Cover Me. Stephanie Bond
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was unmoved. “Did you develop this allergy before or after James dumped you?”
My back straightened. “I dumped James. But now I think my growing aversion to him was actually the onset of the man allergy.”
One of Jacki’s eyebrows shot up. “Personally, I think your growing aversion to James was the onset of sanity.”
“That, too,” I conceded. “But toward the end, I couldn’t bear the smell of him, even after a shower.” I wrinkled my nose. “And every time he came near me, my neck and chest got all blotchy.”
“Do the men you work with give you a reaction?” Denise asked, clearly humoring me, probably to aggravate Jacki.
But I’d given that topic some thought. “No, but most of the men I work with are gay—I don’t think they’re emitting pheromones directed at me.” I pulled a notebook from my purse and flipped through the pages. “For the past two weeks, I’ve been keeping track of my reaction to all men I come into close contact with—cab drivers, doormen, strangers on the elevator—and it seems that the more macho the guy, the more severe my reaction.”
Our handsome dark-haired waiter materialized to leave more bread at the table. He winked at me, and I clawed at the instant skin irritation that developed. He hurried away.
“See,” I said, extending the white underside of my arms, now red from scratching, as irrefutable proof of my rant.
My friends still seemed dubious.
“So, let me get this straight,” Jacki said. “You’re allergic to big, strong, alpha men?”
“Exactly.” I sank back into my chair, relieved that she finally understood.
Jacki nodded thoughtfully. “There is a name for what you’re describing.”
I did a double take. “There is?”
“It’s called being a lesbian.”
Denise and Cindy cracked up, but I wasn’t amused. I was, however, feeling a little desperate to explain myself. “Don’t you see? I’m always attracted to the same type of guy—big and physical—and those relationships have all been disasters. My body has obviously developed this allergy to protect me from my own urges. It’s nature’s way of telling me that I need to settle down with a nice, quiet, unsexy guy.”
The girls looked at me as if I’d grown a second head. If so, I hoped the new head had better hair than the first.
Then Jacki stabbed a chunk of romaine and scoffed. “I think you’re freaking out because your birthday is on Thursday and you don’t have a man in your life.”
My uterus contracted. “That’s ridiculous. I’m trying to explain what might be a revolutionary evolutionary concept. This development could change the human mating process as the world knows it!”
They stared.
“Besides, I forgot all about my birthday,” I lied.
In truth, turning thirty-one loomed more menacingly than any previous anniversary of moi. And the only explanation I had for the anxiety was that the year had flamed by so quickly, I was afraid to let it go. Since becoming an assistant to Helena Birch, editor-in-chief of Personality magazine, it seemed as if my unremarkable life was slipping through my worked-to-the-bone fingers. A typical day had me leaving my apartment in the dark and arriving home in the dark. If I was lucky, I got to see a sliver of daylight when I delivered towering stacks of reports to Helena’s office on the thirteenth floor of the Woolworth Building. (My own office was a closet off a dark hallway.) Today was the first time in eons that I’d had lunch with my friends at our favorite sidewalk café. My indoor arms were ghostly pale next to their sun-kissed limbs, and I had to wear sunglasses against the unfamiliar reflective glare from the sidewalk. My entire body was under assault from the sunshine. And the handsome waiter.
“Well, we didn’t forget your birthday,” Denise said. “We’re taking you to Fitzgerald’s if you can get away from the office Thursday at five.”
I conjured up a smile, already dreading that conversation with Helena. My boss was determined to make Personality magazine number one in our demographic (young professionals earning over $45,000 per annum who spend a disproportionate amount of income on clothing and cars). Just yesterday we’d learned that we had clawed our way from number nine to number seven in circulation. Good thing, too, because this morning when I’d stared glassily into the mirror brushing my teeth, it had appeared for one brief second as if my eyes were turning nocturnal pink—ergo my spontaneous lunch invitation to my gal pals: my social life simply had to improve. “I’ll be at Fitzgerald’s,” I promised.
Jacki smirked. “Good. But don’t forget your antihistamine, Kenzie, just in case you meet a man.”
BY THE TIME I had walked back to the Woolworth Building, I had arrived at two conclusions: (1) I felt certain my man allergy would steer me toward a durable guy, and (2) Helena wouldn’t fire me if I left early Thursday to celebrate my birthday with friends. Probably not. I’d been working like an android and sleeping with my pager. I had forgone lunches and evenings and weekends. I had turned Helena’s desk and schedule into an efficient, well-oiled machine. And maybe my belief that I was indispensable to my boss was more a product of my daylight-deprived mind than it was a reality. After all, equal parts of me were resentful and gleeful that Helena seemed to begin every sentence with the word Kenziewouldyou.
I opted for the stairs to extend my lunch hour a wee bit, then realized with a sparkle of alarm that my pager was dead. I trotted up the last two flights, telling myself that nothing dreadful could possibly have happened during my mere sixty-two-minute absence. But when I walked into the lobby of Personality, Helena stood in front of a cowering receptionist, flailing her thin arms.
Helena Birch had all the trappings of a superbitch editor-in-chief—she was tall and angular, with laser-blue eyes and a surgical tongue. She was an explosive genius and a social maven, unmarried and unapologetic. I had been duly terrified when I had interviewed for the position of her executive assistant, but strangely enough, we had clicked, and our relationship had grown to resemble what I imagined the bond with my ambitious, strong-willed mother might have been if she were still alive: I lived to please Helena and Helena lived to please no one.
The harried receptionist glanced up and pointed in my direction. “Here’s Kenzie now, Ms. Birch.”
Helena whirled. “Where have you been?”
I took a deep breath. “Helena, I told you I was going to meet friends for lunch.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“Well…” She recovered and crossed her arms over a crisp periwinkle-blue Marie Gray jacket. “You didn’t answer my pages.”
As always, I was torn between anger and flattery. “My battery died. What do you need?”
I began walking toward her office, and she fell into step next to me, her hands agitated. “Something came up and I can’t make an appointment. I need you to go in my place.”
I perked up—cover for Helena? Until now, she’d never asked me to do more than cover her behind. I was momentarily dazzled by her confidence in me. “Sure, Helena, I’d be happy to.”
My mind spun with the possible exposure and what it could mean for my career. A Chamber of Commerce meeting? A symposium on periodicals at the Guggenheim? An advertising think tank? I was relieved I’d worn a decent suit and shoes—both a half-season old, but passable if I snagged a Hermès scarf from the prop department. “Just tell me where.”
Helena smiled, all congenial and girl-friendly now. “I can always count on you, Kenzie. I have everything ready for you in my office.”
My stride was instantly longer, my posture two inches taller, and I fought to control the giddy grin that threatened to burst over my face. Helena was finally making