20

Happily Ever After

Well, I do wind up with one standard-issue fairytale-ism in the end. We do live extremely happily ever after. But I'll tell you, Tom is Tom and there's no leading man quite like him. I've searched and searched, and can't find one male hero to compare him to. But that's the best part of all. I could never have dreamed him up, and those little quirks are precisely what make me love him more every day. My checklist is officially seven pages and growing.

For instance, I'd always thought a couple should sleep in each other's arms all night, my leg slung about his thigh, his arm resting under my neck and the other about my back. And, yes, we start off like that most nights. But right before I fall asleep, when he thinks I already have, he'll do this thing where he'll whisper my name to check.

"Lane? Lane?" he'll say.

And when I don't answer he'll slide his hand out from behind my neck, peels my leg off of him and spends about five minutes shaking his arm out, whispering, "I have no feeling in my arm."

It’s with all of my might I pretend not to hear and maintain my guise. When he has finally got feeling back in his arm, he'll turn over the other way and go to sleep with his butt directly in my face. It's a very cute butt, as I've said before, so I don't mind.

He knows I like to fall asleep cuddling, so he does his best to maintain this convention for me. I don't have the heart to tell him I know the truth. And you know what? I prefer it this way because he makes up for it in the early mornings, when I catch him turning back over, sneaking his arm back under my neck, dragging my leg back around him and kissing me on the cheek, or stroking my hair.

And while Tom so clearly has the most genuine and admirable intentions at heart with every gesture, every word, they don't always turn out perfectly. There was the time he planned a vacation for us. For weeks, I asked about what he referred to as "the big surprise." All he said was that I should have my passport ready and pack lots of skimpy swimsuits, especially the one with "all of those stringy things." Of course, I had to pack a lot more than just skimpy swimsuits.

When you have no idea where you may be off to, and your mind is taking you to all the majestic destinations you have always dreamed of dashing off to, it’s difficult to pack. So, basically, I packed everything for a Caribbean fantasy vacation. I had years of InStyle magazine celebrity vacations to fuel the fire.

The full-length evening gown for our black-tie eight-course dinner, after which we’d dance like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (although neither of us knows how to ballroom dance) on a dance floor jutting out over the Caribbean sea, lit with elegant torches, the air redolent of bougainvillea.

And then there were the practicalities—hiking shoes for exploring deserted islands the concierge would arrange for us to be dropped off at, the woven hat for a lazy day of fishing, a driving outfit with gloves and Tod's moccasins. I needed a sunset-watching sweater for crisp night breezes, which I imagined pulling around me while Tom would say, "Come here, let me keep you warm, my darling."

There's the pareo I would wrap about my waist emerging from our private infinity pool to sip champagne with strawberries sunk in the flutes. I couldn't forget the array of white clothes to accent the teakwood and bamboo furnishings, lush greenery, and Italian floors tiles when we return from a midnight stroll, to create the perfect seduction scene—stepping into our open-air tub, glancing up at the twinkling stars while I scrub his back, drinking wine and munching on caviar.

From the daydreams I'd indulged in before I finished packing my suitcase, you might be throwing around the idea that I have fully reverted to my fantastical ways. And in many respects, you would be correct. As it turns out, some of us are just woven from a romantic cloth. And when we attempt to bury that part of ourselves, we are really burying the part of ourselves that makes us who we are.

That's what Joanne tells me, anyway. And with that outlook I get to stay the way I am, so it works nicely.

The trick is, for us Over-the-Rainbow sorts, to remember that fantasies are wonderful in and of themselves. They weave together this whole other world where all sorts of fantastical things happen all the time. There, frogs turn into princes, sunny days never run out, and whims are always satiated exactly as you would have them be. And this world is one I am not willing to let go of—ever.

It was only a matter of days until I dragged those boxes back out of my basement, tore off all the tape I thought would hinder me and reunited myself with my beloved books and movies. Now I have my own love, I don't get sad at the endings. But after we watched Pretty Woman and I got all quiet at the end, Tom said, "Ab Fab, don't tell me you want me to charter a private plane just to go to the opera, which I'm sure you've never attended before in your life.”

Boy, what kind of a spoiled girl does he think I am?

"It doesn't have to be a private plane," I said.

He smiled curiously and held me in his arms, whispering in my ear, "Don't ever change, Lane. Please don't ever change."

I hope he doesn't think I've forgotten about the opera.

So you might think that when we got to the "big surprise" and found ourselves smack in the middle of a Caribbean hurricane, which stopped us enjoying outdoor dinner and dancing escapades, driving trips, or open-sky bathtub evenings, that I would have been devastated, having built it up so much in my mind.

But that couldn't be farther from the truth. The reality of our trip, as awful as my hair looked, as wet as our clothing remained, was a wonder in itself.

We spent the whole time in the room, which I guess we could have done anywhere in the world, even at home. But Tom was so sweet, making up all sorts of games and declaring holidays like "Crazy Saturday," which involved margarita-drinking contests wearing snorkels in the bathtub. He even brought in some sand, wet as it was, and a couple of lounge chairs to create our own beach in our room. It's amazing how much fun you can have when you live life as it comes.

Still, the pre-trip fantasies did not go to waste. After he read my Diary of a Working Girl, Tom took the liberty of calling a publisher friend to take a look at it. It turns out that while I had a world of trouble in the past generating ideas for articles, I have no trouble at all coming up with ideas for novels without even trying. Did I not say this before?

The novel version of Diary of a Working Girl is due out in a few months’ time and I have a three-book contract to keep the romantic books coming. So now, every wonderful scenario I play out as I do such simple things as pack a filmy pink dress has a definite, fulfilling use. I instructed Tom that he would have to do some romantic research himself, as it helps when you have a strong leading man to draw from. But after he came to bed in a Fabio wig with a shaved chest, I could see he wasn't taking his research seriously. Still, the shaved chest was rather nice.

I guess, if you fill your time with enough fantasies, one of them is bound to come true. Remember Swen, the voicemail guy? Well, soon after all of the amazing things began to happen, I once again reached his number in error.

"I couldn't be happier for you, my little sugar plum. I insist you come up to my brownstone for a decadent meal—caviar, oysters, and all. Bring your dashing Tom, too."

Dashing—only Swen could use that word and get away with it.

When Swen's butler, Harris, brought us into the sitting room to meet Monsieur Swen, he was in a smoking jacket, running his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair, sitting by a crackling fire.

After the kisses and the "Oh my God!" exclamations of our premier meeting were through, he said, "You'll have to excuse my appearance, I've just come in from a rather long day on the slopes."

Tom still can't get over that one.

Despite the fact that this one musing did turn out to be true, the important thing to remember, should you read any of my books in the future (remember that is Silverman, S-I-L-V-E-R-M-A-N) is that the stories I conjure up are just fantasies—they have a place only in your mind and heart. Of course, I would never be able to follow that line of thinking myself, but since you are my people, I feel a certain duty to say that, even if you choose not to listen.

And while some of you might prefer the magical stuff of fluffy, frilly love, others, like the real gritty stuff—where people struggle and endure pain. And under that category would fall Cosmopolitan. When Lisa called Karen to plead my case and renegotiate my assignment, Karen almost fell off of her seat laughing.

She said to Lisa, "Hold on, I have to unbutton the top button of my Paul & Joe pants. I'm laughing so hard I’m about to burst."

Lisa, even kinder than I’d thought, was more than ready to defend me to the death, since she assumed Karen was laughing because she knew I couldn't finish the article after all.

But when she finally caught her breath she said, "Lisa, how many years have you known me? I’m one of the toughest editors in the business. Now do you really think I didn't know this assignment would cause Lane to have a meltdown and reconsider her notions of how to find love? That setup she came up with was the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life! Two months to find The One! God, I've been trying to do that for thirty-five years!"

"So you wanted her to have a breakdown just so she could write the article about what she learned?"

"Of course! I could tell from those articles she sent me—you know the ones from the magazines nobody's heard of—she was great, but a little green on instinct," Karen exclaimed.

"But what about when she asked to switch the topic and you denied her? And what about asking for Liam's number? That was pretty low, even for you."

"That was all part of the game, darling. I couldn't let her give up that early, she would have never gotten a story out of giving up so quickly. And as for Liam, that was pretty funny, huh? We hung that e-mail up by the water cooler. It's a classic!"

"Well, I'll tell you this, you did get yourself one damn good article, but Lane wins in the end, since after she finished her article denouncing every single thing she'd ever held to be true, she found the most fantastic man ever."

Lisa says Karen went silent and after a moment, said, in a considered tone, "Tell her to e-mail me the manuscript right away. I've got an idea."

Obviously, I was completely overcome with rage when Lisa recounted this exchange to me.

All of that time! All of that stress! It's no wonder I could never get anywhere with those editors before—they are totally insane, not to mention mean. What if I really had gone nuts and spent the rest of my life in a drug-induced haze? Would she want me to write the article about that? Once again, I had to wonder why I continue doing this for a living. The sandwich idea resurfaced—innocent, meditative cucumber flowers . . .

But you know what? When Karen called me, after reading the piece, which she “absolutely adored,” she had the audacity to ask me to thank her!

"Oh come on! Look what you've learned. Look at the great piece you've given me. You should be proud. Lane."

"Humph," was all I said, and believe me, I never thought I'd speak to a Cosmo editor like that.

"All right, you're angry. But I have a proposal. Since I've heard that you did wind up meeting someone after you finished this piece, I would like you to do a follow-up—you know, give the ladies out there a little hope that after all the rough stuff, there comes all the great stuff.”

Now that definitely sounded totally up my alley, but I was angry.

"I'm not sure I want to work with you again," I said, unsure where I'd suddenly acquired this spike of bravery.

"All right,” she said, dragging out the syllables, like we were bargaining. "Fine. If it's four dollars a word you want, then that's what we'll give you."

I was silent. I couldn't believe she had the audacity to think that my feelings could be bought for four dollars a word!

"Okay, four-fifty, but that's my final offer.”

Well, what's dignity, really? My feelings are fine now anyhow. And I owe it to my people. They need me. They are my people. (And you know how I feel about my people.) And it gets better. They liked the story about my wonderful Tom so much that Cosmo had me continue writing about our trials, tribulations, romance, and growth for every issue! After all that time reading about other people's romances, not only do I get to have my own, I get to let other people enjoy it!

Tom was hesitant since he's so private and all, and there were to be photos of us with each column. But when I insisted he wear the globe tie and showed him the story about us, he was touched.

"How could I deny you the pleasure of telling the world how wonderful I am? I won't take no for an answer, Ab Fab."

Could you just die? He is so wonderful. And you know, I think he's getting into this whole celebrity thing. He checks Page Six each day for news about us, although he says it's just to "learn more about the Ab Fab world."

I'd insisted Chris shoot our photos for the column, since he's the only one who consistently takes great pictures of me. When we arrived at Chris's apartment for our shoot, he was staring intently at a Polaroid, smiling. I walked over to see who it was.

"Number twenty-six?" I asked.

"Oh Lane, number twenty-six is right."

"Did you finally meet him?" I asked.

"Meet him? Oh, I did a lot more than meet him."

"So was he everything we'd hoped? Witty, funny, intelligent?"

"Oh, no, he's absolutely none of those things at all. In fact, he's completely thick."

"So then why are you so happy?" I asked, confused.

"Because now I can stop this ridiculous fascination with him and get on with my life.”

Surely this couldn't be. I mean, we'd joked around about how amazing these guys probably are, but there's no way Chris really entertained the idea that he would one day fall in love with the guy from the Polaroid that he'd only ever spoken to in photographer lingo like, "Good. That's good. Now to the left. Now stick your butt out. Go ahead and spread your legs wider."

Well, I guess that could be construed as intimate, but Chris—levelheaded, always together, Chris—was just as much of a dreamer as I was?

"Your article really helped me get past the whole thing."

Now that you know how our future turns out, there's the little unresolved matter of filling in the blanks you are definitely due. Before Tom took on the role of Prince Charming and showed up with one very stylish pump, he had a nudge from a real-life fairy godmother, who for once skipped the lofty, empty statements and got straight to the point. Let's call her Joanne. For all the times my faithful friend implored me to remove my head from the clouds, when she read my article and my question about fate, along with the entire two hundred and fifty pages of Diary of a Working Girl, she took matters into her own hands.

She realized I had, in fact, learned an important lesson about what meeting my M&M is really all about. But she also knew I had a history of taking things a bit too far. Pairing my now sullen outlook with the hints that had revealed themselves to me in my diary, she came to the same conclusion I had—that Tom and I were a perfect match.

Waking the next morning before seven (I should have realized how uncharacteristic this was for her), she took the liberty of leaving a message for Tom that she had an important package for him. While I prepared for my investigation, she delivered the package herself and sat waiting while he read every word, clucking his tongue and muttering things like, "My tie was not that bad! I've had it since the first day I worked here. It's a monumental tie, really it is." She also said he did a whole lot of blushing.

When he was through, my insightful pal asked outright: "You broke it off with your girlfriend way back before Lane evenstarted probing you about her, didn't you?"

Before he answered, she whipped out her own copy and backed up her argument with legalese like, "If you'll refer to page twenty-two, section three which reads, 'I asked Tom if his girlfriend would mind another woman picking out his ties, and he just turned away and said, It's fine.’ We have here a clear indication that a private man like you was unable to share such a personal matter as a breakup with someone whom he had strong feelings for because he was afraid of the possibility of rejection. Am I correct in this assertion, Mr. Reiner?"

Joanne has honed these contract negotiation skills over many years of arguing that, no, her production company was not going to pay to have a doggie au pair on set at a photo shoot.

"But,” Tom argued with Joanne, “I gave her a note telling her how I felt on the day she left here in a state over Liam—page two hundred—and she never said anything about it!"

Joanne said, “Tom, if I know Lane, and I do, she would have told me all about that note, had she seen it. Was she not flustered? Is it not possible she lost it?"

Joanne tells me he took on a face like he was figuring out a quadratic equation and then said, "But what type of a girl takes a job just to find someone who fulfills the requirements of the man she has been dreaming about since pigtail days?"

But even before Joanne could go on with the three-pronged defense plan she’d prepared, citing cinematic obsessions, weaknesses for all things whimsical, and even (this is so sweet) how lovable and human this all makes me, he answered for himself.

"The kind of girl that has used her magical powers to cast a home-brewed, black-magic love-spell on me. I'm even talking like her now, with run-on sentences and audibly hyphenated words. I'm using exclamation points!"

When he let out a big, long sigh, he said, "If she wants a fairy tale, then by God, she's going to get one! Now where are those ridiculously pointy shoes she hobbles around in and hides in her overhead cabinet in case she feels the need to change in the middle of the day?”

Joanne says he was a man possessed, trying to decide between the croc and the caramel-colored pumps. He held them both up and proclaimed, "For the life of me, I will never be the kind of man to understand the unique merits of one pair of shoes versus another!”

But just as Joanne was about to offer up the suggestion of the croc, he recalled reading that passage in my diary and suggested before she had the chance, that this would be the perfect choice.

Joanne smiled triumphantly.

Maybe needing your friend to approach your would-be love interest to show him the light is not the quintessential picture of romance, and I'll admit this bothered me for a moment or two (three, tops), but that's not the point, is it?

The point is it’s my romance. And it’s a real romance—fabulous in its reality of all the pieces of me, fitting with all the pieces of him. Different pieces with bits sticking out here and there, some in the right places, some in the wrong places—but bits that each of us has room to contain within us. And, well, it does make for a good story.

You already know the next part—the shoe, the flower, me as Cinderella, the kiss, palms on asses.

There was a lot of work to do on my last day at Smith Barney. When finally, the papers for the merger were signed and everything I'd ever fax, file, or e-mail for the Mergers and Acquisitions Department of Smith Barney was faxed, filed, or e-mailed, I began packing the personal belongings I'd accumulated over the last two months. I untacked the card Tom had given me that first day with the flowers, I took down the job-well-done posters he'd made on expense day. John stood, looking over the cubey wall.

"You two were so obvious," he said. "I think that blind guy in the cafeteria knew before either of you did."

John, master number-cruncher, discreetly perfect boyfriend, clairvoyant.

"Well, I'm glad we were a great source of entertainment for you."

"You know? I hate to admit it, but I'm really going to miss you. Still, it's just as well, because I couldn't very well e-mail animals that remind me of you to you."

My phone buzzed.

"Ab Fab, can I see you in my office?" Tom asked over the telephone.

I leaned back to glimpse him glimpsing me.

"And don't even think about touching my ass. This is a place of business after all."

"I would never do a thing like that," I replied, hand over heart, eyelashes fluttering, loving this office romance so much that I really hated to think this was my last day.

"So, what can I do for you?" I asked as I slipped into the seat opposite his desk, wearing the croc heels, which I had changed into when I arrived.

"Well," he began, trying to look serious and failing, "You did a great job on the design for that presentation. And apparently it worked."

I’m sure you had something to do with the success of the meeting,” I insisted.

"No really, it was all you—that woman from AT&T called and said, ‘You know, I was on the fence, but that beautiful design finally brought me to my decision.’”

I rolled my eyes to emphasize that I was not buying this brand of logic.

"Whatever you want to believe, but either way, I would like to outsource all of our proposal designs to you. We pay a lot for that sort of thing and I know you really enjoyed it."

"You're not just doing this because I'm your girlfriend?" I asked, and as soon as I did, I realized the mistake I'd made.

What the heck was I thinking calling myself his girlfriend right away like that?

"No, actually, it's despite the fact that you're my girlfriend."

Adorable man, really.

Tiffany and I shrieked in instant message mode after I spent hours typing in for her what had happened.

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Get out! ☺

Lame2001: Isn't it amazing?!?$#%**

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Which part? ☺

Lame2001: Me and Tom, of course!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: I couldn't think of a better match. But you have some seriously jealous women on your hands now!

Lame200l: Do you think?

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Oh baby. I know! Do you think yours is the only instant message window I have open right now? Why do you think I didn't type a word all through your story? I was sending instant messages to just about everyone on our floor! ☺

Lame2001: You really are the queen of gossip. ☺

Tiffanybabeoliscious: But you wouldn't have it any other way. ☺

Lame2001: That's right sister! So you better keep feeding me gossip when I'm outta here.

Tiffanybabeoliscious: It is my duty and I take it seriously. And as long as you've spilled all your gossip to me, and you promise to keep a secret I've got something for you....

Lame200l: What? What?!!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: I've got a special someone right here, too.... ☺

Lame2001: Who? You're killing me.

Tiffanybabeoliscious: You really haven't guessed?

Lame2001: Oh my god! Out with it already!! ☺

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Deep breath....John.

Lame2001: John across the cubey wall?

Tiffanybabeoliscious: Who do you think forwarded him all those animal pictures poking fun at Tom's ex-girlfriend? ☺

Lame200l: No way!

Tiffanybabeoliscious: And by the way...there is no 'spaghetti incident.’ John made that up so you'd start wondering about Tom, because he thought you two would be great together☺

When I left at the end of that day, I had to sign a whole pile of confidentiality contracts. At the bottom of the stack, I came across a pink sheet. I began reading the same jargon the others started with.

"I, Lane Silverman, ex-employee of Smith Barney, promise to maintain under the strictest confidentiality..." when I came to the part about what it was that I was agreeing to.

"...that I will devote this entire weekend to getting to know Tom the Boyfriend and will not once return to my apartment during the entire period spanning Friday, May 29th to Sunday, June 1st."

I brought the pile of papers into Tom’s office and said, 'I’ve just one problem with this last document."

He took a deep breath, folded his hands, prayer-style on his desk, and said, "Yes?"

"Well, I need to go home and get some clothes first."

"I regret to inform you that you'll do no such thing," he said, matter-of-factly. "There’s no need for clothes where we’re going."

Friday night went, to quote someone I once knew, "splendidly." And for that matter, Saturday and Sunday, too—all of which were spent in Tom's apartment—which does not have one inch of marble nor a claw-foot tub. It does have ugly black leather couches, a Barcalounger, and sports paraphernalia, though. This suits him perfectly, and after a little while, I'm sure we can work on it. If I subtly introduce a vase here, an Oriental rug there, he'll barely notice.

True to his claim, there was no clothing necessary. And he is, without the need of suave rehearsed lines, a fantastic lover, who doesn't concentrate on creative positions and scenes, but instead on smiling, and genuinely enjoying every second, without the need to say so with meaningless words.

After, he strokes his hands on my little pooch of a belly and says, "Now this is adorable,” and kisses it, squeezing me so tightly I can barely breathe. This method of passing time in a bedroom is equally, if not far superiorly, enjoyable. Only, it’s not really a method. It’s a natural, wonderful phenomenon that comes from a place that Liam does not have within his otherwise flawless body—a heart.

And there were other wonderful moments aside from those on the bed—eating Chinese take-out wrapped in sheets at Tom's dining room table, fighting over the one fortune cookie, which I won thanks to a tricky maneuver involving pulling said sheet from one very private area. I read from the tiny strip aloud, hoping for a wise insight into our future: "If no one hears the tree fall in the woods, has it really fallen?"

Sure, there was no wisdom there, but it offered plenty of opportunities for jokes.

"If nobody sees Ab Fab's breasts under her sheet, are they really there?"

And, of course, that just lead to a thorough investigation to find out. (As it turns out they were.)

"If Tom wears his globe-covered tie with nothing else, is it still ugly?" I try my hand.

"Lane, that's really not the same kind of question, I see you're trying to be funny, but, c’mon—you can do better than that. But, hey, if you really want to see me in my tie, with absolutely nothing else on, I'm not going to argue...."

The very last point I need to cover is the little question of fate. I got my answer one day when Tom and I were picnicking in Central Park, envisioning the recent fights the couples spread out on blankets had engaged in.

He'd floored me with his imaginative interpretation of a scuffle. He described one tall woman sitting with a short, angry-looking man as flirting with divorce after a particularly ugly scene, which erupted when she offered to sit him on her lap at a movie so he could see over a hatted woman. “It threw off the whole power balance,” he said, sighing. Tom turned his attention from the couple, and settled the fate matter once and for all.

"Ab Fab,” he said, “it was nothing less than fate that brought you to apply for a job at my company that you were totally unqualified for, in hopes of meeting a bite-sized chocolate candy, or whatever the heck you call it, to write an article about the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I can't think of a way the gods could have given me a better gift."

And that's when he said for the first time, "I love you. Don't ever change."

It wasn't poetry. It wasn't the way I envisioned it (and believe me, I've dedicated many an hour to envisioning it). But it was true. And therefore, rather than a dream come true, it was a truth that became a dream—one I replay again and again.