Bad Boy (19 page)

“Not ones like this,” Jon told her grimly.

“Well, you get an A for effort,” she said. “You set your sights too high. It’s just too hard to pick someone up cold without some common interest.” She pushed Phil off her and got up.

“The sauce needs stirring,” Laura repeated. Tracie got over to the stove, and in doing so, she missed something else that Jon had said. “Slow down. Slow down,” she told him. Her comfort hadn’t helped. From the pitch of his voice, she realized she’d have to take this more seriously. It was obvious he was deeply upset.

“. . . because I’d worked it all out. I thought I had it perfect. But you can’t work it out. You can’t control it. ’Cause when I got to the airport and there was nobody good on that flight
‌
—I mean, there was somebody good, but she was too good, and, like I said, the other one was pregnant.”

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“What other one?” Tracie asked as she took the spoon and stirred the sauce. She felt pulled in too many directions at once. How did women raise two or three children?

“Did Danny really strum his bass?” Phil was asking Laura.

“Absolutely,” Laura said. “And did you know Laurie was anorexic?”

“Get out! I had a huge boner for Laurie.”

Tracie tried to silence them with her hand motions. Jon was still talking. “So I moved to the next carousel and started talking to Carole, and then my bag was on the wrong carousel, and I guess I panicked and said something stupid, and then she started to act as if I was
‌
—”

“Who is Carole?” Tracie asked as Laura handed her some big leaves, which Tracie had no idea what to do with.

“This girl I picked up at the airport,” Jon said, his voice showing his exasperation. “Carole.”

“I’m listening. I just missed her name.” What else did I miss? Tracie wondered. “Where were you going?” she asked.

“Going? I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Well, where did you meet this Carole?”

“Tonight. At the airport.”

“So why were you at the airport if you weren’t going anywhere? Were you meeting Carole?” Tracie didn’t remember that there was any Carole in Jon’s life. Meanwhile, Laura pulled out a leaf from Tracie’s hand and threw it into the sauce.

_p. 186
Next, Phil made a gesture with his finger across his throat to say cut it short, but she couldn’t. Laura took back the spoon. Tracie shrugged an apology. “I don’t understand,” she told Jon. “What were you doing at the airport?”

So, while she stirred the pot with one hand and held the phone to her ear with the other, he told her a long, crazy story that only Jon could tell. She laughed a couple of times, until she realized that that might hurt his feelings. Then she managed to keep a straight face during all the rest of the crazy recitation. Jon was one of a kind.

“So anyway, I wrote my name and number on her hand. Can you imagine how embarrassing?”

“Well, you’ll never see her again.”

“I might. I know she’s got a gig with Micro/Con.” Then he really lost touch with reality. “Do you think if I track her down, find her number, and wait a day or two until I call, she might go out with me?” he asked.

“I think she’d have you arrested,” Tracie told him. “Look, you tried. Forget it. There will be dozens more. Don’t sweat it. And you get an A for originality, as well as extra points for neatness. But it wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked. “Just because I panicked? Maybe I could try it again?”

“No. Not that.” She sighed and looked down at the sauce, which was thickening nicely. “I mean that the two of you had nothing in common except that you were both at the airport. You
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weren’t even on the same flight. Usually, there has to be some kind of shared
something
to get things started,” she explained. “So you were working against yourself there.”

Actually, as she thought about it, his idea was pretty neat. Crazy, but so Jon. That he was capable of thinking it up made her smile. The fact that he wasn’t capable of carrying it off was because he was Jon. He was nuts, but in a kind of adorable way. He’d eventually make some woman a really great husband. But first, she had to get him a date. She lowered the flame under her sauce. Laura nodded approval.

She tried to think of a place where people gathered
‌
—not at a bar or club, because she knew Jon would never be comfortable there, but
‌
—It came to her like an avalanche and she smiled at her own analogy. Perfect! Much better than an airport. “Look,” she said. “I’ve got an idea. How about if I take you somewhere where you’ll have something to talk about to women?”

“Are you talking to me?” Phil asked, raising his eyebrows. “Because I’m interested.” Tracie frowned at him.

“Where?” Jon asked at the same time, his voice suspicious.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out,” Tracie announced, again reverting to Encino talk.

“It’s time to get serious here,” Laura said, interrupting. “We’ve got some major seasoning that’s got to go in.” Tracie nodded to her and gave her the “just one minute” sign.

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“Trust me on this,” she told Jon, and she wondered if she could write about his airport fiasco in her article. It would be really hysterical, but that would be what he might not like. Guiltily, she thought she really ought to tell him about her article idea, but she certainly couldn’t do it now, not after his humiliation, and not with Laura and Phil breathing down her neck. “Look, don’t lose heart,” she told him. “It was great that you took the initiative. Rome wasn’t built in a day. The longest journey starts with a single step . . .”

“Not enough cooks spoil the sauce,” Laura said pointedly.

“A stitch in time saves time,” Phil added.

“That’s not right,” Laura said to him.

“I get the idea,” Jon told Tracie.

“It’s nine,” Laura was saying. “Nine.”

“It’s past ten-thirty,” Phil responded.

“The saying is, A stitch in time saves nine,” Laura was explaining.

“Nine what?” Phil asked.

Laura ignored him.

“Okay,” Tracie told Jon. “So I have a plan. You in?”

“I don’t know.”

“You promised me I’d pass calculus. I promise you you’ll get a date,” Tracie assured him.

“Okay,” he agreed, but he still sounded pretty demoralized.

“Nine stitches!” Laura shouted.

“I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Tracie told Jon.

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“Okay.” He paused. “Hey, Tracie, thanks.”

“
De nada,
” she replied.

With relief, Tracie hit the off button and laid the phone on the edge of the stove. “You have to put in the oregano and the rest of the herbs now,” Laura instructed. “But I want you to add some more garlic first.”

“I have to chop garlic again?” Tracie asked, dismayed. She had started with that even before the onions. She was never going to smell sexy again, unless Neapolitan kitchens were a turn-on for Phil. Remorselessly, Laura handed her the cloves and the chopping board. Tracie shrugged her shoulders and did as she was directed for a few minutes, until the phone rang again. She shrugged at Laura as if to say, Not my fault, and then picked it up. It was Beth.

“I’m going to call him. I’m sitting here alone and he’s sitting there alone and there’s no reason for me not to call him,” Beth said.

“You’re
not
going to call him,” Tracie told her. “First of all, he’s probably not alone. Second, he’s made it clear he doesn’t want a relationship with you. And, in case you’ve forgotten, he is your boss. You’ll wind up not only losing his respect but your job, too.”

“I don’t want my job,” Beth wailed. “It’s torture seeing him every day but not being able to have him.”

Tracie shook her head. Her hair fell into her eyes. She
had
to remember to book an appointment with Stefan. Beth groaned. How Beth could manage to get so emotional about a
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middle-aged, slightly balding, mean guy was beyond her. What Beth needed was a distraction. “You’ve got more important things to do,” Tracie told her. “I want you to go through your closet and figure out what you’d wear on a Friday date.”

“Why bother?” asked Beth. “I haven’t had a date in months.”

“You have one for next Friday,” Tracie informed her. “I fixed you up.” Laura was tapping her finger against the side of her forehead with the gesture that said, You’re crazy. Then she pointed to the sauce.

“With who?” Beth asked, and Tracie could hear the curiosity and interest in her voice, though she was trying to sound disinterested. “Not one of those loser musicians of yours,” Beth added. “I don’t want to be stuck paying for their beer all night like the last time.”

“No, no,” Tracie assured her. “This guy’s really cool and he’s not a musician.” Better leave a little mystery. She lied: “I’m not sure exactly what he does, but he’s really cute.”

“What’s his name?” Beth asked.

“Jonny,” she lied.

Laura now had both hands on her hips again
‌
—not a good sign
‌
—and Phil was seriously sulking. “I gotta go,” she told Beth. “We’ll talk tomorrow at work.” At least that will give her something to think about, she figured as she hung up the phone and turned back to Laura.

“You’re getting him a date?” Laura asked.

“Well, first I thought I’d take him to a place where he could pick up a girl for him
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self. But you know, in case it doesn’t work out, he needs a date.”

“I’ll go out with him,” Laura said. “I mean, just as a practice.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Tracie said as offhandedly as possible. “I don’t think we should try that. Not after you dissed him at the market.” She thought for a moment. “It’ll be good for Beth. She’s trying to get over Marcus.”

“Beth from the gym?” Laura asked. “She’s an idiot.”

“Well, yes. But she’s a cute idiot, and it’s just a date.”

Laura turned to the sofa as if to ask Phil . . . but Phil wasn’t there. “Where did he go?” she asked Tracie.

Tracie shrugged. He must be in the bedroom, sulking. She covered the pot with the only lid in the house, one she had improvised with a plate and aluminum foil. “Can I leave this now?” she asked, feeling as if she were stretched in a half dozen directions. She had to go to Phil and make everything okay with him. And she had to do some work on her article, at least to bring her notes up-to-date.

“Sure,” Laura said acidly. “How important is tomato sauce compared to true love?”

Tracie’s hands really stank now from the garlic. “Give me a break, will ya?” Tracie asked her. “Also, while you’re at it, give me another lemon.”

“Sorry. No more lemons,” Laura said brightly. “Except for the guy in there.” She indicated the bedroom with a tilt of her head.

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“Thank you,” Tracie told her. “Pete’s a great guy, too.”

“But Pete is not in my bedroom,” Laura pointed out. “I don’t have to go in there and give lemon aid.”

Phil was lying on her rumpled bed with his guitar next to him. He was breathing deeply, his face stuffed into one of her pillows. But somehow Tracie could tell he was faking. She used to do it herself when she was a kid and her father would check on her. She sat down at the foot of the bed and put a hand gently on his ankle. “Are you sleeping?” she asked.

He immediately picked his head up in an exaggerated start. “No,” he said after a moment, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. “I was just going to try out a few new licks.”

There was something very intimate about knowing he was faking his composure, as if she had caught a child in a game of pretend. He was like a child in many ways. Tracie became almost shy. “Look, I’m behind on my meat loaf sampling and I also have to cover the opening act at the EMP for the
Times.
Remember? I thought you might want to go.”

“To EMP? Jesus, that place is so lame.” Again, Tracie could see that he was covering his disappointment. Bob had talked of the Glands playing at the Experience Music Project through some friend of a friend. But the gig
‌
—if it had ever existed at all
‌
—had never
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materialized or fallen through. Since then Phil had had nothing but criticism of the museum that had made news all across the country. Sometimes Tracie thought highly of Phil’s iconoclasm and fierce independence but at other times
‌
—like this one
‌
—she began to believe that he simply rejected things defensively before they rejected him.

“Frank Gehry is going to be there,” Tracie coaxed. Gehry was the genius who had created the Experience.

“So what,” Phil said. “They spent two hundred and fifty million dollars on something that looks like the wreck of the Partridge Family bus.”

“I’m going to try to get an interview with him,” Tracie said. “My father knows him from L.A.”

“Fine,” Phil told her. “Use insider contacts that others don’t have. I don’t care if that’s the only way you can make it, but don’t expect me to watch or help.”

Tracie shook her head. Why did he have to be so nasty? Sometimes she believed that each time they got close to one another Phil was obliged to spoil it by being what Laura would call an IPP. She shrugged. She wouldn’t press him or chase him and after this behavior she certainly didn’t feel like bringing him as a companion. Then she remembered that she had yet another agenda. She decided to try one more time.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “We could have fun. We could dance like we used to.” When
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they’d first met, they danced all the time. She’d been impressed with his weird dance moves. They were . . . unique. He didn’t dance like a white boy, but he wasn’t doing some pathetic imitation of a rapper, either. He moved like a robot ballet dancer. It seemed to Tracie that they hadn’t danced together in a long, long time. “Oh, come on,” she begged.

Phil fell back onto the mattress. “Nah. I’m really into my playing.”

That’s such bullshit! Tracie thought. Annoyed and hurt, she tried to cover it. “Okay. I just thought you might want to meet Bob Quinto, the manager. And you know, he’s looking for help booking . . .”