Off the Menu Read online

  I know that the food was amazing, a salad and some other antipasti. A couple great pastas. A braised pork shank that I made a mental note to try to replicate. A light-as-air hazelnut mousse. I know that the Barolo was the perfect thing with the meal, and that the chef came out to thank us after we sent a third of the bottle back to the kitchen along with the rest of the champagne. I know that we lingered over cappuccinos. That we seemed to talk about everything and nothing. And that when we looked up, we were the only people left in the place and it was after eleven.

  “I think we had better let them close, huh?” I said, looking at the staff gathered at the other end of the room.

  “I had no idea it had gotten so late. We should definitely go.”

  I stood up and he was right beside me, helping me on with my coat. We walked outside into the freezing air.

  “I’d like to walk you to your car, if that is all right.”

  “I’d like that.” He offered me his arm, and we walked two steps. “Here I am.”

  “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

  “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Thank you, RJ, this was such a wonderful evening.”

  “It was more than wonderful, it was extraordinary. I can’t believe we were here for four hours. It just flew by. I’d really like to do it again, if that would be okay.”

  “I would love that. I am back from New York Thursday.”

  “So, maybe next weekend?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “We can firm it up tomorrow when we can look at our calendars. Will you do me a favor? Call me when you get home so that I know you’re safe?”

  “I will, promise.”

  He walks me around to the side of my car, and opens my door for me. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Alana.” And he leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. No tongue, the lightest of pressure, sweet and simple and not insistent.

  “Thank you. Good night.” I sit down and buckle in.

  “Drive safe. And don’t forget to call,” he says, and closes my door.

  As I wend my way home, I’m blown away by how simply perfect the evening was. The restaurant had been the ideal choice, the food delicious, the wines extraordinary. But frankly? He could have taken me to McDonald’s, and if he had smiled that smile and twinkled those eyes at me, we would have been there for four hours too. I can’t process how comfortable I feel with him, like I could tell him anything, and what is more, that I never once the whole night felt the need to edit, pretty up, or in any way manage what I told him. I was 100 percent myself, and he made me feel like that was more than fine, it was spectacular. He complimented me consistently, but I never felt like he was feeding me a line. He laughed at my jokes and funny stories, with true delight. I feel like I just spent the last four hours in a deep hug. Which scares the bejesus out of me. I can’t just blindly trust that he was as into me as I was into him. I can’t assume that the spark I felt was mutual. We spent so much time being so open about the idea of making a new friend, I don’t have anything to hang my feelings on. It is entirely possible that he is just pursuing this on the friendship tip, and now that he is real and not theoretical, disappointment is out of my hands.

  I pull into my space in the back, grab my phone out of the glove compartment, and walk up the gangway to the front of the building. It shows I have new messages, but I’m not in the mood. As soon as I get to the front window, I can hear Dumpling bark twice, to let me know that he knows I’m here. By the time I get the door open, he is spinning and barking and sneezing all at the same time.

  “Okay, okay, I know, let’s go!” I stand aside and Dumping shoots out the door. While he is peeing, I grab my cell and call RJ. He answers on the first ring.

  “Are you home safe and sound?”

  “I am home safe and sound, and walking the dog, who is peeing so much I feel like he is going to start to deflate.”

  “Good boy, him have to pee a lot,” RJ says in a silly voice that makes me giggle.

  “Now he is walking up and down the block marking every tree and bush and gate post he can find. This is apparently Dumpling’s world and we’re all just living in it.”

  “As it should be. I just have to say, Alana, tonight was just one of the best nights of my life. The hours just flew by, and even though my expectations were very high, based on how great our phone conversations have been, tonight just exceeded them. And I know we said that no matter what, we will be friends, and I hope and trust that is true, but I also want you to know that I hope there’s a possibility we’re headed in a different direction. Because I could look into your eyes forever.” My breath practically stops. And I want to jump up and down a little bit.

  “I know. Tonight was really sort of magical. Probably the best first date I’ve ever had. Maybe the best first date anyone has ever had. And I’m hopeful about where we might be headed, but also I feel like tonight I had dinner with someone I am going to know and enjoy forever, and that is just as important to me.”

  “Good. So, I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll find a time next weekend to get together again?”

  I take a deep breath. Every dating book would tell me to stay cool, play coy, make him work for it. But I don’t want a relationship that is work. I like that I feel I can be honest with him.

  “We can talk tomorrow and figure it out, unless maybe you would want to meet for brunch?”

  “I like the way you think. What time and where?”

  Whew. “How about eleven at Four Moon Tavern?”

  “I’ll see you there. Good night, sweet Alana.”

  Dumpling and I head inside, and I change into my pajamas. Just as I am settling in on the couch, my phone rings.

  “Tell. Me. Everything.”

  “Hey, Bennie, was just getting ready to call you.”

  “How was it, start at the beginning and DO NOT STOP.”

  So I do. I tell her everything. Every sip, every bite, every laugh. And when I finish, she is quiet for a moment and then she says the scariest, most wonderful thing.

  “You’re going to marry that man.” She is very matter- of-fact. And not in that supportive, “Yay, girlfriend, you had a good date” way. She says it as a basic statement of reality. She says it like she is telling me that the sky is blue, that the earth is round, that cheesecake is a perfect food. And even though I know I am about to deny it vehemently, there is a little nugget of joy in my heart that I don’t even want to acknowledge.

  I force myself to not just agree with her and start planning the happy-ever-after. “Let’s not jump to any big conclusions. We had a great first date, maybe even the greatest first date since the beginning of time, and I am looking very much forward to a second date, and maybe more. But I can’t let myself get too excited about this. You KNOW how I am. I turn everything into some stupid movie in my head, and then I’m disappointed.”

  “Well then, don’t overthink, but don’t deny yourself the pleasure of the fantasy either. We’re all waiting for the great happy-ever-after, and anyone who says different is a liar. But mark my words. There are two things I can predict with frightening accuracy. People who are about to get pregnant and people who are about to get married. You listen to me, baby girl; you are going to marry that man. There is something different in your voice tonight, something has changed, and I happen to believe that it means that you have found the person you are supposed to be with. You can choose to believe it too or not as you like, but I know what I know.”

  “Okay, then, I’m glad that’s settled. If it’s all right with you I’ll still do the whole dating thing for a while, though. You know, unless he proposes at brunch tomorrow.”

  “Good girl. So, more important, what are we doing this week?”

  We make some plans to go to some galleries and do some shopping and eating. It is after one when we finally hang up, and I crawl into bed exhausted. My phone is blinking, reminding me that I have messages. I hit my voice mail button and enter my password.

  “Alana, it’s Patrick. We have a problem. And
rea fucked up the New York plans, and now I don’t have a room, so it looks like we are bunking together in some tiny closet. I’m not really sure what to do about her. I mean, this shit just cannot happen.”

  Beep. Fuck.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m thinking that I have to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Andrea, I mean, it’s the little stuff that can just add up to not really fulfilling your job, you know? What do you think? Should I give her a good talking-to on Monday before we leave?”

  Beep.

  “Where the fuck are you? Seriously. The more I think about it, the more I think that Andrea just doesn’t have what it takes. Might be time for a change. Call me back.”

  Beep.

  “Okay, here is where I am. I think I’m going to have to just fire her. I don’t have time to constantly be after her to do the most basic things. How hard is it to book a fucking hotel room? She booked YOU a hotel room. She called to confirm YOUR reservation. I mean WHAT THE FUCK? Call me.”

  Beep.

  Sniff. “Alana? It’s, um, Andrea. Patrick just called me.” Sniff. “And, um”—sniff—“I’m fired. Which, you know”—sniff—“shouldn’t really surprise me, you know?” Sniff. “It is Patrick. But um”—sniff—“I’m not really sure what to do now. I don’t want to bother you”—sniff—“especially on a weekend, but can you um”—sniff—“call me tomorrow? I really need to talk.” Sniff. “Okay, bye.”

  Beep. Godfucking damnit.

  “Hey, Alana, don’t really know where you are or what you’re doing, but seriously, wouldn’t hurt to check your phone now and then. Andrea is out. You’ll have to pick up her stuff till I find someone new. Emergency meeting tomorrow. I’ll come to your place around ten.”

  Beep. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. Can’t I have ONE NIGHT? One night where I get to go out to dinner and have a lovely time and come home and dish with a girlfriend and just go to sleep happy with nothing crappy hanging over my head?

  I reach for my laptop. I send Andrea an e-mail telling her to sit tight and not panic, that I will try to smooth things out with Patrick, and that if I can’t, I will help her find a new job. I send RJ an e-mail explaining that a work emergency has come up and asking if we can make our brunch a late lunch instead, or even an afternoon coffee, figuring that I’m going to need at least two hours to deal with Patrick. I send Bruce an e-mail saying that it is looking like our plans are going to have to change, since Patrick and I would now apparently be sharing a room, which will make it impossible to not sleep there. There is a teeny part of me that doesn’t really mind things getting blocked where Bruce is concerned. Not that it wouldn’t have been fun, and no sane woman would purposely skip three nights of great sex, but even though RJ and I are a long way from exclusivity, jumping into the bed of another man this second is just not where my head or heart are at. Although, it would maybe help me keep myself a little realistic.

  It is well after three before I can finally shut my head off enough to sleep, and even then, it is fitful. I feel like I spend the whole night checking the clock.

  Andrea wakes me at eight, still weepy, and explains that the hotel screwed up the reservation in the insanity of managing so many famous food people and their entourages. And that she has copies of the e-mails she sent clearly booking him a suite and me a room, but only the room got booked. She had found two other suites for him in different hotels, and the hotel promised that the first cancellation would be his, but that he was adamant about having to stay in the same place with everyone else. Patrick hadn’t even listened to her; he had just railed about her incompetence and told her to have her stuff cleared out before he got back from New York. I had her forward me the e-mail and asked very pointedly if she wanted me to get her unfired or not.

  “I don’t think so, Alana. I’d never be able to relax and just do my job. As upset as I was last night, and I’m still weirdly residually emotional, I also feel like a weight has been lifted. I need a job where I am appreciated and treated with respect.”

  Crap. I really like Andrea, and she’s been good for Patrick, whether he knows it or not. This is going to suck for me. “How would you feel about assisting a writer?” Emily has finally reached a place in her career where she actually needs help, since she is writing a book a year for Princess Drunkypoo, freelance magazine articles, and just signed her first book deal for her own work under her own name. That on top of the huge mansion she and John just bought and are renovating. She is in need of someone to manage her life and take a bunch of stuff off her hands.

  “Anyone sane.”

  “One of my best pals. You’ll love her. And she has never had a personal assistant before, so you’ll be able to train her to treat you right.”

  Andrea laughs. “I’ll send you my CV; feel free to give it to anyone you think would want me.”

  “Will do. And when I get back from New York we’ll go to The Violet Hour and have cocktails.”

  “That’s a date.”

  I e-mail Emily telling her I just found her the perfect assistant, and to call me later for details. I get an e-mail from RJ saying that he hopes nothing is too tragic, that he is just doing life maintenance stuff today, and that I should just call him when my work stuff is done and he will be delighted to meet me whenever. And Bruce e-mails to say that he feels like he has a head cold coming on anyway, so maybe it is better if we don’t try to make private time. I try to ignore how relieved I am at the contents of both of these e-mails, and get ready to spend the next few hours managing the world’s biggest petulant infant, and hope that the shitstorm that is likely on the horizon is brief and easily survivable.

  12

  Hey, how is the work going?” RJ asks, his call a welcome break from my work fog. It’s been a Sunday morning full of playing catch-up, not at all weekend-y, and deeply annoying, so hearing his voice is a wonderful distraction.

  “Fine. I’ve got about five or six more hours I want to try to get done today. But I think I have found a new assistant for Patrick, so if they have a good meeting tomorrow, I might be able to get back to just enough work for three people instead of five. What are you up to?”

  “I was wondering if I might convince you to take a break for precisely two hours and twenty minutes.”

  “Do tell!”

  “So remember that movie we were talking about the other day at lunch? Out of the Past?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, a copy arrived yesterday from Netflix, and I have a lovely bottle of bubbles, so I thought you might let me come over for afternoon champagne and snacks and a movie if I promise to leave right after it is finished and let you get back to work.”

  He is so dreamy. “That sounds perfect, and I could use a break, my head is all fuzzy.”

  Normally, this would be my cue to frantically primp and prep and try to get super cute while crazily tidying the apartment. But not with RJ. I’m in one of my Target outfits, hair in a ponytail, glasses on, no makeup, and the house is what the house is. And I don’t feel one bit of pressure to change any of it. Not because I don’t want to impress him, or because somehow he isn’t worthy. But because RJ won’t mind, and I love that I know this about him, and I love even more that I feel so comfortable with him that I don’t feel the need to go all tornado on myself. I know that he would feel bad if he thought that I would waste time and energy on stuff like that; he likes me just the way I am.

  It’s been a lovely couple of weeks. We had a delicious late lunch after my insane Patrick meeting, where he listened to all my work bullshit like a trooper and was completely understanding. And was equally understanding when, after three whirlwind days in New York, I returned completely swamped by work, limiting us to one brief date at the Art Institute, which was interrupted and cut short by another of Patrick’s manufactured emergencies.

  “Studio. Right now,” he said when I answered quickly, my phone shockingly loud in the middle of the Modern Wing Fischli and Weiss exhibit.

  “Patrick, I’m at the—”

  “
You’re at the STUDIO in FIFTEEN MINUTES.”

  “Fine.” I turn to RJ. “I, um.”

  “Work thing?”

  “Yeah. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, things come up.” But I could tell he was disappointed.

  “Things should not come up like this, but you are very kind to understand.”

  “You’re worth it.”

  He had said it with conviction, making me feel even worse, and not worthy of the sentiment. This is going to be one of the reasons he eventually decides I’m totally not dateable.

  Patrick’s frantic emergency at the studio? Paint color. Over the weekend the set and props people repainted the studio kitchen. Just a freshening up of the same color it has always been, a deep, saturated, slightly greenish brown that reads great on camera, and makes everything in front of it really pop. But Patrick was apparently convinced they had switched the color on him.

  “It looks like shit. Actual shit. I took a shit this very color this morning.”

  “Patrick, I can’t speak to your bowels, but this is the same color it has ALWAYS been.”

  “Nope. They switched it.”

  “No, they didn’t. And even if they did, exactly what do you expect I should do about it tonight?”

  We went back and forth, and finally I grabbed an old still from his office where he was posed in the kitchen with Michelle Obama, who had come on the show with a box of produce from the White House garden to promote her healthy eating campaign. I held it up to the wall. Same color.

  “See?”

  “Something is off. I just know it.”

  “Your brain is off. And you ruined my evening, by the way.”

  “You were at a museum.” He says the word with utter distain, as if I were somewhere unfortunate. I haven’t told him about RJ yet, especially since we met on EDestiny. He’ll just give me crap about it, and I’m trying to just be mellow. I also haven’t told my family. No need to get everyone’s hopes up; its hard enough not to get my hopes up.