You’re meeting a client. Why are you acting like a school girl going on her first date?
She wiped her face clean, purposefully put her makeup bag back in the drawer, and pulled her hair into a severe pony tail. She was annoyed with herself.
For a reason she could not explain, when she had called to arrange the meeting and had heard Luke’s voice, butterflies seemed to take flight in her stomach. This unbidden thrill of anticipation was completely inappropriate but she was powerless to control it.
Are you becoming star-struck all of a sudden? she asked her reflection. It was not as if she hadn’t had to deal with celebrities in her work. And she was going to join Luke Thompson on the train from New York to Washington, D.C., not the mysterious Orient Express to Istanbul.
She had made her reservation at the Jefferson, her favourite D.C. hotel, and now all she needed to do was to throw a few things in an overnight bag, then call Hayley to let her know the plans had changed. She did not need makeup.
Fiona felt flustered and she did not like the feeling. Why wouldn’t Hayley go to see Luke? Couldn’t she make an exception to her hard and fast rule about not meeting with clients? Luke was, after all, her oldest pal. Fiona couldn’t understand it. But that was Hayley: solid as a rock one moment, jumpy as a squirrel the next.
I’m not much better than that today myself, she thought, forcing herself to focus. She was going to miss the train if she didn’t hurry.
She put the last few things in her bag, and tried Hayley one more time. Again her call went right to voicemail, which was unusual.
Well, no matter. Hayley had already made it clear she wanted no part of this meeting. Fiona left a message, telling her friend what was going on, and headed for the door. She was determined to dispatch the uninvited butterflies, and behave like the professional she was.
Hayley’s phone lay on the polished counter covered with bits of blue hair. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life and was silently castigating herself for making this appointment. God only knew what it was going to cost.
She finally found the courage to look in the mirror, and then sneak a peek over her shoulder where the master was plying his trade. Frederick, hair stylist to the rich and famous, was a blur of flying hands and scissors. Hair fluttered everywhere in a cloud of multicoloured curls, and was immediately swept up by an assistant dressed all in black.
Frederick was flanked by two more black-clad assistants, hands behind their backs, leaning this way and that with his every move. They could have been watching a tennis match, she thought.
He was finally behind her. Ready to do her hair. ‘If you must have blue hair in future, please promise me you will have a professional colour it for you. You are lucky not to be bald.’
All Hayley could manage was a nod. She was grappling with the image in the mirror. She hardly knew herself. The blue tint which she had so carefully applied to her hair was gone, replaced by her own colour, auburn. She hadn’t seen it in years.
The long tangle of messy hair that she thought of as her trademark was gone. In its place was a pixie cut, which one of the assistants was now coaxing into place with a round brush and a blow dryer. Anne Hathaway on a bad day, she decided, thinking of the actress. She was also fighting the urge to burst into tears and run away from this place.
‘Very chic! Very you,’ the famous hairdresser said, although Hayley had never met him before, and he had no idea who she was.
Frederick’s fingers were flying through her hair now that the assistant had finished his work. He smoothed it, then spiked it, then messed it up completely, and called it perfection.
‘You have something special to do today, yes?’ the hairdresser asked.
In spite of herself, Hayley blushed. ‘Maybe. Yes. I’m going to see a friend, a man. I haven’t seen him in a long time.’
‘You love this man.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Oh, no!’ Hayley was adamant. ‘Nothing like that. He’s a friend, as I said.’
He laughed. ‘I am French. I know such things! And when he sees you today, he will love you back.’ Frederick made a little bow, and, trailed by his entourage, floated off to the next client.
Hayley had frequently Googled Luke and knew he was still single, knew he had no significant relationships. She stared at herself in the mirror and dared to hope.
Fiona was late. She had left the brownstone in Gramercy Park, where she lived, in plenty of time and, miraculously, a taxi was just dropping off a passenger on Park Avenue.
Her luck ended there. Bumper-to-bumper traffic was everywhere. Her driver crawled up and down side streets only to be greeted by another snarl of cars.
Finally she thanked him, stuffed twenty dollars into his hand, and jumped out of the cab on Sixth Avenue and 32nd Street. She ran the four long blocks to the railway station, her overnight bag banging against her leg.
Fiona raced into the 34th Street entrance, her pony tail flying. Penn Station was crowded even at three forty-five in the afternoon. She breathlessly asked the first person she saw where the Krispy Kreme Donut Shop was. Luke had suggested they meet there, because every employee in the station would know where it was.
He was correct. But by the time she had pushed her way through the crowd to the entrance, it was three fifty. The train left at four o’clock, and she feared Luke might have gone ahead without her.
Then she spotted him. There he was, holding a bag of donuts, looking impossibly handsome, as he searched the crowd for a woman he had never met.
‘I know what you look like,’ she had told him, but she had been wrong. He was better-looking in person than he was on air, if that was possible. He wore jeans, a pale blue cashmere sweater topped with a blazer and a vest. A long scarf of some exotic weave was wrapped around his neck.
Layers, Fiona thought. Like me. He looked more like a professor from the Ivy League college where her father taught than one of the most respected television journalists on the planet.
‘Hi,’ she said, gasping for air like someone who had just completed the New York Marathon. He turned around and smiled at her, which did nothing to slow her breathing.
‘Sorry,’ was all she could choke out. That giddy feeling she had been battling all day came rushing back. This, coupled with shortness of breath from the run, and the insane physical attraction she was feeling for this perfect stranger, was making her feel faint.
‘No worries,’ Luke said, taking her bag. ‘We’ll make it with time to spare.’
He grabbed her hand and started running, pulling her along behind him. His hand was strong and warm as he rushed her through the throng of commuters. They sprinted down the stairs to the track.
‘Board!
