LITMIR.BIZ

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Dior followed her party to a private room with a large rounded booth just for their group.

      “This is a nice place, Barbara,” Dior complimented her boss’s taste. “Thanks for inviting me.”

      “Don’t mention it,” Barbara replied, opening the menu. “This is where all the professionals meet. You can enjoy happy hour, network, and even close deals here.”

      “It beats the golf course, that’s for sure,” Larissa butted in.

      The ladies chuckled, all except one, Candace, who sat sullenly silent.

      “So,” Candace said after they ordered their drinks, “what’s it like in Canada?”

      “Well, Montreal is like any regular city.”

      “Oh yeah? Well, did you ever run into any celebrities in the streets in Montreal like you did here in New York?” she asked.

      Dior wasn’t sure where Candace was taking their conversation, but she went along. “No, not at all.”

      “So I guess seeing someone famous overly excites you, or is this how you land all your clients?” Candace sneered, as she pulled a weekly tabloid magazine out of her pocketbook and threw it on the table.

      Dior’s mouth dropped open when she looked at the picture staring at her. There she was in front of Pacino’s restaurant with her breasts cupped in his hands while he kneaded her nipples. Beneath the picture was the caption PACINO GETS A HANDFUL AT HIS RESTAURANT’S GRAND OPENING IN JANUARY.

      “Oh my God, this is so fake!” Dior protested. The gasp that escaped from the other women at the table caused her to furiously blush.

      “So you weren’t at the grand opening?” Candace began interrogating.

      “Yeah, I was there, but—”

      “But you didn’t lift your shirt?”

      “I lifted my shirt, but—”

      “But what?”

      Dior looked around the table and the women were all looking at her waiting for her response. “I was just getting an autograph. I love Al Pacino and I never saw him up close before and, well, I didn’t have anything for him to sign so I, you know…”

      “So you had him autograph your breasts?” Barbara asked in an incredulous voice.

      “No! Not my breasts, just my chest. My breasts were covered. It wasn’t like I flashed him. For God’s sake, I was wearing a bra!”

      Candace picked up the article and laughed. “Not in this photo you’re not. If you ask me, it was more than an idea that made them give you the account.”

      “Well, who’s asking you?” Dior grew furious. “First of all, I didn’t even know that Al Pacino’s restaurant would be my first account! Second, I am very professional! I get clients based on my ideas, my presentation, and overall my results! I have a proven track record! That’s why I was hired here in the first place! And third, that photo was doctored. I never showed him my breasts!”

      Embarrassed and angry, Dior excused herself from the table. But before she could walk away, Barbara placed her hand on her arm and told her to sit back down.

      Dior did so, while grimacing at Candace.

      Then Barbara said, “You have a point, Dior. The opening was before I told you about the possibility of our getting that account, so there’s no way you could have done that to land it. And”—she coolly picked up her apple martini and took a sip—“to tell you the truth, when I first moved here twenty years ago I was a huge Bruce Willis fan. I’m not going to tell you what piece of my anatomy I had him sign.”

      All of the women at the table, except Candace, exchanged stares, then burst out into laughter.

      “Of course I was a college sophomore at the time, and you’re supposed to be a professional woman, but we all have our little misjudgments in behavior,” Barbara said, glancing over at Candace, who was now beet red. “So, how about we just get rid of this?” She picked the article up off the table and began to crumble it.

      Dior stopped her and asked, “Can I have it?”

      “For what?” Barbara quizzed.

      Dior blushed and shyly responded, “For a keepsake.”

      Barbara laughed and Dior and the other ladies followed, except, of course, Candace.

      Barbara gave Dior the article and Dior thanked her. She then folded the paper neatly and placed it in her pocketbook. She felt relief as she picked up her menu and continued on with her evening. Deep inside, she was glowing. She hadn’t been living in New York for but a second, and already she was being harassed by a hater and a tabloid. She felt like a star. Now all I need is a teacup yorkie, she thought.

      “Hey, Dior, did Barbara tell you your campaign is starting in a couple of days?” Larissa appeared at Dior’s cubicle a few weeks later, cheerful as usual even on a Monday morning.

      Dior lifted her eyes off her computer screen and landed them on Larissa. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “I can’t wait to see it.”

      “Well, the account execs have a list of the time slots. I’ll grab you one when I go down there later.”

      “That’ll be great. Thanks, Larissa,” Dior said, returning her eyes to the numerous unread messages in her MySpace inbox.

      Dior read and replied to several of the messages that were pretty general from people she didn’t know. Then she came across four messages from Mr. Good Black Man and she kind of froze up. He was asking how she had been and he wanted to make sure she was all right since he hadn’t heard from her in a while. She looked at the date of the last message. It was more than a week ago. He must have finally given up on her.

      She wanted to reply to him, but she had grown such feelings for Chris that she didn’t feel that it was necessary to continue going back and forth with Mr. Good Black Man. Plus, realistically, Chris was her better bet. He did exist and every quality was proven, whereas Mr. Good Black Man was still a mystery, nothing more than a person who could type. On the other hand, Mr. Good Black Man had piqued Dior’s curiosity. She did get to know and like him and if she didn’t go further with him, she knew she would always wonder if he really did look like Blair Underwood.

      As she was contemplating what to write back to Mr. Good Black Man, her cell phone vibrated on her desk. She took her hands off the computer keyboard and picked up her phone. Mandingo appeared in her caller ID. She pressed the Talk button instantly to avoid missing the call from Chris.

      “Hey,” she said, using her soft I’m at work tone.

      “What’s up? Are you busy?” Chris asked, considerate of her time as usual.

      “No. Just sitting here on the computer at work.”

      “Oh, is that what your eight hours is used for?” Chris joked.

      Dior checked him. “Actually, I am on lunch. I just decided to stay in today. It’s so cold outside.”

      “Yeah, I know,” Chris agreed before getting to the point of his call. “Listen, I was wondering. I mean, this is probably short notice, and I should have asked you before, but I was wondering if you’d like to go out Thursday…” He paused. “For Valentine’s Day.”

      Dior leaned forward, placing her elbows on her desk. She smiled and said, “I have to check my calendar, but I can tell you right now, it’s looking like a yes.”

      “Well, I hope so. I have somewhere I want to take you. So check your calendar and call me with the results. In the meantime, I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed,” Chris said.

      “Who are you talking to?” a deep voice sounded in the background of Chris’s phone.

      “Hold on,” Chris told Dior. “Matter fact, let me call you back.”

      Dior

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