The One & Only(31)

“Old Hollywood big? Victoria’s Secret big? Cindy Crawford–throwback big? Or Miss America big?” Ricardo pressed.

“Whatever you think,” I said. “Just make me … glamorous.”

“Oh, honey, glam is a given in this chair,” he said, turning to tell his mousy, bespectacled assistant that I was ready to be washed—and that we were going to need a truckload of Velcro rollers.

“The purples?” his assistant asked.

“No, girl. The blues! You heard the lady! We’re going to make her big! Pow! Shazam!”

A full forty minutes later, after my hair was mostly dried, Ricardo put his turbo dryer down and said, “Honey, you’re making me work. Good gawd, you have a lot of hair!”

I smiled, knowing that was a compliment, and thinking that it was nice to have at least one outstanding feature. Two if you counted my collarbone.

“So I take it you have big plans tonight?” Ricardo asked as he began to wrap my hair into the rollers.

“Yeah, I’m going to a charity function at the Ritz,” I said.

“Love that Ritz!” he said. “A lot of folks swear by the Crescent Court, but it has nothing on the Ritz. Such a classic. And do you know that they have their own nightly guacamologist? How divine is that?”

“Quite divine,” I said.

Then, wondering how so many gay men had the knack of making you feel like you were their best friend within an hour, I caved and said, “So. Guess who I’m going with?”

He took the command seriously by saying, “Oh, I love guessing games! Tycoon, politician, chef, actor, model, or … stylist to the stars?”

I laughed and said, “None of the above. Athlete. Football player.”

“Gurrrl,” he said. “Don’t even tell me. Don’t even! That Dallas Cowboy stone cold fox? What’s his name? James Ryan?”

“Ryan James,” I said.

I watched Ricardo’s assistant perk up slightly and realized that I was doing the very thing that would get me excommunicated by A-listers in any field. I was kissing and telling even before I had kissed. So I tried to backtrack, explaining that Ryan and I were just friends. But Ricardo was off to the races, speed-dialing the salon’s resident makeup artist and asking her if she could come in on her day off and do a face for his new BFF.

She must have said no because he said, “Adela! This is a total beauty emergency! She’s going on a date with Ryan James … Um, ye-esss. The Ryan James … and what if they fall in love and get married? Don’t you want to do their wedding? Hmm? Or do you want to get cut out of the action because you couldn’t tear yourself away from Ellen DeGeneres?”

He hung up and said, “Okay. You so owe me. Adela’s on her way. She is a genius and will smoke the hell out of those eyes! Shazam! … Now. Let’s talk wardrobe. What are we wearing?” he asked, eyeing my shoes with disdain.

“Not these. Don’t worry,” I said and explained I had come from a job interview and had stilettos in the car.

“Gurrl, I was going to say! Those shoes are just not okay. They might not even be okay for an interview! Unless it was at a convent!” he said, cracking himself up.

Ricardo’s assistant said his name under her breath, looking aghast but amused by his blunt assessment of my footwear.

“Shea and I are besties,” he said to her. “She knows I can’t lie. I’m like Abe. Yes, I most certainly did chop down that cherry tree.”

“That was George Washington.” I laughed.

“Whatev. Abe was honest, too. And so am I. And those shoes gots to go!” He laughed and said, “So tell me about the interview?”

“It was with the Post,” I said. “Covering sports.”

“A newspaper reporter! How quaint. And? Did you get the job?”

“I think so,” I said.

“That’s the attitude! Now apply that mentality to Mr.-James-if-you’re-nasty and you will get him, too. Especially with these drapes,” he said, puffing my hair. “He is going to be all yours tonight, but, honey, do you even want him?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I think I do.”


At five o’clock sharp, our designated meeting time, I walked into the lobby bar at the Ritz, with big hair, smoky eyes, heels that put me over six feet, and my little black dress that seemed way littler than it had in the dressing room at Lucy’s shop. The effort and money spent seemed worth it, as I decided that it was pretty much the best I was capable of looking, a feeling that was corroborated by the double takes I drew from a few men in nice suits clustered by the entrance of the bar. It even started to cross my mind that I had overdone it, tried a little too hard, until I spotted Ryan, dazzling in a charcoal suit and slim silver tie. He was lounging on one of the low leather sofas near the front windows, chatting with an attractive couple about our age. He spotted me almost immediately, his face lighting up as he sprang from his seat and sauntered over to me, his gait easy, cocky, sexy. Even if he didn’t play football, it was the kind of walk that made girls go to bed with you, no questions asked.