“You do that on your own.”
“See you next week. Make sure to pop by Marie’s office on the way out. She’s cutting checks today for contractors, and she always loves seeing you. I think she’s hoping for your soccer tips.”
“Football, Ryder. Football.”
“Never. Not even on pain of torture will I ever say football.”
That’s a sign, if I ever needed one, that this is becoming a regular gig. I say goodbye and head down the hall, feeling pretty damn good about how things are looking.
“Oh, yes, he’s so charming.”
I hear a drawling feminine voice coming from the breakroom down the hall, her intonation a mix of Dallas and, well, more Dallas.
Then another voice joins in, sounding like she’s from Brooklyn—as in, a lifelong Brooklynite. “And he knows everything on the topic. He’s a total delight to listen to with that accent.”
I square my shoulders, smiling to myself. I am indeed a delight.
The first voice goes again. “I’m not even into that stuff, Betty, but I find myself trying new things because of him.”
Well, how about that. My work is reaching women too.
“I love his attitude, love his style. I told Ryder to hire him for the job. We sooo need someone like that,” says the woman named Betty.
I pump a fist, slowing my pace because eavesdropping is so not acceptable, but these are extenuating circumstances. I need to hear this.
“What did he say?” the Dallas woman asks.
“He thought it was a great idea. He’s bringing him in to finalize it,” Betty from Brooklyn says.
Yes!
“He’s the breath of fresh air we need on that show,” Betty adds.
“Don’t I know it. It’s about time. It’s also about time for our meeting. We better skedaddle,” the Texan replies, and I take that as my cue to nip into Marie’s office and retrieve my check.
“Looking lovely as always, Miss Marie.” I always enjoy seeing her when it’s paycheck time, and that’s not simply because she’s terrific at handing over money. She’s from the homeland too, so we’ve bonded.
She pats her blonde hair. “I have a very good hairdresser. She deserves all the credit. Somehow she makes me look like my two teens haven’t made me go gray.”
“Teenagers? I would have thought toddlers.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Reynolds. Now, take this check and take your girl out for a nice meal.”
“I don’t have a girl, but if I did, I’d take her someplace fantastic.”
“I can’t believe you don’t have a lady. If you let me, I could set you up with some of my friends. I have a few divorced ladies who would just scoop you up like an ice cream cone.”
“I do enjoy ice cream. What flavor exactly?”
“Does that mean I can play matchmaker?” she leans in to whisper.
Maybe it’s because our relationship exists on this simple level, or maybe it’s because I’m in a damn fine mood. I glance around as if to make sure the coast is clear, then whisper back. “Not yet. Truth be told, there’s someone I fancy. But we’re just friends.”
“Friends make the best lovers.”
“Mrs. Williams!” I say, like she’s shocked me in a Henry James novel.
“Oh please. Don’t act so astonished. Mr. Williams and I were friends first. And let me tell you, that made all the difference.” She drops her voice. “Why do you think my kids were born one year after I said I do?”
“I didn’t actually realize they were.”
“And now you do. Because we were good friends first. So, what’s she like? Your prospective lady?”
“She’s just a friend. I swear. We are only friends.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come back in a few weeks and tell me how that’s working out for you. Fifty dollars says you’re more than friends.”
“One hundred says we’re only friends.”
We shake on it.
“Now,” she asks, “who are we betting on this weekend? Chelsea or Manchester United?”
We debate the merits of each, then decide where to place our bets.
“Now keep me posted on your friend.”
