“Yuppie scum,” Ellie murmured, counting the bills. “What a waste of good looks,” she continued to herself, stuffing the bills into her wallet. She mopped up the table and herself as much as possible, ordered another soda, then begrudgingly turned to the want ads.
Jobs were plentiful on the north side of town, in Alpharetta. But Ellie didn’t own a car and public transportation hadn’t yet caught up with the economic explosion in that area. She narrowed her job search to the few-mile radius surrounding her Little Five Points apartment. She could ride her bike if necessary, or take the train. The pickings were slim, and the artistic opportunities were nil. She had resigned herself to the waitressing section, when a blocked ad caught her eye.
Wanted: Single women of any age with no current romantic attachments to take part in a four-week clinical study. Minimal time commitment. Above-average compensation. Must be willing to keep daily journal.
Ellie frowned. No current romantic attachment. She scanned the bottom of the ad to see if she was mentioned specifically by name. No, but it looked, sounded and smelled like her. She wondered briefly if it could be a scam to target unsuspecting women, but she recognized the address as a reputable clinic. Shrugging, she circled the ad with a red felt-tip pen. It was worth a phone call. A glance at her watch told her she’d be better off to make the call from her desk.
The rest of the afternoon passed mercifully fast. Everyone had heard Ellie would be leaving, so in between expressing their heartfelt regret, co-workers piled last-minute remedial tasks on her desk. Somehow between photocopying, filing, and delivering mail, she managed to call the clinic to obtain a few vague details about the study.
The woman who answered prescreened her with several lengthy general questions. Ellie had to interrupt the interviewer twice to answer other calls. After paging Joan over the intercom, Ellie feverishly punched a button to retrieve the woman she’d been talking to.
“Sorry—I’m back. Now, where were we?”
“Are you heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual?”
“Hetero.”
“And are you currently romantically involved with anyone?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you had sexual relations with a man?”
Ellie coughed. “Um. about a year.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Ellie sighed. “Fourteen months, five days, and—” she checked her watch “—two hours.”
“Very good.”
Indignation flashed through her. “If you must know, no, it wasn’t very good.”
“That wasn’t a question, ma’am,” the bored screener replied.
Her cheeks burned. “Oh.”
“There will be an information meeting tomorrow evening.” The woman gave her the time and place, and the compensation rate.
Impressed, Ellie counted the days on her fingers until her rent was due, then asked, “When will the study begin?”
“As soon as enough participants register,” the woman told her. “And you’re the most ideally suited caller we’ve had today,” she added cheerfully.
Ellie’s eyes rolled. “I’m thrilled for us both,” she said, then slammed down the phone just as Joan walked around the corner.
“We’re thrilled for you too, Ellie,” she said, fighting a grin.
“How much of that did you hear?” she asked, embarrassed.
Joan started to respond, but was interrupted by a yell from John, the accountant who sat two cubicles over from Ellie. “No more than anyone else, Miss Fourteen Months, Five Days and Two Hours.” Choruses of hoots and cheers all over the department backed up his belly laugh.
Her eyes darted to Joan. “The intercom?” she whispered.
Joan bit her lower lip and nodded sympathetically.
DESPITE THE frightful DAY, Ellie’s spirits rose on the walk home. Yes, it was incredibly expensive to live in downtown Atlanta. Yes, traffic was a nightmare. And yes, in summer the humidity was unbearable. But it was worth every inconvenience to be part of the supercharged atmosphere. Ellie loved the outdoor cafés, the street musicians, the colorful murals, the unique shops. People-watching was one of her favorite pastimes, and the eclectic mix of residents that made up the artistic and somewhat affluent area of Little Five Points always provided a treat for the eyes. Atlanta was a wonderful place to live. Now if she could just find a decent job.
Ellie pulled her keys from her purse as she walked down the hall to her apartment. When a motion in front of the door caught her eye, she gasped. “Esmerelda, what are you doing outside?”
The tabby meowed an indignant reply, and Ellie scooped her up, hurriedly glancing down the hall. Her landlord would probably evict her if he discovered she was breaking the no-pet rule.
“It’s me,” Ellie yelled as she walked in. She could hear Manny in the kitchen. Dumping the cat on the couch, she said, “Esmerelda must have gotten out when I left this morning.” She headed in the direction of enticing aromas, her pet pouncing off the sofa to follow her.
“Naughty puss,” Manny chided, shaking a long finger at the cat. “Bad day?” he asked when Ellie flung her purse on the table.
Ellie suddenly felt close to tears. “Would being fired and having my new skirt ruined qualify?”
Her roommate clucked and came over to give her a hug. “You’ll find another job,” he said soothingly. “And that skirt—” he examined it with a thoughtful eye “—we’ll dye it black and no one will ever know.”
Ellie laughed. “You’re an incurable optimist. Can’t you let me be depressed for even a little while?”
He shook his blond head. “No. Now go change. I’m trying something new for dinner.”
Ellie stopped long enough to unwrap her uneaten egg-salad sandwich for Esmerelda, then walked the few steps through the living room and down the hall to her bedroom. Manny Oliver was a gem. They’d been friends for three years—in fact, his friendship with Joan Wright had landed Ellie the job at the arts center in the first place.
He made his living doing cabaret shows in drag. Ellie had seen him perform many times, and stood in awe of his singing, dancing and his killer legs. Her male roommate looked better in stockings and heels than she did. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the man could cook, too.
After Ellie had changed, and joined Manny in the kitchen, she recounted her day over a scrumptious meal of Italian potato dumplings.
“Men are dogs,” he supplied when she described the deli disaster.
“He gave me seventy-five bucks,” she said, grinning.
“But rich dogs can be housebroken,” he amended, and they both laughed. “Was he divine?”
She nodded, the image of the man’s face forming in her mind. “Definite model material.”
“Nice dresser?”
“Immaculate.”
“Straight?”
Ellie shrugged. “I think so, but who knows these days?”
“Tell me you got his name,” Manny pleaded.
“No, he offered me his card, but I smacked it away.”
He shook his head. “Ellie, how many times do I have to remind you, the game is hard to get, not impossible.”
She laughed. “He wasn’t my type at all, Manny. A real stuffed shirt. I’ll bet you couldn’t get a toothpick up his—”
“Ellie!”