Diary of a Working Girl by Daniella Brodsky Read Free Book Online Page B

those bills, plus have some money to buy some new shoes and smart outfits. It will be great. And, I’m going to get paid an actual salary from the job I get, too. Cha-ching! I can’t believe this!
    I can’t believe this. I have to get a job. I have to meet a man.
    Not just any man. I have to meet The One. The One who, after twenty-six years, has still not shown his face. But now I only have two months in which to find his face. What have I gotten myself into? It’s 5 P.M. Too late to send my resume in today. I’ll finish it up tomorrow first thing, bright and early. Momentarily a vision of myself, rising at the cock’s crow, facing the day bright-eyed and bushy-tailed races through my mind’s eye. Then the girl in the mental image barks, “Who are you kidding with this?” So, I settle on first thing, whether or not it’s bright and early.
    My schedule for the following day all straightened out, I shift my energies to the present, where I have to take a shower and get ready to meet Joanne, so I can tell her how freaked out I am, have her advise me on why I should be happy, ignore her, and continue on with the same line of thinking.
    I
    When I wobble into my apartment that evening, filled to the brim with the power of three cosmos, I call my voice mail. Well, actually, first I call some guy named Swen, whose number is quite similar to the voice mail number.
    “Late night again?” Swen asks. He recognizes me by the same 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 39
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    question I always ask, “Why isn’t this working?” because I never really listen, I just press the numbers, and then wait for the messages, until Swen says, “You’ve got the wrong number again honey.” I always picture Swen in a smoking jacket, all patience and fluidity, running his fingers through his shoulder-length blond hair, sitting by a crackling fire after a long day on the slopes, even though I know there are no slopes in Manhattan.
    “Yeah, sorry,” I say. And that’s when I usually hang up. Except for when either Swen or I are feeling chatty. And, tonight both Swen and I are feeling chatty.
    “How are things, lovely?” he asks.
    “Swen, if you really want to know, I’ve made quite a mess of things today.” I explain the whole story to him—the article, the fact that if history repeats itself there is a possibility that there is nobody who can claim the title of The One. I tell him about the resume I have to put together and the fact that it is teeming with what some may construe to be lies. Swen proves a good listener, which is to say, he doesn’t simply fit the “ahas” and “rights” into the proper pauses, but actually takes it all in and produces an opinion.
    “If you really believe in your heart that you can do it, then you can. You can do anything. It sounds to me like you have a warm, trusting heart, and that you just might be one of the last of a dying breed that believes in true love. And that is a fantastic place to be.
    And now, you’ll just have more of a reason to trust that heart of yours. Just research this project the way you would research anything. And you’ll be prepared.” Like a horoscope, sounding all wise, but without the specifics. Until he says, “And if you really need to find love, I’m right here for you, darling.”
    Sure, me and every other girl who dials his number rather than voice mail late at night.
    Being that I imagine him such a ladies’ man, who most probably 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 40
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    just read that entire speech from a well-handled booklet of “perfect pickups,” I think he might have some insight into what men find attractive and therefore he might prove helpful in the sartorial advice department. When I mention the camel-colored overcoat I’m thinking of investing in, he says it’s a good idea, and adds, “I always like a woman in a black dress and heels. It’s sexy, timeless.” This