See Jane Date (8 page)

Saturday, June 6:
Wedding Shower Finalization meeting and Bridesmaid Dress Fitting #2, which meant spending another entire afternoon with Dana's insufferable bridal party. Did I mention that the dress cost me two hundred and twenty-five bucks?

Saturday, June 13:
Wedding Shower. Which meant spending yet another entire afternoon with Dana's insufferable bridal party
and
Larry Fishkill's female relatives. It also meant buying an expensive present at Bloomingdale's or Williams-Sonoma, where she was registered.

Friday, July 31:
The bachelorette party. At Hots, a male strip club. A repeat of the Wedding Shower Finalization group, but with dollar bills to stick in gyrating G-strings.

August 2:
Wedding Day (crack of dawn): Zelda's Hair and Beauty Spa on Madison Avenue. Larry Fishkill's mother was springing for all the female relatives to have their hair and makeup done, plus manicures and pedicures.

August 2:
(morning): Pre-ceremony pictures with the entire wedding party for Dana's personal collection. How long could a person keep a smile frozen on her face before her face cracked?

August 2:
(early afternoon-2pm): Helping Dana into her $8,000 wedding gown and her Tiffany diamond studs, an engagement present from Aunt Ina and Uncle Charlie.

August 2:
(2:30pm) The long, boring ceremony itself.

August 2:
(4pm–midnight): The long, boring wedding reception. Dana had told her bandleader she wanted a heavy Celine Dion rotation. Her wedding song was “The Wind Beneath My Wings” by Bette Midler.

August 2:
(10pm-ish) The tossing of the bouquet. The
horror movie all single women got to star in as they lined up like losers with hopeful smiles on their faces while stretching out their claws to catch the bouquet that promised they'd be next.

August 2
(all day): Listening to Aunt Ina and Grammy look at me with pity and telling me not to worry, that my day would come.

August 2
(all night): Sitting like a wallflower at the table with no one to dance with, just like at Forest Hills High.

The intercom buzzed. “Yeah?”

“Ms. Nutley is here to see you, Jaaane,” Morgan said. “Coffee and Danish and a fruit plate are set up in the conference room. The deli only had the kind of orange juice with the pulp in it. I hope that's okaaay.”

“It's fine. Thanks, Morgan. Can you tell Natasha I'll be out in a minute?” More like
five
minutes. I was a busy executive, not some lowly assistant editor who was so grateful for this plum project that she ran out enthusiastically to greet her star author.

The intercom buzzed again. “I'll be out in a moment,” I repeated.

“Hey, it's me,” Eloise said. “Pick up. I hate talking on speakerphone.” I snatched the receiver. “Wanna come see the new Woody Allen movie with me and Serge tonight? We're going to the seven-twenty at the Beekman.”

Serge was a huge Woody Allen fan. After he saw
Annie Hall
on video about ten times, he'd bought Eloise a tie and a vest. She'd had no problem alerting him to the fact that
Annie Hall
was almost thirty years old—and that the seventies fashion revival had thankfully come and gone.

“I wish I could, El, but I think I'd better work. I've got all those blind dates this week, so tonight's my only totally free night to slave over the Gnat's slutty life story.
Which she's delivering in person this morning—well, a draft of the first chapter, anyway. Jeremy wants the excerpt for
Marie Claire
by
next Friday.
”

“Ugh. You
are
busy. So are you okay, I mean about yesterday?

“Yeah, I think so. I'm just gonna try and forget about it, if I can.” Of course, Max's angular face flashed before my eyes. “Max's wedding announcement
and
that jerk, Kevin. Do you know that I actually called my machine a couple of times this morning just to see if he called? I didn't even like him! Hey, go take a peek at the reception desk. Natasha Nutley's waiting for me to come get her.”

“Ooh—bye!” Eloise hung up. I could just picture her pretending she was dropping off a memo for Remke with Morgan so she could get a glance at the Gnat.

I figured my five minutes were now up. I stuck my head out of my office door and peered around the corner, which gave me a view of the reception desk—Morgan's open cubicle. The Gnat was deep in conversation with Morgan. I stared Natasha up and down, a` la Karen, Dana's maid of honor. She was wearing a black camisole, black leather pants with a skinny cow-print belt and black high-heeled mules. I glanced down at my gray pantsuit, in which I'd felt perfectly professional three minutes ago. Suddenly I felt dowdy.

Deep breath, deep breath.

I grabbed my Gnat folder and headed down the hall with a smile plastered on my face. “Gnatasha!” I called out. “Right on time.”

She flashed the whiter-than-whites at me. “I was just telling Morgan that I used to baby-sit your cousin. We were marveling at what a small world it is.”

Too
small.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Nicole Kidman?” Morgan gushed to Natasha.

“Um, so why don't we head into the conference room?” I interrupted, sweeping my arm ahead of the Gnat.

Remke appeared out of his office behind Morgan's cubicle. “Natasha! Lovely to see you.” Remke and the Gnat air-kissed both cheeks and made small talk about “the Coast.”

Jeremy came down the hall carrying a manuscript and cover mechanicals. “Natasha, you look wonderful, as always.”

More air-kissing. More small talk.

I wondered what it would be like to air-kiss Jeremy Black. To be that close to his cheek. That close to his mouth, to those lips. I suddenly imagined his tongue probing deep inside my mouth, inside my—

“Jaaane, if you need the coffee urn refilled, you just let me know,” Morgan said.

How sweet she was. “I sure will.”

I led the Gnat inside the conference room. I sat at the head of the table, where Remke had been just a half hour earlier. I'd never sat in this chair before.

Natasha sat to my right. She placed her leather tote, this one imprinted with tiny
G'
s, onto Gwen's chair. She pulled out a red folder and opened it on the table.

I opened my own folder. My copy of her outline was peppered with notes in the margins. Why couldn't she read over my comments and do her work from home? Or better yet, from three thousand miles away, on the stupid houseboat where she now lived? Why did she have to constantly call and come over? Why couldn't she just fly back to “the Coast” and leave me alone?

“Coffee?” I asked, lifting the urn.

“Love some,” Natasha said, steadying one of the mugs. “Wanna split a Danish?”

“Okay.” I poured two cups of coffee. I was surprised she ate such things, let alone that she didn't launch into a diatribe about dieting. I thought actresses ate only spinach leaves and guzzled Ex-Lax.

“So, I'll leave you my first chapter to read later, but is it okay if I read you my opening sentence? I figure if it's too in-your-face, I'll know not to go that far with Chapter Two.”

I poured milk into my coffee. She took hers black, I noticed. How minimalist. “Well, Remke and Jeremy always say to hook your reader with the first sentence, so the more in-your-face, the better. Go ahead.”

The Gnat smiled, then lifted the page and cleared her throat. Her bangles jangled on her wrist. “I was fucking one of the most famous actors currently in show business when he handed me a legal document to sign.”

I almost spat out my mouthful of coffee.

She frowned. “I told you it was straightforward.”

She'd mistaken my surprise at her marketing savvy for shock. “No, it's great,” I assured her as she took a tiny bite of her half of the Danish. “Perfect, actually. It's exactly what Remke hoped for.”

“Really?” She was beaming. “I'm so happy! That means I'm on the right track.”

Natasha Nutley was going to make my job even easier than I thought. I was as relieved as I was bothered.

 

“Jane Gregg.”

“Oh, great—I got you and not voice mail,” said a male voice.

“It's me,” I confirmed, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I pulled a cigarette and a book of matches
from my tote bag. I'd started having a major nicotine fit after thirty minutes in the Gnat's presence, so I'd excused myself to do something very important. Like get the hell away from her and sneak downstairs for a cigarette. This phone call was cutting into my puffing time.

Whoever it was—either one of the drones in the production department or the annoying Ian who crunched our profit-and-loss figures…or tomorrow night's blind date calling to confirm and set something up—had better make it snappy. I'd left the Gnat in the conference room to think over my editorial comments for the outline for Chapters Two and Three, which she'd focused too much on her childhood and not enough on life in L.A. and the struggle to break into show business. If Remke or Jeremy popped their heads in and found her alone, they'd wonder where I was. As nonsmokers, they wouldn't understand the need for nicotine. And as men, they wouldn't understand the need to escape Gnatasha.

“It's Andrew Mackelroy, Jeff's friend?” the voice said.

I sat up straighter in my chair and slipped the cigarettes and matches into my jacket pocket. “Hi.” I immediately liked that he phrased sentences in the form of questions too.

“So, how does dinner sound for tomorrow night?” Andrew Mackelroy asked.

“Sounds good. I'm hungry already.”

He offered a chuckle. “Great. You know, I sort of have this ‘thing' I'm supposed to go to tomorrow night, and the best Italian food in New York will be served. Up for a surprise?”

I definitely liked Andrew. “Sure—I love Italian. Count me in.”

How full of potential was this! He had a
thing
tomor
row night, and I had a
thing
in two months. That gave us two things in common already!

“Is it okay if we meet there?” he asked. “Yeah? You sure? Great. So the address is 563 Delancey Street, seven o'clock. I'm really looking forward to meeting you, Jane.”

Delancey Street? Who had
anything
down there? And
was
there Italian food on the Lower East Side? Apparently so…I decided not to pre-judge.

“I'm really looking forward to meeting you,” I said. “I'll be there, seven o'clock.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

I hung up and burst into a smile. I had a mystery date tomorrow night. At a thing!

I pulled out my datebook and flipped to Tuesday, June2. I'd scribbled down the details Amanda had given me on Sunday afternoon.
Andrew Mackelroy, 30, Computer Engineer, Jeff's company. Five-eleven, dirty-blond hair, blue eyes. Good guy, family oriented, into sports.

I was family oriented, too, sort of. And I did like to walk; that was a sport, sort of. I transferred the address he'd given me into my datebook and slipped it back into my tote bag.

I felt like doing a cartwheel down the hall, but opted instead to rush to Eloise's tiny office. She was peering at slides through a loop on her light-box.

“Guess who just called?” I whispered in her ear. “Tuesday's guy, Andrew! We're going out tomorrow night. Some surprise
thing
involving Italian on Delancey Street.”

Eloise looked up. “Ooh—I'll bet it's a trendy gallery or club opening. The Lower East Side is beyond trendoid now.”

I semi-frowned. “Should I wear something really hip? Like what?”

Eloise's intercom crackled. “El?”

It was Daisy, her boss. “Could you c'mere and bring the slides for the bulimia book?”

“Sure,” Eloise said, pushing off the intercom.

Eloise was designing the cover of
Memoir of a Skinny-Minny Wanna-Be: My Bulimic Years.
The title was so long that hardly anything else could appear on the cover. Eloise had thought of placing a tiny digital scale between the title and subtitle, with flashing red numbers popping up and fading.
Skinny-Minny
was Gwen's book. I was “baby-sitting” it while Gwen was out, which meant I was being burdened with seeing it through all the phases of production
and
sending everything for approval by FedEx to Gwen's house. The cover mechanicals had come back with corrections and dried slime that looked like either baby food or baby barf. But thanks to Jeremy, I no longer had to deal with it.