“I think it was good, you ripped off the Band-Aid and had an actual date. It was a date, right, please tell me he at least paid . . .”
“He was a perfect gentleman, paid for everything, and ordered my Uber on his phone.”
“Well, he’s earning more than a few points there. I’ve seen you chow down at Big Star when you’re sober, you giantess. I can’t imagine how many tacos you put away with the munchies.”
“You don’t wanna know.” I shake my head. Marcy holds her hand out for the bag of marshmallows, and when I give it to her, she deftly ties the top in a knot. And makes the no-no finger at me when I make a pouty face.
Simca is snuggled on the couch between us in her favorite position, head on Marcy’s lap for between-the-ear scratching, and her wide tush up against me for butt rubbing. She is a total hedonist, my pup.
“Well, I’m glad it was a nice night.”
“More than nice—I killed two bet birds at once!”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Violet Hour? That was a date, a real live date, so that checks one off the list. And I have the text message confirming it to forward to the girls. But, when we decided to go for tacos, we had already admitted we weren’t into each other romantically, so that was a bona fide social event out of the house with a stranger, so I got my biweekly social thing checked off, and the monthly stranger part worked out. Boom.”
“Look at you, gaming the system.”
“I know, right? Next week is the Halloween party, so that is this month covered on the social obligations.”
“Except you need another date.”
Damn. Forgot about that one. “Yeah. I’ll have to ping Lawrence again.”
“Nope, I’ve got you covered. You’re gonna get a call from Ethan. New ma?tre d’ at the hotel.” She raises her hand at me before I can protest. “He is six foot four, built like a lumberjack, and very nice. Just moved here from Portland, so he doesn’t know many people. And Thursdays are his night off, so you should be able to sneak in something next week before the party, and get your October checklist fully completed.”
“I love you.”
“I know, baby.”
“There’s only one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I might need more of those caramels.”
Seven
Marcy slides out of her coat in Lawrence’s foyer, revealing her homemade dickey. She couldn’t find one like the one in Flashdance, so she took a white button-down tuxedo shirt, removed the sleeves and back, and added an apron tie around her waist. Like a shirt mullet. She kept the cuffs and is wearing them like bracelets, snappy black bow tie around her neck. Wide-leg tuxedo pants and shiny patent leather lace-up wingtips finish the look. Her brown curly wig is teased into a halo of curls, and she is carrying a large plastic lobster that matches my own.
I found an end-of-season boho-chic floral chiffon dress for practically no money at Nordstrom Rack, over which I am wearing a loosely knitted ivory shawl, and flat lace-up sandals. Marcy found me the most incredible long, wavy platinum blond wig, which she has styled to perfectly match Daryl Hannah’s from the movie, twisting two strands and pulling them back to keep it out of my face. She’s done my makeup again, very shimmery and ethereal, and while I’m definitely not going to go blond anytime soon, it is kind of fun to see myself looking so different. And she owed me after the whole Ethan thing.
He did indeed call, and we made a date for Thursday night. We met at Billy Sunday for drinks, and he was indeed tall and good-looking. He was also, as I was deftly and fairly casually informed in the first ten minutes of our date, a gluten-free vegan CrossFit pansexual submissive.
“How was I to know?” Marcy said as we were getting ready tonight and I was raking her over the coals.
“Well, considering the speed at which he shared it all with me, I’m astounded that he didn’t mention any of it to you. I mean, look, I was an athlete, so I can deal with the whole CrossFit thing. I’m not a sexual prude—let your freak flag fly. I’ll learn some spanking techniques. And I don’t particularly care about the brand of people who have preceded me. But gluten-free vegan? Hell no. I mean, really.”
Marcy snorted with laughter. “Can you imagine? It’s inhuman. I’m so sorry. If I had any idea, I would have never . . .”
“At least it was a good story for Lynne and Teresa.” They roared when we did a three-way phone call to hear about the world’s shortest first date. I claimed a fake emergency and bolted in exactly eighteen minutes. I can handle a lot, but if I can’t make you carbonara, we’re done for. “They want to meet you, by the way.”
“In an alley with torches and pitchforks?”
“In a restaurant with cocktails.”
“Done.”
? ? ?
The two of you are gorgeous!” Lawrence says, greeting us in his eggplant silk pajamas covered in an olive green velvet smoking jacket and embroidered velvet slippers. He is drinking a martini and carrying a pipe. “I might have to take your pictures later for my magazine!”
“Why, Mr. Hefner, you wicked man!” Marcy says, kissing him on the cheek.
He winks at her, and then looks me up and down. “Spectacular to see you looking like a girl, my dear. Jack said you had a convivial evening, but no sparkle. Pity. But I’m terribly proud of you for getting back on the horse, and have many, many more eligible bachelors in my little black book for you, not to worry. In the meantime, why don’t you take your glorious self inside and see if blondes have more fun!”
We clink our plastic lobsters with his martini glass and head into the party, which is in full force. There are several different incarnations of mayors wandering about, a Rahm, two Daley Juniors, a Daley Senior, a Harold Washington, and a Jane Byrne. Poor Michael Bilandic doesn’t even make the cut. We spot some famous sports figures, the Blues Brothers, and a spectacular incarnation of the big Picasso statue downtown. I see Jack across the room, dressed as a Chicago Blackhawk, but he is in deep conversation with a guy dressed as John Cusack in Say Anything, complete with black trench coat and boom box, so I decide not to distract him. I’ll say hi later.
“I believe it is cocktail o’clock, my little mermaid. Have to keep you lubricated!” Marcy says, steering me toward the bar. But halfway there, she gets sidelined by a guy, dressed like Ferris Bueller, she randomly knows from her gym, and in ten seconds they are trying to figure out how they both ended up here. I keep my path and head to the other side of the room, where the bar is set up.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks me. I vaguely remember him from last year’s party, but have forgotten his name.
“Can you do a Negroni?”
“Absolutely. Up?”