THE ARTICLE on a breast cancer survivor who’d opened a spiritual retreat on Whidbey Island was actually complete. I just had to give it a quick proofread before I emailed it off to the editor, but it had provided me an escape. As I trudged through the January drizzle back to my Queen Anne apartment, I couldn’t help but feel a little blue. I was surrounded by women who found men completely irrelevant. Even Angie adhered to a strict policy of men as recreational vehicles only. So, what was wrong with me? Why did I feel such a compulsion to find a partner and raise a family?

Maybe it was my parents’ fault? If they had fought more, I’d probably have a much more cynical view of marriage and family life. Or perhaps the farmers could be blamed? All the hormones in the chicken I was eating had undoubtedly ramped up my biological clock! And what about the television networks! How was a girl who grew up on a steady diet of Growing Pains and Family Ties supposed to be satisfied with a solitary existence? God, maybe I should get a dog?

I let myself in to the blissfully quiet apartment. When Kendra was at work, I almost felt at home in our tiny abode. Tossing my empty coffee cup into the garbage can beneath the kitchen sink, I wandered through the feminine living room. As always, it was pristine, the rose throw pillows arranged just as Kendra liked them on the floral sofa; the extravagant lace window treatments tied back to let natural light in to the space. I continued on to my sparely furnished bedroom, and the tiny makeshift office in the far corner. There, on the small pressboard desk, my laptop lay dormant. Opening the lid, I waited patiently for the computer to revive then brought up the article.

It was pretty good. Johanna Kelly was perhaps not the most vibrant of interviews, but what did you expect from someone so at peace with herself and at one with the universe? I did a quick check for typos and general readability, and then emailed it off to Northwest Life.

No sooner had I clicked send than an error message popped up on the screen:

Task Z “Sending” reported error (0x800DD0P): The connection to the server was interrupted. If this problem continues, contact your server administrator or internet service provider (ISP).

Damn, damn, damn! What was wrong with my email? How long would it be down? Minutes? Hours? Weeks? My article was due by the end of the day! Instinctively, my hand reached for the phone to call Colin at his office. He was far more technically savvy than I, and could at least offer some suggestions on how to remedy the problem. I had just lifted the receiver when I remembered.

A feeling of hopelessness engulfed me. How was I supposed to learn to live without a man when I couldn’t even fix my own computer? My article was going to be late, Northwest Life would never hire me again, and soon, word of my unreliability would get around to other publications. My freelance writing career would be destroyed. I’d have to get a job at GAP—or more likely Burger King, since I had no retail experience. And all because I had no boyfriend to help me fix my email!

Of course, I could still phone Colin. He wouldn’t mind helping me, I was sure of it. It’s not like I was dragging him away from the office to come over and unclog my toilet or something. It was no big deal, really. He could coach me over the phone, like one of those tech guys, but for free. We’d done it a million times. Colin would tell me to go into my tools menu, and then select something or other. If that didn’t fix it, he’d instruct me to check my modem to make sure the lights were blinking … or not blinking. Oh shit! Why hadn’t I paid more attention the last time he’d helped me?

But I couldn’t phone him. Hearing his voice would set me back weeks in wallowing time and I had vowed to move on. Besides, I didn’t need a man to survive! If Mel, Kendra, and Angie could make it on their own, then so could I. I was independent and self-reliant, a woman of the new millennium! I might not be able to revive my email, but I knew how to burn a CD.

Popping a disc into the drive, I saved my article onto it. I would take it down to Northwest Life in person. It was perfect! While there, I could chat with Martin, the editor, who was a nice, friendly guy with whom I had always had a rapport. Maybe I’d take him out for coffee? Pitch a few story ideas? I’d be simultaneously networking and socializing: both very positive steps in keeping me from becoming a housebound spinster.

Northwest Life’s offices were downtown. Despite the rain, I decided to walk. This was getting better and better: networking, socializing, and now exercising! Really, I should hand-deliver my assignments more often. Surely editors were more likely to buy your stories when they had a personal relationship with you? Besides, who knew when I’d be on the market for a fulltime job again? Freelancing had been a terrific idea when I’d had Colin’s paycheque to rely on when the rent was due.

When I finally arrived at the magazine’s head office, I was drenched. My waterproof jacket had kept my arms and torso dry, but my legs, feet, and an unfortunate spiral of hair (formerly known as my bangs), which had been peeking out from under my hood, were soaked. But my spirits would not be dampened. I was here to network and socialize. I couldn’t do that if I gave in to my drippy mood.

In the elevator I shook the water from my hair, and fingercombed it off to the side. The drowned rat look wasn’t very professional, but Northwest Life’s was a very laid-back and casual office. It was a free publication, kept afloat only by advertising dollars. Most of the employees seemed to work there for the sheer love of the magazine.

When the elevator stopped on the fifth floor, I walked down the slightly musty hallway and into their tiny workspace. A vacant reception desk greeted me upon entry into the nondescript office. From the back cubicles I could hear the tapping of keyboards, some muffled chit-chat, and the sound of a photocopier. “Hello?” I called, to no one in particular. No response. “Hello!” I said, louder this time. “You have a visitor!”

“Sorry!” A young woman with jet-black hair and fuchsia lipstick emerged. For some reason, she was holding a hammer at her side. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Beth Carruthers, a freelance writer,” I said with a smile. “I’m dropping off an article on CD. My email was down.”

“Oh, thanks,” the girl said. “I can take it.”

I handed her the disc. “Umm … Is Martin in?”

“Yeah, what did you say your name was again?”

“Beth Carruthers.”

Instead of using the phone, she wandered back through the cubicles swinging her hammer nonchalantly as she went. “Hey Martin! There’s a freelancer named Beth Carruthers here to see you.”

I’d always liked Martin. Our paths had crossed a number of times over the six years I’d been working in print media. He was of average height, with a slim build and a boyish twinkle in his dark brown eyes. Martin was always dressed in an understated but very stylish manner: perfectly faded jeans with an expensive, yet untucked, button-down shirt; darker denim with a soft, fitted charcoal T-shirt; a buttery, yet somehow rugged, dark brown leather jacket … Whatever he was wearing, he always looked polished, but not like he was trying too hard. Add to this a friendly, jovial nature and a great sense of humour, and there was no denying that Martin was a very attractive man. I was almost positive that he was gay.

There was nothing overt in his words or mannerisms, but I would have bet up to two hundred bucks on it. There was just something about the way he reacted to me—or rather, the way he didn’t react to me. Not to say that I was some Pamela Anderson type who turned all heterosexual men into drooling horndogs at the sight of me, but I could modestly say that I was a fairly attractive woman. I had once even been called Sandra Bullockish. Of course, this compliment had been paid by an extremely drunk ad exec who’d been trying to pick me up at a New Year’s Eve party, but still … Usually, when I met single, attractive men, there was a very subtle chemistry there. Sometimes, it was extremely subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was still there. Not with Martin. With Martin, it was “Hey Beth, good buddy, old pal” all the way. Gay. He had to be gay. My ego demanded it.

“Beth! Great to see you!” He emerged hurriedly from the back, looking as cute as ever.

“Hi, Martin.” We hugged, very briefly. “Sorry to drop by unannounced but I was wondering if I could buy you a coffee?”

He looked at his watch. “Oh, Jeez, I’d love to, but I’ve got a meeting with an advertiser in twenty minutes.”

“Well … another time, then.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I’ve got a few story ideas that would be great for Northwest Life.”

“Could you pop by next week? Send me an email and we’ll set up a time.”

“Okay …” I was surprised by how dejected I felt. I had really been looking forward to some social interaction with a vibrant, witty man. Make that a vibrant, witty, single man—as uninterested (gay) as he was. “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

Once inside the elevator, Martin stabbed frantically at the door close button before embarking on a 78 RPM diatribe on a variety of subjects, ranging from the latest issue of his magazine to his mother’s basal cell carcinoma removal. And I couldn’t help but notice how he fidgeted incessantly with the keys in the pocket of his leather jacket. He seemed really anxious, almost … nervous. This wasn’t the Martin I knew. I’d never seen him act this way before. Of course, our one-on-one conversations had been extremely limited. We had previously spent time together within the safety of a group of colleagues or at business functions. This was really the first time we’d been alone together.

That’s when it struck me! Could I have read him wrong? Maybe Martin really was attracted to me? He must have been hiding it all this time, but now that we were alone, his true feelings were emerging. How else would you explain his jittery composure? The nervous babbling? I took a moment to study him as he stood across from me. His eyes were darting around the tiny steel box, and a thin veil of sweat had appeared on his forehead. I hadn’t noticed it before but he was chewing furiously on a piece of gum. God! Either Martin had the major hots for me, or he was some kind of drug addict.

He caught my look. “Sorry—was I babbling?”

“Oh, no,” I assured him, kindly. His attraction was flattering, but I wasn’t quite ready to start a new relationship. And of course, it’s not like I needed a man in my life to complete me. But perhaps if Martin was that in to me, he’d wait? Really, a few more weeks of healing time and I’d probably be good to go. The door opened and he followed me out into the foyer.

“It’s just that I’m trying to quit smoking and I’m a little on edge.”

Oh … So he was an addict. “Good for you,” I said, forcing an encouraging smile. “It must be tough, though.”

“It’s not so bad during the day,” Martin said, as we pushed through the revolving door and out into the overcast afternoon. “I’m busy with work and I always keep a big supply of nicotine gum on hand. I’ve got to run over to the Walgreens and stock up before my meeting.”

“Right …” I nodded as he continued to walk beside me.

“It’s the evenings that are brutal. I need to find something productive to do with my hands. I’m thinking of taking up macramé.”

I laughed. “You might want to find something a little more current. I doubt that those rope belts or plant hangers will come back in again.”

“How about cross-stitching? Rug hooking?”

I started to laugh again but a sudden thought stopped me. “Oh my god,” I mumbled, almost to myself.

“What?” Martin looked at me, still amused.

Did I dare ask him? Would he think it was a ludicrous proposition? Or the perfect solution? I decided it was worth a try. Taking a deep breath, I blurted out the question. “Would you be interested in joining a stitch ’n bitch club?”