
# The Triumphs and Travails of Talisman Turner

## ~ Psych & the City #1 ~

Cinda Fernando

© 2012 Cinda Fernando

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, organizations, business establishments, or locales are used fictitiously to provide a sense of authenticity. Everything else comes from the author's imagination—not from reality. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, organizations, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover image of blackboard heart © Sunny Studio (Fotolia)

## Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, who always believes in me, even when I doubt myself.

Thank you, mom.

# A Message for You

DEAR BOOK LOVER,

I am **thrilled** that you're about to read the first book in my Psych & the City series...where sweet romance, LOL humor, and pop psychology collide!

If you...

  * can appreciate romances which are sweet, not steamy
  * wish Hollywood would make more romantic comedies in the vein of _Sweet Home Alabama_ and _Notting Hill_
  * don't get annoyed by parenthetical asides
  * swoon over British accents (yum)
  * ever entertained the idea of taking a college psychology class
  * like a "Happily Ever After" ending to be proudly served on a silver platter

...then, the Psych & the City series will hit your "sweet spot."

Settle into your sofa and curl up with each novel when you're feeling down or stressed-out, and you're in the mood to read something light and relaxing which will put a smile on your face.

In this particular installment, Talisman Turner attempts to reverse the curse haunting her pathetic love life through the psychology theories she studied in college.

Spoiler alert: she achieves victory (after all, I promised you a happy ending!), but her path to triumph is anything but predictable...

I hope you enjoy this little escape from reality.

Happy reading!

~ Cinda

### Talisman Turner has just been dumped...

IT'S NOT HER.

It's not the guy.

It's the Red Sox.*

Tali's ex-boyfriend believes sacrificing their relationship will reverse the curse plaguing his beloved baseball team. Tali's determined to reverse a curse too—the one haunting her pathetic love life.

And she's betting on the psychological theories on attraction and relationships, which she studied in college, to do it.

But falling in love is not a science...

* Despite the baseball references, this novel is part of a romantic comedy series, not a sports saga!

# Chapter 1

"YOU LOOK NICE," Doug, my boyfriend of nearly six months, says as we meet on the Lagoon Bridge. Boston's smaller-scale replica of Brooklyn's, it crosses the pond at the center of the Public Garden, providing a picture-perfect backdrop to our embrace.

"Thanks," I say, wishing I could return the compliment. But, going against the norm, Doug doesn't look good. He looks squirmy, the same way he does when a Celtics game is on, they're down, and only a few seconds remain on the clock.

Silently, we stroll to a bench near the edge of the pond and sit down. While I adjust the navy wrap dress I had donned in anticipation of summer, he fumbles with his keys. The Boston Red Sox key tag, a memento from the first game he went to with his father, is no longer red, but a dirty brown.

"Tal, I think," he pauses, the keys jangle, "I think it's time we ended our relationship."

I concentrate my attention on the weeping willows across from us. Yellow blossoms trail in bright paths from the topmost branches down to the ones which disappear into the water. I can't say I'm surprised. Hurt, yes.

But surprised? No.

Even on our first date, I was waiting for the other stiletto to drop.

Simply put: Doug is as gorgeous as the surgeons on TV dramas. Blond hair, green eyes, and six feet three inches of toned and tanned muscle. Instead of dating someone like me, I thought he'd go for a member of that rare female species—the women who could actually pose beside him.

Like me, these girls might have light brown hair with golden highlights, standard issue brown eyes, and decent cheekbones, but that's where the resemblance would end. These girls would be taller, their torsos longer, their fingernails rounder, their hair glossier, their eyelashes thicker. They'd always have perfect French manicures and wear tiny, pointed heels (except to the gym).

"You've never been this silent." Doug swallows. "I want you to know it's not you." As I wait for Doug to tell me it's really him, I count the number of fuzzy ducklings swimming behind their mother in the pond's green water. One, two, three—

"It's the Sox."

Startled, I swivel to face him. "What?"

"I've been reading an article about miracles and sacrifices, so...I'm giving up monogamy. Hook-ups. Basically anything fun you can do with a girl."

"You're what?" I ask in disbelief as a skateboarder in a red cap and jean shorts crashes into a nearby garbage can.

"I'm giving up going all the way so that my team will go all the way," he says with the pride of a bargain hunter who has found an original 2/55 quilted Chanel handbag with a metallic strap made in 1955, at a price so low, it's clear the second-hand store selling it didn't realize the bag's value.

I poke Doug in the chest. "You can't do that." I poke him again. "That's not going to work. It's magical thinking."

"I'm not trying to be the next Houdini."

"I'm not talking about magic tricks, but magical thinking. It's a phenomenon where people think they can affect grand changes in the world through their thoughts or actions, and I—"

"Don't use your psychobabble on me."

"It's not psychobabble."

"Tal. You basically told me that sexual chemistry is simply a matter of body odor."

I button up my cargo-style jacket. While it protects me from the late spring breeze blowing through the Garden, unfortunately, it's can't protect me from the chill slowly enveloping my heart. "No, not BO, but the MHC theory."

"Don't try to convince me again that you're attracted to me because of my armpits."

Doug's dismissive attitude stings, but I should expect it. He never appreciated the theory of attraction centered around MHC (Major Histocompatibility Complex) genes, one of my favorite theories I had learned about when studying psychology at college.

It's an evolutionary sign of kismet, an evolutionary seal of approval—one I prefer to a mother-in-law's. Not that I'd have to worry about impressing Doug's mother ever again.

The space around my heart tightens, as if the fragile organ has been stuffed into a pair of stonewashed bootcut jeans, too beautiful to resist, and two sizes too small. I don't feel like defending the theory to him yet another time, explaining the details my freshman psychology professor had drilled into our heads, since it was her special area of research.

Everyone has a unique set of MHC genes on their sixth chromosome, which expresses itself through a person's scent, also unique. Women are strongly and _instantly_ attracted to certain men based on their smell because the scent of the males indicates the men have MHC genes which differ significantly from the women's own genetic pool.

Since MHC genes code for immune responses, if the MHC-united couple ever have children, their kids would possess a range of biological defenses against toxins and pathogens, boosting their Darwinian survival-of-the-fittest factor. In a nutshell, evolution created the world's best matchmaker inside of your nose.

"But what about the time you said I smelled like exploding stars?" I clutch Doug's wrist. "I thought you were a believer!"

"I had drunk two bottles of Dom Perignon, and..." he stops himself. Two men in charcoal gray suits strum acoustic guitars on the bench across from us.

"What?" I ask.

He shifts in his seat. "Nothing."

"It was the week after you gave me the black eye," I say, trying to comb through my memory.

"I didn't give you—"

"I spent twenty minutes on the T the next day trying to convince a lady with blue-white hair and QVC jewelry that I didn't need to call a domestic abuse hotline. You elbowed me here." I press my finger underneath my left eye. "At the game. Trying to catch a fly ball. The Sox were playing some team from California."

His face lights up like Fenway Park at night. "The Padres."

"The Padres. Right." I stare at Doug, finally understanding why he had uncharacteristically embraced the MHC theory that night. "And after another win, the Sox were four games ahead of the Yankees."

He sighs. A Canadian goose waddles over and pecks at his feet.

"If you found somebody else, just tell me," I say.

"That's it. I swear. On the Sox. I really believe that this will be the year, if—"

"If you dump me."

"The season's just beginning, and—"

"—you want to trade me in for twelve—"

"—nine on the field, but twenty-three on the active roster—"

"—nine or twenty-three...basically a truck-load of sweaty, slightly chubby men?" He turns away from me and focuses on a picnicking couple nestled in the grass. "Can't you just eat the cookie?"

He scratches his head. "What are you talking about?"

"You know, the break-the-curse cookie. Molasses-flavored with no preservatives or hydrogenated oils." He looks unconvinced. "My mom gets them sometimes."

"For now, the best thing for you is to forget about me."

"In this city?"

I only have to scan the area around us for four seconds before I spot twin ten-year-old boys sporting Red Sox caps with identical glaring Bs. Every day, I'll find at least twenty-one reminders that I once had a boyfriend who dumped me for the team.

"Wasn't there something that you had to tell me too?" Doug asks.

"Yeah." I glance at my freshly manicured nails, now done for nothing. I thought we'd be celebrating our six-month anniversary in a few days, toasting to us and to the fact that I didn't have to deal with my boss anymore. "I quit."

He smiles and gives me a hug. "That's great!"

Yes, not only am I currently boyfriendless, but also deprived of taking solace in my career because I don't have one.

Fantastic.

He takes my hands into his. They're dry and warm, effortlessly comforting. "It's not personal. We can still be friends, right?"

I'm tempted to say yes, because maybe if we continue to be friends, he'll change his mind, realize that even frumpy, dumpy me with pudge, a bad hair day, and no make-up, is better than his precious gang of sweaty, tobacco-chewing men...but that's also magical thinking too, isn't it?

I run my fingers through his hair, one last time, one for the road. "Sorry, Doug, but no. I have too many friends as it is."

Before he can see that my mascara is about to run, I race out of the Public Garden and scare the flock of baby ducklings with my hasty exit. Unaware of the misery they're capturing on film, some Japanese tourists snap my picture.

# Chapter 2

"THIS IS THE YEAR; it's going to be the year." Carried by an April breeze, the gruff voice floats through my bedroom window. I glower at the old man meandering in front of my apartment building. He doffs his cap at no one in particular.

I slam the glass pane down and return to the activity I've religiously engaged in every morning, afternoon, and evening since Doug dumped me three weeks ago: smiling into my dresser mirror as long and as hard as I possibly can, in the hopes that this manufactured effort will actually make me feel better.

I know the idea seems absurd, but it's a psychological theory backed by scientific research. According to the facial feedback hypothesis, through a process of self-perception (or by increasing the flow of air-cooled blood to the brain), contracting my facial muscles into a smile should make me feel happier.

Instead, as in all my previous trials, my jaw muscles hurt, and I feel like I've taken my face for a 6:00 AM jog to the Commons and back. I halt my forced smiling and glance out the window again. The tenant across the street is hanging a Red Sox banner from his window. He waves. I scowl.

Stupid Sox.

This is going to be the year, this is going to be the year, this is going to be the year when the Bosox are going to win the World Series and prove Babe Ruth wrong.

When is it going to be the year when New England men shut up about their beloved baseball team and do something more productive?

Immediately after indulging in the traitorous thought, I feel guilty. I'm a New England girl through and through: grew up in Providence, Rhode Island, went to college at one of Boston's finest (uhm, no, not Harvard or MIT), and upon graduation, made Boston my home. The Red Sox–like Filene's Basement–is an institution.

Up until Doug dumped me, I gave the Sox the respect they deserve. Not the respect I would give a Vera Wang wedding gown found at Filene's annual sale, naturally, but I would've smiled at the old man who just walked by my apartment building, and I wouldn't have taken offense at a Bosox banner whippling in the breeze.

However, since Doug knocked me off of my girlfriend pedestal and replaced me with the Sox, my grudge against Boston's beloved has swollen to soap opera-sized proportions. Regrettably, my bouts with facial feedback are doing nothing to dampen my ill-will.

So, following my new post-breakup routine, I resort to Plan B: I eat an entire box of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars and watch another season of _Sex_. (That would be my friends' abbreviation for _Sex and the City_.)

Oh, and I cry some more. That too. I cry so hard that it's hard to taste the chocolate coating of my ice cream bars.

I know that my relationship status, or my lack of one, doesn't determine my personal worth. But usually the girls who say that have:

a) Good hair days, all the time, even in the humidity of a Boston summer

b) Healthy bodies, lithe and flexible, like teen chimpanzees

c) Boyfriends better trained to do their bidding than Siberian huskies preparing to mush for the Iditarod

d) A martini glass overflowing with their third girlie drink of the evening

e) All of the above

As a woman of the new millennium (the phrase I've chosen to replace "woman of the nineties" because we've been out of that decade for a while now), I would've liked to have taken comfort in something more meaningful than TV re-runs and coffee almond toffee ice cream bars for the past three weeks. Except for that one pesky detail—I'm unemployed.

I know I'm the one who quit, but my job didn't turn out the way I had expected. When I applied, I thought I'd be learning about the ins and outs of the television industry by assisting a media fix-it man, who styled himself as a "plumber for modern communications."

In the beginning, I didn't mind that he never taught me anything about the television industry. While he chatted to his mother who was vacationing on Martha's Vineyard, or dispensed advice to clients who only drink Evian, I browsed for beauty products online and played Hearts on the computer. But after a few months, my duties changed from being the general office assistant to being a glorified parking valet.

Whenever my ex-boss decided that he couldn't handle the trials of the commuter rail anymore (which was about once every three days), he would entrust his car, a slick Mercedes convertible, to me. Because he was too cheap to pay for a parking garage, taking care of his car meant parallel parking it between SUVs—assuming I could find parking—and moving it after two hours, to avoid being ticketed and/or towed.

The day before Doug dumped me, I had spent hours circling round Newbury Street, waiting for my boss to emerge from Alan Bilzerian with a new suit. After listening to my stomach harmonize to my boss's CD collection ( _ABBA Gold_ and _More ABBA Gold_ ), I finally resolved to quit.

It seemed like a great decision at the time. I thought it'd be easy to find another job in Boston. But so far, I've rarely had enough energy to weed through the possibilities, and even when I do, it seems that my psychology degree qualifies me for everything and nothing all at once.

I peer out the window again. The mailman strolls by. At the sight of his navy jacket, my mouth waters like Pavlov's dog. Without a boyfriend, and with no prospects of a career, I've settled for the simple joy of opening the mail.

I page through the envelopes: a trio of utility bills, offer of a platinum credit card despite my nonexistent credit, a J Crew catalogue, three menus for local Chinese restaurants, proclamations of escalating taxes from the Republican Governors' Association, proclamations of environmental doom from Democratic National Committee, and one postcard from my mom.

Eight months ago, in some sort of mid-life crisis, she decided to roam through the West. My sister, Ris, and I say she's gone "coastal," ie crazy on the opposite coast. Besides telling everyone to call her "Rain" because it's more earth-friendly, (her real name is Lorraine), my mom decided to eliminate _all_ forms of technology from her life, including the television, the internet, and most annoyingly of all, the telephone.

She only keeps in touch with Ris and me through snail mail, usually in the form of postcards. She thinks they're an organic form of communication which strengthens her connection to nature. It's not such an odd belief, especially since she used to design greeting cards for a living.

Not your standard Christmas or Valentine's cards either, but ones with tiny golden lamps that celebrated the Hindu festival of Diwali; ones with multicolored, fiery dragons for the Chinese New Year; ones with cherry plum trees etched on the front which wished its recipients a Happy Spring; and others which told them, "Out of all the illusions in the world, you're one of the cutest." (That last one was a big seller abroad and in California.)

I don't mind so much using snail mail to contact her. But, I do wish that in addition to studying the healing properties of bergamot oil and the cleansing capabilities of apple cider vinegar, my mom also would, every now and again, explore cell phone plans with free weekend and evening minutes.

Because with the system we have in place, when she replies to the news I've related to her in my most recent missive, circumstances have radically changed, rendering most of her well-meaning advice moot. Today's postcard is a little different. This time, her recommendations are impractical, not because of our medium of communication...but because I conveniently forgot to mention my career catastrophe in my last note.

Dear Tali,

I'm sorry to hear about Doug. But he sounded like a hard card anyway. At least you can take solace in your job...isn't that what modern women do? To find someone new, when you're ready, follow the Feng Shui instructions I gave you in my last card, the one with the Thich Nhat Hanh quote on the front.

Also, diffuse the essential oil of rosemary for clarity at work! And you can eliminate negative energy from your apartment by burning dried sage...but that can be a potential fire hazard.

Love you bun, Mom

PS At least you have your health.

At least I have my health...at least I have my health. That's what she's always saying. But I want more than my health. I want a warm, manly shoulder to cry on, or as a substitute, my mother's. I want my mom and me to have a long in-person conversation, for her to cradle my head, while explaining what she means by "a hard card," and for her to tell me how to heal my heart without using the words "diffuse" or "organic."

After I stash the postcard in my desk drawer, I root around its interior, trying to locate the Feng Shui card she was referring to. Instead, I find one letter on how to choose my correct Ayurvedic dosha, which I thought was bizarre (until I read an article about it two months later in _It! Girl_ magazine), and a set of cards explaining Pilates moves which she sent to me before the exercise had become a celebrity obsession.

When I close the drawer shut, it gets jammed in the back by something smaller than a postcard—but just as shiny.

Three Boston Red Sox trading cards.

Doug gave them to me. "Automatic aphrodisiac," he said and snapped on the accompanying bubblegum. Then we, you know...well, they worked.

I fling the cards at my dresser mirror and wipe warm tears from my cheeks. When will it be my year to win at love and at work? My animosity towards the Sox reaches high tide. Stupid, stupid Sox.

I'm definitely going to ask mom to send good vibes to the Yankees. Definitely.

That should serve Doug right for all the times during our relationship when his devotion to his favorite baseball team eclipsed his devotion to me.

On our first official date, he brought me flowers. A baker's dozen of small pink roses. While I was in the kitchen, wondering if using an empty vodka bottle as a vase was tacky, he turned on the television.

To watch the Bosox-Yankees game.

Then there were the times I'd get ESPN'd out. Like the when we went to a semi-fancy pizza parlor, and he overheard a group of guys talking about the current season's roster of rookies. He walked over and joined them, and I was left alone to watch the cheese congeal over his sun-dried tomatoes.

But when he returned to our table, he apologized for getting carried away. I didn't want to lose the right to run my fingers through his hair, and he looked suitably chastened—and frankly, so gorgeous—so I forgave him then...and every time afterwards.

I know it sounds like I'm not missing much. I'm sure there are twenty-seven articles in this month's lot of magazines that will tell me that I'm better off without him. But there were enough good times to make me miss Doug.

I miss the way he'd talk to me about a _Saturday Night Live_ episode I hadn't seen, as I was in my boss's car, starving, sweaty, and searching for parking. I miss the jealous looks I got from other girls as we'd walk, holding hands, through the Commons. I miss how he'd try to cheer me up with presents from Jack's Joke Shop when I was worried about my stalled career or about my incommunicado mom.

Even more than being with Doug, I miss being in a relationship. Having a warm body to cuddle at night, even if in the morning, it disappears to watch _Sports Center_. I miss the dilemma of deciding what outfit to wear on our dates and the arguments over what movie to see. I miss going into the men's section of department stores on a mission to find the perfect birthday present. I miss stocking the fridge with French onion dip and hint of lime tortilla chips, Doug's favorites.

But most of all, I miss the two-button feeling.

The feeling you get when you've met someone, and every new detail you learn is so delicious, that your days are filled with the anticipation of discovering more.

When I explained the feeling to Jem, my best friend and roommate, she said it's what she feels when she unbuttons the top two buttons of a guy's shirt and traces, for the first time, the hollows underneath his neck. So now we call it the two-button feeling.

I retrieve the baseball cards from the floor, stuff them back into my desk drawer, and shuffle into the living room, on the prowl for something to distract me, to keep the thoughts of loneliness from pacing through my head like a model forever chained to the runway.

I scan my DVD collection and pluck one movie from the shelf: _Pretty Woman_. My favorite film, which I'm sometimes ashamed, sometimes unashamed, to admit—depending on company.

I'm twenty-five years old. I have my health. But I'm unemployed and boyfriendless, with no prospects of changing either status.

What happened to the world being my oyster? Where the hell is my happy ending?

In frustration, I bang the DVD case against the coffee table, and the enclosed disc flies out. Great, it got scratched. I hope it doesn't skip during the good parts.

I turn on the TV. A news ticker declares that the Red Sox are gearing up for Thursday's game against the Yankees.

Doug, somebody—anybody—please tell me, how can I reverse _my_ curse?

# Chapter 3

"TEMPORARY LESBIANISM," Jem breezily announces, having just returned from doing the morning show for WRXS, a local alternative rock station.

I almost choke on my ice cream bar. "That's your solution?"

She shrugs, sits beside me on our futon, and removes her mp3 player from her waist where it normally rests, attached like an intravenous tube.

"At least it's not a cliché," she says. I suspect Jem's phobia of turning into a cliché began close to the time her dad, a powerful attorney, traded her mom in for his platinum blonde secretary. "Just read about the trend in _Suave_ ," she says. I wince. As a huge fan of the men's lifestyle magazine, Doug must have read the article too.

She slips off her heels and stretches her feet. She has mastered the art of walking in three-inch—or longer—stilettos. I don't know how she does it.

I've never worn anything but chunky solid heels, the kind Catholic schoolgirls often wear with their plaid skirts. At night, my mother used to scare my sister, Ris, and me with stories of women who, through the folly of vanity, forever ruined their foot arches and could never walk again. Despite my mother's tales, Jem can still walk as gracefully as one of Janet Jackson's back-up dancers.

"It's becoming trendy among college girls," she continues. "They're tired of casual hook-ups and the plethora of gay men. Maybe some of them read too many books on feminist theory." She tucks her feet underneath her. "Or maybe they're really lonely, and so they decide to be prophylactic about it."

My forehead wrinkles. "Can you speak non-dictionary English?"

Living with Jem is like living with the _Oxford English Dictionary_ (all twenty volumes) and the back issues of _Rolling Stone_ (starting from 1979) rolled into a tall slender frame which looks great in either Juicy Couture sweats or Cavalli zebra print pants.

"They decide to be proactive about it. Do something about finding someone who likes Rilke, who understands how to use a Shu Uemura eyelash curler, who likes salads and foreign films, and who can intelligently discuss other topics besides those sanctioned by ESPN," she ends, slightly out of breath.

"Then you should ditch the up and coming rocker boy and try it. You like Rilke," I say, referring to the fact that Jem has covered our fridge with magnets stamped with inspiring messages from dead philosophers.

"Then who'll supply me with Louboutin?" She grins down at her shoes, three-inch red T-strap stilettos, a gift from her current boyfriend, an aspiring musician with lots of money and little talent. They started dating a month ago, and he'll probably be gone by the time he gets famous (if he ever does).

After a devastating breakup with her college boyfriend Rajan, Jem became a confirmed serial monogamist, interspersing long stretches of singledom with casual relationships that never make it past four months.

Serial monogamy works for her, could temporary lesbianism work for me?

If an encyclopedia held a timeline of my dating history, it would look as pretty as a ragged cuticle. Would being with a woman solve my problems? I probably wouldn't have to worry about her talking to guys about the Sox for so long that I thought she had disappeared into the Big Dig.

I wouldn't have to listen to her friends adopt Snoop Doggy Dogg "shizzle my nizzle" speak. She would use her mental capacity to remember my birthday—instead of the stats of all of her favorite baseball players. I wouldn't miss the first half of a movie because she had to see the end of a game, the replays of the best parts, and the ensuing sportscaster commentary.

And I wouldn't wake up in her apartment to find a "reverse the curse" poster attached to the ceiling above her bed.

But if she lent me a t-shirt, it wouldn't have that manly smell, produced by MHC genes, that makes me want to sleep in it. And she'd have breasts instead of pecs, and she'd just be...different. It'd be like eating frozen yogurt when you really want ice cream.

Another form of settling.

Jem taps my arm excitedly. "Or you could become like a spear-wielding Amazon woman and cut off your right breast!"

I raise my eyebrows. "Another article in _Suave_?"

She smiles. "How about watching _Gilmore Girls_ instead?" According to Jem, the best thing about _Gilmore Girls_ is not the rapid-fire exchange between Lorelai and Rory, but the fact that hunky men, like death and taxes, are guaranteed, because they're scripted in there by Amy Sherman-Palladino, goddess of small things.

"No, I've reached my quota for today," I say. I've been rationing out the episodes so that I have enough to last me until I get a job or a boyfriend or both.

She gets up from the futon. "Have you had lunch?" she calls from the kitchen.

"No." I look down at the plate in front of me. "Just some—"

"Tali!" I twist to face Jem who waves an empty box of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars at me. "How many of these have you eaten?"

"Just two or three," I say. "Maybe five."

She bounds into the living room and picks up my plate of popsicle sticks. "It's not even noon! You need to get out of this Kurt Cobain spiral. I've seen you double-fisted with ice cream bars, and," she wiggles one popsicle stick in the air, "I've heard you quoting _I Love the Eighties_ in your sleep."

"Which year?"

Her brow furrows. "1987, yes 1987. Sure of it. You were singing George Michael, 'Faith.'" She returns to the kitchen. "I just put a pizza in the oven, be right back."

"Sounds good," I say absently, flicking through the J Crew catalogue and looking at the items I had circled. I had taken a nap after browsing through the catalogue, and bits and pieces of my dream come back to me.

The Cheerleading Furies: Shelby, Brooke, and Becca.

My geeky sister had christened them during her Greek mythology phase. Unlike their namesakes, they had been star pompom wielders since middle school and usually protected their ranks through cleverly wielding a good piece of backstabbing gossip. Even though I had despised their methods, I badly wanted to be a part of their clique.

Eventually, I made it. Women's glossies had been my passkey. I spent most of my spare time during my freshman year of high school cutting out advertisements, editor's picks, and freelancer advice and pasting them into a journal covered in purple and green silk from India. Often the only thing you could hear from my room was the sound of glossy magazine pages being ripped from their spines.

After faithfully memorizing each detail and tip, I began to resemble the advertisements that populated the magazines. I lost fifteen pounds, got highlights and a stylish haircut, switched from t-shirts to fitted blouses, embraced products with unpronounceable ingredients. And at the beginning of sophomore year, the improved, made-over me was welcomed by the Furies. (It helped that a senior, Alex Panagakos, had asked me to Homecoming.)

Even though I hadn't particularly liked them, I desperately yearned to be friends with them because then I would never be at the bottom of the social totem pole (and I'd be able to rent a limo with them to go to Prom). But joining their ranks had more side effects than I had anticipated. I was glad to go to college and leave them and their marathon sessions of ego-kissing and melodrama behind. Despite making the break, it seems I can't totally escape them because they're haunting me in my dreams. Today's one was a classic.

I was trying on swimsuits at the J Crew dressing room. I had just finished adjusting the straps of a bikini top the color of extra virgin, expeller-pressed olive oil when I heard a knock on the door.

"Do you need any help?" a honey-coated voice asked.

"No thank you," I said. Just as I was about to turn around to face the truth of the mirror, the dressing room door crashed open.

The Furies strode in, dressed from head to toe in starched, Cape Cod-ready splendor.

"I don't think you'll ever find a matching bottom," Shelby said and poked her two-foot sparkly spirit stick into my belly, which had gotten all inflated as if I had just eaten two trays of mini vegetable spring egg rolls dipped in sweet and sour sauce.

"You'll never find a matching swimsuit," Brooke said and rolled up the cuffs of her papaya colored safari jacket, as if preparing to do battle on the playground. "Just like you and Doug never matched."

"What do you mean?" I asked, warm tears falling down my face.

"You're from Old Navy and Doug's from Banana Republic," Becca said and snapped a hanger clamp. "Of course he dumped you."

Shelby stared at me, while adjusting her ponytail. Her top rose, and I caught a glimpse of a band of tan and surfboard firm skin below the hem of her pink sorbet camisole. She shook her now perfect ponytail from side to side. "You had different thread counts."

Before I could defend myself, the Furies faded into the three-way mirror, leaving nothing but size zero labels made in Macau, just as a familiar, cheery voice called for me to "Come on Dooooown!"

Bob Barker of the _Price Is Right_. I was just about to ask him why he was in J Crew and not in Brooks Brothers, when I woke up and heard the sound of Jem's keys in the door.

Holding two plates of garlic and artichoke heart pizza, Jem comes over to the futon. "You okay? You look like you saw Brubeck's ghost."

"No, I'm fine," I say, taking one of the plates. We eat our pizza and watch an old _SNL_ re-run on Comedy Central.

Suddenly, Jem mutes the TV and angles her body towards mine. "What's wrong? You always laugh, even when Jimmy Fallon isn't being funny."

I tell her everything that happened in my dream, (excluding the Bob Barker part). One of the reasons I like Jem so much, (even though despite rising at 5:00 AM, she always looks radiant as if she has just applied tinted moisturizer to her face), is because she doesn't complain when I describe my dreams to her. She says my neuroticisms are endearing like John Cusack's.

That's how we met. Freshman year of college, Columbus long weekend, we both grabbed _Say Anything_ from the video store shelf at the same time, recited Lloyd Dobler's "sold, bought, or processed" speech, and decided to watch it together. We've been best friends ever since.

"Why didn't you tell those vicious bitches off?" she asks, when I'm done. "Still no luck with the lucid dreaming?"

I twist my lips. "No." I've been trying to lucid dream ever since I first read about Stephen LaBerge's belief that people could train themselves not only to be aware they're dreaming but also, once they experience that realization and understand they are in no physical or emotional danger, to be able to control the events of their dream.

"But didn't you tell me that dreams are just generated by random electrical firing of brain cells? Through the interaction of neural chemicals with some funny brain part?"

"Acetylcholine and the pons nuclei."

"Right, the pons nuclei. So dreams don't have any hidden meanings."

"That's only if you go with physiology and the Activation-Synthesis Hypothesis."

"But you're choosing to stick with Freud and Jung." She rolls her eyes and unmutes the TV. "Dreams are like men. Both are incomprehensible...and not worth getting perturbed over."

As the _SNL_ skit resumes, I curl around my lime green throw pillow and wonder if I should follow Jem's advice. I have never been able to fully understand the men I've daydreamed about, even after analyzing all of their words and behaviors...nor have I ever completely understood the theories of the men who analyze dreams.

Take Freud. He argued that dreams arise from daily residue, snatches of everyday life, and every dream has a message, a metaphor for disguised wishes. With the exception of the Cheerleading Furies, my dreams look the way he describes, as if the boring bits of my life—brushing my teeth, playing Hearts on the computer, pushing against the turnstile at the T, writing postcards to my mom, cuddling up to the remote instead of to a boyfriend, and strolling, without a hand to hold, through the Commons—have been moistened in water and mashed together, to form a confusing story in paper mâché.

Other researchers contend that the primary function of REM sleep is to act like a memory gate, where events are committed to long-term memory, and when your brain processes the acquisition of learning skills. I'd agree, especially since I swear I experienced a surge in REM sleep when I spent extensive time learning how to make Japanese lanterns at RISD. But still, that conclusion doesn't wholly explain the function for dreaming because it can't account for the beastly nature of repetitive dreams...or why mine feature J Crew-wearing, spirit stick-wielding cheerleaders.

What if the Furies told me the truth, that guys only date girls with similar thread counts? In terms of physical attractivity, my friends and their boyfriends are, in fashion parlance, "matchy matchy." Jem and her rocker boyfriend always look like they just stepped out of _Spin_ 's editorial pages, and our friends Cart and Kirsten have been together so long, and embody casual American glamour so well, we call them CK One.

I grab the remote from Jem and shut the TV off. "Do you think the Furies are right? About the matching attractivity? That that's the real reason Doug dumped me? And not for the Sox?"

"That was dream logic!"

"But there is scientific research supporting the idea that people tend to get involved with others who match in physical attractiveness." I reach for her mp3 player. "It's called the matching hypothesis."

My stomach feels like thousands of caterpillar legs are crawling around inside, the same exact way I felt when I read the definition marked in bold in the margin of my social psychology textbook and glanced at the photo used to illustrate the hypothesis: Brad Pitt and Jennifer Anniston at the Oscars.

Great, now there's scientific evidence that explains my life story, I had thought, as the caterpillars continued their jitterbug.

I twist the white cords of her headphones around my fingers as I guess whom the textbook editors replaced Brad and Jen with for the newest edition. Brad and Angelina Jolie? Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart? John Travolta (photo taken from his seventies heyday) and Kelly Preston (pic chosen from any decade)?

Of course, there were nuances to the matching hypothesis. While attractive individuals like Brad Pitt and Kelly Preston—and Doug—would, according to psychologists, seek out partners of equal attractivity, less gorgeous human specimens (like me) wouldn't necessarily want to mate with another person with an equally inferior exterior. Instead, we'd search for the person with the highest level of attractivity who was also willing to date us. In other words, we'd settle for what the most we could get.

In these situations, when people are able to attract partners who are far more beautiful than they are (what psychologists refer to as complex matching), such individuals offer extraordinary charm, status, or wealth to the relationship, if not extraordinary beauty.

Since I don't possess the charm of a Kennedy, the status of a Boston Brahmin, or the wealth of Jack Welch, I was never sure why Doug settled for me, when his good looks and easygoing personality certainly gave him a chance at dating a supermodel.

"Those researchers don't know anything." Jem waves away the conclusions of certified PhDs, and my images of celebrity couples disappear. "They probably still listen to Milli Vanilli. Moreover," Jem has scared off more than a few interested musicians with her founding father speech, "moreover, even though you and Doug did look great together, it's not like you're supposed to be wearing matching trench coats over woolen sweaters and yellow galoshes like some Burberry ad. Your personalities and perspectives on life are supposed to match."

"I know, I know," I say, pretending to agree, and scroll through her playlists. I frown when the menu highlights Aimee Mann's "One Is the Loneliest Number." It's the first song on the _Magnolia_ soundtrack—and theme song of my life.

"Oh! I have something that may cheer you up!" Jem opens her purple croc-embossed shoulder bag, another gift from the rocker. He claims it matches her eyes which, admittedly, are so blue they're almost violet.

"What is it?" I ask. I love surprises. I love gifts. I especially love gifts with purchases. They're the closest you come to experiencing the two-button feeling without being with a man.

"Don't get overly zealous," she says, still searching. "It's something practical."

She pulls out a red and rectangular object. My excitement fades.

It's a book.

Po Bronson's _What Should I Do with My Life?_

"Were you expecting the Kama Sutra?" She laughs. "You get that stuff online anyway."

I sigh. "Let me put it with the rest." I take the book and shelve it next to its siblings.

I already have five copies of Po's _New York Times_ , _Wall Street Journal_ , and _Boston Globe_ #1 Bestseller, "the true story of people who answered the ultimate question."

Only two days after I told her I had quit my job, Ris brought me the one that started the flood. Soon after, I got separate copies from Kirsten and Cart (one for the living room and one for my bedroom? I'm still trying to figure that one out). Finally, Mom mailed me one, even though she still doesn't know I'm unemployed (mother's intuition?), and so did...Doug.

Maybe I shouldn't have forwarded his mail to Derek Jeter, star pitcher of the Yankees.

"You said if you got another one," Jem zips up her bag, "you might start reading it."

"No, I didn't." I start to organize our DVDs. "I said that maybe if I got one autographed by Po himself, I'd take it as a sign, and then I'd read it."

"Okay. Fine," she says, flicking through the J Crew catalogue. "But all of these trousers and blazers that you've circled?"

"The ones I have nowhere to wear, you mean?"

"Assuming your pun was unintended, yes those. You could wear them if you...if you bought them for a job interview." She tosses the magazine towards me. "We could go to the dressing room right now and get over your fear of the Furies. Prove they're not there. I'll let you masticate on that." Proud of her ten-dollar word, she winks and flounces into her room.

Job interview? Career clothing?

Flirty camisoles underneath wool gabardine jackets. Fitted button-down shirts and grosgrain ribbon belts. Pinstripe pants. Ballet flats.

Meeting someone new at work...

An hour later, Jem and I browse through clothing at the Copley J Crew. They didn't have the caramel pencil skirt I had circled in my size, so I'm still looking for the perfect interview outfit. Though, at the moment, while Jem's disappeared into one of the dressing rooms, I've moved over to the dress section, searching for the perfect black dress.

You know the one. Slimming, sophisticated, full of allure. And which, with the right accessories, will make me look all of the above, at a business meeting or on a date.

They don't have any suitable black dresses, but I do find a gorgeous periwinkle strapless poplin dress with navy blue piping. I duck into one of the dressing rooms, and try it on.

After I pull up the side zipper, someone knocks on the door. I jump.

"Relax, it's just me, and not a Fury," Jem says.

"I think I found something perfect," I say and open the door.

I twirl. "What do you think?"

Hands on hip, Jem stares at me. "That's a summer dress. I thought you were trying on career-wear!" She peeks over my shoulder. "Do you have any suits in here?"

"But this looks so good. I could wear it to an office party."

"At your imaginary work place?" She squints at me. "Don't you already have seventeen stunning dresses in your closet? Ones that still have the price tags attached to them?"

Sadly, this is true. I have a whole set of dresses in my closet that I have never worn. I was waiting for the right time to wear them with Doug. Okay, so I bought two of them after Doug dumped me, but one was thirty percent off at Ann Taylor, and I had been eyeing it ever since it arrived in the store two months ago. And the other one fits perfectly, included a beaded bolero jacket, and matches the rain forest green ballet flats I bought last summer but have hardly worn. How could I refuse?

"You hoard dresses the way people do with bottled water when meteorologists predict a hurricane is coming," Jem says.

"Really?" I ask. She nods. "You know hoarding is like a borderline anxiety disorder. Some have even died because of it."

I shudder, thinking of Homer and Langley Collyer, two brothers and notorious hoarders. An amateur inventor, Langley booby-trapped the brothers' Harlem brownstone to protect their treasure—one hundred forty tons of hoarded oddities like decades-old newspapers, outdated phone books, bowling balls, an X-ray machine, rusty bed springs, half a sewing machine, dressmaking dummies, an old Model T chassis, and fourteen pianos (including one Steinway). Langley died while crawling through his collection of newspapers, ironically crushed by one of his own booby traps. Homer died of starvation shortly thereafter.

My breath comes out in quick gasps, and I sag against the dressing room wall. "You don't think I buy these dresses because I have this weird dating anxiety and know I'll die alone, probably ironically suffocated by all the dresses I've bought?"

Jem kneels in front of me. "Tali, calm down. Your only problem is an overactive imagination."

A clerk with the flushed cheeks of skiers fresh from the slopes bustles towards us and hands Jem a cranberry blazer and matching herringbone skirt with front and back pleats.

"Here," Jem says. "They got this off of the mannequin, try it on. You can't be suffocated by perfect date dresses if you invest in career-wear."

A few minutes later, I inspect my reflection in the mirror. Almost perfect. I adjust the velvet bow at the waist of the skirt and open the fitting room door for the second time. "How does it look?" I ask Jem.

She smiles. "You're the career version of Everything But the Girl." I raise my eyebrows. "You know...the band is named after this furniture store in Britain, which claimed its bedroom department had everything but the girl."

"Clever," I say dryly. "But how does—"

"You have the clothing and the accessories...and a degree..."

"And Po."

"And Po. Now you just need the interview."

# Chapter 4

FOUR WEEKS LATER, instead of following my usual routine of brewing English Breakfast tea, eating granola straight from the bag, and watching scarily addictive _90210_ re-runs, I leave my apartment, wearing my new J Crew ensemble. With my sister's help, I have managed to score a job interview. Ris did everything: looking for job postings on different websites, tailoring my résumé for each one, and coaching me on how to answer common interview questions.

Katzenberg Advertising, which specializes in turning small-scale beauty and fashion products into household names, was the second to reply to the cover letters Ris sent out. Admittedly, it was disheartening to learn that as a junior executive, I'd be earning only slightly more than I did for my ABBA-loving ex-boss. But Ris convinced me that with a little creative savvy, I would soon be promoted into a full-fledged senior advertising executive. Frankly, I didn't take much convincing. I was still reeling from my conversation with the owner of an event planning firm who was the first one to respond to my résumé. In between standard questions about my employment history, he asked me to share my bra and shoe sizes, because apparently, the only events he coordinated were hook-ups with well-endowed escorts.

In order to prep me for the interview, Ris even went to the library to research the agency. She found an ancient article on microfiche that described how Katzenberg was founded in New York. But after Mr. Katzenberg's wife died (en route to the Empire State Building), the City was never the same for him, so he relocated to Boston. Surprisingly, his Big Apple clients arranged trips on the express train to meet with him in Beantown, probably because he has the uncanny ability to charm beauty and fashion editors to showcase the products he represents.

Even without Ris's preparation, I think I have a decent shot at getting this job because luck is on my side today. The label in the waistband of my new skirt says it's a size four, and I am most definitely not a size four. This miracle has never happened to me before. Normally, the reverse occurs, and I try on a pair of pants whose label declares them to be a size ten, and I think some underpaid, overstressed worker in Cambodia has made a mistake. These pants surely can't be a size ten. How can they be a size ten if I'm a size eight, and I don't fit into them?

With cresting optimism, I reach the intimidating glass and steel building Katzenberg Advertising is located in. The security guard at the lobby entrance signs me in, wishes me well, and directs me to the twenty-third floor. I stride towards the elevators, and my sensible stacked heel loafers barely make a sound against the marble floors.

I press the up button and assess my reflection in the smooth frosted gold of the elevator doors. The velvet bow of my skirt has come undone. I retie it, and my stomach heaves.

I haven't done an interview in a long time. What if I mess up? Despite my label-luck, what if I don't get this job? What if I die alone, clutching the remote control? And when the paramedics come, one will say, "I can't believe she watches _90210_. It totally went downhill after Shannen Doherty left," and the other one will reply, "Agree completely. But to her credit, she does have a nice futon cover."

The elevator doors silently open, and the polished interior is calm and peaceful, a gliding oasis. I relax slightly, enter, and face the back like I normally do when no one else is inside.

As the elevator passes the second floor, my thong underwear starts to irritate me. I jiggle my butt from side to side to correct the issue. I can't believe women can exercise on Stairmasters in these things. The elevator doors open, and I stop my corrective attempts.

Since no one enters the elevator, I resume my jiggling, alternately channeling Shakira, Ricky Martin, and for good measure, Richard Simmons.

Ah. That's better. I should stop wearing thongs, but visible panty lines don't exactly exude professional confidence.

Better curl my lashes too, for more good luck. I root around in my handbag, but I can't find my curlers. Did Cart take them? Thinking they were an instrument I swiped from the gynecologist's office, he became eerily fascinated by them one drunken night. Oh no, here they are, hidden by one of the daily planners I buy every year even though I stop using them after only fifteen days. I whip out the curlers and hold them to my set of right eyelashes.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou—

"I wasn't going to say anything earlier," I almost drop the curlers, "but that looks painful. May I help you?"

It's a male voice. With a British accent. A voice with the sophisticated elegance of Ralph Fiennes (pronounced Rafe Fines; essential filmography: _The English Patient_ , _The End of the Affair_ ), but with the casual suaveness of Matthew McConaughey (is a filmography needed?).

"May I help you?" he repeats.

Surely I'm the only one on the elevator? Maybe my unconscious has decided to adopt a masculine, transatlantic identity? That's possible, isn't it?

Or maybe I'm on my way to becoming delusional. Which would be better than someone catching me adjusting my thong by channeling Shakira.

And Ricky Martin.

And Richard Simmons.

Definitely delusional. Too much modern media, my mom would say. I turn around, just to make sure.

I almost drop the curlers again.

Standing before me, with a concerned expression on his face, is a seriously good-looking man. Tall. Ruffle-friendly dark hair with a floppy tuft that covers a third of his forehead. A slim nose complemented by full lips. And blue-gray eyes that match his oxford button-down.

I want him to smile so I can check his teeth, because Jem swears that British men have notoriously bad teeth. We got into a debate about it after she complained about the lead singer of The Darkness.

This man, standing before me, couldn't have just witnessed my awkward attempts at adjusting my thong. That's too horrifying a thought to contemplate. He must have hopped onto the elevator _afterwards_. Or maybe he's a hallucination. A visual accompaniment to my auditory delusions. That's it. He's a figmant.

A figmant can be any type of man. Men with lotus-print silk ties who probably do Tai Chi Saturday mornings on the Commons...men who were at the top of their class at law school, and who will soon trade in the commuter rail and an associate position for a luxury sedan and their own firm...graduate students who wear t-shirts and Birkenstocks even in thirty degree weather and who have just started up their own non-profits...men with schlocks of unruly black hair, CBGB shirts, and hipster jeans, who front local bands which play to packed crowds Friday nights...

These are the figmants. Men with different personalities, looks, and backstories who share one thing in common: they are products of your imagination, based on a glimpse of a forehead behind a _Boston Globe_ or perhaps of the back of their leather loafers as they race upstairs out of the T, towards the cool, fresh air.

The type of man whom you dream will emerge from the nameless crowd—and your imagination—to greet you with a friendly smile as you stumble out of the T with a tired, lonely, and hopeful heart.

"Are you sure you're alright?" The man smiles. "I'm Graham by the way."

His teeth are perfect. And he has dimples in the corners of his cheeks.

He holds out his right hand to shake mine, but I'm so determined to keep my curlers to my lashes (ever since I had a nightmare about it, I fear I'll remove the curlers too early, and all my lashes will fall out), that I offer him my left hand, hoping that he'll switch to his left hand, but instead we have one of those awkward right-hand-meets-left-hand handshakes.

His hand is warm and soft, a solid hand. With clean, well-trimmed nails. Definitely not a hallucination.

"I'm Talisman," I finally reply, while removing my eyelash curlers. Which would be great, a natural casual response.

Except I say it in a British accent.

"I mean I'm Talisman," I correct, finally speaking normally. But my alter ego is Baby Houseman, and I carried a watermelon.

He looks at me with raised eyebrows. "Quoting _Dirty Dancing_?"

I thought I said that in my head! Why is my body turning against me? I hold the curlers to the eyelashes of my left eye, because I need to get both sets done before I get off the elevator. This man has already seen me wiggle and jiggle my butt around like Richard Simmons so this situation isn't so embarrassing, right?

Embarrassment is cognitive, anyway, and humans are the only animals who can experience it. If I were a kiwi bird or a better yet a baobab tree, which isn't even in the animal kingdom, I wouldn't be embarrassed right now. Wait a minute.

"How did you know I was referencing _Dirty Dancing_?" I ask, noting there are only more ten more floors before my stop. Ten more floors to convince this drool-worthy man that his life would be greatly enhanced by asking me out on a date.

"I have two older sisters." He smiles again, the dimples flash. "They promised to introduce me to their friends if they had control of the television and the remote."

I feel a tingling in the spaces between my fingers; it sweeps down, intensifies underneath my belly button, and jolts me in my toes.

It's not love, it's not lust; it's the anticipation of both.

"Now that we know each other a bit better," he moves closer to me, "can I ask you a personal question?"

I shrug. "You've seen me curl my lashes."

"Why were you facing the back of the elevator?"

"Oh." My face flushes. "It's just..."

This is so embarrassing. Kiwi bird. Baobab tree. "...it's just a 1960s social psychology experiment I'm trying to replicate."

"In an elevator?"

"It's about conformity," I say, putting the curlers back into my bag. "Supposedly, if you face the back of an elevator, other people will mimic your behavior. I thought that was ridiculous, so I've been testing it. Whenever I'm the first one on an elevator, I face the back."

"Have you ever proven the theory?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.

"Uhm...no." My face flushes again. "Normally when I hear someone else come in..." I trail off and pretend to be deeply engrossed by the inspection sign in front of us.

The elevator I'm in, along with this dish of a British import, can hold fifteen hundred pounds and was last inspected on November twenty-ninth.

"...you stop attending to your appearance?"

He definitely saw me adjusting my thong.

Baobab tree. Duck-billed platypus. Pacific seahorse.

"No," I say. "I quickly the face the front, and pretend I was only momentarily facing the back."

He nods. "Interesting."

Okay. I have to confront the fact that I am not a kiwi bird or a duck-billed platypus, but instead am an acutely and intensely embarrassed human being.

How could I have talked about my silly conformity experiment and adjusted my underwear in front of a man who makes the spaces between my fingers tingle?

I glance at the elevator indicator lights. Only one more floor to go. How can I keep us talking without embarrassing myself further? I could pull the "in case of fire" button. But how would I explain that?

I'm about to say, "So this is my stop," hoping that he'll say, "Here's my number," when I realize that only one floor light—twenty-three—is lit up.

Graham hasn't pressed the button for another floor.

He's getting off on the same floor as I am! I'll run into him again, I'll see him again! That is, if I get this job...

The doors glide open, and we both exit the elevator at the same time.

"Your lashes are better than Boy George's." He winks. "And it was...enlightening to meet you."

"Uhm. Likewise." I say. He gives me a small nod and lopes off into the sweeping corridor to my right. Hopefully, he works here at Katzenberg Advertising, and he'll be my colleague. This company better not have a strict inter-office dating policy.

I head towards the silver burnished curve of the reception desk. One of the secretaries looks up. Her lipstick is bright red, and her hair is up in a casual ponytail.

"You must be Talisman," she says, in between bubblegum snaps. Is that the smell of...? Surely I'm wrong. I look over the top of the gleaming desk.

She is indeed painting her nails—the same red as her lipstick.

"That's a great porn star name," she says, reaching for a sheet of diamante dots next to her keyboard.

"Thank...you," I say, remembering advice from _It! Girl_ magazine which said that you should always accept compliments graciously.

"Marci and I," she tilts her head towards the secretary next to her whose gold ear hoops jingle as she vigorously buffs her nails, "we were just playing the porn star name game." She giggles. "My real name is Trish, but my porn star name would be Sugar Sykes." She giggles again.

"And what's yours?" I turn to Marci. _It! Girl_ also said you should always make friends with the secretaries.

"Ivy Palm Circle." She smiles brightly. "Whose do you think is better?"

"I don't think I'm qualified to judge," I say after a pause.

Trish bites her lip. "That's true, I guess. Why don't you—"

"Wait," Marci interrupts. "When's your birthday?"

"Why?" I ask.

"I can check your horoscope. See what it says in the career department."

Why not? "I'm an Aquarius."

She reads from a magazine. "'Jupiter-sent good luck will help you succeed at work...'"

Hearing the prediction eases my nerves. It's amazing how horoscopes have the same calming power as a beta-blocker. Oooo, that would make a very good research project for Olivia Akarian, my college cognitive science lab partner, who most recently studied the power of self-fulfilling prophecies.

"'...and near the fifteenth, you'll meet a brainy stranger, but don't waste your time. It won't work out.'"

It's the tenth...that means...ha! Everyone knows that magazine horoscopes are completely inaccurate. Cognitive scientists like Olivia should definitely avoid getting entangled in such an unreliable mess.

"Have a seat in the waiting area," Trish says, "and I'll let Benji the boss-man know you're here."

I gratefully sink into one of the cotton twill wingback chairs in the waiting area, which is all marble and potted palms. A crystal bowl of Andes mints and some bottles of Fiji water rest on the side table next to me. Framed advertising prints and clippings from various newspapers and trade journals adorn the walls.

I should probably be reviewing the index cards Ris made me, but it'd be much more interesting to rewrite my encounter with Graham...

I've gotten to the point where I do pull the fire alarm button, and Graham has just said I'm witty enough to be a fake news correspondent on _The Daily Show with Jon Stewart_ , when I hear the sound of heels against marble.

I wince, hoping the pressure isn't making dents, and swivel my head to the left. Through a potted palm, I see her. That rare species.

A woman who could make even Doug abandon his beloved Bosox.

I bet her mascara never comes out in clumps, if her long lashes even need mascara. Her pores must be nanoscopic. Her blond hair probably responds to the heat of a hair dryer the way a plant reaches for the sun. I bet the backseat of her car always has dry cleaning as its passenger. Worse, I bet she can always find parking.

And she's marching in green four-inch pumps that I just saw in this month's _In Style_. I bet at night when she returns to her tastefully furnished Beacon Hill apartment, she clicks them together and repeats, "There's no place like Neiman Marcus. There's no place like Neiman Marcus."

Which, I suppose, is true. There is no place like Neiman Marcus.

I sink further down into the armchair. I hope I don't have to work with her, assuming Mr. Katzenberg hires me. How do I compete with this Blahnik Brahmin? Especially since she's the same beaming blonde featured in many of the articles on the wall, a Clio award clutched in her petite hands. "Lydia Porter: Feather in the Katzenberg Cap," reads one caption.

My stomach feels like an ill-tempered neon sign, alternately buzzing on and off. I reach for the mint bowl. After glancing at Trish, who is giggling with Marci, I take four. The mints are small, so I'm not being gluttonous.

I have to nail this interview. I want to work here where framed prints of models adorn the walls, where the secretaries compose punk rocker band names by adding a random adjective to a plural noun. (Marci's is the Hypnotic Ladybugs.) I want my cycle of _Sex_ and ice cream bars to end. I want to join the leagues of Blahnik Brahmins, with their glossy chignons and haute couture manners. I want to prove to my mom I'm as capable as Ris even if I haven't decluttered my handbag or Feng Shui'd my apartment. I want to see my new prospect again, the first man who's given me the two-button feeling since Doug...

I reach for another mint. This job is my Statue of Liberty—a gateway to freedom, opportunity, and self-actualization...not to mention killer free samples and my very own office space.

Twenty-one minutes later, I'm still waiting, and there are fourteen empty mint wrappers in my handbag. I've almost demolished the waiting area supply. I hope I'm not being secretly monitored, and Katzenberg isn't assessing the likelihood I'll steal office supplies by how many mints I took. It was all in the name of good breath.

Plus, mom is always telling me that the essential oil of peppermint is a great revitalizer. This wasn't greed; this was aromatherapy on the go.

Trish skips towards me. I rise quickly to block her view of the almost empty mint bowl. She snaps her grape gum. "Benji's ready to interview you now."

# Chapter 5

AT THE END OF THE HALLWAY, Trish swings open glass doors etched with the Katzenberg logo and turns around. "Good luck," she whispers.

I stumble in. At first, all I can take in is the view, an expanse of skyscrapers, horizon, and harbor. As I stride towards the massive wooden desk at the office's center, I take mental notes on the nature-inspired décor. Thin-stemmed cacti and glass tables dot the cream-colored floor. A five foot stone water fountain in the shape of Venus de Milo dominates one corner. The ambiance is one of casual elegance—overtaken by a guerilla army of free samples.

Small white boxes overflowing with silk summer scarves...zippered make-up bags embossed with the names of industry heavyweights...tiny tubes of waterproof mascara...gleaming pots of pearly lip gloss...glass vials of cognac-colored perfume. My whole body prickles with delight.

Mr. Katzenberg rises from his brown executive chair. He has black coffee eyes, close-cropped peppered-colored hair, and thin, but not unattractive, lips. He holds out his hand. "Welcome to Katzenberg Advertising. Have a seat." He gestures to the wheeled leather chair in front of his desk.

"When I saw your name," he continues, "I thought you might just be the influx of good luck we're searching for." He smiles reassuringly and pats a small patch of hairless skin above his right ear.

"Thank you Mr. Katzenberg," I manage to say without giggling over his bald patch. What's the story behind it?

"Call me Benji. Now, I'm no revolutionary like Steve Jobs, but I do appreciate the unorthodox approach. My interview methods may seem unusual, but I find that they help me choose the right type of employee."

Oh god. If that means an employee like the Blahnik Brahmin then I have no chance.

"But let's start with basic stuff first." Benji asks me some simple questions about growing up in Providence and studying psychology at college, and I relax.

This interview is going to go smoothly. I will not embarrass myself like I did in the elevator. I will impress Benji with cute anecdotes about my first experience with eyeliner and with my expansive knowledge of fashion and make-up ads from the last decade. I will no longer be on the couch potato circuit, on a speedy path to becoming Boston's next reigning Mrs Potato Head, but instead will inhabit a corner office and receive goody bags stuffed with free samples.

But then Benji shuffles through a sheaf of papers until he locates my résumé and asks, "Why did you quit your old job and apply to Katzenberg?"

A standard question to which Ris made me memorize the answer.

Except that now, in this fancy office, surrounded by distracting samples, and the image of Graham dancing around in my head, I can't remember what she advised. Something about thwarted creative energies...postmodern women...did she say infusion? Or was that the type of herbal tea I drank this morning?

"The free samples," I say.

I prevent myself from clapping my hands over my mouth, and my face flushes ballerina pink.

How could I say that out loud? You're never supposed to be in the job for the free samples or the thirty percent discount. Why couldn't I have said something else? Anything else?

Benji stares at me like I'm a microscopic specimen.

"That's not what I meant...I apologize, that came out the wrong way..." I say.

Rivulets of sweat trickle down the back of my knees. As I wriggle in the leather chair, I pray I don't slide right off. "You know humans are the only animals that can experience embarrassment..." I stammer out.

"I see."

"...if I were a duck-billed platypus or perhaps a baobab tree—"

"Trees aren't in the animal kingdom."

"Precisely. Therefore, in conclusion, I wouldn't feel embarrassed right now."

I sink deeper into the chair, while my face turns a darker shade of pink. Desert Rose, a MAC make-up artist would say. I cannot believe I just said that. Maybe Trish read me the wrong horoscope? And mine really said that today was an inauspicious career day? And the label in my waistband isn't for a size four, it's for a size fourteen?

"I will remember this fascinating tidbit the next time I give a public speech." Benji's tone is dry, and I can't tell if he's amused or horrified or being polite.

This moment is a good time to apply one of mom's meditative techniques: breathe calmly and imagine something peaceful.

I take a deep breath and imagine the storefront of Tiffany's flagship store in New York.

That's where my parents met. Waiting for the rain to stop, so she could return to her hotel after a day of sight-seeing, my mom waited under the store's blue awning and admired the sterling silver necklaces in their window display...while my dad admired her. He finally offered to share his umbrella with her, and they got married a year later.

When he died, Mom told Ris and me that he had gone to a better place. Up until I was six, I assumed she had meant Tiffany's, because she always looks into the storefronts of their Massachusetts outposts whenever we walk by, and she _never_ window-shops.

"And so...what I really wanted to say," I clear my throat, "besides that embarrassing tangent about embarrassment, is that I am passionate about fashion and make-up and the way women use them as protection and as weapons in equal measure. I just want to communicate my passion through the creative medium of advertising."

I glance at my handbag where Ris's index cards and highlighted chart of tips lie out of reach. "Katzenberg is the perfect place for me to do that, especially since...since...it's well known that 'you have an eye for identifying the next big beauty trend, the way John Casablancas could find a future supermodel at a fast food joint in middle America,'" I quote, remembering a line from the microfiche article Ris found at the library.

It's Benji's turn to blush—but with pleasure. "The interviewer was very kind, very kind."

"I just want to be a part of that kind of team," I say confidently, although a little surprised at how good I sound...and that mom's advice actually works!

"Thank you for the clarification," he says. "I should have expected a response like that from someone who listed 'intimacy with Seraphina' as one of her special interests on her résumé."

My face flushes once more, as if it's on automatic timer. How could Ris have put that on my résumé? I do spend a lot of time on Seraphina's website, wishing I had reasons to buy kissable body frosting, but "intimate" isn't exactly the word I'd use, especially on a résumé.

"I can see that you've never worked in advertising before." He peers at the thick cream paper Ris used for my résumé. "Although your familiarity with greeting card layouts may prove useful."

His tone is half-statement, half-question, so I rush to explain. "My mom used to design greeting cards, and she would consult me quite often. Especially for her Jane Austen ones."

"Your mother made those? Little Whimsies by Lorraine, right?" Benji asks. I nod in assent. "I used to send them to my friends in Britain, but I can't find them in shops anymore."

"She gave it up and started doing yoga when my sister went to college," I say, although I'm not really paying attention and am playing Sherlock Holmes instead. I wonder if these British friends can explain Graham's presence at the agency? I wish I could ask Benji, but that's an inappropriate question for a job interview.

Suddenly, Benji rolls away from his desk, rises, places a loafered foot against his left thigh, and raises his palms together over his head, as if in worship. "The standing tree position," he says, by way of explanation. "Start every morning with it."

Ris's advice hasn't prepared me at all for a live demo of the standing tree, so I say nothing and smile. Benji clears his throat and returns to his desk. "As I was saying, I'm not looking for extensive industry experience, but I want someone with the right attitude towards the items we specialize in advertising. A number of college graduates can recite to me statistics on socioeconomic inequalities, but can't think their way out of a gift box. Which is why I ask all interviewees the following...rather unorthodox questions, as I said earlier."

What does he mean by unorthodox? Is he going to show me Rorschach cards? And ask me what kind of designer style I see within the inkblots? That might be fun.

"Most people get quite terrified by this part of our interview, but I think you'll do fine."

I gulp. I bet Lydia, the Blahnik Brahmin, aced this part of the interview. I bet she aced all parts of the interview, and when Benji asked her why she wanted to work for Katzenberg, I bet she linked advertising to world peace and bull markets. Trying to dislodge thoughts of her, I shake my head gently.

"Shall we begin?" he asks. My throat is dry, my lips and my nerves are requesting mint-flavored balm, and I want to leave right now. Intimacies with Seraphina or no, I don't think I can handle Benji's unorthodox questions.

"Some people think that women should spend more time on charity projects, instead of on their appearance." I nod. Ris is one of those women, always off doing Ivy League things like making sure fair trade stays fair.

"What they fail to realize is that make-up is all about..." He pauses. I wait for him to continue. He looks at me expectantly.

What can I say? Obviously not the truth: make-up is all about making men like Graham believe my skin is flawless and that my eyelashes go from here to the stratosphere. Maybe I can say a variation of the truth?

Searching for inspiration, I glance at the framed advertisements hanging on the walls. I recognize one of them from my own diary of ripped-out magazine pages. It's an ad for volumizing mousse, and the caption reads: The Higher the Hair, the Closer to God.

The perfect answer comes to me. It seems simple, but if I load my tone with lots of meaning, the way Doug says "Fenway," I'll sound profound.

I grip the arms of my chair and look straight into Benji's eyes. "Fairy tales. It's about fairy tales."

He grins. I can see all of his teeth. "Excellent insight, Talisman." I knew the tone would work. It worked on me when Doug would talk about how to calculate earned run averages while we were snuggling in bed.

Benji taps a gold-plated pen against his desk. "Next, I'm going to ask you a few hypothetical questions to assess..."

Did he just say hypothetical questions? By working at Katzenberg, I might be getting paid to answer hypotheticals? This job is better than getting paid to complete magazine compatibility quizzes.

I sit up even straighter and lean forward, so I can catch every nuance, every detail, because you need to consider everything carefully when you answer a hypothetical question.

Someone may think I am flighty and completely empty-headed, but men do this all the time at universities, and call it _philosophy_. It's all the same—hypotheticals and Sartre—just a matter of cultural relativism.

"You receive five thousand dollars with one catch." Benji points his index finger at the ceiling. "You can only spend it by buying one skincare item in bulk. What do you choose?"

Oh my god, this is my dream job. I don't know if I'll ever meet Graham again, if I'll ever forgive Doug. But I know the answer to this question.

"The secret Ponce de Léon never found," I say. Benji leans forward. "Moisturizer." He laughs, and writes something down on a piece of company stationery.

"Which kind?" he asks.

Day-only or night-repair? Bronzing? Tinted? Cream, oil, or milk?

"My personal favorite is one made from raw shea butter infused with the essential oils of frankincense and myrrh. I figure if it's good enough for baby Jesus, then—"

"—it's good enough for you. I see." He hums the chorus to 'We Three Kings of Orient Are' before proceeding with our interview. "Moving on, in your circles, you'd probably call this the Rorschach test of packaging." I knew Rorschach tests would be involved! Benji laughs at his own joke, opens a drawer, and places a long thin glass bottle onto the table. It's filled with peach liquid.

"Packaging is everything," he says, staring at the bottle. "It's more important than the actual scent of this perfume. What kind of archetypal, mythic image is evoked by this bottle?"

The bottle is long and thin, definitely begging for some Freudian analysis.

"It evokes...it evokes..." Benji's pen waits. "The Eiffel Tower...Liberty. It evokes Liberty, Equality, and Brotherhood—make that Sisterhood." I exhale and wonder how I remembered details from my ex-boss's rant about the French Republic. Thank god I didn't say anything like penis envy.

"Hmmm. Interesting take," Benji says. I take a deep breath again. I'm so close, so close to a drawer full of trial-sized lipstick, I know it.

Benji puts his pen down and opens another one of his desk drawers, which seem to hold an entire department store's worth of merchandise. "The key to a successful advertising pitch is telling an enticing story." He pushes a small, speckled red box towards me. "Open it."

I remove the lid and reel out a silk scarf imprinted with aquamarine, hot pink, and lime green paisley.

"A woman went inside a Newbury boutique and bought one of these scarves," Benji says and points to the scarf. "Then she..."

The soft material flows in between my fingers like a river. "Then she ties it around her neck like a Parisian woman, buys a silver convertible, and drives all the way down the Cape towards Provincetown with a stack of Harry Potter books and enough change for a Rocky Road sundae from the Dairy Queen," I say, wishing I could do the same right now. Only with one addition—Graham would be relaxing in the passenger's seat.

"That was beautiful." Benji smiles slowly. "Talisman, you're hired."

I grin. Thank you Jupiter-sent good luck energy!

Benji clasps his hands together. "Do you have any questions for me?"

I confidently lean back in the leather chair. Ris told me what kinds of questions to ask to make you sound impressive. Things like the flexibility of the workload, my 401k plan, the organizational structure of the agency...but that's the boring stuff.

Who cares if the business is organized top-down or bottom-up? I'm sure with Benji, it's in a spiral. I have a far more important question to ask, and besides, I've impressed him enough. I'm already hired!

I roll my chair closer to Benji's massive desk. "Do you have any overseas clientele?"

"Not at the moment," he says. "Perhaps Lydia will recruit some. She has international friends."

It figures that the Blahnik Brahmin would be reeling in the big bucks of the international crowds. But I push thoughts of her—and those foreigners away. They're not whom I'm interested in.

"I met a British hot—gentleman in the elevator," I say, remembering to substitute "hottie" with "gentleman" just in time.

Benji rubs his hairless patch. "Ah! That must've been my godson, Graham. I'm an old friend of the Salisbury family." But instead of sharing information critical to understanding my job responsibilities such as why Graham's in the States and for how long he's going to remain in Boston, Benji describes Katzenberg's roster of clients and the company's generous benefits program.

I only pay half-attention. As Benji natters on about Lautrec Cosmetics and their advertising needs as well as Katzenberg's health insurance plan, I calculate how far my first paycheck will go towards buying new cheekbone-accentuating blushers, dresses with office-appropriate hemlines, and chest-skimming necklaces which draw attention to my cleavage so that I'll look fabulous the next time I stumble into Graham in the office elevator.

# Chapter 6

BE GRATEFUL, I tell myself, be grateful. Ris helped you get this job. Without her, you wouldn't be celebrating at Sonsie with an al fresco lunch. But as she animatedly talks about the lecture Howard Zinn gave at Brown last week, I don't feel gratitude. I feel the way I normally do around her: prickly and itchy. Being with Ris is like wearing pure wool against the skin.

It's not that I dislike her, more that I like her to the point of dislike, the type of relationship teen girls have with supermodels—and Ris is the academic equivalent of a supermodel. But instead of a five feet ten inch frame, 34B chest, and twenty-five-inch waist, she has a perfect GPA, knows the meanings of words like "promulgate" and "proletariat," and can read Latin in the original. Her list of accomplishments is probably as long as Elle McPherson's legs.

Ris beams. "Did the Po help?"

"I'm still waiting on his autograph," I say, and her face falls. "How's August?" I ask, feeling guilty.

August is Ris's boyfriend, and yes, that's his real name. August Mason Lundberg III. Like Ris, August is also an overachiever, but with better taste in clothes. (He can actually make corduroy pants look sexy.) He says he was attracted to Ris because she, like his fellow Midwesterners, has wholesome charm.

I crunch on an ice cube, wishing I could rub it against my itchy skin. Is there such a thing as halfsome charm? Because that's what I must have.

"He's good," Ris says. "He's going to meet me at the glass flowers exhibit at the Museum of Natural History after this, if you want to come."

"No thanks." I tilt my head towards my shopping bags. "More shopping to do."

The museum is my nightmare. All that pressure to project cultural orgasms of appreciation over boring still lives of fruit. The Warhol Soup Can–don't get me started. When my high school art teacher took us to see a visiting exhibit on cubism, I asked her why there were no cubes in the paintings. And surely I'm not the only one who thinks that Mona Lisa would never get any dates if she enrolled in Match.com.

But that's not the only reason I decline. My prickly feeling intensifies whenever I'm around both Ris and August. It's galling to think that without any effort at all, she is in a monogamous relationship with a guy who can effortlessly switch from talking about campaign finance reform to Jon Stewart's latest exploit on _The Daily Show_.

She's efficiently beautiful, my sister. If Ris were a clothing item, she'd be the white cotton blazer with cherry red buttons that's nestled in tissue paper in one of the glossy shopping bags next to me.

She's compelling even when wearing boring neutrals—her beige tank today is a classic example. She's had the same sturdy stainless steel watch since ninth grade of high school. Not a single bold color except for the turquoise studs in her ears that mom sent her from New Mexico. She has straight hair without a single golden highlight. Naturally thin. Like our mom, she does yoga for spirituality, not to lose weight.

While I, after memorizing kama sutra moves, flirty body signals, and intriguing icebreakers, have been single during seventy-five percent of her three-year-long relationship with August.

One of my most secret desires is that August will break up with Ris for someone named April, and Ris will be alone and miserable and have to take advice from me on how to cope with singledom.

It's awful of me to be happy at her downfall, I know. The Germans have a special word for this specific feeling—schattenfreude. I wish I didn't feel this way, but I can't help but think, why not me too?

As Ris toasts to my future career successes, I resolve to scrunch up my id and stuff it into the bottommost recesses of my handbag, where the receipts for items I want to return vanish, only to reappear after the ninety-day return window has passed.

Thanks to her, I have a fabulous new job whose perks include photo shoots with models, launch parties with beauty editors...and a romantic prospect who makes the spaces between my fingers tingle.

And my handbag is stuffed with free samples.

"Here," I say, searching my bag for stuff I think Ris would like. "Benji already gave me some samples."

I select Antoine Lautrec gold plated compacts, whose covers shine with etched reproductions of Monet water lilies—art in a form I can appreciate. Lautrec is one of Katzenberg's few multimillion-dollar clients, and without him, Benji would have had to relocate his office space to a less swanky part of town. But without Benji, Lautrec's line of make-up with colors inspired by Impressionist artists would not be familiar to every woman in America.

Monet's lilies resulted in a palette of purple hues; Degas's ballerinas, a palette of pink. Lautrec's Impressionist line also generated one of Katzenberg's most celebrated ads, designed by none other than Lydia Porter, the Blahnik Brahmin. It won her her first Clio award.

The ad featured an early nineteenth century style artist, modern shopping bags at his feet. He had forsaken his watercolors and oil paints and was using make-up from Lautrec's compacts instead to paint his masterpiece—sometimes in the style of Monet, sometimes in the style of Van Gogh. It depended on the specific product line the ad was showcasing. But they always had the same caption: "Make an Impression."

The campaign was praised for its ability to charm female consumers without using a female model, much like Clinique's advertisements, although Lautrec has now returned to using models for its print work.

I shrug off thoughts of Lydia, who is as intimidating as Margaret Thatcher, if not exactly in the same way, and focus on Ris who's reading the Monet quote engraved on the back of the compact I gave her.

"'All I did was to look at what the universe showed me, to let my brush bear witness to it,'" she says in a reverent whisper, and opens the compact, to find pressed eye shadow and blush powders arranged in the shape of a water lily.

"I'm not quite sure about the green," she says, testing the Antoine Lautrec eye shadow on her hand.

"But it would look so great with the dress you wore to my half-birthday last year."

"Okay, okay. Oh!" she gasps, "I love this." I roll my eyes. Of course she'd prefer boring brown eyeliner to sparkly green eye shadow. She closes the compact and puts the rest of her samples into her tan satchel. "I'm surprised a new hire gets to work on such a big account."

"I'll be more of an observer, working alongside a more experienced executive. It's kind of an apprentice system."

"Like in the Middle Ages." She relishes a bite of caramel apple tart. "But I wonder why Lautrec doesn't use in-house advertising."

"They used to, until the head of the department ran off with Lautrec's wife," Ris raises her eyebrows, "and his replacement eloped with Lautrec's youngest daughter." I take a sip of peach ice tea. "Now he exclusively uses Katzenberg."

When I signed my I-9 tax form, Marci shared the details...along with my horoscope according to Chinese astrology. "There's also something else you might find interesting, since you like museums so much." I dive into my bag again, trying to find the pamphlet about one of my future clients that Trish gave me.

I hand the glossy paper about La Galleria Bianca to Ris. I'll be designing the invitations to the gallery's grand opening. Not technically the kind of design work Katzenberg specializes in, but the gallery owner is a college friend of Benji's, and Benji was delighted to help out his old buddy.

Ris's brow furrows. She must be reading the special note about attire—you can't wear black to the gallery. Even though it's slimming!

She murmurs sympathy for "people who are slaves to that Labor Day fashion rule," and makes an exclamation of surprise. "'Black is too low-vibe,'" she reads from the pamphlet. "'We prefer for you to wear white as it emits the purest vibrational energy. If you have concerns about racist undertones, please consult our mission manifesto or alternately our PR department.'" She refolds the paper and hands it to me. "What a bizarre gallery. But," she says and smiles, "you have a great job now! Did you tell mom yet?"

I tug on my silver filigree earring. "Of course." I have bought the card, one with a bouquet of flowers on the front (onto which I stuck a border of "Certified Organic Produce" stickers as a joke), but I haven't written to my mom yet, because I haven't figured out how to tell her I quit my old job. And that it wasn't the "glamorous VH1 life I knew I was meant to live." I didn't want to read her reply which would surely tell me that if I only were more organized, procrastinated less, and burned some sage, my life would be better, would be like my Ivy League sister's.

I don't remember much about my father—only that he'd flip his tie over his shoulder when he ate and that his teeth were square and bright like our kitchen tiles—but I know if he were still alive, he'd prefer Ris too. Just like mom.

"She'll be so excited to hear the news," Ris says. "Tell her soon."

"Maybe she'll send me some rosemary oil for clarity at work," I mutter.

"It helped me ace my Roman History final. Don't be so dismissive." She dabs the corner of her mouth with a maroon napkin. "What did mom say when you told her about Doug?"

"You know." I shrug. "That he was a hard card, whatever that means."

Ris doesn't seem to mind that our mother is on the opposite side of the country without a telephone, without email. She thinks reviving the dying art of letter writing is romantic.

My mail has gotten returned to me. Twice.

"Was that all she said?" Ris asks.

"Basically. Why?"

"I'm kind of worried about her." She pushes her fork around her plate. "Did she warn you about Canadian quarters?"

I shake my head. "What are you talking about?" Ris pulls a greeting card from her satchel and gives it to me. I bring the card towards my lap, so Ris can't see me checking the price on the back like I always do.

$3.49.

My last one was $2.99. The trend continues. Ris almost always gets more expensive cards, and prettier ones too, with more glitter. This one is no exception.

I scan the contents quickly. Some advice about diffusing the essential oil of rosemary to enhance memory, info about a book of Buddhist chants for August, a reminder to recycle used print cartridges...

"'Check your change for Canadian quarters,'" I read aloud. "'I heard there's a scheme to inject them into the American economy...'" I look up at Ris. "You're worried about this, some advice one of her gluten-free friends gave her?"

Though Mom is kind of right. Canadian quarters are annoying, especially when they're rejected by the dryer and you're left with a puddle of wet, albeit clean, clothes.

"It's just a feeling I get." She points to her stomach. "Gut instinct."

This I can understand. "'I believe in my gut, I believe in Laura Day,'" I quote.

"Did a famous psychologist say that?"

"Don't remember his name," I answer, knowing she'll never realize it was actually Brad Pitt.

A few minutes later, Ris promises to come to Boston to celebrate my half-birthday and leaves to meet August. I gather my shopping bags and am just about to scoot back my chair when a group of frat boys, a portrait of denim and Sox gear, jostles past my table. To my surprise, my heart doesn't wince.

Maybe this will be my year...

# Chapter 7

IT'S MY FIRST DAY as a fledgling advertising executive, and where am I?

Underneath my desk, my butt sticking out into the air.

Why? I'm looking for the internet jack. I've looked everywhere else. There's not one by the phone jack, not one behind the filing cabinet, bookshelves, dry-erase board, or near my new computer. This is the last possible place.

How am I supposed to browse for beauty products on Seraphina (purely for job-related purposes), without internet? What if, my body shudders, they don't have internet at Katzenberg because Benji has decided it interferes too much with staff productivity? The company has to have the internet. This is the rise of search engines, the dawn of social media, the age of technology and...the era of online Solitaire.

Other than currently unavailable internet, everything else is perfect. My office is simple but pleasant. It doesn't have Benji's devastating view, but I have it all to myself. After a business fiasco involving the Japanese, Benji has put a premium on personal space.

I also received a welcome basket which included many items to enhance my creative savvy: thin-point pens in twelve colors, fancy office stationery, stacks of sticky notes, and two cans of play dough. Plus, a roundtable of books, including: _Scientific Advertising_ (a title, which frankly, makes me, despite my psychology degree, want to run for the hills), two tomes by one dapper-looking David Ogilvy (I can never resist a man in a well-tailored suit), _The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People_ (I think my over-achieving sister read this in junior high), a thick hardcover on story (written by an elderly man with disconcertingly dark eyebrows—at least in his author photo)...and Ezra Jack Keats's _The Snowy Day_ , inscribed with following message inside the front cover, "Non-attachment is the key to a successful advertising attitude."

The basket also contained more free samples, a DVD about the FISH! Philosophy (and a neon colored fish puppet), a gift certificate to the lobby coffee shop, and some literature on the Katzenberg Agency and its philosophy, which of course I am going to read (to figure out how play dough and a fish puppet work into my job responsibilities)...just as soon as I find the internet jack.

God, I feel like a man lost on I-95, who doesn't want to ask for directions. Maybe I should seek help from Trish or Marci. Or from Lydia Porter? But she must be off polishing her perfect nails, so—

"What on earth are you doing?"

It's a male voice. With a British accent.

I raise my head and bump it on the underbelly of my desk.

"Pigeons!" I exclaim.

"Pigeons?" Graham asks.

"My PG cuss word," I explain, as I envision how I appear from Graham's perspective. I'm a giant bottom sticking out into the air from underneath a desk. (Though a bottom nicely clad in a Chanel skirt on sale, a major splurge from Neiman Marcus.)

Pigeons. Double pigeons. Pigeons squared. I try to rise and bump my head again.

"May I help you this time?"

"No, thank you. Everything's under control," I say and scramble up as quickly as possible.

I straighten my shoulders and turn around. My face feels flushed, but Graham's looks calm and composed, and he's carrying a bookstore bag. Does he actually read? Like real books? My stomach opens and closes rapidly like a cocktail umbrella.

"What were you doing down there?" he asks.

"Looking for the internet jack," I say, hoping it's not in some really obvious place or in a secret panel by the bookshelf that everyone else knows about, even British men who look very sexy in an outfit as simple as khakis and a rain slicker yellow polo.

He laughs.

"What's so funny?" I may have looked ridiculous, but searching for the internet jack isn't a big deal.

"Katzenberg is on wireless." Oh. That makes sense. Now that Graham has mentioned it, I remember there was a pamphlet about wireless configuration in the welcome basket. But all those codes and instructions were so boring, and I was distracted by other things.

"They must have forgotten to put that information in the welcome basket," I say breezily, and shift to the left to cover Graham's view of scattered free samples.

He removes a blue pamphlet from the stack of company literature and points to a string of random letters and numbers. "This should get you connected."

"How often do you pop in to visit your godfather at work?" I ask, leaning casually against my desk and wondering why Katzenberg doesn't change the wireless code to "Graham is really hot." That, I could remember. Easily.

"Did your research, did you now?"

"It came up during the interview," I say as if I hadn't want to probe Benji for a million different details about Graham, ranging from his middle name, his glove size, the contents of his wallet, the number of siblings he has, the one food he can't stand, his favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, to his views on the Middle East and...reality TV.

"Fairly often, especially after I hit the tennis courts."

"How long are you planning to stay?"

You've already been here long enough for me to build castles in the sky.

"I'm not quite sure." He squeezes the top of his bookstore bag, and the plastic crackles. "My staff is tops, so my departure is open-ended."

"Staff?"

A flash of pride lights up his whole face. "I own a restaurant in London. Best job in the world, but it can get stressful, though, and I needed a break from it. When Benji's invitation arrived at just the right time, I thought 'why not?'" He shrugs.

"Good desserts?"

He smiles. "It's called Petit Four. Desserts are our specialty."

There's a pause in the conversation, because I'm afraid that if I ask him why he left the glorious world of Grand Marnier flourless chocolate cake, he'll tell me he had a mental breakdown or that he had to leave London to get over a bad breakup.

Two circumstances that render him ineligible for me.

I look at him expectantly, waiting for him to ask me a question, but he seems to be engrossed by the default artwork on my walls—prints of successful Katzenberg ads, including one from Lydia's Make an Impression campaign. To keep a conversation flowing, Jem asks guys if they've seen Guster in concert recently, or whatever band she thinks they might like.

The only British musician who comes to my mind is one of my mother's favorites, Engelbert Humperdink. Surely, as a man in his late twenties, with an air of casual sophistication, Graham cannot have just seen Engelbert Humperdink live in concert.

This silence is unbearable. I contemplate asking Graham why out of all the names in the universe, Mr Arnold George Dorsey chose to legally change his to Engelbert Humperdink, but instead I blurt out—

"What's in the bag?"

He smiles again, and all of his dimples show. I feel a tingle near my belly button.

He reaches into the bag. "An impulse buy."

What the hell could it be?

Oh no. He's taking a break from work. It cannot be another Po book, it cannot be another Po book. Radiohead, Coldplay, and Muse suddenly spring into my head. Why didn't I ask Graham if he's seen Muse live in concert recently? I heard they're touring now. Jem would've loved details of Matt Bellamy rocking out on his Hugh Manson guitar.

Graham holds out the purchase to me. It's small and rectangular.

And blue, not red.

A box of Harry Potter Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

The tingling near my belly button intensifies.

Even though it's been popular for years now, I just started reading the series. As a matter of fact, I finished the first Harry Potter book last week. I had decided that in order to make my transformation from futon slob to successful career woman, I would educate myself on politics, the environment, foreign affairs, and the classics. Important things for a twenty-five-year-old to know about.

I ended up buying the first three Harry Potter books (the paperback editions were on sale), the latest _New Yorker_ (which is currently residing on an empty seat on the subway car of the T, for someone more intellectual to enjoy), a new daily planner (even though I don't use the one I already have, but this one has a cute silver and indigo cover), and _The English Patient_ in book and movie format (the former out of keen appreciation of literary fiction; the latter out of keen appreciation of Ralph Fiennes _and_ Colin Firth).

"Can I see the list of flavors?" I ask.

He tosses me the box. I make a face. Why do they mix bad-tasting flavors in with the good ones?

"Would you like to test them out?" he asks.

"Okay," I say, and hand the box back to him, "but I'm not eating the ones that look like vomit or sardines."

"More for me then. How generous." I sit down at my desk, while Graham sits down across from me. After I open a drawer and sweep my stash of free samples inside, I take two pink jelly beans and one green; Graham goes for a speckled white one and a brown one that I think is burnt marshmallow.

I chew on my bubble gum and sour green apple combination as I arrange the contents of my Katzenberg welcome basket into my desk drawers.

"Oooo, you should try this combo," I say, and look up at Graham.

He looks like he's having trouble breathing, and his face is turning a shade of yellow that clashes with his polo.

I do the one thing that will help him, the one thing that will save him.

I reach over my desk and pinch his nose.

His face contorts even more, and he gives me a "what are you doing, you uncouth American?" look. He finally swallows, and I let go.

"Most of taste is actually smell," I say to Graham before he can say anything. "When I pinched your nose, the jelly bean wouldn't taste like vomit anymore..."

He looks at me oddly.

Why did I pinch his nose? Why didn't I just wait for him to spit the jelly bean out? Why? Why? Why?

"It did start tasting just like gelatin," he finally admits.

I grin. God bless my Introduction to Psychology professor, Dr Hertschel, even though As in her class were rarer than platinum and she did have the tendency to scratch the blackboard with her nails. "See?"

"But I also found it difficult to breathe," he adds.

I wave my hand dismissively. "A minor side effect."

"I knew taste was related to smell," Graham says, almost to himself. "It goes with the territory of owning a restaurant. But I never thought of using the information in such a...unique manner."

I bite my lip. Unique is not good. Unique is a compact euphemism for saying, "You could double up for the bag lady in the Commons I heard crying, 'mumshiba, mumshiba,' as if she were an extra on the set of _Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom_."

"Are you a Harry Potter fan?" I ask, hoping I appear to be changing the subject as gracefully as a morning show TV host.

He nods. "My nephew got me started, but that's not the book I bought today."

I motion to the bag. "What'd you get?"

Graham's British, so I bet he's reading the darlings of the literary critics, like Martin Amis, Jeffrey Eugenides, and Jonathan Franzen. Maybe he only reads the work of his countrymen, so it's Shakespeare, Dickens, or even Austen...but then he'd probably be gay.

"I was told they have really good articles," he says as he pulls out a magazine.

Maybe it's _The Atlantic Monthly_? Even the men in the three-thousand-dollar Armani suits don't read that magazine on the commuter rail. Graham is so intelligent, sexy, sophisticated, sensitive...

Out pops _Suave_ magazine.

I raise my eyebrows. "Good articles?" I don't believe this. Even British men fall for _Suave_? Though I admit, I read the damn magazine too, in Doug's bathroom.

"It's a deconstructionist analysis of American culture. Essential for a foreigner to these parts."

I give him a disbelieving look. "Funny, I would have recommended a _Lonely Planet_ guidebook."

He laughs. "The women aren't as attractive...and I was curious." I give him another look, but I laugh too.

"Don't worry," he continues, "my redemption also lies within this bag." He takes out _A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius_ by David Eggers and hands it to me.

I scan the back cover copy, concluding that if the _Globe_ concluded the book was "funny and wildly intelligent," then reading _Staggering Genius_ mitigates the _Suave_.

In the brief author biography, it says that Eggers used to work for _Esquire_ , a detail which inspires me to grill Graham about a troubling double standard. "Why is it that men can read _Esquire_ and _GQ_ and that's considered cool, but if I'm seen with a woman's glossy on the T, people look at me as if I have minimal brain cells?"

"Just hide it behind something considered intellectual. Cloak it behind _The Economist_ , perhaps?" Graham says. "And if it's not big enough, go for _Rolling Stone_."

"That's what my best friend Jem suggested!" I say, handing _Staggering Genius_ back to him.

He puts it back into his bookstore bag. "Have I been sufficiently redeemed that you will allow me to buy you a coffee in celebration of your first day at Katzenberg?"

"Only if you can remember the composition of my signature drink," I say.

"And that would be—?"

"Iced coffee with mocha chips, light ice, organic milk, one shot of hazelnut syrup, no whipped cream, a splash of nutmeg, and chocolate sprinkles—if available." I wait for him to say he couldn't possibly order my drink at the coffee counter because it'd make him sound fruity. That was always Doug's objection.

"Much like a good French macaron, it seems complex, but worth it." He smiles, showcasing his dimples, and suddenly I find myself feeling very grateful that I'm sitting down. Otherwise, my knees would have buckled from the intensity of the impact of his smile.

# Chapter 8

A FEW MINUTES LATER, when he returns from the lobby coffee shop, my seven-ingredient blended bliss and his simple coffee in hand, Graham asks me a question that causes me to see an unknown, undocumented piece of heaven, a tiny annex behind the pearly gates.

The shelves are lined with sparkly lip gloss, dark chocolate truffles, glass cups filled with mango sorbet, enough DVDs to fill an Amazon.com warehouse, puppies who never grow older or larger, and size 7 1/2 stilettos, which do not cause injuries to foot arches.

"I overheard some people talking about a Bollywood film festival at the Remis Auditorium," he says and sits down. "Know anything about it?"

No non-Indian male I know likes Bollywood films. In fact, the only person I know who likes them is Jem, and she's the one who got me hooked in the first place. I am so stunned to discover Graham likes them, I cross-examine him like Elle Woods in _Legally Blonde_ , to see if he shares any of the objections Doug had voiced the first (and last time) I ever tried to watch one with him.

"You don't mind that Bollywood films are subtitled?" I ask.

"I've been gifted with the ability to multitask."

"For three hours straight?"

"I've also been blessed with a long attention span."

"And that kisses like the one in _Raja Hindustani_ are rare?"

"Chastity is a virtue."

"The random song and dance sequences." I cross my arms. "I suppose you don't mind those either?" That particular feature bothered Doug the most...even more than the rules against French kissing, nudity, and love scenes.

Graham mimics Shah Rukh Khan, who is like Harrison Ford, but younger, Indian, and with smoother dance moves. "Why chat when you could sing?"

The pulse in my thumb quickens, and I bite back a smile. "I can't believe I don't know about this festival already. Jem, my roommate, normally would've already told me about it," I finally say and send up a thank you prayer to all the Hindu gods I can remember: Krishna, Ganesh, Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma, Hanuman, and Lakshmi.

"You're the first person I've met in the States who likes them."

"Jem got me into them," I say, and visit the Remis Auditorium's website, glad I had configured the wireless internet while Graham was at the lobby coffee shop. "She got obsessed when her old boyfriend introduced them to her."

Bollywood films and Indian food are the only evidence that Rajan influenced Jem's life in any way. She plucked everything else, every tiny footprint that Raj had left on her heart, with a vicious fierceness normally accorded to an errant eyebrow hair.

"She really likes Hrithik Roshan," I continue after a pause, "but he has two thumbs, so I prefer Shah Rukh."

"Hrithik has _two_ thumbs?!" Graham exclaims. I nod my head. "Two thumbs?"

I look up from the computer screen and grin. "Siskel and Roeper like him a lot." We laugh together.

"They usually manage to show his 'good hand' in movie shots," I say, "but if you look really closely in some dancing scenes like in _Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gahm_ and freeze the screen, you'll see it." I scroll through the Remis's calendar of events, searching for movie titles.

"You'll have to show me some time," Graham says.

My ribs defy gravity and bend upward in a huge inward smile. There it is, something beautiful and golden: the future tense. Graham casually linked us together in the future. He sees me as a part of his life. He is as attracted to me as I am to him.

"I found the movie schedule," I say. "They have lots to choose from." As I read aloud the movie synopses, Graham rises and stands behind me. With one arm, he circles my left side to support himself, while his head pops over my right shoulder so he can read along with me.

Oh god, he smells good. Really good. Like cinnamon and evergreens...

Our MHC genes...we have _dissimilar_ MHC genes, which means we're meant to be together. Karmically, chemically, immunologically.

That is, if he likes my scent too.

What if he thinks I smell awful? What if I like his MHC genes, but he doesn't like mine? And I just can't ask him, can I?

Hey cute British guy, sniff my armpits. Then you'll know we're meant to be together, and you can avoid getting my hopes up unnecessarily. With my lack of romantic luck, Graham'll think I have bad body odor.

"This one looks good," Graham says, jolting me out of my thoughts.

"Looks great," I quickly agree, even though I haven't read the synopsis.

"Let's see..." The space between us shrinks as he reaches for the computer mouse. He continues reading, oblivious that fate has declared us to be immunologically compatible. "It's playing this Friday, Sunday, and next Wednesday. Shall we go on Friday night, or will you be tired from work?"

* * *

"I think Graham's into me, but maybe I ruined everything with the pinching nose incident," I say to Jem. We're in post-mort. I called her as soon as Graham had left.

"That's endearing," Jem says. I grin. I might have wholesome charm after all.

"Do you think it's a friend-date?" I ask Jem as fears niggle through my head. "Or a date-date?"

"It's on a Friday night. Has to be a date-date."

"I know with MHC genes and everything we're meant to be." I can hear Jem rolling her eyes. "But what if I misread his signals?"

Jem sighs. "What did he say exactly?"

I tell her.

"Are you sure that was his precise wording? You should have put that recorder on." Included in Benji's welcome basket was a microcassette recorder, the kind I associate with doctors dictating patient reports. But Benji said it's perfect for capturing ideas when you're in a creative stream of consciousness mode.

"My life isn't a _Felicity_ episode," I say, looking at the recorder. "I can't record everything on tape. He would have thought I was neurotic—"

"You are. Slightly."

"—and I didn't think of it." I look at my watch. "Oh I gotta go. I have a brainstorming meeting for the Lautrec account with Benji." I hang up the phone and rush into the hallway.

Freud said that the essential ingredients of happiness are work and love. I almost skip through the reception area. For once in my life, it seems I've got both of those sectors in order.

I sigh with contentment and swing open the conference room's glass-paneled door—only to be greeted by a scene straight out of a B-horror movie.

# Chapter 9

GRAPHS, PIE CHARTS, AND DIAGRAMS hang on easels scattered around the room. It's as if the investment bankers on the twenty-ninth floor had too much data to analyze and stored their surplus in our conference room. My eyes glaze over, my stomach feels nauseous. So many numbers, and the fine print is headache inducing. This meeting is going to be even worse than a visit from the Cheerleading Furies. At least I understand their language.

But these figures are mostly incomprehensible and take me back to stats class in college. I hated statistics. There were too many numbers and not enough of the people element. I only passed because I flirted with the teaching assistant, who was pleasantly surprised to receive attention from a girl who was neither a Trekkie, tree-hugger, or a trombone-player in the marching band. How can I feel like I'm about to be fired for incompetence when it's only my first day?

I catch wind of something faint and familiar, and my stomach eases.

Chanel No. 5.

That's when I spot her. The Blahnik Brahmin. When I entered the room, she must have been out of view, probably picking up a stray chart.

"You must be Talisman," she says. Her voice is as polished as a fresh manicure. "I'm Lydia." She gives me the once over and an alpha female smile.

"Benji decided to hire you after all. Despite your..." she coughs softly, "...indiscretions with Seraphina."

Benji told her? Does she know about the baobab tree too? I bet Lydia has never had a moment of embarrassment, never had to imagine she was a Pacific seahorse, in all her Chanel-scented life.

If I ever caught a typing error in anyone of Lydia's reports or memos, I'd cut it out and tape it to the inside of one of my desk drawers, just to remind myself that she had a flaw.

"Don't look so affronted," she says, and folds her chart in half. "Just friendly office banter for the new recruit." I peer at her face, hoping that upon close inspection, her pores would be microscopic, but no, they are still supernaturally nanoscopic.

Okay. So I have to work with a woman wearing four-inch heels, not that she needs them. Someone with stylish Fédéric Fekkai layers and tasteful gold Cartier jewelry. Someone who can wear clothes straight from the runway. Maybe I can learn something from her.

I give her a tentative smile. "Are you wearing Chanel No. 5?" I ask, in the casual tone I normally use when discussing tomorrow's weather forecast.

"I don't wear perfume." She furrows her brow. "Maybe I smell like it, naturally?" She laughs and returns to taming the sea of numbers.

She smells like it naturally? Her MHC genes smell like Chanel No. 5? What does her perfect mate smell like—Acqua Di Gio? And she understands all of these numbers, charts and data?

I look at the diagrams to see if there's anything recognizable, something that I can partially comprehend. My eyes glaze over again, but they refocus, as I find something familiar.

Up to sixty percent longer...

Lasts up to fifteen hours...

Four times the volume...

Scientific data about Lautrec's latest mascara—Superlative—and the type of math I can understand. I turn to Lydia to ask her if Superlative is the product whose ad campaign we're going to be brainstorming about today, but she's busy removing a huge poster board from her leather portfolio.

Thankfully, it's not another round of numbers, but a mock-up of two models straddling a Vespa surrounded by burning sage brush. Their hair is blown back into smooth waves, and their cheeks are flushed. "Ignite your cheeks with Lautrec Blush Fire," the caption reads.

"Do you like it?" Lydia asks. "Lautrec's Blush Fire is made from patented phyto-polymer crystals, which increase blood flow to the cheeks, suffusing them with a natural flush. I thought images of transportation and fire would be synergistic and ethostically compatible with the product's function. What do you think?"

What does synergistic mean? And ethostically? Is that even a word? "I agree. Exactly as you said," I say and nod my head, but I'm really thinking that importing the Vespa culture from Italy to Boston would've been a less costly and less complicated solution to relieve congestion than the Big Dig. More stylish too.

I sigh to myself. Clearly, Benji didn't mean to hire me. Clearly, I am out of my league. If I can just slip out now...I turn around.

Benji enters, holding a silver platter covered with exotic fruit.

Slices of ripe star fruit separate chunks of papaya, slivers of mango, crescents of Asian pears, cups of kiwi—both green and golden varieties—and clusters of lychee fruit still covered in their red, thorny skin. There's a cube at the center of the platter whose walls are made from medjool dates. Inside are rows of toothpicks and a few miniature plastic spoons.

"So glad you made it," Benji says, as if I'm stopping by for a cozy chat and not for our first brainstorming session for Antoine Lautrec's Superlative mascara. "One of my personal clients just sent these over." He lowers the tray. I reach into the medjool date cube to retrieve a spoon and some toothpicks.

"They're not harvested from rainforest wood. Very ecofriendly," Benji says, nodding towards the toothpicks and reminding me of my mom. I should probably write to her about my new job—that is, if I last more than a day.

I settle into a comfortable rolling chair and scoop out bites of golden kiwi, my favorite fruit. The fuzziness of the skin and the juiciness of the flesh calm my fears. Never mind the sea of numbers, synergies, or Lydia. Everything is going to be okay.

Twenty-two minutes later, I try to discreetly dislodge kiwi seeds from my molars as Benji assesses Lydia's Blush Fire mock-up. He nods his head vigorously, the way I shake my orange juice with extra pulp. "Lime green is the perfect color choice for the Vespas," he says. "Matches the blush applicators nicely. Fordie will enjoy shooting this in October."

"October?" I squawk.

"Yes, Talisman," Lydia says. "Just in time to meet publisher deadlines for next spring, when Lautrec will unveil the ad. Didn't you review the company literature I FedEx'd you?"

"Yes," I say, glad I bypassed _Gilmore Girls_ with Jem and instead studied Lautrec's anticipated timelines from product conception to completion. "That's why I'm surprised we're only beginning to design the Superlative ad now, when," I flip open my folder and consult the lines I highlighted in blue, "its target publication date is November." I smile sweetly at Lydia. "Just in time for the holiday season."

"I see I've hired someone who uses the wisdom of her Third Eye," Benji says. Lydia scowls. "You're correct. Normally, we would've worked on the Superlative ad earlier. Much, much earlier. But the packaging wasn't ready." He sighs. "They forgot to do the fridge test."

"The fridge test?" I ask.

"They pop the plastic casing into a freezer to mimic a Boston winter," Lydia says. "Steam it to mimic the Everglades, and bake it to mimic a New Mexico summer."

I stare at the thick black tube of Superlative mascara and feel sorry for it. It's gone through as many trials as a woman climbing the corporate ladder with a two-year-old toddler and another baby on the way.

"But now the fridge tests are complete," Benji says, cradling the mascara wand, "and the tube passed superlatively." He chuckles. "And we have three months to design the ad—maybe less. Lautrec is eager to rush it to market. Mascara racks in almost fifty percent of cosmetic sales, and they want some more of that rhubarb pie."

He tosses the mascara into the air and begins to discuss how it meshes with "Lautrec's ethos" with Lydia. I zone out, and instead, imagine Graham and me, on our maybe-date, only four days away. We start out strolling down Newbury Street, a bag of Teuscher chocolates in between our clasped hands.

No. I shake my head. I'm not going to indulge in useless fantasy. Following Jem's advice, and my mother's, I'm going to focus on my career first.

I glance up from my executive notepad, where I've doodled my initials and Graham's, accompanied by swirly hearts. Lydia is showing Benji a large diagram with lots of squiggles and circles. I squint. Is that really a...?

No, it can't be. Surely, that doesn't belong in a conversation about make-up?

Nope, it really is a Venn diagram, which before now, I've only seen in math textbooks. I squint again. Okay, it doesn't look that bad. I think the diagram just shows that Lautrec's target demo for their blue Superlative mascara, which goes on Sharpie thick but without clumping, is divorced suburban soccer moms who may or may not drive station wagons and club-hopping singletons who may or may not like techno music.

Maybe I'm not out of my league. Anyway, I'm new. Benji isn't expecting me to spew forth creative ideas like a Saatchi geyser. This is my first day. That's right, it's my first day.

I return to my daydreaming. Mmmm. Delicious. Graham and I are sitting on a bench in the Public Garden, and I've eaten half a box of champagne truffles, but I don't feel sick or fat, in fact I look like and feel like a size two, and now he's leaning into my face, just about to kiss me, or lick a bit of melted chocolate from the corner of my mouth—

"What do you think, Talisman?" Startled, my body jerks. I open my eyes wide and find Benji leaning forward, his gaze boring into my face. "Talisman?"

"No comment," I say, sounding like Robert Downey Junior's PR agent.

Lydia stifles a giggle. "What does that mean?" she asks, as if she hasn't mentioned incomprehensive terms like "ethos" seventeen times within the last half hour. I can't even work it into a conversation that I have a boyfriend (when I have a boyfriend) that many times. Believe me, it's not for lack of trying.

As Benji waits, Lydia shoots me a look that makes me feel like I'm wearing country bumpkin boots and plaid pattern flannel instead of Chanel.

"If p is less than .05 then the null hypothesis must be rejected."

The one line I remember from statistics class flashes on and off in my head. It's completely useless to me now, just like my psych degree.

"Uhm..." I look at Lydia, radiating the confidence of a New York Yankee. Everyone knows that when you're nervous about public speaking, you should imagine the audience in their underwear. But if I imagine Lydia in her underwear, some expensive lacy red bustier, she'll look like a sexy Amazon goddess, more intimidating than an unfriendly audience. I wouldn't even believe she were human, if I hadn't heard "Manic Monday" blaring through her closed office doors at 8:30 AM this morning.

Oh what fun it would be to catch her picking her nose. Just to find one tiny flaw.

I take a deep breath and pretend Lydia is wearing granny panties. She still manages to look decent, but the image gives me a small measure of comfort. "To be quite honest, I don't understand precisely what you've been talking about." I look at the Venn diagram. "It's not exactly the language of women."

"What would that be? The tongue of the baobab tree?" Lydia laughs. I can't believe Benji added that tidbit to the collection of office gossip. Humiliation sweeps through me, and I wish I were five and could roll my chair right out of the office and down the hallway.

Benji gives Lydia a quick glance and says, "Lydia, you've done very well with the Blush Fire ad. The Vespa, I feel it right here," he taps the bald patch above his ear, "but Talisman might be right."

I am? I could be? The tongue of the baobab tree ain't so bad after all.

"Benji, you know that presenting the statistical superiority of the Superlative mascara is important to our client." Lydia's voice is as sharp as a freshly buffed acrylic nail.

"Numbers are good. But where is the story? What makes a housewife in Illinois race to the department store in her minivan to buy mascara when she already has four tubes of it? I guarantee it doesn't have much to do with 'sixty percent more volume.' That's how you incite an impulse to buy—with a story, not with statistics."

"I know how to tell a story," Lydia says. "My 'Make an Impression' campaign increased sales by fifty-one percent in prestige markets. New York, LA, and Chicago. Unheard of."

"Ye-es," Benji says. "But we need something besides the numbers. You can't be afraid of exploring the _sfumos_. Do you need to re-read _How to Think Like Da Vinci_?"

"No," Lydia says through gritted teeth.

"We need something evocative...mysterious...emotional." He looks up at one of the few framed ads from past Katzenberg campaigns hanging on the wall which are not obscured by Lydia's charts.

"We should try unleashing fresh creative ideas through word associations," he says. He rubs his hands, while looking at me. "Talisman, you are, of course, familiar with the implicit attitudes and hidden connections that can be revealed through word associations?" I nod.

"In fact, why don't you go first," Lydia says with a pinched smile, as if I'm responsible for Benji's dissatisfaction with her ad-in-progress. "Since this is familiar psychological territory for you."

The Blahnik Brahmin may be physical perfection, but surely my subconscious must be superior to hers?

Benji consults a set of four by six multicolored index cards. "I'll say a word or phrase, and you tell me the first thing that comes to your mind. The very first thing. No changes. No additions." He grips his pen tightly. "Ready?"

I feel like I'm on a game show. A psychological version of the _Price Is Right_ but with make-up instead of household goods. Cool.

"We'll start with some basics, just to get you into the groove of things," he says.

"Name."

"Talisman."

"Boston."

"Home."

"Mom."

"Organics."

The answers tumble forth naturally and Benji dutifully jots them down. "I think you've got the hang of it. So I'll just continue."

Piece of carrot cake. There's no way I'm going to let my unconscious embarrass myself.

"Classic."

"Chanel." Gosh this is so easy, give me a hard one.

"Icon."

"Both Hepburns."

He continues his scribbles. "Lipstick."

"Lesbian." Lydia titters. Oh god, how did that come out? Stupid Jem. Stupid _Suave_. Stupid subconscious.

"Eyelash curler."

"Uterus," I say, thinking of how Cart thought they were some gynecological tool. Benji's eyebrows fly.

No more drunken nights with Cart, where he drinks apple martinis and Cosmopolitans behind closed doors and pulled-down window shades.

It can't get any worse, it can't get worse than—

"Mascara."

"Penis envy."

# Chapter 10

NO, I DIDN'T.

I didn't just say penis envy.

To my boss.

On my first day at work.

But from the looks on Lydia's and Benji's faces, I can tell that I just did. My hands fly to my cheeks which feel like they've progressed way beyond ballerina pink and Desert Rose into stoplight red territory.

"This didn't happen," I babble. "This is fake, just like Freud's theory."

Lydia smirks. "Would you like us to review the security footage?"

"You have cameras in here?" I ask, wondering if the security guard caught me adjusting my thong underwear.

"No, we do not," Benji says reassuringly. He procures a card from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. It's shiny and neon green, a "thank you for being you," courtesy of FISH! Philosophy.

"Are we feeling a little inadequate today, Talisman?" Lydia asks. I glance down at her four-inch heels and the faint scent of Chanel No. 5 wafts through the air.

"It's a long story," I say softly.

How could my supposedly superior subconscious turn against me?

But it's okay. This is okay. Benji's laughing now and saying he hasn't had this much fun since Nathan in Design swore he saw Elvis Presley in Benji's Rorschach test, and I, Talisman Turner, of questionable penis envy, have a date with Graham in four days.

The Blahnik Brahmin cannot get to me.

* * *

I meet Graham at the office lobby, since I've already changed into a sleeveless navy raw silk ensemble from my unworn dress collection. It has a deep V-neck and a red ribbon at the waist. The click of the scissors as they cut through the plastic wire attaching the price tag to the dress was as satisfying as applying the new lip glaze I had ordered from Seraphina three weeks ago to my lips.

On the way to the Remis Auditorium, there's never a pause in our conversation. Graham entertains me with stories about the Petit Four clientele which includes Chris Martin, Richard Branson's kids, football players whose names mean nothing to me, and the odd younger royal, who like to pop in before heading off to questionable night clubs.

When we arrive at the Auditorium, the lady at the ticket window looks at us in surprise. "The movie doesn't start for another two and a half hours."

"Oh crumbs!" Graham says and rubs his forehead. "I must have written down the wrong time."

Is this accident really an accident-on-purpose? It's just like that scene in _Playing By Heart_ where Angelina Jolie pretended her car was stolen to get Ryan Phillipe to spend more time with her. Yes, it's a girlish maneuver and not the type of masculine trick a guy would play—but this is definitely a date-date.

"What should we do as we wait?" Graham asks, as we stroll aimlessly down the sidewalk. "Oh! I've got an idea." He takes my hand and leads me to the T-station. Tingles shoot from my finger nails up into my shoulder blades. A girl seated in a barstool by a café window glances at Graham, returns to her gossip mag, then gives Graham another glance.

He's a second look kind of guy, and he's on a date-date _with me_ , I telepathically communicate.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"It's a surprise. Something I've always wanted to do."

Fifteen minutes later, I find myself at the Public Garden. We just walked by the bench where Doug unceremoniously dumped me two months ago, and Red Sox caps are cropping up like the surrounding tulips, imported from Holland. But I remain blissful. The May sky is clear, birds are tweeting, the air has a crisp crackle, and Graham and I are in a Swan Boat.

I had imagined Graham and me doing romantic things like tangoing by moonlight on the Weeks Foot Bridge (even though I don't know how to tango) when I was getting ready for our date-date. And when I woke up this morning, and intermittently throughout these past few days. And come to think of it, when I should have been focusing on generating non-Freudian ideas for Lautrec's Superlative mascara ad.

I spun more fantasies than Rumplestiltskin did gold, but never in all my hazy daydreams had I thought of a Swan Boat ride, a century-old Boston tradition by which townies and tourists can enjoy the beauty of the Public Garden from a catamaran-style boat. Each is outfitted with six benches and crowned by a giant swan, from where the captain peddles and steers. The swan design is said to be inspired by an Arthurian knight who crossed a river in a boat drawn by the elegant bird in the opera _Lohengrin_. Riding a Swan Boat is so simple, so romantic, and so perfect, that I can't keep from smiling.

Even though there's a small child screaming his face purple in the row in front of us, even though teenagers are making out noisily behind us, even though the man next to me has a huge EMS hiker's bag which blocks my view of the right bank.

Even though I know the ride will only last fifteen minutes, I can't keep my facial muscles in check. I could become a poster child for Les Zygomates, a local restaurant named for the French term for the muscles that make you smile.

"I haven't been on one of these for ages." I point to the shore. "Haven't made time for the ducklings." The tiny gold statues from Robert McCloskey's famous children's tale gleam in the sunlight.

The boat starts to glide in the water. The engine rumbles beneath my feet, and Graham's right arm warms my shoulders.

Okay, not technically. Technically, his arm is resting on the top of the slatted bench back, but it's so close, it's almost my shoulders, and I can feel the heat radiating from his arm. This kind of closeness signifies we are on a date-date.

I look to my right, but the hiker's giant bag is blocking my view of the shore. I'll just have to lean towards the other direction...towards Graham.

"I have to lean this way," I whisper, so the EMS-aficionado won't hear me. "The man next to me is blocking my view."

"Not a problem," he whispers, his nose close to my ear.

Is he sniffing me?

"You smell like...like..." he trails off and sniffs again. Oh my god. He's got wind of my MHC scent, and he doesn't like it, and he's finding the words to let me down. We're not destined to be together. Okay, screw evolutionary biology. Graham will learn to love me through my wit and halfsome charm.

"...like honey and my mother's garden," Graham says.

Sacs of serotonin, the neurochemical happy-maker, shimmy up and down my spine.

"Maybe it's my MHC genes," I say. It just slips out, unbidden.

He crinkles his nose. "What are those?"

Cornered, I tell him. "...it's like an evolutionary vote of confidence, before marriage and kids," I finish. "According to some psychologists, the number of MHC genes you share even predicts if your spouse will cheat on you or not."

Graham's face looks funny, a milder version of the Bertie Bott's Bean incident. I definitely got carried away. Graham likely thinks I'm weird or crazy, and he's scared off because I've already mentioned the health status of his unborn children and the odds that his future wife will cheat on him.

This is, after all, only our first date-date. Maybe he wasn't ready to hear about the bambinos, but that's a pretty crucial part of the theory. If you leave out the kids part, then it's no longer evolutionary kismet, but just biological mumbo-jumbo about body odor, like Doug said.

"Tali, you're so..." he looks at the shore. I wait for him to finish, pretending we're playing a round of mad libs, and he's just been asked to supply an adjective to describe the girl next to him.

How about crazy? Delusional? Neurotic?

Why didn't I talk about something else? Like more details about my elevator experiment...where I jiggled my butt like Richard Simmons...and curled my eyelashes...okay, so not that, but—

"...you're so layered...and complex...and intriguing," he looks straight into my eyes, "you remind me of an Escher painting."

Oh.

My whole body glows.

This is it. The best compliment of my life. The gold medal previously belonged to a high school classmate, Eva. She told me that if she were a lesbian, she'd want to marry me, because she thought I'd eventually turn out to be extremely successful, even though I had exited the ladies' room with the hem of my dress tucked into my control top underwear at Homecoming.

I didn't know how to respond to Eva, and I don't know how to respond to Graham now. So I smile and say nothing at all.

After the ride ends, we have dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant, a semi-fancy place where the walls are decorated with gold and jade dragons.

The waiter has just plopped two bowls of steaming egg drop soup, my favorite, onto our table.

I blow on my spoon filled with golden liquid and a small piece of dropped egg and take a sip. Yow! Too hot.

I drop my spoon back into the bowl. It clatters as I try to ignore the pain of thirty-two scalded taste buds. My stomach growls with yearning.

I stare down at the steam, trying to comfort myself that I'm helping my pores, if not my hunger, when Graham's hand reaches over the table and suddenly drops something into my bowl. It makes a plonk sound.

"Don't worry," he says. "My hands are clean."

"And what exactly did you put into my soup with your clean hands?" I ask.

"An ice cube." I give him a look. "It will cool down the soup instantly." He beams. "Old chef's trick."

"Melting ice is flooding my soup," I say, aghast.

His mouth curves. "Which is ninety-five percent water anyway." He's right. Why am I so freaked out? But I can't stand watery tasting soup; it's one of my pet peeves, along with wearing shoes while lounging in bed. I cringe whenever TV characters do that, even though they're nowhere near my pristine sheets.

I take a sip of the ice cube soup. The broth is delicious, and I can taste a hint of sesame oil, instead of the sensation of burning taste buds.

"It's at just the right temperature," I admit.

"See?" he says and grins.

By the time we progress from soup to trays of pad thai, my whole body is relaxed and loose like I've been sitting at a summer camp bonfire, toasting marshmallows and swapping secrets.

"I'm really excited." I wave my fork in the air. "In a month, I'm going to see Blue Man Group for my half-birthday!"

"Your what?"

"My half-birthday. I started the tradition when I was ten. I wanted more holidays," I explain.

"You mean Valentine's Day, Halloween, and Thanksgiving weren't enough?"

"More holidays with gift-giving benefits. My birthday is so close to Christmas that I thought I was deprived of the number of gifts I was rightly owed."

He laughs. "I see."

"That was when I was ten. Now the best part of celebrating my half-birthday is that I get to invite people I really like, instead of out of obligation."

"Why would you do that on your actual birthday?"

I shrug. "Guilt, I suppose." I crunch on a water chestnut. "But on a half-birthday, I get to invite only friend-friends."

"Pardon?"

"Friend- _friends_. You know." I look at his face. "Not friends with benefits," I say firmly.

"Then what is a friend-friend?"

"You want the full theory?"

He nods, and I give him my speech. "The word friend is tossed around casually, and inappropriately, kind of like genius. They're calling everyone," I gesture to include all the patrons of the restaurant, "a genius these days. A genius or a diva." I drop my voice to a whisper. "Not all the singers on the VH1 special are divas, you know."

Graham's lips quirk. "No, I wasn't aware."

"When people tell funny stories about someone they haven't seen or talked to in ages, they call him a friend, when in actuality they don't know the person well enough anymore to say that, and..." I pause. Is that Lydia's glossy head?

"And?" Graham prompts.

Lydia would never refer to anyone as a friend-friend. But why should I think of her on my maybe date-date?

And anyways, I was mistaken. But whoever the woman is, she has cool earrings, the same ones I've admired in Jasmine Sola. I hope Jem gets me a pair like them for my half-birthday.

Graham looks in the same direction I am. "What are you doing?"

What am I doing?

"Nothing," I say nonchalantly and take a sip of bubble tea. "Where was I? Instead of going into this long, complicated backstory, to describe how they know someone, people use the word friend...and so it's lost a lot of meaning. My system really makes things more precise."

"What you're saying is that people use the word friend when a better word might be acquaintance...or colleague...or classmate."

I smile widely. Graham's a genius. "Exactly. 'Acquaintance,' ugh." I make a face. "That's so formal and stiff."

"Who's invited to your half-birthday friend-friend celebration?"

"Jem, my college friends Cart and Kirsten, my sister Ris..." do I dare? "...and you, if you want to come," I say shyly.

"I would like to say yes," he says cautiously. "I've always wanted to see how PVC pipes can be transformed into musical instruments, but..."

But what? He doesn't want to be my friend-friend? He's relegating himself to the status of acquaintance? When we're on a date-date?!

"...but I'll come on the condition that there'll be drink-drinks."

"In this system, that's an espresso martini."

"Good enough. I'm definitely in."

My heart flip-flops.

He's so perfect. I can't believe I just explained my ridiculous theory on the definitions of friendship and genius to him, but he seems like the type of person who isn't afraid of flaws, who could make a woman laugh about them so much that her flaws would fade way, just like the way indigo dye becomes lighter in a favorite pair of jeans.

Graham reaches into his coat pocket. "I didn't know your half-birthday was approaching, but I saw this the other day, and thought of you."

Just like I fantasized. Graham thinks of me throughout the day, the way I think of him. Wishing he could share whatever small delights he discovers in the city with me.

He pulls out a small box.

A gift? Already?

"I thought you might need it for presentations to the Lautrec rep," he says, and hands it over. "But you can think of it as an early half-birthday present."

Oh. A work-related gift. This means we're on a friend-date only.

How did Graham know I'd be working on the Lautrec campaign anyway? Did Graham pump Benji for details about me? That's a promising sign. Maybe I should try harder to extract more information about Graham from Benji, but we're never alone together, and I can't bear to ask Benji when Lydia is present.

I open the box. "You really shouldn't—" I stop short, as I unwrap Graham's present from the tissue paper.

In my hand—varnished, beige, and attached to a thin velvet cord—is a giant nut.

"It's a nut," I say.

"Not just any old nut, but a Hawaiian kukui nut."

"Kukui?"

"It's good luck." He leans over the table. "I think Becks has one too."

David Beckham? Now that's cool.

"Thank you," I say, touched. "No one's ever given me a nut before."

Normally, if I received a gift from a guy on our first date, I'd assume it was a date-date.

But this is a nut. I definitely need an outside opinion.

# Chapter 11

"CART! I NEED TO ASK you something," I say into my cell phone as I lean against the decorative tiles covering the wall of the restaurant's ladies' room.

"We're just on our way to your place," he says. Cars bleep in the background.

"What's happening? What's happening?" comes Kirsten's voice, distant and muffled.

"He gave me—"

"A gift already?" Kirsten screeches.

"Kirsten!" Cart says. "I'm trying to drive. This is Back Bay, not the Hudson Valley."

"A nut," I say, and am greeted by silence. "Hello? Anyone?"

"He gave you...a nut?" Cart stutters out.

"Not just any old nut." I smile, while tracing the outlines of the lotus flowers stenciled onto the wall tiles. "A Hawaiian kukui nut."

"I don't care if the nut is from the Dalai Lama, or the President of the United States. Or Brit—" he stops. I bet Kirsten is glaring at him. "I would return the nut to her and check myself for contagious diseases."

"Cart, you're being too harsh on the Britster, and the nut is for good luck. Besides, Graham said Becks has one." A sports legend. This should impress Cart.

"You mean that fruity soccer player?" I forgot Cart developed a thing against David Beckham, ever since Becks became a champion of metrosexuality. Cart can't understand how a man could moisturize his face and wear pink sarongs and yet still be firmly heterosexual.

"He's not fruity. He's married to Posh Spice," I explain for the two hundredth time.

"He tweezes his eyebrows. His eyebrows!"

"There's nothing wrong with personal grooming."

"Hey! I shower after pickup games in the park."

I sigh. "I bet if you gave a kukui nut to that guy you salivate over—"

"Are you saying I'm gay?" Cart asks. "I'm not gay. And I wasn't salivating. That was the general manager, Tali, the GM of the Sox—"

"If you gave him one, maybe it'd help break the curse."

"I thought Doug was working on that."

"Why'd you say that?" Kirsten asks, her question followed by the unmistakable sound of Cart getting thwacked.

"Ooof! I repeat I'm driving!"

I dab cold water on my cheeks. What does it matter if Graham gave me a nut? If we ever started dating, he'd probably dump me so that Manchester United could win the World Cup, or something like that.

"Tali? Are you still there?" Kirsten must have commandeered Cart's cell. "Give me more details."

"Graham compared me to an Escher painting," I say. My optimism revives at the recollection.

She gasps. "How romantic."

"It's a date-date, right?"

"Do you remember when you had to cancel all of your credit cards when you went on a date with that engineering major?"

I shudder as memories of the debacle resurface. "How could I forget?"

"There's your answer. See if he pays."

When I return to the table, Graham is putting on his jacket. He already paid. This is so a date-date.

"Good news," he says. "Turns out I know the owner! Met the fellow years ago, at a restaurant convention. They have those you know. But he remembered me—there was a little incident with a wonton wrapper. So our meal was on the house."

"That's...terrific," I say.

I can't believe it. Out of all the two hundred and seventy-nine restaurants in Boston, we had to go to the one where a long bygone wonton wrapper incident would make our meal free...and keep me in dating purgatory?

"Shall we go?" He helps me into my shoulder wrap. We've just stepped outside when I realize that we've forgotten the best part of eating at an Oriental restaurant.

"What about the fortune cookies?"

He pats his jacket. "In my pocket." He looks at my face intently. "Saving the best for last." My legs wobble slightly from both nervousness and anticipation of the goodnight kiss...which is bound to occur, as long as this evening is a date-date.

We finally make it to the movie at the right time. _Kal Ho Naa Ho_ , featuring Shah Rukh Khan, is fantastic. Jem is going to love it, and I love it too, although my pleasure is somewhat lessened by the knowledge that Benji gave Graham gift certificates to the Remis Auditorium, so technically, Graham didn't pay for anything—the soup, the tickets, the fortune cookies now crumbling in his coat pocket—and I still don't know where I stand.

"You seem a little preoccupied," Graham says, as he parks across from my apartment building.

"The movie was quite moving," I say, my face still sticky from all the tears. But I'm not thinking about the movie. Instead I'm wondering why Benji had to be overly welcoming to his godson and give Graham gift certificates to the Remis Auditorium.

"You cried when the Patels were singing about being Gujurati," Graham says as we amble towards my door.

I smile. "I know."

"So..." he says nervously.

"So..." I say, looking up at him, and shifting my weight from one foot to another.

"I better get going," I say.

"Exactly. You better...I better..."

I'm being so dense. This was a friend-date. My mouth suddenly hurts from all the smiling I've done. I shove my keys into their jagged slot.

"Oh wait, I almost forgot!" Graham says, and takes a tiny step closer to me.

This is it, this is it. This has got to be the moment, I knew it, I knew it. This is a date-date! My facial muscles make a quick recovery.

" _Sex_ is starting!" Kirsten's voice cries.

Graham reels backwards while I glare at my open living room window. Kirsten peers down from the fifth floor and bites her lip. "You're not alone." I shake my head. "Sorry," she says and closes the window.

"She was referring to the Emmy-winning show," I say stiffly.

"I've watched one or two episodes," Graham says. "My sister Cadence bribed me with free chocolates from her store. Swore it would improve my 'sorry love life.'"

"Has it?" I ask softly.

He moves closer to me, so close I can feel the warmth from his body, and reaches into his pocket. "We have to open our fortune cookies."

Oh. I was expecting a romantic goodnight kiss, not a crunchy fortune cookie, but my spirits rally as I conclude Graham's drawing out the moment, savoring the anticipation. I can appreciate that. British men have such style.

We break open the cookies at the same time. They snap like tiny fireworks.

"What does your say?" I ask.

"Ladies first."

I read, "'Your lucky numbers are ten, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-eight and thirty-five...and do not forget the fate of the early Worm,' whatever that means." We both giggle.

I look up at Graham. "How about yours?"

"' _Mo-gu_ is Chinese for mushroom.' That's on one side. On the other..." He leans forward. His mouth bridges the gap between mine, and then, and then...

# Chapter 12

"SPIT IT OUT," Kirsten says. Ten minutes later, I'm in my kitchen, spilling all the details to Jem and Kirsten.

"He kissed me..." their faces glow, "...on the cheek."

"Cheek?" Jem asks.

"Cheek?" Kirsten asks.

"Cheek," I say.

"You don't think I ruined everything?" Kirsten asks.

"The mood, the moment, the magic?" I ask. "No, the crickets were rivaling Bono and U2 at their best, and Mrs. Calderon's security light had flicked off. It was just us, the fireflies, and the moonlight. The mood was firmly reestablished."

"But why didn't he kiss you?" Kirsten asks. "That doesn't seem so good."

"It's what the fortune cookie said," I say defensively.

"What?" Jem scrunches up her face. "Outlook not so good?"

"No." I sigh. "'Give a kiss to the person next to you.'"

"That's so sweet." Kirsten makes eyes at the ceiling. "He had the looks of Mr. Big and the personality of Aidan...at least from what I could tell in the shadows."

"Sweet? Sweet? That was a waste." Barefoot and shirt untucked, Cart pads into the kitchen.

"Shouldn't you be watching the game?" I ask, crossing my arms against my chest.

"Commercial." He opens the fridge door. "The fortune cookie pretty much gave him an easy way to break the touch barrier, and he didn't take it?" He stamps his foot.

"But he did break the barrier," I say. "He kissed me on the cheek."

"Obviously that doesn't count. He wasted a beautiful opportunity." He sighs, head still in the fridge. "Could've been scripted by _Suave_!" He closes the door and takes a bite of a mozzarella cheese stick. "And he gave you a nut!"

"But he's British. Maybe the dating rules—and the touch barrier window—are different over there," I say, voicing the thought that ran through my head like a stock market ticker tape all evening.

"If they're fruity like Hugh Grant."

"You're saying...it's a friend-date?" I ask.

"I'm saying it was a fruity date."

"Stop overusing that word," Kirsten snaps.

"Fine." He takes another bite of cheese. "But I want to see that nut."

I take the box from my purse, unwrap the kukui nut from the tissue paper, and hold it out to Cart.

He glances at it and goes into convulsions.

"What? What?" I ask.

"It's pale," he laughs some more, "it has...it has...a cl-cleft." He can barely breathe, and his face is turning pink. "It's a butt-nut!"

I glare at him with stiletto-sharp daggers. "It is not."

"Jack Johnson would totally approve," Jem says. "And I think the commercial break is over now."

Cart snickers one last time. "Okay, I get the hint." As he victory dances to the living room, he calls over his shoulder, "Why don't you just ask him out on a date? Then you'll know for sure."

I turn to Kirsten. "What do you see in him?"

She shrugs. "He pays the bills on time. He's a very good cuddler and leaves the toilet seat down. When I give him my review of all the season finales of _Sex and the City_ , he listens. And I always have someone to talk to when I'm standing in line at the Post Office."

God, it would be nice to have a boyfriend to take with you wherever you go, like a good compact. Even if he thinks that exfoliation is the process by which trees loose leaves.

"Should I ask Graham out?" I ask my friends and stretch on my tip-toes to reach an almost hidden bag of blue corn chips on the topmost shelf of my cupboard.

The truth is that women who ask out men are mythical creatures to me, like unicorns, or long-lasting, non-drying lipstick.

"Yes," Jem says. "Go for yours and don't be a cliché."

"I like the uncertainty. Taking it slow." Jem and Kirsten both give me looks. "Really I do. It builds anticipation." I squeeze the air out of the chip bag until it pops open with a bang. "But I suppose I could ask him out definitively on my half-birthday."

That's it! I'll tell Graham on my half-birthday, which I've also viewed as a second shot at New Year's Eve, a second chance to make new resolves.

I am going to change my life. I'm going to nail the advertising pitch to the Lautrec rep and show Lydia that I am not envious of her store-window perfection. I will take the initiative with Graham, and become a mythological creature, with buns of steel (and a butt-nut).

After all, I'm a woman of the new millennium.

# Chapter 13

"BLUE MAN GROUP? That's your plan?" Ris asks, while opening up a box of L.A. Burdick truffles she brought to my office in celebration of my new job. "I'm not comprehending. They don't talk. Ever. Not one monosyllabic word."

"They're going to do a skit, after the show," I say, grateful that my best friend is a DJ with the kind of connections which scored us special passes so that we can meet the Blue Men backstage when they're done with the show, which is bound to be unpredictable but amazing.

I don't know how three silent men who cover their exposed skin with blue greasepaint can be so entertaining, but they are. Somehow their show, with its dinner parties featuring Twinkies, musical backpacks made out of PVC pipes, and interactive manuals on how to be a rock star, is magical.

"Blue Man Group knows how to communicate complex thoughts _without_ words," I say. "That's what they do."

But my tone doesn't convey complete confidence, well because...I don't have one hundred percent faith in my plan either. I'm unclear as to what specifically the Blue Men are going to do, except that mistletoe is part of the equation (even though it's June).

Knowing that I still have a week to develop on the basics of my plan doesn't ease the prickles of uncertainty crawling up my spine. I try to ward off the sensation by pawing through the box of truffles. But even taking a nibble of an ear from Burdick's signature chocolate mouse doesn't do the trick, and the prickles intensify into dread.

I have no idea what I'm going to say to Graham after the skit, even though for the past few weeks, I've been dreaming about men covered in blue paint instead of focusing on work. I haven't begun to design the invitations for La Galleria Bianca. Nor have I brainstormed any ideas for my meeting with Mackenzie Edwards—Mac for short—the Antoine Lautrec representative, who'll be taking the express train from New York to Boston next Friday, the day of the Blue Man Group show.

Technically, Lydia is in charge of the Lautrec account, and as the junior executive, I'm only supposed to be present in an observational capacity. But I really want to show Lydia up. The whole office knows about my penis envy comment. Everyone, especially Trish and Marci, stares at me in hideous fascination. Nathan in Design—the one who saw Elvis in Benji's Rorschach test—even asked me if I had developed a funny rash on my inner thighs due to my penis envy.

But whenever I try to focus on my impending job responsibilities, my mind becomes distracted by the new world that will open up to me once I have a boyfriend. No more nights of sliding into a new dress so expensive I have to forgo my coffee budget to pay for it, applying kohl eyeliner without jabbing my eye, and switching to evening perfume to go to a bar, hoping to find a romantic prospect, only to leave, invariably disappointed and wondering if my beauty, charm and wit are only visible to my mom. Now, I can think about Graham, and how my life will improve once we confess our feelings for each other.

Maybe we'll be one of the twelve hundred couples watching _The Nutcracker_ at the Wang Center this Christmas. Or maybe we'll go clam digging on Martha's Vineyard and wear coordinating outfits with tiny lobsters sewn onto our shirt pockets. Maybe we'll spend a long weekend at a B&B in New Hampshire, and enjoy the warmth of the fireplace in our guestroom as snow falls in steady puffs outside. Or—

My thoughts are interrupted by Lydia, who pokes her perfect chignon into my office. "Wrap up visiting hours. I need to see you in my office in ten minutes." She pivots with the grace of a principal in the American Ballet Theatre, even though she's wearing four-inch white suede Jimmy Choos I just saw in the "Red Carpet Look of the Day" section of _In Style_.

Ris stares at the Chanel-scented arrogance Lydia left in her wake. "She's so catty, she should come with a litter box."

I open my desk drawer and retrieve a black and white photo of Lydia I printed from the official Katzenberg "About Us" website page and hand it to Ris. "Don't worry, I've got healthy coping mechanisms."

She laughs at the protruding chin hair I drew onto the photo with a fine point Sharpie marker. This fake flaw is the closest I've come to finding a real one in the "need-no-Photoshop" physical perfection which is Lydia.

Ris latches up her satchel. "I better leave now. I don't want to get you into trouble with Catty Cathy." She glances at her stainless steel watch. "Plus the last commuter rail to Providence leaves in twenty minutes." Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway. "I'm sure you'll ace everything pre- and post- Blue Man. Remember, you carry luck with you always. It's in your name."

That's what mom would tell me when my elementary school classmates would tease me about my name, which didn't fit in with all the Brittanys, Lisas, and Sarahs. It didn't comfort me then—but realizing that none of my classmates knew my middle name did. It would've given the third grad brats even more fodder. Unlike me, Ris never had that problem. She adored her full name: Tristan Cedar Turner. Thankfully, my days of being teased by malicious third graders are long behind me. Instead, I'm harassed by Cheerleading Furies in my dreams, and in real life, by a Blahnik Brahmin.

I wince as I slip into my shoes—too small, but the most gorgeous coral color, and on clearance with an extra seventy-five percent off, so I couldn't resist—and hobble over to Lydia's office, barely avoiding knocking into the wooden butler statue she keeps in the entryway to hold her keys and gloves. She hands me a stack of research results gathered from our latest round of focus group questioning and asks me to call each participant to arrange for a follow-up interview.

This request clearly could have waited. There was no need to chuck out my sister, but I hesitate to confront Lydia. I tell myself it isn't worth it, but the truth is, I'm afraid doing so will provoke her to undermine the little respect I've earned from my colleagues.

Carrying a sheaf of papers thicker than an unabridged version of _War and Peace_ , I hobble back to my office. Safely inside my tiny domain, I kick off my too-small shoes and fortify my spirits with another round of truffles. The chocolate improves my mood—as does drawing another chin hair on Lydia's photo.

In fact, my spirits rally so much, I feel motivated to remove the default artwork hung in my office and replace it with my own framed prints, an act of redecorating I've procrastinated for far too long. My collection is far less commercial than the slick advertisements, Katzenberg success stories from the past two and a half decades, which my office came stocked with. While the stories the ads tell form their own sort of fairy tale (one with unpronounceable ingredients), I'm replacing them with my own: European castles and palaces I hope to visit before I turn thirty.

There's the famous one in Bavaria which inspired Sleeping Beauty's castle at Disneyland. Aberdeenshire's Balmoral, a gift from Queen Victoria to her precious Albert. The Palace of Versailles, the most elaborate palace in all the world. Mont Saint-Michel, the island castle connected to mainland France by only a thin causeway. Catherine Palace, summer home to the Russian czars. Finally, Chateau de Chambord, whose blue spires I couldn't get out of my mind once I spotted them in a travel guide.

Forty-five minutes later, I stand in my office doorway and admire my handiwork. All the photographs look perfect, except for the one of the Chateau de Chambord, hung on the wall space behind my desk. I roll my executive office chair closer to the wall, clamber on top of it, and reach forward to adjust the offending frame.

"Not cool, Tal. Not cool at all," a voice sputters. I dig my toes into the leather seat of the executive chair to maintain my balance as I twist my upper torso to see who's barged into my office. Standing in my doorway, glowering like a cranky dragon is...Doug.

# Chapter 14

HIS SACRIFICE FOR the sake of the Sox seems to have left him unaffected, because he's still as gorgeous as ever. My mouth dries at the sight of the toned upper arms peeking out from underneath the sleeves of his ringer tee, edged in red.

Doug twists the Red Sox cap in his hands. "That was so below the belt." He removes three envelopes from a navy gym bag covered in Red Sox patches, all gifts from his students, and waves them in the air. "How could you forward my mail to Derek Jeter? I lost my wicked low subscription rate to _Suave_. The cable company disconnected ESPN because I hadn't paid the bill...which I never received." He strides deeper into my office, and even though there's a desk separating us, his musky scent fills the small space, making it seem we're closer than we are.

"I'm sorry, Doug. Really," I say, feeling a tiny whit of remorse, the size of a peanut shell tossed onto the stadium floor at Fenway. "But _you_ dumped _me_. _I'm_ the one who's supposed to be indignant." For dramatic effect, I punch the air with my fist. My toes loosen their hold on the leather beneath them, and my office chair slips out from my feet.

I make the error of grabbing onto the black lacquered frame of one of the castle's photographs instead of gripping the edges of my wheeled office chair...which rolls into my bookcase (completely bereft of Clios, crystalline figures, or books), as I fall backwards onto my desk, still clutching my photograph of the blue-spired Chateau de Chambord.

One corner of my computer monitor makes contact with the side of my head, above my right ear. "Ooof," I say, as Doug rushes towards me, shouting my name.

Feeling like a complete fool, my face flushes. "Baobab tree," I murmur, before sliding woozily to the carpeted floor, in a graceless heap of embarrassment.

When I open my eyes, my head is cradled in Doug's lap, and he's pressing something cold against it. "There, there," he whispers, removes the cold pack and hands it to me.

It's my coffee drink—all seven ingredients—the one he would never order because doing that would make him seem gay.

"Your overly customized beverage makes a great spur-of-the-moment ice pack," he says. "Plus, you can drink it afterwards."

"Very practical," I say, and slowly sit upright so that I can nestle my head into his solid chest, like a baby bird searching for warmth. His arms, golden from hours spent outside coaching high school gym classes, encircle mine. While slurping down my iced beverage, I admire the fine blond hair covering his tawny arms. I look up at his face. "You'd make a very good lion," I say.

His green eyes widen in concern. "We need to check for signs of a concussion." He rises slowly, gently picking me up, looping one of his liony arms under my knees, and winding the other around my neck in support, before depositing me onto my traitorous office chair.

"I want you to extend your arm, and then touch the tip of your nose with your index figure," Doug says and demonstrates. "Can you do that for me, Tal?"

After I comply, he gives me another task. This time I have to walk, eyes closed, in a straight line, one shoeless foot in front of the other. I traverse the length of my office, at first taking tentative steps, but gradually becoming more sure-footed. I open my eyes to find the Chateau de Chambord hanging perfectly straight on the wall...and Doug peering intently at my painted toenails.

"Pacifist Plum." He gulps. "My favorite."

"Anything else?" I ask, wondering why he suddenly seems nervous.

"Just the three word test. I'm going to tell you three random words, and you have to repeat them to me in thirty minutes. Ready?"

I nod. He scans my office. "Okay, the three words are castle, desk..." his gaze drops to me, "...and breast." His eyes widen in shock, and his right hand flies to his mouth.

"This Sox sacrifice is taking its toll," I say, enjoying his turn to be embarrassed.

"Yeah, well...never mind that." He wipes his brow, now covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. "What do you wanna do for the next half-hour?"

"I wouldn't mind taking a _Gilmore Girls_ break. We can re-watch the season four finale." I point to my computer. "I can stream it online."

"Fine, fine." He skips over his usual fake protest, his standard reaction when I used to suggest we watch the mother-daughter dramedy together, and instead arranges two chairs in front of my desk.

I press play, and then settle into my seat. After the opening credits roll, I notice that Doug is squinting at the computer screen. "Can you see? Should I change the angle?" I ask, about to rise and tilt the monitor closer to Doug, whose chair is separated from mine with a tad too much distance.

"No worries," he says briskly. "I have twenty-twenty vision."

Not long after Kirk makes his first onscreen appearance, completing one of his trademark oddball jobs, Doug swivels his chair towards mine. "What the hell do you think you were doing?" He splutters like a malfunctioning tea kettle. "Hanging pictures while standing on a non-sturdy surface?"

I resent his protectiveness, because it makes something inside of me soften. Doug doesn't—shouldn't—have the ability to make me feel so nurtured, not after dumping me the way he did.

"We're broken up," I say and turn up the volume of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore's rapid-fire repartee. "You don't have to worry about me anymore."

"I still care about you, Tal." Doug kneels before my chair and cups my chin. "Even if we're broken up. Even though you didn't want to stay friends. Even though you forwarded my mail to that no-good Yankee."

He gazes steadily at me. His green eyes, blond hair, and tawny arms bombard my senses. I go into a daze which has nothing to do with hitting my head on my computer monitor. From reading the gossip mags, I know I can counter Doug's statement by listing the numerous charities Jeter's involved in. But try as I might, searching my memory doesn't bring the name of any non-profits to my tongue...just the image of Doug, stepping out of the shower, a white towel encircling his trim waist.

He breaks our eye contact, ending the moment, although I know he felt it too. "Let's just finish the show," he says and sits back down, scooting his chair closer to mine.

After one doozy of an ending which makes me want to immediately watch the next episode (even though I've already seen it and know what happens), Doug closes my internet browser and turns to me. "Can you repeat the three words I told you earlier?" he asks.

"Castle, desk, and...breast." I laugh.

He doesn't.

After a pause, he gives me a quick peck on the top of my head, gathers his duffle bag, and leaves me alone in my castle-adorned office, with a confused mind and unsteady heart.

# Chapter 15

AT 6:05 PM, I gather my belongings, including the box of remaining truffles, and hurry through the corridor into the waiting area. Because of the dark and my too-small heels (not because of any lingering injuries) I stumble at the edge of the lobby's thick Oriental rug.

Thankfully, nothing falls out of my purse, but the box of truffles opens, and two of the chocolates fly through the air and splat into a mush of chocolate and filling in front of the office elevator.

"Can I exit this office in one unscathed piece?" I ask the silence, then search behind Trish and Marci's reception desk for something to clean up the chocolate mess. No tissues on the surface. Maybe there are some in the cupboards below. I kneel down and examine the metallic curve of the desk. As I suspected, the edges open out into cupboard doors.

I move aside nail polish in different colors, buffing files, cuticle oil, and several packs of gum to find stacks and stacks of magazines which I'm sure Trish and Marci do not read for the articles.

I pull six out and lean back against the wall, my left leg tucked underneath me, and my right one stretched out towards the desk.

I drum my fingers against the marble floor. I've never looked at one of these. Never. I thought it would be too embarrassing if anyone ever found out. But I'm 25—almost 25.5—years old now. I think it's about time.

I'll just look at the covers and the tables of contents, just to see what these magazines are really about. Whoa. I stop examining the glossy covers. Two of these are from the early nineties. I can't believe Trish and Marci have horded such old magazines. They must be suffering from severe anxiety too.

I can't say exactly why I decide to open one up. Stifled curiosity I suppose, perhaps the run-in with my super-hot ex. But underneath both moon and street light, for the very first time, I thoroughly explore the contents of _Modern Bride_.

Why have I never ventured into this world of Biedermeier bouquets, three-tier cakes, full-length veils, and asscher-cut rings before?

Oh! This particular issue includes special bridal horoscopes. As an Aquarius, if I were planning a wedding in the summer of 1992, it would be "delightful and charming. But be wary of an overly long train. The day's stress, coupled with Saturn's half-moon, could lead to an inelegant mishap."

I put down _Modern Bride_ and switch to _Martha Stewart Weddings_. Hmmm. So maybe no monarch-length train, but I could still wear a cathedral-length Vera Wang gown made with duchesse satin and carry a cascading bouquet of Calla and Asiatic lilies. I'd wear silk sling-backs hand-beaded in Eastern Europe, and I'd have wedding pictures taken on the Lagoon Bridge in true Bostonian tradition.

It's too soon to tell of course, since we're in the early stages, and we haven't even shared a proper goodnight kiss, but this is my first wedding fantasy, so I'm allowed to put in Graham as the groom. Maybe he'll wear a kilt to the wedding, and as I float up the church stairs, my cathedral-length train floating behind me as if carried in the beaks of blue robins, bagpipers will play Wagner's "Bridal Chorus."

Whoa.

Bagpipers?

Bagpipers signal how delusional I'm getting. I'm knee-deep in bridal magazines on a Friday night. I've stopped being a woman of the new millennium and have turned into lame-girl instead. How can I plan a wedding when I don't even have a fiancé, let alone a definite boyfriend?

I gather the magazines—oooh this one has an article on how to pack for a tropical honeymoon—and stuff them back into the desk cupboard. Wait a minute. Are those voices? Is someone still here? Maybe Nathan from Design? Why didn't I hear him before?

I half-crouch, half-stand behind the reception desk. All I can see is the elevator door and half of a potted palm. It's probably the cleaning staff. I turn to leave, but then I hear heels clicking against marble. Chanel No. 5 faintly permeates the air.

I kneel back down and almost bump my head against the desk drawer that Trish uses to rest her keyboard as I wonder with which client Lydia's having a late meeting. I hope she steps onto the mess of chocolate and raspberry in front of the elevator, so while her dignity will only be temporarily injured, her four-inch white suede Jimmy Choos will be forever ruined.

"Hurry up!" Lydia says. I peek over the reception desk again. She's wearing a cream silk coat, her hair is in a chignon, and there's not a smidge of raspberry cream on her heels.

"We're going to lose our reservation," she says, hands on her tiny hips.

Is this a business dinner? Or a romantic date? Or is it both? Is Lydia dating one of her clients? My heart beats excitedly. Maybe I could get her fired for unprofessionalism and steal her corner office...unless she's dating Benji.

An image of her licking the bald spot above his ear races through my mind. I gasp. Why does the brain do that? I shake my head to clear out the image. No, it's probably someone from an office upstairs. They have lots of rich investment banker types on the twenty-ninth floor whom I'm sure Lydia preys upon.

I massage my knees which are cramped from crouching and look towards the elevators again. A man has emerged from her office. I can't see his face clearly because green fronds block my view, but I can tell he's tall, in a nice evening suit, and he's got good hair. Touchable.

Lydia rests her chin on his right shoulder and says something too softly for me to hear. I ache at the intimacy of the gesture. Definitely not a client-only relationship. Any minute now, she'll lean in, and her left leg will rise, and they'll share a movie star kiss.

The elevator doors finally open, and a shaft of light illuminates the man's head in such a way that it gives the illusion he has a bald spot...but no signs of gray. They enter, and face the front, and I almost knock over Trish's computer as I finally see the man's face clearly for the first time.

It's...it's...

The doors close. They're gone. A tear slides down my cheek. I guess this is what I get for trying to catch Lydia picking her nose.

# Chapter 16

MORE TEARS FALL AND MIX with the raspberry cream filling and the milk chocolate truffle shell, as I clean up the mess in front of the elevator with toilet tissue I took from the women's restroom.

This hurts worse than when Doug dumped me. With Doug, I had expected the relationship to end. But with Graham...with Graham, I've been waiting for things to begin. These past few weeks, I've been floating along like a yellow silk parasol buoyed by currents of anticipation. But now I feel like I've collapsed upon myself, and thin parasol spokes are poking me in the chest, in the heart, and in my eyes.

Graham hasn't been popping into my office because he felt the two-button feeling with me or because he was attracted by my MHC genes. I'm the warm-up act before the real show, a warm body to field test reactions to a cute anecdote before whipping over to the Brahmin's office.

I walk to the T-station with my head down, so no one will see the tears streaming down my face. By the time the T doors whoosh open, I've wiped all of my tears away with the sleeve of my jacket and left an unemotional message on Jem's cell, telling her to call off the Blue Man Group skit.

By a dating manual's standards, maybe Graham led me on, but by his standards, I'm sure he was the perfect British gentleman. He did, after all, only kiss me on the cheek. But more than by Graham, I feel betrayed by myself. For getting my hopes up, for imagining my feelings were reciprocated.

Because I should have known that Graham would be with someone like Lydia. Someone who watches French films without subtitles. Someone whose alarm clock trills Mozart at 5:30 AM, who has Sartre and other European philosophers on her night table. All I have on my night table are Harry Potter books, a two-month-old issue of _It! Girl_ , a box of morning breath mints (hardly used), and a growing sac of Canadian quarters.

Of course Graham would be with someone who has never jiggled her size zero butt in front of anyone. Someone who does the _New York Times_ crossword puzzle as her toenails dry unlike me, who uses the newspaper to cover the carpet in case the polish bottle spills. Someone whose follicles don't know the definition of humidity, and who never gets lipstick on her teeth. If I were a lesbian, I'd probably choose Lydia too...

...although she is a complete priss. Graham must suffer from what researchers have dubbed the "what-is-beautiful-is-good" stereotype. But just because Lydia has an immaculate exterior and the efficiency of a Chanel-scented machine, doesn't mean she's automatically good.

A good colleague would share her advice, experience, and knowledge with you—would show you the design she generated for Lautrec's Superlative mascara—instead of snapping, "you'll see it at the meeting." A good colleague would welcome your input, instead of worrying about sharing credit. A good colleague doesn't tell you that the company health plan includes psychiatric consultations, "in case you want treatment for that pesky penis envy problem." A good colleague wouldn't make you go to the drugstore to buy her overnight tampons because she ran out.

As I walk slowly towards my apartment, my feet drag against the pavement. In exactly one week, I'll have to sit through the Lautrec meeting with Lydia, watching her intelligently discuss synergies and ethostical compatibilities. She'll win again, and I'll just settle for my small office and being friend-friends with Graham.

I'm sure I'm going to die alone, my hand attached to my computer mouse. When the paramedics come, one will say, "Oooh, nice quad-speed 64-bit processor." The other will shake the mouse, and the computer monitor will flash to life, revealing I died in the middle of playing Hearts. He'll tsk and shake his head over my slumped body. "She would've won if she had shot for the moon."

I've finally reached the door of my apartment building, and am searching for my keys, when I hear Kirsten calling my name.

I turn around. She's striding towards me, despite the deadweight of a bulging Lulu Guinness.

"Jem called me," she says, slightly out of breath. "I have to go to this banker dinner with Cart. But I wanted to bring you fortifications."

"I'm fine. Really." My voice wobbles slightly, like a bowling pin about to crash down to the polished lane.

She raises her eyebrows. "You want to pass up a box of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars?" I half-smile and hold out my hand. She rummages around in her bag and pulls out two boxes of ice cream.

"What else do you have in there?" I ask.

"Some zinfandel—remnants from last week's office party, and candles I used to decorate the Mayor's office. Atmosphere is crucial at times like these."

"Thank you," I say. Even though my face is still sticky with a mix of salt and synergistically superior mascara, I feel a surge of gratitude to have my very own version of Mary Poppins. But who, instead of velvet, is clad in a Betsey Johnson dress and who wields her remedies from a lavender and emerald paisley print tote, instead of from a carpetbag.

"Call me if you need to," she says and hugs me before scampering back to her car.

When I enter my apartment, I put down everything Kirsten has given me onto the coffee table and rip open the box of ice cream bars. I take a big bite of one bar, almost devouring half of it at once. It gives me freezer burn.

"Tali, is that you?" Jem rushes into our living room. "I'm sorry." She gives me a hug, managing to avoid contact with my ice cream.

"Did you call the Blue Man manager?" I ask, talking around the chunk of coffee almond toffee ice cream bar still in my mouth.

"Left a message." She sits down on the coffee table, next to Kirsten's supplies. "If you look at the silver lining, at least you know you went on a friend-date."

"Very comforting," I say, and polish off the rest of my ice cream bar.

"Graham isn't as splendiferous as you think he is, he's—"

I put my hands out to stop her. "I can't listen to bad things about him. Not yet." I stand up. "And I think I need to be alone right now."

She looks up at me. "You're sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine. I've got the essentials." I grab a box of ice cream bars and scurry to the cover of my room.

I remember one of my psychology textbooks said that for a while, scientists thought that memories were encapsulated within single neural cells, and therefore stimulating a specific neuron would trigger recollection of a complete memory. They've abandoned that theory, opted for one where memories are triggered through domino-like stimulation of a network of neurons, but right now, the single-cell version feels true to me.

One of my neurons has definitely been seared, make that branded, by the image of Lydia resting her chin on Graham's shoulder in such an intimate and proprietary way. I wish I could drench this neuron holding this memory in acetone and then extract it with my tweezers, or at the very least, pop it like a bath bead.

My boyfriendless situation shouldn't be a big deal. I live in Boston, rated as the #1 city for singles by a puff piece that aired on the news two weeks ago. There are plenty more men out there. Men who aren't dating Blahnik Brahmins, who aren't sacrificing themselves for the Sox. Who aren't gay, taken, or crazy.

Plenty of them...whom I just haven't met yet.

What's so great about having a boyfriend anyway? All the time I spend making up silly fantasies about someone who's not my boyfriend or planning dates with a boyfriend or over-analyzing the actions of either, I could use to do something for the greater good. Like helping take care of abandoned animals.

Oooh, I might meet a nice guy at a non-profit. In fact, I think read about this type of ploy in _Suave_ when I was drying my hair in Doug's bathroom. "Volunteering at charities is the best way to find young, kind and vulnerable chicks."

Scratch that plan.

I could strengthen my intellectual fiber instead. I could...I could...I jump off of my bed and discover the untouched _English Patient_ still in its bookstore bag. I turn up Kelly Clarkson's debut CD and start to read. I make it to page 5 before I fall asleep.

# Chapter 17

AT 1:00 AM, I wake up from a horrible visit from the Furies whose cackles continue to boomerang off of my walls and into my head. To escape, I head into the kitchen. I find a freezer devoid of ice cream bars and a small brown parcel on top of the counter.

_This came in the mail today, forgot to give it to you earlier. Don't get all maudlin over Graham. He's just a guy. With bad teeth. Sure of it. Love, Jem_.

The package postmark is from California. Must be a half-birthday present from my mom. As I cut through the tape, I feel a small dart of excitement, a nanoscopic version of the two-button feeling. I remove the layers of bubble wrap to save to pop later, and there they are: my mother's half-birthday presents, individually wrapped in Humane Society paper.

A bottle of aromatherapy salts that a magazine beauty editor recommended this month, but which I didn't buy, because I have the tiniest bathtub in the world.

An ergonomic (i.e. funnily shaped) toothbrush with a large head and a bulge in the handle that's supposed to be a grip specially engineered for your thumb. According to the back of the plastic casing, the toothbrush's design is part of the permanent collection at the National Design Museum at the Smithsonian.

A packet of tissues made from recycled paper and not bleached with the harmful toxin dioxin. Great. I can cry about Graham while protecting myself from cancer-causing chemicals _and_ while saving the environment.

And a bottle of four hundred hemp agrimony vitamins.

Vitamins! Vitamins?!

My heart is aching, (and so is my stomach), and I don't want a bottle of vitamins. What is hemp agrimony anyway?

What I want is a pan of fudgy, double-chocolate brownies with walnuts, or a card with fuzzy bunnies on the front and a gift certificate to LL Bean inside, or my mom's shoulder to cry on, and for her to try to comfort me, in her own way, by saying I'll definitely get Graham in the end because our love is from a past life.

That's what I want. Not an ergonomic toothbrush or hemp agrimony vitamins.

As I grumble to myself, I find a small box nestled at the bottom of mom's package. Inside are a pair of beautiful dangly earrings that I saw once in _It! Girl_ magazine. They are made from gold wire molded to the shape of a Bodhi leaf, which is the type of tree the Buddha sat under when he gained enlightenment. But instead of veins, the leaf has strings of finely wrought gold links.

I smile, touched that mom has managed to find something so perfect, tuck the earrings back into their cotton bedding, and open the fridge, hoping we have something full of refined sugar, trans fat, and partially hydrogenated oils. I find some leftover vodka and a half-full jar of Nutella. Not bad.

Friday night. I turned 25.5 years of age today. I'm alone, alternating straight vodka with spoonfuls of chocolate hazelnut spread, engrossed by the wall of magnets on our fridge.

The squares of wisdom, only $4.99 each, twinkle at me. One of these dead philosophers must have a better solution to my relationship troubles than empty calories.

I put down the Nutella and the vodka, close my eyes, and wave my index finger around, hoping that it's still in the vicinity of the fridge door, and that I'm not going to cut it on something sharp like a set of kitchen knives or on the blades of a can opener, and have to explain to a nurse that I injured myself while blindly seeking guidance from fridge magnets.

Despite all the alcohol and sugar percolating in my system, my fingers make it to the fridge, and there it is, under a layer of smeared Nutella, shining like a Mikimoto pearl:

Be the change you want to see in the world. ~Gandhi

I repeat the words to myself, trying to roll them around in my brain, so that each individual neural cell and pathway is getting The Message.

Be. The. Change. You. Want. To. See. In. The. World. The words slide around my right and left hemispheres and through the corpus collosum that connects them both. By repeating them to myself, over and over and over again like a mantra, surely they will penetrate deep into my subconscious, and I will be saved from dying alone in front of my computer.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

What does that mean?

The change I want to see...is me, in a size zero hand-beaded, custom-tailored Oldfield dress, walking down Newbury Street, holding hands with someone...who is tall and broad-shouldered, has a British accent, and wears London Fog trench coats. Who is more than a friend-friend, and who compares me to an Escher painting.

I want Graham. And I want him completely to myself. I want a monogamous relationship with Graham. The change I want to see, is the soul mate of me.

And how can I be Graham?

"What do you know, Gandhi?" I jab the magnet, hard. "You didn't suffer from this rankly,"—jab, jab, jab—"thing like loneliness, did you?"

"Maybe you could be content, sitting alone, meditating in silence, and," I lick my finger, "you know, take solace in saving India from colonial rule, but, but...I want something else."

I stare at the magnet. Its white writing glows in the dark. "I want someone besides my mom to give me a box of chocolates on Valentine's Day, and then, finish the caramel ones I've accidentally bitten into because I hate caramel. I want someone to watch the foliage change with, someone to argue with over who should be the next James Bond, someone who is unafraid of my morning breath. I want someone who can carry a box of futon parts up four flights of crooked Boston stairs and assemble the futon perfectly without looking at the instructions." I exhale slowly. "I want a boyfriend," I say to the dark kitchen, and to the mouse who I think lives at the back of the cupboard where we store canned goods.

The next day, I wake up at noon, with a sour taste in my mouth and dried Nutella still on my finger. When I remember that we're out of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars, I immediately head for the supermarket.

This Saturday, it's particularly stuffed with young, carefree couples involved in playful debates about whole vs. skim milk for breakfast, tiramisu vs. cheesecake for dessert, medium vs. extra hot salsa for the chips.

Why can't I find someone to debate with over the merits of liquid vs. powder laundry detergent? Why are my MHC genes so repugnant? Why do my relationships always end in failure and ice cream binges?

Why doesn't it ever work out for me? It works out for my sister, for Jem, for Blahnik Brahmins with less heart than the Tin Man, and for all the cutesy couples, right here, in this store.

Over the wire cage of my single-person shopping cart, I glare at a woman reading from her shopping list as her boyfriend reaches for a can of Bar Harbor Clam Chowder from the topmost supermarket shelf. Oblivious to my animosity, they laugh over a private joke.

As I stop in front of a rack of magazines, answers to my questions leap out from the barrage of headlines surrounding each glossy's cover girl. Hungrily, I skim through several pages. They give me a foolproof, step-by-step method to make my eyes pop (no eyeliner required!), six ways to tone my abs (without going to the gym), as well as eleven summer looks guaranteed to turn male heads (without making them think I'm easy).

Plus: twenty-five inexpensive products to tame frizzy hair, the best collar shape to draw attention away from problem spots, and the one thing no man can resist. (It's passion. Not the bedroom variety either, in case you were wondering, but the kind Hermione had to free the house-elves. That kind.)

I work in advertising now. I know how the game works. I shouldn't fall prey to it...but I do. I flip shut the magazine in my hands and envision Graham's expression of silent awe when I strut into the office in an elegant, yet sexy, pencil skirt, carrying a patent leather clutch, my lashes covered in two coats of mascara, and my hair falling to my shoulders in frizz-free waves...

Suddenly, I feel as sparkly as my favorite lip gloss. The words which I jammed into the crevices of my brain last night jump out and swirl through my head like whirling dervishes: "Be the change you wish to see in the world."

Surely this is what Gandhi meant?

Just a little bit?

# Chapter 18

THE ANTOINE LAUTREC REP, Mackenzie Edwards, Mac for short, stands at the head of the mahogany conference table and pages through files when I arrive for our afternoon meeting, whose main agenda concerns Lautrec's Superlative mascara.

Mac is...very New York. She is dressed completely in black. Her eyeglasses, boxy business suit, watch—all black. Her hair too. Her make-up is in all neutral tones. Not one hint of a Monet lily, not one sweep of a Renoir rouge, not one concession to summer.

It's usual for Mac to take the express train from New York to meet Katzenberg employees in Boston, but it's unusual for her to bring a custom-made plum attaché case with silver buckles—her only non-black possession.

Her plum-colored case can only mean one thing. She's handing out free samples today, samples of products which haven't yet hit the market. I feel like an "insider," the way I used to feel when I was a part of the Cheerleading Furies' social circle, the way my college roommate must have felt when she was photographed for _Women's Wear Daily_ as an example of a freshman with style.

Armored in a khaki-colored suit, wedged heel mules, matching peach lipstick, and having gorged myself on back issues of _In Style_ in the archive room instead of eating lunch, I feel like I can handle this meeting. Even if it means working with Lydia, who is seated to Mac's left, flipping through copy cards, and looking like she could be one of Ralph Lauren's muses.

With nothing but the desire to redeem myself for the penis envy fiasco and, more importantly, steal the limelight away from Lydia, I confidently stride towards the empty seat to Mac's right—and knock my elbow into the bookshelves lining the walls.

Rubbing my arm, I sit down. Lydia looks up.

"Talisman." She gestures to her left. "This is Mac." Mac smiles quickly without showing any teeth.

Mac stares at my neck. "What is that?"

"What is what?" I ask, afraid I'm starting to erupt into nervous hives.

"Your necklace. It's so..."

I have a small confession. I wore the butt-nut. Not because Graham gave it to me, because obviously that wouldn't be very sensible, but because I thought I might need a super-sized quantity of good luck.

"Bizarre," Lydia supplies, her nose wrinkled.

If only you knew your boyfriend gave it to me.

I touch it protectively. "It's a Hawaiian kukui nut."

Mac leans forwards and rubs it between her fingers. "Does it have special properties?"

Lydia sniggers. "Like doubling as a gynecological diagnostic tool?"

I flush, remembering our round of word associations. Mac doesn't blink. Told you. Very New York.

"No. It's for good luck," I mumble and sink into the comfort of the leather conference chair.

Mac clears her throat. "I hope it helps our campaign, and speaking of, let's get started." She turns towards Lydia.

"The Blush Fire mock-up looks fantastic. Fordie, the photographer, is continuously booked, so he'll only be able to fly in from South Africa," she flips through her planner, "in four months. I wanted to hire someone else who could've done the shoot earlier, but Antoine doesn't like working with new photographers. It will be worth the wait though."

She sighs with pleasure. "The subversive fire energy, combined with the fairy tale of the Cinderella coach, only, in a postmodern twist, substituted with a sleek Vespa...well we're obviously neurotic about it!"

Neurotic?

I look at Lydia to assess how she's reacting to this comment. Her face glows, and she's making several notations in her Kate Spade organizer. Must be a compliment. I bet she's planning how she's going to spend yet another bonus. Probably on a new luxury sofa for her Beacon Hill apartment, a sofa which is long, without buttons that poke you in the back, and spacious enough for two people to snuggle comfortably on while they watch re-runs of romantic comedy favorites on TBS.

"Lydia-Chlamydia, Lydia-Chlamydia," I sing silently—childishly—as Mac talks about the upcoming photo shoot.

She shuffles through a stack of folders. "Before we go to the Superlative mascara ad campaign..."

Penis envy. Penis envy. Penis envy. The words throb through my head, and I rub my temple in circular motions to ease the tension.

Mac peers at me with one arched eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Office Shiatsu," I say.

She makes an unidentifiable sound and continues. "I'm pleased to announce that Lautrec Cosmetics has decided to launch a new product line for which I hope you can apply the same synergistic energy that I've come to expect from Katzenberg."

Synergistic? Synergistical. Synergistically. Why does everyone use that word? I dislike it more than the words "cellulite," "ESPN," and "no parking allowed."

"By launching this new product line, Antoine hopes to move in a more youthful direction, and expand our market reach. Of course, the products will have the same quality associated with the name Lautrec." Despite sounding like a repetitious, boring public relations statement, two spots of pink suffuse Mac's cheeks.

"Can you tell us more about the target demo?" Lydia asks, in perfect imitation of a teacher's pet.

"It's intended for a woman in her twenties. Right now, she's at the bottom of the corporate ladder, but one day, she'll run the entire company. At night, she's on the prowl, searching for a partner who can match her intelligence and passion. She wants it all, and she'll get it, with a little help from AL: Ambition."

As the last syllable leaves Mac's lips, she opens her plum attaché case, and a waterfall of free samples cascades to the conference table.

There's a compact which contains a circle with two half-moons of complementary red shades. One half-moon is cream blush, the other a matte lipstick...a slim eye shadow case with magnetic squares of pressed powder which can easily be removed to change the color palette...and a bouquet of double-ended wands, one end tipped with metallic eyeliner, the other with smudge-free lip liner.

"There'll be more samples coming after we send off a set to the usual A-Listers," Mac says.

Oh wow. My feet jig underneath the table. These are the types of samples that end up on actresses' eyelids and cheeks as they arrive at the Academy Awards.

I feel like that too, like I'm at the Oscars, standing on my own red carpet...instead of watching the award ceremony on TV with friends, with Cart yelling at us to switch channels during the commercial breaks.

Mac looks dreamily at Lydia and me. "Antoine envisions the Ambition line as the symbol of the multi-tasking, multimodal—"

"—modern woman of the twenty-first century," Lydia and Mac say together.

"We always have excellent synergy," Lydia says and smiles at Mac. She looks at me from the corner of her eyes and takes a sip of her coffee, like a Cheshire cat licking up cream.

STD. STD. STD. I imagine Lydia's immaculate chignon dissolving as it gets nuked by antibiotics. Juvenile, yes, but it feels as good as drawing a protruding chin hair on a copy of her website photo.

"It will be the toy Chihuahua of this company, once the Superlative ad is put to bed," Mac says, her eyes bright.

Chihuahua?

"The baby of this company, Talisman," Lydia says as if this meaning is perfectly obvious. I nod my head like I could decipher Mac's code language all along. I bet Lydia thinks she'll nail the Ambition pitch to Mac and continue getting stellar samples, not to mention a handsome bonus, and maybe even another industry award.

But, I swear on the silk lining of my trouser pockets, I will upstage Lydia today, and in due time, steal the AL: Ambition campaign from her. Eventually, the entire Lautrec account will be mine, even though I'm an unproven junior executive with nary a Clio to my name.

"Onto that topic, what have you come up with?" Mac turns to Lydia, ignoring me, as if I'm not overflowing with bright ideas. Which I'm not, at the moment, but still.

"I wanted to go for something modern that matches the ethos of this technologically advanced mascara."

Lydia-Chlamydia picks up a mock-up resting on the conference chair next to her and turns it so it faces us. Mac adjusts her glasses and examines it. The mock-up is a double-spread version of the potential ad. The right page has a sea of numbers that I recognize from our brainstorming session. I haven't seen the left page before, even though as part of the apprentice system, Lydia is supposed to show me her mock-ups and explain the processes she used to create them.

The left page features a set of nine squares, featuring a single tube of the Superlative mascara alternating with close-ups of a single eye bestowed with thick, luscious lashes. Both the mascara wands and the eyes are drawn in a pop art, Warholic way.

"Extensive market research yields that consumers subliminally respond to the number nine, a powerful, archetypal number." Lydia rapidly points to each of the nine squares. "I thought we wouldn't use models in this ad, since it was such a successful approach in the 'Make an Impression' campaign," she says, probably envisioning her next Clio.

"Furthermore, the nine squares on the left will reify the nine scientifically proven ways," with one finger, she circles the data neatly arranged on the right page, "in which Superlative mascara is superior to the others, creating an overwhelming impulse to buy the product," she finishes, never pausing for breath.

Clammy's so sure and polished, how can I compete with her? She probably spent all month doing research on archetypes and synergy and Andy Warhol. I have nothing, nothing but a butt-nut.

"What do you think, Talisman?" Mac asks.

My heart thuds. This is my big moment, and I don't have a single idea.

"Talisman? What do you think?" Mac repeats. "I'm especially concerned about your opinion since you're a part of the target demo." She glances at a summary lying on the conference table: single, female, with expendable income.

Feeling like a defiant rebel leading a crusade to stop bullying Bridget Jones, I rise from my chair. "Why does everyone assume that I'm a part of the target demo?"

"You are single," Mac asks, "aren't you?"

"Only as of recently."

"I know the rest of the details apply." She grabs the black vinyl box containing samples of the dual-ended wands, tipped with both eye and lip liner. "Do you still want your free samples?"

Chastened, I sit down and tuck the samples on the table into my briefcase, empty except for a legal pad filled with doodles but no notes, pens almost out of ink, the daily planner I always start faithfully at the beginning of each year but usually abandon by January fifteenth, a stash of peppermints, and one can of play dough. In my haste, one of the dual-ended wands rolls off of the table, and I reach down to retrieve it.

Why am I always dropping things? Could this be some weird stress response caused by too many New Year's Eves without midnight kisses?

"Now tell me," Mac says as I pop back up, having located the wand. "What's your gut reaction?"

I clear my throat. "There are a lot of numbers," I say, trying to buy time.

Mac's face doesn't change. Lydia titters.

"That would be the point, Talisman," Lydia says. "To communicate the interpersonal message that the Superlative mascara is, as its name implies, statistically better than the others. In fact, the best. You did study stats at college, didn't you?"

I clutch my butt-nut. She has the guy. The least I can have is the professional edge. "Yes, I did study statistics in college." No need to mention I barely passed. "I understand these numbers as an executive, but I don't respond to them as a consumer. As a woman." I shrug my shoulders. "Something's missing."

Lydia shoots me a look. "You're not feeling inadequate again, are you?" My face flushes as I think of Lydia discussing me with Graham, of her pitying me.

"Oh Graham," she'll say, "that new girl you've become friends with, don't get too close. She'll probably be fired by the end of the month." Then she'll lower her voice and whisper, "Too many Freudian hang-ups."

Suddenly, an idea comes to me. I can sublimate my shame and embarrassment and transcend Lydia's remarks. This must be what Freud felt when he "discovered" the unconscious.

"Talisman...?" Lydia says.

I turn to her. "You know, I'm glad you said that."

She blinks rapidly. "You are?"

I turn to Mac. "Lydia is referring to a minor embarrassing incident that occurred during our brainstorming sessions. We were applying word association techniques, and when she said mascara—"

"Talisman said penis envy." Lydia snickers. Mac's mouth puckers, but she does not laugh.

"It's a long story." I rise up out of my chair. "Freud got some things wrong, some things right. Where would mankind—and advertising—be without the idea of the unconscious? I may not agree with his theory of penis envy, but I do know that most people can identify with feelings of inadequacy."

I clasp my hands behind my back, to prevent me from fiddling with my rings. "Look, I may not be..." I pause, trying to remember the name of one of the philosophers on our kitchen fridge magnets from my drunken night of staring at them, "...Camus, or anything—"

"The 's' is silent. It's pronounced 'Kamew,'" Lydia interrupts.

I glare at her. "Okay, so I haven't read 'Kamew' of the silent 's,' but I know that this," with two fingers, I pick up her mock-up by one corner, "is missing something—the emotional correlate to a statistically superior mascara."

"And what would that be?" Lydia asks.

I look her in the eyes, although my stomach feels like those small spheres of nail polish preservative are pinging around inside. "Jealousy."

After a pause, I direct my words to Mac. "You should add a headline above the nine squares. Use white block letters, all caps. Maybe even a few streaks of black at the corner of a letter, the result—"

"—of a Superlative mascara wand!" Mac says.

"Exactly," I say, buzzed from my burst of inspiration and our first moment of synergy. "The headline would read: it makes the others feel inadequate." I move my hands to accompany the words. Thoughtfully, Mac taps her chin.

"At the bottom," I sweep my fingers against the lower edge of Lydia's mock-up, "you can even add drawings of other mascara tubes. They're rejected and limp, tossed aside."

"Like Dali dripping clocks?" Mac asks, eyes wide. She rubs her hands together. "But the pocket watch is replaced with a pink mascara tube with a green top." She winks.

"Sure," I say, thinking this ad will look intriguing even though I'm not fond of art museums.

Lydia sniffs. "Are you envisioning a war between pop art and surrealism?"

"I don't know about that," I say. "But with these simple additions, the Superlative ad taps into an _emotional_ archetype that transcends numbers and research." I look at Lydia. The spheres of nail polish preservative increase their velocity. "We all want to be part of the group that's envied, not the one who's envious."

Unwittingly, I clutch my butt-nut. "My slogan is effective because it inspires our target demo to believe that everyone else is inadequate, compared to the girl with the Superlative mascara. Women will instinctively respond to this message before they even discover all the reasons for its scientific superiority."

My voice belongs in a pulpit, and my face is flushed, but this time, with excitement. I cross my fingers behind my back. "If you want, I can refer you to the appropriate articles in the _Journal of Personal and Social Psychology_."

God, I love that. I sound so professional.

I'm also lying.

I'm sure somewhere there's a research paper that empirically supports the idea that people lust after what they can't have, or that feelings of jealousy lead to imitation and adulation, I just don't know in which journal the article can be found.

Mac faces me with a furrowed brow. "I think..."

"Yes?" I say, barely realizing that I'm tugging hard on my butt-nut. The cord comes undone, and as the necklace slips, I clench onto the good luck charm with my right hand.

"...I think I'm rabid about it!" she finishes.

"But not like Old Yeller?" I ask, retying the velvet cord.

She laughs. "The New York office would love you."

I glance at Lydia. Her face is paler than usual and she looks like she's just been asked if her breasts are real or fake.

A glow of pleasure thrills through me. I only half pay attention to what Mac says next. I can't help but feel that if Mac chooses me over Lydia, now and for the Ambition make-up campaign, then maybe Graham will too.

Magical thinking. I know.

# Chapter 19

AS WE RISE TO LEAVE Jem's favorite dive bar, my stomach feels as unstable as the wobbly barstool I've just vacated. Must be that last Flying Monkey. I didn't expect that being in Graham's physical presence, and knowing that he's dating Lydia, to be so disconcerting. But earlier, when he wished me a happy half-birthday, his voice was so bright and warm that my heart started beating rapidly, the way my eyes blink as they adjust to the sun after being cooped up in the florescence of my small office.

My already rapid heartbeat accelerates when I watch him interact with my friends. Right now, he and Cart are ten steps ahead of the rest of us and are praising the virtues of Guinness and free market economics. Earlier, Jem and he debated about who was the best Chili Peppers guitarist. Although she was determined to dislike him for my sake, she was won over by his love of the Cure and Fiction Plane, a British band fronted by Sting's son.

I've just agreed to take Graham to Toscanini's to sample their Guinness ice cream with the whole gang, when we reach the Charles Playhouse, home to Blue Man Group.

The show is as amazing as I remember. I love when the Blue Men acted like Jedi knights, and the stage was completely dark except for their dueling strings of blue light. And when the beats of pulsating drums were accompanied by explosions of paint...although I'm glad we aren't in the Poncho section. Otherwise my tube top would be ruined. But there are some parts of the show I don't remember very clearly. I tried to focus, but I kept looking at Graham's profile from the corner of my eye, and re-running our encounters over and over in my head, as if they're recorded on a skipping CD.

I stop peeking at Graham's profile and concentrate on the stage. The last song is about to begin. The beat starts, the PVC pipes throb. A female voice comes from the shadows. I look at my program and decipher the letters in the darkness.

Venus Hum. Haven't heard of her. Interesting name.

A dim spotlight illuminates her body. Her face looks a lot like Lisa Loeb's, one of Jem's favorite artists (and a Brown alum, Ris whispers to August), but the singer's dress seems oddly shaped. Stiff, and hanging from her body like a hoop skirt.

"I feel Loooooooove," she belts out over the throbbing beat. The stiff-looking dress lights up. Layers and layers of light. Bands of blue, purple, yellow, pink. An electric rainbow, shining on and off, in sync with the beat of the music.

All on fire, all in love.

My stomach clenches. That's it.

That's how I feel with Graham, all lit up inside, like my stomach is abuzz with fireflies.

Correction.

That's how I felt with him, when I thought he could be mine.

But now it's gone. My stomach feels dark and empty, and my throat feels tight and prickly...while Ris is resting her head on the nook underneath August's clavicle bone. Looking so casually in love, and in matching J Crew green cable knit summer sweaters too.

Why can't I have a shoulder nook? When is it my turn? When will I stop being invited to Bridget Jones's Singleton parties—complete with blue soup—ironically hosted by smug couples? When will I stop looking at _Pretty Woman_ like I'm a death row inmate and it's my last supper?

No wonder I'm not in a monogamous relationship. I'm jealous of my own sister, who got me my job and who gave me a gift certificate to Amazon for my half-birthday. Mom would say that I'm accumulating bad relationship karma. I am going to squish my id, squish it between the Playhouse seats.

The song ends, the lights go up, and while everyone else is applauding and demanding an encore, I sit disoriented, with my hands clenched in disappointed fists.

An hour after the second encore, my friends and I are all scattered backstage. Cart, Kirsten, and I have just been introduced to Jon B. His face is all blue, every inch, except for his teeth and eyes, which are bloodshot. Sweat drips down his forehead, but it looks like tears.

I'm just about to ask Jon B if the blue paint he has to wear is specially formulated for the group, when I spot another Blue Man motioning to Jon.

This Blue Man is carrying a red rose. And something spriggy is in his pant pocket.

Uh-oh. Does he think...? No. He can't. But he's scanning the room, probably looking for Graham.

Didn't he get the TPS report?

From across the room, Jem gestures wildly to the rose-carrying Blue Man, and makes "game over" signs with her hands. He doesn't seem to understand because he continues to barrel towards Jon. Jem grabs the Blue Man's arm and whispers something in his ear. He stares at me with wide eyes and gives Jem the rose.

I exhale. He finally got the message. But what did Jem tell him?

I stare at Jon again, trying to decipher if, underneath the layers of blue—three shades brighter than my turquoise tube top, six shades brighter than my Lautrec Starry Night Sapphire eyeliner, and nine shades brighter than the peacock feather earrings dangling from my lobes—his face is attractive.

"You're so blue," I finally say over the rim of my glass.

Kirsten, Ris, August, and Jon give me odd glances while Cart looks meaningfully at my martini glass that is overflowing with my third Blue Raspberry cocktail of the evening.

Jon opens his mouth, closes it, then says, "My girlfriend calls me Mr. Violet Beauregarde when she gets angry." His voice sounds like it needs an oil check.

I chuckle at his girlfriend's sense of humor. _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_ was one of my favorite books. I bet it's one of Graham's too.

I scan the room, looking for him. He's with Jem at the moment. Both are filling plastic cups with scoops of frozen blueberries.

"I'm used to the paint, but after the silence of the show, I'm surprised by my own voice," Jon says before Cart takes the brief pause which follows as an invitation to discuss workout routines. The discussion only ends when Kirsten, fed up, drags Cart away. Ris and August follow them.

Jon B turns to me. "What happened to the skit? Why is it off?" He crosses his arms. "I had to find the mistletoe. Do you know how hard it is to find mistletoe in June?"

I shrug. "I found out the guy in question had a girlfriend."

"Sorry."

I poke Jon in the chest. "Doesn't he know about the three-conversation rule?"

"The what?"

"The three-conversation rule." He looks at me blankly. I sigh. "When a guy meets a girl, let's say at a party or work or something, and there's a slight possibility she might have a crush on him, which basically means in all cases, the guy is supposed mention something that indicates he's in a serious relationship with someone else—by their third conversation."

Jon shakes his head. "I don't think men know about this rule."

"You followed the rule." I stare at his teeth. They appear werewolf yellow because of the blue paint surrounding them. "It was the first thing I heard you say. For the _entire_ evening. You followed the rule and you didn't even know about it. Or so you claim."

In response, Jon rubs the space between his eyebrows.

"If you think about it, Graham broke the three-conversation rule, right?" I ask and clutch the sleeves of Jon's black muscle t-shirt. "Maybe Graham is secretly harboring feelings for me, and is trying to figure out what to do...where I stand."

Jon disentangles my fingers from his shirt. "You know I'm paid to be silent."

I look up at him with wide eyes. "He compared me to an Escher painting. _An Escher painting_." I pause to let that sink into Jon's subconscious. "But he never mentioned Lydia. Not once."

"I've had a really long night—"

"And we've had more than three conversations...real conversations, not just introductory, _King and I_ getting to know you conversations." I take a step backwards. "Our friend-date just by itself is the equivalent of three conversations." I wave my hands around. "Plenty of opportunities...he's talked about his friends, family. I know the names of all of his siblings...and the secret ingredient to his walnut date coffee cake...but not one mention of the Brahmin."

My voice gains volume, and rises above the chatting, laughing crowd, who seem as carefree as debutantes in the Roaring Twenties. "Obviously he's not happy in the relationship...maybe it's even on the decline. Maybe—"

"Why do I always meet the Looney Tunes?" Jon mutters to himself.

"I'm not a Looney Tune," I say, once more scanning the crowd for Graham. He's chatting to the Blue Man who procured the rose intended for me.

I'm just a fool...a fool with a low thread count.

Jon leans down and kisses me on the cheek. "I'm just going...to get you another drink," he whispers, and scurries off into the crowd.

Two minutes later, Jem arrives at my side with a cup overflowing with frozen blueberries. "No more martinis for you. What did you say to Jon B?"

"I just asked him about the three-conversation rule," I say defensively, and munch on the blueberries. "What did you say to the Blue Man with the rose?"

"That you decided to be a temporary lesbian."

I stare at her. "He's British!"

Her forehead creases. "No, he's from Kentucky."

"Not the Blue Man, but Graham. He's British."

"How does that explain anything besides his accent?"

I hand her the now empty cup of blueberries. "David Beckham."

"What does Becks have to do with it?"

"Cart may've been onto something. Graham's not fruity, he's a metrosexual. Sort of," I say, thinking of his pressed clothing and well-trimmed nails. He wouldn't be afraid of exfoliation or even a bout with a fango mud masque.

"He's well groomed." She shrugs. "He knows something about fashion."

I cross my arms over my chest and turn my head to the side, so that I resemble one of the Roman busts in Ris's old textbooks. "He definitely knows about the three-conversation rule." I abandon my pose and punctuate my words with my fist. "He knows he should've said something. But he didn't... because he's figuring out how he feels about me."

"You are hopelessly optimistic."

"The key to a healthier life." She gives me a look. "It's true. I'll show you Peterson and Seligman's longitudinal study later."

Her mouth crinkles. "Okay. You have a point." She nods her head. "Graham is British."

Yes! She sees the truth of my incisive analysis.

"Maybe they do things differently across the Atlantic. Maybe it's thirteen conversations, not three. Maybe they divulge relationship status only after knowing someone longer than a month."

My face falls, but she continues relentlessly. "Furthermore, maybe you just don't mention you have a girlfriend. Like Mr. Rochester in _Jane Eyre_. Ever since he pulled that trick, that approach to girlfriends has become part of the British male psyche."

"I thought psychoanalysis was my territory, not yours. And anyway, Mr. Rochester didn't mention he had a mad wife in the attic. That's completely different."

Jem shrugs her shoulders. "I'm just saying that Graham probably has his reasons..." she takes a yogic breath, "...and they don't involve harboring secret feelings for you."

I can feel my facial muscles tightening into a frown.

"You should be thinking about the Lautrec ad, not Graham. Don't you remember how I was ready to sacrifice my DJ job and follow Raj to the West Coast?"

I nod. How could I forget? After he dumped her, she listened to Roxette's "It Must've Been Love" on loop every day for six months. Six months. I'm a Roxette fan too...but six months!

She continues, her voice like brittle bark. "One guy doesn't deserve so much hope, so much investment of your energies. Don't be a cliché and pine for a guy who's chosen someone else."

She sighs and shrugs the memory of Raj away. "Let's go mingle." She takes my arm and drags me into the mix of Blue Men and audience members.

The Blue Man who once held the rose is now patting Graham on the back. Manly consolation. For what? For dating a woman with the body of _Sixteen Candles_ ' Caroline Mulford?

Of course Graham is happy in his relationship with Lydia. Why would he choose honey and his mother's garden when he can have Chanel No. 5?

"You're right." I squeeze Jem's arm. "I should just move on."

When I get home, I wash my face three times with soap and make-up remover to erase the blue kiss marks from my cheek, but I can't eliminate the blue paint completely. I look in the mirror, smiling wide, hoping that this time the facial feedback hypothesis will work.

My pores are huge. My eyebrows need tweezing. My nose is not quite symmetrical.

I recently turned 25.5 years old. I'm single. Alone. Seeking guidance from magnets and magazines. Jealous of my own sister. And I can't get this damn kiss from a Blue Man off of my cheek.

I sigh. Jem is right. I should be thinking about how to nail the Lautrec campaign for the AL: Ambition product line instead of how I could have been with Graham.

Just last week, I was ten minutes late to a staff meeting because I indulged in an elaborate fantasy in which I had rewritten my relationship with Graham. With wit and confidence, I made him forget perfect hair, perfect nails, and the perfect bra size. In my daydream, I was an enchanting Meg Ryan character, chatting about butterflies buying hats at Bloomingdale's, although in reality, I'm the girl who says, "I carried the watermelon."

I still can't believe I said that out loud when I first met Graham. I've replayed that conversation in my head hundreds of times, assigning it a new ending each time. I'm tired of living in this alternate reality, rewriting the past and present. I want my time—and my mind—back.

But once I fall for someone, even after I find out that for whatever reason, it's not going to happen, I cling to the idea of "us." Almost as if the tendency to indulge in useless romantic daydreams is wired into my DNA.

Why can't I think of something else...substitute romance with platonics...that's it!

An idea slowly forms, and I begin tweezing.

# Chapter 20

"ARE YOU WATCHING _Pretty Woman_ again?" Jem's heels click against our hardwood floors like the tapping of keyboard keys. "This is what, your twentieth? Thirtieth time?" she yells from her bedroom.

"It's muted, just on for background," I call from the floor in front of the TV. "And it's only my twenty-seventh time."

This assessment is not exactly true. Eighty-five would be more accurate. But I once did the math, and that averages out to about six times a year. Just six! So I don't think eighty-five times is that extraordinary. I just pop _Pretty Woman_ into the DVD player, whenever I feel like my romantic life is in turmoil.

Even though the movie has been stigmatized as useless fluff, I think it serves a valuable psychological function by being Prozac for the lonely. Only it's far superior, because it doesn't have the odd side effects like tremors and nausea.

Besides, Jem is one to talk. She's seen Michael Jackson's _Thriller_ video at least a hundred times. At least.

Jem picks up a purple sticky note from the floor. "What are all of these notes for?" She kneels beside me. "Are these butterfly clamps? And is this a...a...spreadsheet?"

"I'm moving on, like you said."

"With a spreadsheet?" She changes into a cross-legged position and leans, wide-armed, against our futon. "What are you doing?"

I twist to face her and smile. "I'm beginning a BMP."

"A what?"

"A Behavior Modification Project."

She wrinkles her nose. "I veto this plan."

"You don't even know the details. Besides, you're the one who inspired my brilliant idea." I cradle an old psychology textbook I dug up from underneath my bed.

"Trained psychotherapists use this structured technique all the time. To cure phobias, sexual deviancies," I turn the page, "sometimes even depression and schizophrenia."

"And you're using it for...?"

I tap my pen against the floor. "To rebound a lonely heart."

Jem stares at my face for a few seconds. "Don't you think it might be a little absurd to use this kind of technique on—"

"Do you know how many people suffer from depression?" I interrupt.

She sighs. "Alright, give me the stat."

"About 9.5% of the population. And you wanna know about schizophrenia?"

She nods in resignation.

"Less than 1.5%."

"Where are you going with this?"

"What percent of the US population in a given year do you think has suffered from a broken heart?"

She sighs again. "So what does your BMP entail?"

And I tell her.

Talisman Turner's Behavior Modification Plan Outline:

1) Operationalize, or specifically define, the target behavior you want to change.

Operationalizing my target behavior is tricky since it's not a concrete one like eating an entire box of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars, but instead is a pattern of destructive thought—engaging in romantic fantasies which spiral out of control, especially when my mental power should be focused on something else. Like work.

For now, my working definition of my target behavior is to stop fantasizing about romance. No imagining holding Graham's hand, kissing his lips, gazing into his blue-gray eyes, wrapping my arm around his waist, cuddling on the sofa. Basically, no thinking about us being together in a relationship, because that only leads to hopes crushed underneath Lydia's four-inch stilettos.

2) Self-monitor your target behavior to determine its baseline frequency and/or duration. Additionally, pay careful attention to the maintaining antecedents, or the environmental cues which trigger the behavior.

To that end, I will record my internal thought track using Benji's microcassette recorder...where did I put it?

Second, I will listen to my microcassette recordings and will write down a brief description of each romantic fantasy as well as when and where it occurred to analyze environmental cues. Hmmm. For my self-monitoring journal, I can buy that new diary I saw at the bookstore, the one covered in royal blue silk and sequins...or maybe a Kate Spade organizer, like Lydia's?

For two weeks, I will dutifully tally the total number of romantic fantasies into a spreadsheet to monitor the daily number I engage in. This amount will provide baseline comparison to understand the effects of my modification techniques.

Although my textbook says I should analyze the maintaining consequences of my target behavior as well as its maintaining antecedents, I won't because I can already find the answer in my closet. Obviously, I indulge in hopeless romantic fantasies because otherwise I'd suffer from the equally ridiculous anxiety that I am going to die alone, suffocated by a closet full of unworn dresses.

3) Choose a modification technique best suited for the behavior you wish to change. It is recommended that you use a multitrack approach and combine two or more appropriate techniques. There are many to choose from, ranging from response-prevention to modeling, and both can be used in conjunction with contingent reinforcers.

My behavior modification project will be comprised of many complementary approaches. Through the process of reactivity, the act of recording down my target behavior which I've operationalized, should decrease its frequency. I will also write out a self-contract as a sign of my commitment to this project.

The cornerstone of my attack on romantic fantasies will be the kickass combo of substitution and positive reinforcement. When I notice I'm engaging in a romantic fantasy, I will stop myself and will substitute these idle, useless daydreams with thoughts of my positive reinforcer, the incentive that will motivate me to change my behavior. Repeating this act of substitution on a regular basis will hopefully train my brain not to indulge in Graham-centered romantic fantasies at all.

Obtaining my reinforcer will be entirely contingent on decreasing my number of daily romantic fantasies. To that end, I will implement a token system, and will reward myself with one token, worth nine dollars, for each day that I have two or fewer romantic thoughts of Graham. (Zero thoughts would be too unrealistic. I don't want to set myself up for failure and discouragement. Besides, I think my heart can handle two measly fantasies per day without becoming negatively affected.)

I acknowledge that nine dollars is a large amount to use as a symbolic reinforcer, but such a high value increases its potency. Also, with the new job at Katzenberg, I can sort of afford it—especially if I stop buying ice cream bars in bulk and buying new dresses which I don't have anywhere to wear.

The token economy technique seems simple, but is in fact startling effective. Even schizophrenic patients increased adaptive behaviors with the incentive of a token economy, based on reinforcers consisting of candies, cigarettes, personal radios or biscuits. If a token economy can help treat schizophrenia, surely it has the power to prevent me from becoming a lonely daydreaming lunatic who gets into irrational arguments with Blue Men and who also indulges in wedding fantasies without a fiancé, let alone a boyfriend.

I will keep track of the tokens I've earned in the aforementioned spreadsheet, awarding myself with one sticker for every day I have two or fewer romantic fantasies. When I accumulate enough tokens, I will buy a wickedly indulgent positive reinforcer, not a diamond on my right hand, but something expensive I've always wanted but never could spring the money for. To remind me of my end goal, I will rescue the stash of sticky notes gathering dust in my office, scribble encouraging messages as well as draw pictures of my positive reinforcer onto them, and then attach them to strategic locations in my office and bedroom, thereby positively changing my environmental cues.

I think employing a token system to achieve my positive reinforcer will be a highly successful method, much better than adopting the Premack principle where any behavior you're more likely to perform can be used to reinforce a behavior you're less likely to perform, and was once used to decrease the level of rude behaviors exhibited by senior citizens by restricting access to their favorite chairs.

In response to my behavior modification project, Jem arches one eyebrow. "Tali, I know you. Once you get attached to someone, you could look at something as quotidian as a paper clip and still spin a romantic fantasy about it."

"If Doug can give up monogamy, hook-ups, and me," my throat briefly tightens, "for the Red Sox, then _I_ can do this. Besides I've also chosen a pretty good incentive."

Something almost as good as romance.

"The latest touch-screen tablet?"

"Something better." I collect my reminder sticky notes into a neat pile and try to locate an impulse buy which has suddenly become extremely useful. Where are they?

Swhisp. Swhisp. Swhisp.

"What's that sound?" Jem asks.

I turn towards the TV. _Pretty Woman_ is frozen, right at the part where Vivian is in the Beverly Hills Wiltshire elevator with Edward, about to tell him, "If I forget to tell you later...I had a really good time tonight."

I knew it. I knew the DVD got scratched at my favorite part. I find my impulse purchases and toss them to Jem.

She flicks through them. "These are stickers."

"Not just any stickers," I say and remove the scratched DVD from the player. I'll have to buy another copy.

"Okay. Stickers full of pulchritude—beauty. Especially the black high heels, but I still don't—"

"They're to help me keep track of my progress." I resume my cross-legged position on the floor. "One sticker for every nine dollars I earn...going towards my own pair of Manolo Blahniks!" I pierce the air with my pen like it's Lady Liberty's torch.

Jem blinks at me. "Which ones?"

"3.5 inches. Pointed toe. Black satin. Thin-soled heel. V-shaped vamp. And ankle straps." It took me two hours on the Neiman Marcus website to choose, but in the end those were my favorites.

She furrows her brow. "That's what...four hundred dollars?"

"Give or take."

"Four hundred divided by nine...forty-four days. That's about six weeks, plus the self-monitoring period and the days when you don't earn a token."

"Once I begin my project, those days will be very few in number," I say confidently. "Jem, this has worked on schizophrenia. Schizophrenia. It's only a matter of time before I get my new pair of heels." I carefully fold my spreadsheet so it will fit under the front flap of my new self-monitoring notebook.

Jem tosses a microcassette tape into the air. "I don't know how to say this, but..."

I look up. "You think I should get a pair of Louboutins instead?"

"They do show off toe cleavage very well, and the red sole is so sexy," I nod in assent, "but that's not what I was going to say." She flips open the microcassette tape slot of the palm-sized recorder and closes it. "You don't think that all of this effort is," she flips the tape slot again as she searches for the right words, "a little...melodramatic? You haven't known the Brit that long. You haven't even kissed him. Or slept with him for that matter."

"Things are different with Graham. It's hard to explain."

"Try me."

I pick up _Pretty Woman_ 's DVD case. Julia is smiling her world-famous grin, pulling Richard Gere along for the ride by his tie. "It's like I found the fairy tale, the happy ending—"

"Urban myth, propagated by renting too many eighties movies. John Hughes has a lot to answer for in my opinion."

I ignore her and continue. "I found someone who thinks my flaws are endearing, like you said, someone who thinks I have wholesome, not halfsome charm."

In response, she snorts.

"And if there was a special Michelin guide to girlfriends, he'd give me—"

"You still haven't gotten over that?"

"Five stars I can understand...but three!"

She holds out her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright."

"There's another reason." I take a deep breath. "I think I've," I pause, "imprinted onto Graham."

She squints at me. "What do you mean?"

"Like one of Lorenz's geese. He did this experiment, with these baby goslings, and when they hatched, the very first thing they saw was him, and they followed him around for the rest of their lives."

"You want to follow Graham around like that? Like a co-dependent? The idea of a soul mate is just societal brainwashing—"

"Not like that." I shake my head. "I'm still a woman of the new millennium." I glance down at the floor. How do I describe how I feel about Graham? "I think I could be with him for a long time because I'd always be discovering new things about him. He's constantly surprising me—"

"—with news of his secret girlfriend—"

"—so I'd want to follow him around, to see what mysteries I could unravel, to see if they would ever stop. With him, I don't think they would."

She gives me a look. "You think your BMP can tackle all that?"

"It's worth a whirl," I say, thinking of unwrapping my new pair of heels from their tissue paper.

Even though Jem seems skeptical, I go to bed feeling confident about my project. Visions of myself in my heels dance in my head like sugarplums. Two weeks of self-monitoring and approximately eight weeks of modification techniques, and they'll be mine for sure.

I can see myself now, the new Blahnik Brahmin of the Katzenberg office, (having practiced and mastered the art of walking in 3.5-inch heels). Mac will be so impressed, certifiably insane about my idea...and Graham will take one look at me shimmying into the office...and...oh right. Those have to stop. Substitute with heels.

Graham's face disappears and is replaced by the image of me hiking up my skirt and nimbly climbing to the top of a sterling silver corporate ladder, my satin black heels and Swarovski studded bangles shining in the sun. There, that's better. My BMP is already working!

Psychologists suggest incorporating a contingency plan into a behavior modification project, in case you relapse, but I don't think I'll need one. A huge problem area—Valentine's Day—has already passed. I think once I start focusing, I can exert enough self-control over my imagination.

I peer at my wall. With the faint moonlight streaming through the window, I can make out the first sentence of my self-contract. "I, Talisman Turner, am willing to change my behaviors as necessary to reach the goal I have chosen..."

I stop reading, distracted by the opalescent glitter and bright beaded dragonfly stickers I used to decorate my behavior modification contract. This modification project is not only going to be easy, it's also going to be fun!

# Chapter 21

I POUND MY ALARM clock's off button to stop the blaring boy band music and blink at the time. 8:00 AM. On a Saturday. Why so early? I rub the sleep out of my eyes. Why would I...?

Sticky notes dotted with shoe stickers are scattered around my room. Some have fallen from my vanity mirror to the floor. Benji's microcassette recorder leans against the lamp on my night table, along with _The English Patient_.

Oh right. Today is my first day of self-monitoring. Two weeks of that, plus two months of modification until I'll be able to call myself the proud owner of my very own Blahniks.

Two weeks and two months till a brand new, romantic-free me.

At 10:26 AM, I review all my morning thoughts which I carefully recorded onto microcassette, enter them into my notebook, and tally the total number of romantic fantasies in my specially designed spreadsheet. It's only my first day. I shouldn't get upset if the number is a little higher than I...

I've finished counting.

I haven't even eaten lunch yet, not even two and a half hours of being awake, and I've already had thirty-seven fantasies of Graham.

Thirty-seven! Thirty-seven! And barely any thoughts of my Manolo Blahniks, my coastal mother, my friend-friends, my impending meeting with Mac. How can that be?

I review my notebook to see what environmental cues triggered this ridiculously high number. I'll just have to change these cues, and then my brain won't go into romantic overdrive.

I had a romantic fantasy while brushing my teeth with the toothbrush mom gave me, the one whose design is part of the permanent collection at the Smithsonian? That was a cue? I can't change that cue. I have to continue brushing my teeth.

Although I could investigate cleaning my teeth with a piece of cinnamon bark, the same tool villagers use in rural India. But the cinnamon would remind me of Bollywood films...which would remind me of how Graham likes them too. Never mind.

I consult my notebook again. I had a fantasy when I was rinsing oatmeal almond soap out of my eyes? That was quite a good one actually. I had transformed into a leggy, fresh-faced Neutrogena television model, while Graham told passers-by that I was his greatest regret.

Surely the fantasy I had while eating breakfast is understandable. Who wouldn't imagine they're wearing terry cloth robes and eating blueberry and pecan waffles freshly made by their British boyfriend, when they are clothed instead in unglamorous single gal pajamas gobbling cereal straight from the box?

Maybe I have some kind of disorder, the result of watching too many romantic comedies and listening to too many '80s power ballads. There are all sorts of neurological disorders, some of them more peculiar than mine. For example, there was this man suffering from a visual agnosia, and he mistook his wife for a hat. And there's a memory disorder called anterograde amnesia where you can remember the past but not the present.

Aaagh! My BMP can't handle a rarely known neurological disorder. I throw the recorder onto my bed. This project is a hot mess.

My environment is engineered against me. I'm doomed to pine after a man who's probably right now snuggled up to a Blahnik Brahmin, on her new boyfriend-friendly luxury sofa.

I'll die alone, my hands stuck to the pages of glossy magazines, and when the paramedics come, one of them, probably the younger one, will gently remove my stiff fingers and riffle through the pages. He'll tell the older one, who's standing to the side and fiddling with my eyelash curlers, "Just reading it for the articles." They'll both go home, each convinced they have learned the secret to their wives.

I spend the rest of the afternoon generating—and then discarding—ideas to pitch to Mac for the AL: Ambition make-up campaign. Engrossed in thoughts of work, I didn't think about Graham at all (okay, very rarely), so I decided to reinstate the BMP. By the time Jem and I started eating raw cookie dough while watching _Sleepless in Seattle_ on TBS, I had managed to decrease my thoughts of Graham to twenty-two. If you take the average of my morning and afternoon thoughts of Graham, it comes to 29.5.

29.5.

Not so bad. Quite an improvement. I bet by tomorrow, my total will be down to fifteen.

I must be on a yellow brick road towards Neiman Marcus, because when Graham calls at precisely 6:17 PM, my heart continues to beat normally when I hear his voice and does not accelerate the way it did at the Blue Man Group show.

"I was thinking about going to the Gardner museum tomorrow," he says. "Want to come?"

Want to come? Want to come?

Shouldn't he be visiting museums and eating Sunday brunch with Lydia? I crush the thought like a soda can. I'm not concerned about Lydia. I'm over Graham. Plus, I'm not supposed to know they're dating.

But the museum? On a weekend?

"Talisman? Are you still there?"

"Of course."

"You paused for a fairly long time. Museums not your cup of tea?"

"No, I love them," I say, hoping my tone conveys complete cultural awareness.

"Don't lie," he says, and I can tell he's smiling. At the thought of his dimples in full effect, my knees buckle. Glaring down at them, I order them to toughen up.

"It's not what you're thinking," he continues. "From what I've heard, the Gardner's different than your average museum, though I think the Tate Modern and the Musée D'Orsay are fairly spectacular."

"Sure," I say.

Spectacular? The museum? Ewww, so boring, so dry, so platonic...so perfect.

Even though I'll be in Graham's physical presence, which of course, is the strongest environmental cue to prompt an out-of-control romantic fantasy, my behavior modification project cannot fail me.

How can I get my useless romantic hopes up at a place as boring and dry as the museum? Though in middle school, when we'd go to the RISD Museum for field trips, Shelby used to make out with her boyfriend, Cyril, behind the painted coffin containing an Egyptian priest of fertility.

Nevertheless, I have no fear. 3.5-inch, ankle-strap Blahniks will be mine for sure.

# Chapter 22

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I arrive at the museum café, wearing casual, definitely friend-date clothing consisting of a mustard-colored blouse with a pointy collar and baggy cargo pants. Although it was tempting to don one of my unworn price-tag-still-on-it date dresses (and my periwinkle poplin from J Crew would look so nice at a museum), I thought choosing such a dress would undermine my plan.

Visitors mill about the loosely clustered tables of the museum's café, and their chatter creates a pleasant hum. Through the crowd, I finally spot Graham. When he sees me, he waves from his table, which has a view of the museum's courtyard. A plate of cookies and fruit graces the table's center.

His skin looks tanner than the last time I saw him, and he's wearing a lightly faded emerald knit polo. He looks so crisp, so regatta-friendly, my stomach flips inside out in a decidedly non-platonic manner, and I imagine us picnicking at an old Italian villa like the one George Clooney owns in the Lake Como District. Everyone's wearing silk—even the men—and we argue about the Italian wine hierarchy while nibbling on biscotti and sipping cappuccinos. As I realize my slip, I groan inwardly. But I can't help generating these miniature fantasies.

It's instinct.

I sit down at the table, and make a tally mark on a floral print paper napkin. 1:23 PM: one romantic fantasy already, and Graham hasn't even said a word.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I quickly cover up my napkin. "Testing my pen. In case I get any creative ideas for an advertising campaign."

"Very dedicated of you." He smiles. I gaze outside, at the marble statues peeking from amongst the courtyard flora. An image of us relaxing at the Boston Public Garden, next to McCloskey's tiny duckling statues, comes to my mind. Through sheer effort of will I transform the ducklings into black satin heels, before scribbling a second tally mark onto my napkin.

"You've got this funny look on your face," Graham says.

"I do?"

"You were," he leans back and studies my expression, "thinking about a secret."

I flush. My heartbeat is in my ears. "No. No secrets."

"Then what were you thinking about?"

I stare at the snacks on the table. "Stealing a bite of one of your cookies," I improvise.

He pushes his plate towards me. "You can have whatever you want. But," his voice drops to a whisper, "only if you tell me one of your secrets."

"Don't have any."

"No secrets skulking in your closet?" He waves a strawberry around. For a split second, I picture him dipping the fruit into dark chocolate and then feeding it to me. Okay, honestly, that fantasy lasted a little more than a split second. Silently, I chastise myself and dutifully make yet another notation on my napkin, before directing my attention back to him.

"That can't be true," he continues. "Women have an endless army of secrets. Whenever I'm watching football, they're sharing secrets. And," he leans forward, so I'm inches away from the dimple in his left cheek, "I promise to share one of mine."

This offer is beyond tempting.

It would also be the perfect way to confess how I really feel about him, that I want more than platonic conversations, friend-dates, and shared lunches. I want it all: flirty emails, intimate caresses, long dinners with even longer kisses.

I want a relationship.

I glance at my napkin, now semi-crushed by my attempts to hide it from Graham's gaze, and question the efficacy of my BMP. It has been—much like my psychology degree—utterly useless today. I turn to the side as someone brushes against our table. I can only see the woman's back. Her black hair is bunned loosely, and her chunky torso is barely contained by her maroon jacket.

And she smells of Chanel No. 5.

No. I can't tell Graham the truth. There's no point, not with Lydia in the picture. I have to tell him something else. What other secrets can I confess?

Not that I wish August would dump my sister for a girl named April.

Not that I forwarded Doug's mail to Derek Jeter.

Not that I asked Nathan from Design to use Photoshop to add a chin hair to Lydia's official company photo, and then bribed Eric from Public Relations to upload the altered photograph to the Katzenberg website.

And certainly not that a hack psychiatrist once diagnosed me with penis envy when he saw the rarely-used mascara tube I had swiped from my mother and had dubbed, "my fairy wand."

However, I have other secrets...secrets I wouldn't ordinarily reveal to Graham. But he's no longer my romantic prospect. He's just a friend. A friend-friend. So it will be okay to confess them.

"Agreed," I finally say. "But you have to pinkie swear not to tell anyone."

"Naturally." He holds out his hand. I lock my pinkie with his and shake it up and down. One...two...

If this were a romantic-comedy, I'd lean over and kiss him right now, as we are joined together only by our pinkies. But this isn't a movie, and I'm supposed to squash thoughts like that.

...three.

As we shake our pinkies for the third time, I feel it, slight at first, but definitely shimmering between us.

The two-button feeling.

I know I'm embarking on a structured and scientific plan to stop wanting more from Graham than what I can have, but maybe if I'm bright, witty, and sparkling enough, maybe if I make myself like a glass of champagne, he'll change his mind and choose me.

But this is the last time I try, I promise.

I release Graham's pinkie, etch a few more tally marks on my self-monitoring napkin—tick, tick, tick—and take a deep breath.

"I still haven't paid parking tickets from college," I begin. "I lied about my weight on my driver's license."

Graham chuckles. "As did I."

"I was the one who broke the paper shredder last week."

"That was you? Benji mentioned the incident last Tuesday at the courts," Graham says after I look at him with undisguised curiosity. His dimples deepen. "Your office is certainly dangerous territory."

"You have no idea." I smile back. But my smile quickly fades, because the chunky-torsoed lady has strolled past us again, and Chanel No. 5 lingers in her wake.

"Are you okay?" Graham asks. "You seem to have gotten distracted."

"Uhm, just thought I saw this lady carrying a handbag I saw in _It! Girl_ magazine. That's all."

"I see." Great. He probably thinks I'm really flaky, and that I don't belong in a museum.

"And for the final secret," I thump my handbag onto the table, "I will give you a clue to my inner psyche."

With a furrowed brow, Graham first peers at me and then at my accessory.

"I will show you one item from my handbag."

He tentatively pokes my bag, which is bulging with necessities and faded dreams. "Just one?"

"That's sufficient." I unzip its main compartment and pull out the item that will show my personality to its best advantage—my daily planner—and discreetly peel off the black heel sticker that has somehow become stuck to its cover, before proffering it to Graham. "From this one item, you should be able to tell reams about my personality. It's true. Read it in a magazine. So," I lean back in my café chair, "what does this object say about me?"

Graham squints at the planner, as I wait for his compliments. "You are unorganized, tardy to most of your appointments, but...optimistic."

"Tardy? Unorganized? I'm as organized as the...as the Queen!"

He returns the planner back to me. "Fine."

I bite my lip. "How could you tell?"

"Your planner has the look of my sister—that's Cadence, not Camellia's—oven. Never been used." He offers me a half of a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. "Am I correct?"

"Perhaps," I say and give my best Sphinx grin.

"Fair is fair." Graham reaches into his back pocket. "Now, I will show you one item from my wallet." He flips open his chocolate brown wallet and removes a folded piece of paper.

Page xiv from the preface to _A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius_.

Dave Egger's drawing of a stapler.

"What does that say about me?" Graham asks.

I trace the creases running down the center of the folded paperback page.

That you're like white twill cotton blankets...low-waist pinstripe pants...warm apple cider on a winter's day... _Gilmore Girls_ , seasons one through seven.

Perfect for me.

After refolding page xiv, I press my fingers to my chin in fake contemplation. "The stapler, coupled with the many hours spent with your tennis racket...I'd conclude you have froward libido," I say gleefully.

"Froward libido?"

"Do you prefer the term shunted?"

"Thwarted, at the very least."

Graham's mouth puckers, and he bites his lip, but two seconds later, despite his efforts, suppressed laughter erupts. "Why do you keep the drawing, anyway?" I ask, barely choking out the words through my own fit of giggles.

"I like to look at it when I'm sad," he says. "Somehow it cheers me up. Not that I've needed it recently."

As I gaze into Graham's eyes, the two-button feeling intensifies. Like Eliza Bennett and Fitzwilliam Darcy, we are so meant to be. His face suddenly straightens into seriousness. Did he feel what I felt too? He tilts his body towards me, and his hand accidentally (or on purpose?) touches mine as he reaches for his glass of water. My skin prickles. The sensation mellows into a slow-burning warmth.

"It's hard for me to ask this, but..." he takes a sip of water.

My hopes rise ever so slightly. With the enthusiasm of a Weasley twin, I quash them quickly with an imaginary bludger, and my stomach feels sick.

Freshman year of high school, in health class, we had to watch a movie about a girl who had developed anorexia. When she went to a fancy restaurant with her father, while he was talking, she focused on the pieces of grilled chicken he was bringing to his mouth. That's all we could see on the screen: his mouth, chin, fork, and chicken.

Am I similar? Through my BMP, am I starving myself of something essential for my health? Are romantic fantasies as necessary for my well-being as amino acids?

"I didn't want to say this before," Graham presses on, "but now we've gotten closer."

Screw the BMP. I don't need it, not when Graham is about to tell me that he's been falling for me, just like I've been falling for him. My stomach buzzes; Venus Hum pounds through my blood. I knew I was right about the three-conversation rule. Our gazes lock; my heart somersaults.

I was sparkly enough! He's realized we're evolutionarily destined to be together.

"I'm fascinated—"

—by me, by me!—

"—by your curlers. Could I see them again?"

The buzz in my stomach abruptly transforms into a sharp sting. I thought Graham wanted me, but all he wanted was a second look at my eyelash curlers.

Unlike the girl in the anorexia video, I'm definitely not starving myself of anything but nettles of disappointment and long bouts of over-analysis that would drive even Freud into hysteria.

From here on out, I'm going to interpret all of Graham's words and actions in a purely platonic light. Because I get it now: we are evolutionarily destined to be nothing but friends.

"I'll let you examine them, but only if you let me curl your lashes," I say after a pause. He makes a face of horror, and I cheer up a fraction. With a few more weeks of implementing my behavior modification project, I will be able to enjoy this easy friendship, and not want anything more from him.

"Concession granted," he says. "But just one eye."

"Right or left?"

"Right. No. Left. Definitely left." I extract my Shu Uemura curlers from my purse and snap them at Graham. "Afraid the big, bad curlers are going to blow your house down?"

His face pales. "Nerves of titanium."

"If you're not ready, I can—"

"No." He swallows. "Let's get on with it."

Curlers clutched in my right hand, I lean across the table and cup his chin with my left. "I promise this will hurt me more than you," I say, open the curlers, and clamp them down on his eyelashes.

After a few seconds, he replaces my fingers with his, so he's holding the curlers in place. My skin prickles again, but this time, I know it's because of the heat of the café, not because of his touch. When I'm sure he has a firm grip on the curlers, I slowly sit back down in my chair and study his face. He'd actually look sexy, curlers and all, if he didn't look so pained.

Upon my instruction, he removes the curlers from his lashes. Still holding the instrument close to his left eye, he asks, "How do I look?"

"Boy George couldn't compare."

We smile at each other. His smile is shy; mine wistful.

Déjà-vu sweeps through me. Maybe we really did share a past life connection?

No. My déjà-vu isn't due to love in another life; I'm just remembering the way I felt when he told me my lashes were better than Boy George's the day we first met in the office elevator a month ago.

I discreetly make another tick on my self-monitoring napkin as a battle rages in my head. A slender, sophisticated version of myself, clad in sateen khakis and a pink cowl neck—all from Banana Republic—yells at me.

_Tell him! Tell him how you feel_. She smooths down her pants. _Ask him out, it's easy. The hard part is over—you're already friends. Remember_ Tootsie?

_Dustin Hoffman in drag? Ewww!_ shouts a plumper version of myself in an imitation Chanel power suit from Old Navy. _Don't make a fool of yourself_. She pulls the cowl neck over Miss Banana Republic's face, muffling Banana's protests. _Graham's out of your league. Out of your matching attractivity—not to mention intellectual capacity and financial wherewithal_.

_Don't listen to her_! Miss Republic manages to break free from Old Navy, and her head pops out from the cowl neck. _All you have to do_ —

Before she can finish her speech, Graham nudges the plate of cookies closer to me, and my battling fashionistas fade away. After we finish the remaining cookies and fruit, we explore the different exhibition rooms of the museum. Graham is right. The Gardner is really cool. Browsing the galleries doesn't feel like visiting a typical museum, but instead like visiting the home of an extravagantly wealthy great-aunt with impeccable taste. The works of art—ranging from drawings, ceramics, illuminated manuscripts, and antique furniture from all over the world—is grouped together in perfect harmony, even if many years separate their dates of completion. For example, above Titian's famous _Europa_ hangs a piece of green silk from one of Isabella Gardner's very own Charles Frederick Worth gowns. Not exactly the combination I was expecting.

Most of the artwork isn't even labeled, so I don't feel pressured to emit cultural orgasms on-demand and then feel insecure and deficient because I can't truly appreciate the significance of Renaissance masterpieces like every other museum guest.

Right now Graham and I are in the Blue Room standing in front of a painting of a dark-haired woman on a train. The passengers next to her are slumped and weary, but she...she's dreaming, maybe about the contents of the hatbox she's clutching to her lap. About the ball she's going to wear the hat to. About the men she's going to dance with. I swear I can feel the coils of emotion springing from her parted lips.

" _The Omnibus_ by Anders Zorn," Graham says. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"The woman reminds me of myself," I say softly. Graham gives me an undecipherable look and swivels towards the room's entrance. We amble into the corridor, my arm resting in the crook of his, the friendly way I sometimes walk with Cart or Jem. We turn left and enter the Spanish Cloister, our shoes squeaking against its azure-tiled floor.

He relinquishes my arm, his attention drawn not to the giant gold-framed painting of a dancing gypsy hanging underneath a tiara-shaped arch which dominates the Cloisters, but instead to a small gold tile filled with dark blue Arabic script.

"This tile is part of a _mihrab_ ," he says. "A niche in a wall which marks the direction towards Mecca. Two other tiles are at the V&A in London. I'll have to show you one day."

Exhibiting some self-restraint, I don't launch into a romantic fantasy after hearing his open invitation to visit him in England, but I can't prevent the currents of joy which eddy through me faster than the dancing gypsy in the portrait behind us.

"I didn't tell you one of my secrets," Graham says, sweeping aside a tuft of hair which covers his forehead. "At least one worthy of a pinkie swear." His expression is serious, but I'm not falling for that again. He's probably going to ask me about his shunted libido, and how playing tennis factored into my diagnosis, and then he'll make a round of Freud jokes, and I'll—

"I've been...I've been...secretly dating Lydia ever since I've been in the States."

# Chapter 23

THE WORDS HANG BETWEEN US, dripping like fatty adipose tissue. The effect of hearing the three-conversation rule finally manifest itself slams through my body, as if Graham had physically pushed me into the wall of brightly colored tiles at my back.

I shouldn't be so affected. I already know about Graham's relationship with Lydia. But my autonomic nervous system doesn't seem to realize I shouldn't care because my heart rate skyrockets.

"Dating...Lydia-Chlamydia..." I say stupidly. My hands fly to my mouth. Oh my god. Did I just...?

"Did you just call my girlfriend a sexually transmitted disease?"

Unable to meet his eye, I wave my hands dismissively. "That's considered a compliment in some circles."

"None with which I'm familiar."

"Why all the secrecy?" I ask, grabbing the chance to change the topic.

But what I'm really asking is why didn't he follow the three-conversation rule, tell me earlier about his relationship with Lydia, and prevent me from getting my silly heart's hopes up?

"You know already Benji is my godfather, correct?" I nod.

He looks down at his shoes. "Lydia doesn't want anyone to know at work. She thinks it will ruin her professional image."

I almost snort. Lydia-Chlamydia could sleep with Monica Lewinsky and the entire Smurf Colony, and that wouldn't ruin her professional image.

"I know it seems particular," Graham says. "But she sometimes gets these odd notions. One time at uni—"

Hope, brought to the surface by Graham's comment about visiting the Victoria and Albert Museum, withers, as if subjected to dry ice. "You knew each other _before_?"

"She did a study abroad term at Cambridge when I was there, and we had a brief fling then." My heart thuds. "We met at the boat race between Cambridge and Oxford. Heard of it?"

"No."

"It's fairly famous. Imagine my surprise when years later, I decide to come to the States, and I discover she's working for my godfather, the very man who invited me over?" He laughs, and shakes his head in disbelief.

Yeah. Imagine that.

The coincidence seems like fate destined Lydia to be in a relationship with Graham more than my MHC immunological compatibility ever did. I'm so relieved I didn't listen to Miss Banana Republic when I was swapping secrets with Graham at the Gardner café.

I take a deep breath. "Why are you telling me all of this, if she wants to keep things a secret?"

He stares at my face intently and doesn't say anything for a long time. I avoid his gaze and unsuccessfully try to imagine his loafers morphing into my black BMP Blahniks.

"I thought you should know," he says eventually.

"Thanks. I think." I look quickly at my watch and make what I hope is a convincing surprised gasp. "I'm supposed to meet Jem in fifteen minutes, I have to go."

"But Tali—"

"You enjoy the rest of the museum," I say, give him an awkward hug, and rush towards the set of stairs which will take me out of the Spanish Cloister.

I wobble out of the Gardner as if I've developed the same sea legs I grew on my first high-speed ferry ride to Newport and blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the sunlight. I stride forward, not caring where I'm going, my gaze focused on the shoes and paws that trot past.

I realize now that somewhere, deep inside the neural crevices of my brain, (probably the limbic system), I secretly anticipated that I wouldn't really have to follow through with my behavior modification project. That ultimately, Graham would say, "I choose you, not Lydia."

Foolish, foolish me.

Their relationship isn't on the decline; it's in a renewal stage. A renewal stage. It's like a bloody O'Keefe orchid blooming in the New Mexico desert. They've even dated before!

They met at a famous regatta, not in a humdrum office elevator. On the banks of the River Thames, Graham became mesmerized by this sophisticated American exchange student in a navy striped blouse, a white silk scarf knotted at her neck. When he took her to a local pub for a pint, all his mates were in awe of him for scoring a girl with the body of Caroline Mulford.

_I thought you should know_. Graham must have sensed that I have feelings for him and broke his vow of secrecy to save me from embarrassing myself by confessing them to him, forcing him to brush me off, oh so delicately.

He doesn't have to worry anymore. I am going to shut the door firmly (this time, I promise) on thinking about him as a romantic interest and think of him purely in a platonic, we-are-filling-in-IRS-forms-together, kind of way.

Do friends even complete IRS forms together?

* * *

After an iced chai, one of Stacey's bean burritos, and a long round of window-shopping, I feel much better. I settle down on a bench at the Public Garden to review the thoughts I've vented into my microcassette recorder. With the exception of the Gardner, where I made tally marks on a napkin, I still adhered to the rules of self-monitoring and recorded my thought-track onto the tiny cassette.

The grand totals after three hours at the Gardner and two hours of lumbering around Boston:

Amount of money spent (admit one only): $11:34

Number of proposals: two. One from a decent-looking guy, as part of some kind of actor's improvisational exercise, and the other from a frisky twelve-year-old who wanted a date for the junior high dance. Because I was talking to myself, the kid concluded I was slightly unbalanced, and therefore the odds I'd accept his proposal would be higher. Which brings me to the next total:

Number of times confused for a crazy person, reporter, or supporting character from _Dawson's Creek_ : 14.

Number of times I thought of Graham in a romantic way: 4 (post-Gardner only).

Once, to tell the actor—when, in keeping with his "character," he pressed the issue—I couldn't accept his offer because I had a boyfriend. Graham's name just popped out.

Once while window-shopping, when a girl wearing a Britney Spears t-shirt accidentally jabbed me in the stomach. Britney equals Britain, which equals Graham: a very logical sequence of thoughts.

Once, when I saw one of those Heffalump-shaped boxes that say not to put mail into them even though, save for their color (gray instead of blue), they look exactly like a public US postal box. I can't say why I thought of Graham, but I did dutifully note every thought down.

Finally, here at the Garden, on my way to this bench, when I saw a couple riding a Swan Boat, the guy's arm definitely around his girlfriend's shoulders.

I sigh and continue to work through the calculations.

Number of times thought of Graham in morning (6) + number of times thought of Graham at the Gardner (7) and after the Gardner (4) = 17.

My head wiggles back in surprise. That's not so bad. The city, maybe even Graham's confession...I'm semi-cured.

True, the reactivity effect worked even more dramatically and rapidly than I had expected, but the results are undeniable. If you think about it, launching into only seven fantasies while in Graham's physical presence—the most powerful maintaining antecedent—is a miraculous improvement.

In the span of one weekend, I've gone from thirty-seven romantic fantasies in one morning to only fantasizing seventeen times about Graham during most of the day.

I don't think I need to continue self-monitoring. I'm ready to implement the modification techniques of the plan...and start accruing my stickers.

The sooner I begin, the sooner I get my Blahniks. As if in corroboration, a bird pecks near my feet. A Canadian goose. I look up.

The yellow flowers on the weeping willow are gone, but this is the same bench, the same bench where Doug dumped me. Although I'm in the same physical spot and have the same relationship status—Single Once Again!—I feel different.

This time, I'm not going to lose myself in a cycle of ice cream bars and _Sex_. Instead, I'm going to design an advertisement for the AL: Ambition make-up line which Mac will be neurotic over, and I'm going to deliver my pitch in my new Manolo Blahniks.

As for Graham and me, we're going to be friend-friends. That's it. Maybe I can even visit him in England. He'll give me a tour of the V&A, pointing out the blue and gold tiles, sisters to the one we saw in the Spanish Cloister of the Gardner. Afterwards, I'll sample London's finest flourless chocolate cake at Petit Four with a new boyfriend, a cute German backpacker, on my arm—and my new BMP heels on my feet.

Forty minutes later, in anticipation of my success, Jem meets me at the shoe department of Neiman Marcus. In the calf-high mirror, she examines her feet, encased in Louboutin peep toe heels. I'm also wearing my heels, but I'm examining my feet from the safety of a plush peach chair.

A thrill swirls through me as soft light reflects off of the satin. My feet look small, delicate, like the feet of a fairy princess. My ankle is arched 3.5 inches above the ground. Even though I'm sitting down, wearing baggy cargo pants, I feel sexy, radiant, as if all of my insecurities have buried themselves within the tissue paper of the shoebox, the reverse of Pandora's.

When you open it, instead of releasing the evils of the world, the box absorbs them—only emitting hope from its cardboard walls.

And Pandora's secret will be mine in about eight weeks. My BMP is brilliant!

# Chapter 24

"MY LIVING ROOM CARPET was hand-woven," Lydia's chest swells, "by an Iranian woman using a traditional loom..." Once again, I tune out Lydia and examine her Swarovski crystal figurine collection. Only forty-nine today. I wonder what happened to one of the baby tortoises; there's normally two.

Over the past two months, we've been having a series of afternoon meetings where she is supposed to educate me about creative brainstorming and fine-tuning a pitch. Most of the time she either brags about her Beacon Hill two-bedroom—like she's doing now—or she leaves me and goes into the conference room to take a private call on her cell. Graham, I'm assuming.

If I hadn't had my behavior modification project, these afternoons would have been unbearable. Every time she'd blink, I would've felt hurt all over again, wishing to be in her Chanel-scented skin. Instead of focusing on work, I'd be analyzing her words and gestures, searching for minute clues as to the status of her relationship with Graham, since through silent pact, I never bring it up with either of them.

But instead of following that track to torment and dissatisfaction, wondering, "why you and not me?" every time she demonstrates public speaking tips that are savvier than imagining an audience in their underwear, I've been recording the few tips she's dispensed. "Slightly point a pen at the person you're talking to...stand with your feet seven inches apart, toes turned out slightly...do not fiddle with your rings or play with your hair..."

I'm going to need all of these public speaking tips when I surprise Lydia with my own pitch to Mac. I can see my ad now in magazines, at T-stops, on billboards...

I can't believe out of all people, I have my mom to thank for my brilliant account-stealing idea which will give me a chance to show Mac that I am indeed the most superlative of them all. I was clearing out my desk, basically throwing myself a pity party, and wishing I had a lifestyle to match the ideal AL: Ambition customer, when I stumbled upon one of mom's most successful greeting cards: Tiffany blue cardstock with the famous Emily Dickinson quote, "Hope is a many-feathered thing," inscribed in small gold rhinestones on the front. All of a sudden, a bold sassy ad campaign perfect for AL: Ambition came to my mind.

"Presentation is a key ingredient to a successful pitch, but of course,"—Lydia zips up the chocolate brown portfolio containing her AL: Ambition mock-up which she staunchly refuses to show me even though we're supposed to be playing for the same team—"you have to be presenting a printworthy idea."

I suppress a giggle, thinking of her reaction when Mac declares herself to be obsessive-compulsive about _my_ concept and request I become the senior executive on the Lautrec account.

"Are you okay, Talisman?" Lydia turns to me. "Your face looks pinched."

I iron out my expression. "I'm fine. It could be the Chinese food I had for lunch. The sodium does weird things to my skin."

She collects research notes and puts them into her Louis Vuitton brief case. "I just wanted..." she pauses, and clicks a butterfly clamp several times, "...to thank you."

What could Lydia possibly be grateful to me for? For listening to her boring speeches? For complimenting her Swarovski figurines? For highlighting the sheaves of focus group test results Mac FedEx'd to us a month ago? For picking up her prescriptions from the pharmacy when I was supposed to be on a coffee break?

"For what exactly?" I ask, after a pause.

"Graham told me you know we're dating," she says, staring me.

My heart clenches. She knows that Graham and I have become friends, but this is the first time she's broken our never-been-voiced pact and said his name in my presence. Despite envisioning my heels, I feel faintly chill, as if menthol mist has been injected into my veins.

I wasn't prepared for her to talk about Graham. It's one thing to look at Lydia and think about her dating him, but it's something entirely different to listen to her talk about their relationship. I don't want those details.

My BMP can't handle those details.

I twist my lips. "Yes...well..." I trail off. I feel like I'm in a dentist's chair, and he's asking me a question about summer vacation, only his fingers and instruments are jammed in my mouth, so I can't speak.

"I appreciate you not saying anything to anyone at work." She sighs. "It's complicated."

You haven't seen my BMP spreadsheet.

"At first I was upset that he told you." She taps her pen against her desk. "But now I can ask you to cover for me, if I needed to take an extended lunch."

Each word is a kohl pencil jabbing me in the eye.

"Sure," I say, even though she didn't phrase her request as a question. Please let this stop, I pray, as more menthol works its way through my bloodstream.

"I've been so busy," she gives a martyred sigh, "I haven't gotten to spend as much time with Graham as I would have liked. Sometimes I feel..." She picks up one of her figurines, this one in the shape of a baby swan, and holds it to the light. "...guilty. Yes, guilty, since he hasn't been to Boston before, at least not as an adult, and he keeps on extending his vacation, just to be with me."

My heart thuds like I'm at home watching a thriller on TV at midnight with the lights off instead of sitting in Lydia's brightly lit, crystal filled, award-studded office.

She puts down the swan figurine and looks up at me. "I'm so glad you've been showing him around when I've been too busy—like the day you two went to the Gardner. I was supposed to go, but I couldn't make it, and then," she snaps her briefcase shut, "he called you."

She didn't say it, but I know what she's thinking.

I'm just a substitute. Someone for Graham to have some friendly, low-key fun with when Lydia is unavailable, like when she's skiing at Klosters with Antoine Lautrec himself. I'm the stand-in, the friend who gets his time, but only when his lover is away.

His second choice. The person picked last in gym class.

As I leave the office and walk towards the T, I wish I could blame my tears on the stinging fall wind. But it's only August. Too early for that. I re-run Lydia's words through my head, and each one has turned into a whole bouquet of eye- and heart- stabbing kohl pencils.

"Next stop Harvard Square," the announcer calls.

What? How did I get on the red line? My mind must be discombobulated after my conversation with Lydia. Since I'm in the neighborhood, I might as well get a treat from Tosci's, which everyone knows has the world's best ice cream. I certainly deserve some after being cooped up with Lydia for most of this August afternoon.

When I leave the store, a cone of burnt caramel ice cream in hand, I feel better as the cold sweetness works its way down my throat. I pause by the Au Bon Pain café. Its awning shines like a daffodil, and the sun glints off of the patio chairs.

"Young lady, you look like you need a chess lesson." I swivel my head to the left. A man with a white moustache and navy sweater motions to me. He's standing by a small table. A laminated sign hangs from the side: Chess Lessons, $2.

Why not? I've been meaning to strengthen my intellectual fiber, and I'll need something to do while I pass away the time before I die, alone.

Still eating my ice cream, I sit down at the plastic table, the chessboard between us.

He holds out his hand. "Name's Walter."

I shake it without dropping my cone. "Talisman."

He raises his eyebrows at me. "That's your real name?" I nod. "Mom must have done some drugs," he mutters.

"Organic weed. Trimesters one and two."

His face creases like a worn dollar bill. "You're a bit of a spit-fire, aren't you?" he asks. I shrug.

"Your young man must be real proud to catch a girl like you," he continues.

"Haven't got a young man. I'm single," I say with the last lick of ice cream in my mouth.

He plays with one of the pawn chess pieces. "Most women who come by here and learn chess are single. They stop coming once they find a man, or sometimes..." he trails off. "You're not one of those newfangled women, are you? A lesbian?"

"Excuse me?" My voice is as sharp as Jem's silver peep toe Louboutins.

His arms flap out, bent at the elbows. "Forget about it. I shouldn't have asked." First Jem. Now this chess wizard, Walter. What about me signals lesbian?

"Aren't you going to teach me how to play chess?" I ask.

He grins. His teeth are in surprisingly good condition. "Sure." He holds up a piece with a crown at the top. "This is the king, and this here," he picks up a similar looking piece, "is the queen." He stares at the pieces in his hand. "Sometimes I just don't understand it..."

"The rules of chess?"

"...young girls. Let's see, how many colleges do you have here in this city? BU, BC, Brandeis, Emerson, U Mass, Berkelee..." With each academic institution, Walter thumps chess pieces—his and mine—down onto the board, forming a complex pattern that would've tripped up Bobby Fisher. "Harvard, MIT, Wellesley's not co-ed, Tufts—"

"I know Boston colleges," I say through gritted teeth. "You don't have to list them Walter. Really."

"But then you see my point." He waves his hand around, now clutching the white king. "Such a high density of men who stick around after graduation, so high that beer companies begin rounds of taste testing in Boston. Why didn't you bag one of them?"

"I'm focusing on my career. I'm single by choice," I say and knock over the chess pieces closest to me. They scatter and roll, some right off of the table. But I manage to catch my queen one-handed before she can fall to the ground.

"Uh-huh," Walter says, re-arranging the fallen chess pieces. After a few seconds, he looks down at the board. He shows me a piece that has a deep groove at its top. "This here is the bishop, and that one, the one with _The Godfather_ horse's head, is the knight. That's my favorite. It moves around in an L-shape—"

"I don't think I have to explain myself, Walter," I interrupt, "but..."

I tell him everything. Everything. Starting with my middle school unrequited love, dipping into my saga with Doug, and ending with Graham and the behavior modification project.

"You don't think I'm crazy do you?" I ask, when I've finished.

"Well, this looks a bit like a Trekkie teleporter," he squints at my microcassette recorder, "but besides that," he smiles, "I think you're a pretty normal dame, with lovely eyelashes."

"Thanks. It's Superlative mascara by Antoine Lautrec," I say as if he's part of the beauty company's target demo. Validation from a man for whom I hold no romantic, sexual, or familial love towards (believe me), must have upset the neurochemical balance in my brain, because I promptly give Walter all the cash in my wallet.

He stuffs the notes and change into the back pocket of his trousers. "I know it's really none of my business—"

"I think we've gone beyond that point."

"—but I wouldn't give up on the idea of romance with that young man entirely." He moistens his lips with water. "That's how I lost my money."

"On a woman?"

"No. On the Sox. Bet it all on them, year after year. Thinking that maybe—"

"This will be the year, I know, I know." Why do I always run into the die-hards? Didn't Walter listen to the way Doug dumped me? "And how are our situations the same thing?"

He looks up. His red-rimmed eyes burn intensely. "You've had some relationship difficulties, I admit, gotten some bruises from a team who knows where to hit and how to hit hard. I should mention I was quite the heartbreaker in my youth," he wiggles his eyebrows, "but you shouldn't give up."

"If I open your bag," he nods at my corduroy handbag, embroidered with red foxes, "you probably have seven different pots of lip goo, all in the same color, but you still keep on buying."

"That's not true," I say, and unbuckle the clasp of my bag. I riffle through its contents, ignoring a crushed Blue Man Group ticket stub, and my unused daily planner which Graham used to analyze my personality.

Instead, I concentrate on my collection of lipsticks. My Pink Lemonade gloss is completely different from my Cotton Candy glaze, and the Luscious Lychee lip stain is ten times sheerer than both of them. "What's your point?"

"What you find when you open up a jar of lip goo, when you try on dresses that are too expensive, or when you think about a prospective partner...is what I find in the Sox."

He leans forward. "You have spring runway shows, I have a new spring line-up, but the feeling's the same. And then there's the biggie." He grips my arm. "The World Series Commissioner's Trophy." His voice has the same tone Jem has when she talks about the time she ate sushi with Chris Cornell. "The way I feel when I think about that...well..." He lets go of my arm. My skin has reddened from the pressure, and I watch as it returns to its normal color. "...I wouldn't give that up for all the Porsches or Manolo gee-gads in the world."

I look at him silently.

"Not expecting all this philosophy from an old timer in front of a café, were you? Should've gone slow, I guess. I used to read a lot of the greats. Kant, Mill, Jon Stewart, Camus."

He pronounces it Kamew.

He heaves a battered canvas bag onto his lap. "Here, have a cookie."

"I just had ice cream."

"Take it for the road." He hands me a cookie wrapped in plastic. Molasses-flavored. No preservatives. No hydrogenated oils. The healthy kind.

I grab it, pocket it into my handbag, and scoot back my chair. It squeals against the cement.

I rise and shake his hand. "Thank you, Walter."

"If you want to eat the cookie now, with some Manishevitz," he tilts his head to the left, "Marty, table number four, he has a little stock." He winks. "Strictly non-alcoholic, religious stuff."

I smile. "I'll pass." I exit the patio area and wave to Walter from the sidewalk. When I take the T back home, I reflect on what he's said, my bag of seven lip glosses—which are definitely not the same color—cradled in my lap.

# Chapter 25

SIX DAYS LATER, I conclude that Walter can't possibly be right. Following the guidelines of my behavior modification project, I've switched one of environmental cues—my desktop wallpaper photo of Colin Firth as Fitzwilliam Darcy—which initiate too many romantic fantasies to a photo of my black satin Manolo Blahniks. When I look at the sassy stiletto, I don't miss Darcy at all. Not the tiniest bit. If Walter were right, then I would hanker to see Darcy's dimples again.

I'm only five stickers, five days away from calling the Blahniks my own. I'm sure the personnel at the Neiman Marcus shoe department will be as gratified as I when I buy them. I've telephoned them every day these past three weeks to make sure my size is still in stock. After the first week, I tried using various accents to disguise that it was me calling, but their savvy salespeople saw through my ploy.

"What are you staring at so intensely?" Graham asks, poking his nose into my office doorway.

I look up guiltily from my computer. I cannot tell him that I'm looking at a pair of heels, which are a reward for applying scientific principles to stop thinking about him in a romantic way.

"Uhm. You caught me. Colin Firth."

Beaming, he sits down. "You fancy Brits, then?"

Now see, this type of comment would normally make me feel frustrated and angry at the unfairness of life, especially with respect to my romantic luck, but the new behaviorally-modified me can joke back.

"Only ones with good teeth," I say. Graham laughs appreciatively. "Thanks for the e-card by the way."

I smile, glad he liked the _Kal Ho Naa Ho_ e-card I sent him. He starts telling me about opening it at café, and how people stared at him when Shah Rukh erupted into an adaptation of Roy Orbison's "Pretty Woman," complete with new Hindi lyrics and bhangra beats. I laugh at the right places, but I'm not really paying attention.

I'm thinking about how my behavior modification project has saved me from overanalyzing Graham's words and actions, searching for clues for how "he really feels about me." How it's saved me from experiencing tugs in my stomach when I hear him mention Lydia's name. From angrily shouting in my head, "Why can't you see that we're supposed to be together?" From waiting around, waiting for him to call me, to confess he made a big mistake.

But I haven't suffered any of that. Not an iota. I'm enjoying our friendship instead of rewriting it. Everything has been perfectly aboveboard and platonic between us. I'm really proud of myself.

If a dispassionate observer monitored our conversation, he wouldn't be able to guess (even with tell-tale body language or physiological signs) that I once had an overwhelming attraction towards Graham.

My mornings of spinning romantic fantasies over an ergonomic toothbrush are over. I've been far more efficient with my time, designing the invitations for La Galleria Bianca's grand opening, scouring up-and-comers for prospective clients to add to the Katzenberg roster, hitting up the elliptical machines with Jem, and of course, perfecting my Ambition pitch for Mac—only twenty-four hours away. My behavior modification project has been wonderfully effective, dramatically reducing my romantic thoughts from the baseline. It's like something you'd see in an infomercial.

Ladies, are you tired of pining for Mr Unattainable? Do you want to stop asking yourself "What's wrong with me?" and "Why am I perpetually single?" as you devour a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream?

The answer to your frustration is finally here!

In just eight short weeks, you can transform yourself from a moping, perennially dateless Singleton into a productive, empowered woman of the new millennium.

It only requires four simple steps: Operationalize, Self-Monitor, Substitute, and Reward.

To learn more, call us now at 1-800-BMP-SOLN!

We'll even toss in a pair of penny-cutting scissors as a free gift!

But you have to act fast. Once again, that number is 1-800-BMP-SOLN!

I can see myself on the television screen, winking at the camera, cheesy grin in place as I attach a black velvet stiletto sticker—enlarged for effect—onto a giant BMP spreadsheet. After I say, "It worked for me, it can work for you!" the camera will zoom out, until the audience can see that I'm wearing my behavior modification-sanctioned reward on my feet.

Graham suddenly stops talking and squints at something on my desk. He picks it up. "What's this?"

Pigeons. Pigeons. Pigeons. Is the universe united against me, wanting to expose me?

He's found one of my reminder sticky notes, which must've fallen out of my self-monitoring notebook. I pay extra for these notes to stick without requiring additional tape. When Graham leaves, I must write a complaint to the manufacturer regarding the poor quality of the adhesive they use. It will go something like this:

Dear Sticky Note Manufacturer,

Due to the poor quality of your sticky note adhesive, the boy I had feelings for, whose MHC genes were extraordinarily dissimilar to mine explaining my instant attraction to him and proving that we'd have most healthy children, almost learned that I initiated a behavior modification project in order to get over said feelings.

See, he's dating this hideous Blahnik Brahmin, probably because he, falling for the what-is-beautiful-is-good stereotype assumes she's smart, successful, and sexually superior, just because she possesses a flawless exterior. Your poor quality adhesive almost put me into an embarrassing situation for which imagining myself to be a baobab tree would have been no help. If this happens again, I'll have to resort to using the legal savvy I've picked up from watching TV dramas and sue you for intentional infliction of emotional distress.

Please remedy your adhesive formula immediately!

Sincerely,

Talisman Turner,

Proud Behavior Modification Implementer

I remove the offending sticky note from Graham's hands. "This is nothing at all," I say. "Just a...a...an idea for a promotional insert."

Graham zooms in on a miniature high heel I've sculpted out of the neon pink play dough which came in my Katzenberg welcome basket. "Is that another idea for a promotional insert?" he asks.

I quickly smush the heel until it becomes a formless blob. "No, that was carpel tunnel stress relief."

"You're starting to look a bit peculiar," Graham says, his voice full of concern.

"Haven't taken my hemp agrimony vitamins."

He returns to discussing patrons' reactions to Shah Rukh's vocal escapades, including the advances of an overly appreciative golden retriever. According to the rules of my modification project, I should probably politely request Graham to postpone our discussion of favorite Bollywood songs, and instead, practice my campaign pitch for the AL: Ambition product line. That would be the sensible action to take. But I can't bring myself to do it, not when he looks so animated.

He looks shyly at me. "...but I'd feel embarrassed."

"You know humans are the only animals that experience embarrassment," I say quickly, having no idea what he's embarrassed about.

"Really?"

"Pretend you're a baboon or a duck-billed platypus," I say without embarrassment (and without imagining I'm a baboon). We're at _that_ stage of friendship.

He laughs. "Okay, I'll try that trick next time. But I'll be a sifaka."

"A what?"

"Rare species of lemur. Only found in Madagascar. Look like Jedi knights." He demonstrates his light saber prowess.

I laugh and admire his dimples which are in full effect. His hair looks as soft as baby down; his laugh is warm and rich. And he's wearing a blue Ralph Lauren button-down which intensifies the color of his eyes.

No. Focus. On pitch. On heels.

Just think if women around the world employed behavior modification projects, how much more productive they would be!

Jem agrees. She rescinded her skeptical critique, and said that by using heels to focus on my career, I'm the epitome of the modern millennial woman, harnessing my female _shakti_ , which is, in her words, "potentiating female cosmic and creative energy."

Who knew _shakti_ , an Indian concept thousands of years old and usually envisioned in the form of a Hindu deity, could be found in a satin ankle-strap heel with a deep V-vamp?

I sigh happily and look up to discover...

...Graham untucking his button-down shirt.

What did I just agree to? What is he going to show me? What was he shy about? Why would he need to untuck his shirt?

"What are you...?" I ask.

He unbuttons the top two buttons of his oxford.

"Relax. You'll see," he says, still looking down, his fingers unhooking the third button.

Is he about to...? You know. Get naked by the end of this song, a la Justin Timberlake. I never thought that Graham and I would experience the two-button feeling literally. My heart flip-flops. A pygmy sized flip-flop.

Through the corner of my eye, I try to peek at my computer desktop, where my vessel of _shakti_ resides, but my screensaver has taken over my monitor, and I forgot to change it. Instead of 3.5-inch black satin heels, a shirtless Colin Firth greets my gaze.

Think platonics. Platonics. What is platonic?

Taxes.

The IRS.

We're listing our assets and dependents—

My god, when did that become sexy? I swallow a driblet of drool.

I'm just about to ask Graham how Lydia feels about whatever he's doing, when he jostles the table with his elbow, and my screensaver vanishes. I see my Blahniks once again. To steel my resolve, I stare at them for a few seconds. Feeling like a vampire about to see the sun, I slowly turn to face Graham.

I see an expanse of white, but it's not Graham's chest.

It's a t-shirt, silk screened with the smiling visage of Amitabh Bachan on it. The Bollywood superstar wags his finger, in imitation of old World War recruitment posters. "Amitabh for America," is written in retro-style font at the bottom.

My heart stops racing, and my breath eases. I was about to get romantic flurries over Amitabh Bachan? Who, despite aging well like Clint Eastwood, is nevertheless approaching seventy?

Graham starts re-buttoning his shirt. "Do you like it? I got it from this website, for people 'down with the brown.'"

"Hilarious," I say. He tucks in his shirttails. I hope no one walks by and gets the wrong idea, since we're just conversing platonically.

"I'll add you to their email list, okay?" I nod my head. He leaves, humming a Bollywood tune. Probably off to have an extended lunch with Lydia.

The man I've imprinted onto was nearly naked in my office, and I did not launch into a fantasy. Okay, just a thimble-sized, barely-there fantasy. On the whole, I held my act together with images of high heels and tax forms.

Pure platonics.

The sticky note Graham found stares at me from the middle of my desk. I peer at the bold image dominating my computer screen, and trace the heel's vamp with my finger. My shoes beckon to me.

Nothing worse can happen to test me in the next five days. Surely, today's events equal a superhuman effort, valued at forty-five dollars in my token system. Plus, I am so over Graham.

I glance at my watch. 11:30 AM. Perfect. Just enough time to take an extended lunch of my own.

* * *

On my way to Neiman Marcus, I see her. The Brahmin. Lydia. She's sitting down at a table in front of the Armani Café. Every male in the vicinity is checking out her toned bronze calves.

If only she weren't so perfect. The high from uploading the doctored photo, the one with the addition of one chin hair, to the Katzenberg website has faded. I should ask Nathan from Design to devise something more humiliating.

Convincing him to draw fine hair above Lydia's upper lip should be fairly easy. Convincing Eric from Public Relations to upload _this_ photo to the Katzenberg website is another issue entirely. Eric would be too terrified of Lydia's wrath. But, Trish and Marci might have some dirt on Eric which I could use to blackmail him into it. They enjoyed the chin hair photo so much, they printed a copy and taped it to the inside of their desk cupboard.

The only question is, would I stoop so low?

Before I can gauge myself on a morality meter, I'm distracted by the sight of a male visitor slipping into the seat next to Lydia's. It's not Graham. He seems older than her, although his face is lean and tan. With his aristocratic suit, he matches her look of polished perfection. It's probably her father. Last week, she did mention he'd be visiting her sometime this month.

But why am I wasting time getting sidetracked by Lydia's social calendar? I'm about to steal the Ambition campaign from her—and its corresponding bonus—and I only have twenty minutes left to get my Manolo Blahniks.

I rush to Neiman Marcus. The store still has my size. My color. My shoes. Clutching my new purchase to my side, I emerge into the sunshine.

I settle down on a bench near Copley Place. Guilt about violating my self-contract and claiming my reward early disappears as my shoes gleam in the sunlight.

I deserve them; I'm cured.

I remove my sandals and slide my toes into the satin V-shaped vamp. I sigh with anticipation as I slide the buckle's prong into its frame, securing the delicate ankle strap.

Preparing to rise, I grip the armrest of the bench. Thumbing her rosary, a woman scurries past me. A boy in a Red Sox cap coasts by, carried by his green Schwinn. I take a deep breath and stand—3.5 inches closer to the sun, _shakti_ flowing through my veins.

# Chapter 26

AS SOON AS I stride into the office elevator the next morning, I face the back, and kick off my sensible, if unattractive, rubber-soled sandals. Feeling like a magician, I reach into my small black tote bag, but instead of a bunny rabbit, I reel out my new Blahniks. As I put them onto my feet, the _shakti_ flows through me again. The elevator hiccups, I sway to the side, and my _shakti_ shrivels into nothing.

Slightly deflated, but still optimistic, I stash my sandals into my shoe tote. The elevator tings, announcing it's my floor, and I turn to face the front of the elevator. When the doors glide open, I step out onto the beige marble of the Katzenberg lobby and...totter. Turning around so quickly must have produced a weird momentum effect.

Except that I keep on tottering, even when walking perfectly straight. I have no control over my feet. It's like I'm walking on martini glasses, sashaying in puddles of their own alcohol.

"Is it just me," from the middle of the reception area, I call to Trish, "or does the floor seem more slippery than usual?"

"It just got a wicked polish job. Benji's orders," she says and snaps her gum. Of course the day I choose to wear 3.5-inch heels for the first time, the floor has been freshly polished. Of course.

"The guy who did it was really hot too. Reminded me of that scene with Matt Damon in _Good Will Hunting_."

"He is a true Boston treasure," I say, trying to stride towards her, in imitation of an alpha female.

I almost fall to the floor.

Thankfully, I teeter forward, bridging the gap between me and the reception desk. I clutch its edge, as if it were the last box of coffee almond toffee ice cream bars at the supermarket. I give Trish an unbalanced smile.

"Are you okay?" she asks. "You're flushed."

"New heels," I say.

I wobble past the wingback chairs and potted palms of the waiting area and down the hallway, occasionally grasping the wall like it's the rail at the edge of a skating rink. I almost make it to my office when I hear Lydia's voice calling my name.

I quickly pivot on my right heel, lose my balance, and crash into her.

"Are you alright?" she asks perfunctorily as I steady myself by stretching out my arm and pressing the pads of my fingers against the wall. Oooh. Wow. From my new height, Lydia's pores don't look quite so nanoscopic. I look over her shoulder. Graham stands in the lobby, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He turns around, so we are facing each other, Lydia playing monkey-in-the-middle between us.

He ruffles his hair and waves. I wave back. A neutral, platonic wave. A 1040EZ sort of wave.

Lydia looks down at my shoes. "Nice heels." She gives me an intent look. "New?" I nod. "Looks like you have a literal," she smirks, "Achilles heel. Make sure the focus group data is on my desk by the time I return." She swivels and glides down the hallway like a gazelle in four-inch patent leather pumps.

I stumble into my office, trying to shrug off both my Blahniks and Lydia's condescension. My _shakti_ has definitely come to a standstill. Thinking a round of belting Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent" will get it flowing again, I play the pop hit on my computer and pump up the volume. Crooning the chorus into my Swingline stapler, I hip-bump my desk, the carpet scratching against my bare, dancing feet.

As I pretend I'm on stage at the Pavilion, Lydia bangs on my door. "I forgot to tell you—" she stops short as she catches me in the middle of tossing my hair back in true rocker style. "The meeting with Mac has been moved to 1:30." Unmoved by Kelly's vocal prowess, Lydia, stone-faced, crosses her arms. "What are you doing?"

My whole body, including the downy hairs on my arms, bristles at her prissy tone. "It's therapy for my penis envy," I snap and slam the door in her nanoscopic-pored face.

I remove a glass jar of green tea and peppermint bath beads from my bottommost desk drawer where I store most of my free samples and unscrew its cap. Imagining one pearly sphere is Lydia's head, I bash it with my stapler, no longer a makeshift microphone, but a weapon of small destruction.

There must be Kevlar incorporated into the bead's coating, because despite my best efforts, the stapler doesn't create the tiniest groove in its glossy exterior.

At least I'm taking a cue from Freud, and maturely displacing my anger onto a socially acceptable target, instead of flinging my Blahnik at Lydia's head, a fantasy I've indulged in countless times at work.

The stapler makes full-frontal contact with the bath bead, the force of thwarted _shakti_ behind it. It finally bursts, and opalescent liquid gushes out, creating wet splotches on my pad of office stationery.

Somehow, the sight soothes my injured dignity. My method of stress relief is just like that scene in _Office Space_ when Peter and Samir drag their office copy machine to an empty field and beat it up with baseball bats.

But my way is the female equivalent. I should write about this tip to the senior lifestyle editor of a women's magazine as a healthy approach to relieve anger against a colleague.

Last night, I didn't suffer from a "literal Achilles heel." But the minute I come into the office, and the day I have to pitch to Mac, I can no longer walk in my four-hundred-dollar, 3.5-inch heels. I smash another bath bead with the stapler. Why? Why? Why?

"I'm just about to grab a coffee. Do you—what's going on in here?" Graham asks and enters my office. I look up from my desk, coated in sticky remnants which are supposed to symbolize his girlfriend's head.

"Venting my frustration," I say, hoping I sound mysterious.

"I see," he says disbelievingly. "About what?"

Since I can't tell him the truth, I blurt out the first thing which comes to mind. "I'm frustrated that I'm no longer able to take baths."

What kind of answer is that? No longer able to take baths? Am I toddler in a _shakti_ -free body?

He wrinkles his forehead. "Not able to take...you don't have some funny disorder do you? Where you'll prune permanently?"

"No." I giggle in spite of myself, then make my voice serious, injecting it with a dose of starch. "This is a high pressure, stressful job, I'm a woman of the new millennium—"

"New millennium?"

"To replace woman of the nineties."

His mouth quirks. "Right. Like Thatch."

"And I have needs that I'm not ashamed to admit and which shouldn't be mocked." I pause. "The bath tub in my apartment is too tiny. It gives me a weird neck cramp even when I use an 'As Seen on TV' inflatable pillow." I shrug. "I've just had this craving."

Now that I've started gibbering on about it, I really do want to take a bath. A bath, not a shower. I want to light scented candles, luxuriate in a tub, and use my stash of antioxidizing bath beads for their intended purpose.

"You really would like a bath that badly?"

"Have you seen the 'The One Where Chandler Takes a Bath?'"

He laughs. "Okay, okay. Completely understand your point. I retract any statements which stated or implied that you were peculiar for craving a bath." He sniffs. "What flavor are those bath beads anyway?"

"Green tea and peppermint."

"Mmmm. I have a great tub. Stainless steel, spa jets, rubber ducky. Why don't you have a bath at my place after work today?"

My heart skips a beat. Does he know what he's proposing?

"Are you serious?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Tub needs more use. It's getting lonely."

Me.

"And you have to promise to donate half of your bath bead stock."

Naked.

"For my mother."

At his place.

"Do you have better plans this Friday evening?"

I don't even know his birthday, or his middle name...and he has a girlfriend. How can I get naked at his place?

I glance at my bulging handbag. "Strengthening my intellectual fiber by reading _The English Patient_. I also have the movie as a back-up plan."

"Both are tripe. Usually though, the book's always superior to the movie."

"Six words for you." I raise my fingers and bend them forward with the words. " _Pride and Prejudice Six Part Miniseries_. Or five words if you choose to hyphenate the 'Six Part,'" I add hastily.

"I'm all for the hyphenation."

"The BBC most definitely made a version as good as the book. Maybe even better," I say, recalling an image of a shirtless Colin Firth.

"Are American women obsessed with Austen too?"

"You could say I grew up with Jane. My mom designed greeting cards with Austen quotes."

"Benji used to send those to my mom," he says, looking at me strangely, as if in awe of this coincidence. Maybe tugs of kismet are pulling at—

No, no, no. That's my overactive imagination.

"Small world," I say with a smaller smile. "She made sure that Ris and I read all of Austen's published novels even if they weren't assigned to us at school."

Ris and I used to dress up as Jane and Eliza Bennett, alternating each Halloween so both of us would have the chance to marry Mr. Darcy. We were great as sisters in costume, but as for sisters in real life, well...I push away thoughts of our growing distance and look wistfully at Graham. "Jane's the only classic I can digest."

"But that doesn't answer my question." He leans against the top of the leather chair reserved for clients. "How 'bout the bath? You can read, or watch, _The English Patient_ afterwards. I've got a lovely big screen telly."

This is so tempting. For the longest time, I've been dying to see where Graham lives. Benji had fully intended for Graham to stay at Benji's luxurious Louisburg Square townhouse, but it's under renovation, and apparently, the new wiring is still wonky. Since Graham planned to stay in the States for an extended period, rather than book him a hotel room, Benji set Graham up in a ritzy bachelor pad instead. Benji was also adamant that Graham wouldn't be "circumscribed by the schedules of public transportation," so Benji rented Graham an SUV too. To hear Graham tell it, at Benji's insistence, Graham spent the entire first week of his vacation taking lessons so he'd get accustomed to driving on the right side of the road.

If I take Graham up on his offer, I—like Lydia—would get to experience both his home life and his driving skills. Would it be so wrong to accept?

I look down at my heels. Surely, this is a meet-up of friend-friends. Like if the plumbing isn't working, you just pop over to a friend's place to take a quick shower...or a bath.

I bet the British populace revels in baths. As a Londoner, Graham empathizes with my deprivation, and he's just reaching out to me, as a good friend. It's like sharing a box of chocolate truffles with someone when she's feeling sad. It's not a _Suave_ maneuver. It's nothing but a gesture (an odd one), but a gesture of friendship all the same.

I shouldn't be worried, because we're two mature friend-friends, Graham and I.

What could possibly happen?

# Chapter 27

"TWINS. THE MYSTERIOUS AURA of twins will be the key." At one end of the conference table, Lydia makes a steeple with her fingers and points it at Mac. "They will be the key to successfully launching AL: Ambition."

Mac nods her head thoughtfully. "Just caught an exhibit on the importance of twins in the Yoruba culture last week. At the Smithsonian." She shudders. "They even had the fertility masks. Ghastly things."

Lydia glows; I sigh and shift in my seat. My back aches from sitting in this stiff conference chair since one o'clock.

After I washed my hands which had become sticky from my WWE smack-down with the green tea and peppermint bath beads, I crept into the conference room early so that I would arrive before Lydia and Mac.

I didn't want them to see my bare feet.

The backstrap of my sandals broke rendering them completely useless, and I couldn't wear my new heels. I couldn't handle another session of teetering on my feet, when my insides were already tottering from nervousness. Although I know I've come up with a great advertising campaign, I still haven't figured out how I'm going to introduce it to Mac, while sounding as professional and smooth as Lydia, who has just removed a white cloth covering a wooden easel, revealing a giant mock-up of her vision resting on the easel's ledge.

Her ad for AL: Ambition features an insider's look into a woman's bathroom. In it, a career woman in a beige camisole and black pants applies matte peach lipstick to her pouting lips.

But her reflection in the mirror, her "twin," shows the same woman using a different lipstick—this one a glossy scarlet which matches her wraparound blouse with a plunging neckline. Everything else between the two women—from stylishly layered hair to diamond stud earrings—is the same. The slogan at the bottom reads: "AL: Ambition. For the different women you are...throughout the day."

Mac looks like she's about to exclaim that she's neurotic about it. Admittedly, Lydia's idea is compelling. It must have taken Nathan in Design hours to draw the woman and get the lighting and the reflection in the mirror just right, hours carefully selecting the feminine items which clutter the bathroom sink, hours of painstaking effort.

It took him all of fifteen minutes to download a photo of a Victorian woman sitting by an antique desk which I found online and to retrieve a drawing of a woman in a gold cocktail dress he had completed for another project from a desktop folder. With a few clicks, the Victorian woman became a silhouette, the cocktail dress became black, and both were underscored by my ad slogan in bold, all-capital font. I mainly gawked at his 25-inch computer screen and his collection of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures and hoped he wouldn't crack another penis envy joke.

He didn't.

"Myths and legends about twins are found in every culture around the world," Lydia says, moving her hands as if they were encompassing a globe. "Romulus and Remus, founders of Rome, the famous twin sculptures of the Congo, and of the Yoruba," she nods in acknowledgment towards Mac, "a blond-haired set can even be found in a Mexican tile house in Southern California, the famous twins of—"

"Sweet Valley!" I finish excitedly.

Ooops. I can't afford to help the enemy. This mistake is worse than my faux pas in seventh grade phys ed class during the last week of the basketball portion of the curriculum. There were five seconds left on the clock; both teams were tied. My junior high crush, Matt Appleton, passed me the ball, god only knows why.

Proud I hadn't dropped the ball, I took a shot. The buzzer rang, signaling the end of the game and my basketball dropped through the net with a swoosh. I jumped up and down with joy. It took me awhile to realize that the opposing team was also jumping with delight...because I had made the winning basket on our side of the court. Coach Sorrell—and more devastatingly Matt Appleton—never let me live it down.

Lydia smiles proudly, looking as gorgeous as Jessica Wakefield. "Precisely. Since many women have grown up with Elizabeth and Jessica, is it any wonder that nine out of ten women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-four describe twins as intriguing? As mysterious? As captivating?"

I slump in my chair. She's right. Mac scribbles several notes onto a pad encased by a brass-cornered leather folio. She must be fascinated by twins. I'm fascinated by twins, especially by the way they telepathically communicate with one another. Even psychologists are fascinated by twins, using them in studies to conclude whether or not IQ is determined by genetics or the environment. On the whole, genes seem to be the most critical component. But genetics can't explain the Flynn effect, a pattern documented by James Flynn, who systematically showed that scores on intelligence tests increase by three points every ten years.

"It's an unsurprising result since twins reflect the dual nature of man—the Doppelganger figure in literature. The dual nature of life—" Lydia uncaps the Ambition lipstick featured in her ad. It makes a popping sound like a cork. "—the dual nature of Lautrec's Ambition make-up, the dual nature of ambition itself."

As Lydia returns to her seat, I slump even deeper in mine. My knee knocks into the portfolio containing my own mock-up.

How did I ever believe that concocting my own plan to steal the Ambition ad campaign could work? I still don't know how to bring up the fact that I've been developing my own advertising idea. Although I was responsible for gathering all the contact information for Lydia's focus groups, I don't have reams of research to support my idea like she does.

I don't even have any shoes on my feet.

Mac nods at the double-ended make-up wand which Lydia has placed onto the table so it sticks up straight in the air, a baton signaling her success. "It was Reese Witherspoon's favorite product in her goody bag," Mac says. "She'll be raving mad about this ad."

Mac puts her notebook into her attaché case and snaps it shut, signaling the end of this meeting.

No. No. No. Lydia has glossy hair. A Beacon Hill apartment. Chanel-scented skin. And my MHC mate.

She cannot have this campaign too.

"Say anything," John Cusack bellows in my head. "Say _anything_."

"You know...I still don't have one," I say to Mac, who peers at me quizzically. "The perfect black dress, I mean. Still looking." My palms leave sweaty marks on the polished conference table. I watch them disappear like mist.

"My condolences," Lydia mutters.

"The fashion editor at _It! Girl_ is going to do a twelve-page spread on them for the November issue," Mac says and smiles briefly. "Might help you."

"Is she?" I ask, perking up. "It is very iconic, in no small part thanks to Audrey Hepburn." Remembering Audrey's confident expression in the _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ movie poster gives me courage. Tiffany's helped my mother find happiness, albeit temporarily. Maybe, it can help me too.

I pull out my portfolio and unzip it.

"Are you suggesting an alternative campaign?" Mac asks with a furrowed brow.

"I...uh...developed something on my own," I say.

"Talisman, I don't think—" Lydia interrupts.

"Lydia doesn't think I'm ready to deliver a pitch yet," I say to Mac. "But I think there's nothing like learning by getting your feet wet."

After I grab my mock-up, two index cards, and a laser pointer, I inch towards the head of the conference table, carefully hiding my bare feet underneath its protective cover.

"OJ training," Mac says, nodding.

I pause half-way to the head of the table and stare at Mac. "Excuse me?"

"On the job training."

"Of course," I say, pushing aside images of a white Ford Bronco.

I finally reach the head of the table. Mission successful! I glance at Mac. From her bemused expression, it doesn't look like my surprise presentation will ruin twenty-five years of collaboration between Katzenberg and Lautrec...bare feet notwithstanding.

I curl my toes into crescent moons and dig them into the thick marine blue carpet as I cover Lydia's mock-up with my own.

"Oh." Mac leans forward in her seat. "That would go very nicely with the magazine milieu." I remain silent, giving Mac time to appreciate the details of my concept.

At the top, a lady in a white dress, scribbles a note at an antique desk, a robin watching her from the windowsill. Underneath, sassy, glowing letters declare, "Maybe in Emily Dickinson's time, hope was a many-feathered thing, but for the modern woman, it's the little black dress." Under my slogan, a woman in a perfect black dress stands in front of a vanity covered in Lautrec products and spritzes perfume onto her neck, all the while under the close observation of a hummingbird hovering by the window.

"We all know the feeling of finding the perfect black dress. You are thrilled. Euphoric. You want to run through the mall screaming 'JLo has nothing on me, not in this dress!'" I tap the black dress in my ad with my silver pointer...which has suddenly developed a cap...

...two caps, one at each end.

Because I didn't grab a pointer, but in fact, the double-ended Ambition wand with a compact combination of both eye and lip liner. So much for professionalism. Since both my pointer and the Lautrec wand are silver, I hope no one will notice.

"Why all of this euphoria?" I ask, waving the double-ended wand in the air. "Because the perfect black dress is magical. It transforms you. You suddenly have toner calves, a slimmer waist, a longer torso. It makes you feel as if your office coworker or a longtime friend," I swallow back memories of Graham, "will see you in a different light."

I clear my throat, remembering my resolve the night I designed my behavior modification project. "In the perfect black dress, you'll make witty banter like a Meg Ryan movie character, instead of saying things like 'I carried a watermelon,'" I say wistfully.

"Why did Jennifer Grey get that nose job?" Mac murmurs to herself.

Lydia gives me a look that could've withered Vanilla Ice into dry ice. "Do you have any data to support your concept?"

"I have the authenticity of personal experience," I say, projecting confidence I don't feel. "I'm also sure...that...nine out of ten women in Times Square would agree how crucial it is for them to find the perfect black dress. Why else would _It! Girl_ be dedicating twelve pages to it?"

I grip my makeshift pointer so hard that my hand turns white as I remember the number of times I've squeezed into a black dress—perfect in every way, except for the fact that I had trouble cinching together the side zipper. "The power of the perfect black dress—like the Ambition make-up line—centers around its ability to transform. A very similar phenomenon occurs within the fairy tales which have become part of our collective unconscious."

Mac rubs her chin. "Hmmm. Awakening the slumbering Sleeping Beauty with beauty products."

Lydia sniffs. "Is Little Red Riding Hood now going to visit her grandmother in a Bergdorf sheath?"

I glance at Mac and hurriedly flip over one of my index cards. Where is the brilliant quote by Joseph Campbell that will back me up? It's the closest thing I have to research, to data, to scientific support. The closet thing I have to sounding as polished as Lydia.

Where is it? Where is it? It's probably tucked away in my collection of mom's greeting cards.

"Well," I say looking at the wall above Mac's head, "since we are all familiar with Joseph Campbell's revolutionary analysis and how it relates to myths and fairy tales, surely it's unnecessary to launch into tedious explanations."

"He did inspire _Star Wars_ ," Mac says, as if lost in a Hans Solo fantasy.

Ready to launch into my conclusion, I test out Lydia's persuasive speaking technique, and angle my accidental pointer at Mac. But in my excitement and with my sweaty palms, I uncap the double-ended wand and send it flying across the conference table.

It races through the air like Kerri Strug, on her way to landing her famous vault at the '96 Olympics, and swipes the collar of Mac's jacket with metallic eyeliner.

Mac clears her throat and puts the offending makeshift pointer onto the table. "Good thing I'm wearing black today," she says without a hint of irony.

"Very fortunate," I say quickly. "As I was saying earlier, Lautrec's Ambition line reassures women they will successfully and efficiently present the proper visage," thank you Jem for being my personal _Oxford English Dictionary_ , "at home, at work, or at a social gathering. So too does the perfect black dr—"

"Are you barefoot?" Lydia asks. Her face scrunches up with disgust, as if she were plucking a rotten piece of romaine lettuce from her sans dressing Caesar salad.

Frozen, I stare at her.

What's the one thing that excuses you from final exams, PE class, and mandatory field trips to the museum?

The doctor's note.

That will be my counter-attack.

"Doctor's orders," I say after a long pause. "I called him this afternoon, and he said..."

I look down at my feet. The polish on my toenails has already chipped, even though I painted them with Lautrec Emerald Isle last night, as I filled in an _entire_ crossword puzzle in... _People_ magazine.

"...he concluded that a prosopagnosia problem has resurfaced. Too much strain on my foot arches. So he recommended that I give them a rest."

"Oh," Mac says, her fingers to her mouth. "I think my great-aunt received the same diagnosis."

"I believe it's more prevalent in New York than other major city in America," I say, relieved that Mac doesn't realize prosopagnosia is really a cognitive disorder, marked by the inability to recognize people's faces.

I bounce on my naked heels. "As I was saying, the power and energy of the Lautrec Ambition line is similar to that found in the perfect black dress, which is why I believe the black dress embodies the...ethos of the newest addition to Lautrec's cosmetic family." I smile, proud I have correctly incorporated "ethos" into my pitch.

I stride back to my seat, barely registering the carpet scratching the soles of my bare feet. "Even better than twins," I say, not daring to look at Lydia. Although my hands are clasped behind my back, the sound of my watch ticks all the way from my wrist into my ears.

I examine Mac's face which is smooth except for pursed lips. What will she say about my idea?

Will she be obsessive-compulsive about it?

Manic?

Neurotic?

Rabid?

Neurotic. Neurotic, at the very least.

Mac turns to me. "I'm..."

* * *

"The pitch went fantabulously." I twist to face Graham as he navigates his SUV towards his rental in Back Bay.

"Mac was pleased with your idea?"

"She said," my fingers dance on the dashboard, "she said she was psycho about it!"

His mouth twists. "Psycho?"

"Like the ego- and drug- tripping rock star, not the serial killer variety. I did ask her to clarify."

"More like Liam Gallagher then?"

We both laugh. Although I feel exhilarated, my nerves feel like they've endured _all_ the roller coasters at Six Flags, and a bath seems like the perfect way to unwind after the stress of delivering my pitch. As I sink into the bubbles made by my precious stock of bath beads, I can replay my career triumph...and plan how to use my four-figure bonus. Heaven.

"You should've seen Lydia's face..." I trail off. Probably not the best thing to say to Lydia's secret boyfriend.

"It's okay." He makes a small grimace and shrugs. "She can get quite unsightly when she loses. It doesn't happen very often."

I would have thought Graham would've been more upset that I stole the ad campaign—and the accompanying bonus—from his girlfriend...but we are friend-friends. It's a sign of his excellent manners and decent character that he is happy for me.

"Her idea was clever," I admit with good sportsmanship.

What is Lydia doing this evening, after her defeat? Slinking home? Planning an offensive attack? Obviously, she's not seeking comfort from Graham tonight. How good can their relationship be if she—

Brain, no. Don't go there.

There are only two key points worth focusing on: I'll be the creative lead on the AL: Ambition ad campaign, and I'm about to have my first bath in four years.

# Chapter 28

GRAHAM'S LOFTED APARTMENT is on the top floor of an old brick townhouse. Working fireplace, subzero freezer, high-end electronics, light golden hardwoods, luxe furniture, and lots of books. Everything you'd expect a wealthy godfather, brimming with concern over his godson's welfare, would provide—everything except for the hammock hanging above a window seat in an alcove off of the living room.

"A hammock?" I raise my eyebrows, even though I think it's cool.

"So I can pretend I'm in Florida." He loops the edge closest to us around his fingers. "It's pretty damn comfortable. You should test it out after the bath."

"Maybe," I say before seeking out the bath tub which gave Graham so many bragging rights. Fifteen minutes later, I understand what all the fuss is about. Luxuriating in Graham's tub feels so indulgent like sleeping in on Sunday morning. Suds play against my skin as steam forms an airy cocoon around my relaxed body. All the tension of the past few weeks escapes and dissolves into the water. Ah, yes, this is the sort of favor friends should do for one another. People should take baths more often. If they did, I bet we would have achieved peace in the Middle East, fewer people would abuse animals, and we wouldn't have been saddled with the monstrosity that is heavy metal.

As Graham's rubber ducky bobs past my knees, I sink deeper into the suds. I can at least indulge in one romantic fantasy while I'm here. That won't do me any harm; I'm cured. In this fantasy, I'm singing "Kiss" by Prince, just like Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ , but instead of Gere, Graham enters the bathroom and asks me to spend the rest of the week with him.

Oooo that felt good. Like getting massaged right between my shoulder blades...or finding a tattered twenty dollar bill in the pocket of jeans I've just washed. Mmmm...

Thirty minutes later, slightly pruned and more than a little turned on, I rise out of the bath and encircle myself with a towel. I've indulged in so many romantic fantasies about me and Graham that if I had recorded them onto the self-monitoring napkin I used at the Gardner Museum, it would look like I had dipped it into a vat of ink. But that's the least of my concerns. Since I've been splishing and splashing per the instructions of Ray Charles, the clothes I wore to Graham's apartment are wet.

I have no clean or dry clothes to wear, and I'm practically naked in the apartment of a man about whom, only moments before, I had a _Pretty Woman_ fantasy.

What am I going to do? I can't wear just this towel to Graham's kitchen, even if its slate blue color goes nicely with my complexion.

With confusion, I gaze at the tidy bathroom, when I abruptly spot a familiar face staring at me from Graham's laundry hamper.

Amitabh Bachan.

I'll just have to wear this t-shirt—and the gym shorts underneath it—even if both are dirty. Graham won't mind. I pluck the shirt from the wicker hamper and sniff it.

Cinnamon and evergreens.

MHC genes. Scented destiny.

I almost cry.

Naked, save for the towel encircling my waist, I perch on the edge of Graham's stainless steel tub and clutch the Amitabh Bachan shirt to my chest. I don't feel empowered or full of _shakti_ energy. Instead, I feel lost and lonely, and wish I could celebrate my career victory with someone who's male, someone who's British. Someone who's my boyfriend.

Lorenz's geese never had a chance against imprinting. Neither did I.

I twist towards the tub's spigots and pull the plug to drain it. I guess I purchased my heels prematurely. Would returning my shoes test the store's generous return policy? What would I say to the salesclerk when she asks me what is the reason for the return?

"Well, the reason I'm returning these 3.5-inch heels is because they were part of a token system, a component of a behavior modification project I implemented to help me get over a guy. But I can't walk in these heels because...because of prosopagnosia. It's an ailment involving foot arches—very prevalent in New York. Worse than my foot condition, I don't think I'm over the guy."

The salesclerk will look at me for a few seconds, scribble "customer is bonkers; I need a raise," as the reason for return, and then hand me a receipt with a pitying smile on her face.

As I fingercomb my hair, I regroup my emotions. My river of denial has reached the shore. I accept I'm definitely not over Graham. But I'm not going to ruin our friendship by confessing my feelings, which will fade...eventually. In the meantime, till that happens, I'll comfort myself with a few romantic fantasies. Like half a teaspoon's worth.

I can't deprive myself any longer. Walter was right. Like amino acids and antioxidants, they're essential for my well-being.

Wondering if the steam from my soak has dried out my skin, I pad barefoot from the bathroom to Graham's ceramic-tiled kitchen where a kettle whistles.

"Tali, is that you? I thought we could have some tea before we start the serious business of..." Graham trails off, as he looks up.

"I hope it was okay." I gesture to the shirt and shorts I borrowed. "Mine were wet."

"It's fine. Fine. Amitabh looks great on your chest." He flushes and returns his attention to the stove.

I take roost on a wooden barstool near the counter separating the kitchen from the living room and flip through magazines scattered across its gleaming surface. Graham does read _The Atlantic Monthly_ after all.

As I thumb through its latest issue, my stomach grumbles. "So what's for tea?" I ask.

Graham opens a red tin. "I have some scones."

"Ugh. You need to moisturize scones with butter, and even then, they're barely edible."

"You just haven't had the right kind."

"I won't hold my breath. Until that time comes...do you have anything chocolate?"

"You'd love the hazelnut chocolate lava cake at my restaurant," he says and closes the tin. "But since we're in the States, we can rock, paper, scissor for the winner between chocolate-covered digestive biscuits or chocolate-dipped Linzer cookies."

"Or we could have both."

"A reasonable course of action," he says before thumping two glass mugs onto the counter and filling them with organic Earl Grey tea. Bergamot-scented steam curls around Graham's face when we clink our mugs together. "To baths," he says.

"To Amitabh for America," I counter.

My tea gets too cold to drink as we share our favorite _Friends_ episodes. His is "The One Where Ross Got High" and mine is "The One with the Rumor."

Both Thanksgiving episodes. Interesting.

We cover George Clooney's commitment phobia, childhood summer vacations, and favorite local haunts, before I broach the topic of mullet hunting.

"Mullet hunting?" Graham asks.

"You know. Business in the front," I tug strands of hair from the nape of my neck, "party in the back?"

"Ah, the hairstyle," Graham says, nodding as if he's had extensive experience styling his brown locks like Billy Ray Cyrus.

"The one and only. Ris and I used to drive around for an hour and whoever spotted the most mullets would buy the other a brownie sundae at Ben and Jerry's."

"What if you both saw the same number? Or none at all?"

"Never happened," I say with an arched brow. "Only rarely," I finally confess. "Ris and I always split the sundae, so it wouldn't have mattered." My throat tightens with prickles of jealousy as I imagine Ris cozying up to August this weekend. In distress, I gobble down three chocolate-dipped Linzer cookies before Graham thankfully changes the topic.

"Reiterate is such a ridiculous word," he says rather suddenly.

"Why? Doesn't it just mean to repeat an action?"

"Yes, but that's the whole point. The concept of repetition is already built into the definition of 'iterate,' so 'reiterate' means to do something again..."

He suddenly leans over, as if he's going to tuck strands of my hair behind my ear. "...again."

I don't want him to do that, because he has no right to break my heart in such a slow and excruciating manner. I would block his hand with my arm, but I don't want him to conclude I'm one of those angry defensive women who can't accept love, at least according to the psychologists with their own TV talk shows. Basically, one of those hard cards mom is always advising against.

So I don't.

His finger gently scrapes the middle of my left cheek, and he says, "You have a fallen eyelash. Make a wish."

I hold out my right hand, and he puts my brown eyelash in the middle of my palm. It looks adrift, an aimless row boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I look down at my bare feet, close my eyes, and make my wish.

I wish that my life were more like the movie _Groundhog Day_ , but better. In it, I would get to relive every wonderful, magical moment in my life, especially the ones I've shared with Graham. The day he said I was like an Escher painting, the day we sang Bollywood tunes together, today, this conversation, right now.

Most of all, I wish that I had the courage to share my wish with him.

I blow onto my palm and open my eyes. My lash has disappeared somewhere within the empty brightness of Graham's apartment.

"What did you wish for?" he asks, one arm angled against the counter, cheek propped against his fist. "If you tell me," he peers at me over the rim of his mug, "odds increase that your wish will come true."

"I wished for what every girl wishes for." I make my tone as casual as a pair of J Crew khakis.

"What's that? More shoes?"

I almost flush, thinking of my BMP. "No. Nothing so silly. I wished for world peace, of course."

He laughs. "Of course. I should have known." He looks at his watch. "We should probably start our intense reading session."

My face pales. I had forgotten about that plan. "Or jump straight to the movie?"

"No, reading first," he says, and gestures to the living room. "We can sit in the hammock."

"What do you mean, 'we?'"

He rises from his barstool and deposits our mugs and plates into the kitchen sink. "There's enough room for two."

"No, there isn't," I say and follow him out of the kitchen. "Hate to break it to you, but I am in possession of one magical rump."

"Magical rump?"

"It's an expanding bottom. I may buy size six," I blush at the little white lie, "pants, but when I sit down, my derriere expands, and it takes up the space of a size twelve rump."

He tilts his head. "Really?"

"Uh-huh." He meanders towards the window seat. "Like, in the backseat of a car, you'd think my butt would only take up one seat, right? But since it's a magical rump," I shrink my voice to a whisper, "it really takes up one and a half seats."

"Well, that's the funny thing," Graham whispers back. "Because I have one of those magical _shrinking_ butts, and in the backseat of a car, it only takes up _half_ of a seat." I stare at the hammock's cloth loops and make a disbelieving face.

He nudges me towards it. "Let's just test it out."

I clamber into the hammock, afraid of the magical butt-expanding effect. Graham climbs into the hammock after me, but so that his head is next to my feet, and his feet (he has nice toenails) are lined next to my head. According to Cart, this is the way boys sleep together when they spend the night at each other's houses in middle school.

Despite my worries about my expanding bottom, all our parts seem to fit together, the way a skeleton key fits into an antique lock.

"There. See. A perfect fit." He grins. "I've always wanted to test the hammock out with two people."

Did he never try with Lydia? I shouldn't ask that. I don't want to spoil the mood or make Graham think I'm one of those insecure, jealous women. But which female isn't insecure, save for my mother, my former yoga instructor Sri Daya Mata, and Miss Piggy?

Okay, I have to ask.

"You mean...you haven't tried it with..." I trail off.

"With Lydia?" He laughs and shakes his head. "No, she thinks the hammock is too childish. She prefers the leather recliner." He cocks his head to the side, and his hair briefly tickles my foot. "Tell me Tali, with this magical rump of yours, does that mean you have a regular butt or a butt-butt?"

I sit up and try to sock him in the stomach, but he grabs my arm before I can and looks straight into my eyes. I can't hear my laughter anymore, just the sound of a nervous, disbelieving heartbeat. He gazes at me without blinking, his palm warming my arm, and leans forward. "I should probably go get those books."

* * *

All is quiet and still in the apartment, except for the sound of turning pages. Or I should say, Graham's pages, because I haven't gotten far in my pursuit of intellectual enrichment.

A timeline of my progress:

7:03 PM: on page 15.

7:07 PM: Still on page 15, got lost in a Ralph Fiennes/Colin Firth fantasy.

7:11 PM: Have progressed to page 17.

7:14 PM: Still on page 17. Am I not getting this? I can't be stupid. I've got a bachelor's degree.

7:17 PM: On page 19. Maybe Ondaatje is one of those writers who is only intelligible to certain people. People like Lydia or alternately Janeane Garafolo. I bet they'd both understand this book.

7:22 PM: On page 25. Think I've gotten the hang of it. The disjointed chronology and shifts in point of view are reflective of human memory and the nature of recollection etc, etc.

7:27 PM: Have put book down casually on my stomach to imply that I'm contemplating the grosser implications of the nature of human memory, but am in fact re-starting my Ralph Fiennes/Colin Firth fantasy.

7:39 PM: Unbelievable. Must have dozed off. I blame it all on the bath. If it hadn't relaxed me so much, I'd be totally engrossed in _The English Patient_...which is no longer on my stomach.

It's been replaced by a thicker book, with an illustrated cover. The fourth Harry Potter book, and the next on my reading list. Over the beloved children's hardcover, I peek at Graham. He's absorbed in Ondaatje's classic, and it looks like he's already whizzed through fifty pages. "Thank you," I mouth, not wanting to ruin his flow or the comfortable silence which rests between us like a hand knit blanket.

8:13 PM: Have read almost seventy pages so far. Imagine myself destroying dementors bearing a striking resemblance to Lydia with a spell in the shape of a Manolo Blahnik.

8:55 PM: Has Graham finished _The English Patient_? Still on _Harry Potter_. Can't wait to read the fifth one.

9:14 PM: We decide to watch the two hour and forty-two minute wide-screen collector's edition of _The English Patient_ , to test the movie vs. book hypothesis. I think I have a sure win here. Ralph Fiennes and Colin Firth are the aces up my Amitabh Bachan sleeve.

9:52 PM: This movie is so good. I love the elaborate romance and drama of it, the epic proportions love assumes. It even feels like I've read the book. Maybe I can impress everyone with my understanding of human memory, and stop feeling deficient and guilty for not having extensive knowledge of literary masterpieces like Ris.

10:43 PM: We've reached the part where Colin Firth rips out hearts in a sheet of paper, the gift for a one-year wedding anniversary...and after that well...I don't remember much.

We...

We...

I...Graham...

Harry and Sally were right.

One bath + _The English Patient_ ruined it all.

# Chapter 29

"WHAT IS THAT SOUND?" The door to Jem's bedroom grumbles open; her feet shuffle against the floor. I didn't mean to have our DVD player on so loud, but I thought Jem had a late night promo event for the radio station and crashed at another DJ's apartment.

"Tali? Is that you?" I crane my head towards the sound of the sleepy voice. Jem stands behind the futon and rubs her eyes.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I say, and mute the TV.

"I was just about...wait a minute. What are you watching?"

Pigeons. I should have turned the TV off when I knew I had woken her up.

I press the pause button on the remote. "Nothing."

"That's not nothing. That woke me up." She stares at me suspiciously. "Aha!" She swoops down to the futon and pounces on the discarded DVD case. I should have hidden that too.

"I can't believe this. After years of living together, years of Cusack and Cosmopolitans, I wake up one Saturday morning to find my best friend watching a..." she flicks the DVD case, and the sound reverbs around our living room, "a...I can hardly bring myself to say it, this horrible, horrendous secret—"

I squint my eyes to avoid the blow. "What is so wrong with it? It's...educational."

"—a documentary." She shakes her head in disbelief. "A BBC documentary on the life of birds," she glances again at the DVD case, "with Sir David Attenborough."

I grab the offending case and draw my blanket tighter around me. "This was the contingency plan."

"Contingency plan...what are you talking about?" As comprehension dawns, her expression changes, and she plops down next to me on the futon. "What happened?"

"You shouldn't diss the birds. They're pretty interesting," I say, sounding like my ninth grade biology teacher.

"Your face looks different."

"There's this lyre bird which can imitate all sorts of sounds—"

"What time did you get home last night?"

"Like a camera—"

"Is that Amitabh Bachan? For America? Where did you...wait a minute...you didn't, did you?"

"Or even a bulldozer."

"Really?" Her eyes widen. "What about human voices? Because it'd be really cool if the lyre bird could do an old-school Michael Jackson impersonation..." she stops. "Did you sleep with him?"

I sigh. "No. Worse."

She waits silently.

"We spooned. All night. All night, all night," I finally say, after a long pause.

"You sound like an eighties song."

"You still like those," I remind her.

More silence as she ponders the implications of my revelation.

I wonder what her verdict will be, because I don't know what to think. I had tried to drown out my tangle of unanswered questions and my ensuing frustration by distracting myself with Sir David's bird documentary. Covering over three hundred species from forty countries, the _Life of Birds_ was supposed to be a great makeshift contingency plan, which would distract me from my own life's problems. But now, in the silence, my confusion comes rushing back.

Every time I've gotten a handle on my relationship with Graham and accept that all he wants is friendship, he has ruined my serenity and balance. Take last night. One minute, we're just friends, the next minute we're spooning. I know actions are supposed to speak louder than words, but do actions count if you were sleeping?

As for words, maybe Graham does want more than friendship, but he hasn't said anything because he doesn't know how _I_ feel. The awkwardness in the morning certainly didn't create a fitting environment for him to express himself. Has he realized immunology has declared that he's meant for me? Or was I just a warm-bodied substitute? That's what the Furies told me.

I woke up from my nightmare sometime close to 2:00 AM. Graham's nose nuzzled my hair, his breath was slow and consistent near my ear, and his arm firmly encircled my waist. If there was an aerial photo of us, we would have looked like nestling urban birds. (Sir David would've been touched.) But the Furies' words echoed through my head and ruined my contentment.

Did he imagine he was looking at Lydia's face when we were in the hammock? Does his arm think it's encircling her twenty-five-inch waist? Does his nose think it's smelling her MHC genes? According to the Furies, the answer to all three questions would be yes.

This time, they had appeared in elaborate wedding dresses, cupcakes of tulle and lace. They stared at me as I tried to wriggle into a beaded silk wedding gown, Shelby's second choice. I was unable to slide up the side zipper no matter how hard I had tugged.

Shelby nodded towards the vetoed dress. "Just like you're Graham's second choice."

"He doesn't like you." Brooke clipped a satin bow into her frizz-free hair. "You're just a stand-in."

Becca laughed. "A mannequin."

"Because he looked around and saw you in the window of Filene's Basement." Shelby flashed her camera-ready smile. "But he found Lydia at Neiman Marcus."

I clutch a nearby pillow and look at Jem fiercely. "I'm just a spooning substitute for when Lydia is away. The Furies confirmed it."

Jem sighs. "Dreams don't mean anything, remember? Random firings of the pons."

"The brain works as hard when it's in REM mode as when it's awake, and rats die when they're deprived of REM sleep. They _die_. Dreams mean something." I tuck my legs underneath me. "Did you know you don't thermoregulate when you're dreaming? You don't sweat or shiver in REM sleep. That's why you're not supposed to fall asleep in the snow."

"What are you talking about?"

"That's what I told Graham when we had breakfast."

"He spooned you all night, and you focused on thermal physiology?"

I shrug my shoulders. "It makes perfect scientific sense. He's used to having Lydia in bed with him, keeping him warm when he's in REM mode, and so he was just using me as a thermoregulation stand-in for the night."

"How did Graham respond when you brought up thermal physiology?"

"He made a joke. He said, 'Does this REM rule apply to Michael Stipe?'"

Jem laughs. I give her a dirty look. "That was funny, and anyways, what about your Blahniks? You're not supposed to be overanalyzing your relationship with Graham. You're cured."

"They don't tell you that in the college recruitment brochures," I say, fingering the edge of Graham's soft cotton shirt which I will never give back.

Never.

"How incredibly hard it is to land a job, even with a PhD? Especially with a PhD?"

"How hollow it is to return home in your pinstripe professional suit with no one to share the tale of your career victory, and no one who will rub your feet which are sore from scaling up the corporate ladder."

"True monogamy went out with the cassette tape," Jem says softly.

"Is that why you dumped the rocker three days ago?" I snap.

"Touché." She smiles, sadly. "But Tali, seriously. Graham doesn't know what he wants. Double dipping in the friendship-romance pool, leading you on, playing your heart strings faster than you can say Joshua Bell. You're better off without him."

"I thought you liked him."

"Not when you need to watch a documentary about birds as a contingency plan."

"But I don't want him out of my life. He's intelligent, he makes me laugh. He likes Bollywood films, he's not a cliché, and," I know this will convince her, "he keeps page 14 from the preface of _Staggering Genius_ in his wallet to cheer him up."

"The drawing of the stapler? That is sexy. But you should still be taking a cue from the emperor penguin."

"Are you giving me a lecture about birds now?"

She shrugs. "The rocker liked penguins, even wrote a power ballad about them. Anyways, the papa bird, he waits in the cold and ice, with a layer of specially designed skin covering the egg at his feet. He's waiting, frigid and starving, for sixty-five days."

I sigh, wondering where her analogy is going, but willing to play along. "Waiting for what?"

"For the female. You know what _she's_ doing? She's going for hers, treading water, finding fish." Jem stabs our futon with her finger. "She's working on her career."

"You're mixing your metaphors...and I want a second opinion."

* * *

"So what do you think?" I ask Kirsten thirty minutes later.

"This is like the episode where Carrie and Aidan kiss all the time, but she doesn't know if he likes her, remember that one? Season three?" Kirsten says, pouring ice into the blender. We're in her kitchen making avocado daiquiris she swears are a hit at Oasis, the last club she designed the interiors for.

I rinse Kirsten's avocado slicer in the kitchen sink. "You're drifting. Why hasn't Graham called and told me where I stand? With the Escher comment, the nut—"

"Butt-nut," Carter interjects from the living room, his voice carrying over the sound of running water.

"—and the spooning?" I finish.

"I think...I think...I don't really know," Kirsten says.

"I don't need a solid answer, a semi-solid would do." I perch on Kirsten's kitchen island and dry off the slicer with a cherry red towel. "It'd be okay if it were true only thirty-two percent of the time."

"Okay, maybe he's broken up with Lydia, and he wants to take some emotional self-assessment before he launches into something new."

"Guys don't do that," I say.

"You thought earlier it could be a transatlantic hang-up. He's British and has got that Hugh Grant _Four Weddings_ diffidence going on, and he's too shy to offer to skulk about with you. Or he's afraid that at the crucial moment, he'll become a _Notting Hill_ bumbler and make 'surreal but nice' comments."

I shrug, unconvinced but hopeful. "Maybe."

Kirsten pours lime juice, ice and rum into the blender, mixes it with a spoon, and adds slices of avocado. Wielding the spoon excitedly, she says, "Lydia could be blackmailing him."

"Of what?" I shout over the sound of the blender.

"She uncovered some dark secret from Benji's past and rather than ruin his godfather's reputation and business, Graham stays with her. He's her boyfriend only in name—"

"—but not in heart," I finish. We look at each other over the top of the whirring blender.

"Do you think we're being overly analytical?" I ask.

"We're healthy, never-been-married women in our twenties, with reason and intuition." She shakes a cocktail stirrer, crowned by a lacquered enamel pineapple, at me. "That's what we do."

"Oh! I got it! I got it!" I say a few minutes later. "He doesn't want to ruin the friendship—"

"He will if sex is involved," Cart yells from the living room, "and can you stop with the blender? _World Series of Poker_ is on."

"Maybe he's confessing that he cheated with you to Lydia," Kirsten dips her finger into the blender and samples the avocado daiquiri, "and they're breaking up right now." I dip my finger into the blender too. The mush is bright green, but yummy.

Cart saunters into the kitchen. "He didn't cheat." Kirsten swivels her head. "Not at least...technically," Cart continues.

Kirsten's neck stiffens. "What do you mean?" she asks.

"It wasn't sex. It wasn't even hooking-up."

"If you're using the classical, canonical definition, then I guess not." Kirsten's voice is as cool as the neon concoction in the blender.

"It wasn't sex, it wasn't hooking-up, or anything remotely comparable, so," he turns to me, "things might be weird with you and the G-man on your end, but they won't be weird with him and this Lydia character." He extricates a spoon from the dish rack. "Why do you like this guy so much? He doesn't even call soccer soccer." He heaves a chunk of avocado slush into his mouth.

"Cart, ninety percent of the world's population calls soccer football," I say.

"They don't in China!" he says with false bravado. "Why are you taking my advice anyway? What do I know?" He puts the dirty spoon into the sink and leaves the kitchen.

Muffled sounds come from the bedroom. I expect him to return with some article he ripped out of _Suave_ magazine or a print-out of one of the Sports Guy's online columns, but he returns with a book. "You should be listening to somebody with more experience, who knows—"

Is that hot pink on the cover?

"What's he talking about?" I ask Kirsten. "Is that hot pink?"

"It's funny!" Cart says.

Kirsten faces him. "I don't think this is the right time—" she tries to grab the book out of his hands, "—let go of it!"

They wrestle briefly—Kirsten even cheats by using her nails—until the book flies over the room and nearly knocks me in the eye.

_He's Just Not That Into You_.

From Liz Tucillo, a writer for, and Greg Behrendt, a consultant of, _Sex and the City_.

"Do you really think that's it?" I ask in a whisper. "That Graham isn't into me?"

Cart shrugs. Kirsten pats my arm. "Just read the book, see if it resonates. Maybe he is into you..."

...but not enough to trade in the Lydia model for me, I silently finish her thought.

"Wait a minute." I turn to Cart. "You read this? And you accuse Graham of being fruity?"

"It's funny, okay? It's funny! And true...just read it, and you won't need my stupid advice anyway." He shuffles into the living room.

"So everything," I stare at Kirsten, willing her to deny it, "the kiss on the cheek, the kukui nut, the Escher painting, the spooning all night, all night, all that was—"

"You want the truth or the truth-truth?"

"Door number two," I say, sagging against the countertop.

"It was all in the Holy Grail of friendship."

"But I have enough acquaintances and friend-friends. I have enough family. I don't want another friend who happens to be of the male gender or a friend who comes with benefits or a gay friend who still sends me Valentines. I want a boyfriend, with the words linked together." For emphasis, I loop my index fingers together into a simple knot.

"Just read the book—a couple of times if necessary." Kirsten offers me a martini glass rimmed with green sugar and overflowing with avocado daiquiri. I refuse. "After you read it, I can also lend you _Between Boyfriends_ by Cindy Chupack, and if that doesn't work out, you can try my own version of the Magic 8 ball."

Is there another writer, story consultant, editor, or editor's assistant of _Sex and the City_ who's written a book on relationship advice which I didn't know existed?

Over the rim of her martini glass, Kirsten peers at me and whispers, "It's called the Tarot of _Sex_."

* * *

The green line bounces between Lechmere and Copley Square eight times by the time I finish Greg and Liz's "no excuses truth to understanding guys," (which, incidentally, I've hidden from judgmental eyes by encasing it in _Rolling Stone_ ).

Grimy doors close behind me as I leave the T and trudge through the underground subway passage. If I wrote a letter to Greg about my relationship with Graham, it would probably resemble the lonely-heart letters Greg composed as illustrative examples.

Dear Greg,

I really like this guy. I've imprinted onto him. He compared me to an Escher painting. An Escher painting! I'm sure someone as wicked cool as you can appreciate the significance of a statement like that. And he's into Bollywood films like me. How many men do you know like Bollywood films? You might like them, but you're taken. The thing is, so is he. With one of my co-workers. A Blahnik Brahmin whose MHC genes naturally smell like Chanel No. 5. (I can send you the scientific journal articles about MHC genes later.) But last night, we spooned all night, and that has to mean something. Right?

So confused,

Beantown Baby

My loneliness, thinly and cheerfully veiled, almost makes me throw up in front of a nearby newspaper & candy kiosk. As much as I want to tell myself that I shouldn't give up, that Graham's just thinking things over, weighing pros and cons, Greg's no-nonsense advice has made its mark. I can't delude myself any longer.

Spooning all night was not a signal of emotional attachment. It was just hanging out. I was merely a substitute for Lydia, someone who kept Graham warm while he was in REM sleep and couldn't thermoregulate...someone with low thread count that he found on sale at Filene's Basement.

If I had been anything more to Graham, then he would've, in no uncertain terms, asked me out. I can't, to borrow Greg's terminology, "waste the pretty," on Graham any longer.

Despite this belief, a bubble of hopeless (helpless?) optimism manages to burst free through Greg's relentless wave of bluntness. Maybe Graham is breaking up with Lydia right now, and he's going to call me any second to tell me the news.

No. I give myself a little shake. That's one of Greg Behrendt's points. If I'm waiting maniacally by the phone, then the boy whose voice I want to hear is most definitely not into me.

The kiosk clerk turns around, giving me a clear view of the symbol emblazoned across his light blue t-shirt: a Union Jack. At the sight of this unequivocally positive sign, my conviction wavers.

I should give Graham one more day. He deserves that much. _I_ deserve that much. If, during this grace period, I'm engaged in another activity—like a hot oil treatment, even my laundry—then technically, I won't be waiting by the phone.

Besides, Graham couldn't think things through properly with me there, nattering on about thermoregulation, now could he? And since I haven't sent him the research, Greg Behrendt doesn't have a clue about MHC genes. They could _totally_ change his analysis.

Maybe Graham is into me, more than into me, and he's about to call in the next twenty-four hours to tell me this. After all, Mac is neurotic about me!

Okay, one more day. That's the plan.

# Chapter 30

10:13 AM. TWENTY-FIVE hours since I left Graham's apartment, thirty-four minutes of being awake, two minutes after I've ripped open a packet of hot oil hair treatment, and the phone is already ringing.

I knew it, I knew it! I knew I wouldn't have to (not) wait by the phone that long. I just had to give Graham one more day. I pick up the phone, my fingers still coated with hot raspberry and chamomile frizz-smoothing oil.

"Hello," I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, as if I were expecting a call from a Buddhist monk.

"Talisman Turner?" The voice is male, but definitely not Graham's. It reels with a hint of Southern twang.

"Ye-es," I say cautiously, now re-reading the instructions on the back of the hot oil packet. It seems easy enough. I rub a thick layer of oil to my crown.

"We have reason to believe that..." His tone makes me nervous. Is he calling about my unpaid parking tickets from college? Can you go to jail for that? "...you might need a new set of steak knives."

My head jerks in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I know these past few weeks you must have been thinking—"

Hot oil dribbles down my forehead. "What's your name?" I interrupt.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm kind of new at this." He laughs nervously. "I'm Troy, and—"

"Great name."

"Thank you. Uhm...yours too."

I pour another layer of oil into my hair. "Troy, I don't know how you got my name or number."

"From a computer-generated list."

"Take me off of it. Please," I add as an afterthought. "You should know better than...wait a minute. How old are you?" Streams of oil dribble down my neck.

"Twenty-seven," he says, "but this really isn't in the script."

"In all of your twenty-seven years, have you ever spooned with someone the whole night?" I ask, and then provide him with only the most relevant bits of background information. He listens attentively.

"I'm sure that Graham is very, very into you," he says. "On behalf of all men everywhere, I apologize for your confusion...are you sure about those steak knives?"

"If you had been an Avon man, hawking long-lasting, non-drying lipstick, I might be more interested."

"I'll throw in a pair of scissors that cut anything, even pennies, for free."

These fascinated me as a child.

"Two pairs," I say firmly.

"Okay, two pairs." He takes down my credit card information. Before hanging up, he says convincingly, "I'm sure he's the next call, Tali."

Certain he's right, I snap my cell phone shut. But I can't wait (not wait) for it to ring because I have to shower and rinse out the hot oil, which should have sufficiently suffused itself into my scalp during my conversation with Troy.

I look uncertainly at my cell. A warm trickle of oil misses my eye (barely), and slides down my cheek. I rush into the bathroom, take the shortest shower of my life, and skid into the living room, oily residue still in my hair.

There is one message on my phone.

Oh my god, I can't believe I missed...oh it's from Mac.

"Like me, Antoine was psycho about your concept! On Monday, we'll convene with Nathan to tweak the color scheme and enhance the fine details. Still, Antoine was so enthused about it, the way it is, he purchased extra ad space across from the table of contents in all the major women's magazines. That's megabucks, Tali. Megabucks. There's even talk of running it on an electronic billboard in Times Square. We'll discuss on Monday, bye."

Clad only in my towel, I jig, _Riverdance_ -style, around my living room. My ad will be at the forefront of all the magazines my friends read, maybe even viewed by one of the hundred women who always get surveyed in Times Square. Maybe I'll even get promoted to a senior executive! I'll have to call Jem and Kirsten for celebratory drinks.

No. I have to keep my phone line free. For Graham.

I glance at the clock. As I search for procrastination methods in my living room, my gaze lands on a DVD case on my coffee table. It's not a bird documentary by Sir David, but the ten-year anniversary special edition of _Pretty Woman_ that I bought to replace my damaged copy. It's factory-sealed so tight I'm in the middle of tearing open the plastic wrapper with my teeth when the phone rings.

It's him. I knew it!

"Graham?" I say breathlessly, a bit of cellophane still in my mouth.

"No, this is Alice. Are you Talisman Turner?"

I spit out the cellophane. "Not if you're another telemarketer."

"No, I'm not a telemarketer." She laughs. I sigh with relief. "I'm a Christian Scientist." I slump to the floor. "Your mother wanted—"

"My mother? My mother doesn't even use the telephone."

"That's why she asked me to call you, dear." I finish my war with the plastic wrapper and move onto the sticky thief-deterrent labels on the side of the DVD case.

"She sent me a postcard," Alice says. It was probably more expensive than mine I'm tempted to retort.

"Yes," she continues, "it seems you are suffering from restless sleep, a sugar addiction, and residual grief over your father that may have led to relationship issues."

I stop wrestling with _Pretty Woman_. "I don't have any of those things."

"No need to lie to me, dear. God can help you."

"Alice, I'm waiting for a—"

"I can start some prayer for you right now," she says as perky as apple pie. "God works through all media. You should check out our website." Hmmm. Prayer is free. This session with God will be quick, easy and as painless as a good leg wax. What's the harm? No, I can't. I must keep my phone line free.

"Alice, I believe you, really I do, but I need to keep this line open."

"That's what I'm talking about, keeping communication lines to God open," she says excitedly.

"No, I mean I need to talk to the guy who gave me all the relationship trouble my mother told you I had," I say and insert _Pretty Woman_ into the DVD player.

"What exactly happened, dear?"

Her tone is as comforting as a cashmere sweater, that I tell her the short version, (which manages to include a tangent about Matt Appleton and the basketball debacle).

"I don't know about this man Greg and 'wasting the pretty,'" she says and hums a few bars of 'All Things Bright and Beautiful.' "But I do know you are fortunate to have your health," she finishes.

"Yeah, yeah, I know...and some hemp agrimony vitamins." Oh, maybe I shouldn't have said that, since you're not supposed to take medication if you're a Christian Scientist.

"I'll be praying for you, dear. Nothing inharmonious can exist in one of God's creatures. You won't be needing those vitamins anymore."

But when I hang up, I don't feel reassured. Somehow, Troy was more convincing. I shrug off my uncertainty and start to watch my favorite romantic comedy, as I intended before Alice's interruption. Fifty-four minutes later, right at the part when Julia Roberts sends an escargot flying across a fancy restaurant, the phone rings. I hit the pause button.

Oh my god! Three time's a charm, right? Alice's prayers worked, they worked! And so quickly too. I'm going to donate twenty percent of my income to the Christian Scientists for the rest of my life.

"Tali?" The voice I've yearned to hear for so long is so unexpected, I nearly drop the phone.

I cannot believe it. I don't believe it.

"Mom?"

"How are you? You should be feeling better after taking the hemp agrimony I sent you." Even though she sounds slightly jittery, I soak in her voice like a loofah sponge.

"Yes. Thanks, but—"

"And did Alice call you?"

"She did, just right now, actually, but—"

"Wonderful," she trills. "Because she cured three diabetics in two weeks—"

"What are you doing, using the phone?" My voice explodes like a popcorn kernel.

"Some things have changed in my life." That is an understatement. What could make my technophobic, organic-loving, cell-phone-avoiding mother change her mind?

"I'm getting married!"

If I am completely honest, my first response is jealousy. Pathetic, isn't it? After all these years without a husband, my mother deserves to find happiness with someone. But why is she having all the luck, when she hasn't even been looking? How did she snag a husband, when I can't secure a boyfriend—even after reading a hundred articles on the best spots to find a single bachelor, how to send him flirty body signals once our gazes have met across a crowded room, and how to decipher his body language to see if he's interested too?

I resolve to squash my id right now, squash it underneath the futon cushion.

My second response is shock. Not over her impending wedding but over her using the phone.

"I know this may come as a surprise," she continues, oblivious, "but I met this wonderful man while I was getting my vibrational energies realigned at the Deepak Chopra Center."

I slouch into the futon mattress. "How long have you even known each other?"

"For a few months."

A few months? Marriage! In the length of time I've spent deciding whether or not Graham likes me more than a friend-friend, my mother has gotten a fiancé? I sock the closest throw pillow with my fist. A few of its decorative beads pop off.

"Why didn't you say anything about him in your postcards?" I ask.

"I didn't know it would turn out like this." She sighs. "I know it seems a bit rushed, but I really like Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc? Jean-Luc? Oh. I sit up straight. That's kind of cool. If mom marries a Frenchman, we can go for holidays in Paris where I could sample Berthillon ice cream and see if it can beat Tosci's, window-shop at the original House of Chanel, climb the steps to Sacré Coeur pretending I'm Amélie, and fulfill my wish to visit Mont Saint-Michel, the Palace of Versailles _and_ the Chateau de Chambord.

This could be very good news indeed.

"Have you called Ris?" I ask with enthusiasm.

"She's next to know, although I'm not quite sure how these free minutes work with Jean-Luc's phone plan."

"You're getting married. What's his is yours. I'm sure he won't mind if you go over the limit. When do we get to meet him?"

"Sometime before the wedding," she says vaguely. "You'll be a bridesmaid of course."

Wow. Now, I have justification to browse through bridal magazines even though I don't have a fiancé, let alone a boyfriend. Visions of myself in a pastel silk gown with a boat neck silhouette, scoop back and removable velvet belt swirl through my head. I'd look exactly like page 63 in J Crew's fall catalogue.

But who's going to be my date to the wedding? I know a certain gentleman with a British accent who would fill out a tuxedo very nicely. I lick my lips. Very nicely.

My mother's voice intrudes my fantasy. "I just knew when I put those leaves in my baguwa—"

"Baguwa?" I ask. "Foliage?"

"Feng Shui. Didn't you read my card? And even if you didn't, it should be in one of those magazines you're always reading. It's a trend that always comes back in fashion." She sighs in exasperation. "If you just put something nice in the romance corner of your baguwa, you'll have better luck with relationships. What's in the right-hand corner of your bedroom, across from the door?"

I rise from the futon and shuffle towards my bedroom, but I already know the answer. "My laundry hamper."

"No wonder you dated a hard card! You have to move it."

"There isn't enough room in my closet or in the bathroom."

She tisks. "I'm sure Ris doesn't have a receptacle for dirty clothes in her romance corner. That is how she found August."

"Okay," I say, trying not to let resentment creep into my voice. "I'll find another spot for the hamper. What should I put in my romance corner instead?"

"I put maple leaves in mine, which is why I thought it was meant to be."

Pressing the phone to my ear, I return to the living room. "What have maple leaves got to do with your relationship?"

"Didn't I tell you? Jean–Luc is Canadian."

"He's what?"

"He's Canadian."

Is Jean-Luc the one who alerted her to the Canadian quarter scheme? Before I can ask, Mom tells me she's going to call Ris and hangs up.

I can't handle this. My mom has called me for the first time in eleven months to tell me she's getting married—and to a Canadian, to boot! While I am single, awaiting a package of steak knives and (not) awaiting a phone call from a British man who is most likely not into me. There are no more ice cream bars in the fridge. And there is a heap of dirty laundry in the romance sector of my Feng Shui baguwa.

I jerk upright. Now is the perfect time to implement the Tarot of _Sex_.

I follow Kirsten's instructions exactly.

In no particular order, I lay out DVDs from _Sex and the City_ 's six seasons onto the coffee table. Technological rainbows glitter across the living room. For good measure, I light St. Jude candles and Jasmine incense and put them in the romance corner of my bedroom, now free of the negative energy of the laundry hamper, which has been relocated to the fame area of my baguwa. I'm no aspiring supermodel, so I'm not concerned its presence will keep me from renown and acclaim.

Returning to the living room, I close my eyes, take a deep breath as if I were practicing yoga, and imagine one of my favorite scenes from the show: Carrie in her Givenchy gown, sipping cocktails with Big at the Monkey Bar. As I murmur, "I can't help but wonder, I can't help but wonder," I select one disc from the coffee table.

I hope I get the episode where Aidan buys Carrie a new Mac motherboard or the one where Big gives Carrie a Judith Leiber beaded swan clutch, even though I don't know how to interpret either one. There should be a manual. But Kirsten swears you don't need one. You just need to ask your _Sex_ -savvy friends to interpret—after whipping up a batch of Cosmopolitans.

I open my eyes. A disc from season three is clutched in my hands, its edge indenting a red groove into my sweating palms. I proceed onto the next stage of the tarot system and remove the ace, two, three, four, five and six of hearts from a deck of cards. Humming the show's theme song, I lay them face down on the table and pick one.

Three of hearts. Third episode on the disc.

I pop the DVD into the player and press fast forward three times.

With baited breath, I watch the credits roll. The third episode from season three is entitled, "Frenemies."

What does that signify for my pathetic romantic life?

* * *

After deliberating, drinking cocktails, and composing a list of cool Canadians (Matthew Perry, Alex Trabek, Kim Cattral, and Jason Priestly head the list), Jem, Kirsten, and I have concluded the following:

Graham is not my friend. He is a frenemy who, with his passive-aggressiveness, disturbs my equanimity and peace of mind. His friendship is another form of emotional tyranny, and I'm going to tell the emotional tyrant—ET for short—to go home, with his penguin blubber so enlarged that he needs two seats on his plane back to Britain.

I am no longer going to walk the emotional tightrope he's so cleverly created, but will move on.

Oh. And I am fabulooous!

# Chapter 31

BEARING A TRAY OF HOT LATTES and iced chai teas, I slowly trudge through the alleys of Chinatown, on my way back to the refurbished warehouse where Fordie, the very in-demand photographer flown in from South Africa, is shooting film for the Blush Fire campaign.

I was so excited when Lydia barged into my office a week ago and, in one of our few direct conversations, asked me to do her a favor and go to the photo shoot in her stead. Her eyes were bright and her face was flushed, so I thought she was coming down with a drug-resistant strain of flu. I agreed to her request, even though she's been ruder than usual to me after Lautrec decided to use my idea for the AL: Ambition advertising campaign instead of hers. Her emails to me lack a salutation and a signature—in direct violation of the email etiquette Benji described in an office memo three weeks ago. If she doesn't want a paper trail, she'll use Trish and Marci as her messengers, and because of their tendency to embellish, I'm not sure what's true and what's exaggeration.

Despite Lydia's catty tricks, I accepted because I'm dying to meet Veronica Steele and Liza Loney, the supermodels chosen for the ad campaign. It's rumored that Veronica's ample curves, untouched by any Beverly Hills surgeon, boosted sales of Vixen Lane's cotton lingerie line by fifty-five percent. Liza's not as established as Veronica, since an agent with Elite Models only discovered her a year ago at a vegetarian café in Oregon.

But all my enthusiasm to meet them evaporated once I arrived on set. Thinking I was being so professional, I shook the photographer's hand and said, "I'm looking forward to our collaboration, Mr. Fordie." His eyebrows rose and disappeared underneath the shaggy fringe, artfully cut for at least three hundred dollars, covering his forehead. "There is no 'mister.' It's just one word. Fordie. All the greats have one-word monikers. Iman. Jesus. Gandhi."

"The Unabomber," I muttered under my breath.

It was all downhill from there. Fordie gave me a quick once over, his gaze freezing on my shoes. "Are those kitten heels? Real fashionistas don't stop at the one-inch, they go for the four. Where are your four-inch heels?"

"They're on a break. Like Ross and Rachel," I said to his puzzled face. He then decided that I was best utilized as a mule to transport coffee.

Lydia would never have been elected coffee lackey. By now she would have wrangled an invitation to summer at Fordie's Hampton beach house. Honestly, I don't even know why I'd want to spend a weekend with a man whose shaggy hair is so long I'm surprised he can see through his camera lens and whose leather pants are so tight, my mom would warn him, that with such concessions to fashion, he risks getting an urinary tract infection.

But as much as I try to avoid the truth, it stares at me as bold as the graffiti sprayed on the door of the warehouse. It's not really Fordie who's bothering me. It's Graham.

After Graham hadn't popped into my office in three weeks, I casually mentioned Graham's name to Benji. Even after a month, my eyes still sting when I remember Benji's response. Apparently, Graham is in England.

England!

I was so mortified that Graham hadn't thought I was important enough to share news of his departure, I didn't pay attention to Benji's mumbled details.

Benji wouldn't have been that helpful anyway because he's completely obsessed with the upcoming anniversary party celebrating twenty-five years of collaboration with Lautrec Cosmetics. He spends most of his free time reviewing the catering menu, making sure no capers will be served since he's allergic, and reminding all employees who have ever worked on the Lautrec account that thanks to his poker skills, they each can invite up to seven guests.

All I know is that Graham left the country shortly after we spooned and that he had to have considered me a mere American acquaintance—and not a friend-friend. Otherwise, he would have said good-bye before he had returned to his home across "the pond."

With low spirits, I pull open the graffiti-covered door to the warehouse. Fordie quickly glances at me. "Stop ruining the light!" he snaps before motioning for me to come closer. He takes three quick swigs of a latte before dismissing me to a quiet corner, where exposed piping drips an intermittent stream of water.

At the center of the warehouse, the models, Veronica and Liza, straddle a lime green Vespa. Their legs are as impossibly long as their hair—glossy manes which would have made even Bon Jovi, circa 1986, jealous. One of Fordie's assistants, her hair coiled in a migraine-inducing bun, kneels in front of the Vespa.

She holds out an odd object in the shape of a circular gold lamé fan, as if she were one of the Roman warriors in the opening battle sequence of _Gladiator_. White screens cover the exposed brick wall behind the Vespa. Thanks to digital magic, the white will be transformed into the mountains, desert and burning sage of Taos.

"Veronica, increase your pout. Think romantic rendezvous."

"Ronday-who?" Veronica asks, as she complies. Although she looks like she's eating cranberries fresh from the bogs, Fordie seems pleased. He shoots a few more frames.

"Liza, make a micro-mini turn to the left," he says. Liza moves a nanometer. "Allegra, more sand!" he calls to one of his assistants—also clad in impossibly tight leather pants. She obligingly brushes a smattering of golden dirt onto Veronica's and Liza's calf-length boots. "Perfect," he sighs and finishes the rest of his roll of film.

A few seconds later, he announces it's time for a coffee break. He, his assistants, and the make-up artists head outside, presumably to indulge in a drag of nicotine to go with swigs of caffeine. Veronica and Liza plop into chairs with black canvas backs, only one iced chai for both of them.

Hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation and pick up tidbits of celebrity gossip or alternately make-up tips too secret to publish, I inch closer to their supermodel circle.

But instead of gossip dripping from Veronica's pout, tears trickle down her cheek.

"I think I'm depressed," she says in hush-hush tones to Liza.

"Isn't that a good thing though?" Liza asks, handing over her straw to Veronica. "You'll definitely lose weight. I tried to be depressed once, but—"

"Not all types of depression make you lose your appetite," I interrupt. Veronica and Liza simultaneously look up.

"Really?" Liza asks, stopping midway her attempts to retrieve the straw.

"Some types make you overeat," I say, remembering an article in my mental disorders class.

"But both types get you drugs that help you lose weight?" Liza asks with hope.

"Well..." I pause, not wanting to misuse my meager amount of information, "...there are different types of depression, and not all of them require pharmacological treatment."

"So how do I know what type of depression I have?" Veronica asks.

"You could have the mood swing variety," I suggest, wondering how even supermodels, like cowgirls, get the blues. "The ups and downs that come with everyday life." Liza frowns. "But to know what you have for sure, you need to be diagnosed according to the _DSM-IV_."

"The what?" they ask in unison.

"The _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition_." I pause for breath. "But I don't think,"—how do I say this?—"I don't think you have a clinically diagnosable disorder."

Seriously, what could a model possibly be depressed about?

Models have perfect skin, perfect clothes, perfect lives. If they have flaws, those are perfect too. Models don't—

"It's a boy, isn't it?" I ask, sure I'm right. Veronica nods her head and takes another sip of the iced chai.

"You got boy troubles, not depression. No drugs," I say firmly.

"Oh," Veronica says softly, and I really feel for her, even though her cheekbones are as high as the heels of my Blahniks, because I've recently been in a similar position. Thinking of Graham, my heart skips a beat.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, suddenly remembering my outbursts at the Blue Man Group show. "I have a good ear, and I majored in psychology in college."

She bites her lip. "Okay," she says after a pause. "I met this boy..." I lean in closer. I can't believe I'm bonding with the models. It's like having a sleepover backstage at a runway show.

I nod my head. "Uh-huh."

She sighs appreciatively. "He's got the most amazing muscular arms. And his voice...he could talk politics all day, and I'd actually listen," she says, as if surprised by the depth of her attraction. "Although he doesn't," she hastily adds. "We had a lot of fun together, just doing friend-date stuff."

"Not date-date stuff," I say in understanding, although startled by how similar our worlds are. Do even supermodels not know where they stand?

"Exactly." She nods her head and almost smiles. "I felt he liked me for more than this." She gestures to her voluptuous body, which VH1 claims is insured for seven figures. "He looked beyond my exterior, and got to know me here." She taps her solar plexus.

Her stomach? He got to know her stomach? What did he do? Bond with the inner spirit inhabiting her flawless, if underused, digestive system?

Veronica exhales mournfully, hand still on her surfboard-firm belly. "But he said, he said..." she pauses, tilts her head away from me, and removes her earrings, strands of alternating amber and rubies, from her lobes.

She assesses my face. "You know, these would look great with your eye and hair coloring." She turns towards Liza, who holds out her left hand.

"Veronica doesn't like to look at naked ears," Liza says to me as she accepts one of Veronica's glittering earrings.

"She doesn't?" I ask and shake my head. "That's not the point. I don't know about the hygiene of—"

But before I finish my sentence, Veronica inserts one thin gold hook through my right ear as Liza does the same to my left.

They examine the effect. "That's better," Veronica says. She and Liza settle into their canvas-backed chairs.

"Now can we return to the boy?" I ask, nevertheless appreciating the feel and sound of the earrings as they brush against my jaw line.

"He said," Veronica stops and peers at her cuticles, "he said that he didn't want things to get physical between us."

He didn't want to get physical with someone with a twenty-five-inch waist and endless legs? A supermodel who has a multimillion-dollar contract to be the face of Antoine Lautrec?

Who's been in the Vixen Lane fashion show?!

"Maybe he's gay?" I hazard.

"Or intimidated," Liza supplies. Her tone reminds me of something...someone...I look down at my shoulder bag and spot a sliver of hot pink.

"I've been reading this book, maybe it can help." I pull out Greg Behrendt's and Liz Tucillo's treatise on male and female relationships. I've been carrying it around in my bag, so I can return it to Kirsten, but somehow I keep on forgetting to give it back to her.

"Here." I hand over _He's Just Not That Into You_ to Veronica like it's a vintage Mary Quant skirt.

Liza grabs it and reads the cover. "He's just not—"

"I've heard of that book," Veronica cuts her off and sniffs. "And I don't think it applies to _models_." She snatches the book from Liza's waif hands and returns it to me.

"Oh, I see," I say, not knowing what else to suggest. I tuck the book into my bag. "At least you have your health...and no coffee stains on your teeth." They shoot me looks of death.

"I want to be depressed!" Liza exclaims.

"Do you have any other ideas?" Veronica asks, finishing off the last of their shared iced chai.

"Uhm..." I look into my handbag again, searching for inspiration. I find a tube of Lautrec lipstick, an earring useless without its mate, _The English Patient_ paperback, an old bank bill, Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy, and my perennially unused planner before my fingers clutch onto something shiny and round and familiar.

My compact.

"You could try the facial feedback hypothesis to make yourself feel better," I say enthusiastically.

They look at me as if I'm deranged. "The what?"

"You have a compact in your handbags, right?" They nod, and as they retrieve their favorite compacts, (Chanel for Liza, Lautrec for Veronica), I explain the theory behind the procedure, conveniently leaving out that thus far, it hasn't produced positive results. At least not for me.

"So is it working?" I say, while also smiling into my own compact, to demonstrate. Veronica was right. Her earrings do look great with my eye and hair coloring.

"I'm not sure," Veronica says through her smile. Since she's had a lot of practice smiling while talking, she sounds perfectly normal.

"What about now?" I ask five minutes later.

"My mouth is hurting a little bit," Liza confesses.

"I think I feel something..." Veronica pauses, "wait, wait...no that was hunger, not happiness."

The three of us, a trio of loneliness, continue holding compacts to our faces, smiling as if our lives depended on it.

"It's not working," Veronica says two minutes later. Uh-oh, I think I heard, yes that's right...sniffles. Maybe I should have mentioned a little disclaimer?

I snap my Lautrec compact shut. The Monet lilies don't, as they typically do, invoke a sense of awe at nature's beauty. "I'm sorry Veronica," I say, and give her a hug. "I don't know what to say. What was that boy thinking anyway?" Who gives up a supermodel who's clearly interested in him?

"He said he had found a new calling in life." Tears stream down her face in delicate rivers. "That he had to sacrifice relationships for a higher purpose, the greater good. He said—" Still managing to look attractive, she blows her nose.

I lean forward, thinking that she's going to say her misguided friend is making sacrifices for the church. For the temple. Or for the Communists. But commies are allowed to have wives. I think.

The front doors of the warehouse swing open. Fordie and his entourage bustle in, while Veronica sniffles once more, unable to get the words out.

Pigeons. Pigeons. Pigeons. Because if there's a cardinal rule on a make-up shoot, it's—

"Are you making the models' mascara run?" Fordie screeches just as Veronica finally finishes articulating her thought. "He said that he had to sacrifice his personal happiness for the," she sniffles, "Buh-buh-boston Red Sox!"

# Chapter 32

"YOU'RE MAKING SUPERMODELS cry now? Ordinary humans aren't enough?" I ask Doug, having dialed his number as soon as I had left the photo shoot. My voice sounds calm, because I don't want to scare the T passengers besides me, but inside my nerves are jangling.

He laughs. "Tal, good to hear from you."

He sounds the same. I thought his voice would be different somehow, hollow and weary, the way I imagine starving monks speak. But it's the same, golden and sure. Which is mildly irritating and yet reassuring at the same time.

"How did you hear about Veronica?" he continues.

"My new job, in advertising. It was one of the perks," I say, without sarcasm. Kurt Cobain wails from the earphones of the boy sitting next to me. I look at him, zoom in on his pierced eyebrow, and then onto the volume button of his mp3 player. He obligingly decreases it.

"I wonder if the Po book I sent you helped."

"Maybe." I flick my fingers against the window. "But before we get into that, I have to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth." I take a deep breath and give voice to my deepest fear. "Just to make absolutely, one hundred percent sure, this sacrificial thing, it wasn't..." I trail off.

Unbelievable! Pierced-eyebrow boy is now eavesdropping. I get up and choose a seat closer to the subway doors.

"...it wasn't an excuse to get rid of me?"

I hold my breath. I know I seem paranoid and obsessive, but it matters to me. Because I really thought that the minute Doug had found somebody better looking, with a greater matching attractivity, he'd forget about his Sox sacrifice. Besides, we're not dating anymore, so it's safe to put my paranoia on full display.

He sighs. "I told you, this is a thing between me and the Bambino."

"But a supermodel?" I screech. Passengers give me curious glances. I switch to a whisper. "Not even a regular model, but a supermodel?" I adjust my cell phone so it doesn't smush my new earrings into my skin, creating red indents on the side of my face. Veronica gave me her amber and ruby earrings as a gift. "They look better on you," she said. I don't believe her, but it was nice of her to say.

Doug sighs again. "Veronica was a mighty temptation, I have to admit," my stomach tightens, "but you know, you are wicked cool, too."

"Really?" I feel absurdly, disproportionately happy, the way I do when Jem and I are driving on the turnpike and we see a "No Tolls Ahead" sign.

"I liked all of your psychobabble, even though I gave you crap for it."

"Even the MHC genes theory?"

"Even that one. I miss them."

There's a long pause. I wonder if he's saying something else, if he's secretly telling me that he really misses me. The loudspeaker announces that we're approaching Broadway. Two more stops to go.

"Are you still there?" he asks.

"Why did you—?" I say. We speak at the same time.

"What were you going to ask me?" he says.

"Then why did you..." my voice sounds small and unsure, "...why did you only give me three stars?"

"What are you talking about?"

"In that 'his and hers' dating compatibility quiz to determine if this was a long-term liaison or just transitory togetherness, page 134, _Cosmo_ , four months into our relationship..."

"Oh, I remember that quiz, that was a good one," the girl next to me volunteers. Why am I surrounded by the crazies? I give her a look and stand.

"And?" Doug prompts.

"And question thirteen asked if there were a special Michelin guide to girlfriends with a five-star rating system, how many stars would you give her...and I saw your answer." I swallow. "You circled three. Why did you only give me three? I mean, five I can understand. That's reaching...but three?"

"You thought Pedro Martinez was a soccer player. And you turned off the game for a chick-flick marathon on that Lifetime movie channel."

"That's it? That was your whole reasoning?"

"That's it." The T doors open, and I brush past businessmen holding copies of the _Herald_.

It was Pedro? And the Sandra Bullock marathon? I thought Doug had given me only three stars because I wasn't thin or pretty or smart or witty or good enough. I thought it was because Doug finally realized all along what I had known from the beginning: we didn't match.

It wasn't me. It wasn't me. I laugh in relief and give the poetry-reading panhandler in the subway alleyway all of my spare change.

"One last question," I say over the sound of Doug's exasperated muttering. "Would you say I'm more of an Old Navy or Banana Republic kind of girl?"

"I see you more likely wearing Tim Wakefield's field shirt and nothing else."

I wrinkle my nose. "Number fourteen? That's it?"

"Forty-nine, but yes, that's it."

"Forget I asked," I say, although I'm pleased. In his own way, Doug thought he and I—that we—had matched. We had similar thread counts...although I'm glad to pass on all his navy caps, field shirts, and lucky red socks to Veronica.

As I trudge through the T station, I notice an unusually high number of coeds are sporting Harvard sweatshirts. "Speaking of clothing, sports and psychobabble...did Harvard beat Yale this weekend?"

"Not sure. Why?"

Another male student covered in Harvard pride struts past me. "Birging," I whisper.

"Binging?" Doug asks.

"No, not binging. Birging. B.I.R.G. As in Basking In Reflected Glory. A team of scientists showed that people increase their confidence," I ignore Doug's groan and press on, "by connecting themselves to others who are more successful—often to a sports team. The psychologists observed how many students wore school sweatshirts the Monday after a Saturday football game. They disc—"

"Which schools?"

"Does it matter?"

"Consider it ambiance."

"One was definitely in the Top Ten. The one with the badger. No, no—the wolverine mascot."

"Go Michigan!" Doug yells, and follows it with an odd animal cry.

I gasp. "Do you think birging is responsible for your—the entire Boston male population's—obsession with the Red Sox?"

"They haven't won once in almost a century. If only Carlton Fisk...never mind. No. I'm not binging off of the Sox's glory."

"Right, right. You should be corfing instead."

"God bless you."

"I didn't sneeze or cough. I said 'corfing.' As in C.O.R.F., Cut Off from Reflected Failure."

Doug snorts. "Scientists have an odd sense of humor."

I spot another Sox-clad head, taking my running count to twenty-two. Doug's right, birging can't explain his loyalty to the Red Sox. Why would Boston men identify with a team which hasn't been blessed with a World Series trophy since 1918?

Such devotion could even be detrimental to their health. In the late nineties, Paul Bernhardt measured the testosterone levels in male college students before and after the guys watched a sports game against an arch rival. Bernhardt discovered that men who saw their team suffer in defeat showed _lowered_ levels of the male sex hormone compared to the students who witnessed their team achieve victory.

Could Bernhardt's research explain how Doug ended his relationship with me—and forwent one with supermodel Veronica—so easily? Has Doug's testosterone levels been affected by his loyalty to the Red Sox? I can't measure testosterone levels from a sample of his saliva, nor can I ask him. I'm not about to share this particular psychological tidbit with Doug, especially when the Sox are likely down.

My running total of spotted Sox caps spikes to twenty-seven. Doug and his fellow Red Sox Nation compatriots must get some deep, abiding satisfaction from rooting for the perennial underdog...

...a mystery which science will never unravel.

I skip up the steps towards the fresh autumn air. For the first time, I truly hope that magical thinking works. "So how many games are the Sox behind the Yankees? Two and a half?"

Dough chokes. "Haven't you read the papers? The Sox aren't behind the Yankees, they're playing them in the AL championship series. One step away from The Pennant."

"You really think you can break this curse? Just one man?"

"Well...they are down by three games, and it's a best-of-seven series, but they won last night. If the movement of butterfly wings can cause an earthquake, I think...I think my sacrifice will help them recover."

"Are you," I can't believe it, "are you reading philosophy?" If Doug tells me he's been reading Camus, I won't be able to hold back my laughter, even though it might hurt his feelings.

"I've been reading more than _Suave_ magazine, now that I have all this woman-free time."

"Like what?"

"Alright, alright. Mostly Sports Guy articles on Page 2," he says sheepishly. "I tried reading Hawking's _Brief History of Time_ , but it put me to sleep."

I traipse into the office lobby and dash into the elevator before its doors close. "On the subject of confessions..."

This is going to be hard. I can't tell this to Doug, but if I asked him about the Michelin guide, if he already knows about forwarding his mail to Derek Jeter, then I can reveal this small secret.

"I...uhm..." I gulp. He's never going to forgive me. Maybe this isn't the appropriate moment. We've just reconnected and everything, and the Sox are down. No, he told me the truth, I'll tell him the truth.

"What, what?"

"I never told you this, but for a really long time...even when we were dating, I had a crush on that player, the one they call the Clincher." There, except for the possible connection between Sox loyalty and low testosterone, my last secret from Doug is finally out.

"What?" He gasps. "I don't believe this. You had a crush on a...a...Yankee!"

"Also a married man," I say quickly as Marci thrusts a small parcel wrapped in brown paper into my hands. There's no return address, but there's a cheery red postmark announcing its country of origin.

"Tal? Tal? You still there?" Doug's queries barely pierce my haze.

"Talk to you later," I say quickly and hang up the phone.

The parcel is from England.

# Chapter 33

NINE DAYS LATER, Graham's parcel—still unopened—rests on my coffee table. I didn't want to open it. I have the gnawing feeling that once I unwrap the package, Graham will irrevocably exit my life. And even though he's acted with poor form, I don't want that.

But today, Jem and Kirsten have convinced me it's time to confront that fear. We all stare at the parcel in bafflement, the same way we stare at the TV screen after inadvertently stumbling upon a golf championship while channel surfing.

"What do you think is inside?" I ask.

Jem pokes the parcel. "You open it."

"No, you open it," I say.

"I'll open it," Kirsten says and grabs the package. She slices through the masking tape holding the wrapping together. Dry as a disappointed heart, the brown paper falls to the floor.

"What is it?" I ask, my throat suddenly tight.

"It's...it's..." Kirsten swallows. "Here." She presses Graham's gift into my cold hands.

It's the hardcover edition of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. The fifth in the series and the next on my very short "to-read" list.

I flip open the book and discover a note written on cotton cardstock, Graham's initials embossed in navy at the top.

My brother Gareth used his literary connections to get this copy. I thought out of all of my friend-friends, you'd appreciate it most. Regards, G.

Wondering if it will smell like cinnamon and evergreens, I bring the card to my nose, which is when I see the hardcover has been autographed by JK Rowling herself.

I stare at Jem and Kirsten with wide eyes. "What do you think this means?"

"It means there's an entire ocean between you." Jem retrieves the parcel's brown wrapping from the floor. "Look at how many stamps separate you and the emotional tyrant."

"That's right. It means that ET finally went home," Kirsten chimes in her two pence. "Remember he's not your friend, but a frenemy." She nods meaningfully.

I clutch Kirsten's sleeve in entreaty. "What if the Tarot is wrong?"

Kirsten shakes her head. "The Tarot is only showing you what you don't want to see. After you spooned the whole night, he left." She pries my hand from her sleeve. "He left the country without telling you." Relentless, she continues. "Yours was just a casual, temporary bond, the kind forged between thirteen-year-old girls at horseback riding camp. They vow to keep in touch, but the connection dissolves after a few exchanges of letters."

"Horseback riding camp?" Jem asks, one eyebrow arched.

"Maybe I should call him. Ask him to explain," I say, but my voice lacks resolve. There's no way I could call Graham and put him through an Inquisition which would make Spanish priests shrivel in their seats.

Why did he send me mixed (Greg would say nonexistent) signals? Were we really friend-friends? If so, why did he leave without a monosyllable of explanation?

But even if I did call Graham, such questions would never escape my lips. I am not a confrontational person. This attitude is deep-rooted and long-standing. When I was four years old and Paige Blanchett stole my Barbie in nursery school, the next day, I gave her the pink plastic comb which came with the Barbie, so that the doll's blonde hair, now in Paige's custody, wouldn't get tangled.

That's how I approach conflicts. I don't.

I avoid them.

I cradle the autographed book. It weighs heavy in my hands, almost as heavy as my heart felt when Benji told me that Graham had returned to England.

"Don't be headstrong and try to ignore the Tarot," Kirsten says, reaching for the box of Godiva chocolates sent to me from La Galleria Bianca as a thank you for my work on the invitation to their grand opening. She wrinkles her nose. "Why are there only white chocolates?"

"You don't want to know," Jem says and removes the Harry Potter hardcover from my hands. "Tali, I love you, but your over-analysis would give even Freud a migraine. If we don't leave soon, Kirsten and I are going to miss our movie and you're going to miss all the succulent hors d'oeuvres at La Galleria's opening." She pushes me towards my room.

"I'm not sure I'm in the mood," I say, stopping short of my bedroom threshold.

"But you can't not go to the opening when you designed the invitations for it." Kirsten abruptly stops riffling through the chocolate box. "That's like not attending your own birthday party."

"What precisely are you going to do instead?" Jem asks and marches into my room, barely avoiding getting socked in the head by my Feng Shui bell, whose tinny jingle is supposed to ring romance into my life.

Jem flicks on the light and heads straight to my desk. "Write messages in these?" She holds up a stack of "miss you" greeting cards I've bought compulsively from the nearby pharmacy when I've popped inside the store on a mission to buy something else entirely. Now I can see why sending postcards holds such an appeal to my mom; they certainly have more personality than a text message.

"I found them when I was searching for sticky notes," Jem says as I snatch the cards out of her hands. Guiltily, I glance at the remaining evidence of my behavior modification project: my self-monitoring journal, my BMP spreadsheet, my self-contract...and several glossy shoe stickers.

Jem slides a shiny shoebox from underneath my bed, removes my 3.5-inch black satin pumps from their protective tissue, and dangles one from her index finger. "If you're so shaken up by Graham, you should return these."

"No, no, I'm over Graham," I say, half-believing my lie, as white as La Galleria Bianca's dress code.

Jem smiles with satisfaction. "Splendiferous."

"Maybe you'll find a new romantic prospect at the opening," Kirsten says, speaking around a mouthful of melting white chocolate. "Someone whom you can lavish all your pretty on."

I remain doubtful. What kind of man will I find at a place which doesn't allow you to wear the little black dress, assuming you've found the perfect one?

* * *

"Your invitation, please." A young man with a long ponytail, but a pathetically thin goatee, bars my entry to La Galleria Bianca.

I search the white Longchamps tote I borrowed from Jem. "It's here somewhere. I designed them, you know." Undercurrents of pride eddy through my voice, unaffected by the skepticism (and hipster cool) currently emanating from Thin Goatee.

The invitations turned out fairly spectacular, if I do say so myself. In the ultra-modern Geo Sans Light font, the front of the slim, rectangular invitation reads, "The only place, besides a wedding, where it's fashionable to wear white after Labor Day." Underneath, in small italics, the invite instructs its recipients to turn off the lights.

Taking a cue from David Tutera's advice to use invitations to generate anticipation for a special event, I had the printers use glow-in-the-dark ink for the venue, date, and time details. The response has been overwhelmingly positive; hence the two-pound box of all white Godiva chocolates. Benji told me the gallery owner himself had hand-picked each chocolate morsel.

"Almost found it," I say, trying to ignore the impatient rustling of the patrons behind me. By a quirk of fate, La Galleria Bianca's grand opening turned into the most sought after invite on Beantown's social calendar. A few weeks ago, one of the more prominent artists featured at the opening, Daniel Heliotrope, tried to commit suicide after his long-time girlfriend broke up with him.

Although his attempt was unsuccessful, the drugs he overdosed on wreaked havoc with his nervous system, and even after six weeks, he remains in a coma. The work of art he created especially for La Galleria Bianca could be Heliotrope's last one ever, and according to Boston's glitterati, witnessing it has a certain caché.

"This girl has lost her marbles," someone grumbles behind me.

"Actually, I left them on my dresser, next to a sack of Canadian quarters and my Chippendales calendar. FYI—I'm not referring to furniture." Wondering where the courage to voice that sassy comment came from, I reel out the invitation I designed, hand it to Thin Goatee, and sashay into La Galleria Bianca.

Everything–the walls, floors, and display cubes–is all white. Wandering through the gallery is like visiting a hospital, but the air smells like a fancy spa instead of like disinfectant and high-class art adorns the walls instead of bland reproductions.

Carrying square ceramic trays, waiters in white tie suits swirl between the guests, most of whom look like they've dressed for a Hyannis Port wedding.

One of the waiters almost knocks me into a display of handmade bowls made of various natural elements such as finely cut lemon slices and thinly pressed bok choy leaves. Fortunately, none of the three-thousand-dollar bowls falls over and collapses to the floor.

I scurry away from the bowls which cost as much as a vacation to Europe and find myself staring in front of a door, completely white except for a silver cross-shaped knocker which studs the door's center.

I stand, slightly bent forward, arms crossed, head tilted to the right, hoping to appear as if I understand why there's a door which doesn't lead anywhere erected in the middle of the gallery. I don't feel knowledgeable at all, but as if I'm watching a Bollywood film without the subtitles.

My haze of confusion is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a cute boy with wide eyes and a wiry frame. He stands close enough to me to make the skin on my arm prickle. For the next three minutes, I peek at him from the corner of my eye and then switch my gaze back to the door. It's middle school behavior, but I can indulge in it guilt-free; he's doing it too.

Cute Boy. Door. Cute Boy. Door. Cute Boy.

Oh. He's abandoned the rapid back and forth glances and now stares at me outright. Is he going to compliment me on my opal earrings? Or perhaps on my profile? That seems appropriate for an art exhibit.

I sigh with delight. What a romantic story to tell our circle of friends. "We met at an art gallery opening, and he complimented me on my striking silohuette. Wasn't that so clever?"

"Are you—are you part of the installation?" Cute Boy asks.

My head jerks in surprise. The rectangular-frame glasses Kirsten perched on top of my head slide down over my eyes, and Cute Boy's image becomes blurred as if I'm gazing at him with my head underwater. "What?"

"I've been trying to analyze it, and I think I now comprehend." He gestures to the door and then to me. "You've been standing here, looking lost...and the door, the cross...are you waiting for Godot?"

Godot? Who? What? "Excuse me?"

" _Waiting for Godot_? Beckett's existentialistic masterpiece?" he asks as if everyone's been buzzing about it on the "what's trending now" magazine pages.

Now that he mentions it, the title does seem familiar. I turn to him with bright eyes. "Was that the one which brought Oprah's book club back?"

The corners of his mouth pinch. "No, I believe that was _Anna Karenina_ ," he says stiffly and marches towards the installation of bok choy bowls.

My shoulders sag and tears threaten to trickle down my face. I wonder if Dr Bach's Rescue Remedy, the one mom insists I carry with me always, can save me from my intellectual inferiority. I don't belong here. I should return home to redo my hot oil hair treatment. Plus, tonight, 1985 is being featured on VH1's _I Love the Eighties Strikes Back_.

Doogie Howser. Judge Wapner. The Clapper. Champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Thinking of those eighties classics, my spirits revive, and I suddenly become ravenous for the delicacy causing the buttery scent now wafting around Godot's door.

Armed with a napkin full of stuffed mushroom caps and three flutes of champagne, I take refuge on a wooden bench tucked away in the gallery's shadows. Although my location is at the periphery of the exhibit's activity, one of the catering staff manages to hone in on me. "Some spanakopita?" she asks, lowering her ceramic tray.

I take seven. "I'm pregnant," I say to explain my gluttony. Scandalized, she frowns at me.

Forgot about those champagne flutes.

"Those aren't mine," I say quickly. "Those belong to Godot."

Unconvinced, she disappears into the bustle of the well-heeled crowd. Without much enthusiasm, I gobble down the warm hors d'oeuvres and search for a place to discard my collection of dirty napkins.

I bob through a huddle of patrons who encircle a display cube almost as tall as me. Perched on top is a white tray, the same kind the catering staff is using to pass the hors d'oeuvres. I inch forward to get a better look at what it holds, and discover rows and rows of carefully arranged sugar-studded candy: Sour Patch Kids, gummy worms, peach slices, and sour watermelons. It's Willy Wonka's version of a fruit basket. Next to a glass barrel full of toothpicks, a small screen flashes messages of encouragement. "Take one. Take one NOW."

But not one of Boston's elite makes a move. They stand at the display cube's periphery and whisper to each other from behind cupped hands.

The women are probably afraid the empty calories will stick to their bony hips. Determined to show them they don't have to be slaves to their diet, I close the gap between me and the tray covered in a riot of sweet color.

I grab a toothpick and try to spear a gummy worm with it. I'm so focused on my mission, it takes me a while to realize that the whispers have stopped. The whole room is unnaturally quiet.

Thin Goatee storms through the silent crowd and pins his steely gaze on me. "Do I need to call security to escort you out?"

The toothpick slides from my fingers and drops to the bright white floor. "Why? What did I do?"

"Don't feign innocence. It won't work on me." He brushes past me and examines the ceramic tray. Finally, he exhales slowly. "You almost destroyed Daniel Heliotrope's masterpiece. And likely his last work. Ever." He places special emphasis on the last syllable.

My cheeks flush with embarrassment, becoming as crimson as Harvard's mascot. "This...this is Daniel Heliotrope's last work?" I gesture awkwardly to the display cube and the tray crowning its surface. "But I didn't know. I didn't realize. It's has the same tray as the catering company. The same one."

"I think you should leave now," Thin Goatee says, unwittingly echoing the saleswoman who drove Julia Roberts out of Rodeo Drive.

I study the faces in the crowd, hoping that someone will somehow acknowledge that it just as easily could have been one of them who made the terrible faux pas of trying to take a nibble from Daniel Heliotrope's last work of art, hoping that one of them will tell Thin Goatee he's making "a big mistake. Huge."

But no one does. Instead, they part, creating a clear path between me and the exit. As I race through their sea of snobbery, the sound of their laughter mixed with my sobs roars through my ears.

# Chapter 34

HOT, STICKY TEARS stream down my cheeks as I tug down the side zipper of the white jacquard dress I wore to La Galleria Bianca. I just barely resist the urge to roll it up into a compact ball and stuff it at the very bottom of my laundry hamper taking residence in the fame area of my Feng Shui baguwa.

As I slip into a black tank top and striped pajama bottoms, I silently rant about the snobby elitists who laughed at me. They wouldn't know true fashion, even if their chic brownstones were flooded with Tyra Mail. They wouldn't be able to identify true kindness even if a thousand Buddhist monks in saffron robes were their neighbors. They wouldn't—

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone banging on my apartment door. "Tal, open up. Open up! It's me. Doug."

Compelled by the urgent tone in his voice, I rush out of my bedroom and stare at the door, where Doug continues impatiently to bang on the other side. Nonjudgmental company feels like just the right remedy for my humiliated state—even if said company prefers a roster of tobacco-chewing, middle-aged men to dating me.

When I open my door, he rushes inside, bringing with him the scent of dried sweat, spilt beer, and overwhelming joy. "They won, they won! The Red Sox are the World Series Champions! Whoo-hoo!" He picks me up and swings me in a circle. The door jamb chuffs my ankle. "I did it! You did it! We did it together," he says, finally putting me down.

"Not really," I say, remembering how I self-medicated with TV re-runs and coffee almond toffee ice cream bars after he dumped me. "This victory is all you and your magical thinking."

His face, full of elation, falters. For the first time, he looks uncertain. I poke him in the chest, and despite my frazzled state, I register how firm it is.

Very nice, all-American, Grade-A pectorals.

"Don't think you can just waltz back here, as if nothing happened. As if you didn't stomp all over my heart for the sake of your precious team."

He covers my hands with his own. "Tal, I'm sorry for hurting you. But please don't ruin this moment for me. The guys wanted to celebrate for twenty-four straight hours. I could be with them, right now, but I'm not. I wanted to share this victory with _you_."

Suddenly, I remember that Veronica's phone number is likely burning a seductive trail inside his wallet, and he could have chosen to share this victory with her instead of with me. My heart begins to soften. The sight of his tan forearm covered in fine, golden hair doesn't hurt either.

I grab Doug's hand and propel him towards the kitchen. "Tell me about the game."

While he attempts to mix us a batch of Cosmopolitans, which I know he secretly prefers to beer, he shares the details: how the Red Sox earned their berth into the American League Championship Series with a wild card, how they lost three games (in a best-of-seven series) to the Yankees, before the Sox turned it around in Game 4. Game 5 was apparently a real nail-biter. Doug went through an entire roll of chewable antacid tablets during it, but thanks to Big Papi's single in the fourteenth inning, the Sox won, giving them The Pennant.

Drinks in hand, we return to the living room where he launches into highlights of the World Series, when the Sox faced off against the St Louis Cardinals. A pole named Pesky figured prominently in Game 1, while Curt Schilling's courage dominated Game 2. Apparently, Schilling's right ankle tendon was only held together by three tiny stitches, and as he pitched, his sock became soaked in blood. Doug marvels at the symbolism before narrating Games 3 and 4.

"No more chants of 1918!" he says, eyes bright. My apartment doesn't seem large enough to contain his happiness. He rubs my arm. "By now you'd be giving me a lecture on the psychology behind the home-field advantage. Something's wrong."

"Everything's fine," I say, but my voice wobbles as a fresh wave of humiliation caused by the incident at La Galleria Bianca threatens to return.

He tugs on my big toe, tucked under my knee, in a motion designed to convince me to stretch out my legs on the futon. "What happened today?"

As Doug massages my tired foot arches, I recount my experience at the gallery. "They were all laughing at me Doug. It was awful." I sniffle loudly.

Doug abruptly rises from the living room futon. I hear the sounds of kitchen drawers opening and water running in the sink. A few minutes later, he returns to the living room, bearing a moistened kitchen towel, which he uses to wipe away dried tears from my face. "Thanks," I say softly.

He leaves again without saying a word. Deprived of his body warmth, I become acutely aware of how much I enjoyed having him next to me. With no warning, he springs like a jack-in-the-box from behind the futon, two fingers pressed to the side of his head.

"Unagi," he says and smiles down at me. But his impersonation of Ross Gellar from the season six episode of _Friends_ does not work its usual magic.

He frowns. "I guess I'm going to have to use stronger stuff from my repertoire." After removing Jem's headphones from her mp3 player, he hooks it to our stereo system. A few seconds later, the distinctive voice of Fred Schneider floods the living room.

He crosses his arms. "'The Love Shack' always makes you giggle. Alright, alright. I'm not beaten yet," he says to my unmoved expression. Like a NASA satellite, he hones in on a battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ and flips through its dog-eared pages.

"Let's see how your pretty boy Mr. Darcy fares through the Shizzolator." He clears his throat and begins reading one of my favorite passages, but adds distinctly Snoop Dogg flair to Austen's treasured words. "Inizzle vainizzle I havizzle struggizzled. Itizzle willizzle not dizzle. My feelizzles willizzle notizzle be reprizzled. Yizzle mustizzle allowizzle me to tellizzle yizzle howizzle ardentizzly I admirizzle and lovizzle yizzle."

Although this gambit has cheered me up immensely, I suppress my laughter, because I want to see how far Doug will go to elevate my spirits.

"Nothing?" Defeated, he closes the book. "I'm out of ideas. Any suggestions?"

I scurry into the bathroom and emerge a few seconds later snapping my tweezers like a crab on her way to a beauty pageant. "How about plucking the bizarrely long eyebrow hair over your right eye?"

Besides the small scar pockmarking his chin, this is the one flaw to mar his gorgeous face. For some unknown reason, it will give me deep satisfaction to remove it.

"Modification of my body. That's your path to happiness?" he asks. I nod in assent. Vigorously.

Doug shrugs. "Fine."

I press on his brow to tilt his head back, lean in closer, and cup his chin. Unbidden and unwanted, a memory of me holding a pair of eyelash curlers to Graham's lashes floods my mind.

Just as I successfully push the memory away, Doug gently pushes me away. "No, no, no. I can't go through with it."

I laugh.

"I'm glad my fear is funny to you," he says, and curls into a ball at the farthest edge of the futon.

"Don't sulk, Doug," I say after I finish giggling.

"I don't plan to." Eyes gleaming, he removes the tweezers from my hands, lays them on the coffee table, pats my pajama-clad leg, and motions for me to sit on his lap. Yielding to his entreaty, I straddle his thighs.

He brushes my cheeks with his thumbs. "You never did give me a congratulatory kiss."

"I thought Curt Schilling deserves all the glory, not you." But even as the last syllable leaves my lips, I dip my head and give him a quick peck on the mouth.

"That was weak sauce. That's winning a game against the lowest rated team in the American League. Gimme something better."

I lean in again, tug at the short blond hairs on the nape of his neck, and kiss him softly, keeping my eyes open.

"Getting there," he says huskily. He deepens the kiss, and traces lazy circles near my spine, sending shivers up and down my back. "Mmmm," he murmurs against my lips, while unclasping my bra. "Now let's celebrate like they won the Series."

I pull away from him, although he has already successfully unhooked my bra. "Don't think you can go all the way tonight just because your team did."

"Duly noted." He rapidly flips me onto the futon so that he's on top. He slowly slides down one spaghetti strap of my tank top, and trails soft kisses on my bare skin.

He grins playfully. "Do you remember the third word of your concussion memory test?" One warm hand snakes down my upper body. "I'm going to pay it special attention tonight. Very special attention."

As Doug makes good on his promise, the remaining traces of humiliation disappear, and I abandon myself to his single-minded focus. _Dr Bernhardt would find no testosterone deficiencies in Doug's saliva_ , is my last coherent thought before my own hormones completely take over.

* * *

Sunlight streams through an opening between my bedroom window shades. Its warmth caresses my toes. I stretch my languid body and replay the events of last night in my head. I had forgotten how clever Doug's fingers are.

Although I could linger in bed for another hour, the aroma of something cooking in the kitchen beckons to me. I sweep aside my new pink, Feng Shui-approved sheets and pad, barefoot, into the kitchen where I discover that the romantic fantasy I had while brushing my teeth the morning after I launched my behavior modification project has come to life.

Only I'm not wearing a terry cloth bath robe, but a faded cotton Red Sox t-shirt. The blueberry pancakes appear to be burnt, and their chef is not a man with blue-gray eyes who has a British accent, but a very shirtless Doug, who's completely forgotten the reason he's holding a stainless steel spatula because he's too busy rehashing details of the Sox's victory to a friend on the phone. Hence the burnt pancakes.

He turns and spots me. "Hey, sunshine," he says sheepishly and murmurs good-byes before snapping his phone shut. He gestures to the living room coffee table, where two tumbler glasses brimming with orange juice, along with half a dozen different newspapers, await. "Got some supplies for pancakes when I woke up."

As I settle onto the living room futon and tuck my legs underneath me, I can't help but wonder if the cheer in his voice is caused by the Red Sox finally winning the World Series or because we got back together. But would it really be so awful if his joy were due to a combination of both?

"I got _all_ the papers. I even found some from last weekend, during the ALCS saga. I'm thinking about doing a little scrapbook or something."

Tickled by the idea of Doug unleashing his inner Martha Stewart, I paw through the collection on the living room table. Pictures of sweating, hugging and slightly overweight men dominate every front page. Although the sight of the team's signature red 'B' doesn't make me nauseous the way it used to, I skip over those pages. I've never been one for the sports section, just the comics, movie reviews, and most importantly, the pages devoted to weddings and engagements.

Looking for the society pages of the _Globe_ , I unfurl the paper.

"I guess I should take down the reverse the curse poster, huh?" Doug asks.

But my attention is focused on the image staring up at me. "I know this girl," I say softly before I realize _why_ she's in the paper. My heart skids to a stop.

Lydia.

Strong make-up. Glossy lips. Smiling. Radiant.

Lydia.

Bouquet of flowers in her hand. Veil gracing her head.

Lydia.

In a wedding dress.

# Chapter 35

I FEEL LIKE the turnstiles at the T have rammed me deep in my gut, again and again, and the pain is so intense I can barely breathe. After coming to a screeching halt, my heart resumes beating, but it feels red and prickly like it's just been waxed and then rubbed over with sea salt.

Married? Married? Married.

Not caring to read the fine details of Lydia's union to Graham, I crumple up the inky pages. As my fingers close around the paper, formerly puzzling pieces click together like a Kate Spade clutch clasp:

Graham left the States to organize the final preparations of welcoming Lydia to his family. Lydia's been preoccupied with upgrading her apartment to rent it to a wealthy tenant before she and Graham find a new residence, suitable for a husband and wife. The day she came into my office, flushed and bright-eyed, and asked me to go to the Blush Fire photo shoot with Fordie, she didn't have a fever, she was simply excited over the impending wedding.

And I thought she was suffering from an extra-strong strain of the flu.

Every cell in my body shrivels at the thought of their country home in Hampstead Heath, holding hands as they take the rail into the City, forgoing cars because London's mayor has increased the congestion charge again...assuming they decide to reside in London.

Lydia could insist on remaining in Boston to continue her ascent up the Katzenberg creative ladder, maybe even leveraging her position into a bigger one at a more prestigious firm in New York. I gasp. Would Graham really give up ownership of Petit Four for her? But that's not my concern anymore, is it?

My throat hurts from holding back tears. I can't cry, not now, not in front of Doug. How can I explain my tears to him when I can hardly explain them to myself? It shouldn't hurt this much, not after all this time of not seeing Graham, not after I've gotten back together with an earnest, good-looking guy like Doug.

"Tal?" Doug's tentative tone pierces my jumble of thoughts. He's sitting next to me, proffering a plate of pancakes in various flavors of burnt. Before my numb fingers reach for the plate, my phone rings, so I grab it instead.

"Tali," Ris says, urgency filling her voice. "We have to visit mom in Canada ASAP."

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive first?" I ask Ris, as she (clad in beige, of course) navigates the turnpike. We left Boston forty minutes ago. She's supposed to take the first leg of our road trip from Boston to Montreal, but dark circles form patterns underneath her eyes, and she keeps rubbing them.

She rubs her eyes again. "No, I'm okay."

"Driving sleepy is the physiological equivalent of driving drunk," I say. "That's why there's so many truck driver accidents at 3 AM." I turn on the radio. Only commercials. Perfect. "So if you want to switch now and take a nap—"

"I think I'll be fine, Tali."

I shrug. When have I ever won an argument with Ris? "What were you doing last night anyway?"

"Grading papers and playing Monopoly with August." Oh. I feel a pang in my stomach, which is also starting to feel itchy.

I don't know why I agreed to leave behind my boyfriend and take time off from work for six hours (assuming no traffic) in a car, six hours of feeling itchy around my sister, who is bound to tell me boring stories about August and her Ivy League professors.

But Ris convinced me it was essential that we see mom. Apparently, after learning that mom was visiting Jean-Luc at his Canadian home, Ris tried to call Jean-Luc's number several times (since mom still doesn't have a phone) to ask about the wedding. When she tried to speak to him in French, he laughed, and said he spoke Quebeçois which is completely different from its Parisian counterpart, and that's why they didn't understand each other.

A very reasonable and non-suspicious response, only Ris played back the voice message he left for her to one of the hockey players at Brown...and he said Jean-Luc wasn't Quebeçois at all.

Even if Ris didn't have a convincing argument, I suppose I'd want to come with her anyway, just to see mom after all of these months. Plus, I thought a road trip would give me time and space to digest news about Graham's recent marriage, to analyze if rekindling my relationship with Doug is such a brilliant idea—even if he has the most sensual arm hair in all of North America—and to criticize myself for thinking about Graham when I'm dating Doug.

Since the air is fresher in Canada, I thought the trip would help me to sort out everything. If things need to be sorted out. Maybe I'm making a big deal over nothing.

Nothing in the form of a British accent, blue-gray eyes, and scented MHC genes.

Even though I know Graham is married, I can't help but wonder what the subtext is behind his Harry Potter gift. But that subtext means nothing compared to wedding vows. Nor does it mean anything compared to being in a relationship with a boy who likes me, who snuggled me in bed, and woke up in the middle of the night to ask me if I was smelling his armpits.

I look out the window and admire the red, yellow, and orange foliage. The leaves remind me of molting chickens that I once saw in a documentary about rescued farm animals. I smile to myself, glad that my days of Sir David bird documentaries are long behind me. On the window, I trace my and Doug's initials inside a heart. Immature but it feels good. The car jerks as Ris changes lanes, and the lower case "d" turns into a "g." I sigh.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

"No, everything's peachy."

"Because normally by now you'd be trying to convince me to abandon my neutrals for some ridiculous color you saw in that magazine, the one with the oddly placed exclamation point in the title..." she trails off.

She seems genuinely concerned. I don't usually talk to Ris about my relationship issues because it normally makes me feel that the reason I can't keep a steady relationship is not because I'm dating hard cards or because there's a laundry hamper in the romance corner of my baguwa, but simply because I'm romantically incompetent. (Despite memorizing dating advice the way Ris memorized Latin verb conjugations.)

But six hours of driving, and there's only neo-con talk shows, hip hop, and commercials on the radio. It would be nice to talk through everything with someone who has a fresh ear, fresh perspective. I'll give her the short version.

"Remember after my half-birthday, and I said that Graham was merely a friend-friend I met at work...well..."

Everything erupts in a volcano of romantic information. I can't help myself. Talking about Graham takes us out of Massachusetts and through New Hampshire. The Vermont foliage flies by as I delve into the complications with Doug...and even into a side tangent about an overwhelming college crush I had on an international student named Paulo. He had a unibrow, but he was the only guy in my dorm hall who didn't have a countdown till the Olsen twins' eighteenth birthday.

"You do have a point about rules being different when it comes to international men," Ris shrugs, "but Paulo is in South America now, and Graham is in the UK."

Her voice rings with the sterling silver of logic. Graham is on another continent; Doug is here. There's nothing to obsess over, debate about, or sort through. Now that his Sox have their precious pennant and trophy, Doug is emotionally and physically available for me. Sox aside, he has never acted like an emotional tyrant, and he likes me. Really likes me. As he showed me last night.

Twice.

My romantic life will be perfect once I remove the reverse the curse poster from his bedroom ceiling.

"I completely forgot," Ris says. "Can you reach my bag? I brought the _Dirty Dancing_ soundtrack and the movie with me. Just in case we have time to watch."

Graham isn't the only one whose sister made him watch _Dirty Dancing_. Ris and I used to watch it together, in pretend sleepovers, where we'd fall asleep huddled in blankets in front of the TV.

I slip the CD into the music player and skip to track number ten, "Love is Strange."

I sing along, imitating Sylvia. Despite the constraints of the seat belt, I manage to waggle my hips and make come hither motions with my finger. Pretending to be Mickey, Ris joins me. It's just like old times when we used to prance around our house in black stretchy pants and lip sync into our hairbrushes.

I grab a random vial of perfume from my handbag and spritz my wrist and then Ris's with the heady scent of lily, patchouli and rose. Still focusing on the road, she sniffs, smiles, and sings her response to my cue.

I continue my Sylvia imitation and reach into my bag for another perfume bottle. I have several perfume samples that I've collected over the past few months, and I swept them into my bag this morning, thinking the road trip would provide an opportunity to choose the perfect one to wear to the Lautrec-Katzenberg anniversary party.

When "Love is Strange," ends, I skip back to the "Time of My Life." As Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes sing about love, Ris and I test out the rest of the scents on different swatches of our arms. She sticks to a citrus and bergamot combination. I choose one with orchid and blue hyacinth...and find myself wishing that August doesn't decide to dump her for a girl named April or suddenly decide that he's gay.

When we open the windows slightly, to let out the mix of expensive scents, the sounds of _Dirty Dancing_ and the last sweep of schattenfreude go with it.

Ris is right about Doug. He's my boyfriend now, and I'm grateful for that. Maybe we'll go double dating with Ris—to a Hatch Shell concert, the Chinese New Year Festival, or maybe even to the Museum of Natural History.

Additionally, there is a major sign that indicates Doug and I should be together. This morning, I discovered he has the same toothbrush (but in green), that Mom sent me for my half-birthday. The ergonomic one whose design is part of the permanent collection of the Smithsonian. I know it's not evolutionary kismet, but I think it's a sign, a dentally hygienic sign of approval. We'd definitely get a thumbs up from the American Dental Association.

The best part of getting back together is that now I'll have a date to take to the Lautrec-Katzenberg anniversary party, only two days away. It will be our first official date after rekindling our romance. I'll swirl into the Ritz ballroom with Doug on my arm—and if luck has anything to do with it, my Blahniks on my feet.

I take out the Harry Potter book Graham sent me from my handbag and trace the raised blue lettering of the cover. I will enjoy reading it, interpret the gesture as an act of friendship, just as Graham's note advised. Instead of searching for subtext, I will accept he's married and thank Graham when I see him again...if I ever will.

I glance out the window. We're still in Vermont. Same scenery we've had for the last hour. A good time to start reading. I make it through seven pages before my cell phone rings.

"Hello," I say, without any of idea of who it could be. According to caller ID, it's an unidentifiable number.

"Tali, Mac here, calling from France."

"France?" I close the book, still on page 7.

"Had to fly over. Packaging crisis. Antoine was in little-girl hysterics. But it's all sorted out now. Fordie FedEx'd the photos from the Blush Fire shoot, and he was..." she doesn't finish.

"OCD about them?" I supply. Ris gives me a funny look. Mac laughs nervously. "Fordie said you had an odd sense of humor, but he'll have to get used to it, since you'll be shooting the remaining Blush Fire ads together in a few weeks."

A few weeks? Photo shoots with Fordie? Could it be true—am I finally the senior executive on the Lautrec advertising account? "But I thought Lydia was—"

"Benji didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"She quit."

I almost slide off of the seat. "She what?"

"Did you know," Mac's voice drops to a tabloid whisper, "she was having this secret affair with...it's really all too scandalous, and—"

"I know all about it." I cut her off. I don't need to hear her say it aloud, especially in that tabloid voice. The knowledge has already been hard-wired into my neural circuitry. I guess Graham and Lydia will be Hampstead Heathing it after all.

"You knew? You didn't say anything! You wily minx. Well anyway...let's see," I hear the sound of clicking computer keys, "I can take the red-eye, meet you in Boston tomorrow to review the expectations Lautrec has for a senior ad executive."

"But I'm on my way to Canada."

"Canada?" she asks, as if I just told her I was going to the Kremlin to have tea cakes with Vladimir Putin.

"Long story."

"Then we'll talk after the anniversary party. Speaking of—do you have an extra plus one? Didn't you say you had a spare?"

"It was just given away."

"To whom?"

"To my new boyfriend," I say, slightly peeved by Mac's invasion of my privacy but also enjoying the way "my boyfriend" rolled off of my tongue.

"Is it the fellow who gave you the butt-nut?"

"No. That was...nobody." Although my voice is strong, my heart feels weak.

* * *

An hour later, Ris and I switch places. She's now engrossed in my Harry Potter book, and I'm singing along to 80s hits, trying to convince myself that the feeling of dissatisfaction curling at the bottom of my stomach like a an overfed cat is due to knowing I was chosen to be senior executive by default. It has nothing to do with the article I found in the _Globe_ 's wedding section.

I wonder if my promotion means that I'll be the new custodian of Lydia's corner office. I don't have any Clio awards to line my bookshelf, but I could buy some Swarovski animal figurines for my very own, perhaps a caravan of crystal elephants with their trunks raised towards my ceiling-to-floor windows, a sign of good luck. I don't have any volumes on philosophy, but I can substitute them with the roundtable of books from the Katzenberg welcome basket, a dog-eared copy of _Pride and Prejudice_...and five Harry Potter novels.

I'll definitely chuck the wooden butler statue Lydia kept near the door to hold her suede gloves, and I'll replace her glass egg paperweight with the Jane Austen action figure mom sent to me last Christmas. Where Lydia's crossword puzzle calendar used to hang, I'll tack up a picture of the Chateau de Chambord. My ball of hot pink play dough will sit in the place of her stainless steel pen cup, and where her fancy clock which showed the time in twelve foreign cities—including London's—used to rest, I'll...

I gulp, swallowing back memories of Graham. Where the clock used to be, I'll...I'll set up a photo montage of Doug and me.

Redecorating schemes fade as we become next in line at the border crossing. I switch off the radio. I'm not nervous because Canadians are supposed to be well-mannered to a fault. Plus, we're following all the rules: no fruits and vegetables, no hidden guns, and not more than 1.1 liters of wine per person.

I inch the car forward. Anyway, I heard that Denis Leary crossed the border with his gym card. His gym card! Alright, it's our turn.

Mmmm. The border crossing guard is pretty cute. Curly brown hair. Shy eyes. An older version of Joshua Jackson.

"Good afternoon ladies." He smiles, and dimples in the shape of emoticons frame his mouth. "How are you?"

"Great, officer. I mean sir. I mean—great." I know I sound like a moron, but do you call a border guard a sir or an officer? Certainly not Mr Mountie...and he had such disconcerting dimples.

The border guard takes my license and registration. "Don't be nervous about the border crossing process. I just have a few standard questions, and then we'll be all done." He smiles again reassuringly.

"Oh, I'm not nervous about the Canadian border crossing process." Which would sound fine and everything, except that once again being disarmed by his dimples, I pronounce "about," "aboot." You know, the Canadian way.

Ris smirks. I wonder if I'm going to have to initiate Jem's proposed back-up plan of inviting the guard to watch maple syrup freeze on my chest. "Only as a back-up," she said and winked.

"Excuse me ma'am," he looks down at my ID, "Talisman—interesting name—I don't want to be rude or anything, but haven't you seen the Molson commercial?"

I shake my head. He continues, "We don't pronounce about 'aboot.' We pronounce it about. Like you Americans."

"She doesn't drink Molson," Ris pipes up. "She doesn't drink beer." I give her a warning look.

"Oh." The guard scratches his forehead. "Then what do you drink?"

"She drinks Cosmopolitans," Ris says. "I don't drink. I'm trying to practice the five precepts of Buddhism."

"You are?" I ask Ris. She nods. "Since when?"

"Oh, about—"

"Cosmopolitans?" the guard questions.

I turn to him. "Yeah, you know. Like _Sex_." He raises his eyebrows. I flush. "... _and the City_ ," I stammer out.

Still looking confused, he shakes his head. "Moving on, what are you going to do in Canada? Are you here for business or pleasure?"

I shrug my shoulders. "Pleasure, I guess."

"Actually our mother is getting married," Ris says.

"She put maple leaves in her baguwa," I clarify.

"Her what?" The dimples near the guard's mouth are replaced by furrows indenting his brow. "Never mind. What does that have to do with Canada? Is she Canadian?"

"No, but the groom is," I say. "We're going to meet him for the first time, and give him an inspection, the once-over, kind of like what you do here. So I guess it's business and pleasure."

"Well, aye, in that case, I guess I can pass you ladies through."

"Wait!" I say. The guard peers at me. "Have you met Matthew Perry? I know he has dual citizenship, and if he did a road trip back home from New York, he'd have to cross the border too, right? Keanu Reeves grew up in Toronto, did you ever—"

"My classics professor is from Toronto," Ris says. "Maybe—"

"No, I don't personally know Matthew Perry, Keanu Reeves, or your classics professor." The guard shoots looks more pointed than a stiletto heel at me and Ris. Finally he sighs and says begrudgingly, "Welcome to Canada."

He waves us past, and we officially cross to the other side of the border.

# Chapter 36

WE'VE JUST RUNG the doorbell of Jean-Luc's home, which is nestled in a peaceful neighborhood lined with cobblestone streets. It took us about an hour to get here from the border.

I thought everything would look different once we had crossed—the air would be cleaner and brighter, trees would clothe the road, and kids would be playing hockey in the street. But besides more rivers, some French on the billboards, and prettier architecture, Canada doesn't seem that much different from Vermont.

Ris told me I was being ridiculous. "Borders are arbitrarily drawn. This is the same clime of northwestern forest..." she continued smugly, but I stopped listening and started daydreaming about Doug and me (clad in a shiny new ski jacket) scaling the slopes of Mont Blanc in the Laurentian Mountains. Though, I admit, that by the time I got to the part where we were drinking spiked hot chocolate at the ski lodge, Doug had developed a slight British accent and blue-gray eyes...but I'm sure that's just due to the Canadian air and whatever is the road trip equivalent of jet lag.

Mom finally opens the door and gives Ris and me long hugs, accompanied by lots of exclamations. Instead of feeling overjoyed at seeing her after all of these months, I feel the way I do when I go to a make-up counter for a makeover, expecting to look radically transformed. But when the guest make-up artist says she's finished applying translucent powder, brown eyeliner, and sheer lip gloss, everything's so subtle that I don't see the signs of a minor transformation, let alone a dramatic improvement.

Shouldn't mom look different? After being on the West Coast for so long, separated and inaccessible to me and Ris—and about to be married?

But she looks basically the same: her hair, a mix of mahogany and gray and white, is slightly frazzled and out of place, so it looks like an ostrich feather clutch is perched atop of her head. Her body frame is still small and fragile, birdlike too. The only thing even mildly different about her is her skin.

The California weather has given her a bit of coloring, and she has a faint moon-glow about her face. Maybe she actually started using the rejuvenating skin milk I told her about? Or is the glow caused by bridal excitement?

We enter the house. It's a homey bachelor pad with brown leather furniture, wooden bookshelves lined with books (in English, not Quebeçois), and maple leaves in assorted colors framed in glass. Ris scans everything, searching for something suspicious, something to reaffirm that her female intuition is working. I'm supposed to be on the lookout too.

"Where's Jean-Luc?" I ask, wondering what our soon-to-be stepfather will look like.

"He's doing a quick business errand."

"I thought you said he was retired," Ris says quickly.

Mom shrugs. "Some fiddling with the stock market." Before Ris can grill mom some more, I hand mom the gift Ris and I bought on our way over.

Mom goes into excited shocks when she opens up the box of organic chocolate covered strawberries and dried apricots. "And before I forget," I reach into my bag again, "here are those Canadian quarters we've been collecting."

Mom takes the small sac of quarters. "You took my advice? Thanks bun." She heads towards the kitchen. "Shall we have some detoxifying tea?"

We follow our old high school routine. Mom boils water, Ris sets the table, and I distribute the chocolate covered fruits onto plates. But although our routine is the same, I'm different.

When Ris announces that she's not only gotten a grant to study in Italy, but that she's also been inducted into the Phi Beta Kappa Honor Society, I have a few of my own success stories to share. Ris can't stop laughing when I tell them how I convinced Mac that prosopagnosia was a foot arch disorder, and tears form in mom's eyes when I say that my Ambition ad campaign was inspired by her Emily Dickinson greeting cards.

"It'll be unveiled at the Lautrec-Katzenberg anniversary party," I say. "So you'll get to see it then. And meet Benji, my boss...and since Doug and I got back together, you can meet him too."

"Didn't he dump you for gaggle of sweaty, chubby men?" mom asks.

I was hoping she wouldn't remember the contents of that particular post card. "He's reformed." I wave away the past and seize the opportunity to change the subject. "Tell us about Jean-Luc."

"He's wonderful. I just knew, when I saw," she sighs and squeezes the contents of a honey stick into her cup of tea, "the abundance of vitamin bottles lining his medicine closet, this was a man who valued his health."

Ris and I exchange glances. Attraction works in mysterious ways.

"When he described the health properties of flax seed oil on our first date, I just about swooned." Mom has the same look on her face when she learned that August knew obscure Tibetan Buddhist chants.

"So what have you two lovebirds been up to recently?" Ris asks, her tone casual.

"Well..." Mom launches in a dizzying tale of health programs that would make even a maharishi exhausted. Jean-Luc and she have gotten their chakras realigned, visited organic orchards, received Thai massages, and took classes on decluttering at the Learning Annex. The list of healthy activities seems as endless as my boredom, though Ris is carefully absorbing each detail, probably looking for clues.

I don't know why Ris is being so paranoid. When Jean-Luc finally arrives an hour later, he doesn't look suspicious at all. Our soon-to-be stepfather has a big, welcoming smile, and his laugh is crackly, like a dry autumn leaf.

If it were up to me, of course I'd have mom marrying some rich ultra-cool fashion designer who may or may not be gay, just so I could get free couture and front-row seats to Fashion Week. But it's nice to see mom with somebody decent and down-to-earth, to witness her enthusiasm as she plans trips to visit Mount Shasta in Arizona and partake in Ayurvedic treatments by Dr. Lad in Albuquerque.

Best of all, Jean-Luc has gotten my mom to reconsider her stance on email and cell phones.

Technological bliss.

I can't wait to educate my mom about free nights and weekends, ring tones, whenever minutes, text messages and flip-top phones. No more having to write letters, where I worry about how many spelling errors I've made, and then receive her response long after I've already dealt with the issue I wrote to her about in the first place. For that alone, I want to accommodate Jean-Luc into the family.

After dinner, to cover a pause in conversation, I make inquiries about the maple leaves framed in glass which adorn his walls.

"I collected them myself," he says. "Despite a large family, I have few photos of them, so I must suffice with the trusty maple."

"Perhaps, we can change that," my mom says softly. As mom arranges us in front of the fireplace to snap a photo, Ris shoots me a meaningful look.

I roll my eyes. I don't think Jean-Luc's lack of family photographs is suspicious. In fact I think it's great. I, for one, hate looking at other people's photo albums. Especially if they've just come back from a really cool place like Egypt and share a long-winded tale about a camel, which is only interesting if you had been there. My rule is, if the photo isn't of me, my family, my boyfriend, or my boyfriend's ex-girlfriends, then I don't want to see it.

Mom suggests that we finish the night off with a round of Speed Scrabble. Jean-Luc wins with "tuque." He claims it's some sort of a hat, but I'm too mellowed by the warm fire at my back and by his famous spiked apple cider in my stomach to contest.

As Ris puts away the Scrabble tiles, Mom turns to me. "You girls might want to investigate the mall for possible bridesmaid's accessories, especially with the currency exchange." Now this offer would be tempting, if Canada had any good shops.

"Is there an equivalent to J Crew or maybe even Neiman Marcus?" I ask Jean-Luc politely.

"I don't know about American equivalents," he scratches his cheek, "but you're bound to find something at La Ville Soutérraine or the Underground City." I hide my skepticism by taking another sip of cider. He continues, "It's a maze mall of shops, restaurants and hotels stretching for twenty miles, all linked by pedestrian tunnels and subway stations. It even contains a concert hall and a library."

A huge underground complex of malls?

I heart Canada, I mean I maple leaf Canada!

* * *

Jean-Luc rides the metro with us to the Place des Arts stop. He guides us to the above-ground square where beautiful curved panes of glass create a unique skylight. The glass is etched with an inscription, which I wouldn't have noticed if Jean-Luc hadn't pointed it out to us. It reads: _L'artiste est celui qui fait voir l'autre côté des choses_.

"The artist is one who makes one see the other side of things," Jean-Luc translates. "This is how I feel about your mother."

"That's beautiful," I say to him, trying my best to believe that Doug makes me see the other side of things too.

"Well," he says and swallows shyly. "I have errands of my own to complete. Shall we meet back here in," he glances at his watch, "six hours?"

Twenty miles of underground shops in only six hours?! Shopping without getting wet, without getting run over! Boston should investigate building a subterranean mall, though with the time it took to complete the Big Dig, it wouldn't be presentable by the next millennium, yet alone in my lifetime.

Before departing, Jean-Luc hands us a giant colored map and points out various highlights. When he's twenty feet away, Ris unzips her backpack and stuffs a gray hoodie and a pair of sunglasses into my hands. "Hurry up and put these on," she says.

"Why?" I ask as she propels me forward.

"So Jean-Luc won't recognize us."

"What exactly are we doing?" I ask.

She increases her pace. "We have to follow him!"

I zip up the nondescript hoodie. "I thought we were here to shop," I say as we bypass signs pointing towards the Guy Favreau Complex. "Why do you think they have a section named after Jon Favreau? Is he Canadian?" But Ris is so far ahead of me, she doesn't hear my question.

When I finally catch up to her, she asks, "Why are the sunglasses on top of your head? Put them on, otherwise he's going to recognize us."

"But it's so tacky to wear sunglasses inside. What if magazine photographers are here taking pictures for their fashion disaster pages?"

"Here? In this sterile tunnel?" She motions to the seemingly unending walls, lined with Dijon-colored bricks, as if they're a yellow road to a life of obscurity.

Although Ris is right—magazine photographers would not spend any more time here than they could—I hesitate. She gives me a look so sharp, it could've carved another layer to the Underground City, so I comply and slide the sunglasses down to cover my eyes.

"What exactly do you think he's doing here?" I ask as we sprint by a bustle of teenagers. Once Ris finds out that Jean-Luc is just going to buy some hockey gear or maple syrup candies, we can slow down and appreciate this brave commercial world we've entered.

She shrugs. "It's just a feeling I get. Those maple leafs framed in glass, the ones he said he collected himself? I found the same exact ones online on Target's website. And this morning, I heard him on the phone, telling someone he had one last round to do. But when he saw me, he switched to his 'Quebeçois.'" She shakes her head. "It didn't seem right."

"Ris, the only suspicious thing about Jean-Luc, besides the fact that he thinks 'tuque' is a word and that the milk in his house comes in bags is that he didn't know who Jason Priestley is. And he's Canadian!"

Ris ignores me as we cross into the Palais des Congres, Montreal's convention center. She surges forward as if she's running drills for a weight loss boot camp. "He was wearing a red sweater," she says over her shoulder. "Imprint his image onto your memory, or he'll get lost in the crowd."

"When did you pick up psych terms?" I say as I heed her advice. But when I try to hold an image of Jean-Luc's sweater in my mind, all I can see is a black and white photo of five little ducklings following a scientist in a sweater vest.

Lorenz.

Sunlight filters through the multi-colored glass panes enclosing the convention center, creating streams of rainbows which wash over me. Although the effect is quite cheery, it could've been the most overcast day of the year, for all the warmth I feel inside.

"Do you see him? Do you see him?" Ris asks. "Why are you going so slow?" She glances at me.

"I'm not go—"

"Are those heels?" she screeches.

"They're only kitten heels," I say, and look down at her gray New Balance sneakers. "I can run just fine in these."

"But why would you wear heels to an intense session of shopping? It's like running the Boston Marathon in Blahniks." She scans a forest of concrete tree trunks, each painted in a bright hue, the shade of Lautrec's Kinky Pink lipstick. "Oh never mind, we may have lost him."

As I scan the forest, several possibilities for future ad campaigns come to mind. Feeling like I'm taking the initiative worthy of a newly-crowned senior executive, I snap a picture to show to Mac. "Oh I see him!" I point discreetly at Jean-Luc who's weaving in between the farthest most trees at the edge of the lipstick forest.

"Okay, power walk! Power walk! Don't look obvious, follow at a safe distance—"

"Did they make you paranoid at Brown?"

"I'm just following my intuition."

I hum the first bars of Jewel's song, but stop after Ris glares at me.

"I'm hungry," I say as we pass a woman nibbling on a vanilla frozen yogurt twist surrounded by a sugar cone dipped in chocolate and nuts.

"Pretend you're a monk."

"Does Career Services know of any openings for a parole officer?" I say sweetly. "You'd be perfect."

My comment achieves its desired effect because Ris promises that after we discover what Jean-Luc is machinating, we can return to Fortification Lane to scope out the St James Hotel where all the A-list actors stay when they film a movie in Montreal. Lured by history, she even permits us to take a breather in front of a fragment of the Berlin Wall, suspended in an atrium near an information desk. But she only allows us a few minutes to stand in awe in front of the giant stonework, covered in defiant graffiti. Her gaze constantly wanders, keeping tabs on Jean-Luc.

Twenty-five minutes later, we're still following mom's fiancé. There's no food in my stomach, and worse, no shopping bags in my hands. Jean-Luc has ambled by at least thirty shops without even looking at the merchandise, not even once.

Twenty miles of underground malls, with its immense number of shopping opportunities, should be a beautiful, beautiful thing. But it can get tiring, exhausting actually, to navigate all these corridors and stairs and escalators when you don't even get the chance to window-shop, let alone shop-shop.

When I linger in front of Zara, a women's clothing store, Ris drags me by the arm and propels me forward. "We're going to lose him!" she says ferociously.

"I knew mom shouldn't have bought you those Nancy Drew books in middle school," I say and sigh. "Jean-Luc is a nice man that mom likes, and we shouldn't be—"

I forget my train of thought as my phone rings. I leap at the chance to disengage myself from Ris's schemes, if only temporarily, and answer my phone without checking the caller ID.

"Tali, hi, I know it's been, err, some time since I've seen or spoken to you."

My heart beats rapidly at the sound of Graham's voice (and accent). Even after two and a half months, it's still Ralph Fiennes meets Matthew McConaughey, still makes me feel the flurries.

I can even smell the cinnamon of Graham's MHC genes. I glance up. I'm under a bakery specializing in cinnamon buns. Right.

"...so this might seem a bit odd," he continues, "but the reason I'm calling you is because...actually...did you call me last night?"

"No, I don't think so." I stare at the cinnamon buns. My stomach grumbles. "Unless I dialed you accidentally. Sometimes I forget to lock my keypad."

"Oh." He sounds disappointed. "Because I got this voicemail telling me that nobody leaves Baby in the corner, and it sounded like you..." he trails off, puzzled.

Some of the events of last night come back to me. After Speed Scrabble, I drank more of Jean-Luc's spiked apple cider, and Ris and I watched _Dirty Dancing_. We may have made a few prank calls...to Doug, I thought.

What does it say about our relationship if I drunk-dialed Graham, not Doug?

"I didn't call you, I'm in Canada," I say, realizing the two aren't mutually exclusive. "My mom is marrying a Canadian. It's complicated."

"Listen—" I try to sound casual.

"On that subject—" We both speak at the same time.

"Ladies first," he says.

"I heard about you and Lydia," I say, remembering the picture of Lydia in the wedding section of the _Boston Globe_. I wish I could sidestep this conversation as easily as I sidestep the businessman walking next to me, so deep in his own cell phone conversation, he's almost knocked his attaché case into my leg—twice.

"You did?" He seems shocked and pleased all at the same time. "That's why I'm calling. It's kind of awkward, so I don't know how to say this, but I wanted to tell you, to inform you, perhaps inform isn't the right word—"

But the rest of Graham's sentence is cut off by the sound of water cascading from a tiered fountain almost as high as the five levels of this underground shopping mall.

"Hello? Graham?" I say as I scurry past the fountain. But there's no response, just static.

Pigeons! I'm underground and in Canada, I'm surprised my cell phone worked as long as it did. I slip my phone into my handbag, not only wishing I had a horoscope, a tarot reader—anything—to help me interpret this conversation...but also wishing that I didn't have any desire at all to interpret Graham's call. I have a boyfriend, and Graham has a wife. Distraught, I shuffle towards an intimidating set of escalators which crisscross Place Montreal Trust like the shoelaces of a giant.

Even though I'm ascending higher into shopping nirvana, my spirits plummet as I think about Graham and Lydia on their honeymoon. I shouldn't care. I have a boyfriend, who chose to celebrate the Red Sox's victory with me instead of with a supermodel. Feeling guilty, I vow to find Doug an expensive souvenir from the Underground City. As I study the shop windows on the floor below me, I don't discover a gift for Doug. Instead, I see, sparkling behind a bright pane of glass...the perfect little black dress.

Cap-style sleeves. Pencil skirt that falls to the knee. Pleating at the waist and hip to hide a few extra pounds. And a V-neck that bares just the right amount of skin.

On my way to the third level of the complex, I glide past it. My hand reflexively reaches out, as if there isn't an entire elevator abyss between me and the perfect little black dress I've been searching for, it seems, all of my life.

"Ow!" I cry, as my kitten heel catches onto the escalator teeth at the top. I twist around, trying to grab ahold of the sliding rail to gain my balance. I scuffle towards the steady ground of the third floor, just barely avoiding falling on my face.

"What happened to you?" Ris asks, as I stumble forward, feeling discombobulated like an Ethernet cable tangled into a hundred knots—and not just because of my near-accident.

Ris ushers me towards a small vitamin center, nestled between a sporting goods shop and a music store. We creep behind Jean-Luc as he zigzags through aisles of nutritional products. He finally halts in front of a dark gray door at the back, emblazoned with "Employees Only" in large menacing letters. He removes a key from his pocket, unlocks the door, and disappears into the mystery lying behind it. Before the door closes completely, Ris wedges it open with her backpack.

Careful not to make a sound, we tip-toe into the dimly lit room. Jean-Luc disappears behind a wall of boxes wrapped in Molly Ringwald pink, Tiffany blue, and Louis IV gold. "Wedding presents," I whisper to Ris.

"But why are they _here_?" she asks, hand on hip. "And why are some of the presents unwrapped?" She points to a small tower of high-end Italian coffee makers, still housed in their manufacturer's packaging. Rolls of gift paper, satin ribbon, and gauzy bows bigger than my fist are stacked neatly beside the tower.

"Mom is a dedicated tea drinker. She would never put a single coffee maker on her registry," Ris says. "Let alone six." She plucks a card tucked under the ribbon encircling a present wrapped in paper dotted with silver hearts.

"Don't do that. Those are private," I say, wishing I had thought of it first.

"Just to see who..." she falters as she opens the envelope.

"What? What?"

She thrusts it into my hands. I open it. Inside, there's no note of congratulations, scribbled in messy cursive. No wishes for a happy future, champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

There's no writing at all.

Ris and I each grab a wedding gift and rip off its paper in one continuous motion. Underneath the paper is a box supposedly containing a five-speed blender, but it doesn't have the heft of a kitchen gadget whose major component is a glass carafe. I pry open the box and look at Ris.

We hold similar amber plastic bottles in our hands. Hers is a thirty-day supply of Lipitor; mine a three-month supply of Zoloft.

# Chapter 37

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT," mom says as she and I scramble out of Ris's car.

"That Jean-Luc pretended to enjoy Dr Lad's bitter triphala tea?" I ask.

"Or that he was smuggling prescription drugs over the border?" Ris asks, from the driver's seat.

Mom shrugs. "Both."

As mom and I enter my apartment building, leaving Ris to grapple with parking, I mull over Jean-Luc's master plan. Apparently, prescription pills in Canada cost significantly less than their United States counterparts, but they're illegal to sell here. Even though Canada is a nest of purity, the FDA claims pills manufactured in Canada are less safe. Despite these claims, several American senior citizens purchase cheaper prescription drugs from pharmacies in Canada which then mail them their monthly supply of pills. But without a pharmacy license, Jean-Luc resorted to smuggling.

He had his eye on a long-term con, originally planning to smuggle pills across the border as he and mom shuttled back and forth between his Montreal home and ours in Providence, Rhode Island. Afraid of a Senate bill which would have legalized importation of pills into the States and cut into his profit margins, he wanted to smuggle in thousands of bottles of prescription drugs when he and mom would cross the border after their Niagara Falls marriage ceremony. Then he'd distribute them to retirement communities throughout New England.

Accumulating wedding gifts from an extended family rivaling the size of the Culkin clan gave him the perfect cover. That's what my mom was to Jean-Luc—a smokescreen between him and the FDA.

Before we started our return journey this morning, I confronted Jean-Luc about the quote etched in the curved skylight at the Place des Arts. "The artist who makes you see the other side of things—that was just a line, wasn't it?" I asked as the wind stung my cheeks.

"No, no," he said and glanced at Ris and my mom who were stashing our luggage into the back of Ris's SUV. "I like your mother. Truly. We had many good discussions, debating the best health regime to treat insulin resistance, but..." His gaze dipped to the ground, coated in a layer of dried maple leaves, once part of a colorful riot of foliage. "I'm just a weak man."

It's difficult to gauge mom's reaction to Jean-Luc's betrayal. She was silent during the entire drive back from Canada. I tried to get her to talk about it, but after three failed attempts, I focused on driving. I sped through one province and two states in less than four hours. I wanted enough time to prepare for the anniversary party celebrating twenty-five years of collaboration between the Katzenberg Agency and Lautrec Cosmetics which is being held tonight.

I swing open the door to my apartment, drop my luggage at the jamb, and head towards the kitchen, on the prowl for some of mom's favorite juice. Instead of Tart Cherry concentrate, I find the remnants of Doug's culinary adventure scattered all over the kitchen: a stained skillet, dirty dishes soaking in the sink, and a stainless steel spatula dotted with hardened crumbs.

"Doug," I say, half-curse, half-explanation to mom.

Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the mess, but she doesn't say a word and heads straight for my bedroom. I thought she was visiting my apartment to say a quick good-bye before we meet up again at the Ritz, where the anniversary party will take place, but now I realize she came inside to conduct an inspection.

An inspection of my baguwa's romance corner.

She cradles a half-melted St Jude candle and mutters, "Maple leaves are too pointy to put in a baguwa. I should've used flora with rounder edges."

Although drowsy, I pay careful attention to her words. They are the most she's said since we discovered the truth about Jean-Luc. I pat the space between her shoulder blades. "I can help you implement a behavior modification project. To help you get over Jean-Luc."

She adjusts the stray hairs framing my face. "Bun, I'm disappointed, not heartbroken. I'll take one of Dr Bach's Flower Essence Remedies when we get home. His distillation of Gentian will make me right as rain for your big night." She smiles, and while her face isn't bright with joy, her pride in my accomplishment shines in her eyes.

Although I want to deny it, I can't push away the feeling of recognition as I gaze into her eyes...that a little of Dr Bach's Gentian could've cured me after Doug dumped me for the Red Sox, but not after I learned Graham had married Lydia.

She inhales the sticky scent of my Jasmine incense. "If I'm perfectly honest—the way I raised you to be—if there were a special Michelin guide, I wouldn't have given Jean-Luc five stars."

"You remember my letter?" I ask, surprised. I wrote to her about my hurt when I discovered Doug's responses to the compatibility quiz all those months ago, but I didn't think she had read my card that carefully.

She clasps my hands, and her hematite ring, cooler than my numb palms, presses into my skin. "I remember everything that matters to you."

I hug her small frame. For the first time, she seems less like a cuckoo bird popping out of a wooden clock every hour to complain about my negative life habits, but more like a nightingale ready to sing lullabies to both me and Ris.

"How many would you give him?" she asks softly.

"Give who what?"

"How many Michelin stars would you give Doug?"

"Five, of course."

"Oh, sweetie," she says, her voice tinged with sadness. "People need to be careful with relationships. They're like Sri Daya Mata's yoga class."

I shudder. Sri Daya Mata tugged on my fingers to ensure they were perfectly parallel to the floor, adjusted the angle of my back and butt into the proper Standing Dog position, and meticulously monitored my rapid inhalations and exhalations during the Breath of Fire exercise. After three intensely exhausting sessions, I had to quit although mom had already paid for the class in full.

"How so?" I ask.

She kisses the top of my head. "Effort isn't the only thing that counts." She lets the words sink in and then leaves so she has enough time to prepare for the anniversary party tonight.

Because I, too, have to prepare, I kick off my shoes and settle into bed with a magazine where I review articles on how to improve my cocktail party conversational skills and how to prevent leaving lipstick marks on wine glasses. But when I try to study the instructions, with accompanying illustrations, on how to style my hair into an elegant updo, I yawn and curl into my favorite yoga position—the sleeping baby.

# Chapter 38

BROOKE PUSHES ME FORWARD, a pair of fuzzy purple handcuffs jangling from the pocket of her three-hundred-dollar jeans. We make slow progress through a maze of department brand make-up counters until we reach the largest one at the center. From behind the glass countertop, Shelby presides. She's seated on a canvas-backed make-up artist's chair, and instead of a judge's robes, she's clad in a black smock.

"Silence!" Brooke yells. "The High Court of Fashion Disasters is now in session." All the nearby shoppers—my high school gym teacher, my college psychology professors, my ABBA-loving ex-boss, La Galleria Bianca patrons and several people whom I don't recognize—fall quiet. Only the sound of clacking typewriter keys pierces the hush as Becca, her hair up in massive curlers, records the court's dictates with a pastel pink typewriter.

"And what have we here?" Shelby asks, scrutinizing the contents of a manila folder. "Perpetuating fraud as a thermoregulation substitute. Violating the law of matching attractivity." Disdain drips from each word. "And now caught on Newbury Street at 4:46 PM, wearing patterned tights which snaked across your calves like varicose veins." She sniffs. "Although your appearance in this courtroom is certainly not unexpected. Just look at the back of your dress."

I crane my head to sneak a peek at my shoulder blades. A thousand price tags stud my back, each one a commercialized porcupine quill. With no armor, no defense against the Cheerleading Furies' accusations of inferiority, except for my price tag quills, my shoulders sag—almost as low as my spirits.

"What do you say in your defense?" Shelby asks.

"I...I..." I stammer as Brooke prods me with a plastic hanger.

"Hurry up!" Shelby says. "I have an appointment to catch the spirit stick in five minutes." She applies matte red lipstick, pouts, and admires her reflection in a small compact.

My toes curl in resentment at the unfairness of it all. Shelby has never had a reason to employ the facial feedback hypothesis.

Clack. Clack. Clack. Becca continues to type although there is nothing to record—save for my shame and humiliation. Wanting to focus on something besides the lump of desperation growing larger in my throat, I peer closely at her typewriter.

The keys aren't made of metal like in vintage typewriters, nor are they made of plastic like modern ones. Instead, each is crafted from shiny lipstick tubes.

Realization dawns and I gaze at the scene with fresh perspective. This is not real, but a mere nightmare of my own making...because I'm dreaming.

Lucidly.

Now that I recognize that I'm dreaming, I can proceed to the next step of lucid dreaming and control my actions. With one dramatic sweep, I brush away the quills of price tags covering my back. The skin between my shoulder blades glows, no need for a dusting of sparkly body glitter to enhance its radiance.

Feeling beautiful and for once, confident, I approach Shelby, not an ounce of uncertainty in my step. Trying to halt me, Brooke grabs my wrist. In a move worthy of Jackie Chan, I whip back her arm and cuff her to a clearance rack overflowing with polyester power suits, marked seventy-five percent off.

"You cannot send me to social Siberia. You cannot hurt me anymore," I say to the group at large. I straighten my back, elongate my neck. "Your words will only matter if I give them importance. But I politely decline to play that game."

Becca abruptly stops typing. I rip out the lone sheet of paper caught in the slim jaws of her typewriter and am confronted by a slew of shouted obscenities: UGLY, STUPID, SHALLOW, FAT, INCOMPETENT, USELESS, WEAK, INFERIOR.

"These are lies," I say and shove the typewriter to the department store's tiled floor.

After dusting off my hands, I hoist myself over the glass countertop behind which Shelby cowers. I wrench her gavel, a maroon orb-shaped perfume bottle, from her doll-sized hands and press it into her chest where her shallow heart beats. "I have enough threads to fill an entire Bed, Bath & Beyond."

I pivot on my heel and smash the gavel against the countertop. The instrument breaks into colored smithereens, and the scent of sandalwood and musk permeates the air. Among the shards of glass and drops of liquid lies a bronze skeleton key.

I pluck the key from the debris and speed through the maze of make-up aisles, not once stumbling in the 3.5-inch Manolo Blahniks encasing my feet. Finally, via two escalators, I ascend to the third floor of the department store whose most noticeable feature is a concave skylight, eerily similar to the one at the Place des Arts.

It's time to take advantage of the most alluring benefit of lucid dreaming. Using the key, I unlock the skylight and push against its thick glass until it opens. Arms stretched wide, I float through the aperture and fly over the harbor, the city lights twinkling underneath me like industrial stars.

When I wake up, exhilaration flows through my veins. On a scale of exiting the office lobby, knowing it's Friday night and the weekend is about to begin, and opening presents at 5:00 AM on Christmas Day, my happiness level is somewhere in between. I can't believe I finally had a lucid dream!

Even after a dizzying round of grooming—lathering up with lavender body gel in the shower, pumicing my heels, combing frizz-ease serum through my hair, dabbing a fragrance consisting of blue hyacinth and orchid on the backs of my knees, clarifying my pores with a mud masque imported from Spain, curling my eyelashes, and tussling with eyeliner—my elation doesn't dim.

In fact, it multiplies as I glide into the most perfect little black dress, the one I spotted at Montreal's Underground City. (Of course I went back and got it.)

As I insert a gold Bodhi leaf earring into my ear, one of mom's half-birthday presents, I scrutinize my reflection in my dresser mirror, its edges clouded by a fine dew of steam which lingers from my shower. My face still glows with the thrill of experiencing a lucid dream, and I look spectacular. _Kind of like an Escher painting_ , a traitorous voice whispers from somewhere in my head.

No. Doug is my boyfriend now. Doug is the one I'm with, I argue with the voice.

_Doug_ , the voice counters, _the one who left your stainless steel skillet coated with blueberry juice and crusty egg that no application of Barkeeper's Friend will remove? Doug, whose hint of lime tortilla chip crumbs are scattered all over your futon? Doug, who dumped you for seven sweaty dwarves?_

"Nine on the field; twenty-three on the roster," I retort to my reflection. Searching for my black beaded clutch, I muse on Doug's positive qualities. Magical thinking and Red Sox notwithstanding, Doug had been a good boyfriend in the past.

He never cringed when I felt like going to a bar in my college sweat pants which were too comfy to give away, despite the dark coffee stain above the knee. When my computer started sprouting dialog boxes with gibberish, he called tech support and stayed on hold for forty-five minutes so I could get help from a real person and not from an automated voice. When I would burst into tears while watching _Gilmore Girl_ drama, he would silently hand me a cluster of tissues. He knows all of my secret erogenous zones—and exactly where I hide my depilatory cream.

Hanging from a hook on my bedroom door, Amitabh Bachan stares at me with soulful brown eyes. Clutching Graham's shirt to my chest, I halt my hunt and sag onto my bed. Suddenly, details from Claus Wedekind's famous sweaty t-shirt study flood my mind. He asked forty-four men to abandon scented grooming products and wear new t-shirts to bed on Sunday and Monday nights, so that the shirts would absorb their sweat as they slept. Forty-nine women were then given six shirts to sniff and were asked to rate them for pleasantness and intensity. The women preferred the shirts of men whose MHC genes were most dissimilar to theirs. Significantly, the scented t-shirts they preferred reminded them of the way their boyfriends (past or current) smelled.

Would I be able to identify Doug's t-shirt in a sea of Hanes? I'm not sure. But I don't need to procure t-shirts from forty-four random men and see if I can detect Doug's scent from amongst them. Because, as much as I don't want to accept it, I already know a far more important truth: Doug does not captivate my heart.

Restarting our relationship isn't fair to either one of us. He deserves someone who's fully into him. As much as I adore his tawny arm hair, I'm not. With clammy hands, I yank down my Feng Shui bell and hide it in my sock drawer. Good relationship chi energy may have brought Doug back into my life, but I don't have to keep him. I'd rather be alone, custodian of a closet full of unworn dresses, than settle. Doug's just a safety. A substitute—for someone else.

I swallow back a lump of regret. Even if he's not Graham, Doug's still a catch. He's so hot, he could easily be included in one of my glossy magazine's yearly roundup of sexy bachelors. When I'm with him, I gain membership into a coveted, exclusive clique: I'm the one other girls are envious of, instead of the other way around.

Without Doug, I'll always be the odd one out. The seat next to mine at Sunday brunch will be empty. Three simple words—New. Year's. Eve.—have the power to make me shudder with horror, since I'll be alone again, with no one to kiss at midnight.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpse the rhinestone frame holding my photograph of Lorenz, trailed by fuzzy goslings. Again, I swallow back a lump of regret. It's bigger this time.

The thing is, Graham never knew how I felt about him. I never had enough courage to give him the chance to choose between me and Lydia. I was too scared to put my heart and ego on the line because...because I was my own worst frenemy.

Gosh. Kirsten's Tarot of _Sex_ really works. She should box that baby up and try to sell it online or something.

If _I_ had been into me, if I had had enough confidence to confess my feelings to the object of my affection, it could have been _me_ , not Lydia, by Graham's side tonight.

After this insight, more realizations follow. That old coot, Walter—he was right. In my own way, I'm like a member of Red Sox Nation, only instead of nine sweaty, chubby men, I have the entire cast and crew of _Pretty Woman_ fighting to sustain my hope of reversing my romantic curse. And I wouldn't give up the dream of the perfect romance, the happy ending, for all the New Year's Eve kisses and Sunday brunches—with the wrong guy—in the world.

I'm holding out for The Pennant.

Wow. My whole body feels like its glowing. As I wallow in the pleasant sensation, I wonder if I may've reached the self-actualization level of Maslow's hierarchy. I've gone beyond the need for food, sleep, and oxygen; physical and financial security; a sense of belonging; and a healthy sense of respect for myself and for others. At the tender age of 25.5, I may've achieved the ultimate psychological pinnacle: truly realizing my full potential.

Relishing the idea, I head towards my closet and stumble over a shoe box. To break my fall, I grab onto the sheets of my unmade bed, a movement which yields a clear view of the paraphernalia strewn pell-mell on my dresser. On second thought, maybe not.

The limo Lautrec Cosmetics hired to transport me and Doug to the anniversary party beeps outside, interrupting my reverie. Hastily, I slip my 3.5-inch BMP Blahniks onto my feet. I don't know if the lucid dreaming affected my neural pathways, thereby improving my coordination, or if it's the result of my pseudo-self-actualization, but I can walk in them again, with nary a sign of teetering or tottering.

Resolving to break up with Doug before I lose my nerve, and feeling a glimmer of _shakti_ flowing in my veins, I exit my apartment.

# Chapter 39

WHEN I SEE DOUG waiting for me in front of a white, sleek limo, my resolve weakens. He looks as gorgeous as a romantic comedy hero, and he didn't even need good lighting or stage make-up.

He kisses me on the cheek and opens the limo door. "You look beautiful," he says as we both slip inside. The compliment causes my already-weakened resolve to deteriorate even more. To buy myself time, I scrutinize the contents of the mini-bar.

"Vodka, Irish liqueur...aha!" My fingers curl around a green bottle. "Champagne." Hoping my resolve will become as solid as the glass in my hands, I twist to face Doug.

"We should do a toast to new beginnings, but there's something else I want to do first," he says and roots around in his tuxedo pocket. Smiling shyly, he hands me a small, turquoise box.

Trademark Tiffany.

"Doug, you shouldn't have," I say, and I mean it. There's a reason dumping a significant other was not assigned to Hercules as one of his heroic endeavors; it's too hard. Doug's sweetness is making it even harder.

"I've behaved badly," he says. "I want to make it up to you."

How can I refuse Tiffany's? Tiffany's! Tiffany's, where my parents met and fell in love. With a simple tug, the white ribbon encircling the box will come undone quicker than you can say Robert Smith.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Doug asks. "I was hoping you'd wear it to the anniversary party." He rubs my hand in entreaty, exposing the cuffs of his starched white shirt—and his red, sock-shaped cuff links.

The sight of them revives my wilted resolve. I have to break up with Doug, and I have to do it now. I'll be composed. Gentle. Rational. I can even use a psychological theory. What I'm about to say will be used worldwide as a model of perfect breakup conversation, superlative interpersonal communication.

"Doug, I don't think we have the same relationship schemas." Doug's brow furrows. "A schema is a cognitive organizational system," I clarify.

"Actually, I think your schema is pretty sexy," he says, gazing straight at my chest. "Is this intellectual dirty talk? I didn't think I'd be into that, but it felt sort of hot." He nuzzles my ear. "Tell me more."

Of all the times, now Doug wants to know more?!

That wasn't in the script! I cringe, remembering my conversation with Troy the telemarketer. The box of steak knives—and two pairs of penny-cutting scissors—arrived as promised and are currently stashed, unused, underneath my kitchen sink.

I fiddle with one of my Bodhi leaf earrings, hoping it will restore my composure. If Buddha achieved enlightenment under one of these trees, maybe Benji should import some for the Katzenberg waiting area. They'd be a great influence on Trish and Marci.

Doug kisses my neck, at the sweet spot an inch underneath my ear lobe. All thoughts of the Katzenberg receptionists vanish, and my resolve turns to jelly all over again. If I break up with Doug now, I won't be able to go on a double date with Ris and August. I won't need to ask Jem for a "plus one" when she scores free concert tickets.

I won't have an occasion to snip off the price tag from one of my unworn dresses, which will continue to see the light from the bulb in my closet instead of from candles dotting the tables at Boston's top restaurants. I won't have an excuse to browse the men's section at a department store at Christmas, to point to a chocolate brown wallet and declare to the bored salesclerk, "my boyfriend would love that."

If I break up with Doug now, I will never have his tawny arms circle my waist as I lean on the rail of a jitney headed to Martha's Vineyard. I won't be able to watch beads of water snake around each muscle in his impressive six-pack abs.

I'll have no one to call mine.

My fingers curl around the Tiffany gift box. I'm holding a gift more coveted than jewelry—the feeling of knowing exactly where I stand.

But it's magical thinking for me to believe that if I stay with Doug long enough, I'll imprint onto him. I push back the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket and shirt and, for the last time, trace the path of one golden arm hair.

"No, Doug. It's not intellectual dirty talk," I say, trying to make my voice firm. To bolster my courage, I grip one Red Sox cuff link. "For the good of the team, I think we—us," I point to his chest and then to mine, "need to be benched."

"Sports metaphors are really not your forte...but I think I understand."

"You'll still come to the party?"

"Of course." He smiles, but there's no joy in his eyes. "I hear they have really good hors d'oeuvres." I rest my head on the nook between his shoulder and clavicle. He wraps one arm around me and kisses the top of my frizz-free head, both of us ignoring the unopened box resting on my lap.

# Chapter 40

BY THE TIME DOUG and I enter the ballroom of the Ritz, I've tamed both the flyaway hairs which have escaped my chignon as well as the jumble of emotions rioting in my stomach.

Having composed myself, I can appreciate the beautiful festivities which greet my gaze. In between crystal chandeliers, lanterns in the shape of glossy gift bags with paper handles hang from the ceiling. Each one is emblazoned with the Antoine Lautrec logo. Light from the lanterns glints off of an ice sculpture in the shape of a pair of puckered lips, as if it were giving all the attendees a big kiss. Velvet bows, the color of Lautrec's signature plum, encircle the backs of the slender chairs at the round tables dotting the room.

The tables are organized into a horseshoe shape, and at its opening, a five-piece band plays smooth jazz, as its lead singer croons into a microphone, her lips sporting a rather garish orange hue which I recognize as Lautrec's Lipstack (sunset), thankfully now discontinued. A canopy of the advertisements produced over the last two and half decades under the creative eye of the Katzenberg Agency hangs above the band. Each is enlarged to poster size, framed under glass, and was carefully handpicked by Antoine Lautrec himself.

My ad for the AL: Ambition make-up line is among them. I focus my gaze on it, and small bubbles of joy, as sparkly as the designer gowns in the room, as sparkly as the Tiffany gift left abandoned in the limo, rise through me. I _am_ fabulous, and for once, the words are not mere lip service.

I turn to Doug, who plays with something hidden in his pocket. I don't know how to operate in this situation. As ex-lovers who recently decided to be friends, do we mingle together or separately?

"So..." he says, not quite looking at me.

"So..." I say. Suddenly, I spot salvation in the form of an underwear angel. I nudge Doug towards the giant puckering lips, where Veronica and Liza have taken residence. From here, it looks like Liza's still trying to lose weight, because there's only one Cosmopolitan-filled martini glass between them. Doug takes a few tentative steps towards Veronica before he gets sidetracked by a waiter bearing ceramic spoons filled with bay scallops sautéed in butter and herbs. I hope Veronica will get over Doug's temporary rejection of her, because he deserves someone sweet to lavish _his_ pretty on.

As I scan the crowd of guests mingling at the center of the horseshoe, searching for my friends and family, someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It's Mac, but I almost don't recognize her. She's abandoned her customary black ensemble and is instead sporting a fuchsia cocktail dress with thin spaghetti straps. Her legs are shown to advantage, enhanced by the bright turquoise heels on her feet.

"It's not too much, is it?" she asks. "I was watching a BBC documentary about birds and how they attract a mate with bright plumage, so I thought I'd give colors a whirl." She lifts one foot from its stiletto cage, revealing red skin. "But I think these shoes are giving me a case of prosopagnosia. I might have to give my speech barefoot."

I fight back giggles and gesture to the room at large. "Mac, you look beautiful. Everything looks beautiful."

She blushes, the most vulnerable I have ever seen her. "Thank you." She leans forward, whispering above the hum of gossiping ladies and their rustling dresses. "Two secrets. Normally only the beauty editors would get the latest touch-screen tablet pre-loaded with five hundred hits from the last twenty-five years along with their free samples, but Antoine wanted you to have one too."

"Really?" My heart beats excitedly as I imagine myself as a senior executive, listening to top songs from the nineties (hello Hootie and the Blowfish!), while window-shopping down Newbury Street, about to meet someone smart and gorgeous. We'll exchange banter so witty it could've been scripted by Amy Sherman-Palladino.

"Yours is upstairs in my room," Mac says. "Just find me later, after my speech."

"And the second secret?"

She twists her lips. "I'm nervous about speaking in front of crowds, so rather than imagine everyone in their underwear, especially since there are real underwear models here," she reels out something from her turquoise purse, "I bought one of these." She unclasps her hand.

My blood temporarily stops circulating. She's holding something small, varnished, and attached to a velvet cord.

Something with a tiny cleft.

"I hope it helps," I manage to say, despite the thicket of prickles in my throat.

"Wait a minute." She examines the men at our periphery. "Where's your famous plus one?"

"He's here, but we're just friends now," I say.

She scrutinizes my face. "What happened?"

"Maslow's self-actualization," I say to her puzzled expression, before scuttling away to the safety of my seat.

My table's near the front of the room, close to the band. I sink into my chair and admire the centerpieces which bloom from a vase fashioned out of a factice, a giant display bottle of Lautrec perfume. The luxurious arrangement of orchids, roses, ranunculus and peonies likely cost more than my dress.

Perhaps I should switch my seating card with Veronica's so that she and Doug can sit together. It appears she's forgiven him for rejecting her for the sake of the Red Sox, and I wouldn't mind sitting next to Liza even if she does grill me all night about the _DSM_ definition of depression. I can stomach three courses of that, I think.

The scent of the roses tickles my nose as I lean forward to retrieve my seating card, which is propped up between the jaws of a burnished Antoine Lautrec compact, giving the illusion of a pearl resting inside of an oyster.

I remove the seating card and quickly snap the compact shut. Even with the joy of seeing the ad I designed displayed among other successful Katzenberg campaigns, I don't want to see my reflection.

I'm afraid that if I look at myself, my glow of self-actualization will have faded and that my smile will be automatic and forced.

That's the funny thing about happiness. Like Louis Vuitton carry-alls, there are so many fake encounters, it's difficult to tell when you're experiencing the genuine article.

"Oh my god, I think _he_ 's here," Cart says over my shoulder.

I crane my head to look up at him. His face is red and glistens with a few beads of perspiration.

"Who?" I ask, following his gaze with squinted eyes. "Do you mean that man with the dark hair and bespoke gray suit by table number three?" I ask. He nods silently.

I feel his forehead. "Are you sure you're okay?" Although he nods his head again, this time reassuringly, his breath is shallow, like he's about to hyperventilate. "Benji mentioned there was a minor possibility he might come." I slip the Lautrec compact into my purse so I don't accidentally leave it behind. "You know his background is really interesting. Apparently his grandfather won an Oscar for writing one of those black and white classics..." I trail off, having spotted Doug and Veronica chatting together at her table. From her body cues, she's definitely into him. I should go forward with my plan to switch our seats.

Carter stares at me incredulously. "Yeah, I know. Pretty amazing, huh?" I ask.

"He's..." he begins. I wait for him to finish, but his jaw apparently has become temporarily immobilized. I'll just have to continue filling in the blanks.

"He was an editor at an Ivy League newspaper, and he's got a law degree from—"

Drool dribbles down Cart's freshly shaved chin. "Tali, he's..."

"—I can't remember where. Can't remember his name either."

Cart clutches the back of my chair for support, almost undoing the decorative plum velvet bow encircling it. "He's a living legend." Cart gasps for breath. "He's the...the general manager...of the...the Bosox!"

I dab at the drool on his chin with my napkin. "Oh. Benji didn't mention that."

"I can't believe he's here." He releases his grip on my chair. "Where's the closest mirror?"

I dip into my purse, reel out my compact, and offer it to him. He shakes his head. "I need full-length."

I grin. What a girl. "There's a set of restrooms outside in the lobby. Go primp princess. Don't worry, I won't tell Kirsten about your crush." He shoots me a puzzled glance before scampering through the exit doors towards the lobby.

For the next half hour, I steadily sip complimentary champagne, while haphazardly circulating through the crowd. With sore feet, I return to my seat and continue to people-watch.

My mother is still in deep conversation with Benji, who, in a suit and at the middle of the ballroom, suddenly launches a live demo of the standing tree yoga position. Last time I walked by them, they were passionately discussing the California Organic Foods Act of 1990. Who knew that Benji was also an organic lifestyle enthusiast?

I wanted her to ask him the story behind the bald patch above his ear—she can pull off such frank questioning—but before I could mention it, she caught my eye and looked pointedly at my high heels. I didn't want to suffer a ten-minute lecture about hurting my foot arches, delivered in front of my boss no less, so I scurried away before she could initiate her tirade.

Ris and August mingle with magazine editors while Jem, who has finally arrived, is being fawned over by a fashion model, who adores Jem's Louboutin heels, as well as by Nathan from Design and Eric from Public Relations. Hmmm. Perhaps, there is a way to bribe Eric to make alterations to the website after all.

"Tali!" Kirsten wobbles towards me, and the beaded fringe at her dress's hem swishes back and forth hypnotically. "Have you seen Cart?"

To cover up a giggle, I pretend to cough. "I think he's...uhm...circulating."

"I've been looking for him everywhere." She gazes into the crowd. "The décor is breathtaking! It gets my professional seal of approval." She gives me a sideways glance. "Doug told me you two broke up. Are you going to tell that to Graham?" In spite of myself, my heart lurches at the sound of Graham's name.

"Now that he and Lydia...?" Kirsten trails off. She turns to me, her eyes dilated.

"It's unbelievable! It's the daughter of the bag!" she says.

"How many Cosmopolitans did you have?" I ask.

"I can't point, that would be rude. But the reason for season four, episode eleven is here. Well her daughter is here." She jabs me in the arm and winks. "Of course, you must be thinking of other things."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Maybe it's too soon, not good timing. It's probably better for you to be spontaneous when you see him."

I try to make my voice as breezy as a floral summer skirt. "Graham's here?"

I sound as rough as burlap.

She nods and scans the room again. "I saw him talking to Doug a few minutes ago, but I don't see him now." She twists her fingers and looks at me. "You don't mind if I just..." She tilts her head towards the daughter of the bag.

"Go ahead," I say. The words are barely out of my mouth when she disappears into the crowd.

Oh my god, is that a British accent I detect amongst the hub-bub of American voices? How is that possible? Graham is supposed to be on his honeymoon, enjoying sheets with exorbitantly high thread counts.

I can't handle my ex-boyfriend making friends with my recently married ex-prospect. I need a place of peace and contemplation, a Zen garden for my overworked heart. I will...I will...

I rush out of the ballroom and into the lobby restroom of the Ritz. It's similar to the Katzenberg waiting area: all marble, potted plants, gilt-edged mirrors, and plush chairs.

I sink into one. My body feels weak and formless, as if it's been dipped into a fondue pot. I recline in the chair, trying not to think of anything in particular, until I hear the faint sound of applause, indicating it's time for me to return to the ballroom. As I rise, my movement reflected by a nearby mirror, catches my eye.

I walk slowly towards my reflection.

I take in my 3.5-inch heels, my perfect black dress, my smooth décolletage, my delicate earrings, and lastly my face.

My skin is radiant. My make-up is flawless. My hair is frizz-free. My eyelashes don't need another trial with the curlers. I look confident, sexy, a five-star kind of girl.

And my mouth is...curving into a smile. A small smile, with no visible teeth, and no crinkles at the eyes. But it's there, nevertheless, the genuine article.

I am sure I'll eventually find somebody to share this five-star pretty with. This time, when I meet him, I will ignore the throbbing insistent screech which says, "Abort mission! You're from Old Navy, and he's way above _your_ thread count." Instead, I'll overrule my inner critic and take the initiative.

I will be true to my feelings and not tuck them away into denim coin pockets and size eight waistbands. I will lay myself bare and vulnerable. Because as awful as it is to be rejected by a guy I like, it's even worse to reject myself first.

If he isn't interested, then I'll take a cue from Greg Behrendt. I will not obsess over whether he'll call or not, and I won't be making excuses for the silent phone. Instead, I'll enjoy my life. My career. My family. My free samples. My circle of friend-friends. I'll even root with Doug for the Red Sox to repeat their victory next season.

Ready to listen to Mac talk about being drug-tripping-rock-star-psychotic about Antoine Lautrec's new Ambition line of make-up, I stride out of the ladies' room and bump into someone.

Someone tall, someone with a British accent.

"I've been looking all over for you," Graham says and runs his fingers through his hair.

At the sound of his British accent and at the sight of his blue-gray eyes, my heart executes a triple sow-cow worthy of any Olympian figure skater—then crashes to the ice as I remember he's married.

"Congratulations!" I say, the word sounding, as I intended, as bright as a paparazzi flash. I am so unprepared for this encounter. He's not even supposed to be here at the anniversary party. He's supposed to be miles away, luxuriating with Lydia in a marble Jacuzzi on a secluded island resort.

"Thank you," Graham says, sounding surprised at the intensity of my felicitations.

"If you will excuse me, the latest touch-screen tablet is waiting for me," I say and race past Graham towards the lobby elevators.

# Chapter 41

WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS glide open, I hurtle inside and face the back. Not because I'm doing my social psychology experiment, but because I do not want anyone to hear the sobs which are causing my chest to heave. Nor do I want anyone to see the tears streaking down my face, carrying specs of Superlative mascara in their wake.

What is Graham doing here? Shouldn't he be waiting on a sun-drenched balcony as Lydia slips into lingerie which costs more than my monthly rent? Shouldn't he be there instead of in Boston, ruining my fragile peace of mind? I thought I had come to terms with the news of his marriage, but seeing him in person and knowing that he was irrevocably not ever going to be mine, hurt in places I didn't even know had pain receptors.

Hello, heart! Didn't you get the telegram?

You are through with Graham.

You are fixed.

FULL STOP.

The sparkle of optimism I experienced in the ladies' room fades. I feel like the silky silver dress in my closet whose straps are so thin, that even when I cross them over my hanger, the dress inevitably slumps to the floor.

That's what I want to do, slump to the floor and have a good cry, with my mom by my side and a coffee almond toffee ice cream bar clenched in each fist.

"Tali, wait!" Graham enters the elevator and taps me on the shoulder. I don't turn around.

"There's been an incredible misunderstanding, and I...what are you two doing?" Curious to know whom Graham's referring to, I open my Lautrec compact and angle it so I can see what's behind me, like a makeshift periscope. Trish and Marci have crashed this elevator party too.

"We heard Bon Jovi might be on the eighteenth floor," Trish says. She tilts her head towards me. "Why is she facing the back?"

"Scientific experiment," Graham says shortly. "Do you mind taking another elevator?"

"Oh no. This is getting good," Marci says, inserts her heel in the door, and looks at Graham and me with her arms crossed.

"I'm sure you can share whatever you have to say in front of them," I finally say, actually glad that they're here, even if they're tittering from behind a veil of make-up applied in an unflattering ode to the eighties.

"Won't you turn around?" Graham asks pleadingly. I snap my compact shut. "Why don't we rock, paper, scissor for it?" His hand snakes around in front of me. "One, two, three."

We both make scissors.

"One, two—"

"Marsh, do you have a breath mint?" Trish asks.

"—three."

Both rock.

"We're tied," he says softly. "One, two...three."

I make a rock with my fist. His hand is flat. Paper. But there's also a _real_ piece of paper lying in his palm. Thin, rectangular, white, and imprinted with small red lettering.

_Give a kiss to the person next to you_.

"Why have you saved that?" I ask, not recognizing my voice. I swivel and face him. "What does that matter now? You're married."

"What do you mean? I can assure you I am decidedly single, but...hoping to change that." He looks simultaneously desperate and on the cusp of happiness.

The general manager of the Red Sox, Mr Living Legend himself—and Cart's man crush—suddenly pokes his head into the elevator. "Is this in use?" he asks. "Or should I find another elevator?"

"No, no. Come right in," Marci purrs, and obligingly removes the heel she used to prop open the elevator doors. He strides inside, followed quickly by Cart.

"I saw the photo in the paper," I say, ignoring them and focusing instead on clearly enunciating my words.

"What photo?" Graham asks, puzzled.

"The wedding photo," I say.

"Those were lovely pictures." Trish sighs. "Vera Wang gown of course. And the ring." This time, she moans. "Asscher cut, 4.5 carat diamond, in platinum, and from Harry Winston, but you can afford that if you're a billionaire shipping magnate."

Billionaire shipping magnate? At the thought that Graham might be single after all, my heart screeches to a halt, then begins beating again with a vengeance.

"A prize worthy of Lydia's hunt, even if he's slightly older," Marci adds. My brain sluggishly makes the connections. The Armani café, the older man. Not her father, but Lydia's new husband.

"Between you and me, he is such a tool," Living Legend whispers to Trish.

Searching for confirmation, I study Graham's face. "You're not married to Lydia?"

His lips twist. "No. I'm not. In fact, I don't know why I stayed with her for so long, especially when I had been falling for somebody else." My knees buckle, and I lean against the cool surface behind me.

He likes me...he likes me...but... "If you liked me, why did you run off to England and not tell me?" And why did he put me through so much emotional turmoil? Though I admit, a lot of that was due to my own habit of over-analysis.

With a flourish, Living Legend removes a silk handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. "Do you need to use this?" he asks me kindly. I shake my head, but Cart grabs the proffered handkerchief and mops his sweating brow with it.

"Thanks man," Cart stutters.

"There was a visa issue and a family emergency, so I rushed home," Graham says and ruffles his hair, the sight of which plays havoc with my hormones. "And when I called Lydia to officially break things off, since things hadn't been going well for some time..."—I knew I was right about the three-conversation rule; it never fails!—"...she told me she had been seeing someone else, and I was glad because then I could tell you..." he trails off and glances over my shoulder.

We both read the safety sign, protected by a pane of glass: This elevator can hold one thousand pounds and was last inspected on April fifth.

"How come you were facing the back earlier?" Living Legend asks, interrupting the long pause. "When I entered the elevator."

"Scientific experiment about conformity," we all say in unison. Well, everyone except for Cart who remains uncharacteristically silent.

"...tell you...well, when you didn't call me," Graham continues, "I thought you didn't like me, that the attraction was one-sided, and maybe it'd be better if I remained home."

I stare at Graham. Didn't think I liked him? Didn't think I liked him? I implemented a scientific modification project whose principles are used to treat obsessive-compulsive disorder and sometimes even schizophrenia just to get over my feelings him.

"I was convinced that you just wanted to be friends," Graham says, "but really what prevented me from asking you out...I was intimidated." He gazes at the floor.

"By what? My killer heels?"

"I didn't think I could compete." He looks up at me and half-smiles. "I thought you were a lesbian."

With great effort, my jaws come back together. "You what?"

"Hot," Cart mumbles.

Graham's face flushes. "That night at the Thai restaurant, you were checking out that girl—"

"I liked her earrings," I say.

"And the day you came over," Graham presses on, "and took a bath at my place, I saw you do the lean-in maneuver over Lydia—"

"I couldn't walk in my shoes!"

"I thought maybe you were interested in her, and you had never mentioned a boyfriend to me either, and then that night, we spooned...all night, and—"

"All night?" Trish and Marci say wonderingly.

"—you started talking about thermoregulation." Graham shakes his head. "Thermoregulation!"

"I was nervous," I say.

"So was I. I thought you were being awkward because you wanted to be with a woman."

"He spooned you all night, and you brought up thermal physiology?" Living Legend asks. "Women."

Graham swivels towards Trish and Marci. "One day, I casually asked these two ladies if you had a boyfriend, and they said they suspected you were a lesbian."

"What?" I glare at them. Marci has the decency to turn a faint shade of red, but Trish puts her hands on her hips and glares right back at Graham.

"Just temporarily," Trish says. "You scurried off to England with your tail between your legs before I could tell you she reverted back to heterosexuality."

Graham shrugs sheepishly. "There was a mounting body of evidence, and after that day at the Gardner, you seemed rather...resolved to keep everything at a platonic level. I thought you were giving me the signal you weren't interested."

I peer at my 3.5-inch heels. My BMP was successful in a way I had never anticipated.

"When I returned home," Graham says, "I wanted to ring you, but I didn't think I had a chance."

Graham, insecure? About me?

"But," he takes my hands in his, "I thought about you constantly, and after I sent you the Harry Potter book, I decided—"

"Thanks, by the way," I interject quickly.

"You're welcome," he replies. "I decided...or, perhaps, more accurately, Gareth convinced me I had to tell you how I felt, no matter the consequences. Although, I must say my confidence rallied after you called me with the _Dirty Dancing_ quote. That was when I booked my ticket to Boston."

"What is it with that movie?" Living Legend asks no one in particular, although Cart hangs on every word.

"But how did you realize...Doug?" I ask.

Graham shakes his head. "No, Jem. She came up to me and went on a rather confusing rant about some conversation rule I had violated, and told me you were out in the lobby." He releases my hands and waits for my answer.

I tug on the pendant of my necklace, a gold Swiss ingot which had belonged to my dad. "So you are...into me?"

He leans in, and our noses touch briefly. My hands wind themselves around the base of his neck, like a slender vine around a sturdy trellis. I inhale deeply. Mmmm. Cinnamon and evergreens, still there.

"I'm very into you," Graham says and sniffs near my ear, and then down near my arm, "I think your MHC genes are fantastic."

"Were you just sniffing her arm pit?" Trish asks. I giggle, but stop as Graham's lips cover mine.

Shooting stars burst from my eyelashes and dance down into my foot arches and back up again.

Pulling away, Graham tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "In fact, I think we have perfect immunological compatibility."

# Epilogue

## Text messages between Talisman Turner and Jem James

The following message was sent on October 31 at 12:31 AM:

Jem, where are U? I have 2 ask you something. I need my OED.

Reply received on October 31 at 12:37 AM

Why are U asking me a/b the dictionary? Shouldn't U be busy doing other things?

The following message was sent on October 31 at 12:39 AM:

I am, I did. He's got a really nice clavicle. U wouldn't think his stomach would be so toned.

It was fabulooooous, better than the fantasy. But I can't text message U those deets. We talked after, and he murmured, callipygian, that's what you are, callipygian—which I wouldn't be able to spell w/out auto-correct. Then fell asleep w/out explanation.

Reply received on October 31 at 12:43 AM

He said that?

The following message was sent on October 31 at 12:45 AM:

Yeah, does that mean I'm a bad kisser?

Reply received on October 31 at 12:46 AM

Callipygian? That's what he said?

The following message was sent on October 31 at 12:48 AM:

What does it mean?!!!

Reply received on October 31 at 12:49 AM

You have perfectly shaped buttocks!

## UPS Delivery Slip

To: Talisman Turner

Apt #9, Goddard Street

Brookline, MA

Enclosed: What Should I Do with My Life? (signed copy)

In your absence, the package(s) was left at:

Front Door

Back Door

Side Door

Office

Patio

Deck

Porch

Garage/Carport

Neighbor

Other

## From the Spring Issue of It! Girl Magazine

### Intolerable Colleague Bringing You Down?

Don't yell or hurl a cell phone at her. You don't want to end up in anger management therapy with Naomi Campbell...or worse, fired.

Instead, follow this stress-relieving tip from one of our Massachusetts readers and use an office supply like a stapler to bash bath beads until they burst. Pop as many as it takes to improve your mood.

_Bonus_ : afterwards, your office will smell like a garden.

## Letter from a Make-Up Man

Tali!

Do you remember me? It's Troy. I sold you a set of steak knives and threw in two pairs of penny-cutting scissors for free. They truly do cut through anything. Anyway, I'm writing to thank you.

I thought a lot about what you said, about buying non-drying, long-lasting lipstick...and well, now I've joined the team of a direct sales cosmetics company.

I'm one of the few males, but women love buying make-up from me for some reason. Maybe it's my Southern accent? I'm ranked #1 in my sales group, and I've even recruited my high school buddies, tripling my profits.

I'm on my way to being able to finance a college education, thanks to you! If you ever want to purchase some sensational cosmetics, (our eyeliner is real sexy), give me a call!

Thanks again,

Troy

## Victory, Decades in the Making

### Mike Tremaine

### Globe Staff

It's official. The Curse has been broken, and the Red Sox have won their first World Series Commissioner's Trophy since 1918. Many believe this resounding triumph is a miracle of faith. The Bosox had to overcome a range of obstacles to make it to the Series. The 19-8 loss in Game 3 of the ALCS. Not to mention Curt Schilling's ankle, held together by only three sutures.

Perhaps this wicked sweet success is the result of the prayers of men who postponed trips to the emergency room so they could root for their beloved team until the very last minute of the last extra inning. Others, however, attribute victory to factors besides an act of God.

Take Doug Lyman, 26, of the Fens. "Like most guys here, I vowed at the beginning of the season that this would be the year." He grins and plays with his Red Sox key tag, a memento from the first game he went to with his father. "Except that I also personally sacrificed sex and monogamy to ensure the Ultimate Victory. So I broke up with my girlfriend and passed up an opportunity to date Veronica." As in Veronica Steele, the Vixen Lane supermodel and _Sports Illustrated_ cover girl. That Veronica, in case you were wondering.

Brookline resident Talisman Turner, 25.5 years old, and the aforementioned ex-girlfriend, disagrees. "My friend Walter, who gives chess lessons near the Harvard Square Au Bon Pain, ate two dozen boxes worth of the Break the Curse cookie—you know the molasses kind with no hydrogenated oils. And my mom claims to have sent good vibes to the Sox. Though of course these are just more examples of magical thinking, like Doug and his sacrifice. Did he have to dump me? Wasn't sleeping underneath a reverse the curse poster enough? My new boyfriend would never do anything so ridiculous."

Magical thinking? I ask. "A psychological phenomenon where people think they can affect grand changes in the world through their thoughts or actions," she explains, opens up her Stella McCarteney handbag, and hands me one of the famed cookies, and inexplicably, one empty pot of lip goo.

Although I too, sleep (correction slept) underneath a reverse the curse poster (is that so wrong?), I'm not quite sure if I would have had the strength to give up Veronica, (currently preparing for a photo shoot in Milan and unavailable to comment on her relationship status with Doug), or if my gut could have handled two dozen boxes worth of cookies (no hydrogenated oils or trans fat notwithstanding).

But thanks to Doug and Tali, and more likely, God, it didn't come to that.

# What Happens Next?

Although Tali and Graham are finally (!) together, more drama is on the way. (Not dark or negative, but the entertaining kind.) If you enjoyed this novel and want to see how these two tackle a long-distance relationship, check out the second book in the Psych & the City series, _Talisman Turner Minds the Gap_.

Buy now from your favorite ebook retailer and stock up on another "feel-good" read:

<http://cindafernando.com/talisman-turner-minds-gap/>

_Note_ : A brief excerpt can be found at the very end of this ebook.

## Let's be honest

When you want to curl up with a light-hearted novel, it can be hard to find what you're looking for.

Make it easier for others...

...and write a review for _The Triumphs and Travails of Talisman Turner_ wherever you purchased this ebook.

See, new readers are more likely to take a chance on a book that already has social approval. (There's a psychological theory behind that, but perhaps you've had enough of those for the moment?!)

Make it easier for yourself...

...and sign up for my newsletter. You'll be the first to know when I release another light-hearted romantic comedy novel.

Click on the link below to get started:

<http://cindafernando.com/newsletter/>

Thank you for reading about Talisman's adventures. I really appreciate it!

# Acknowledgements

First and foremost, I would like to thank my Heavenly Father and his Son, Jesus Christ. Without your love and guidance, I would not have been able to accomplish any of my dreams, both large and small.

I'm also grateful to my Auntie Maria and my triumvirate of uncles: Ray, Lester, and Mario, who have all shown me many kindnesses throughout the years.

I would also like to thank my psychology professors whose classes helped shaped my career path in a way you likely did not anticipate. In particular, I'd like to thank Rachel Herz for introducing me to the concept of MHC genes, to John Wincze who shared key behavior modification techniques, and to Mary Carskadon, who provided a very thorough education on REM sleep. (Thanks to her, I know that ideally, everyone should sleep for 8 hours and 24 minutes a night.) Very special thanks to Joachim Krueger, whose social psychology intro class and advanced lab form the basis for Talisman Turner's current (and future) adventures.

I am also grateful to all of my high school teachers, especially Martha DeWeese, Patricia Lukacs, Margaret Dufeny, Michael Kennedy, Dr Morris, and Coach Sorrell, (who wisely let me skate around the perimeter of the roller hockey rink instead of thrusting me into the center of the action). Special thanks to my middle school English teacher Martha Davis, who created the sturdy foundation everything else was built on.

Law school and I didn't stick. But while I was there, three people made a strong impression through their support and helpfulness. Thank you Colleen Sackinger and Dean Gash for making my entrance into law school so smooth. Special thanks to Professor Steven Schultz, whose talent, passion, and dedication as a teacher is beyond measure.

Thank you to Liz Boland, who hired me to work at the bookstore where I first discovered Sophie Kinsella and Marian Keyes...and began to think, "I could write something like this." Liz, you have always been the epitome of graciousness, and I remember your unwavering help with gratitude.

Finally, I am most grateful to Jack Partridge who took the time to give me helpful feedback. I hope to see the Algy Temple mystery series as ebooks one day!

# Excerpt: _Talisman Turner Minds the Gap_

## Psych & the City #2

I curl into a ball at the edge of the futon, clutching a throw pillow and the box of chocolates to my chest. The constricted position mirrors my constricting heart. Instead of lighting lavender-scented pillar candles, which now glow like skeletal bones in my living room, running my peony pink nails through Graham's soft hair, and snipping off the price tag of the Ralph Lauren colorblock matte jersey dress with a saucily short hem I bought specially for this occasion, I'll be spending Valentine's Day alone, watching _Pretty Woman_ for the eighty-seventh time.

This isn't a crisis of epic proportions, I remind myself. It's not a natural disaster which wreaked havoc on more than one continent. It's not the death of John-John Kennedy, prematurely killed before he had a chance to restore Camelot. It's not the miniscule amount of screen time Angel had in the series finale of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

It's just Valentine's Day.

Mouth agape, I gawk at the mostly empty box of chocolates. Surely, I didn't become so depressed over a commercial gambit used to boost the quarterly sales reports for florists, confectioners, and greeting card manufacturers that I demolished all of these chocolates? Unlike Christmas, Valentine's Day isn't even a real holiday.

_Like New Year's Eve?_ asks a traitorous voice in my head, oddly sharing the raspy quality of Ursula's in _The Little Mermaid_. I ignore it and continue my musing. Surely, I'm depressed and weepy over something more meaningful, something deeper...something more impressive...

...something like existential despair.

Frankly, I'm not even sure what existentialism is exactly. I merely overheard my best friend, Jem, discussing it with her new boyfriend, one night when we all went out for sangria and tapas. But it sounds just suitably morose enough to warrant my current state of gluttony.

The sound of someone knocking on my door jolts me out of my somber thoughts. My heartbeat quickens, and I race to the jamb, hoping that somehow Graham made it to Boston after all. His talk of blueberry crises was just a practical joke which I will scold him for later—after I give him a spine-tingling, toe-curling, welcome-back-to-the-Eastern-Standard-time-zone kiss.

But when I fling open the door, it's not the blue-gray eyes of my British boyfriend I stare into, but the piercing green eyes of my ex-boyfriend, Doug.

* * *

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