Tabloid Love (3 of 4 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
Tabloid Love by Bridget Harrison. Copyright 2006 by Bridget Harrison.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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PROLOGUE (CONT'D)

He was thirty-nine, never married, and had climbed K2, I reminded myself as I now walked towards him through the low light of Olives. I automatically switched on my "hello, I'm your sexy date for tonight" smile.

We embraced, during which he gave me the surreptitious "small boobs? big bum?" glance which guys always think you won't notice. I hoped the V-neck-and-tweed-trousers combo had pulled off the transition from murder-suicide wear to date wear.

"Sorry, bit of a hectic day. I was on a really sad story in the Lower East Side about this three-year-old kid who--"

"Nothing a dirty martini won't cure," he interrupted, hailing the bartender with a $100 bill. Okay, so he wasn't a listener. But at least the drinks would be free.

"And how was your day? Did you tend to a lot of women?" I asked chattily as he slid a cocktail in my direction.

He shot me a look like I had just called him a snaky-fingered pervert.

"I mean, you were busy too. With your patients, your practice. Right?" Damn. Maybe it wasn't appropriate to ask a gynecologist about his line of work on a first date.

Clearly not, as Jeff swiftly changed the subject and asked me if I knew the name of the band playing on the bar stereo. Not sure if this was a test or a genuine question, I took a wild stab at "Coldplay"--which always seemed to be playing in bars.

"Coldplay? You're kidding, right?" He looked aghast, the bartender looked pityingly at me. "And you're a Brit. How could you not recognize Radiohead?"

"Sorry, I knew that," I mumbled.

Then Jeff asked me if I liked dogs. I told him I had recently attended a Chihuahua's second birthday party but had left when the hostess tried to make me woof "Happy Birthday."

Jeff enthusiastically told me he had a chocolate lab who had celebrated his own birthday in doggie daycare last week.

"Great, good for him," I said.

Next Jeff asked me whether I smoked pot--to which I loftily replied "only with tobacco."

He told me he grew his own weed--which he only smoked pure--that he never dated women who didn't smoke pot, who didn't like dogs, or who lived in the Tri-State area beyond Manhattan. Confused, I pointed out that he had told me he lived in Old Brookville on the North Shore, Long Island, which was definitely beyond Manhattan. He shrugged and told me these were his rules for women, not the other way around.

"I have these little mental checks. I mean, I'm a busy guy and I can't afford to waste time with women who aren't my type. But don't worry, you're the cutest of all the women I followed up with from that singles mixer, and I love the Post."

This guy has a way with the compliments, I thought.

But it transpired that even if I was the cutest of the unknown number of women whose numbers he had harvested that night, I wasn't quite cute enough. Or maybe it was because I said I smoked pot with tobacco. Jeff soon announced he had to meet a golfing buddy who was going through a divorce. I didn't believe him--and didn't object. We parted on the corner of 16th Street with an efficient peck on the cheek.

I walked the six long blocks along 14th Street towards my apartment, planning a sushi delivery order--two salmon sashimi, one dragon roll, edamame, miso soup--and a new topic for a column I wrote about being single in New York: "Dating Deal-Breakers"--those little things that people do and say which makes their date decide they'll never get to a second evening. I'd start with a gynecologist who will only go out with women if they like dogs, smoke pot, and don't come from Long Island--even though he does.

Arrive, connect, conclude, depart. I had discovered that the same approach worked for both dating and news reporting. I had moved to New York three years before, a total novice at both.

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