All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,19

anyone than to go home on my fortieth birthday and watch American Idol, which I would have to watch because there was nothing left on my TiVO. Perhaps the most pathetic thing I can think of to tell you about my life is that I have nothing left on my TiVO. Everyone I know is always talking about how far behind they are on all their shows. I, on the other hand, am fully caught up. I have watched everything on television that I ever wanted to.

“What would you have in mind?” I asked, trying not to betray my interest.

“You name it,” she said. “You name the club, you name the restaurant, you name the bar, you name the Broadway show, you name the movie. Whatever it is you name, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Well, I’ve seen everything decent on Broadway, and there are no good movies playing, and I’m not really the type to go to a bar or a club,” I said, wrinkling my nose at the word as though I didn’t like the taste of it. “I can’t imagine going to a club.”

“So it’s dinner,” she said. “Anywhere you want.”

I thought about it for a minute until suddenly her eyes got huge and round again. If she were a cartoon, a lightbulb would have switched on over her head.

“I know what we need to do!” she said, with great enthusiasm.

“What?” I replied, in the same excited tone, mocking her for absolutely no reason. (Here is this sweet girl getting excited about making birthday plans for me, not even knowing which birthday it is, and I’m giving her a hard time for it. I swear, sometimes I understand why my reputation is what it is.)

“I have a terrific idea and I know you’re going to turn it down,” Marie said, undeterred by my bitchiness, “but I want you to think about it, okay? Really consider it, because I think it’s a great idea.”

I waited.

“There is a guy who lives in my building that I’m dying to fix you up with . . .”

Now this was humiliating. “Stop.”

“No, wait,” she protested. “He’s very handsome and very nice. I’ve talked with him in the elevator, he’s divorced with no kids, wears great-looking suits, looks to be about the right age—I think it’s a winner.”

I know Marie’s building. She lives on Central Park West. Her fiancé is one of the more successful bankers in our real estate development business. But there was simply no way.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, “what could be more pathetic than going on a blind date on your birthday?”

She smiled. “Sitting at home on your birthday watching American Idol,” she said. “Which, I might add, has sucked for the last three years anyway.”

I’ve never in my life mentioned American Idol to Marie. She’s more insightful than I give her credit for sometimes.

“What makes you think he’s even available tonight?” I asked.

“I can find out,” she said, bubbling. She could sense I was giving in. “I have his mobile.”

I shrugged. Then I sighed. Then I rolled my eyes. And then, finally, I ran out of gestures that indicate exasperation.

“All right, call him,” I said, as though I was agreeing to a highly skeptical business deal, which, in a sense, I was.

“I will,” she said, all excited. “I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes later she was back, and beaming.

“Eight o’clock,” she said. “Gramercy Tavern, just the two of you. He says he’ll be the one in the blue suit. I think he was trying to be funny.”

I tried to muster a laugh, but couldn’t.

“The way you dress,” she continued, “I told him he’d know you the minute you walk in the door.”

“Well, thanks for the added pressure.”

“Boss, don’t be ridiculous, your clothes are too fabulous,” she said. “I may sneak by and peek in the window just to see what you’re wearing.”

BROOKE

SO, WHAT ARE YOU wearing?

It’s funny, but I could never count how many times my husband has asked me that. Sometimes jokingly, sometimes not. From wherever he is on the globe, Scott knows that he is not allowed to go to bed without calling me first to say good-night. I want mine to be the last voice he hears before he goes to sleep, and whatever he wants that voice to be I am willing to give him. He will invariably begin the conversation by asking what I’m wearing, and I can usually tell from his tone whether he wants to know that I am in