“Betty was a very popular name for women of courtship age in the fifties. What, you don’t think I’m a Betty?” I strike my best model pose.
“I think you’re a total betty, obviously.” She winks at me, then starts reading aloud. “Let’s see here, Betty do’s and don’ts: ‘Betty always dresses to the nines and would never be caught dead without her face on. She’s a domestic goddess; presentation is very important to her. She eats like a bird, but always has dinner ready and waiting for her man when he walks in the door. Betty would never make the first move—only floozies ask men out.’?” She groans. “Seriously?”
“It’s a direct quote from one of the articles!”
She shakes her head and continues reading. “?‘Betty would never split the check and always ends phone calls first to keep him wanting more. She’s demure and pleasing and never makes demands. Betty lets her man take the lead and always puts his needs before hers. Her career comes second to landing a man.’?” She fake-gags.
I smirk. “What do you think? Good, right?”
“I think it’s a good thing I’m here, because it’s going to be near-impossible for you to say or do any of these things with a straight face. In fact, I’m not sure I could think of someone less suited to behave submissively. You’re no June Cleaver. You’re no Ana Steele! However.” She holds up a finger. “I believe in you, and I’m here to help. I will put you through Betty boot camp. Like . . .” She scrunches up her face and thinks for a second. “When Jack texts you about your date, how does Betty respond?”
I’m ready for this one. “She doesn’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because cell phones didn’t exist in the fifties.”
She swats me with the printout. “No.”
I grin. “I was just kidding. Obviously, any self-respecting maiden of the fifties would expect more effort from her beau than some measly little text. A phone call, at the very least.”
“Perhaps a meeting in the parlor between the gentleman caller and her father to secure his permission.”
I crack up. “Wrong century, Scarlett O’Hara. This is the nineteen-fifties, not the antebellum South.”
She waves a hand. “S’all the same. Anyway, this is going to be a ton of fun.”
“Or a total disaster. Who can say, really?”
She slings an arm around my shoulder. “Either way, I come out a winner because I have a front-row seat for this shit show.” She hip-checks me and grins. “Pass the popcorn.”
Chapter 5
Truth be told, I thought I’d hear from Jack quickly. Based on the way we left things, I assumed I’d get a text or a call within a day, two at most. But when a couple of days pass without hearing from him, a seed of doubt starts to take root and sprout.
You got way too far ahead of yourself, my brain admonishes as I putter around the apartment Tuesday night making dinner. He saw through your whole charade and is probably writing his own exposé on you right now, I fret as I sweat through a spin class the next morning. You should never have pitched this to Cynthia before he actually made contact, I berate myself as I grab a midafternoon latte at Starbucks on Thursday. I can’t even reach out to him myself (not that I would; are you kidding? Betty would never) because I didn’t stay long enough at that bar to get his number in return. I’m a pitiful double agent.
To talk myself off the ledge, I run through all the reasons why he might be taking his time to call: he’s a busy guy at the helm of a major media corporation; he wants to establish himself as the alpha by making me wait; he mistyped my number; I have BO.
At least no one knows about this, I reassure myself. If he ghosts me, I’ll just go back to writing the original story. No harm, no foul.
But I can’t lie—I’m disappointed. I definitely got caught up in the idea of writing a big splashy takedown (and okay, perhaps even parlaying it into a buzzy bestseller). And fine, maybe I’ve got a bit of a bruised ego as well. Nat seemed so sure he was interested . . . heck, I thought he was interested. I like to think I’m decent at reading people; I guess I just pegged him wrong.
Or more likely, you scared him off by acting like a total psychopath.
By Thursday night I’ve just about decided he’s a lost cause (and stopped checking my phone eighty-three times a day—a watched phone never buzzes and all that). I’m two glasses of wine in and halfway through a rewatch of an old Outlander episode (a super-porny one, too; the best kind) when my phone rings next to me and I glance down at it. An unknown 212 number flashes across the screen and I bolt upright.
Settle down. It’s probably just a political robocall.
But if it is Jack, I need to stay in control. Act aloof, like I expected him to call.
I take a moment to slip into my Betty skin, pausing a shirtless Sam Heughan (my timing is impeccable), and let it ring once—twice—before answering on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Cassidy.” A statement, not a question.
It’s him, I know it immediately. I hadn’t realized I’d committed his voice to memory, but the deep baritone and silver-tongued confidence, smoother than any salesman’s, are instantly familiar.
“Yes?” I ask, infusing the word with a questioning lilt. Like I haven’t been anxiously awaiting his call like a parent on prom night. Like there are so many unidentified men of marriageable age calling me, I can’t possibly keep track of them all.
“Jack Bradford.” There’s a pause, and I don’t rush to fill it. “From the event on Monday?” A tinge of uncertainty’s crept into his voice and I have to squelch the urge to draw it out, see just how uncomfortable I can make him.
“Jack! Of course,” I say instead, pouring diabetic levels of sugar into my response. “I’d almost given up on hearing from you,” I scold in a playful singsong. Betty is an incorrigible flirt.
“Sorry about that,” he says, and he actually does sound remorseful. “I’ve been out of town. Still am, actually.”
See? I tell myself. He’s on a work trip. You don’t smell.
“Where to?” I ask, settling back on the couch and swirling the wine in my glass.
“Vegas. I head back tomorrow morning.”
“Wow, Vegas. Tough job you’ve got there.”
He laughs. “Right? Though I can assure you that Vegas for work isn’t quite the same as Vegas for fun.”
“I bet. I’ll confess, though, I’ve been to Vegas for a couple of bachelorette parties, and that was enough for me.”
“I can relate. After a trip, it always seems to take a couple of days for my ears to stop ringing.”
I strain to hear some identifying background noise, like slot machines or the buzz of the casino floor, but it’s as silent as a library at midnight. “Seems pretty quiet to me.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “I’m in my hotel room.”
It’s an oddly intimate mental image—Jack, alone in a Vegas hotel room. I picture his tall frame sprawled across a hotel bed, the comforter thrown back and sheets mussed, his socked feet hanging over the edge. I wonder if he’s the type to wear noisy patterns in hidden rebellion or if he sticks to muted solids.