Page 582 of Hell Hath No Fury
She squeals. “You won’t regret it. He is H-O-T, hot.”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about your coworkers like that. I’m pretty sure there are seminars about it.”
“Trust me. When you meet him you’ll understand.”
Sighing, I say, “Well when am I supposed to meet this illustrious doctor? If he’s not as extraordinary as you’re making him out to be, you owe me a bottle of wine—and not the cheap stuff either!”
“If you like him, you owemetwo grandbabies, at least. One boy and one girl. You don’t have to name them after me, but under no circumstances are they allowed to call me grandma. I’m Nana.”
“Geez, he must be something else if you’re advocating the white picket fence and happily ever afters.” As a notoriousbachelorette, Mom had never been married. I don’t think she’d ever had a boyfriend for longer than a menstrual cycle. She’s more relationship phobic than I am.
“I’m not saying you have to marry the guy for Christ’s sake. I’m just saying if I were twenty years younger, I’d give him a roll in the sheets.”
“I just gotoutof a relationship in case you’ve forgotten already.”
“Sure, with what’s-his-name. But that’s beside the point.”
“Fine. When am I supposed to meet him, then?”
“Tonight.”
Dead air fills the line between us. I gawk at the cars in front of me. She can’t be serious. “Tonight?”
“Well, I felt bad that I have a night shift and I didn’t want you to spend your first night home all alone and depressed, getting into my ice cream stash.”
“I’m not going to eat all of your ice cream,” I sputter.
“That’s what you said the last time you came home,” she says.
“I can’t decide if I should be upset because you set me up without asking or because you did it to keep me from raiding your freezer.”
“You canthank mefor it later. You’re meeting him tonight at seven atBella Bella Italiano. Dress nice,” she says cheerfully, then hangs up without letting me have a word in edgewise.
* * *
The balmy night air wraps around my bare legs and I give a fleeting thought to whether or not a form fitting little black dress is appropriate for a blind date. Then, I figure, screw it. I look spectacular in this dress. And I could use a little more feeling spectacular and a lot less of feeling like a failure.
I’m fifteen minutes early, but I couldn’t stand being alone in the house surrounded by the corpses of empty boxes and realizing just how far I’d fallen. Meeting a good-looking guy to take my mind off of unpacking the rest of my meager belongings started to sound better around the time I found the box full of relics from my failed relationship.
The hostess greets me with a wide smile that I mimic in return. “How many?” she asks, and I wonder why that should feel like a bullet to the gut when I’ve never had a problem being alone before.
“I’m here to meet someone,” I say to cover my sudden and rare bout of insecurity. “I’m a little early. Will it be alright if I just wait at the bar until they get here?”
She nods, “Absolutely. What’s the name? I’ll let them know you’ve already arrived.”
“Mikhail, uh…Alexandrov,” I say, wincing when I mangle the pronunciation horribly. “Dr. Mikhail Alexandrov.”
“I’ll let him know. Go right on in to your left.” Her Southern twang and hospitality a welcome reprieve from the often rude New Yorkers.
The interior is dimly lit and shadowed, the air scented heavily with garlic and oregano. My stomach growls, reminding me I didn’t put food on the list of priorities when I got to Mom’s house. As much as I protested, the thought of a date buoyed my mood and meant the two hours between pulling into her drive and leaving for the restaurant were spent primping and beautifying—two of my favorite activities.
It’s worth it. My long brown hair is styled into artful waves. I applied makeup with a slight hand, having grown tired of thick applications after one too many stage performances. Now, I tend to go for a more natural look. A little liner to emphasize my sultry brown eyes and a light gloss on my full lips. The result is sexy casual and I’m aware enough of myself to recognizethe blatant interest on the faces of men stealing not-so-subtle glances as I make my way to the bar.
“White wine,” I tell the bartender as I take a seat on one of the empty stools.
As he sets the chilled glass in front of me, I take it with a grateful smile. My hands tremble a little as I bring the wine glass to my lips, and I hope the preemptive glass of alcohol will help settle my nerves.
My phone buzzes and I dig through my purse, knocking it from the bar to the floor with a muttered, “Shit,” when a group of people pass by. The hushed tones of their conversation filter over the piano music and chatter from the other patrons.
