Buch lesen: «Mr. Right Now»

1

“I LIVE IN A CITY of seven million people. Three and a half million of them are men. Of those, there have to be at least a half million who are single. And out of those, there must be a few thousand who are decent guys.”

Nina Forrester leaned over the counter and held her coffee mug under the stream of just-brewed coffee. When her mug was full, she shoved the pot back in its place and took a careful sip, moaning softly as the caffeine seeped into her bloodstream. Though she hadn’t had a drop of wine all weekend, she had inhaled a two-pound bag of peanut M&Ms last night and the chocolate hangover was killing her. “Why can’t I meet just one of those guys?”

“Bad weekend?” Lizbeth drawled, feigning sympathy.

Nina peered over the rim of the mug at her friend and co-worker, Lizbeth Gordon. Bad weekend? Not if crying through Out of Africa six times, gulping down handfuls of M&Ms, and waxing her bikini line qualified as bad. She’d had worse. There was that time she ate an entire frozen Sara Lee triple-layer fudge cake during the first hour of Titanic. And the Saturday she spent rearranging her underwear drawer, first by color, then by fabric, then by age. “I didn’t even leave my apartment,” Nina admitted. “And I’m starting to have sexual fantasies about the Chinese restaurant delivery man.”

Lizbeth slipped her arm around Nina’s shoulders and clucked her tongue. “Honey, don’t you think it’s about time you found yourself a nice stallion and went for a little ride? It’s been a long time since you’ve visited the stable.” From anyone else, the suggestion might have sounded ridiculous, but intoned in Lizbeth’s lazy Southern accent, it sounded perfectly reasonable.

“What is it about you and horses?” Nina asked, pulling away and stalking out of the coffee room toward her office. “Last week you were telling me to get back in the saddle. When did Mr. Ed suddenly become your personal sex guru? According to you, National Velvet and My Friend Flicka are subversive sex manuals.” She stopped at her office door. “Those were my favorite books when I was a kid,” Nina said wistfully. “My life was all about horses. I didn’t even look at boys.”

“Huge, powerful, muscular, well-hung horses,” Lizbeth said, fanning her face with her hand. “Gawd, I used to love those books, too.” She giggled and pressed her fingers to her lips. “If Mama only knew she’d have burned them all.”

Nina laughed. “You were perverse even back then!”

“And you were flat as a board and had a mouthful of braces.” Lizbeth shuddered, tossing back her dark hair and smoothing her hands over her slender figure. “Admit it, you’d never want to go back to that time. Me? I was slightly chubby, a little shy and everything I wore was made of a petroleum by-product. It’s a pure wonder I turned out as well as I did.”

“Gee, and I thought you were born wearing a cashmere diaper and silk booties, dressed to seduce every boy baby in the nursery,” Nina muttered.

If they hadn’t been best friends, Nina was certain she’d hate Lizbeth. Any girl would. Lizbeth was stunningly beautiful. Nina was…cute. Lizbeth had three or four boyfriends dangling on any given day of the month, while the pints of Häagen-Dazs in Nina’s freezer lasted longer than most of the men in her life.

And if personal humiliation wasn’t enough, Nina had to face her professional inadequacies as well. As the lowly fact checker for Attitudes magazine, Nina spent most of her workday on the Internet or on the phone or at the library, checking the veracity of every article that passed through her office. Lizbeth had charmed her way into an assistant editor position in the fashion department. With Attitudes’ profile as the hot magazine for twenty-somethings, that meant Lizbeth moved in circles that included wealthy designers and hot male models and handsome French photographers.

What’s worse, she always looked like she’d stepped right out of a Calvin Klein ad, sleek and styled, smooth and sophisticated. Nina bought her clothes at vintage shops and thrift stores, favoring funky over fashionable. And the closest she got to styling her long blond hair was twisting it into a knot and securing it with a pencil or two.

But Lizbeth had one quality that made her an indispensable friend. No matter how bad Nina’s life looked, all it took was one dry, but witty, comment from Lizbeth to put everything in perspective, to make Nina’s worries dissolve into fits of laughter.

“You know what your problem is?” Lizbeth asked, following Nina into her tiny, windowless office.

“No, but I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“You haven’t had a date in almost six months. Honey, if you don’t leave your apartment, how do you expect to meet anyone?” Lizbeth shook her head. “You’re going to start to get…what do they call that? Angoraphobia?”

“Angoraphobia is a fear of fuzzy sweaters,” Nina corrected. “Agoraphobia is a fear of strangers.”

Lizbeth sighed. “The fact that you know something so obscure just proves my point,” she said. “Since you broke up with that crazy drummer from that awful grunge band, you’ve had no life.” She picked up a framed picture of Nina’s nieces and stared at her reflection in the glass, fussing with her hair. “You know, if you’re not married by the time you’re thirty, chances are you’ll never find a man.”

“I’m only twenty-five!” Nina said.

“Five years can go by just like that,” Lizbeth said, snapping her perfectly manicured fingers. “Besides, every year after age twenty-five is like dog years.”

Nina didn’t bother to ask for further explanation. Sometimes it was better just to let a few of them fly by. Instead, she picked up the latest issue of Attitudes and flipped through it. When she reached the back, her gaze fell on the pages of Personal Touch ads that ran every month. Men seeking women, women seeking men, men and women seeking something a little kinky. “Maybe I should answer one of these ads,” she murmured.

“Now there’s an idea,” Lizbeth said. “Not an idea I’d ever consider, but definitely an idea.”

“Well, you don’t have any trouble getting a date. And I know the ads work.” Nina grabbed a file folder from her desk and opened it. “Look at these letters. Four couples who met through the Personal Touch ads this past year, and four marriages!”

“Where did you get those?”

“Eileen in customer service has been saving them for me. I’m thinking of pitching a story idea to Charlotte.” She picked up one of the letters, this one from the mothers of the happy couple. “Nick Romano and Tyler Sheridan. Before Tyler met Nick, she was supposed to marry this other guy who ran out on their wedding and left her a ‘Dear Joan’ ad in our magazine. Nick, who’s a P.I.—how sexy is that?—helped her track down her missing bridegroom and they fell in love. Have you ever heard of anything so romantic?”

“Oh, please. That sounds like one of those mushy romance novels!” Lizbeth said.

“Yes, it does. And I happen to love romance novels.” Nina picked up another letter. “Here’s one from Jane Dobson Warren. She placed a personal ad in Attitudes for her boss. He was looking for Holly Baskin, an old girlfriend. After Jane placed the ad, she got hit on the head, with a Cupid statue, no less. The concussion made her believe that she was Holly Baskin. And then she and her boss fell in love and got married.” Nina sighed. “It is just like a romance novel, isn’t it?”

“And you think those sweet little stories are going to appeal to Charlotte?” Lizbeth shook her head. “You don’t know Charlotte very well, do you.”

Charlotte Danforth was publisher, editor, creative director, and sole stockholder of Attitudes magazine. She ran the publication like her own little fiefdom and she was the media queen. Her wealthy father’s money had financed the magazine and though Charlotte couldn’t edit her way out of a paper bag or balance a budget, she did have an uncanny knack for hiring talented people. And for spotting trends. And that’s what Attitudes was all about—what’s hot and what’s not.

“I’ve got to do something to make Charlotte see me as assistant editor material,” Nina said.

“Well, hon, that necklace won’t help the cause. News flash—Wilma Flintstone isn’t a fashion icon anymore.”

Nina giggled and stuck out her tongue at Lizbeth as she slipped the letters back into the file. “I still think it’s possible to find love through the personals. These four couples did.” She picked up the magazine and began to scan the ads. “Here’s a man that sounds nice. ‘New York State of Mind. Good-looking professional seeks commitment-minded, independent SWF, 24-30. Enjoys motorcycles, the outdoors and NASCAR racing.’ I love motorcycles.”

Lizbeth snatched the magazine from Nina’s fingers. “Allow me to translate, my naive little friend. Good-looking professional—decent-looking car salesman. Watch out when they say ‘personable.’ Then you can expect Quasimodo to show up at your front door.”

“What about handsome?”

“Seriously deluded or completely self-absorbed.”

“How do you know this? You have answered one of our ads!”

Lizbeth laughed lightly. “Don’t be silly. Why would I need to answer an ad? I simply know men and their tendency to overstate their own virtues. You have to learn their lingo.”

“Lingo?”

“Like this ad. ‘Commitment-minded’ means you’d be willing to clean his apartment. ‘Independent’ means you won’t mind spending hours in a bar with his friends watching football on the big screen. And all the rest means the guy will never remember to put the toilet seat down.” Lizbeth pointed to another ad. “‘Enjoys gardening, antiquing, and cooking.’ Mama’s boy. What you need is a guy who enjoys golfing, sailing, theater and working out. That’s means self-employed, wealthy, intelligent, and a great body.”

“Here’s one,” Nina said. “Friendly—”

“Horny.”

“Likes to cuddle?”

“Wants sex,” Lizbeth translated.

“Loyal?” Nina asked.

“Obsessively jealous. The only thing worse is ‘intense’ which means ‘stalker in training.’ You’d be better off placing your own ad, honey. At least then you could screen the candidates.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just pitch the story about the four couples and their ads.”

“It’s a warm and fuzzy little story, but this isn’t Good Housekeeping, Nina. Attitudes is edgy and trendy, and a little outrageous—not unlike that sweater you’re wearing.”

Nina glanced down at the vintage lime-green mohair with the Peter Pan collar. She bought it especially to go with the mod striped mini and green tights from the sixties. And the plastic bead necklace completed the look. “You don’t think Charlotte would like it? The idea, not the sweater.”

“If you want her to see you as an assistant editor, you’re going to have to do more than pitch a story. You’re going to have to go out there and experience the Personal Touch. Write your own ad, go on a few dates and tell your story. And the more horrible the experience, the better.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say in an ad,” Nina replied. “How do I advertise for Mr. Right?”

Lizbeth sighed dramatically, then searched the surface of Nina’s desk until she found a pad of paper. “Honey, you don’t have time to look for Mr. Right. You’re looking for Mr. Right Now. Mr. Right This Minute. Charlotte’s been interviewing for an editorial assistant for the past month. If you get this story done and turn it in, maybe she’ll give you the job.”

“All right,” Nina said. “I’ll do it.”

“All right,” Lizbeth repeated.

“Nancy!”

Nina and Lizbeth looked up to find Charlotte Danforth standing at the doorway of Nina’s office. As always, she looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed, though this morning she wore evening clothes, a sexy beaded designer number that probably cost more than Nina made in a year. It was clear Charlotte hadn’t been to bed at all, but came right to work from whatever party she’d attended the night before. Her hair was mussed and she puffed incessantly on a French cigarette. Yet even in such disarray, she was still a force of nature, a human hurricane that left workers weeping in her path.

“Nina,” Nina corrected.

Charlotte sniffed, then shrugged. “Yes, fine, all right, Nina. I need you to check a fact for me. I need to know what the trendiest spot on the body is for a rather small tattoo. And the most popular subject matter. Check for both men and women, I’m sure it’s different. And give me a breakdown by age if you can.”

“Charlotte, I’m not sure there have ever been any studies done on—”

“I don’t care if there haven’t been studies, Nora!”

“Nina,” she reminded. “Is this for an article? Because we did a story on tattoos just a few months ago.”

“I just need the information, Nola,” Charlotte snapped. “It’s personal. By the end of the day?”

With that, she turned and hurried from the door, leaving Nina to wonder how she’d ever convince Charlotte to give her an editorial position if the woman couldn’t even remember her name. “Oh, sure. I’ll just call the Census Bureau. I’m sure I remember answering the tattoo question on the 2000 census. Right hip, tiny rose.” She tossed aside the personal ads and straightened her desk. “I guess I’m going to be spending the rest of the day on the phone talking to tattoo parlors,” Nina murmured.

Lizbeth smiled. “And I’d guess that Charlotte got herself drunk last night and ended up in one of those 24-hour tattoo parlors in the East Village. And now she wants you to tell her that she didn’t make a big fashion faux pas getting that big old butterfly tattooed on her butt.”

Nina’s eyes went wide. “Really?” At least when Nina had decided on a tattoo she’d been sober and possessed of good taste, ending up with a tiny flower on a spot that only showed when she wore a bikini.

“As long as whatever she got is on the top of the list, hon, you’ll make her happy.”

“But how am I supposed to know?”

Lizbeth stood and smoothed her skirt. “Leave it to me. She’s bound to tell someone what she did last night. She always blabs when she’s got a hangover. Five minutes later, it will be all over the office. I’ll feed you the facts and you make up the research.”

“But that wouldn’t be ethical,” Nina protested.

“Honey, you do want the job in editorial, don’t you?”

Nina nodded hesitantly. “Yes, I do. And while you’re finding out about Charlotte’s new tattoo, I’m going to work on my ad. Even if it doesn’t result in a great story, at least I’ll have something better to do on a Saturday night than polishing my shoes and fishing spare change out of the sofa.”

“That’s the spirit!” her friend cried. “Get on that pony and ride! Yee-hah!”

Nina smiled at Lizbeth. “And maybe, if I’m very lucky, I’ll find Mr. Right. And if not him, then Mr. Right Now.”

THE AFTER-WORK CROWD HAD settled in at Jitterbug’s, the coffee shop across the street from Attitudes’ Soho headquarters. It was a favorite spot for the staff who gathered regularly to sip lattes and mochas and discuss whatever outrageous request Charlotte Danforth had thrown their way during the day. But Nina had more important things on her mind than commiserating about her quirky and unpredictable boss. Nagging little projects had occupied nearly every minute of her workday and she hadn’t had a single moment to get back to her ad for the Personal Touch.

Nina found her regular table in the corner and tossed her coat over the back of her chair, then dropped her bag on the smooth marble tabletop. She glanced over at the counter and waved at Martha who nodded, a silent agreement to make Nina’s usual—a double skinny decaf latte with a shot of hazelnut. She sat down and spread her work out in front of her—the Personal Touch ads from the last four weeks, her notepad, personalized with her name and the name of the magazine emblazoned across the bottom, and a pencil with a brand new eraser. She’d also brought a list of attributes she’d quickly compiled for Mr. Right during her lunch hour.

“Cute, considerate, humorous, spontaneous,” she read out loud. “Nice hair, kind eyes, and—”

“A fluffy tail and good teeth. Honey, you sound like you’re advertising for a Pomeranian, not a man. If I were you, I’d stick with the man. He won’t poop on the rug.” Lizbeth flopped down in the chair across from Nina’s and sighed dramatically. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had. They sent me size two samples and size six models. Thank God for duct tape. We cut the back seams open and taped the clothes on.”

Nina forced a sympathetic smile. She really wasn’t in the mood to hear Lizbeth’s tale of woe. She’d hoped to spend some time on her own, sipping coffee and carefully composing her ad. It had to be just right and it would take a lot of thought. “I’m just starting on this,” she murmured.

“So, what do you have so far?” Lizbeth asked.

“Actually…nothing.”

Lizbeth sighed and shook her head. She pointed to Nina’s pad. “Take this down.” She paused for a moment, then smiled. “Headline—Looking for Mr. Right Now.” She glanced over at Nina and frowned. “I said, take this down.” Nina scribbled as Lizbeth spoke. “Attractive, fun-loving, energetic SWF, 25, seeks adventurous Adonis, 25-35, for wild Saturday nights and lazy Sunday afternoons.”

“Don’t you think that last part makes me sound a little…loose?”

“Honey, the whole thing makes you sound loose. That’s the point. What do you think I mean by ‘fun-loving’ and ‘energetic’? Likes sex and likes it all the time.” Lizbeth gave her a long look. “You want someone to answer the ad, don’t you?”

Frowning, Nina ripped the top sheet off and crumpled it in her fist, then noticed Martha waving in her direction. “I’ll write my own ad, thank you very much.” She pushed back from the tiny table to retrieve her coffee, fully intending to toss Lizbeth’s ad in the garbage.

But as she paid Martha, she contemplated her friend’s strategy. Time was running out. Maybe she ought to put off her search for Mr. Right and concentrate on Mr. Right Now. And kissing a few frogs made a lot better copy than finding Prince Charming on the first time out. Nina opened her fist and dropped the wad of paper on the counter, then smoothed it out. She re-read the words as she grabbed her coffee. With a soft sigh, she turned and started back toward her table, making mental edits to the text. She didn’t have to sound like a trollop, did she?

She didn’t notice the man who stepped into her path, but in the blink of an eye, he was there. With a soft cry of surprise, she ran face first into a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Her coffee mug tipped between them, spilling hot coffee all over his wide chest, his flat belly and his…lap.

The man jumped back, cursing softly as he brushed the steaming liquid from his finely tailored shirt, his startled gaze taking in the coffee-soaked fabric. It was only then that Nina got a good look at his face. Her breath caught in her throat and, for a moment, she was unable to speak. “Adventurous Adonis,” she murmured.

Even wincing in pain, she could see what a handsome man he was—strong features, a chiseled mouth and vivid green eyes. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak. Then the words began tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh—oh, dear. I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t see—and when you stepped in front—that’s probably a very expensive—are you all right—I didn’t—”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, plucking at the soaked fabric of his dress shirt and silk tie. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Nina reached over his table and grabbed the napkin dispenser, then tugged out a wad of napkins. But as she spun around to hand them to the man, she knocked over the tall mug of coffee on his table. It tumbled to the floor and splashed onto his shiny dress loafers. Half the napkins fluttered to the floor and Nina bent down to pick them up before attempting to wipe the coffee off his shoes. Good grief, he even had handsome feet.

When she glanced up at him, she caught him smiling sardonically. “I don’t think I’ve got any coffee on my left pant leg,” he said. “Maybe you’d like to order another cup and finish the job?”

“I’ll just get you cleaned up and then—” She reached up and dabbed frantically at the front of his pants, then realized where she was dabbing and groaned softly. “I—I guess you should probably do that area on your own.” What was she thinking? Nina glanced around to see the entire clientele of Jitterbug’s watching her with amusement. What were they thinking?

He grabbed her elbow, pulling her to her feet. Afraid to look up, Nina halfheartedly wiped at his shirt with the sheet of paper she had clutched in her other hand. When he took it from her fingers and shoved it in his pants pocket, she had no choice but to meet his gaze. An apologetic smile twitched at her lips and she risked a look up. “I—I’m sorry. Sometimes, I’m so clumsy. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on hers for the first time. “And there’s no need to apologize. It was partly my fault, too.”

She’d never seen a greener pair of eyes in her life. Or a sexier smile. Or a straighter nose. Or a—Nina swallowed hard. “But your shirt. It’s ruined.”

He chuckled dryly. “I never liked this shirt. Gives me a good excuse to toss it.”

For a long moment, they didn’t speak. Nina tried to remember if she’d apologized, but she couldn’t recall exactly what she’d said to him. Maybe it was the eyes, the penetrating eyes that seemed to send every rational thought running from her mind. Or the lips that looked like they’d been made especially to kiss women, and lots of them. Even the faint stubble of a beard was more than she could bear.

Was this one of those men she’d been wondering about, the one in a million and a half, the last single decent guy in all of New York City? She glanced at his left hand, looking for the telltale wedding band. There was none. Oh, if he was the one in a million, she’d certainly made a mess of destiny! “Can—can I buy you another coffee?” she offered.

He shook his head, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I was just leaving. I’ve got a meeting.”

Her breath caught again and she waited for him to step away, to walk out the door and out of her life forever. For all she knew, she’d just dumped coffee all over Mr. Right and now he was going to just disappear without another word. “Of course,” she murmured. “And look at what I’ve done.”

He glanced over his shoulder and winced. “I really have to go.” He grabbed his suit jacket and briefcase from a chair, then slowly turned and started toward the door. Nina took one step to stop him, but then she noticed the rest of the patrons still watching her.

“I really am sorry,” she called as the door swung shut behind him. “A little cold water and a good non-chlorine bleach will get that stain right out!” She looked around the coffee shop, frowning. “Show’s over. You can all go back to your coffee,” she muttered.

With a flush of embarrassment, she hurried back to her table and sat down. “Was that as bad as I think it was?” Nina murmured. “Did I make a total fool of myself? And was there anyone in this place who didn’t hear me giving him laundry advice?”

Lizbeth reached over and patted her hand excitedly. “That was absolutely perfect!” she cried. “Honey, I didn’t think you had it in you, but that move was pure brilliance!”

“What move?”

“Spilling coffee all over that stunningly gorgeous man. I don’t even think I would have had the courage to do something so outrageous, especially when he had on a handmade French shirt. Those things cost five hundred apiece if they cost a penny.”

“Really?” Nina squeaked. “Five hundred dollars?”

“Couldn’t you tell? Oh, honey, the way it hugged his body and nipped in around that waist. It fit him like a second skin. That kind of shirt makes a girl wonder what’s underneath. Every woman in this place was pea-green with envy of you.”

“It was an accident,” Nina said numbly.

Lizbeth gave her a sly look. “Oh, please. You expect me to believe that? So, did you give him your phone number? You know, offer to pay his cleaning bill? Buy him a new shirt?”

“No. He didn’t ask that I pay.” Nina frowned and looked over at the door. “He said he was going to throw the shirt out. I guess I should have offered. But it was his fault, too.”

“You didn’t give him your phone number,” Lizbeth stated, her voice flat and laced with disbelief. “Please tell me you at least got his name. Or you gave him yours.”

Nina covered her face with her hands. “No. I just couldn’t think. I mean, there he was, all covered with coffee. And there I was,” she moaned, “rubbing his crotch with napkins.” She moaned again, this time with more emphasis. “I really screwed that up. For a second, I thought it might be destiny, but then he looked at me and my mind just went haywire and my knees went all wobbly.” Nina peered at Lizbeth through her fingers. “He probably wasn’t my type anyway, right? I mean, he was wearing a suit and I never go for businessmen. And he seemed a little uptight.” She drew a shaky breath. “And a guy who wears five-hundred dollar shirts is way out of my league. I’m sure it would never have worked out.”

Lizbeth pushed to her feet, shaking her head. “Did you bother to look at the man? He’s every woman’s type! Nuns would lust after the guy.” She grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, then wagged her finger at Nina. “Maybe you should place that ad. It’s clear that you don’t have a chance of getting a gorgeous man the regular way—by trickery and manipulation. I have to go, I have a date. But I want you to sit here and think about what you did wrong. We’ll discuss it later.”

Nina nodded dejectedly, like a child chastised. “I don’t think I’ll be able to put it out of my mind.”

“I’ll call you.” Lizbeth turned on her heel and walked toward the door. When it closed behind her, Nina busied herself with picking up her belongings. She grabbed the pad of paper and started to shove it in her bag, but decided against it. Snatching up her pencil, she closed her eyes for a moment, then began to write.