Hot and Bothered. Serena Bell
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life is nasty, brutish and short gaze.
Haven had met him at a poetry reading she’d attended when her mother and sisters were visiting New York.
Haven had somehow been born into the wrong household of brilliant, passionate, neo-hippy women. As a child, Haven had loved her family but never quite felt as though she fit in with their crafty projects and eco-adventures and thinky ideas. She was like a Limited Edition Fashion Barbie among handcrafted fabric dolls made by a fair-trade cooperative in Lima, Peru.
On this particular New York trip, she had done her best to make her family feel comfortable—taking them to out-of-the-way galleries, artists’ studios and literary events. She’d felt like a fish out of water, much as she had as a child, when her mother had introduced her sisters and then added, with a wry twist to her mouth, “And this is my princess, Haven.” Maybe in some families, “princess” would have been a compliment, but Haven had known from the time she was very little that in her case it wasn’t. She was decidedly outside the freewheeling, new-age family her mother had dreamed of.
At the poetry reading, Porter Weir had walked past all her sisters in their fun, colorful peasant clothing, their soft, flowing hair and natural faces. He’d made straight for her, in her of-the-moment New York fashion and her pinned-up hair and perfect makeup. He asked her what she thought of his poetry, how it made her feel. And it had been such a long time since anyone had asked her how anything made her feel that she’d found herself answering.
He’d wanted her. And in the early days of the relationship he had made her feel not only beautiful, but also smart, interesting and creative. Still, she could never shake the fear that if he looked too closely, he’d discover that she was far more princess than poetess.
And that was more or less what had transpired. He’d dug deep and been deeply disappointed.
Haven had never told Elisa what had happened between her and Porter. She’d mentioned him, of course, because he was her most recent serious relationship. But she’d said only that they’d been too different.
“The point is,” Haven concluded, “I don’t do outdoorsy.”
Elisa nodded, admitting defeat, then hit a button on her computer and made the former Navy guy disappear. “It was just a thought.”
“Next.” Haven had to get back to her own work soon, but Elisa’s office always felt like a refuge. If Haven had had time for therapy, she would have wanted it to feel like this. Cozy and friendly and with a splash of humor.
Elisa laughed. “Okay. Try this.” She displayed another man on the screen. “He’s the vice-president of marketing for a well-known jewelry maker. Think expensive Christmas gifts.”
Haven was already a beat ahead of Elisa, hoping for diamond studs. “Wardrobe?”
“He’s wearing a rumpled jacket in this picture.”
Haven leaned in. Dark hair, dark eyes. The jacket was indeed rumpled, but that was only one small strike against him. Maybe it had been raining the day the photo was taken.
“He likes to ‘dine out,’ ‘socialize with friends,’ and ‘go to the movies.’”
“Why haven’t you shown me this guy before?” Haven demanded.
“Honestly? Because this profile bores me to tears.”
“Maybe he’s just not that good at—”
Elisa scrunched up her face, and they both started laughing.
“Right,” said Haven. “He’s in marketing. He should be able to write a profile of himself that makes him sound worth meeting. But honestly? I’m in PR and I could never write those profiles. If I made them too cute, I always felt like I was fake, and if I made them honest, they sounded boring.”
“That’s why you have me to do it for you,” Elisa said. “So it’s up to you. Do you want to give this guy a chance?”
“He sounds perfect.”
“Okay, let’s go for it. I’ll set something up for this weekend. And I’ll gently suggest that he wear something a little more—pressed—than what he’s got on in this photo.”
“That sort of spoils it, if you have to tell him, right?”
“Well,” said Elisa with a mischievous grin, “if it gets him laid, maybe he’ll learn from it.”
“Who said anything about anyone getting laid?”
Elisa looked up from the laptop screen. “How long, exactly, are you planning for your current dry spell to last?”
“Why break something two years in the making?” Haven winced.
“As someone who has recently broken a two-plus-year dry spell, I have to recommend it. The breaking, not the spell.”
“Do you think it was the breaking that was so good? Or the man you broke it with?”
“Probably the man.” Elisa smiled dreamily.
Haven wondered if being happily matched was a boon or a liability for a dating coach. On one hand, if Elisa could do so well for herself, it said something for her emotional intelligence. On the other, Haven suspected most single women would be more likely to confide in a dating coach who didn’t seem quite so smugly settled.
Elisa snapped out of her reverie. “The point is, you don’t have to find the perfect man to break the losing streak.”
“Sex is a lot of work. If I’m going to do it, it’d better be good.”
Elisa narrowed her eyes. “Sex is a lot of work? Are you doing it right?”
“Pumice stones and moisturizers and Brazilians and lingerie shopping and the good sheets and candles and—”
“It’s not an Olympic event, Hav,” Elisa interrupted. “You’re allowed to just do it. Like on the living room couch, drunk, and with the full complement of God-given body hair.”
Haven knew from personal experience that while guys might claim not to need things groomed and romantic and perfect, over time they would come to crave the fantasy version. Once the early, oblivious bliss wore off, Elisa would find that out, too.
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” Haven said.
Elisa crossed her arms. “Are we talking about ‘right’? Or are we talking about ‘looking good’?’”
“When it comes to men, there’s no difference.”
Elisa gave her a hard look. “I’m a dating coach. There’s a difference.”
“I’m an image consultant. There’s not.”
Elisa laughed. “Agree to disagree.” She shut the laptop and came around the desk as Haven stood. “You’re a hoot, girl.”
Elisa put her arm around Haven, and Haven rested her head on Elisa’s shoulder, glad Elisa thought it was funny. But she hadn’t been joking. When it came to men, image was everything.
* * *
MARK STEPPED INTO Mad Mo’s and was assaulted by screens and vintage neon signs, piped music and raised voices. Even years of having his ears blown out on a stage and in blues clubs hadn’t made him immune to the overstimulation. He had to pause in the doorway to get his bearings.
Mad Mo’s had been around since the 1940s, and it was the antithesis of the place where he’d had lunch with Haven yesterday. At Charme, everything was calculated and calculating, from the color scheme to the people who chose to put themselves on display there. Here—well, it had all happened through year after year of accidents. Someone had once given Mo a neon beer sign and then he had become a known collector of them. The art on the walls was a mélange of photos of Mo’s family, crayon pictures kids had drawn and postcards from every corner of the world. And the food was— It was just food,