yeah,” Doug chimed in.
Barry made a slashing motion with his hand at others. “Not so much that, but there’s a certain attitude that lets men know you’re girlfriend material.”
“I see.” Marnie didn’t like what she saw.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. We like that you’re one of the guys.”
As if that weren’t bad enough, there were murmurs of agreement from the others. Marnie just stared at him.
“It’s a compliment,” Barry added.
She glanced from the green awning and the liveried doorman outside Tarantella to the partially eaten, cold meatball sub next to her laptop. “It doesn’t feel like a compliment.”
“Trust me, it is. You’re easy to work with ‘cause there’s none of that man/woman stuff going on.”
“Oh, the available-for-sex vibes. Right.”
There was not a sound in the deli.
Okay, then. Marnie saved the program to a disk which she ejected and handed to Barry.
He looked relieved. “Thanks, Marnie. You’re a pal.”
“Yeah, that’s me. A real pal.” She closed her laptop.
Barry gave her a look. “I’m telling you, you’d hate Tarantella. It’s not your style.”
Marnie gave him a look right back. “It could be.” He wanted vibes? She’d show him vibes. One of the guys? Not anymore. Attitude? Just wait. She was going to show him so much attitude he’d beg her to let him take her to Tarantella. She’d make all of them take her to Tarantella.
Barry squinted at her before shaking his head. “I’m just not seeing it. Better take me up on the beer.” He cuffed her on the shoulder. “What kind do you want?”
NOT THE GIRLFRIEND TYPE. Vibeless. One of the guys. A pal.
Barry had all but called her sexless. Or maybe he had. He’d definitely made it clear that she held no feminine appeal for him and, while he was at it, included the entire male gender. Even worse, the other guys hadn’t contradicted him.
At this moment, Marnie wasn’t too pleased with the entire male gender.
It was true that she’d prided herself on being a team player and that the guys included her in their downtime. Working with them was comfortable. She hadn’t realized that it was because they’d forgotten she was a woman.
So, she’d just figure out a way to remind them.
One of the guys. Not girlfriend material.
On her way home, Marnie mentally chewed on Barry’s words as she got off the bus and walked toward the 24th Street Mission BART station where she’d spend the next hour or so riding the train to Pleasant Hill, where, yes, she lived with her mother. Her mom was a great roommate—even if she weren’t Marnie’s mom. She did more than her share of the housework and cooking and didn’t bug Marnie too much about where she was going at night…mostly because by the time Marnie got home, she was in for the evening. How exciting was that?
Yeah, now that she thought about it, that sounded like a vibeless existence. The thing was, she’d never expected that she’d end up single and still living with her mother at the age of twenty-eight. What person thinks as a kid, “I want to live at home when I grow up?” When she was young, she’d had this image of what her future would be. She couldn’t exactly remember what it was, but living with her mother and sleeping in the same bedroom she’d had all her life wasn’t it.
Marnie was ready to settle down, as they say. But unfortunately, she hadn’t found anybody to settle with. Or even settle for.
When was the last time she’d been anybody’s girlfriend?
Marnie stopped walking right in the middle of the sidewalk, next to a trendy boutique, one of a string of them in this block.
There had been Darren, but that hadn’t lasted long and it had been the same kind of cheapie meal and occasional movie relationship she’d always had with guys. That had been fine when they were all starting out, but lately Marnie wanted more.
And, darn it, she was going to get it. Somehow.
She’d been gazing into the distance, but now she focused on the display window of the boutique. Skirts. Skimpy sweaters. Purses too tiny to be useful. Girlfriend clothes.
Marnie wore jeans and sweaters or T-shirts just like everyone else in her department. How stupid would she look if she started wearing clothes like that to work? And why should she have to change the way she dressed and fool around with her hair and makeup? She used to wear makeup, but she liked the extra sleeping time. Anyway, San Francisco’s windy weather made her eyes water and the stupid mascara run, so she’d get to work and have to do everything over again. Waste of time.
And did it matter? Were men really that shallow?
Of course they were.
Grumbling to herself, Marnie rounded the corner and headed down Twenty-Third Street, her favorite part of the walk to and from the station. Her route took her past a row of Painted Ladies, the San Francisco Victorian houses. Their defiantly gaudy colors and ornate trim appealed to Marnie. Why, she didn’t know. She was more of a neutral, sleek, chrome and clean lines kind of person, when she thought about decor at all. These houses were about as far from that as something could be.
This had been her route for nearly six years, uneventful until recently. First, several days ago, Marnie had noticed a sign in one of the pretty town houses—the pink-and-green one with the cream trim and darling gingerbread balcony—offering two-day rentals.
She’d memorized the sign: Two-Day Sublet. Inquire Within. There was additional writing beneath. It is not up to me to supply reasons why you might need an apartment for two days a week. If you do, let’s talk. If you do not, please walk.
Marnie had been thinking about it—she’d even met the doorman who had insisted that she take a flyer and had talked a blue streak at her until she’d given him a politely noncommittal platitude just to get away from him. Still, it would be wonderful to avoid the tedious commute for a couple of days a week.
The other thing that had happened was that construction had begun on one of the more tawdry of the ladies across the street. The house was being completely renovated and would no doubt rent or sell to a gazillionaire, if it hadn’t already.
At some point during the years since the town houses had been built in the late 1800s, they’d been updated by having their gingerbread trim torn off and new facades built over the old so that they’d lost all their personality. Now they’d get it back.
Marnie slowed to check on the progress—okay, and to see if the hunky construction foreman was around. In her current mood, Marnie could use a good construction foreman sighting.
Oh, goody. His truck was there. The blue-and-white Bronco bearing the name Renfro Restoration was parked off the sidewalk in the patch of grass by the front steps, just where it had been this morning when she’d walked by.
The
