Manwhore +1
Page 17
Using the brief guidelines Catherine gave me, I also applied what I’ve learned about Interface and double-checked my facts, then I marked those facts in bold so he pays extra care to double-check those.
My body’s in knots by the time everyone arrives at the office around nine, and I open an email, search his name, and attach the file.
To: Malcolm Saint
From: Rachel Livingston
Subject: Your speech
Here it is. I promised you it would be bad, but please know that I can’t bear for it to be—I hope, actually, that it’s good.
Good luck.
I would have loved to be there.
Rachel
I don’t expect a reply, but I get one nonetheless.
To: Rachel Livingston
From: Malcolm Saint
Subject: Re: Your speech
Your name’s up front, you’re welcome to come.
I’m halfway through reading his email and the butterflies are already flapping against the walls of my stomach.
He just invited me to his speech.
I exhale and try to calm myself, but god, it’s so hard to. I’ve got to turn in my article for the Sharpest Edge column and, suddenly riding on the momentum of Saint’s speech, I finally churn out the piece on what to wear on the first date. I think of the ways his eyes change and I write down things I’ve secretly believed since I met him. That men like women to look feminine, so wearing a soft color, or a soft fabric, or a soft wave to our hair, really makes a nice contrast to all that hardness of a man. Soft lipstick might work better for long-term interest rather than bold colors, which speak mostly about sex.
Once I finish the article, I go toward Helen’s office with my printout, when Valentine swings his chair around to stop me.
“Yo! Captain!” he calls, saluting me like an army general.
He’s really got his salutes mixed up, among other things: he’s wearing a yellow vest today with a purple shirt beneath.
“Helen’s having a ball with you. She’s basically selling the idea to young girls that you know what it takes to snag the hottest bachelor in town.”
I frown at that, because it’s definitely what Helen is doing and so far off the mark, it’s absolute bullshit. “That must be why she keeps looking at me like I’m the goose that lays golden eggs,” I say, just to make light of it.
But maybe . . . no, probably . . . it’s why she’s been so forgiving about my “writing issue.”
Val smirks. “Well, you’re the goose with the eggs Saint could have fertilized.”
I’m too hyped about Sin’s message and enjoying my writing high too much to let Valentine’s jibe have any effect.
I merely roll my eyes and ask, “Are you going to McCormick?”
“Nope, she wants me to revise all this bullshit.” He signals to his screen, then winks. “But the truth is, she needs to bully me to feel alive.”
“I’m glad you seem to enjoy it.” I head to Helen’s office with my printout even though I’ve already emailed the piece.
I set it on her desk, and when she directs her attention to me, I say flat out, “Saint’s speaking at McCormick Place about Interface, and he got me a place in the reporting pool. You mind if I go, even if it’s just to observe?”
Helen looks at me levelly. “I expected you’d ask me after yellow-vest did. Yes,” she agrees. “But not as a dormouse. Ask a question! Let people know we’re covering.”
Seeing my hesitation, she quickly adds, “Getting out there and acting normal is the only chance you’ve got of things actually going back to normal.” A pause; a frown. “What? You’re not sure now?”
No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything these days.
Your name’s up front.
“Come on, go! Hurry out there and make some inquiries that make us sound smart!” Helen says. “Someone who will make up for Val’s clothing.”
Bracing myself for the worst but hoping for the best, I nod and head back to my seat. Helen’s right, I need to go on as normal.
I care about him more than what anyone can say about me. I won’t pass on a chance to see him.
Five minutes before the conference begins, I pay my driver and ease out of the cab. Keeping my hair out of the wind, I hurry into one of the four main buildings of McCormick Place.
This is the grandest convention center in the country, so massive that it takes several minutes to wind through the walkways and halls to reach the auditorium where Saint is keynote speaker.
The press is already in position near dozens of steel folding chairs: neighborhood papers, community radio stations, five local news teams. It’s a big deal, apparently. Hundreds of professionals fill up the room, sharp and prepared with cameras, notepads, microphones.
My body’s in knots by the time everyone arrives at the office around nine, and I open an email, search his name, and attach the file.
To: Malcolm Saint
From: Rachel Livingston
Subject: Your speech
Here it is. I promised you it would be bad, but please know that I can’t bear for it to be—I hope, actually, that it’s good.
Good luck.
I would have loved to be there.
Rachel
I don’t expect a reply, but I get one nonetheless.
To: Rachel Livingston
From: Malcolm Saint
Subject: Re: Your speech
Your name’s up front, you’re welcome to come.
I’m halfway through reading his email and the butterflies are already flapping against the walls of my stomach.
He just invited me to his speech.
I exhale and try to calm myself, but god, it’s so hard to. I’ve got to turn in my article for the Sharpest Edge column and, suddenly riding on the momentum of Saint’s speech, I finally churn out the piece on what to wear on the first date. I think of the ways his eyes change and I write down things I’ve secretly believed since I met him. That men like women to look feminine, so wearing a soft color, or a soft fabric, or a soft wave to our hair, really makes a nice contrast to all that hardness of a man. Soft lipstick might work better for long-term interest rather than bold colors, which speak mostly about sex.
Once I finish the article, I go toward Helen’s office with my printout, when Valentine swings his chair around to stop me.
“Yo! Captain!” he calls, saluting me like an army general.
He’s really got his salutes mixed up, among other things: he’s wearing a yellow vest today with a purple shirt beneath.
“Helen’s having a ball with you. She’s basically selling the idea to young girls that you know what it takes to snag the hottest bachelor in town.”
I frown at that, because it’s definitely what Helen is doing and so far off the mark, it’s absolute bullshit. “That must be why she keeps looking at me like I’m the goose that lays golden eggs,” I say, just to make light of it.
But maybe . . . no, probably . . . it’s why she’s been so forgiving about my “writing issue.”
Val smirks. “Well, you’re the goose with the eggs Saint could have fertilized.”
I’m too hyped about Sin’s message and enjoying my writing high too much to let Valentine’s jibe have any effect.
I merely roll my eyes and ask, “Are you going to McCormick?”
“Nope, she wants me to revise all this bullshit.” He signals to his screen, then winks. “But the truth is, she needs to bully me to feel alive.”
“I’m glad you seem to enjoy it.” I head to Helen’s office with my printout even though I’ve already emailed the piece.
I set it on her desk, and when she directs her attention to me, I say flat out, “Saint’s speaking at McCormick Place about Interface, and he got me a place in the reporting pool. You mind if I go, even if it’s just to observe?”
Helen looks at me levelly. “I expected you’d ask me after yellow-vest did. Yes,” she agrees. “But not as a dormouse. Ask a question! Let people know we’re covering.”
Seeing my hesitation, she quickly adds, “Getting out there and acting normal is the only chance you’ve got of things actually going back to normal.” A pause; a frown. “What? You’re not sure now?”
No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything these days.
Your name’s up front.
“Come on, go! Hurry out there and make some inquiries that make us sound smart!” Helen says. “Someone who will make up for Val’s clothing.”
Bracing myself for the worst but hoping for the best, I nod and head back to my seat. Helen’s right, I need to go on as normal.
I care about him more than what anyone can say about me. I won’t pass on a chance to see him.
Five minutes before the conference begins, I pay my driver and ease out of the cab. Keeping my hair out of the wind, I hurry into one of the four main buildings of McCormick Place.
This is the grandest convention center in the country, so massive that it takes several minutes to wind through the walkways and halls to reach the auditorium where Saint is keynote speaker.
The press is already in position near dozens of steel folding chairs: neighborhood papers, community radio stations, five local news teams. It’s a big deal, apparently. Hundreds of professionals fill up the room, sharp and prepared with cameras, notepads, microphones.
