15

The True Meaning of Splendid

Is there nothing more moving than the feeling of woe when two lovers cannot be together? I take to wearing black—a Sicilian widow miscast in the role of executive assistant, speaking in hushed tones and shaking her head whenever there’s a chance.

It’s evening. Samantha and I are at a bar, again drinking. I finish my parting story. "And the last word he said was, ‘Splendid.’” I sigh and look to the ceiling, as if heaven is caught there in the air ventilation duct.

"What's splendid?" Samantha is saying. She takes a sip of wine, leans her elbow on the bar, rests her chin on it, and with a deep breath, continues. “The fact that he is separated from his loooooooovvvvvvve? That he is woebegone and devastated?” She presses the back of her hand to her forehead here, all Scarlet O’Hara-like. “How will you be able to live without each other for a whole month? Oh the horror! The horror!"

I am really getting sick of the negativity surrounding me these days. When Liam returns, I'll have to set up a meeting between the two of them so Samantha can see how great he is once and for all. I bring the conversation around to a topic I'm more comfortable with. "So where is Mr. Seth taking you tonight?"

This is their third date. While she enjoys mocking me, I take the high road: I’m thrilled for her. I mean, Seth is a good guy. He's not my type, but everyone's got their own checklist.

"He did the sweetest thing the other day!" she says, smacking my arm—rather roughly.

"What's that?" I ask, wondering whether there's another side to Seth that I may have missed.

"Well, I told him that I had to start reading the Wall Street Journal now that I’m working for that financial advertising agency, and so, he ordered me a subscription. He instructed them to tuck a little card in with the first delivery, and it said, "To the financial wizard-to-be!"

I can't help it, my eyebrows raise and the corners of my mouth descend into a frown.

"What?" she asks. "Isn't that sweet?"

"Sure!" I say, trying to act like I've never heard anything more romantic. It is thoughtful. But really. A newspaper? And a financial newspaper at that? Even the way he phrased it. Surely something passionate could never be paired with the word 'wizard'? What could be more unromantic?

“Lane? Are you in there? Don't you understand that the most romantic thing someone can do is to think of something unique that would be important to only you? Flowers take no effort, honey.”

Right, and that's why florists can't even order enough flowers on Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, right? I'm starting to wonder if Samantha and I really are meant to be friends at all. She's just so—weird. I mean Joanne is obsessed with the whole practical thing, but at least she's good for a romantic Pete story every once and again, and besides, she seems to be loosening up since the thing we don’t talk about almost happened.

"Name one thing that Liam has done for you that showed he really knew you. Not that he knew women, but that he knew Lane—what makes her tick. Did you ever mention something and then he remembered it and honored it with a unique token?"

Well, Liam and I don't really talk about me all that much. We don't really talk that much at all. But that's because we don't need words. We speak the language of love. And that involves fingers and toes and stomachs and thighs. . . and chocolate!

But, you know, I do know quite a lot about him. I know about his family, his business, his multiple global dwellings, his money, his favorite restaurants, that woman who broke his heart, and that he’s allergic to broccoli. I guess, in comparison, it would be accurate to say that he doesn't know much about me.

But that is so easy to fix!

I'll just raise the subject of me and I'm sure he'll be delighted to spend an entire evening poring over my photo albums—the mall hair from high school, the snaps of me crawling out of my diapers. It’ll be a hoot!

Here we both look around at the crowd, because it's getting tense between us. Samantha is a little more hostile than I’m used to. I spot a man who I’m sure is British across the bar. He's got that tallish air and a great, pointy nose. In fact, being with Liam so much, I almost feel British. Like the other day, I actually bought tea that doesn’t come in a bag. But now it turns out that the distinguishing factors of British men are not very distinguishing at all; as soon as he speaks, and loudly uses the phrase "fouggetaboudit," it’s obvious he hails from somewhere closer to Staten Island. I guess sometimes things aren't what they appear to be.

Samantha is meeting Seth here in a few minutes anyway, and while you'd think that could be awkward, it really turns out to be just fine. It's funny, though. Seeing them together really is quite romantic. They do seem to fit nicely. And if I didn't know any better I'd think that odd tugging in my heart when he whispered a little joke in her ear, which she laughed coyly at, was . . . jealousy. Me and Liam have lots of secrets. Lots. Or we will have when he comes back anyway.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, without a word from Liam, I’m bitterly impatient. I can't help but take out the scrap of paper he wrote his London phone number on and stare at it. I said that I would wait for him to call—and not just because Joanne advised it, but also because this is the way things are supposed to go, aren’t they? But the self-control required becomes impossible to maintain. And I really want to get started telling him something about me. I've rehearsed a narrative of the time I was in the Kennedy Day School fifth grade production of The Wizard of Oz and I came in with all of these rewrites of the script, whereby Dorothy and the scarecrow fall in love and get to live in Oz, giving birth to little scare-people and people-crows who get everyone started on the overalls trend.

I stare and stare until the numbers congeal in a blurry mass.

There’s no reason to be worried! He's just busy. He warned me he would be. And besides, he only has one more month to tie up all the loose ends before he moves to New York for good, and then we can be together forever and have plenty of time to learn more about each other.

But all of the negative views from my so-called friends have started to get the best of me. I mean, I've managed to keep myself busy at work most of the time, what with the big meeting coming up soon, but every time I write something in the Diary of a Working Girl—it's just doubtful, capricious stuff. My mind is getting me into an hysterical, paranoid state. Too good to be true. I keep hearing that phrase in my head. I can allay my fears for a few minutes at a time by replaying some of our wonderful moments in my head. I can still feel him—sturdy and lovely—and I remember that smell, and I know Liam embodies everything I’ve ever dreamed of. I have my dream come true right now at this very moment. How many people can say that? And so I try to remind myself to enjoy it. But in the end this hollow feeling creeps in. It's just an uncharted part of our enormous love, I’m sure. Of course there will be moments of confusion; I’m not yet familiar with all of its symptoms.

Still, just to feel better, I'd love to speak with him—even if it’s only for a second.

I'm sure when we speak he will be the wonderful, sweet, romantic Liam that I know and everything will be perfect. I’m sure. I probably shouldn’t even call. He's probably going to call me any minute. He probably just doesn't want to bother me at work, and by the time it’s five here, he's so tired he just falls asleep by the phone waiting to call me.

So here I am once again splashing around in these uncharted waters of our love, and decide I'll just work and not think about it anymore.

This works for about ten seconds until all of the words I’m proofing on my page say, "Liam." Good thing I always double proof.

When an overwhelming wave overtakes me, my hand picks up the telephone, dials the number and I sit, waiting and shaking slightly. Finally, after nothing—no ringing, no busy signal or anything else, a recording picks up and says, "The number you have dialed is incorrect, please hang up and dial again." All the ones and zeros you have to dial on international calls are so confusing that I have no idea where I've gone wrong. Or how to fix it. Why can’t we all just be one big global community? Why all these barriers?

I take another crack at it, altering the configuration a bit—the zero first, the two ones second. Tears are dangling, ready to spring. Something as simple as a phone call seems to be the sole thing keeping us apart, the way class, wars, or evil stepmothers do in fairytales. After each failed attempt, I slam the phone down on the receiver.

"You okay Lane?" John’s so tall he can stand up and look right over the cubey wall, and he does this now. It's too late to say yes, because he sees me crying and shaking.

“What's wrong?" he asks, coming around to my cubey. He rests against the work surface and after hesitating for a couple of seconds, puts his hand on my back as lightly as a feather.

"Nothing, nothing." I stare through the line of buttons on his shirt. And without shifting my gaze, I do my best to undesperately explain my desperate needs. "It's just, do you know how to make an international call to London? I thought I did, but I can't seem to make this number go through."

John takes a look at me: I feel him assess via the sort of expression that shows we both know there's something more going on here than an incorrectly dialed phone number. But John would never come out to suggest something as bold as that.

"Sure. Let's see," he says, holding the paper close to his face.

And like an angel from heaven, he dials the number for me, puts the receiver to my face, and I wait intently, so happy to hear the double-ring sound I’ve only ever heard on Faulty Towers.

A woman's cockney voice answers, "Tate's carpet cleaning services."

What? I’m completely thrown and unsure of what to say.

And then it comes to me. Of course! This is just one of his family's other businesses. He hasn't mentioned it before, but maybe he just doesn't like to talk about it. After all, carpet cleaning isn't very glamorous. Although, I’m not sure how carpet cleaning fits under the media umbrella. But don't smart investors dabble in all sectors of the marketplace, just to balance things out? I've definitely read that before. Yes, a “balanced portfolio” is what it's called. It's all making sense now. Doesn't Phillip Morris own Kraft? There's no obvious relation there. See, silly! You're just getting paranoid now. I instruct myself to take a deep breath. And then I take a deep breath and venture, “Is Liam Kampo in?"

John gives me a wink and a thumbs-up and disappears around the cubey wall.

"Liam? You mean Liam O'Neill?"

Is it possible he uses another last name at this company? Why would he do that? Maybe they keep the carpet cleaning hush-hush because again, it is so unchic, and so he uses his mother’s maiden name for this end of the business. I’m not sure this is his mother’s maiden name, but I’m so desperate I’ll tell myself anything in order for this to be true, for this to be the right number.

"Yes. Can I speak with him?"

"Hold please," says the woman on the other end. The seconds I wait feel like hours, days even, and the Muzak version of "Oops! I Did it Again," is not doing anything to soothe my mind or my stomach, which is doing a crazy flip-flop, because I feel as if the fate of my entire existence depends on whether or not Liam picks up the line. I really have a lot riding on this, don’t I? An innocent Post-it note suffers a slow death as I tear it apart shred by shred.

"Hello, Liam here," says a voice I’ve never heard before.

This is not the voice I know. Not the voice that said, "Splendid," to me on that last evening. In fact, this is a distinctly Irish voice.

"Hello? Anyone there?" the voice asks, but I can't bring myself to speak. I just sit with the receiver to my face, thinking that maybe, if I just stay on the line and don't hang up, then there is still a chance. I feel like a prank caller, breathing heavily into the receiver, until . . . finally, he hangs up, but not before he expresses his feelings about me. "Wanker!"

The busy signal comes, and I’m frozen. I can’t imagine the expression on my face. I will have to get this telephone surgically removed, because I cannot command my hand to hang it up. Questions run through my mind as the busy signal pace picks up and grows louder. Why would he give me the wrong number? Why hasn't he called me? I play with the possibility that he just wrote it incorrectly, but I'm not buying into this head-in-the-sand theory. I feel deceived. I try to ground myself with the memory of his hand tracing around my eye. For one second I can close my eyes and know the feeling.

But, embarrassingly enough, it’s only a matter of seconds until I start down a road of self-doubt that can only lead to bad things; my stomach feels unusually large. I chide myself for my fast-food binges, the gym sessions I never got to; it’s my fault, I should have worked harder with someone like Liam. I recast my memories so that suddenly I see myself as an overanxious, calling-too-much, unsexy, badly dressed, conversationally- challenged moron, with a big nose and a horrible personality. I feel as if I've eaten bad fish—sick to my stomach—and suddenly I could fall asleep right in my chair, sitting up, with the phone to my ear. The pile of papers in my inbox is impossible to look at, much less sort, type, fax, and format. I have to go home. I can't be here now. It's the only thing to do.

I can't bring myself to face Tom, as I know I’ll start crying the second I try to speak. So I dial his extension instead.

"What is it, Ab Fab?" he asks. "Got a new project you'd like to make me a guinea pig for? Going to give me a new hairdo? A mullet? Mohawk? Pluck my eyebrows maybe?"

He's being funny and sweet, and part of me would love to laugh with him right now, but I have that distinct feeling that I’ve been zoomed outside the rest of the population. I can watch, but I can’t seem to join in.

"Um, I'm not feeling very well. Is it okay if I take the afternoon off?" The last word barely comes out as my voice trails off.

"Everything okay? Can I help you at all?"

He's concerned and that feels nice, but really, I just want to be alone.

"That's okay, thanks."

"Well, call a car then, I don't want you standing outside trying to get a taxi forever. No, never mind, I'll do it for you; I'll call you as soon as it's here."

I don't want to wait here, but I don't know what else to do. I’m actually glad that Tom made a decision for me, because I doubt whether I would have been able to do something as simple as raise my hand to hail a cab.

When I hang up with Tom, I’m just sitting, as if on pause, staring at my computer screen; I can't even bring myself to shut the thing down. I can't lift my jacket off of its hook and thread my arms through it. All I can think is how stupid I have been to once again put all of my eggs in one basket. Every time it doesn't work with a guy, you promise yourself that the next time you won't let yourself get swept away, you'll keep your sense of self and just hope for the best without letting it get the best of you—but that never works when you're once again in the middle of something.

My feet are ostensibly still dangling below my ankles, but I can't feel them at all. If I could, I would try to kick myself in the ass. I am so stupid. But I guess I don't really have to kick myself in the ass. Life has already done this to me, as if to say, "Wake Up! This is not reality!" I am againthinking of myself as the old woman with the birds, perhaps sunny canaries. They seem nice. Yellow.

"Hey, Lane, don't let him get you down," John is whispering and bending down next to me. It doesn't occur to me that I’ve never mentioned anything about Liam to John, and that he must have a very sensitive side to see what's going on here.

I just say, "I know, I know." But my head is shaking from side to side, undermining my words.

I'm so pitiful. Leave it to me to screw up the opportunity of a lifetime!

It's a miracle that I make it downstairs into the town car, and this is in no small part thanks to Tom, who pulls one arm after the other through my coat sleeves as one would for an infant, shuts down my computer, leads the way to the twenty-sixth floor and into the elevators, past the turnstiles and the guards, and across the courtyard to the car.

Of course it's pouring rain and I don't have an umbrella. In a masochistic way, I’m glad for this. It's the perfect scene for a perfectly horrid turn of events. Tom is holding his suit jacket up over my head.

When he helps me into the car he looks at me, as if he'd like to say something, opens his mouth, and begins, "I—" but he stops himself, closing his eyes, as if it’s now his turn to be on pause. When he reopens them he whispers, "I'm here if you need me," and passes me a slip of paper.

I take it without looking. Numbly I manage a thank you, but I'm sure my measly mumble doesn’t do his kindness justice. I hand him back his blazer. We both look at it, and after a second he places it gently over my shoulders, smiles, and steps back to close me inside. The driver sees an opening in the traffic and drives off.

One hand extended over the back of the passenger seat, he tries to make small talk with some comment about cats and dogs, which I guess is referring to the rain, but rather than egg him on, I act like I haven't heard. Every store we pass seems to be there just to remind me of Liam. A pet store—Liam has a dog. A shop called Good—I remember him using that word. A coffee shop-—he likes his black. The driver misses my block and I find my voice somehow, to tell him this. And even though I would normally be incensed by something like this, I behave very un-New York and barely pay the error notice. Instead, I watch the raindrops hit the window and eventually slip down until they are gone. Like my relationship with Liam. Like the idea that I'd met my M&M. M&M. M&M, M&M ... I say it over and over until it is just mmmmmminmmmmmmmmm. It too, is nothing now, a meaningless nothing. Like my article and my career, which I foolishly tossed away for a fantasy.

When I get to my apartment, which is dark in the way only rainy days can make a space, I don’t bother undressing. I throw myself onto my bed, next to an open window, a position that affords the raindrops the chance to hit me every now and again, and I fall into a deep sleep. In my dream, Liam is sitting with a beautiful girl, tall with long black hair to her waist, and they are looking over me in my bed and laughing hysterically, and he keeps saying, "Splendid, absolutely splendid," which sends them into hysterics all over again.

By the time I wake, it's 11 P.M. My breath tastes stale; my bags are strewn on the floor. I'm wearing my raincoat and I'm soaked through with sweat. I'm unbelievably thirsty, but I don't want to get up.

The phone rings.

On the desperate hope that it might be Liam, I throw the blankets from my body and run for it.

"Hello?" I ask, breathless.

"Hey, what's up?" It's Joanne. Her normalcy feels surreal.

“You'll never believe this," I say, and tell her the whole story. All I want to do is run through the episode from beginning to end, feeling the faster I get it out, the faster it will all be over.

But now that she's just worked everything out with Pete, she fancies herself a relationship guru, and so she keeps interrupting with irritating questions that might hold obscure clues like, "So what time exactly did he leave your apartment on that last night?" and "Did he write the number quickly?"

Each time she stops me it's physically painful.

When, finally, I'm done, she sums it all up. "He’s an ass. Well, at least you know now, before it's too late."

I'm listening, and thinking that it’s already too late, and wondering why people always say this, when obviously, you’re already hurt. Then the oddest thing happens. My rapid-fire thoughts stumble abruptly on an image of Tom, not in one of his beautiful new suits, but in that funny globe tie, pulling the half-smile, amused by something I'd said without meaning to be amusing.

And that makes me think of before I met Liam—when I walked into that office with hope and confidence, and felt as if the whole world was mine for the taking. If I could have just gone with my head instead of my heart, just this one time, maybe everything would have been okay. We are our own worst enemies, aren’t we?

Still, I think, If I get anything out of this experience, I've made a fantastic friend. Tom had been so kind to me earlier—it turned out in the end to be a good thing I'd told him about Liam. I feel the need to call him. Thank him. I fumble for the paper he'd given me in the car, wondering if it was his number, but I can't find it anywhere. I give up the search when I realize that I couldn't deal with that world right now, the one where I failed to do what I set out to, anyway. I'd have to face the reality of it all.

"Yeah, before it's too late," I mimic.

"There must be someone at work you've spotted," she says, looking towards the future, the article, which is very easy to do when it's not you who's right in the middle of a major crisis.

I hear a beep, signaling another call. Again, my heart jumps and even now, I squeeze my palm into a fist, thinking maybe, just maybe.

"Hello?" I say, clicking over. It's a friend from college I haven't spoken to in quite some time. And of all things, she wants to know if I feel like meeting up for a drink. At any other time, I'd doubtless have all of the catty resignations about this—her calling out of the blue when obviously I’m the last one in her telephone book, the fact that there'd been some boyfriend whose appearance in her life marked the end of my presence in her life. But at the current moment, she fills the exact qualifications I’m looking for in a companion: she’s not male, and she doesn't know anything about my current state of distress—something that now I'd gotten out, I can’t bear to think about anymore.

"Sure," I say. "How about The Reservoir?" suggesting a little neighborhood spot.

I don't change. I don't apply deodorant. This is a pity expedition—embarrassing, but much more mature that I recognize it, right?

By the time tomorrow rolls around I'll need a new plan, and most importantly, a new attitude. But for now, the only thing I want to think about is getting drunk. Isn’t that what people always say? Take one thing at a time. I figure this first goal is something I can at least accomplish successfully. And if I've learned anything in the past month, it's that successes—no matter how small—help.

The Reservoir is packed. Everyone is in after-work garb, and although I might look to be in the same boat, I can't help but feel that the rift between them and me couldn’t be wider.

When you've had a breakdown and cease to worry about the little things that consume your thoughts every other day of your life—hygiene, work, eating—there comes along with it, a freedom from responsibility that I imagine lunatics enjoy. And with that sort of no-worries attitude, I am actually decent company to Jenn: throughout the evening I don’t call her out on anything she says, like Pearl Jam is a better band than Nirvana (I mean come on); acquiescing to her every desire—"Let's sit near those cute guys," and "Why don't we play pool?"—and not commenting on the extra weight she's put on or even the "Rachel" hairdo she's wearing nearly a decade after its popularity has waned. I never once insinuate that I’m put off that she hasn't called in so long.

Fidgeting on her barstool after she’s topped off a burger and fries, Jenn suddenly takes on the self-conscious mannerisms that unsubtly hint she’s caught the eye of someone from the opposite sex. Ah! I remember how this used to be such an enjoyable pastime for me before my hopes and dreams had been dashed about!

All of a sudden she is more animated than she’s been all night. She shakes her overly feathered and voluminous dark hair out. Are all women this transparent? If so, then maybe it's our fault after all that men get the best of us. We never play our cards close to the vest the way they do. If you give everything over to someone, obviously they won't want it. Everyone knows that. So why have I done this very thing? This, I am right at this moment quite positive, is the reason Liam does not want me anymore. I've been accused of it before. But I’ve always been crap at games, even if Joanne dresses them up in smart metaphors about “a dance” we have to tap out just for a little while; they’ve never been my style.

"There are so many guys here!" says Jenn.

"Ya think? I hadn't noticed," I say, envying her ability to notice. I feel like everyone is faceless, a bunch of Mr. Potato Heads sans eyes, ears, noses, and mouths. As she readjusts herself once more, readjusting her shirt down over her skirt, whoever she'd been making eyes at pushes his way through the crowd toward her.

"How you ladies doin' tonight?" asks her stranger, never once looking at me as he speaks. He pulls the rim of his Yankees cap up and shimmies it down again. He's sort of cute in a boyish way.

"Good," Jenn says, dragging the word out and nodding her head slowly.

"I'm Liam," he says. Oh, no, he didn't.

"Excuse me, did you say Liam?" I nearly yell into his back, which is now towards me.

"Um, yeah, is that okay?" he asks, twisting just enough so I can see his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, as he raises his eyebrows to Jenn, as if to say, "Your friend is a nut."

He doesn't think I can see him, but I catch the whole thing. I don't feel the need to excuse myself to this person, who is too stupid to realize there is a giant mirror in front of him, or too rude to care. Still, I say, "I just wasn't sure I heard you right," swallowing my words.

Jenn shrugs her own shoulders in agreement and grimaces. I’m not shocked; instead my synapses are firing up with memories of her disloyalty and selfishness. Twisting her head away, which only gives me a better view of her from the mirror, she swirls a finger around her ear.

Maybe I am bonkers. Maybe I’m totally, utterly nuts. I certainly appear to have lost all semblance of reality. But surely it has to mean something that this jerk’s name is Liam when here I am right in the middle of a crisis over my Liam. I’m guessing it’s not a good sign.

Liam and Jenn are exchanging pleasantries and I'm doing what The Other Girl does—smoking, taking extra interest every inhale and exhale, peeling the edges of a coaster, and checking myself out in the mirror while taking long, slow sips at my straw. Every so often I look down into my drink as if it is the most interesting thing I have ever seen. (Ooh, ice! Bubbles!) After a few moments of this I take to looking around at people, training my gaze from one side of the room to the other, as if I'm waiting for someone.

I can't help but notice that everyone else seems to be talking to someone of the opposite sex. I imagine that they’re all in love, planning trips to the Caribbean, and ready to head home to amazing sex. I notice a couple at a corner table. She's pretty in an unassuming way, and he is dressed down in a sweater and worn-out jeans, looking the part of the intelligent, humble, and funny type. They speak in the hushed tones, the crowns of their heads touching.

I gather, in a very scientific way, which only a girl lapping around in a pool of self-pity can, that this guy would be perfect for me, and therefore continue to do what any lonely girl would do: Mentally I tear his companion to shreds. Her boring J. Crew look; her plain-Jane hair—probably doesn't own a shred of lingerie; her expensive driving moccasins—surely she’s a rich girl without a care in the world. She probably doesn't work at all, just has Daddy pay the mortgage on direct deposit until her trust fund kicks in. I’m shaking my head in disgust at what men see in women, and why they don't see it in me, and how disgustingly shallow I’m being to make such assumptions, when suddenly, there’s a shot of 151 in front of my face.

"Bottoms up, 151!" screams Jenn's new beau in case I don’t recognize this liquid poison. Oh, friends now, are we?

The one other time I'd ever had this shot, I was playing hostess at a New Year's Eve party. It was during the first of my relationships with a Not-Funny-Enough, Not-Smart-Enough guy, who I stayed with because he was sweet and in love with me. One thing I knew I was handing out pigs in filo blankets, the next thing I knew it was noon the following day. Therefore, the shot strikes me as just what the doctor ordered for this occasion. I clink cheers with the two idiots I’m making company with and let the warm liquid burn its way down my throat. A bit dribbles down my chin and I go to wipe it, but a pile of napkins is thrust in my direction before I make contact.

"Can I get that for you?" asks a redheaded guy.

Can someone really ask that in an attempt at a pickup line? Surely this could be awarded some type of cheesiness citation. But that quickly, I’m already feeling the effects of the alcohol and I'm actually delighted at the attention.

"Sure."

The couple in the corner is kissing now, and I sense they might just be doing it to show me how happy they are. If they’ve picked up on my vibe I certainly deserve it. Redheaded Guy dabs at my chin, taking his time, probably less interested in the spill than the chance at picking up a desperate girl. He expertly trails a cocktail napkin along my cheek and down my jaw until he reaches my neck. This feels all wrong, but I don’t stop it. I am disgusting and cheap for allowing this public groping from a perfect stranger, but I can’t bring myself to care.

Somewhere around “wiping” my shoulder blade, my cell phone rings. Whatever I may have said about getting past everything and tomorrow being the start of a brand new me, well, I forget all about that. This might be Liam! Without a moment’s hesitation, I grab my purse, take a look at Jenn, who is already lip-locked (even in this state, I am insightful enough to guess she's probably here for reasons similar to my own), and run out the door to answer the call in quiet.

“Thanks!” I yell to Redheaded Guy, who looks crushed.

By the time I’m out in the street, I'm sure it's Liam.

It is.

“Hello?" I say, trying to keep the world straight by leaning against the brick wall.

"How's it going, sweetheart?" he asks.

Now that it's reallyhim, I'm not sure what to say. I’m angry, right? But the way he said sweetheart is sending all pins and needles and warm fuzzies into my stomach, and I remember this feeling, it’s like coming home, and it is fantastic. Does this mean it was, after all, just a case of Liam mistakenly writing the wrong number? Or is he calling to seal the deal now that he's given me ample time to find out the truth?

Remembering how upset I was earlier, I swim past the pins and needles and find my woman-scorned tone. "Liam, I want you to tell me right now what the hell is going on here."

I’m not sure how he will react to this because I have never used any tone other than the sex-kitten variety on him before. But whatever effect the woman-scorned voice may have had is somewhat diminished by the long pause that follows. I’m deciding whether this is a guilt-driven or shock-driven pause when the silence is broken by laughter. I look around but nobody’s there; I work it out. It’s Liam laughing! His light tinkle grows to a full-blown cackle, punctuated by breath-catching sighs.

Laughing? Wait. This could be a good sign.

Perhaps a great sign.

Is it possible he has no idea why I would be angry? That he thinks I’m putting him on? Obviously, you cannot feign this type of laughter. “Lane, you are really too much sometimes darling.” Now it’s so clear. I was being paranoid. I let my paranoia take over and run wild with the whole thing.

A wave of relief comes over me, as if I’ve woken from a nightmare to discover that whatever horror I’d endured wasn’t real. Of course! It really was just that he'd mistakenly written the wrong number. Hadn't that been exactly what Joanne was trying to get at when she asked how quickly he'd written the number? And I'd just ignored the question, assuming she was being negative. That Joanne! (I now choose to ignore her final summation of the situation, which involved the word "asshole" on the grounds that I was telling the story only from my point of view, which is only one side of the truth.)

"You're bloody hysterical, Lane. You know that? I wish I could give you a big hug right now."

“I wish you could, too,” I say, trying to sound cute.

“Are you waking up for work now?" I ask, imagining it must be like five in the morning there, and his hair is probably so adorably pushed up on one side.

“What? Now?" he asks. I’m suddenly confused and paranoid. His voice is rather clear for just having woken up.

"No, yeah, well, I set my alarm to make sure I'd catch you when you'd probably be coming home. I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about you, chocolate cake, and your bed. And your floor. And . . . "

That last and can only mean one thing, and that is exactly what I've been dying to hear. I really couldn't have fantasized about this telephone call any better than it’s going, except that I probably would have added, "I love you, Lane," somewhere in there.

Still, this is perfectly fine. I am worlds ahead of where I’d been just seconds earlier. I almost feel normal again (albeit blind drunk), and so I leave all the negativity (and my off-again friend Jenn) behind and walk home talking with Liam on the cell, discussing all of the things we wish we could do to each other. And I start to tell him the story about The Wizard of Oz, and the scare-kids and the kid-crows, and he's listening, he really is, but he has to cut me off in the middle to get ready for work. Which is totally understandable, right? At least I got a bit out. I'm sure I'll get a chance to finish up the bits about the wedding scene and the Tiffany diamond Scarecrow offers to Dorothy the next time we speak.

So I lay down in my bed once again, the most important thing is I’m sure Liam and I are absolutely perfect once again. Where hours earlier I lay in the lowest of spirits, I feel that once again, all is as it should be.

By the grace of God, I make it to work on time the following morning. I’m so hung-over I can barely see, and even though there is no glimpse of sun in the sky, I’m parched and achy and wearing the darkest sunglasses I own (okay, the only sunglasses I own, but you get the point). And now that everything is back to normal on the Liam front, I really have to get serious about the project we’re working on, as tomorrow afternoon is our meeting with the telecom companies. I have to make all of the final decisions, proof all of the copy, and make sure the order is perfect before it goes off to the printer. It’s a long day, and it’s not really until noon that my brain is at a fully functioning level. John is sweet, and gathering I have drunk my sorrows away, he keeps a constant flow of filtered water arriving at my cubey.

Tom, on the other hand, doesn't seem to be himself today. The only conversation we'd had was first thing in the morning, when I'd returned his jacket and let him know that everything was just fine with Liam; he’s a smart guy and I know he’d caught on. I’m not kidding myself about that. He was a bit short with me—avoiding my face when I spoke to him, making a big show of sorting through some papers, and since then his door, which is normally open to us at all times, is firmly closed. Perhaps he's angry that I took off early yesterday in the middle of such a big project over something that was obviously blown out of proportion, and I can’t blame him. So I make sure to work very hard today to show him I’m still dedicated. I'm sure if the meeting goes well this will all blow over. It's after midnight by the time I have the proofs one hundred percent ready. I have never been pegged as detail-oriented, but I’ve taken extra-special care on this project with every single dot of ink that will wind up on the page. With a project like this, there is so much riding on the deal—employee bonuses, jobs even—that you can’t help but feel a strong sense of responsibility, above and beyond the sort that comes with naming the wrong shade of lipstick that Sarah Jessica Parker wore to the Oscars.

But all of that extra time making sure each statement follows the Strunk and White guidelines, that each date is formatted uniformly, and that every page looks absolutely eye-catching, our print department will now have to work overnight to get the piece done. I use my womanly charms to ease the situation, arriving with a big smile and sodas for all, and keep the guys company for the first couple of hours—handing out cookies and candy from the vending machine. And while I'm sitting on a high stool, watching the guys work, I wonder if perhaps I'm not dragging this day out because when I no longer have this project to use as an excuse for procrastination, I will be back to panic mode with only one week left before my article is due.

Before I know it, it's 2 p.m. the following afternoon, and I'm in the conference room, removing the cellophane from the sandwich and salad platters I've ordered for the meeting. At each place, I gently lay down a copy of our proposal, which really is stunning and convincing. The solid metal cover—in the shape of an old-fashioned telephone, bound with an actual, real telephone cord, looks just perfect.

An hour later, we’re beginning and there are over fifteen people gathered to listen to what Tom has to say. He looks very professional in one of the suits we bought at Thomas Pink, and when one of the women from AT&T compliments him on his tie, he looks over at me and winks. I feel a wave of something unfamiliar during the second she takes to smooth her finger down the tie—something like pride, but with a tinge of something else that causes me to monitor this woman and her freakishly long fingers until they are firmly curled around her coffee mug at the other end of the table. I mean, Tom has a girlfriend and, I can’t help but think, this is a business meeting; she could be a bit more professional.

Tom takes full control of the meeting. We'd gone over his spiel last night, after most of the company had left for the evening, John and I acting the part of the potential clients. We were so giddy and overtired we couldn’t help ourselves asking stupid questions like, "This presentation is all well and good, but what type of dressing is on this salad?"

As I said, Tom wasn't in the greatest mood. He didn't even crack that half-smile once. But today, he couldn't be more smiley or gracious. In fact, when he gets right down to business, I am blown away. I’ve never seen him do his thing before, and it is impressive. He is charismatic; he knows what all the charts mean; he has the answers to every question: “The largest portions of users . . .” “In American and international studies conducted via...”

With each point he makes, you can see the faces at the table take on a look of surprise and interest, as if they've just heard something they weren’t expecting to. And although I’m here mainly just to take minutes and act like an important part of the team, to make our department seem much larger and stronger than it actually is, he never once treats me with anything less than the highest respect.

The meeting is long—literally six hours—and by the time we've wrapped it all up and called cars for the attendees, it's ten o'clock. I figure that Tom will be wiped out, but just the opposite; he’s electric with energy from our apparent success. I’m awestruck by how dedicated he is to his job. It's like, well, like me on those rare occasions work and luck coincide and I get to give my all to something I feel passionate about. I know that feeling of getting what you want because you worked hard for it. You can see that he was made for his job. He shines under the pressure; thrives on the challenge. Tom Reiner, managing director extraordinaire.

When we are back by our desks and packing up, he walks over to the cubes and says, "We really must celebrate. C'mon, we don't have any work tomorrow anyway. And besides, we deserve it. You guys have done a fabulous job and Mr. Tamaka has already called me from his cell phone, hinting that this is pretty much a done deal. I couldn't have done it without the two of you. I promised you a fabulous dinner, and that's what you're going to get."

"I would love to," John says. "But my girlfriend and I are celebrating our anniversary tonight."

John has a girlfriend? Of course John has a girlfriend. He is sensitive and intuitive and sweet. I, on the other hand, am a shallow jerk, suspecting that he is hopeless with the ladies. I look at him now, smiling. He really is such a sweetheart, and surely, a fantastic boyfriend. I remember the other day, when I was so upset by Liam, John was supremely sensitive to my feelings. He knew exactly what to say, and what not to say. A girl would be lucky to have someone so intuitive and caring to go home to. I look at him now and notice the slight lines around his eyes and his mouth—smile lines. John is a wonderful catch—not the kind you come across every day. I guess if you let them, people can amaze you.

I'm more than willing to make this night last; now that the project is done and it's time to focus on the reason I'm actually here, I couldn't be more delighted for an excuse to drag the evening out a bit longer.

"Well, it's just you and me, Ab Fab," says Tom, now, apparently over whatever aspect of my miserable display the other day upset him most. He grins at me with that half-smile I've grown to love.

"Sounds good to me. Where are we off to?"

"This is a celebration, so how about my favorite spot—Union Square Cafe? My cousin is the owner, so we won't have any problems getting a table. I hope you won't mind dining among the swanky," he raises his eyebrows to indicate he thinks I'm a posh girl at heart.

"If I must,” I say, feigning a yawn. It will be nice to be at a spot that Liam loves, like he's there with me in spirit.