Perfect on Paper (16 page)

A week later, I was on a plane bound for New York. The official reason for my trip was to attend some meetings at our Manhattan office, but of course I was really there for Cynthia’s wedding. And I was crutch-free! My cast had been replaced by a walking cast, which to the untrained eye looked exactly the same, but it was much lighter. The biggest difference was that my new cast came with a little bootlike contraption around my foot that allowed me to walk. The doctor had told me how important it was to try to walk normally to avoid overcompensation injuries, but for the time being I couldn’t do it. No matter how hard I tried, I walked with a noticeable limp, and the people at the office had taken to calling me the Hunchback of K.A. Marketing. Just what a girl loves to hear.

I flew out of San Francisco early that Tuesday afternoon. Everything seemed like business as usual at the airport, but when I got to the front of the check-in line, a miracle happened.

“Uh oh,” the agent said. “It looks like coach is overbooked.”

She typed five hundred words a minute into her keyboard and stared at her computer screen.

“What does that mean?” I said.

She continued the breakneck pace. What could she possibly be typing?

“Well, let’s see”—
click click click—
“you have a full-fare economy ticket”—
clack clack clack—
“fully refundable”—
click click click—
“so it looks like”—
clack clack clack—
“we’ll have to upgrade you to first class.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

She handed me my boarding pass and smiled. “Really. Enjoy your flight.”

I grabbed the pass and bolted away before she could take it back. Actually, I was moving more like a snail on a plate of honey, but it worked.

Thirty minutes later, I leaned back in my spacious leather seat and looked at the empty one next to me. “Are you expecting anyone to sit here?” I said to the flight attendant.

“Not today, Ms. Bryson. It’s all yours.”

Aaah. This was definitely my lucky day. Chatting with someone across the aisle is fine, but seriously, who wants to sit smack next to a random for a cross-country flight? My friend Whitney had met her husband on a plane, and he had even proposed during a flight by hiding the ring in the snack pack. But usually it was some lady who shared way too much information about her gout.

The extra leg room was perfect for my ankle, and once we were airborne, the flight attendants brought me a special ottoman to prop it up. They also brought me a Diet Coke and a bowl of mixed nuts. As I picked through the nuts and ate the cashews first (a habit I will probably take to my grave), I looked over the menu of gourmet lunch selections, thrilled that I would actually be fed on a plane without having to pay for it. Then I opened the in-flight magazine to see what free movies I could watch on my private screen. I looked at my watch. The scheduled flight time was about five hours, and already I didn’t want to land.

I looked back at the curtain dividing first class and business class on the huge plane, and I thought of the curtain dividing business class and coach even farther back. I’d only been upgraded a few times in my life, but each time I was invariably seized by an irrational sense of superiority over the passengers in coach. It was like an evil part of me that only reared its ugly head at thirty-five thousand feet. It was horrible, and I knew it, but I couldn’t help it. When I was in coach, I didn’t have a problem with anyone, but put me in business or first class, and immediately I was a closet snob with an attitude. I hoped no one noticed.

I must have drifted off to sleep as I was contemplating this
Lord of the Flies
side of my personality, because I was suddenly being awakened by a flight attendant.

“Excuse me, Ms. Bryson?”

“Huh? What?” I sat up and shook my head. I knew it. They were booting me back to coach.

“It’s nothing major, just a little motion sickness up in row three. Would you mind if we moved a passenger next to you to give the woman who is ill a little space?”

“Huh? Oh, sure, of course.” I picked up my purse from the empty seat next to me.

“Thanks, Ms. Bryson.”

“No problem.” Hey, at least I was still in first class. I started flipping through the channels on my personal movie screen, and a few moments later I felt my new seatmate sit down next to me.

“Excuse me, do you have the time?” she said.

I looked down at my watch. “California time or New York time?”

“Oops, good question. Um, New York time.”

I moved my watch ahead three hours. “It’s just about five thirty. I think we’ll land around ten o’clock.”

“Thanks. And I’m so sorry to take this seat. I know it’s always nice to have the extra space.”

“No problem. I was upgraded anyway, so who am I to complain?”

I looked over at her with a smile and froze.

I was looking at Kristina Santana, Shane Kennedy’s wife.

“Oh, Jesus,” I blurted. Nice composure.

“Are you okay?” she said.

I pushed my hair behind my ear. “Um, yeah, fine. I just didn’t realize who you were. I’m a big fan, um, I mean of your skating career. I saw you in the Olympics.” God, so lame.

She smiled and flashed the whitest teeth I had ever seen. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

“Waverly, Waverly Bryson.”

“Waverly? Like the—”

I smiled and cut her off. “Yes, just like the cracker from way back when.”

She laughed. “You must get that a lot. It’s nice to meet you.” She reached over to shake my hand.

“Actually, I did some work with your husband a few months ago,” I said. “I work for JAG.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did he behave himself?”

I nodded. “He was great. In fact, he was a real sweetheart. In my line of work I have to deal with some prima donnas, and he definitely broke the mold. He even fetched me coffee a couple of times.”

She laughed again. “That’s not surprising. I wouldn’t have married Shane if he had an attitude. Hell, I probably wouldn’t even have dated him.” She took a sip of her sparkling water. “I’ve met my share of cocky athletes too, and believe me, I got tired of that years ago.”

“I’ll drink to that.” I picked up my Diet Coke. “I once had to arrange a press tour for a baseball player who was representing a line of catcher’s gloves. God, he was a piece of work, totally full of himself and crazy rude to everyone around him when the cameras weren’t running. Anyhow, he was so conceited that he nearly walked out of an on-field interview on the
Today
show when he found out the reporter had never heard of him.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “And get this. After the interview, when the player was gone, the reporter laughed and said he of course knew who the guy was but wanted to mess with him.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said.

I smiled. “I know, isn’t it? I told him I’d wished I’d thought of that one myself. After that press tour, I never had to talk to that horrible ballplayer again, but the reporter and I are still good friends.” Good ol’ Scotty Ryan.

Kristina and I ended up talking nearly the entire flight, starting with how I had hurt my ankle, and then moving on to work, family, and, of course, Olympic medals (hers, of course). She and Shane had met six years before at a charity event in Chicago, where they had both grown up. She was juggling medical school and competitive skating at the time, and he was a young NBA star. Apparently, it was love at first sight, and within a few months they were engaged. Talk about the perfect couple.

She took a bite of her chocolate truffle cake. “So what about you? How’s the romance in San Francisco?”

I looked at her and raised my eyebrows. “Hmm, where should I start? Would you rather hear about how my ex-fiancé just got married or how I haven’t had sex in about eleven years?”

She nearly choked on her dessert. “Oh my God, you’re hilarious.”

“Okay, I’m exaggerating,” I said. “But let’s just say I’m in a bit of a dry spell at the moment.”

“Ahhh, I hate dry spells. Don’t worry though, it sounds like you’re due,” she said, digging through her purse. She pulled out a lipstick, reapplied it, and tossed the purse between us. “Breaking a dry spell was always my favorite part about being single.”

I laughed and leaned back in my seat. “I sure hope you’re right, because breaking open a carton of ice cream for dinner is currently
my
favorite part about being single, and my jeans are not exactly thrilled with me for it.”

A few hours later, we were outside baggage claim in New York. I picked up my suitcase and handed her my business card. “This has my work and cell numbers, so please get in touch if you’re ever in San Francisco, okay? And please tell Shane I said hi. It was so nice to meet you.”

“Will do. It was great to meet you, too. Bye, Waverly.”

“Bye.”

I hobbled into a cab to head for the brightly lit streets of midtown Manhattan. A few miles later, as we entered the city, I looked up and saw Kristina’s face smiling down at me from a billboard for Whisper perfume.

At 11 p.m. I checked into my hotel, then went upstairs to my room and opened my suitcase. I pulled out the wrinkleables and hung them up in my closet. If at all possible, I wanted to avoid having to bust out the iron. I hate ironing. Hate it hate it hate it. I make a point of almost exclusively buying clothes that were perfectly wearable if fluffed up in the dryer, so the sight of me with an iron is about as common as the sight of Sean Penn at a Republican convention. But there are no clothes dryers in hotel rooms, and sometimes the cutest clothes have to be ironed, so then I cave. But I still hate it hate it hate it.

I put on my pajamas, then pulled my hair into a ponytail and ordered a ham and cheese sandwich and a green salad from room service. As best I could with my cast, I sat crossed-legged on the bed and turned on the TV.

“Room service.” A knock on the door alerted me to the arrival of my late-night dinner. Like Pavlov’s dog, immediately I was starving. I carefully got up off the bed and limped over to the door. The bellman wheeled in the tray. “Can I get you anything else?” he said.

“How about a boyfriend and a new ankle?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Kidding, kidding.” I handed him a few dollars for a tip and shut the door. Then I looked down at the bill I had just signed: $28.50 for a ham and cheese sandwich, a green salad, and a bottle of water. Thank God for expense accounts.

An hour later I was about to turn off the TV and go to sleep when I decided to check my e-mail and work a little bit on my greeting cards. I booted up my laptop and, after deleting approximately seven thousand pictures of Whitney’s sleeping baby, typed the following ideas to add to my master list:

MORE HONEY NOTE IDEAS

Front: Why do people have to e-mail you dozens of pictures of their newborns? Why won’t one or two do?

Inside: Honey, just wait until they put those ridiculous “My child was student of the month” bumper stickers on their cars, oops—I mean, on their minivans.

Front: In a bit of a dry spell lately?

Inside: Honey, just think of how much money you’re saving on fancy lingerie and waxing treatments.

I took a sip of water and read over what I had typed. It definitely came across as a little bitter.

Hmm. Was I really that bitter?

I clicked on the document and added one more:

Front: Feeling a little bitter lately?

Inside: Honey, that’s okay. Just take a deep breath, smile, and imagine a car-size Snickers.