Page 50 of Pick-Up
Speaking of his touch, he is still holding my hand in his sausage fingers. And I kind of want it back. I peek as subtly as possible to my left and right for help, but everyone is too busy hanging on his every word to receive my SOS.
On the contrary. “Such incredible vision!” oozes Stephanie, clasping her hands and raising her shoulders in apparent wonder. But Martin’s eyes stay trained on me.
“I’ll show you more wonders tomorrow, as your personal guide,” he says to me. “I can tell you’despeciallyappreciate them.”
“Oh, um—hmm,” I say. Always with the big words.
I barely know these people. It’s my first day. The last thing I want to do is offend the owner, blow things up and get us all kicked out before work has begun. But I am not loving this exchange. And I’d like my hand back.
Am I overreacting?
“Actually,” says a disembodied low voice to my left, “she’s going to be quite busy working on producing our video content for the website and social tomorrow.”
If Martin hears this, the only indicator is a slight raise of one eyebrow. But I glance over to see Ethan, now standing close by, watching. His face is relaxed, his expression impassive; he takes a casual sip of his drink. But his free hand is balled in a fist.
I’ve got to speak up for myself. Establish boundaries! It’s the only way to subvert this patriarchal mash-up.
“It’s true,” I say. “I expect to be tied up all day.”
Poor choice of words. Martin’s eyes go round. Now he thinks I’mflirting back. If anything, he tightens his vise grip on my hand. “I’d like to see that.” He spits a bit on the finalt.
I am no longer confused about his publicist’s silence and sighs.
“Speaking of seeing things: Martin, would you mind showing me around the restaurant before dinner begins?” Ethan presses. “I’d love to get a full understanding of the design process.”
“Maybe later.”
Enough is enough. I don’t want to offend this guy, but did he nap through #metoo? Also, his hands are starting to sweat, and it’s triggering my gag reflex. I’d rather not puke on his mandals.
“Oops!” I say, then drop my clutch. I yank my hand from his grip, as I bend down to pick my bag up. I do it in that order, reactingbeforeI’ve dropped it, which is why Martin is an actor and I am not.
He doesn’t seem to notice. It is inconceivable to him that I would want to escape. He probably thinks that, after his blessed touch, I’ll run off and have my hand bronzed. I’d rather have it fumigated.
“I better go show the big editor in chief around,” he says, nodding his chin at Ethan perhaps in subtle mockery or rather to underline the importance of men’s work to me. “God forbid we risk a poor review.” He laughs. Any unfavorable critique is also inconceivable.
The two men head off together to talk sconces and limestone.
I exhale, then turn to find the bathroom so I can loofah all the skin off my hand.
“Wow, girl,” says Stephanie, before I can leave. She squeezes my forearm, affectionately. “I thought you seemed on the tame side, but look at you scoring the white whale—he’s yours for the taking!”
For a brief irrational second, I think she means Ethan. My cheeks grow hot, and I am about to protest. Though I have to admit, he was the lone person to pick up my signal and try to help me. But then I realize she means Martin, like attracting that man is a win. And I am rendered speechless. I can’t tell if she’s joking. But I am saved by the bell: she looks down at the thawing ice cube in her glass. “I need another drink! Do you need a drink? You do! I’ll go get us some. Their ginger mojito is to die!” Off she runs.
It is novel, I suppose, getting hit on by a movie star, albeit a gross one.
Recently, as a mother, I can barely conceive of myself as a sexual being. That piece of my identity feels twice removed, like a character in a movie I once watched and found both cringey and entertaining. Like most women my age, these days, I often get ignored walking down the street. I am not yet fully invisible but am beginning to disappear like the siblings in theBack to the FuturePolaroid. Only in this photo, my tits and ass vanish first.
Actually, in my tiny neighborhood in Brooklyn—populated largely by retired firefighters, plumbers and hairstylists of grandparent age and then distracted parents like me—there is no one to check me out, anyway. But it’s funny to think of someone else seeing me that way—dateable, “exquisite,” even fuckable—when I don’t myself.
When dinner is served and we go to sit down, I am the object of Martin’s attention again. Lord help me.
“Come sit by me.” Martin winks, patting the empty chair to his right. “Seat of honor.”
It occurs to me that he might see me as “age-appropriate” and I am even more deeply offended.
Before I can demur, Derek steps in. “Unfortunately, I think you’re stuck with me instead. I have some boring details to review with you before tomorrow and, sadly, it can’t wait!”
Martin frowns, but he accepts this fate with decorum. “Tomorrow, then,” he says, with a flourish. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…” His hopeful tone makes me think he hasn’t done a lot of Shakespeare, unless he’s intentionally lamenting the futility of existence.
