The View From Penthouse B - By Elinor Lipman Page 0,65
the other hand . . . Wasn’t she the girl in high school who sneaked out at night and had a fake ID?”
This required my admitting that yes, different overtures appealed to different women.
“And tonight’s deal breaker was . . . ?”
“Bedroom this, bedroom that, do you have roommates? Do you have privacy? On and on.”
Charles said, “That’s not a come-on. That’s a real estate inquiry.”
“Not this time.”
Margot called from down the hall, “Get your shoes on. I’m ready . . . Just looking for my keys. And shut off the lights behind you.”
I said to him, “You two go alone. I’ll make myself an omelet and get some work done. Besides, I think I interrupted something.”
I noticed a slightly more complicated expression than I was used to seeing on Charles’s face, possibly a layer of compassion and delicacy over his usual unwavering confidence. “We may, Margot and I, have reached a new—how do I say this?—understanding.”
“Are you back together?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“But something’s changed.”
“Certain things have, shall we say, fallen into place . . .” He patted my knee in a brotherly fashion. “I’ll let Margot explain. And until she does, you’re not to worry.”
Were we New Yorkers unusually alert to real-estate nuances? Suddenly I was worried where I would go if Charles and Margot reconciled. My first thought was perhaps Anthony and I could be roommates elsewhere, until I remembered what a two-bedroom apartment without our friends-and-family discount would cost. I’d have to return to my own place, sublet for so many months that I’d almost forgotten its zip code.
Charles said, “Gwen? I lost you there. Where’d you go?”
I said, “Nowhere.” A lie. I’d just been to West End Avenue and had watched myself entering my old apartment. And despite the reality of a possessive sublettor and belongings in storage, I was walking through the rooms alone, past our furniture, our bed, our books, our paintings, our dishes; seeing Edwin’s Quaker Oats in the cupboard and his Chunky Monkey in the freezer.
Margot called, “C’mon! I’m starved.”
I pointed the remote at the TV and said, “Really. You two go.”
Charles asked, “Can we bring you back a slider?”
Margot, now in the doorway, dancing into her high heels, said, “No, because she’s coming with us. I haven’t heard word one about this alleged flop of a date. We’ve got work to do.”
I promised we would go over everything at breakfast. Until then, I told her, I’d use my time wisely, studying the classifieds, online and on paper. I didn’t say which kind.
From HugUkissU to MiddleSister: i would like a partner who is Inteligent, self-confident, romantic, affectionate, kind, athletic. i want a person to love me for whats on the in-side.. i like to travel, will love to meet a woman who will join me in sensual intimacy and a real disire to be communicative. i like going to exercise on weekends, and also i love playing golf. i’m self Employed.
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Gotta Start Somewhere
LESS THAN TWO months into what looked like a relationship, Douglas dropped out of their spinning class and stopped answering Anthony’s text messages. We learned that he had not been as pleasant as he first appeared; what’s more, he was an elitist, hinting that most of his boyfriends, even the one-nighters, had professional degrees in this or that. Anthony was offended and annoyed, but not heartbroken. Because we were a little in love with Anthony ourselves (Margot’s theory), we were indignant, already having sensed Douglas’s disapproval of both Anthony’s domestic arrangement and his joblessness. “Houseboy” was the word Douglas had used to describe the baking and multitasking we so appreciated.
Unsolicited, he had advised Anthony to explore the field of personal assisting. “It’s practically what you do now, minus the celebrity employer,” he’d observed.
True. But what nerve.
As Margot and I sat in the kitchen watching Anthony fill his muffin tins, ingeniously using an ice cream scoop, we discussed how demeaning the term “houseboy” was. But after the oven door was closed, the timer set, the wine poured, I remarked that “personal assistant” could be something Anthony was stunningly suited for.
Margot said, “He is like a manager, an organizer, a live-in personal trainer, technical consultant, and pastry chef all rolled into one.”
“Hardly—”
“Where do we start?” I asked.
He gave me a look that said, After all these months . . . after my coaching, after I added memory to your computer and found a shout-out to you in Missed Connections, you have to ask where one searches for opportunities?