See Jane Date (11 page)

“Uh, hello, Jane? This is Ben Larson, Jeff's friend. I wanted to confirm our date for Thursday. I just found out
that MOMA's open late this Thursday night for some anniversary celebration of something, so I thought we could meet at the information desk and check out the French Painters exhibit. How does that sound? If you'd rather do something else, I'm open to suggestions.”

Okay, Ben, here's a suggestion: Don't be a selfish cheapskate. Think you could handle that?

I was running out of Blind Date Excitement Energy. Two blind dates had sucked royally. Why would Ben Larson be any better? I couldn't even begin to imagine what fresh hell was in store for me at the Museum of Modern Art Thursday night. I grabbed my datebook and flipped to Thursday, June 4.
Ben Larson. Good-looking, super-smart. Brown curly hair, green eyes. Looks artsy. Works with Jeff.

Next message. “Hi Jane, it's me again, Ben Larson. I forgot to mention that I made reservations at a Japanese restaurant near the museum. Jeff mentioned you loved Japanese.”

Hmm. I most certainly did. Suddenly Ben Larson sounded better than he did a minute ago. Two bad apples didn't mean the whole bunch had worms. I had to remember that pearl of wisdom.

Ben Larson did not sound like a guy who'd belch or laugh when the first of three tortellini shells landed in his date's cleavage. He did not sound like a guy who'd analyze the financial difference between a carafe of wine and a bottle of wine. He did not sound like a guy who'd rather finish off that cheap wine than insist on seeing his date, suffering from a fake headache, safely to the subway.

I sat down on the futon and felt my face. The oatmeal was hardening nicely. Leaning my head back, I let the effects of the stress cure all and the strains of
O Patria
Mia
work their soothing magic. Ten minutes later, unable to move a muscle in my face, I headed into the bathroom to wipe off the mask. My face glowed shiny and new in the mirror.

That was what Ben Larson seemed like: shiny and new. A shiny and new possibility.

What was I moping around for? I had a great-sounding prospect for Thursday night. I had fresh-glowing skin. I was working on a high-profile manuscript for Posh. I had friends other than Amanda and Eloise.

I eyed my address book and the phone. A vision of the Miner twins, age seventeen, flashed into my mind. The three of us sitting in an arc in the Miner's living room, Lisa French-braiding my hair while I braided Lora's hair while Lora braided Lisa's hair. Natasha Nutley had come to school a few days prior with her hair in a French braid. The next day and for at least two weeks after, just about every girl with hair long enough had walked into Forest Hills High with a French braid.

I dropped back down on the futon, my shiny new skin a total waste. I had everything to mope about. I couldn't imagine calling Lisa or Lora and telling them the Fates of the universe were punishing me for some long-forgotten crime with the entrance of Natasha Nutley back into my life. I could hear myself complaining about her and could hear the silent condemnation in the Miners' voices. The
you're still carrying that around with you?
disdain. The
you're still single?
pity. The
what a loser you turned out to be
assessment. The
no wonder we didn't manage to keep in touch
judgment. And that would end my once-every-six months friendship with the Miner twins.

The phone rang. I figured it was Eloise, wanting a report on Andrew.

“Jane? Hi, it's Natasha!”

Did she know that it was 10:43 on a Tuesday night? Not 10:43 on a Tuesday
morning,
when normal business associates made phone calls regarding work. “Um, hi. What's up?”

“I'm sorry for calling so late, but I figured you'd be at the boyfriend's and I'd just be leaving a message.”

She figured that a lot.

“I'm so excited, I couldn't contain myself. Guess what I just finished?”

“The entire manuscript?” Easy, Jane.

She laughed. “Silly! Chapter One! I think it's really
there
now. I'm on such a roll, thanks to you. The minute I got your fax with the corrections and queries, I set right to work. Your points were so helpful, Jane. I spent all day revising and incorporating everything you said. I can't wait to get started on Chapter Two!”

“Great,” I said.

“Wow, it's no wonder you're an executive editor, Jane. You really know what you're talking about.”

She'd promoted me from senior editor to executive editor. I appreciated that. Along with, grudgingly, the praise she was heaping on me. Gwen always offered positive feedback with constructive criticism, but without her around this past month, I pretty much had to rely on myself for gold stars.

I didn't know how I felt about getting an “A” from Natasha Nutley. I wanted to be above giving two figs about her opinion. Once, during my junior year at Forest Hills High, she'd complimented my new ruffled chiffon blouse, which my mom had bought in duplicate for me and Dana. I'd sat through English feeling stylish and cool and elevated in the eyes of the girls who'd overheard. I'd worn that blouse on every (rare) date I had after that, and
whenever I woke up feeling ugly and boring. That had been the kind of stupid power Natasha Nutley had had over me.

“So, tomorrow I'll work on revising the outline for Chapters Two and Three, and I'll fax that back with the revised Chapter One, plus whatever I end up with on the draft of Chapter Two. Sound good?”

“Great. I appreciate the hard work, Natasha.”

“Well, it's all thanks to you!” she trilled. “Bye!”

I hung up, irritated at her generosity. The phone rang a second later.

“Hey, how'd it go?” Eloise asked. I could hear the television in the background.

“Are you watching
Annie Hall
again?” I asked. The unmistakable sound of Alvie Singer's voice was whining a monologue.

“Serge can't get enough of it,” she said. “Which gives me the perfect chance to hear all about Andrew. Think you'll see him again?”

“God, I hope not.”

“That bad?”

“Let's put it this way. The trendoid
thing
your hot dress went to turned out to be his nephew's thirteenth birthday party. I think they thought I was meant to jump out of the cake or something. But I just got a message from Thursday night's guy. Ben Larson. We're doing MOMA.”

“Ooh, sounds good,” she said. “El-weeze, you are missing best part!” came Serge's accented voice through the receiver.

I laughed. “I'll see you tomorrow, El-weeze.”

I had an entire day and night to recover from the effects of Blind Date #2. By Thursday night I'd surely have the
energy to make small talk about being an editor while strolling around an air-conditioned museum.

Right now I couldn't imagine summoning the energy to pound on the wall as the
oh
s started making their way through the plaster. I'd started out wanting a date for a wedding. A fake date, no less. But suddenly, it was turning personal. The worse the dates were, the more I wanted something to work out for real. That was so stupid! Two awful blind dates in a row didn't mean anything. There was a whole city full of good guys out there. My two best friends had good guys. My aunt Ina was married to a good guy. My dad had been a good guy. So why was I two for two on the bad-guy scale?

M
organ Morgan nodded, nodded again, then nodded. If she agreed with my comments on her two revision letters, I had no idea. She sat next to me in my guest chair, which was wedged between my desk and the wall. I had more important things to do on a Wednesday afternoon than deal with Morgan Squared if she wasn't even going to appreciate my help.

“And I would take out this last sentence,” I said, pointing at it with my pencil, “because it'll make the author think you really want to see his manuscript revised, when you really don't.”

Morgan eyed me, then drew her gaze back to her letter.

I took a sip of the horrible office coffee that Morgan made every day. “Better to write, ‘If you'd
like
to revise it, I would be pleased to take another look.' That gives the writer the tidbit of hope without outright saying
you
suggest he revises it.”

Morgan kept her brown eyes on the letters. She nodded again. “Thanks, Jaaane,” she said. “I'll be sure and tell Williaaam and Jeremy how helpful you were.”

She'd said that with the air of someone who believed that was all I was after. Actually, it wasn't. I'd been ordered to help her. And anyway, I liked being put in the role of “supervisor.” It made me feel as though I were worthy of offering my opinion around here.

I stole a peek at Morgan. She was studying my marks and changes, her suspicious eyes taking in everything. I had a moment of sympathy for her. She was so articulate and poised that I often forgot she was only twenty-two. Her nastiness was probably just insecurity. Because I was me, it was hard to even imagine that Morgan might be intimidated by me. She simply had her guard up, that was all. If I wanted to be nice, I
could
cut her a break. After all, wasn't that what we all wanted and needed?

“So, um, I'd be happy to look over the next letter you write,” I offered.

“Gwen didn't say you had to look at them all,” Morgan snapped. “I think it's perfectly clear that I know what I'm doing.” She snatched the letters from my desk. That was the last time I'd let down my own guard around Morgan.

Jeremy Black appeared in my doorway. I almost sucked in a breath. He was wearing black pants, a black dress shirt and a black tie. The slightest hint of five-o'clock shadow kissed his sculpted jawline. Those long, sooty eyelashes rose and fell, rose and fell as he blinked. I was eye level with his zipper.

Suddenly Jeremy was naked and sitting in my guest chair, leaning back the way he always did at editorial meetings…waiting for me—

“Jane?”

I blinked. Jeremy and Morgan were staring at me. “Um, what?”

“Good job on the Nutley back cover copy,” Jeremy praised, his gaze moving from the copy in his hand to me and back again. “I made some changes, and the last line could be stronger, more of a killer cliff-hanger. Play around with it and get it back to me tomorrow morning. And come up with a new list of title suggestions. They're okay, but not extended-list worthy.”

“Oh, um, thanks, I will,” I said to the light switch, which I focused on instead of his face.

“Great. Thanks.” And with that he disappeared.

Morgan stared at me. I stared back. She was giving me that
Look all you want, honey, but he'd never even
use
a Ms. Average like you
expression. Then she stood up, turned on her sensible one-and-a-half-inch heels and left.

Well, at least Jeremy liked my back cover copy, which I'd worked very hard on. Remke had marked up my first attempt with his signature scrawl. Lots of question marks and
so?
How helpful. A
so?
from Remke meant it didn't “say” anything. I read over Jeremy's comments on my revised version. I'd gotten one exclamation point, two
good
s and one question mark, plus a cross-out of the last line with a scrawled
Come up with something stronger
in the margin.

Morgan returned with a stack of paper-clipped papers, which she dropped in my in-box, and then she trotted off. The Gnat had faxed her revision of Chapter One and a scene-by-scene, blow-by-blow description of Chapters Two and Three. That was fast. Didn't the woman have anything else to do but write and think about her stupid life?

It was now three-twenty. I'd spent the morning finishing up a preliminary line-edit for Jeremy about a teena
ger's climb up Mount McKinley with his father. Since I'd had only the last two chapters to go, Jeremy had okayed my working on it. Both Jeremy and Remke were sure that the American public was sick to death of Everest and its boring big-deal summit. A smaller, more attainable mountain was refreshing, they'd said. Plus, the memoir focused on the boy's relationship with his domineering father. It was about how the mountain and the struggle to climb it dominated even the most controlling person. It was a total tearjerker. Personally, I didn't get why anyone would want to climb a mountain, Everest or otherwise. The whole thing was idiotic. You spent all that time and money to be cold and miserable with the very good chance that you wouldn't even reach the top.

Anyway, between photocopying the McKinley manuscript and reworking my back cover copy for the Gnat's book, I'd never be able to think up new titles and read her revised chapter and the outline for Chapters Two and Three. I'd have to bring the Gnat home with me. Again. Where was
my
sanctuary? I'd been looking forward to a night of pure relaxation and de-stressing between dates. So much for that. I'd be spending the night with the Gnat.

My phone rang. “Jane Gregg.”

“I expect to be called back when I leave you a message.”

Aunt Ina. Guilt socked me between the eyes. “I'm sorry, Aunt Ina. I got home late last night, and today's been crazy and—”

“I have news for you, Jane,” Aunt Ina snapped. “You're not the only person on this earth. Are you listening to me? Karen is nice enough to plan the shower, and you have to turn your sarcastic mouth on her?”

“I'm sorry, okay? She got me at a bad time. I'll apologize on Saturday.”

“That's right, you will,” Ina said. “What time are you coming? Karen's serving breakfast, so don't eat.”

“I was thinking of getting there at eleven-thirty.”

“The
meeting's
at eleven-thirty, Jane.” Deep sigh.

Now it was time for my own deep sigh. Silent, of course. “Eleven twenty-five?”

Aunt Ina breathed heavily. “I'll meet you in front of Karen's building at eleven-fifteen on the dot. Do you hear me?
Eleven-fifteen.
By the time we get buzzed in, walk to the elevator, wait for it, then ride up and walk down the hall. We'll be a few minutes early.”

I'd forgotten that early was fashionable in Forest Hills. “Okay, okay. Eleven-fifteen. See you then.”

“You're taking a car service, right?” Aunt Ina asked.

“Um, yeah,” I lied, mentally weighing the thirty-dollar car service tab against the dollar-fifty subway. I'd have to tell Ina that I'd gotten out of the cab on the corner to save money. She'd like that.

I hung up and did what I always did when super-busy and pressed for time. I checked my e-mail for personal messages from friends. There was a message from Natasha. I thought about skipping it, then remembered she was my ticket to a bigger office.

Hi, Jane! Just wanted to let you know that I faxed over the revision of Chapter One and the scene-by-scene for the next two chapters. Can't wait to hear what you think! I'd like to schedule another meeting with you for next Monday, after your editorial meeting, to go over the first draft of Chapter Two. If that's no good, just let me know. Talk to you soon!—Natasha.

I was sick and tired of the woman's exclamation points, energy and enthusiasm. Was I going to have to deal with her every Monday morning for the rest of my life? I sighed and closed her message and opened Amanda's.
So
I heard you and Andrew didn't have much chemistry. Oh well—because I also heard you're going out with Ben tomorrow night! He is so cute—you're definitely going to hit it off with him.

I wouldn't mind
hitting
Andrew. How dare he reject me before I got the chance to reject him! Didn't have much chemistry. Grr! Try he was totally cheap! Try he took a blind date to a kiddie party at his parents'! Jerk.

The Blind Date Excitement Energy had just plummeted from negative one to negative one hundred. How was I supposed to keep up this pace of serial dating when each date was sure to report the same lack of interest back to Jeff and Amanda? Ben Larson was cute? Big deal. They were all cute. What I was looking for at this point was
tolerable.
And just a tiny hint of attraction. On both our parts.

Ben Larson had become too important. I had a miserable feeling that he was my last shot at a date for Dana's wedding. There was no way in hell that Saturday night's date, a doctor, mind you—who also lived on the Upper West Side, though not in a brownstone—was going to work out. The Fates of the universe were not going to bless me—a woman who wouldn't visit her grammy often enough, was sarcastic to her cousin, and disappointed her aunt Ina on a regular basis—with a doctor who lived on the Upper West Side. Life just didn't work that way. I'd learned that a long time ago.

Doctor Guy was going to be an asshole. I knew it already. And my very last scheduled blind date next Tuesday couldn't possibly work, because it was the very last. Which meant that tomorrow night's stroll around the Museum of Modern Art was my only hope. And so far, I was 0 for 2. Not good.

I typed a message of my own to Amanda and Eloise:
How about a hometown FNRT? Big Sur, 80th & Third, same time.

This would be a departure from our usual routine. We usually tried to pick interesting places in varied neighborhoods, especially neighborhoods we had no reason to ever be in otherwise. Like Tribeca. Twice I'd spent over a week in the huge Supreme Court building on Centre Street for jury duty without ever knowing I
was
in Tribeca. The West Village was another unexplored neighborhood, except for the area right about NYU, where I'd taken two classes in the school of continuing education (I hadn't met a guy, of course). But I wasn't even so sure that NYU
was
in the West Village. Maybe it was just Greenwich Village. When it came to the island I'd lived on for the past six years, I was as knowledgeable as a tourist. I hoped Eloise and Amanda wouldn't mind a Flirt Night Roundtable in our own overly explored neighborhood. I doubted they would; secretly, I thought we'd all be quite content to stay a few blocks from home. It was just that no one wanted to admit that.

I packed the Gnat's revised chapter and outline into my tote bag, along with my disk of back cover copy and title suggestions. I'd surely have to give myself another oatmeal facial tonight; the Gnat's porno would have hives on my face by paragraph five. The McKinley manuscript in my arms, I headed down the hall to Jeremy's office to let him—or the window behind his head, more accurately—know that he'd have my preliminary edit in ten minutes.

“If the copier doesn't break down in the middle of it,” he joked, flashing that Pierce Brosnan smile at me for a half second.

I pictured Jeremy twirling me around for a slow dance at Dana's wedding, his Caribbean eyes focused on me in
my lovely peach dress. That image alone would keep me happy for the twenty minutes I'd have to stand in front of the photocopier and the twenty minutes I'd have to spend clearing the nonexistent paper jams from area F.

 

Thursday night, 5:40 p.m. I'd timed my arrival at the Museum of Modern Art twenty minutes too early. But, considering that it was a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity tonight, I was grateful for the extra time to duck into the bathroom to mop myself off and clean myself up. Posh was located only a few blocks and one avenue from MOMA, and I was already completely wilted. Not the way to arrive for a blind date with my only real wedding escort possibility.

Dry and freshly powered and lipsticked, I headed upstairs in the thankfully cold museum, my favorite in New York, by the way. I still had ten minutes to kill, so I figured I'd meander around the bookstore and gift shop and check out the posters.

As usual, the gift-bookshop was packed with people. The museum was even more crowded than usual tonight because of the special late hours. I couldn't tell the New Yorkers from the tourists. Everyone was wearing black, even in June. I headed down the steps to the poster shop and waited for three blondes to finish flipping their way down the line of oversize posters (the least crowded area at the moment), then I zoomed into place and began flipping myself. Maybe a huge poster would cover up the coating of smoke grime that I'd suddenly noticed on the walls last night. I'd needed a break from the Gnat's outline—which I'd been loath to admit was developing very well (how had she become a good writer?)—so I'd gone on a little cleaning frenzy in my apartment. I'd lifted a framed black-and-white poster that Eloise had given me
for a housewarming six years ago so that I could dust the bottom of the frame; the space underneath the picture was white. I hadn't realized or remembered that the walls were
white.
I'd thought they were the typical New York tenement beige. I'd been a little grossed out to realize that my beige walls were the result of my exhaling cigarette smoke on them for six years.