Mr. Right Now

But Lizbeth had one quality that made her an indispensable friend. No matter how bad Nina’s life looked, all it took was one dry, but witty, comment from Lizbeth to put everything in perspective, to make Nina’s worries dissolve into fits of laughter.

“You know what your problem is?” Lizbeth asked, following Nina into her tiny, windowless office.

“No, but I’m sure you’re dying to tell me.”

“You haven’t had a date in almost six months. Honey, if you don’t leave your apartment, how do you expect to meet anyone?” Lizbeth shook her head. “You’re going to start to get…what do they call that? Angoraphobia?”

“Angoraphobia is a fear of fuzzy sweaters,” Nina corrected. “Agoraphobia is a fear of strangers.”

Lizbeth sighed. “The fact that you know something so obscure just proves my point,” she said. “Since you broke up with that crazy drummer from that awful grunge band, you’ve had no life.” She picked up a framed picture of Nina’s nieces and stared at her reflection in the glass, fussing with her hair. “You know, if you’re not married by the time you’re thirty, chances are you’ll never find a man.”

“I’m only twenty-five!” Nina said.

“Five years can go by just like that,” Lizbeth said, snapping her perfectly manicured fingers. “Besides, every year after age twenty-five is like dog years.”

Nina didn’t bother to ask for further explanation. Sometimes it was better just to let a few of them fly by. Instead, she picked up the latest issue of Attitudes and flipped through it. When she reached the back, her gaze fell on the pages of Personal Touch ads that ran every month. Men seeking women, women seeking men, men and women seeking something a little kinky. “Maybe I should answer one of these ads,” she murmured.

“Now there’s an idea,” Lizbeth said. “Not an idea I’d ever consider, but definitely an idea.”

“Well, you don’t have any trouble getting a date. And I know the ads work.” Nina grabbed a file folder from her desk and opened it. “Look at these letters. Four couples who met through the Personal Touch ads this past year, and four marriages!”

“Where did you get those?”

“Eileen in customer service has been saving them for me. I’m thinking of pitching a story idea to Charlotte.” She picked up one of the letters, this one from the mothers of the happy couple. “Nick Romano and Tyler Sheridan. Before Tyler met Nick, she was supposed to marry this other guy who ran out on their wedding and left her a ‘Dear Joan’ ad in our magazine. Nick, who’s a P.I.—how sexy is that?—helped her track down her missing bridegroom and they fell in love. Have you ever heard of anything so romantic?”

“Oh, please. That sounds like one of those mushy romance novels!” Lizbeth said.

“Yes, it does. And I happen to love romance novels.” Nina picked up another letter. “Here’s one from Jane Dobson Warren. She placed a personal ad in Attitudes for her boss. He was looking for Holly Baskin, an old girlfriend. After Jane placed the ad, she got hit on the head, with a Cupid statue, no less. The concussion made her believe that she was Holly Baskin. And then she and her boss fell in love and got married.” Nina sighed. “It is just like a romance novel, isn’t it?”

“And you think those sweet little stories are going to appeal to Charlotte?” Lizbeth shook her head. “You don’t know Charlotte very well, do you.”

Charlotte Danforth was publisher, editor, creative director, and sole stockholder of Attitudes magazine. She ran the publication like her own little fiefdom and she was the media queen. Her wealthy father’s money had financed the magazine and though Charlotte couldn’t edit her way out of a paper bag or balance a budget, she did have an uncanny knack for hiring talented people. And for spotting trends. And that’s what Attitudes was all about—what’s hot and what’s not.

“I’ve got to do something to make Charlotte see me as assistant editor material,” Nina said.

“Well, hon, that necklace won’t help the cause. News flash—Wilma Flintstone isn’t a fashion icon anymore.”

Nina giggled and stuck out her tongue at Lizbeth as she slipped the letters back into the file. “I still think it’s possible to find love through the personals. These four couples did.” She picked up the magazine and began to scan the ads. “Here’s a man that sounds nice. ‘New York State of Mind. Good-looking professional seeks commitment-minded, independent SWF, 24-30. Enjoys motorcycles, the outdoors and NASCAR racing.’ I love motorcycles.”

Lizbeth snatched the magazine from Nina’s fingers. “Allow me to translate, my naive little friend. Good-looking professional—decent-looking car salesman. Watch out when they say ‘personable.’ Then you can expect Quasimodo to show up at your front door.”

“What about handsome?”

“Seriously deluded or completely self-absorbed.”

“How do you know this? You have answered one of our ads!”

Lizbeth laughed lightly. “Don’t be silly. Why would I need to answer an ad? I simply know men and their tendency to overstate their own virtues. You have to learn their lingo.”

“Lingo?”

“Like this ad. ‘Commitment-minded’ means you’d be willing to clean his apartment. ‘Independent’ means you won’t mind spending hours in a bar with his friends watching football on the big screen. And all the rest means the guy will never remember to put the toilet seat down.” Lizbeth pointed to another ad. “‘Enjoys gardening, antiquing, and cooking.’ Mama’s boy. What you need is a guy who enjoys golfing, sailing, theater and working out. That’s means self-employed, wealthy, intelligent, and a great body.”

“Here’s one,” Nina said. “Friendly—”

“Horny.”

“Likes to cuddle?”

“Wants sex,” Lizbeth translated.

“Loyal?” Nina asked.

“Obsessively jealous. The only thing worse is ‘intense’ which means ‘stalker in training.’ You’d be better off placing your own ad, honey. At least then you could screen the candidates.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just pitch the story about the four couples and their ads.”

“It’s a warm and fuzzy little story, but this isn’t Good Housekeeping, Nina. Attitudes is edgy and trendy, and a little outrageous—not unlike that sweater you’re wearing.”

Nina glanced down at the vintage lime-green mohair with the Peter Pan collar. She bought it especially to go with the mod striped mini and green tights from the sixties. And the plastic bead necklace completed the look. “You don’t think Charlotte would like it? The idea, not the sweater.”

“If you want her to see you as an assistant editor, you’re going to have to do more than pitch a story. You’re going to have to go out there and experience the Personal Touch. Write your own ad, go on a few dates and tell your story. And the more horrible the experience, the better.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say in an ad,” Nina replied. “How do I advertise for Mr. Right?”

Lizbeth sighed dramatically, then searched the surface of Nina’s desk until she found a pad of paper. “Honey, you don’t have time to look for Mr. Right. You’re looking for Mr. Right Now. Mr. Right This Minute. Charlotte’s been interviewing for an editorial assistant for the past month. If you get this story done and turn it in, maybe she’ll give you the job.”

“All right,” Nina said. “I’ll do it.”

“All right,” Lizbeth repeated.

“Nancy!”

Nina and Lizbeth looked up to find Charlotte Danforth standing at the doorway of Nina’s office. As always, she looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed, though this morning she wore evening clothes, a sexy beaded designer number that probably cost more than Nina made in a year. It was clear Charlotte hadn’t been to bed at all, but came right to work from whatever party she’d attended the night before. Her hair was mussed and she puffed incessantly on a French cigarette. Yet even in such disarray, she was still a force of nature, a human hurricane that left workers weeping in her path.

“Nina,” Nina corrected.

Charlotte sniffed, then shrugged. “Yes, fine, all right, Nina. I need you to check a fact for me. I need to know what the trendiest spot on the body is for a rather small tattoo. And the most popular subject matter. Check for both men and women, I’m sure it’s different. And give me a breakdown by age if you can.”

“Charlotte, I’m not sure there have ever been any studies done on—”

“I don’t care if there haven’t been studies, Nora!”

“Nina,” she reminded. “Is this for an article? Because we did a story on tattoos just a few months ago.”

“I just need the information, Nola,” Charlotte snapped. “It’s personal. By the end of the day?”

With that, she turned and hurried from the door, leaving Nina to wonder how she’d ever convince Charlotte to give her an editorial position if the woman couldn’t even remember her name. “Oh, sure. I’ll just call the Census Bureau. I’m sure I remember answering the tattoo question on the 2000 census. Right hip, tiny rose.” She tossed aside the personal ads and straightened her desk. “I guess I’m going to be spending the rest of the day on the phone talking to tattoo parlors,” Nina murmured.