”

“He could be the exception to the rule. The one bartender who’s just a bartender.”

“Then that’s just as bad.”

“Why?”

I couldn’t believe I had to explain this. “Bartenders aren’t husband material. Besides the fact that they work nights and weekends, the only time I’m free, what would I do with a bartender at all those ridiculous lawyer functions I have to go to?”