The Matchbaker (A Romantic Comedy) (6 page)

I look past her into the lounge part of the restaurant. It’s dead. There are about three tables that have customers and two of them look like they might be wrapping up.

“Are you sure?” I say. “It doesn’t look very busy. And I’m sure my friends are right behind me.”

“I understand, ma’am, but it’s restaurant policy. You can have a seat right over there.” She points to something behind me.

I turn to see a small bench, which apparently constitutes the waiting area. I sit down, a little perturbed. First Steve, now they’re late
and
I have to sit on this stupid little bench instead of drinking a lychee martini all because Miss Stilts-for-Legs says she can’t seat me by myself.

Okay, deep breaths. I remind myself it’s not a big deal. It’s twelve minutes past eight, and I’ve only been here for two of those twelve minutes. I can be patient. I know I can.

I pull my copy of
The 4-Hour Workweek
from my purse and open it up to the bookmark. I know it doesn’t totally apply to me, since I’ve chosen a full-blown career in corporate America, but I have to admit, I’m loving this bit about Elimination, as Ferris calls it. Less hours equals more productivity. What’s not to love?

My phone rings. It’s Lucy. Finally.

“Hey, where are you?” I ask, forgoing any pleasantries. My mood is darkening by the minute.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry. We’re just now leaving.”

“Just now?” They live on the Upper West Side. It’s going to take them forever to get to NoHo.

“Yeah, sorry.” I can tell she’s moving quickly, but I know she’s still in the apartment. “We got…caught up.”

AKA, they were having sex.

“We’ll be there as soon as we can. Just have a drink or something…it’s on us.”

Damn right, it’s on them. “Fine. See you soon.” I don’t even try to sound understanding and I hang up without a proper good-bye.

The hostess is looking around the restaurant, making an obvious show of counting tables, and I get even more annoyed. I really need a drink.

“Excuse me,” I say approaching the hostess stand. She holds up a bony hand to silence me while she writes the number fifteen on her notepad. Seems about right—fifteen empty tables. 

She looks up with a smile when she’s done. “Yes?”

“I’m just going to be at the bar,” I say.

“No problem. Just let me know when your party is complete.”

I resist the urge to remind her we’ve already been through that and head for the bar.

“What can I get ya?” asks the Abercrombie model behind the counter as I slide onto an empty stool. He’s way too cool to make eye contact with me.

“Lychee martini, please.”

As the alcohol hits my lips, I remember last night. Or rather, my stomach remembers last night and revolts against the booze headed its way. Crap. I was feeling so rejuvenated I almost forgot I went on a bender last night.

I try again. I need something to get me out of this blackening mood. A little bile rises to my throat this time. Gross. “Can I get an ice water?” I ask the bartender.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares out into the distance while he fills the glass, then slams it on the counter. He’s losing pennies by the second with that attitude.

I alternate sips of water with sips of the martini. It’s a little better. By the time I finish, there’s still no sign of Lucy and Steve, so I pick up my phone to call them.

“We’re almost there, I promise!” Lucy says as she answers the phone. “Five minutes, tops.”

Ten minutes go by; they still aren’t here. I put my book back into my purse, unable to concentrate anymore. I tap my manicured nails on the bar. I’m hungry. And tired. And annoyed that no one seems to care about what’s going on with me. And I have to get up for work in the morning. And, and, and…this evening is not going as planned.

Finally, Lucy and Steve walk through the door. Lucy is dressed to the nines in a cream dress with a black lace overlay and her favorite Jimmy Choos. They’re black patent with cream-colored scalloping and a little black bow on the front. They’re perfect with that dress. She looks fantastic, especially for a Sunday night.

Steve, however, is dressed like he raided the L.L. Bean outlet store. I’m not trying to be judgmental, but if your girlfriend looks like a million bucks, at least try to match her. Especially if you’re a cheating, lying bastard.

“Oh, my God!” Lucy exclaims as I walk toward them from the bar. “I feel like it’s been forever!”

We hug and then I step back. I would normally hug Steve, but I don’t know what the protocol is on hugging the guy who cheats on your best friend in the whole world and then crashes your girls’ night out.

Thankfully, he seems a bit awkward about the whole thing too, so we both offer a simple “Hey.”

“Okay,” I say to the hostess. “We’re all here.”

“Great!” She picks up three menus and leads us to our table.

Finally. I’m starved.

“Do you know what you want to drink?” A server is at our table in a matter of seconds.

“Do you have beer?” Steve asks before anyone else can say anything.

“Yes, sir,” the girl says. “Perhaps you’d like to try a Japanese beer?”

“Sure, yeah. That sounds great.”

“Water for me,” Lucy says, and I’m immediately suspicious. Especially since she refuses to make eye contact.

“Uh, water’s good for me too,” I say and the waitress leaves to retrieve our drinks.

“Just water, Luce? You know you love the martinis here.”

“I know,” she says with a shrug. “Just not in the mood tonight.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t want to think the unthinkable. She’s way too young for
that
. She has too much to fulfill career-wise before she starts pumping out babies. Plus, if she were to have a baby with scumbag Steve now, I would have to smack her.

We make small talk until the waitress comes back to take our order. I order way too much food, but I can’t help myself. It’s just too good, and I’ve barely eaten today. I need something to soak up all of last night’s alcohol.

The soup comes first, then my red snapper tacos, followed by spicy caviar and a lobster tempura roll. I practically lick every plate clean, amazed at my appetite, and by the time we’re all finished eating, we haven’t talked about anything significant at all. I’m desperate for Steve to go to the bathroom or something. I just need a minute to tell Lucy about my weekend, and then I’ll feel much better.

Go to the bathroom…go to the bathroom….

I almost fall over when Steve actually says, “I’m gonna hit the john.”

“Okay, honey,” Lucy says with a bright smile. “I’ll miss you.”

Gag
. Is she serious? What the hell is wrong with her? Has she completely forgotten that he
cheated
on her?

Once he’s gone, I turn to her, agog. “Lucy, what’s going on? I thought you two would have been broken up by now!”

“Shh!” She looks around to make sure we can’t be heard. “I know, but…I couldn’t do it.”

“Why the hell not? He’s a first class jerk for what he did to you.”

“He doesn’t even know her name. It was a one-time thing, Can. If I’ve forgiven him, why can’t you?”

Because I’m not a weak little ninny with zero backbone
. “Because you’re my best friend, Luce. If he did it once—”

“He’s not going to do it again.” Her tone is pleading, verging on a whine.

I can’t believe she’s defending him.

“Plus…”

Oh, no. She has
that look
about her. I’m nervous. I know what she’s about to say, but I don’t want to hear it. If we weren’t in the middle of a swank restaurant, I wouldn’t hesitate to put my fingers in my ears and start shouting “Lalalalalalalalalala!”

“Candy, I’m pregnant.”

I anticipated it, but I still can’t get over the shock. I know my mouth is hanging open, but I can’t seem to close it. I’m completely speechless. My mind starts running through all the episodes of Dr. Phil I’ve watched over the years. What would he say in this situation? What would he tell Lucy to do with her no-good, cheating, lying, son-of-a-bitch baby daddy?

“So, did you miss me?” Steve asks as he slides into the booth beside Lucy. Then he looks at me and back to Lucy. “You told her, didn’t you?”

“I had to,” Lucy defends. “She’s my best friend.”

Steve grins sheepishly at me. “So what do you think?”

I blink back to life and paste a smile on my face as best I can. “What do I think?” I say. “I think it’s…” I force down a swallow. “Wonderful! Congratulations, you two!”

They turn to each other all googly-eyed and Lucy grabs Steve’s hand. “I knew you’d be happy for us,” Lucy says.

“Of course.” My head is spinning. This is going to change so much. It’s going to change everything, really. “What are you going to do about work?”

“I’ll stay until we find a house.”

“A house?” Okay, things are getting out of hand. “Where are you going to find a house in New York City?”

Lucy laughs. “Silly Candace, we’re not! We’re moving…to Ohio.”

The world as I know it is changing drastically before my very eyes. I feel like I’m on a horrible and terrifying roller coaster and even though I keep screaming “Stop!” there’s no attendant at the start of the coaster to help me. So I just have to keep going until someone rescues me. For now, I’m going to grab onto anything that feels comfortable and safe.

“I need to go home,” I say as I fish money out of my wallet. I toss a hundred dollar bill on the table. “That should cover my portion.”

“Wait, Candace.” Lucy is staring at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Or maybe it’s anger. I don’t look at her long enough to really be able to tell. “It’s not going to be right away.”

My fight or flight instincts are kicking in, and before I blurt out something I’ll regret, I say, “No, I know. It’s just…I think I just started my period.”

I can’t believe I said that in front of Steve, but I figure it’s the best way to get out of here.

“I have tampons.”

I pretend I don’t hear her. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, Luce.”

I rush out to the street and take a moment to catch my breath before hailing a cab. Everything will be fine. That’s what I keep telling myself as I climb into the taxi that’s pulled up in front of me. It’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow to find out it was all just a bad dream. The pregnancy, the house, Lucy moving halfway across the country. Ludicrous!

I laugh out loud and the cabbie looks at me in his rearview mirror.

Everything is just too strange to be real.
The change
. Holly hooking up with my crush. Lucy pregnant and still with Steve. It’s all too fantastical.

I just need a couple days of no alcohol, a good night’s sleep and maybe a hard spin class. Then I’ll feel much better. Everything will go back to the way it was, and we can all live happily ever after.

Six

My first day back on the job is pretty great. My assistant, Melinda (that’s right, I have an assistant!) has me scheduled for a meeting at Le Cirque with a potential client. It’s a big account with one of the largest law firms in the city, but I’m feeling confident after nailing my presentation in Paris. Plus, this is just a preliminary meeting with the CIO. No presentation necessary. I’m supposed to show him a good time and pay for his lunch. No problem-o!

I walk into Le Cirque and tell the
maître’d
who I am. He offers a pinched smile and says in a French accent, “Yes, we were expecting you. Please—” He retrieves two menus “—Right this way.”

I peruse the menu while I wait for my lunch date, Mr. Cooke, but it’s mainly just to give me something to do because I already know exactly what I want. I’m going to start with the lobster risotto. For my main course, the Dover sole. It’s a twenty dollar up-charge, but who cares, especially when it’s on the company’s dime? And for dessert, the Grand Marnier soufflé with vanilla-orange
crème anglais
. I can hardly wait for any of it, but it appears Mr. Cooke is going to make me.

My phone buzzes, indicating I have a new email. Mr. Cooke has written his entire message in the subject line:
Running behind. Twenty minutes
.

Why can’t anyone in my life be on time?

I’m tempted to order a pre-appetizer and make sure it’s cleared away before Mr. Cooke gets here, but instead, I order a bottle of champagne. By the time it arrives and I have a glass, I’m sure he’ll be here.

Twenty-five minutes and two glasses of champagne later, I get another buzz.
Have to reschedule. Sorry
.

Part of me is elated I get to have lunch at Le Cirque without talking business with Mr. Cooke, but another part of me is wondering how the hell I’m supposed to finish an entire bottle of
Veuve Cliquot
on my own.

I place my order for food and inform the waiter it’ll be one for lunch now. He gives me a pitying look as if I’ve just been stood up and he totally understands. I want to correct him, but I don’t. Instead, I just let him pamper me and entertain me with sweet smiles and anecdotes about the other customers. If he wasn’t so obviously gay, I would ask him out.

When he brings the bill an hour later, he gives me a covert wink and as I open it up, I see that he left off the twenty-dollar up-charge for the sole. Not that the extra twenty bucks would matter to Bell North, but that was really sweet of him, so I thank him profusely and leave a hefty tip.

Le Cirque is a mere three blocks from my Mecca. I know I should head back to the office, but I’m pretty sure no one will notice if I take just a little longer to pop into Bergdorf’s. I mean, I won’t have a lot of leisure time now that I’m an executive, so I have to squeeze in my shopping trips when I can, right? Besides, the weather is going to turn chilly soon, and I could use a new weekend sweater. This is a totally justifiable trip when you think of it that way.

As if my body is one giant homing device, I turn left onto Fifth Avenue toward the store. As I enter through the revolving doors, I breathe in the scent of expensive perfumes and wealth. There’s always the odd mix of extremely rich people and tourists milling about the lower level, but I head right to the elevator to get to the boutiques on the higher floors.

I wander around a bit, but it’s the Brunello Cucinelli boutique that captures my attention. A charcoal gray cable knit sweater hangs off a mannequin. I must have it. It’s beautiful. And it will be perfect for the in-between weather where it’s too warm for a full-on sweater, but too cold to wear just a long-sleeved top.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” The sales woman has stood up behind her desk to appear eager to assist, but she’s just trying to get a good look at my outfit to see if I’m the buying type or the browsing type. I’m pretty sure my Zac Posen suit says “buying type.”

“Yes, I’d like to try this on,” I say. “Size six, please.” I wish I could say size zero…or even size two would be nice. But I tend to be a bit heavier in the cooler months, so I’ll go a size up from my usual size four.

The sales woman retrieves my size and escorts me to the fitting room. As I slip on the soft sweater and bundle the raccoon fur collar up around my neck, I close my eyes and savor the feel of heaven on earth. Dear God, it’s incredible. I absolutely must have it.

I glance at the price tag now that I’m in the privacy of the dressing room. I would never do that in front of the sales lady—you don’t want them to think money is in any way an object. I swallow hard. It’s a bit on the pricey side; just a little more than one might want to spend on a quick lunch hour shopping trip. But there are a million reasons why I should buy this sweater.

1) It’s classic, so it won’t go out of style after one season.

2) It’s functional and can be worn with a trendy black dress or a pair of jeans.

3) It’s an investment. As long as I keep it nice, I can sell it for at least half the cost on eBay sometime down the road. And by then, I won’t even care about regaining the money because I’ll have gotten so much use out of it already.

4) It’s my money.

5) I want it.

6) I deserve it after all the curve balls I’ve been thrown lately.

Deciding that number six is really the only justification I need, I slip off the sweater, put my suit jacket on and head out of the dressing room. The sales lady is back at her desk and she looks up with a curious smile as I emerge.

“What did you think?” she asks, coming to her feet.

“It’s absolutely exquisite.” I hand her the sweater.

She tallies the tax. “That will be one thousand, three hundred dollars and ninety-one cents.”

I pull my credit card from my wallet and hand it over. I’m fighting buyer’s remorse a bit, but I remind myself this is why I do what I do. This is why I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am at Bell North. This is why I turned down my parents when they told me they wanted me to run the bakery and ruthlessly ignored the guilty pit in my stomach. So I could spend $1300 on a sweater. During my lunch hour. On a whim.

Feeling cheered by my internal pep talk and by the fact that I now own the most exquisite Brunello Cucinelli sweater ever made, I bound out onto the street and hail a cab. I’ll have to have Monica, the receptionist at Bell North, hide the Bergdorf bag under her desk for the afternoon. I’m sure Celia wouldn’t mind my little detour, but still…best to keep it out of her sight to be safe.

Once I’m back at the office and my sweater is safely stowed beneath Monica’s desk, it’s time to get to work. Melinda has a stack of phone messages for me and Celia has left several folders on my desk with a sticky note on top that reads: Warm Leads. I hate making sales calls, but I’m pretty damn good at it, which is why I’m here. Why I’m the youngest executive at Bell North.

As I make my calls and deal with people I’d rather not deal with, I continue to remind myself that this is what I’ve always wanted. I also do my best to hold the image of my $1300 sweater in my mind as I assure the CEO of our biggest account that we are doing our best to deliver the highest caliber of service to them at the most competitive price possible and that we’ll gladly take ten percent off their next bill as a concession for “spotty” service on their mobile devices. 

“Well, it’s the least you can do,” he says to me and I have the image of those old guys from the Muppets who sit in the balcony and say mean things to everyone. At least Celia and I get along well. I don’t know what I’d do if I had this a-hole for a boss.

“I understand, Mr. Levine, and thank you again for your continued loyalty to Bell North.”

He grunts something inaudible and then the phone line goes dead.

“Well done, Candace.” Celia is leaning against my doorjamb, her arms crossed over her Armani-clad chest.

“Thanks. Mr. Levine’s a tough customer to deal with, but I’m pretty sure they’ll renew their contract.”

Celia shrugs as she walks into the room. “I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with him anymore. How did the lunch with Mr. Cooke go?”

“Ah, yeah…about that. He cancelled at the last minute.”

“Oh, well. It happens.” She looks at her watch, her brow furrowed. “What time did you get back?”

I wonder if this is a test. Did she see me come in at two thirty? Or can I fudge and say one thirty so she doesn’t know I went shopping? I decide to play it safe. I scrunch my nose up and make a big show of trying to remember. “I don’t know. I think maybe two?”

“Your lunch was scheduled for noon.” She looks a little skeptical. “What took you so long to get back?”

“Well, I waited there for forever. He didn’t cancel until almost one, and by then I was starving, so I just ordered something small to eat. And then I rushed right back here.”

I’ve tried not to make a habit of lying to Celia in the past, but it seems I’m being forced into it more and more these days. It makes me a little sick to my stomach, but I can’t let her know that. I sit up straighter and give her a pointed look, challenging her to say something more.

She narrows her eyes and then says, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Finally, she exits my office, and I just have to hope Monica hasn’t said anything to her about my sweater.

I’m about to pick up the phone to make my next call when Celia pops her head back around the door. “By the way, love the sweater, but if you ever go to Bergdorf’s on the clock again, you’ll be fired. Understood?”

I can’t say anything. I’m too dumbfounded. And thankfully Celia isn’t looking for an answer—she’s already gone again. Damn Monica! She was supposed to keep it a secret. Now Celia will be watching my every move when I go out for lunch meetings.

I shake my head. It’s fine. I’m still only a junior executive. I’m sure once I’m a senior executive, no one will notice if I take more time at lunch. And I certainly won’t have to hide my purchases under Monica’s desk anymore. I’ll be able to do whatever the hell I want. Celia has the freedom, but she chooses not to take it. Maybe she’s just bitter that I found an opening for a little fun and relaxation in the day and she didn’t. But is it really my fault? She could spend all day at Sax and I wouldn’t say a thing. As a matter of fact, I would applaud her for it. All work and no play is just a silly mantra to live by and no one who has the freedom to do otherwise should stick to it.

Besides, I’m working much harder this afternoon than I normally would. I’ve already gotten through most of the afternoon’s work and it’s only four o’clock.

By the time six rolls around, I’m feeling slightly less confident. It seems lots of CIOs and CEOs stop working around four or five in the afternoon or they’re so backed up with work by that hour they don’t have time to take your call. So I’ve mostly gotten voicemail over the last couple hours, which means I have to make all these calls again tomorrow morning. Not great, since my desk is already being piled with things to do tomorrow. So much for the
4-Hour Workweek
.

But it’s fine. I’ll just go to bed early tonight and get a good night’s sleep so I’m good and fresh for tomorrow morning and ready to make a great impression on Celia.

~*~

It’s five minutes ‘till eight when I arrive at the office the next morning, but Monica is looking at me with alarm.

“Oh, my God. Where have you been?” she says, her voice hushed yet urgent.

I stare at her, confused. “What are you talking about?” I look at my phone’s clock. “It’s not even eight yet.”

“Yeah, but the meeting started at seven-thirty. Clyde’s been out here three times asking where the hell you are.”

Clyde? Oh, God. That’s the big boss. But…“Monica, what are you talking about? I don’t know anything about a meeting.” I pull out my phone and flip to the calendar. Nothing. Not a word about a meeting this morning.

“Candace, even
I
knew about this meeting. Didn’t Celia tell you? This is the big International Strategy one.”

Crap. It is a big one. A really big one the company only has twice a year. How did I miss the announcement?

“All right, well, there’s nothing I can do except get in there. Better late than never, right?” I shoot Monica a hopeful smile, but she doesn’t return it. She only shakes her head as if to say,
You’re doomed
.

Not possible. I’m not doomed. That’s just silly. I mean, I’m only a half hour late. I’m sure there are hours left to the meeting. They’ve probably just now settled in with their coffee and donuts. I’m positive I haven’t missed anything.

Head held high, I walk confidently down the main hallway and turn into the boardroom. Twenty people are sitting around the large glass table and they all look at me as I enter the room. No donuts or coffees to be found.

I gulp, but try to keep it together. It’s fine. How valuable could I be to this discussion, anyway? I’m sure they’ve gotten on fine without me. I am new to this position, after all.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s decided to join us,” Clyde says from the front of the room. Heat rises into my cheeks. Oh, God. It was bad enough that everyone saw me come in, now Clyde has to point out that I’m late. Just great. “I had heard you were punctual, Cooper. But maybe you’re on Bimbo Time.”