You Had Me at Good-bye Page 2

  “Wait, Nick . . . maybe just a green tea.” Increases the metabolism and promotes weight loss, so they say. “And a tuna salad on wheat—hold the mayo.”

  He stops and stares at me. “You sure?”

  “No. Wait.” I shake my head, thinking of that itty-bitty skirt taunting me from my closet. “Never mind the sandwich. Just the green tea.”

  “You kiddin’ me? You need food.” He scowls as though I’ve insulted the entire family, and for a second I picture myself sleeping with the fishes. “Wait right there. I’ll fix something you’ll like. Trust me. You fill out a little, and maybe you’ll catch yourself a man, like your friend Tabitha.”

  Heat rushes to my face. “I don’t want to catch one. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to throw one back.” He’s looking at me like I have chocolate on my nose, so I think I’d better explain. “There’s this guy at work giving me a hard time.”

  “You mean sexual harassment? He can’t get away with that. I got some friends, if you need someone to have a talk with him.”

  Okay, that’s a little more than I wanted to know about Nick, but I do appreciate the offer. I don’t like to talk about my life at the office, especially since it always makes me feel like a failure, but then, I am wrapped in a dirty apron with chocolate-covered shoes on my aching feet. Who am I to pretend I have a smidgen of pride left? “Not sexual harassment. Trust me—that I could deal with.”

  I tell him all about Mr. Kramer and how he’s ruining my life. “Every time he looks at me, I think I’m doing something wrong. It’s like he’s waiting for me to step up to the table. And he allows the new senior editor to walk all over me. Jack Quinn has taken every edit I’ve done in the last month and completely rewritten the critique I was planning to send to the author.”

  Nick works and talks. “Is this Jack Quinn bein’ a jerk, or is he right about stuff?”

  I give a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess he’s right sometimes.”

  “It don’t seem like you like the guy very much.”

  Astute observation.

  “It’s not so much about like or dislike. The question is, can I work with him?”

  “Well, can you?”

  “I don’t know.” I shift and, with a defeated sigh, prop my feet on the chair across from me. “I love Lane Publishing. But Kramer’s made so many changes lately, I’m afraid I’m the next one he’s going to shove out the door.”

  Nick shakes a spoon in my general direction. “You know what your problem is?”

  Just what I need. Someone else telling me my faults.

  He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Your problem is that you ain’t got no confidence. You’re a pretty girl and smart with all them books. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you a little backbone won’t fix.”

  “Yeah, sure. Sorry. I’ll just roll right into his office like I’m Everywoman and tell him how it’s going to be from now on. I’m sure he’ll just move aside and offer me his job.”

  He scowls like only Nick can. “You can demand respect without being disrespectful, can’t you? Didn’t your mother raise you to have any gumption?”

  I give a snort, because if anyone “raised” me, it certainly wasn’t my mother. “Do you want to discuss my mother, Nick? Or the women who raised me? Let’s see, there was Nanny Elizabeth, who took the shift from birth to kindergarten. She quit when she found Prince Charming among my parents’ cronies, married him, and hired a nanny of her own nine months later. Then there was not one but two Nanny Marys. One retired to Florida, and I never knew what happened to the other one—she just vanished one day. Next there was Nanny Frieda. Mother hired her straight out of high school and fired her when she caught her dipping into the liquor cabinet. And last but certainly not least, Nanny Carol, who stole a pair of diamond earrings from my mother and claimed she got them from my dad for favors rendered. Dad played dumb and Mother could never prove it, so she eventually let it go.”

  I stop to catch a breath, arching one eyebrow at Nick. “Shall I continue? Because really they all did a bang-up job of making me the woman I am today.”

  Do I sound bitter? I do, don’t I?

  His scowl deepens as he slips my meatball sub onto a paper plate. “You havin’ your woman time or somethin’?”

  The girl in the corner looks up and gasps. I shoot a frown at Nick. “Could you be less subtle?”

  “Well, you ain’t acting much like yourself. I never seen you this grouchy.” He shoves a fat, diamond-ringed finger at me. “And let me tell you, princess, it ain’t pretty.”

  “I know. Hyde has returned.” I drop my forehead into my palms.

  “Thought you said this fellow’s name was Kramer.”

  “I meant Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  He nods. “Oh. I get it.” Nick peers closer. “Something else wrong besides work?”

  Am I that transparent? “My mother’s giving a dinner party tonight for my aunt, and I have to be there. I dread her parties. She always forces me to sit next to Floyd Bartell and be nice to him.”

  Floyd Bartell. A creepy guy who has lived with his mother all his life—and he’s thirty. His family is blue-blood rich and very well connected. If Mother could have arranged our marriage, she’d have done it a long time ago. Forget the fact that her grandchildren would likely be mutants, like their father. Thank God it’s the twenty-first century, or the banns would have been read and I’d have become Mrs. Bartell before my sixteenth birthday.

  “I get the willies just thinking about it. He’s so gross.”

  “So tell him. No self-respecting guy’s gonna want a girl that don’t want him, anyways.”

  I give him an eye roll, accompanied by my trademark pursing of the lips. “My mother’s been forcing me to sit next to him at every dinner she’s thrown since junior high, and he’s never even gotten to the batter’s box, let alone to a base. Do you really think Floyd has any self-respect left?”

  “Okay, look. You practice on me.” He drops the gooey, cheesy meatball sub—made as only a true Italian can make it—on the table in front of me.

  My mouth waters at the sight and smell of it. But my resolve is strong. “Nick, I can’t eat this today. I have to fit into a size 2 Versace skirt in”—quick glance at my watch—“three and a half hours.”

  “So what? You can’t eat?”

  I shake my head and suck in at the very thought of that skirt. “It has a side zipper, and cheese bloats me.” I look at the delightful mess with more than a little longing, and the look isn’t lost on Nick.

  “So wear a different skirt.”

  To anyone else, that might seem like the simple solution. However, nothing is simple when my mother is involved. The truth? She bought it for me and had it sent over to the apartment with instructions to wear it tonight.

  Do I realize how pathetic I am? Yes, I do. That’s why I’m not going to admit anything to Mr. Mafia. Instead, I use the old standby. “This one makes me look skinny.”

  The aroma of beef and sauce floats upward, tempting my taste buds and making my mouth water even more. Maybe just a little taste. I’ll just sort of lick the melty cheese. “Mmm, Nick. This is wonderful.”

  His face lights up. “Now that’s more like it.” Looking around, he takes note of his one customer. “You doin’ okay over there, honey?”

  The poor girl’s eyes widen in terror. She swallows hard and nods. From the way she’s eyeing the door, I sort of get the feeling it’s all she can do not to bolt.

  Nick doesn’t seem to have a clue how badly he terrifies young girls and little old ladies. He just gives her a nod. “Okay, then. I’m gonna have a seat and talk to my friend, here. You need anything, you let me know. Got it?”

  She ducks her head. I’m not sure, but she may have fainted.

  Nick plops his two-hundred-fifty-pound bulk into a chair that I’m not positive will hold the big guy, and wipes his brow with a towel. “The way I see it, you got two men in your life making you unhappy: one you gotta sit by at dinner, and one giving
you trouble at work.”

  I’m amazed at his brilliant powers of deduction.

  I’ll just keep that little sarcastic remark to myself. I will not bite the hand that is feeding me this marvelous sandwich. But he’s right. Why do I let people roll right over me? I can be strong when my friends are in trouble, so why can’t I stick up for myself? I really don’t want to sit next to nasty Floyd and hold my hand over my chest all evening to keep him from ogling. It’s awkward and embarrassing and I’m—yes, I am—sick of it.

  I’m contemplating this, along with a gooey string of cheese, when Nick scowls and snatches away my plate.

  “Hey!” I say around the huge bite. “You said I need to eat.”

  “You can have it back after you practice on me.” He yanks a napkin from the holder and shoves it at me.

  “Practice what?”

  “Telling the guy at dinner to take a hike.”

  Taken aback, I stare at the big guy for a second. The thought never occurred to me. I mean, I’ve dreamed of simply getting up and walking to a different seat, but I never actually considered it a viable option. I just wasn’t brought up that way. “I don’t think I can do that. Can I? I mean, wouldn’t it be rude? And Mother would be mortified.”

  “You want this sub back?”

  Desperately.

  “Okay, fine.” I wipe my mouth and gather a breath. I look at Nick and do my best to pretend he’s Floyd. “Shove off, Floyd Bartell. You were a troll in junior high, still a troll in high school, not to mention college, and if I’m forced to marry you, I’ll jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and bury myself in a watery grave.” I hold out my hand. “How’s that?”

  He shoves the plate back across the table. “Pathetic,” he says. “You been dating this guy all your life and you don’t even like him?”

  “I despise him.” I’m a bit ashamed of my lack of control, not to mention my complete lack of grace, as I talk with my mouth full. “And I’m not dating him. He just escorts me to dinners and things a few times a year.”

  He shakes his head at me. “No wonder you can’t find yourself a husband, if you let this guy sew up all your time. What kind of a weenie are you?”

  “The worst kind,” I admit.

  “I gotta say, I’m a little disappointed, princess. I know you dress like a hoity-toity, but I sort of thought you was the hot dog of that group of girls you hang around.”

  It’s true. In every other area of my life I am strong. I mean, last year I even coerced an ER nurse to get Tabby into the exam room ahead of everyone else right before her appendix burst—and you know how intimidating those nurses can be. (I mean that with the utmost respect for how busy they are, saving lives and all. Still, it’s a fact. They scare me).

  Anyway, back to my weenie ways. Usually I can hold my own. “It’s only where men are concerned, Nick. I think I might have father issues because I don’t have a good relationship with my own.”

  He gives a snort. “You been watching that Mr. Philip’s Neighborhood?”

  Is it just me, or is it a little scary that he just said that? “I think you mean Dr. Phil, and I don’t watch it every day.”

  Usually I TiVo it and watch a week’s worth of shows on Saturday. But that has absolutely nothing to do with my sudden revelation, and I’m disappointed that Nick is discounting my theory so firmly when he’s the one who wants me to develop a backbone in the first place.

  “There ain’t nothing to it, sweetheart. Just tell this Floyd character to take a long walk off a short pier. He’ll get the picture.”

  See? Comments like that are what make me think Nick’s family might be pretty “well connected” themselves. Maybe I should just ask him to make old Floyd an offer he can’t refuse. My lips go up at the thought of it. Then I look down at my plate and sober up real fast. It’s scraped clean. Not even a glob of stuck-on melted cheese remains. In my desperate desire to become the woman I’ve always wanted to be, I’m suddenly feeling the need for a roomy size 4 skirt.

  2

  Valerie Orion might not have had time for friends, and maybe she had no time for a relationship, but one thing she had always prided herself on was having a lot of spunk. Her daddy had always told her to stand up for herself. So at two minutes to three on January second, she stormed into her boss’s office and tossed her list of demands on his sleek mahogany desk.

  His brows pushed together as he lifted the eight-by-ten sheet in his overly tanned hands. “What’s this?” he asked, his frown marring what might have been handsome features if he’d smiled.

  “I think it should be perfectly clear.” Her lips tipped upward at the corners in a rueful smile. This man did not intimidate her in the least, and she couldn’t have cared less if he knew it.

  Valerie walked back to the door, keenly aware that his eyes followed her every move. She twisted the doorknob and turned her body halfway, looking over her shoulder at the bewildered face of her boss, John Quest. “You have until five o’clock to decide whether I give my two weeks’ notice or not. It’s really your choice.”

  —An excerpt from Fifth Avenue Princess

  a novel by Dancy Ames

  There is no point in going back to the apartment I share with my two best friends after leaving Nick’s full of cheese and green tea. (I broke down and took the whipped cream.) And since I had already eaten too many calories anyway, and Nick insisted, I ate half a slice of chocolate cheesecake, too. I shoot a glance at my watch. Three thirty. Mother expects me at six, so I have just enough time to implement my deception: buy another skirt exactly like the one my mother bought, only one size larger—which is honestly the size I needed in the first place. I pray they have the skirt in size 4. Otherwise, I will have to face Mother’s questions, and quite possibly her anger, that I’m not wearing the Versace. The thought doesn’t appeal to me at all.

  I’m almost positive Cate Able would never put up with being squeezed into a skirt she can barely breathe in. She writes about strong women who can face down anyone for the cause of right and justice. I could never be a Cate Able heroine. Shoot, I couldn’t even be the heroine in my own pathetic attempt at writing a novel, which is unbelievably sad.

  I hail a cab and head straight to Saks, where I find the Versace jersey skirt with front pleats in a 38 (don’t panic; that’s Italian sizing and equals an American size 4). I charge the $900 skirt on Daddy’s credit card. But I figure I’ll return the ridiculously unrealistic size 2 tomorrow and recoup. Thank goodness Mother always leaves on the tags just to prove she didn’t buy it off the sale rack.

  I slip the cabbie the fare plus five when he pulls up to Mother’s building. It’s only five thirty, so I’m hoping she’ll be in the throes of preparations and won’t even notice I’m here until I make myself presentable.

  I gather a deep breath, partly for support, partly from nostalgia. Every time I come home, I can’t help but wonder about all the people who have lived in this building over the last century.

  I grew up in a prewar high-rise condo my parents bought for a few hundred grand—twenty-five years ago. A few years later, my plastic-surgeon dad moved out, and Mother kept the apartment, the Lincoln, and the kids. Dad got us every other weekend, holidays, and whenever Mother went away for a weekend with the newest boyfriend.

  I’m not sure why, but Mother has recently had the apartment appraised. The staggering value: over fourteen million dollars—and Dad was the first person she shared the happy news with. Mother is fabulous at rubbing it in. A true master. The epitome of the scorned woman.

  Anyway, Dad can’t even almost hide his irritation with the whole thing, which naturally delights my mother. My folks have always had a love/hate relationship. They both love money and would hate to give any of it up, so they refuse to get a divorce and risk the other coming out on top.

  But they’d never live together in a million years. Dad has his bachelor pad a few blocks east of here. And I do mean a bachelor pad. He lives in a swanky loft apartment in a co-op. My brother, Kale, says Dad
thinks he’s Don Johnson (the guy from Miami Vice—the series, not the movie). The apartment is decorated with appalling animal prints. Leopard-print sheets and comforter. I can’t imagine why he thinks that’s a good idea. At least one of the bathrooms has zebra-skin decor, complete with black-and-white-striped toilet cover and bath rug.

  I find his taste in interior design especially interesting, considering the reason he finally moved out of Mother’s apartment once and for all. She was going through her “pagoda” stage and dared to decorate the library with religious art befitting the most devout Buddhist. And, no, she will not be found in the lotus position, humming to herself. The phase had absolutely nothing to do with religious fervor. It was nothing more than another example that my mother is a slave to the latest trend. As a matter of fact, Mother claims to be an Episcopalian, although I must admit I’ve never actually witnessed her going to church. Anyway, Dad was so disgusted with the “idols” that he demanded a return of his (revolting) bearskin rug and deer heads. Of course, no self-respecting feminist (which is what Mother was that year) is going to let a man tell her what to do. Besides, she’d already sent the gold-trimmed invitations for a tea to be held in this room, and woodsy, dead-animal decor simply wouldn’t do.

  My mother’s rebellion was Dad’s last straw. He packed up his dead-animal things, and that was the last time he called this Fifth Avenue apartment home. My secret theory—and hope—is that he knows how horrid his apartment is, from the perspective of anyone with good taste. Or even mediocre taste. Personally, I think he decorated with all things animal only to show Mother that he won’t be bossed around. Childish, but not out of the question. And it’s the theory I prefer to stick to until Dad proves me wrong. In all other areas, such as dress, jewelry, and music, he’s the epitome of good taste, so the good-ol’-boy decor just doesn’t add up.

  Anyway, I love the Fifth Avenue condo. It’s perfect, and I hope my mother will resist the urge to sell, despite the fact that the appreciation is incredible and most people would kill to have a panoramic view of Central Park like Mother’s.