Baby Proof Part 11

"How so?" I ask nervously.

"I told him about your divorce," Michael says. "He had no idea."

"Michael!" I say. I know it's ridiculous to keep hiding the fact from everyone, but I can't help itI don't like my personal affairs being discussed at work. And there's something about divorce that is equated with failure, which is never a perception you want to parade around in the workplace.

"It's no big deal," Michael says.

"What did he say?" I ask.

"That he was sorry to hear it But I think you should know that he didn't look one bit sorry to hear it. If you catch my drift."

Michael leaves my office after giving me a final, dramatic brow raise and a skilled drumroll on my desk.

As much as I try to downplay my interest in Richard's list, I report the news back to Jess that evening. She has never met Richard, but has heard me speak of him over the years and relishes the mere scent of an intra-office romance. So instead of taking the story for what it isa juicy, self-esteem-boosting bit of trivia, she becomes wildly animated, saying that he is perfect for me.

"He's way too old to want kids," she says.

I shake my head and tell her not to be ridiculous.

But a week later when Richard calls me out of the blue, saying he wants to discuss some matters over lunch, I can't help wondering about his intentions. I've sat with him in numerous meetings, but have never had a one-on-one meeting with him. And certainly not over lunch.

"Sure," I say, reminding myself that, our work lists notwithstanding, I have no interest in Richard (or vice versa). I'm sure that he only wants to discuss business. After all, I am becoming more senior all the time, and maybe an occasional lunch with Richard just reflects my status in the house. Perhaps he wants to go over publicity plans for my upcoming Amy d.i.c.kerson novel. Or maybe he wants to formulate a strategy to handle my most difficult author, Jenna Coblentz. Jenna's been a huge commercial success for over a decade, but she is so demanding with publicity that her behavior borders on abusive, and it's an editor's responsibility to act as a buffer for the publicists.

"How does Thursday look?" Richard asks me in his rich, radio-DJ voice.

"Thursday's perfect," I say, without consulting my calendar.

"Bolo at one?" he says. Bolo is a popular spot with people from work and the publishing scene generally. He'd never choose Bolo if his intentions were at all impure.

"That works for me," I say, all business.

On Thursday, I wear my most flattering pair of jeans and green seersucker jacket to work. I look casual, but stylish. Then I spend about ten minutes touching up my makeup at my desk before leaving for lunch. I stand by my claim that I have no interest in Richard, but figure that it never hurts in life to look nice, particularly when you're going to be in the company of a hot man.

Richard e-mailed me earlier to tell me he was coming from a dentist appointment and would meet me at the restaurant. I walk briskly the few blocks to Bolo, but still arrive five minutes late. I spot Richard right away at a corner table wearing a sport coat and tie. A gla.s.s of red wine and a bowl of olives sit on the table before him. He is talking on his cell phone, looking somewhat agitated as he glances down at a small notepad, the old-school kind reporters carry. He has an air of importance. Then again, maybe I just know that he is important.

When he looks up and sees me, his face brightens and he waves me over. I give him a signal, as if to say, "Finish your call. I'll wait here." He shakes his head, says good-bye quickly, and snaps his phone shut, sliding it into his jacket pocket along with the pad. As I approach him, he gives me the half-stand and says, "h.e.l.lo, Claudia."

"Hi, Richard," I say as I inhale his aftershave, something I first noticed on him during a shared elevator ride years ago. I love aftershave or cologne on a man. Ben never wore it. Even his deodorant was scent-free. It feels good when I stumble upon something not to miss about Ben. Unfortunately, I haven't racked up many of those so far. "Any cavities?"

"Not a one," he says.

"You're a flosser?" I say.

"Nope," he says, looking sheepish. "Just good genes, I guess."

Our waiter, a young, blond kid with so much exuberance that I peg him as a Broadway performer, stops by, introduces himself as Tad, and asks what I'd like to drink. I don't usually have wine at lunch during the week, but because Richard is drinking, I order a gla.s.s of chardonnay.

"Good. I don't like to drink alone," Richard says after Tad departs. "Unless I'm alone, that is."

I laugh.

He laughs.

Then, as if to offset our beverage selection, Richard skips further small talk and immediately launches into business. Our summer list generally. A new author I just signed on board. A recent, mixed review of the Skvarla memoir in the Times . (Not that publicity ever cares too much about the content. Even bad publicity is good publicity.) "And the big news is," Richard says, as if signaling the reason for our lunch, "I'm this close to getting Amy d.i.c.kerson on The Today Show ." His index finger and thumb are a millimeter apart.

"You're kidding me?" I say, even though I had already heard this news from Michael. It is huge deal for any book, but particularly a novel. Still, it's usually not the sort of thing that necessitates a one-on-one lunch with the head of publicity.

Richard nods. "Apparently Katie really digs the book," he says.

I smile at his use of the word digs . Richard frequently uses jargon from the seventies. Most people sound washed-up or silly when they drop slang from a prior generation, but with Richard, it's endearing. I guess if you're handsome and successful enough, you can pull off just about anything.

I resist the urge to say, "Groovy," and instead cross my fingers in the air.

Tad returns with my gla.s.s of chardonnay and two menus. He asks if we'd like to hear the specials.

"Sure," we say in unison, and then listen as Tad rattles off the longest and most detailed shrimp bisque description in the history of the world. Ben always hated food adjectivesparticularly the words moist and chewy . Cookie commercials presented a problem for him. I tell myself, No more thinking about Ben ! I peruse the menu, trying to find something that's not too messy to eat. I decide on the seared-tuna salad. Richard goes with the pressed burger. I like the burger-wine combo.

"So read anything good lately?" Richard asks.

"You mean generallyor are you talking ma.n.u.scripts?" I ask.

"Either," he says.

I reel off a few t.i.tles in the first category and a couple of projects in the second.

"What else can you tell me?" Richard says after Tad takes our order and trots off. He looks at me expectantly, as if I'm the one who scheduled our little "business" lunch.

I take a sip of wine and say, "As far as work goes?" My mind races to various bits of gossip in the business generally. Just as I'm about to ask him if he's heard the rumors that the mystery writer Jennifer Coats is unhappy with her editor at Putnam, and is shopping her new ma.n.u.script around, Richard shrugs and leans back in his chair. "Or whatever." His whatever signals that this is most definitely not a business lunch.

I consider my response carefully, feeling as if I have just arrived at a fork in the road. Like the kind in one of those choose-your-own-adventure books I loved so much in elementary school. I could easily discuss the Jennifer Coats rumor or turn the conversation back to Amy d.i.c.kerson's Today Show booking.

Instead, I hold up my left hand, wiggle my ring finger, and blurt out, "I got a divorce."

Richard looks surprised, and I hope that he's not going to play dumb and pretend that he knew nothing of my recent news. Then again, maybe he's just surprised that I'm sharing it with him so readily. I'm a little surprised myself.

Richard tugs on his earlobe and says, "I heard. I'm sorry."

I consider saying, "That's okay," but I've always hated when people respond that way after a death or any sad event in life. After all, it's not really okay . So I say, "Thanks. It happens."

Richard nods as he swirls the wine in his gla.s.s. He takes a long swallow, then says, "Half the time from what I hear."

"Yup," I say. "Odds you've never played, right?"

The first personal-question card has officially been played.

Richard laughs. "You got that right."

"Ever come close?" I ask.

Second. "S ure."

"How close?"

Third.

"Not that close, actually."

Richard gives someone across the room a quick salute. I consider turning around to see who it is, but don't want to appear as caught red-handed as I feel.

As if Richard knows what I'm thinking, he says, "Jason Saul."

I give him a puzzled look and he says, "Little fellow in marketing? With the soul patch?"

"Oh, yeah," I say. "It's actually a goatee. Not a soul patch."

"What's the difference?"

I describe the difference, pointing to my chin. Richard nods, looking enlightened. I am reminded of my favorite facial hair story. Years ago, Michael was in a moustache-growing contest with another guy at work. Michael was badly losing, and to demonstrate his point over lunch, he nodded toward a girl named Sally whom he actually had a minor crush on and said, "Even Sally would kick my a.s.s." He was trying to be funny, but unfortunately, Sally was a dark-haired Italian and one of those girls who waxes her upper lip. Sally was horrified and humiliated, as was Michael when he realized his slip. I tell Richard the story now, and he laughs.

"Is Sally still around?" Richard asks.

"No. She left a short time later. Guess she was traumatized."

Richard nods, and then says, "So where were we?"

"Why you never married?" I say.

Fourth.

"When I meet someone I like being with more than I like being alone," he says, "I'll marry her."

I laugh and tell him that had been, more or less, my philosophy when I met Ben.

"So, what? You figured out late in the game that you still preferred your own company to his?"

Fifth.

"Not exactly Just irreconcilable differences."

Richard pauses, as if considering a follow-up. Then he stops himself and gives Tad a signal that he'd like another gla.s.s of wine.

I decide to just tell him. "I didn't want kids. He did."

Maybe I should get a T-shirt made. Most divorces aren't so neatly summarized.

"Shouldn't you have covered that one while you were in the courting stage?" Richard asks gently.

"We did. He reneged on our deal. Now he wants them. Or at least one . One more than I want."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

I laugh. I like the sound of Richard calling Ben a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Tad returns with Richard's wine. So here we are, I think, having multiple gla.s.ses of wine at lunch as we discuss my divorce and his perpetual bachelorhood. And maybe he's thinking the same thing, because the floodgates open and we are firing off the personal questions too quickly to keep track of them.

At one point I say, "So, I hear that you and Hannigan had me on your lists?"

"And I hear that I've topped yours for thirteen years."

I say, "That Michael is a gossipy little girl."

"So it's true, then?"

My heart races as I tell him yeah, it's true.

"I'm honored," he says.

"You should be," I say.

He leans across the table and taps the base of my winegla.s.s. "And believe me, I am."

I work hard at not averting my eyes before I lean back across the table and tap the base of his winegla.s.s. "So am I."

We finish our lunch, talking and laughing. Then, at Tad's chipper suggestion, we agree that a cup of coffee sounds like a fine idea. When the check arrives, Richard gets it, saying he'll expense it.

"Since we talked so much shop?" I say.

"Righto," Richard says.

I smile, feeling both relaxed and excited, the mark of a good date. Which this is shaping up to be. And although I don't recognize it until later that day, after Richard and I have strolled back to the office together and I've hunkered down to read a revised ma.n.u.script, it is the first time in a very long time that I am thinking about a man other than Ben.

thirteen.

Over the next four workdays, Richard and I exchange about thirty e-mails a day. It's all disguised as friendly banter, but the sheer volume of traffic suggests otherwise.