“Hi,” I say to the too-small group. “I’m Layla, your tour guide.” What if he doesn’t show?
“I love the name Layla,” the father says.
He might still show. We still have-I frantically peek at my watch-two minutes.
The father starts to sing the Eric Clapton song, and I’m reminded of Jamie. I hope he’s okay.
It doesn’t look like Bradley is going to show. And I’ve wasted five days of my life learning LWBS architecture. Five days that I could have spent elsewhere. Like in the library. I begin reading the names off my clipboard. Slowly.
One minute.
“Sandy Johnson?”
“Here,” the father says. Oh. I had assumed Sandy was the daughter. That’s nice. A father coming back to school.
And then he pats the daughter on the behind. Oops. Guess she’s not a daughter. What is it then? A second wife? A midlife crisis? New wife and career change? I hope they don’t plan on living at the Zoo.
I continue reading the names on the list. The minute hand on my watch officially declares that it’s now three-oh-one. He’s late. He’s not coming. Everyone is here but him. “We’re missing one,” I say. I look down at my paper as if I don’t know who it is. “Bradley Green?” I say, looking around. He probably chose Harvard and blew us off. Downhearted, I say, “Well, I guess that’s it. Will you all please follow-”
And there he is.
Pushing through the turn door, snow sprinkled on his head. He’s just as handsome and perfect as I remember. And he’s smiling at me. My body freezes. I force myself to speak. “Mr. Green. You almost missed us.”
He removes his coat and tosses it over his arm. “Thanks for waiting.” And then suddenly, he’s standing beside me. Less than a foot away. Up close, I can see he has a cleft in his chin and a dimple on each cheek. His skin looks soft, as if he shaved only moments ago.
“My pleasure.” I lose myself in his ice-green eyes, which are remarkably framed by thick, dark brown lashes. He smiles again. His eyes flick to my exposed cleavage and then back up. I guess the red shirt was the right choice. “Now, if you’ll all follow me, we’ll start our tour.” And hopefully our love affair.
I lead the group to the auditorium. Bradley sidles up next to me. “Grenadine was right. You are gorgeous.”
I smile and bat my eyes. This is going to be easier than I thought.
“Want to grab a quick coffee?” he asks after the tour.
I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Sure.” It worked. I can’t believe this insane plan worked.
He orders a café latte and I order a cappuccino.
I sit down at a table in the back, concentrating on my posture. “So, Bradley, where are you from?” As if I don’t already know his exact address on Seventy-sixth.
“Manhattan,” he says, smiling.
You don’t say! “Yeah? Me, too. When I’m not here, I mean.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Upper East Side. You?”
“Same. On Seventy-sixth and Park. You?”
“Eighty-third and Park,” I say.
“We’re neighbors.”
“What college did you go to?”
“Columbia,” I say. “You?”
“Yale.” See how perfect we are for each other? “This is surprisingly good coffee,” he says.
I lean over to take a sip from mine. Screw my posture. Might as well give him an eyeful. “So tell me, Bradley, where else did you apply?” I’ve decided to ask him about everything I already know so I don’t mess up and mention it as a matter of fact.
“For B-school? Columbia, Harvard, Wharton and Stern. I’ve been accepted everywhere except Harvard. I’m on the waiting list.”
“What’s your first choice?”
“Harvard.” He leans toward me over the table. “Am I allowed to say that here?”
I wink. “Yeah. I’m sure most people here would have gone to Harvard if they’d gotten in. I didn’t even apply.”
He looks surprised. “No? How come?”
I tell him about how both my parents graduated from LWBS, and we chat about our families and our career goals until our third cups of coffee are empty, and the sky beyond the window has turned midnight-blue. We toss our garbage away and stroll toward the door.
“It was wonderful to meet you, Layla.”
“It was nice to meet you, too.” Is that it? That can’t be it. “I hope I’ll see you here next year.”
“You just might,” he says. “At least now there’s an incentive. Besides the coffee. Are you in New York this weekend?”
“I…yes.” As of this second.
“Do you think you’ll have time to get together?”
I try to appear as though this isn’t the question I’ve been waiting for all year. “I don’t see why not. When were you thinking?”
“Dinner on Friday night?”
“I can do dinner.”
He smiles and pulls his PalmPilot from his coat pocket. “Terrific. Want to beam me your number?”
I whip out my Palm and beam it to him.
He kisses me softly on the cheek. “Till then.”
Yes!
kimmy works it
Friday, February 13, 5:37 p.m.
Normally I do either the step class or Pilates class. Today I do both.
“Lift that leg,” Gossip, the Pilates instructor, tells me. So I lift.
“Who wants strong legs?” he calls out to the class. I do! I do! In case I have to kick Sharon’s ass.
The nerve of her invading my turf. So what that she doesn’t know I exist? Not true. She must know that I exist, just not that I’m sleeping with her boyfriend. She must have asked him about his learning group. Surely he mentioned me. How does she picture me in her head? I wonder if he described me.
“Hold it, baby, hold it.” The instructor is the most stereotypical gay man I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing pink leggings and a tight purple tank top. He goes by the name, Gossip. Yes, Gossip. It says that on the class schedule.
Maybe Russ told Sharon I was gay. Maybe he told her that Lauren and I are partners. Either that, or he told her I’m ugly. Or stupid.
When Gossip finally tells us to have a fabulous weekend and make sure to make a lot of love, I hit the gym showers. I stuffed my knapsack with all my shower stuff, hair dryer, change of clothes and makeup. I don’t normally bring all that paraphernalia to the gym, but I don’t know what time she’s coming in today. And I can’t have her walking in all dressed up and crossing my path while I look like a shlump. No, way. Russ will obviously be comparing us, the way men must compare their equipment standing at the urinal.
After showering, I blow-dry my hair straight. Then do my best makeup application. I skip the eyeliner, since it scares me despite Layla’s lesson. Sweet Layla. She tried to convince me to come with her to New York.
“No way,” I told her. “I have to check out the competition.” I was lying on her bed watching her pack, drinking tea.
She folded a green shirt into a perfect square and carefully placed it into her suitcase. “You’re being morbid. You’re going to be alone here, miserable. Why do you want to put yourself through that?”
“I’m not running away. Besides, you have a date.”
“I’ll cancel.”
I threw a pillow at her. “Cancel? After we pulled off the best advertising campaign ever? Are you on crack?” I still couldn’t believe we did it. I come up with the best strategies! I must be a strategy whiz. Martin seems to think so, too-he gave me an A on my last assignment. Yes, an A. I almost asked him if he was sure it was my paper.
My strategy for this weekend is to look superhot. I finish blow-drying and admire the effect in the mirror. Beat that, Sharon. As the final touch, I apply my new lipstick. It’s red and called Irresistible. I spent twenty-six dollars on this tube, more than I’ve ever spent on any piece of makeup, so it had better work. I’m wearing my good jeans, and a tight sweater that shows a little cleavage but not enough to make me look slutty. I’m a ten out of ten, if I must say so myself.