What's a Girl Gotta Do Read Free Page B

them in the eye, smile
warmly, say, “I really respect your work,” and then quote them back
to themselves (“I liked what you said to the National Association
of Whatever about blah blah blah”). But he never gushed and the
technique worked for him, talented sociopath that he is. He was a
rising star at Channel 3 and being groomed for network, or so the
buzz went.
    These golden people were standing almost
directly below me but Burke still hadn’t seen me. For a moment I
had a childish urge to do something cartoonish—drop a flower pot,
anvil, safe, or grand piano on him. Not having any of those items
at hand, I threw a cocktail peanut at him instead, which bounced
off his head and landed at his feet. He looked up.
    “Sorry!” I hollered down. He gave me that
condescending look of hurt I know so well. It’s the look a
progressive parent gives a demon child when child psychology has
failed. I am very disappointed with you, that look says. You’ve let
me down. But you’re hurting yourself more than me.
    Burke didn’t say anything, he just moved out
of peanut range. I could see Amy still, talking to Greg in this
hyper way. She was a nervous little thing, but nervous in a way
other people (other than me) find attractive. It’s a mildly
gushing, eager-to-please nervousness.
    The men exchanged business cards and all
shook hands, the ritual networking farewell. When the band started
up again with Glenn Miller, Burke and Amy went back to the dance
floor, the better to display their unbridled love for each other to
the whole world.
    I needed another drink.

Chapter Two
     
    I DRAGGED MYSELF AWAY from the writers and
went back to the bar, where I ran into Eric Slansky, the
supervising producer for the Greg Browner show. Tonight he was
dressed as New Coke.
    He saw my tire iron and said, “Do you ever go
anywhere unarmed, Robin?”
    “I try not to, Eric.”
    “I hear you’re almost single,” he said, and
grinned.
    “Almost.”
    “Why don’t you lose the tire iron and dance
with me?” he said.
    Before getting on with Browner—a cushy
gig—the year before, Eric had been the super prod for Ambush, a
half-hour issues show in which newsmakers and pundits were grilled
by liberal and conservative journalists. He was very funny, very
smart and he seemed very laid-back.
    Oh yeah. And he was very cute.
    No, cute was for puppies. What this guy was,
was anachronistically gorgeous. Like a character in a
Merchant-Ivory film, that pre-war Ivy League letterman-in-track
look: tall, lean, with shortish dark hair, a strong jaw and
piercing blue eyes. If that wasn’t just what the doctor ordered, he
was 31, four years younger than I.
    Perfect. If Burke could have a younger woman,
the laws of fairness dictated I could have a younger man, at least
for the duration of the party.
    Eric played along nicely, being very witty
and suggestive. I got into it and, modesty aside, parried back with
aplomb. I didn’t take it seriously, though. Come on, the guy was
gorgeous and younger and he had hit on me before. I always got the
feeling he was just casting a role for his memoirs, the Older
Married Woman, who comes somewhere between the Danish College
Student and the Lesbian Duo.
    “I’d love to see you outside of work,” he
said when the Stones Medley ended.
    Before I could answer, the music started up
again and a strange man cut in on us. Eric stepped aside
graciously.
    “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said
apprehensively to the guy, who was about my height with ginger hair
and a florid complexion.
    “No, we haven’t met. I’m a big fan of yours,”
he said. “And I know a lot about you, Red Knobby.”
    He smiled and thrust an envelope into my hand
before turning and walking away.
    Momentarily caught off-guard, I stood for a
moment and watched his back as he disappeared into the crowd.
    People were still dancing around me and I was
buffeted on all sides by clumsy, dancing drunks. I looked down at
the Marfeles Palace envelope and