Free What Men Want by Deborah Blumenthal Page A

agencies, would you go to the deli for lunch or mosey down to the casting department to check out the runway show?
    I remember a friend who was an editor at the New York Times telling me about the time that Robert Redford came to the paper for an editorial meeting. No big deal, right? They were sophisticated people. The women were liberated. That was until Redford set foot on West Forty-third Street. Windows were flung open. Heads were hanging out of them. There was a stampede to the corridor as the oh-so-sophisticated feminist reporters who went gaga wanted to steal a look at him. Beauty was a magnet.
    It’s not that anyone would describe Chris as a skirt chaser. Au contraire, he’s pretty laid-back. But he does have twenty-twenty vision, and he is all male and at a moment’s notice is ready to jump into the sack. With me out of town now, what was the rush to come home? So those kind of thoughts haunted my consciousness for the entire flight. Instead of using the uninterrupted calm to go over reams of documents that I had carted along in my shoulder bag—almost dislocating my shoulder from the weight—I stared out the window, neurotically chipping away at my nail polish, fantasizing about who Chris would be going home with and where it would all lead.
    And me? I’d become a prizewinning reportersleeping alone with nothing but old newspapers scattered around me, and cartons filled with notebooks with hastily written scribbles everywhere. I’d have plenty of time to write articles, and even books, because my schedule would be wide open without a boyfriend, or husband, or male companionship of any sort.
    At the very least, I vowed that although I was destined to spend Christmas alone, I’d get back in time to spend New Year’s with Chris. December 31 is always trying for me. I’m not big on celebrations. Maybe because the majority of my New Year’s Eves have been spent in the company of girlfriends or family, or just home alone in front of the TV, rather than with the perfect date.
    My ideal New Year’s? To stay at home alone with a boyfriend, or at most, the two of us with another couple of close friends, sharing a sumptuous dinner of filet mignon or lobster, or maybe bouillabaisse with its heady aroma scenting the house. How depressing to be out at a jam-packed New Year’s party with strangers all around you, everyone up at 3:00 a.m., starting to feel sick. It’s something that you do to hide your emptiness, like walking alone on an empty street and crying out to fill the void.
    Several hours later, I calmed down as I glanced out the window and saw turquoise water all around me. We were descending, getting closer and closer to the tiny island paradise of St. Croix. After a bump, thenmy sigh of relief, I sat back as we taxied to the airport gate. I stepped down the narrow metal staircase into a warm pool of sunlight and unclouded blue sky toward the arrivals building that’s bungalow-size compared to New York’s JFK Airport.
    Eighty-five degrees at least, the world aglow in late afternoon sunlight. I peeled off my cardigan and then lifted my bags and headed into the terminal. It’s hard to keep your mind on work in a place like this when everyone you see is wearing shirts and shorts in bright colors and you see bare, tanned skin instead of cheeks flushed by the cold. The pace of normal life slackens and what’s foremost on your mind are things like banana daiquiris and conch fritters and finding a comfortable chair facing the water.
    At the front desk of the hotel where I was staying, my initial concern was that someone would recognize me. While I was not going to pretend I was someone else (not ethically acceptable), I wasn’t going to advertise my identity either, thus the hair pulled up into a ponytail and the orange aviator glasses. I’d say my name was Jennifer, instead of Jenny, maybe Jennifer Allison, using my middle name and stopping after