What Pretty Girls Are Made Of by Lindsay Jill Roth Page A

you both,” I said politely. “Thank you for making this connection through Ira.”
    “It’s our pleasure,” Jane said. “Ira has said such wonderful things about you, so we were excited to make the match.”
    I hoped this conversation wasn’t going to last long. So awkward.
    “I’m sure you kids are looking forward to getting to know each other, but you’re welcome to join us. We’ve only had our appetizers, so you’re not too far behind.”
    Please say no, David. Please decline their kind but very weird offer.
    “Thanks, guys, but we’re going to get back to our table,” said David.
    Point one for mama’s boy.
    “Do you bring your parents on all of your first dates?” I teased him once we were seated.
    “Only on the special ones,” he remarked with a smile. “Takes the pressure off down the road.”

    He didn’t ask for my phone number, but I had a good feeling that he would at some point. I arrived at work the next morning to an in-box full of emails, with one from David, sent the night before at about 9:45 p.m. Sally hadn’t yet pushed for my work emails to be forwarded to my personal iPhone (which I embraced), so each day I arrived to a packed in-box. But at least I wasn’t waking up in the middle of the night and checking to see what would be waiting for me in the morning.
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    Subject: Hi
    Hey, Alison.
    So I just got home and see it’s only 9:45. I forgot just how quickly a sushi dinner can go! This is great because I will be rested for my presentation tomorrow morning. But it’s also quite bad because I think it would have been nice if we had spent more time together.
    How about a movie sometime? Or maybe a joint golf lesson at Chelsea Piers? Have a great night.
    Dave
    Nice. Maybe David’s mom should add a matchmaking division to her recruiting company.

    Whether it was the new responsibilities or the new setup, I now felt like I mattered more to the company than I had before, and like my coworkers—and Sally—saw that my work resulted in direct financial benefit to the business.
    This fueled me in ways I wasn’t used to—a different kind of motivation bubbling in my stomach. I could contribute to a play, movie, or commercial—when I was in one—but now I was reveling in a production of my own making.
    I had the liberty to play on Facebook as much as I wanted, and reaching out to Sally’s fan base was a lot more stimulating than managing Sally’s schedule, which had turned out to be far more difficult than I was told it would be.
    “Jesus Christ, Alison,” Sally said to my voice mail a few weeks earlier. “How dare you do this to me!” Do what? I thought, bracing myself for the prerecorded answer . She paused with grave emphasis . “Pushing my lunch fifteen minutes robs my family of money. You’re worse than Obama. Change my lunch back to its original time.”
    I pressed 9, saving her ridiculousness. Especially since I had no idea what lunch she was talking about. My voice mailbox was quickly filling up with saved voice mails.
    “Let’s go over this again,” her next message began. “I need hard copies of my schedule printed and replaced every day with a four-month view—one for the car, one for each office, and one for my apartment. Got it?”
    Click.
    I called back and was immediately put through to voice mail.
    “Sally, I’m happy to get your schedule to you however you prefer it, but FYI, I update it electronically and it’s linked to your iPhone. You can see it in real time, which may be easier for you and save some trees.”
    Click.
    An email arrived almost instantly:
    Nah, just email it to me each night in addition to the printouts and I’ll chk it that way. Missed my hair appointment the other day because you didn’t enter it in the schedule, btw. It’s a good thing I’m not very gray this week.
    Hair appointment? First time I’m hearing about it. And my fault?
    I was getting used to being blamed when she