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I had never really believed in fairytales.
Raised by a single-mom in a crummy apartment in Brooklyn, the entire concept seemed a little too ironic for words. I read different sorts of books as a child. Books that lacked the wings and whimsy designed to instill in little girls that unreal expectation of magical godmothers and true love’s first kiss. When I lied, my nose didn’t grow any longer. When I looked at birds, I didn’t expect them to sing. If I saw seven dwarves marching towards me with a glass coffin—I’d probably sprint the other direction.
Call it ambition. Call it practicality. Call it twenty-two years of living on the ‘wrong side of the bridge,’ gazing wistfully out my window at the city lights beyond the water, always sparkling just a little out of reach. Just like Jay Gatsby, basking in the green glow of the wrong Egg, I’d always felt a little removed. A little detached. Unwillingly peripheral to the exciting things going on around me. But, also like Gatsby, I had found a way in.
It probably isn’t what you’re expecting. It sure as hell wasn’t the conventional route. The thing is—in the years I’d spent getting chewed up, and spit out, and toughened up by New York City—I had discovered a valuable lesson.
I didn’t need to live in the castle, if I was the keeper of the keys.
Two words, ladies and gentlemen. Two little words, but they had created an entire lifestyle. Opened doors I never imagined. Haunted me day in, and day out.
Public Relations.
No, I had never really believed in fairytales. But this one came damn close...
* * *
I felt like I was floating on a sea of chiffon. Billowing waves of cream and pink that whispered over the tile as I breezed into the room. The air around me was warm and scented with the faintest hint of peppermint. The twinkling lights dripping from the ceiling cast a soft glow.
It might have felt like a dream, yet everything about the place was familiar. After all, I had been here countless times before. Just...never under quite these circumstances.
“Abigail?”
I glanced up to see Melanie, the nightshift hostess, walking towards me with a bright smile. Like all women employed in such an elite establishment, she had not an ounce of fat on her, and legs that went on for days. The heels she’d selected for ‘work’ were easily seven inches tall, but by now, that didn’t stop any of us city girls from tempting fate, again and again.
“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were coming in tonight.” Her face grew suddenly pale as she reached compulsively for her datebook. “Oh gosh...did I forget to write something in the schedule? Are you here with—”
“A date,” I interrupted quickly, stopping her panic attack in its tracks. “I’m here with a date, actually. For...for myself.”
I wished it had come out smoother. Why was it that all the professional confidence that kept me cool and collected, under even the craziest of circumstances, seemed to vanish the second I wasn’t talking about my clients? The second I was talking about me instead.
But that’s why you’re doing this, I reminded myself. You’re learning to advocate for yourself. Prioritize your own needs for once. Create some well-deserved boundaries.
“Oh,” Melanie raised her eyebrows in surprise, slowly closing the book, “so no—”
“Nope, just me,” I cut her off before she could finish. In the cab ride over, I’d made a solemn vow: no work, not tonight. I would not mention his name for an entire evening. “Well, there’s me and...and the date, of course.”
Again with the smooth! Way to put all those public speaking classes to good use.
The whole thing came out so stilted, it almost felt fake. But Melanie glanced over her shoulder with a conspiratorial smile. “Well, I hope the date is the guy with the black hair sitting at the table in the corner. We’ve all been staring since he came in. He’s hot as hell!”
Melanie was a sweet girl, who didn’t have a lot of brains. The man she was describing had a similar affliction, but at the moment, I didn’t care.
She was right. The guy was hot. Hot, and dumb, and simple. A guaranteed evening of fun, carefree sex—no strings attached, no spin to create the next morning.
Coincidentally, he was also the perfect patsy on which to practice this new ‘doing something for myself’ thing I was trying.
“Actually, it is.” I returned the grin. “Fitted tux and everything.”
For the last two weeks, the two of us had engaged in a flirtatious game of did you catch me staring at the gym. In the end, it was me who had to saunter over and make the first move. A rather significant pet peeve. But one I was willing to forgive in light of his good looks. That and the new resolution I’d made to try to cultivate some kind of personal life.
“Hey, do me a favor.” I smoothed down my new dress, feeling suddenly nervous. “Make sure it’s Marco who plates the appetizer instead of Pierre. We don’t want another prosciutto incident, if you know what I’m saying...”
Melanie’s face pulled up in a sudden frown. “Oh—right.”
She hurried off to do my bidding, leaving me fidgeting in the middle of the lobby. The initial thrill of coming to an upscale place like this on my down time, instead of for work, had given way to a sudden surge of anxiety that almost turned me straight back to the door.
What the hell was I doing?
My dark hair was curled, for once, instead of ironed straight. My feet were stuffed into heels so high that even I was having trouble keeping balanced. My eyes were easily three times their normal size—thanks to a makeup artist who owed me a favor. And I was wearing a dress that cost well over half a month’s rent.
I’d left the tags on, for fuck’s sake. Tucked carefully down the side.
Don’t get me wrong. I was used to dressing up. I was used to fancy things—at least—a professional approximate that gained me entry to the types of places I needed to go to do my job.
But there was something different about this. Something that I couldn’t put my finger on until I caught my reflection in a passing glass of champagne.
I look like one of my clients.
The thought stopped me cold. Freezing me with an unholy kind of fear.
But as quickly as it had come, it was soothed by another.
You always look like one of your clients. That’s one of the reasons you got this job in the first place. As long as you don’t act like one of your clients, you’re fine.
And so with that, I lifted up my chin and glided across the room to the sounds of Mozart drifting down from the quartet on the balcony just above. Ready to embark upon the kind of event I’d often dreamed of, but hadn’t experienced firsthand in longer than I cared to imagine.
Abigail Wilder goes on a date.
(For herself.)
Fuck it. I’ll never be smooth.