Free Bicoastal Babe by Cynthia Langston

pleasure of my homemade salmon omelet, fine. But something tells me you won’t be declining the pleasure of dinner at Nobu tonight at nine thirty.”
    He can’t really be asking me on a proper date. After seeing me like this? Maybe he’s still drunk from last night. Or maybe he hasn’t put in his contacts yet. Or maybe this is a cruel joke where I’ll get all dressed up and then he and his friends will hide across the street, laughing hysterically as I stand in the doorway, looking up and down the sidewalk, tears streaming down my face – stood up and humiliated.
    “Lindsey? So do you wanna go?”
    “Uh, you said Nobu? Really? Do you have a reservation?”
    “Don’t worry about it. Just be ready at nine thirty. And write down your address on the way out. That is, if you remember it.”
    He winks, walks into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. He doesn’t even shut the door. From down the hall I catch a glimpse of his naked body in the mirror as he peels off his tracksuit. His eyes look up in the reflection and catch my glance. He smiles devilishly, then steps into the shower.
    I take it that’s my cue to go. But now that the coast is clear, I don’t want to go. I want to check out the apartment, troll the mantels for pictures of other women and signs of who he is and what might possess him to ask me on a real date.
    Then it occurs to me: Maybe he likes me. Maybe I made him laugh or he thought I was cute or I said something brilliantly insightful (doubtful), or something real and legitimate like that. Maybe he just plain likes me.
    Which, of course, is the best feeling in the world.
    •   •   •
    When I get home, the apartment has changed. Still tiny, but suddenly it’s the brightest, sunniest, happiest place in the world. Victor Ragsdale likes me! And is coming to pick me up in twelve short hours. Not much time. Must organize the day into a realistic schedule.
    First thing – a little beauty sleep. Three hours, maybe four. Can’t be picked up for the most important date of my life with these hangover bags under my eyes. Next, leg and bikini wax – one hour. Facial and hair blowout – two hours. Quick tanning appointment, followed by manicure and pedicure – two more hours. Shop for Nobu-appropriate outfit – one hour max at Macy’s. Shower, dress, and makeup application – hour and a half. And that leaves a half hour to relax and enjoy a predate glass of wine. Perfect.
    As I drift off to sleep, it occurs to me that I’ve left no time for work. Okay, it’s one day. One day lost in an endless sea of trend-tracking brilliance that is sure to unfold, as my lucky stars have begun to finally align. One day. Screw it. I’ll start tomorrow. This date is too important to mess up.
    •   •   •
    By nine-thirty, I’m ready. Right on schedule. With my new little black dress and silk handbag (two hundred bucks, but considered a wise investment in my social future), I look smashing, if I do say so myself.
    Victor is a little late, which is okay because it gives me the chance to have a second calm-my-nerves nipper of wine. I’ve straightened up the apartment and even washed the pile of dirty thong underwear that Jen left in the bathroom sink. Certainly not impressive, but it’s the best I can do.
    So… When people say “fashionably late,” exactly how late do the parameters of “fashionable” extend? Is it different depending on the event? Is being a “fashionable” hour and forty-five minutes late for your nephew’s first birthday party (never heard the end of it, but worth it) different from being a “fashionable” fifteen minutes late to your boss’s daughter’s wedding? And what about for a date? I’ve never had a guy be this fashionably late for a date, so I’m not quite certain when it’s appropriate to put down the wine and start getting angry. Advice needed.
    “Hello?” Holly answers the phone like she’s out of breath.
    “How late is ‘fashionable’ when it comes