‘I thought, well, um, aren’t you …’
Two clear green eyes stared back at me, waiting.
‘It’s just that, uh, considering last night and the whole, you know, Pratesi thing and the yoga class …’
Still waiting. No help here.
‘Aren’t you gay?’ I held my breath, hoping he wasn’t still in the closet or, worse, out but self-hating.
‘Gay?’
‘Yeah, as in, liking guys.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Well, I don’t know, it just seemed—’
‘Gay? You think I’m a homosexual?’
I felt like I was roaming around on the set of some sort of reality TV show where everyone was in on the secret but me. Clues, so many clues, but no real information. I was trying to piece it all together as quickly as possible, but nothing was quite working out.
‘Well, of course, I don’t know you at all. It’s just that, well, you dress so nicely and seem to care a lot about your apartment and, uh, you have Helmut Lang cologne. My friend Michael wouldn’t even know who Helmut Lang is …’
He flashed those shiny teeth once more and tousled my hair like one would a toddler’s. ‘Perhaps you’re just spending time with the wrong blokes? I assure you, I’m very, very straight. I’ve just learned to appreciate the finer things. Come now, there’s time to give you a lift home if we hurry.’ He shrugged on a cashmere sweater and grabbed his keys.
We didn’t say anything at all in the elevator ride to the lobby, but darling Philip did manage to pin me against the wall and nibble on my lips, which somehow felt utterly disgusting and heart-stoppingly amazing all at once.
‘Mmm, you’re delicious. Come here, let me taste you one last time.’ But before he could once again use my face as his own personal Chupa pop, the doors swept open and two uniformed doormen turned to witness our arrival.
‘Bugger off,’ Philip announced, walking ahead of me and raising his hand up, palm forward, to the grinning men. ‘I don’t want to hear it today.’
They snickered, obviously accustomed to the routine of Philip escorting strange women out of his apartment, and silently pulled open the door. It wasn’t until we stepped outside that I had any idea where we were: Christopher and Greenwich, all the way west, about a block from the river. The famous Archives building.
‘Where do you live?’ he asked, pulling a silver helmet out from underneath the seat of a Vespa, which was resting under a monogrammed tarp three feet from the building’s entrance.
‘Murray Hill. Is that okay?’
He laughed, not nicely. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. I sure wouldn’t clamor to live in Murray Hill, but hey, whatever turns you on.’
‘I meant,’ I said tightly, no longer even attempting to keep up with his psycho-style mood swings, ‘is it okay for you to drop me off? I can certainly take a cab.’
‘Whatever you want, love. No worries for me. My office is midtown east, so you’re right on the way.’ He occupied himself by fishing his keys from his pants pocket and securing his Hermès bag to the back of the bike. Scooter. ‘Let’s just get a move on, okay? People are needing me right now.’ He swung his legs over the bike and deigned to look my way. ‘So?’
I was momentarily speechless, until he actually snapped his fingers. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, decision time here. Ride or not? It’s not so difficult. You sure didn’t seem this indecisive last night. …’
I’ve always harbored the classic girl fantasy of having a real reason to slap some jerk across the face, and the opportunity had just presented itself in Technicolor. But I was dumbfounded by the finger snapping and the suggestion that something actually had happened last night, so I just turned my back and began walking down the block.
He called out, sounding almost worried, ‘You don’t have to be so sensitive, love. I was just kidding around. Absolutely nothing went down last night. Not you, not me. …’ I heard him chuckle at his own cleverness, but I just kept walking.
‘Fine. Be that way. I don’t have time for the drama right now, but I’ll track you down. Seriously, it’s not often a woman can resist my charms, so consider me duly intrigued. Leave your number with my doorman and I’ll give you a call.’ The Vespa’s engine caught and he sped away, and although I’d just been insulted and abandoned, I still felt like I’d somehow won … if he was telling the truth, of course, and I actually hadn’t slept with him in a wasted stupor.
The victory lasted all of forty minutes, during which time I jumped in a cab, raced home, took a washcloth-bath in the bathroom sink, and applied copious amounts of deodorant to my underarms, baby powder to my scalp, and scented moisturizer everywhere else. I raced around the apartment looking for clean clothes and wondered how I would ever manage to be a good mother when I couldn’t even remember to care for my own dog. Millington was sulking in the corner under the coffee table, punishing me for abandoning her the previous evening. She’d also peed on my pillow for good measure, but there wasn’t time to clean it up. I managed to wedge between the throngs of commuters and arrive at the office at exactly one minute after nine. I was fantasizing about devouring the only known hangover cure, a large street coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese on a buttered roll, when Elisa motioned me over. She’d saved a space near the sunniest window and appeared to be quite eager to talk to me.
The office was a giant rectangle, surrounded on all sides by sleek leather couches and sitting areas. There weren’t technically individual desks, just two giant, half-moon-shaped tables that formed a circle with two small breaks where the half-moons didn’t quite meet, allowing access to the shared faxes and printers in the middle. We each had our own laptop that we could either lock in the closet or take home at night, and workspace was doled out on a first-come-first-served basis every morning. We all scrambled to sit in the two or three spots around the circle where Kelly couldn’t see your computer screen from her office, and Elisa had managed to snag a few feet of prime space. I dropped my laptop on the table and very carefully removed the coffee from its paper bag, taking care not to spill a single golden drop. Elisa was practically panting.
‘Oh, Bette, sit the hell down already. Tell me everything, I can barely stand it.’
‘Tell you what? I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting me.’
‘Shut up!’ she was squealing, which appeared to be her only method of communication. ‘How was …’ Pause. Deep breath. ‘Philippe?’
‘Philippe? Don’t you mean Philip? He sure didn’t seem French to me.’
‘Oh, God, you are truly missing the point. He’s absolutely fabulous, don’t you think?’
‘Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk,’ I said, which was partially true. This also made him tremendously intriguing, of course, but it didn’t seem necessary to admit that.
Elisa inhaled sharply and fixed her gaze on my face. ‘What did you say?’ she whispered.
‘I said, I thought—’
‘I heard you.’ She was nearly growling now. ‘I just can’t imagine why you’d say something like that. You sure looked like you were having fun when you were all over him on the dance floor. He’s pretty good, huh? Who said practice doesn’t make perfect?’
She very well could’ve still been talking about dancing, but something in her expression, now dreamy and slightly far-off, indicated otherwise.
‘Elisa, what do you mean?’
‘Oh, Bette, come on! This is Philip Weston we’re talking about here.’
‘And that should