The Opposite of Me Read online

  She broke off and stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “God, I’m a mess. Here I am telling you my life story. Thank you again.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I asked. She was still pretty pale. “Isn’t there someone you want to call?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. She reached out and pressed my hand between hers. Her hands were ice-cold. She brushed off her dress, then opened her car door and got in. But she didn’t put the key in the ignition.

  “If you’re sure,” I said. I walked a few steps away and picked up my shopping bags, then I looked back. She was still sitting there, staring into space. She looked so sad. Impulsively, I hurried back to her car.

  “I was just going to have a glass of wine,” I told her, motioning to the restaurant. “Do you want to join me? Maybe if you sit down and rest for a bit you’ll feel better.”

  I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the fact that her face was so open and friendly, with deep laugh lines radiating out from her eyes, attesting to the fact that this was a woman who usually smiled. Or maybe it was because I saw in her a kindred soul: Her life had unraveled, too, and now she was trying to put the pieces back together.

  “Right now?” She looked up at me. “But aren’t you meeting someone?”

  “No, I’m alone,” I said.

  “Really?” she said. “I can’t believe someone who looks like you is going out alone.”

  What could I say to that? That this isn’t really me; it’s just a costume? That I’m like a kid dressed up for Halloween?

  “I’d love to join you, if you honestly don’t mind,” she said. “A glass of wine sounds like exactly what I need.”

  She got out of her car, and we walked into Tony & Joe’s. It was too late for lunch and too early for happy hour to be in full swing, so we had our choice of seats. We settled into a pair of overstuffed chairs by a glass wall overlooking the water. I should’ve felt awkward—here I was with a woman I knew nothing about, other than that she had an abusive ex-husband—but something about her put me instantly at ease. Or maybe it was the new me who was at ease. Maybe wearing these clothes and makeup made me feel like I was playing a part, and that it wasn’t really me who was directing my own actions.

  “I don’t even know your name,” she said after we’d both ordered glasses of Chardonnay.

  “It’s Lindsey,” I told her.

  “I’m May,” she said. “And I’m so grateful to you. Would you believe—”

  Her cell phone rang, cutting off whatever she’d been planning to say.

  “I’m sorry,” May said. “It’s a work call. Do you mind? I’ll make it very quick.”

  “Not at all,” I told her. Funny, May didn’t look like the businesswoman type. She reminded me more of the tooth fairy’s mother, with her long flowery dress and riot of brown-gray curls. Then again, I probably didn’t look like the kind of woman who’d jealously guarded her spot on the dean’s list during college, I thought, hiking up my camisole so my boobs didn’t pop out.

  “Blind Dates,” May said into the phone. “Oh, Devlin, how nice to hear from you! But shouldn’t you be meeting your date now?”

  She frowned while she listened, then shook her head.

  “You’re just nervous,” she said. “It’s totally normal. You’ve only been out on one date in the past fourteen years. It’s hard for everyone to get back out there after a divorce.”

  Hmmm . . . juicy.

  “Devlin, you’re a smart, kind guy. Do you know how many women out there would love to get to know you?” May asked. “Do you want me to go over your list of conversational topics?”

  Now I’d given up any pretense of looking at the water; I was blatantly staring at May.

  “Um-hmm . . . and don’t forget your trip to Ireland,” May said. “Tell that funny story about the dog sneaking into the pub. And remember the rule about the end of the night. If you’re not interested, don’t say you’ll call her. Just tell her you had a nice time.”

  May finished the call and dropped her phone into her purse.

  “Sorry,” she said, taking a big sip of the wine the waitress had delivered while she’d been on the phone. “Ah, that hits the spot. I run a dating service called Blind Dates, and that was one of my clients.”

  “Really? How long have you been in business?” I asked.

  “About eight years,” she said. “I love it. I get to know each of my clients personally before I set them up with anyone. That way it really does feel like a blind date to them. And I do background and credit checks, too, just to be safe.”

  “That’s fascinating,” I said. “How many clients do you have?”

  “About sixty at any given moment,” she said. Then she dimpled up. “I’ve already had nine weddings!”

  “Pretty good success rate,” I said. I could see May visibly relax as she talked about her business, but that wasn’t the only reason why I was asking questions. I truly was interested.

  “But enough about me,” she said. “Tell me about you. What do you do when you’re not being incredibly kind and rescuing women in parking lots?”

  I smiled ruefully. Funny, but I used to love that “What do you do?” question. Now it made my stomach clench up.

  “Well, I just moved here from New York,” I said.

  “That explains it,” May said. “I figured there was some reason you weren’t meeting a boyfriend tonight. Is there someone special in New York?”

  I thought about Bradley, and I could feel my face fall. There was someone special, and he was with my twin sister right now.

  “I’m sorry,” May said. “I’m asking too many questions. But if it makes you feel any better, those guys at the bar have been staring at you ever since you walked in.”

  I looked over and saw three yuppies at the bar, all wearing dark suits with the ties loosened around their necks. They smiled, and one of them lifted his glass of beer at me in a toast.

  I turned back to May. “Really? Since I came in?”

  “Come on, honey, you’ve got to be used to it,” she said.

  I looked at the guys again, then turned back to May. If only she knew. I had no idea how to act around guys who were flirting with me. What was I supposed to do? Lift my glass back up at the guys? Wander over and say hi? I felt like a foreigner in a strange country, where I didn’t know any of the language or customs. And the minute I opened my mouth, everyone would know I didn’t belong.

  “Tell me more about your company,” I said, giving a quick smile to the guys before turning away and getting back on safer ground. “How do you know which people to match up?”

  “It’s just a feeling,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “That’s my favorite part of the job. Sometimes I get two people who you’d never think would click on paper, but a sixth sense tells me it’s worth setting them up. And would you believe that little whispering voice is right more often than not?”

  “Are most of your clients divorced?” I asked.

  “Some, but I get all types. College students, widowers, even a former runner-up for Miss Maryland,” she said. “She’s happily dating a scientist for the National Institutes of Health now. I’m thinking about using the two of them in an ad.”

  She looked me up and down. “You know, I have one guy I think you’d really get along with. Interested? Of course there wouldn’t be any charge.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I’m involved with someone. I mean, not really, but I hope to be.”

  “Ah,” May said. “Well, he’s a lucky guy.”

  “Thank you,” I said, blushing. Was this what it was like for Alex every day, with compliments being tossed over her like confetti? What a lovely way to live; the only thing that routinely poured down on me was rain.

  “But I am interested in one thing,” I said. “Tell me about your ad. Are you working with an agency?”

  “I went to see an advertising agency, but I don’t have the budget for what they want to do. Can you believe
they want twenty thousand dollars just to create a few magazine ads? And that doesn’t even include the cost of running the ads. I figured I’d just do one myself,” May said.

  May whispered “twenty thousand dollars” like it was such a shocking sum it shouldn’t be spoken aloud. I figured I probably shouldn’t tell her that it used to be my annual courier bill.

  “I worked in advertising in New York,” I said, leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of wine. “Maybe I can give you a tip or two. Why don’t you tell me more about your ad?”

  “Right now?” May asked.

  “Right now,” I said.

  Suddenly I was itching to help, to dive back into the world I knew so well. May deserved a break, and maybe I could help give her one. Maybe there was a reason May was put in my path today. I could develop a strategy for May practically in my sleep. I could help her business grow. Work had always been my favorite escape. What better way to get my mind off Alex and Bradley and everything else that had happened today than to plunge into it, right here and now?

  May’s idea for the ad was a disaster. She wanted to use a photograph of a happy couple sitting on a couch and smiling at the camera. There wasn’t anything interesting or edgy about it. People would probably flip right past it without caring if it was an ad for toothpaste or one for cut-rate sleeper sofas. It would be completely forgettable, which would be its own death knell.

  “I like your idea,” I fibbed as she ordered a second glass of wine and I switched to ice water, “but can I give you some thoughts about a different approach?”

  “Of course,” May said. “You’re the expert.”

  “You need to know what people want in a dating service,” I said, leaning toward her and resting my elbows on my knees. “You might think it’s obvious—they want to meet someone special—but it’s probably a lot more complicated than that. What’s keeping a prospective client from picking up the phone and calling you?”

  May wrinkled her forehead. “Maybe they’re scared?”

  “But scared of what?” I asked. “Scared of being set up with a psycho? Scared of being considered desperate for calling a dating service? Until you can pinpoint what’s keeping people from calling you, you won’t be able to reassure them. And that’s what you want your ad to do: reassure them and entice them.”

  “Wow,” May said. “I don’t even know how I’d start figuring all that out. How do you do that kind of research?”

  “Ever heard of a focus group?” I asked her.

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “Guess what?” I said, looking around the bar. By now it was jammed full of twenty- and thirty-something men and women, all flirting and laughing and checking each other out.

  “We’re in the middle of your focus group right now,” I told May.

  Ten minutes later, I was standing in front of a dozen men and women, all of whom May and I had lured over with the promise of free drinks. My three yuppies were in the group, as was a woman who was out celebrating her divorce with a group of girlfriends. I’d singled them out because her friends had tied a bunch of tin cans to her waist with a string, and they’d taped a sign that said “Just Divorced!” to her rear end. I sensed these women wouldn’t be shy about telling me exactly what they wanted in a dating service. The rest of our group was an eclectic mix: a bearded guy who’d been sitting at the bar alone, waiting for a buddy who’d never shown up; a very attractive man and equally pretty woman who’d been friends since college but had never dated each other (the electricity between them was obvious; the first time one of them had one too many lemon drop shooters, they’d be rolling around on the carpet); and a trio of office mates from a law firm.

  “Can everyone hear me?” I asked. “Yes? Great. Let’s get started. My name is Lindsey, and I’d love to know what you all think about dating services.”

  “I’d never use one,” one of the divorcée’s girlfriends instantly piped up.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Too embarrassing,” she said, and a few people murmured agreement. “They’re for losers.”

  May was furiously scribbling down notes, just as I’d asked her to.

  “What about you?” I asked one of the yuppies.

  “I’ll join your dating service if you’ll go out with me,” he said, and his friends laughed and high-fived him.

  I hid a smile and quickly turned to the guy who’d been waiting at the bar alone.

  “How about you?” I asked.

  “I dunno,” he said. “Seems kind of weird.”

  “So dating services are weird and embarrassing,” I said.

  “Like my ex-husband!” the woman with the sign on her back shouted, and her friends shrieked with laughter. By now a few other people were wandering over, drawn by the noise. I climbed onto a footstool so I could see everyone. Thank God I’d stopped at one glass of wine or I’d probably have toppled over in my lopsided boots.

  “I don’t think they’re so bad,” someone said. “Half the people I know use Match.com.”

  “Yeah, but a friend of mine did it and the guy turned out to be married,” a woman shouted from the other side of the crowd. “And fifty pounds heavier than his picture.”

  “So people misrepresent themselves,” I said.

  “Like this guy in Cleveland,” one of the law firm people said. “He wanted to fly in and meet my friend. And he was like, sixty. I Googled him and warned her.”

  Suddenly half the crowd was nodding assent; they all had a “friend” who’d been burned by computer dating.

  “What about blind dates?” I asked.

  “Fastest way to ruin a friendship,” someone said knowingly. “Set them up and they end up hating each other and they both blame you.”

  “Once I got set up with this guy my friend worked with, and he was such a dog,” one of the divorced woman’s friends shouted. She was slurring her words slightly. “I was like, ‘So you think I’m a dog?’ Otherwise why would she have set me up with him?”

  “Bitch,” the woman with the tin cans said sympathetically. “You are so not a dog.”

  “You’re not a dog, either,” the first woman said weepily, throwing her arms around her friend’s neck. The tin cans clanked as they drunkenly hugged.

  “Do you think there are any normal people who use dating services?” I asked. “Anybody who gets married through one?”

  “They’d have to lie about it,” a yuppie shouted. “They say they met white-water rafting or something.”

  “Or in prison,” a law firm guy hollered, and the crowd cheered.

  “So there’s no good reason to call a dating service,” I said, projecting my voice so it would reach all the way to the back of the crowd and subdue the cheers. My old company had sent me to a media specialist to learn how to do that for speeches. It was one of the reasons I didn’t freeze up when talking in front of crowds. But tonight I was even more at ease than usual. My new clothes and makeup gave me an added spark.

  “But what about a dating service that does background checks to make sure people aren’t married?” I asked. “What if someone checked out your date before you ever met him or her, and snapped a photo of them, too? What if the dating service was selective, so that not just anyone could get in? Would that make a difference?”

  “Maybe,” tin can woman conceded, and a few people murmured agreement.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You’ve all been a huge help.”

  I stepped down from the footstool and walked over to May.

  “You were unbelievable,” she said. “The way you took control of that crowd!”

  “It was fun,” I said, and I realized it really had been.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me,” May said. “It’s too much.”

  “There’s only one way you can thank me,” I said. “Let me create your ad. I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

  Thirteen

  BY 2:00 A.M., MY eyes were burning, my back was aching, and the taste of stale c
offee lingered in my mouth. Dozens of cut-up magazines littered my bedroom floor, and two of my fingers kept sticking together because they were coated with glue.

  But my ads for May weren’t half-bad.

  I looked down at the sheaf of papers spread out over my bed. I’d flipped strategies around midnight, deciding to scrap the idea of a full-page ad. Instead, I’d created four quarter-page ads. I’d snipped photos and words from different magazines to create collages of my layouts. I envisioned the ads running on consecutive pages of a magazine, playing off each other like the old Burma-Shave roadside signs.

  My first ad featured a cute young woman looking straight into the camera. She was seated at a restaurant table, and opposite her was a gray-haired man with a cane.

  “He said he was twenty-six,” read the bold red copy above her head.

  The second ad showed a guy staring in shock at his credit card bill. This time the red copy read, “I took her out for dinner. She took my credit card.”

  My third ad featured a woman holding up a gold wedding ring. “He asked me to go away with him for the weekend. Then his wife called.”

  My final ad was a simple line of the same bright red copy on a black background: “Blind Dates. Our only surprises are happy ones.”

  I fell back onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. How long had it been since I’d sat down and created an ad from start to finish, all by myself, without having to research it to death and collaborate with art directors and prima donna fashion photographers all while massaging the ego of a client who routinely demands changes that undercut my best ideas?

  Not since grad school, I realized. That was the last time I’d been my own boss. That was the last time I’d had fun at work.

  I sat up and tucked my ads in my briefcase. These ads wouldn’t win any awards, but they should do the trick for May. And because I’d been working so hard, I’d barely thought about Alex and Bradley tonight. I hadn’t thought at all about the new clothes I’d hidden in my closet, still in their bags. I’d just lost myself in the project and pushed my feelings aside, like I always used to do.