Breakfast At Bethany's

He looked her over. “And it shows.”

Quickly she changed the subject. “Old movies? I suppose I should say action movies, right?”

“No, the average single man will read ‘old movies’ and think that he can put up with it, and then get laid on the couch. Old movies are a great aphrodisiac.”

“Do you think old movies are a great aphrodisiac?” she asked, suddenly curious.

He frowned for a moment, as if he’d never considered the idea of aphrodisiacs. “No.”

She folded her hands together gracefully, the image of calm. “Ah, but you’re not the average single man.”

“God forbid.”

She polished off the last of her wine. No dessert tonight. It was getting late, and she was feeling fat. “So how would you rewrite my ad?”

He looked up in the air, his pen twirling idly. Then he focused on her and frowned. The pen twirled again. “Are you worthy? Sexy blonde who savors a great cabernet wants to wile away hours with a man. Life is hectic enough. I need someone who appreciates a classic movie and a lazy Saturday night. Dave Eggers fans need not apply.”

It was good. And he really thought she was sexy? Not that it mattered, of course. All she wanted was great dates with someone other than him.

And so it came to pass. Beth smiled and held out her hand. “Mr. James, I believe we have a deal.”

2

Sexy blonde is looking for Mr. Right Now. Could that possibly be you? Need someone who knows how to laugh and is smart enough to make me smile.

HIS APARTMENT WAS CURSED.

For over an hour he’d been trying to work, but his concentration had been shot to hell. The constant buzzing of his cleaning woman’s vacuum was driving him batty.

“Sophie!”

Still the buzzing continued. How the hell was he supposed to work in a war zone?

“Sophie!”

God bless it, the buzzing ceased.

Sophie appeared in the doorway to his study, clad in her latest red spandex jogging shorts, which accentuated curves she didn’t need to advertise. Sophie, however, was a woman who’d never recovered from the eighties. “You rang, Mr. James?” she asked in the clipped English accent she used when she was feeling unservile.

“Can you please keep it down to a moderate level? Ten decibels? I’m trying to work here.”

“That’s interesting, Mr. James, because you’re paying me to clean, and well, here I am, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, cleaning my little heart out. Now you want me to be quiet. If you’re determined to work, I can go into the living room and sit and wait. I’ll just turn the TV down really, really low.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” Spencer asked. Usually Sophie wasn’t the most cooperative of cleaning ladies. That’s why she was cheap.

“Not if I’m still on the clock. And, Mr. James, I’m still on the clock.”

Now why had he thought she’d suddenly become human? Someday he was going to hire a real cleaning service. Anonymous little elves who would clean and then disappear into the immaculately dusted woodwork. Someday.

“Vacuum,” he snapped. “Vacuum until your little toes are sucked right off.”

“Mr. James, are you flirting with me?”

Spencer shot out of his chair and growled. She grinned back at him and he slammed the door in her face.

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK, his stomach rumbled and he realized he’d missed lunch—and dinner. All afternoon he’d been listening to the interview tape, pretending to take notes, but so far the page was blank. When she spoke, you actually could hear her smile in her voice.

Spence rubbed his eyes. Next thing, he’d be buying her flowers, and then maybe taking her on a date, and before you knew it, they’d be headed to divorce court and he’d be forced to endure fifteen more years of Sophie’s slipshod work.

Hell would freeze first. Besides, Mr. Right Now was somewhere out there, just waiting for her, waiting to be graced with that careless smile, waiting to taste her strawberry kisses.

Well, Mr. Right Now could have her.

Not willing to go further down that strawberry-laden path, Spencer pushed himself back from his desk and walked over to the refrigerator. Now to play the new and exciting what’s-for-dinner game.

Leftover pasta from Thursday night at Via Concetta. No. Leftover chicken from Wednesday night at Via Concetta. No. Would his luck change in the freezer? Frozen pizza. Frozen lasagna.

The lasagna wins, the crowd goes wild.

He popped the package into the oven, set the temperature and then slammed the door just as the doorbell rang. Odd. He hadn’t buzzed anyone up. “You’re going to have to wait. Don’t embarrass me now,” he said to his stomach.

Spencer didn’t get many visitors. He tried to discourage the practice of stopping by without calling first. It tended to disrupt his concentration, and he’d forgotten how to make small talk, not that he really cared.

The bell rang again. It was most likely another salesman who couldn’t read the No Soliciting sign. He should use a bigger font. Prepared to deliver his standard I’m-just-the-house-sitter line, he opened the door.

It was his onetime best friend, Harry, who mostly wrote sports for their paper.

“Spence, got three tickets to the Bulls game tomorrow. Want to come?” Harry said, shrugging out of his coat and slinging it over the chair.

“It’s too early for April Fools, and too late for Halloween. Tell me you’ve just been drinking.”

Harry collapsed on the couch and then stared up with that who…me? look he did so well. It was how he met all his women. “It was a genuine offer of hospitality.”

“I’ve got plans for dinner already,” said Spence, resigned to having company.

“Via Concetta?”

Spence flashed him a rude gesture often seen in the wilds of Los Angeles. “You can leave now.”

Harry, who had never been to the wilds of Los Angeles, elected to stay. “I worry about you. This aloneness can’t be good. The next thing you know, you’ll be getting a cat.”

Spencer shot out of his seat, the veins hammering away in his head, the pain only making him angrier. “First off, since you are the primary reason that I’m suffering from all this aloneness, your concern smacks of hypocrisy. And I’m not getting a cat. Not even a dog. Not even a hamster. The little beasts are nothing more than glorified rats.”

Harry shook his head in a mournful manner. “You’re never going to meet another woman with that sort of attitude. You need to get back in the saddle.”

“I can get back into the saddle anytime I want. You tell Joan that. In fact, I’ve got a date tonight,” snarled Spencer, mainly to salvage what was left of his ego.

Never one to practice the fine art of subtlety—damn sports writer—Harry began to laugh. “A date? Returning a favor?”