The Blonde Theory Read online

  “What is it?” I whispered once we were safely out of earshot.

  “You have a perfect opportunity to act like a dumb blonde with the menu items at the restaurant,” she whispered back, her eyes gleaming.

  I arched an eyebrow at her.

  “This is perfect!” she continued excitedly. “I can’t believe he’s taking you to a French restaurant! You have to mispronounce your way through everything.”

  I looked at her for a moment and shrugged. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yes, yes!” Meg exclaimed, her voice still low, her eyes still shining. “Okay, and you also have to order frog legs or escargots or something and make a really big deal out of it, like you didn’t know what it was ahead of time.”

  “Isn’t that too dumb?” I asked, not convinced.

  “No, no!” Meg bubbled. “It’s perfect. It will be so funny!” Hmph, easy for her to say.

  I stared at her for a moment then nodded in resignation.

  “I guess I have to,” I said. “I signed up for this, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, Harp, it’s going to be so great!” Meg exclaimed. “Now, get back out there and go on your date!”

  “Do I have a choice?” I grumbled.

  AFTER HUGGING THE girls good-bye and asking them to lock the door behind us, I was out on the street with Scott, who already had a town car idling by the curb. I was suddenly nervous now that the safety net of my girlfriends had been removed. It was somehow easier to act like a dumb blonde when I knew they were right there with me, prepared to play along. Suddenly, I was flying solo. But hey, I was used to working alone on major legal cases, right? I could do this. I gave myself a little internal pep talk. I took a deep breath and resolved to do my best to sound as empty-headed as possible.

  “You have, like, a chauffeured car?” I breathed, looking at Scott with wide eyes as we approached the town car. I twirled my hair and looked up at him.

  He laughed, his smile lighting up his chiseled face again. “Not exactly,” he said. “The hospital where I work has a car service. I just figured we could use it tonight for our date rather than trying to get taxis.”

  “Like, definitely,” I agreed, still pretending to be incredibly impressed with the car service. Of course, in reality, I had a car service at my disposal, too, and I used it most nights when I worked late. It was one of the perks of being a partner at Booth, Fitzpatrick & McMahon. But I supposed that a professional NBA dancer wouldn’t be using one on a daily basis unless she had a sugar daddy. Like Scott. “This is, like, so awesome,” I breathed as the driver, dressed in a navy suit and matching chauffeur’s cap, hopped out to open the back door for us. I let Scott take my hand and “help” me into the car, resisting the urge to tell him I was perfectly capable of getting into an automobile by myself.

  On the drive uptown, I concentrated on tossing my hair as many times as I thought was believable (until my neck started to hurt) and keeping my eyes so wide and vacant that I was sorely in need of eyedrops within the first few moments. Scott asked me questions about myself, but I deflected most of them as Emmie had suggested—by commenting minimally and then turning the spotlight back to him. Fortunately, this worked beautifully, as Scott’s favorite subject was apparently himself. By the time we got to the restaurant on 39th Street, I had learned that he was thirty-eight, that he had gone to Yale, that he and a partner had a private practice associated with Montefiore Regional Medical Center, that he was from Connecticut, and that his dad had been an ophthalmologist, too.

  “You haven’t told me anything about yourself, Harper,” Scott said as he helped me out of the car in front of the restaurant. A big maroon canopy with the restaurant’s name extended the length of the building, and little bistro tables were set up outside on the street. “You’ll have to fill me in once we get a table.”

  I giggled nervously.

  “There’s, like, nothing really interesting to tell,” I said as he opened the door to Café le Petit Pont for me. “I’ve just been a dancer for, like, as long as I can remember. It’s, like, always been a dream of mine.”

  I hesitated, hoping that Scott wouldn’t ask more. Because as much as I had prepared to behave like a dumb blonde, I’d run out of time to craft a convincing backstory. The fact was, I didn’t know much at all about dancing. Fortunately, Scott seemed to accept that as an answer. He took my hand as we approached the hostess stand.

  “We have a reservation,” he announced to the hostess. “Under Doctor Scott Jacoby.” I swear, he stressed the word doctor. I wanted to laugh but resisted. Why would he have to throw in the fact that he was a doctor? That would be like me introducing myself to people loudly as “Harper Roberts, Esquire.” But the bubbly hostess seemed thrilled to be in his presence, giggling at him flirtatiously, despite the fact that I was standing right there beside him.

  “Your table will be ready in just a moment,” she said. Then, I swear, she batted her eyes at him (more successfully than I had, I might add)! “So what kind of doctor are you?”

  “An ophthalmologist,” Scott answered, puffing his chest out proudly. “That’s an eye doctor.”

  “Wow, cool,” the hostess bubbled, completely ignoring me. I should have been annoyed, but it seemed like a better use of my time to take mental notes. Although brunette, the hostess seemed to have the dumb-blonde thing down a lot better than I did. I reminded myself to act more impressed with Scott’s status as a doctor during dinner, because, I supposed, that was what a dumb blonde would do, right? The hostess seemed like a pretty good person to emulate.

  We were seated and Scott ordered a bottle of wine—without consulting me, which was the first thing of the evening that really got under my skin. I had such high hopes that Scott would turn out to be my type of guy. But my type of guy would at least be polite enough to consult his date about the wine selection. Right?

  I tried valiantly to overlook the lapse. Maybe he’d just been nervous and forgotten to ask me.

  “You’ll like it,” he reassured me, reaching across the table to pat my hand confidently. “Trust me.” I smiled and giggled, but inside, I was fighting a feeling of creeping annoyance. Yes, I knew I would like the wine—it was a Domaine de Mourchon Côtes de Rhône-Villages Grand Reserve, and I had actually stayed just outside the Domaine de Mourchon vineyard during a trip to a culinary school in Séguret, in the south of France, six years ago. But I knew I couldn’t tell Scott any of that. It wouldn’t quite fit with my dumb-blonde image, would it? Instead, I nodded tightly. After all, maybe this was the one area in which he was mannerless, and he’d be perfect in everything else. Besides, I was acting airheaded. I supposed it was understandable that he’d assume I didn’t know my wines.

  “This wine looks really expensive, so it must be good,” I said in my best little-girl voice, giving Scott a little pouty face and bat of my eyes. Thankfully, I had perfected the eye-batting technique in the mirror, and Scott didn’t seem to be about to leap over the table and pull out an optical scope this time.

  Instead, he nodded and reached across the table to give my hand a squeeze. “Nothing but the best for you, baby,” he said with a patronizing wink.

  I smiled back, but only because I didn’t know what else to say. He was calling me baby? Because I approved of his selection of wine? Did guys really talk to women like that? No one had ever talked to me that way. But was it because, as my normal self, I intimidated and scared them? Was this what dating was like when you weren’t me?

  I resolved to stop getting offended and to instead simply enjoy being as vacuous as possible. After all, maybe he wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was just picking up on my blonde cues and responding accordingly.

  Steeling myself for more blonde ditziness, I opened the menu, which was all in French, and began flipping through.

  “Do you need any help reading the menu, baby?” Scott asked, leaning across the table and putting a hand on my arm.

  “No, I’m okay,” I assured him in a chirpy voice. “I, like
, took a year of French in my high school. I’m, like, practically a native speaker.”

  “Oh, are you?” Scott asked, looking amused.

  “Oh yes,” I said dismissively and giggled. “I mean, I know lots of French words. Like bonjour and au revoir.” I purposely pronounced the words “boon-joor” and “ow reev-oyr.” Boy, I was good at this. Perhaps I should apply for an acting job on Emmie’s soap. Actually, I was glad Meg had suggested that I butcher the French language. It was easier than thinking up my own stunts. Scott looked at me solemnly and nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s almost perfect, baby,” he said, looking amused. I nodded enthusiastically. “But are you sure you don’t need my help translating the menu?” Scott asked again, studying me with what appeared to be some level of genuine concern.

  “Oh no, I’m fine,” I said with my cutest little grin, relishing the all-too-perfect opportunity to mispronounce my way through the appetizer, the salad, and the entrée courses.

  The waiter appeared beside us a moment later, and I knew exactly what I wanted to order.

  “I’ll start with the cuisses grenouille,” I said, pronouncing it “coo-ee-ess-ess gren-oo-ee-lee.” The waiter raised a curious eyebrow and I pretended not to notice. I was about to give my salad order when Scott interrupted.

  “Baby, are you sure you want to order that?” he asked, looking concerned. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Of course I do,” I said, doing my best to look wounded. “And yes, I want it. Is that okay?” I giggled.

  Scott hesitated for a moment then relented, leaning back in his chair. I ordered the salade de la maison, mispronouncing the words, of course, then the coquilles Saint-Jacques, pronouncing it “cock-ay-lees saint jack-ess.”

  Scott looked a bit concerned, but he didn’t protest this time. Instead, he ordered his own meal—a much less adventurous one than mine, I might add—and settled back in his chair as the confused-looking waiter walked away to bring us our appetizers.

  I wish I could say that the date went wonderfully from there; that Scott was the charming gentleman he had, at first, appeared to be. But sadly, he wasn’t. Not at all. As he downed one glass of wine and then another, he loosened up a little, and his larger-than-life ego began to rear its head. I nibbled on the bread the waiter had placed on the table and slowly sipped my wine, trying to appear as vacant and wide-eyed as possible, while Scott launched into a monologue about his wealth, his fabulous job, and all the other things that were apparently supposed to make me believe he was the greatest man in the world.

  Meanwhile, I struggled to keep my eyes big and round as I oohed and ahhed over the things he told me while trying to suppress my gag reflex.

  I learned that Scott owned his own two-bedroom on the Upper East Side (on a cheaper block than mine, but of course I didn’t mention that); that he had two cars—a BMW he drove around town and a Jag he kept in a garage outside the city for his “weekends in the country”; and that he owned a summer share in an enormous house in the Hamptons. “Play your cards right, baby, and you might get to be my ‘plus one’ this summer.”

  Did girls really fall for this?

  “Oh good,” I muttered, not caring that I sounded sarcastic, because Scott was already far too absorbed in telling his stories to notice me much anyhow.

  He told me all about his boat, Lady Luck; his mid-six-figure income; and his wild weekends in Vegas with his buddies, “where we drop tens of thousands like it’s nothing, baby.”

  “So do you get to the gym much, Harper?” he asked, switching tracks rapidly. I blinked at him and almost said no (because in real life, I didn’t even own a gym membership, depending on my collection of workout DVDs to tone my body effortlessly, through osmosis or something), but then I remembered that I was supposed to be a dancer.

  “I, like, get to use the weight room?” I said, remembering to add question marks at the ends of my sentences, as Emmie had advised. “At Madison Square Garden? Where the players work out? We’re, like, allowed to use the gym when they’re not using it.”

  “So you must be in some shape,” Scott said approvingly, not even bothering to hide the fact that he was looking my body appreciatively up and down. Despite myself, I glanced down skep-tically, then noticed that my body actually did look pretty toned in this skintight dress (with the hidden help of the girdle, thank you very much). Well then! Who needed the gym—or to actually watch her workout DVDs—when she had some Spanx in her wardrobe?

  “Thanks,” I chirped. “That’s, like, really cool of you to say that.”

  “I’m in great shape, too, you know,” he said, leaning across the table conspiratorially. I peered at him strangely, but he didn’t seem to notice. Okay, this conversation was taking an odd turn. For once, I didn’t have to fake confusion; I really had no idea where he was going with this. He didn’t leave me wondering long.

  He took my hands and looked into my eyes. “I’m like a well-oiled machine,” he whispered in a manner that I supposed was meant to be seductive (although I’d be quite alarmed if anyone was successfully seduced by this sort of talk). “I can go all night, baby. All night.”

  Startled, I struggled not to laugh and looked at him as blankly as I could manage. I wasn’t exactly sure what the proper dumb-blonde reaction to this kind of information would be. But if he was going to be so bizarrely offensive, I might as well have a little fun with him.

  “Wow,” I said, widening my eyes. I feigned ignorance. “You can go all night to the gym? I didn’t even know there were gyms that were open all night!”

  Scott looked at me for a moment, startled. Then he shook his head as I tried valiantly not to collapse in laughter.

  “No, baby,” he said, sounding frustrated. “In bed. I can go all night in bed.”

  “You have gym equipment in your bed?” I breathed, struggling my hardest to continue looking completely blank, which was difficult, because it was getting more and more difficult to hold back my laughter. “That is, like, such a great idea. You can work out and sleep at the same time! That is so smart! I never think of things like that!”

  Man, this stuff was coming to me with frightening ease. Perhaps I had missed my calling. Perhaps deep down, I was a dumb blonde who just happened to have been more educated than fate had intended.

  Then again, perhaps not.

  “No, no,” Scott said loudly, starting to look so exasperated that his cheeks were turning pink. He sat up a bit straighter and banged a fist on the table. “I can have sex all night!” he clarified loudly.

  Thankfully, our waiter chose that moment to arrive with our appetizers, saving me from having to address Scott’s boasts. Of course, he also arrived just in time to hear Scott’s last words and as a result turned an amusing shade of scarlet himself.

  “Mademoiselle, your cuisses grenouille,” he said, pronouncing the name of the dish much better than I had. He set down a tantalizing-looking plate in front of me, garnished with parsley. I pretended not to look too closely at it; I still wasn’t entirely convinced that creating a scene about my food, as Meg had advised, was the best route to take. But it was hard not to think about it and giggle as the cuisses swam delicately on my plate.

  “And monsieur, your moules à la crème,” the water said, sweeping in with a delicious-smelling dish of mussels in white wine cream sauce for Scott. “Bon apétit,” he added before vanishing, his cheeks still a deep red.

  As soon as the waiter left, I made a big show of examining my plate, making sure that Scott was watching me. His face was filled with trepidation as he awaited the inevitable—my dumb-blonde reaction to the dish in front of me.

  “Like, what are these?” I asked finally, touching the edge of one of my cuisses, which were bathed in a delectable-looking sauce of butter, garlic, and chopped parsley. I looked up at Scott in mock disgust. Of course I knew what cuisses were. But clearly my dumb-blonde alter ego didn’t.

  “Um, that’s the appetizer you ordered, babe,” Scott said nervously. He looked far le
ss comfortable than he had a moment earlier while boasting of his sexual prowess. I looked at him incredulously and then turned my attention back to the plate.

  “They look like”—I paused dramatically and poked at the cuisses again, lifting half of one up experimentally with my fork—“frog legs,” I concluded with disgust.

  Scott just looked at me nervously.

  “Are they?” I demanded a bit more loudly, relishing his reaction. He looked so uncomfortable, not exactly the “well-oiled machine” he had just claimed to be. “Are they frog legs?” I persisted in a high-pitched squeal.

  “Well,” Scott paused, as if considering the question. He cleared his throat. “That depends on your definition of frog legs.”

  “What?” I asked, my voice rising an octave (to heights previously unknown to my vocal cords). “What do you mean, my definition?” I paused and tried to look both haughty and dumb at the same time, which was no easy feat. And yet somehow, I seemed to be pulling it off. Hurrah for me! “Are they, or are they not, the legs of a frog like Kermit?” I asked, keeping my voice slow and deadly—but still up an octave.

  “Um...yes,” Scott finally said meekly, avoiding my gaze while he nervously twisted his napkin into a knot.

  “Ewwwwww!” I exclaimed, loudly enough that the diners at the tables around us turned to stare. Ordinarily, I would have been self-conscious, but in slipping into the dumb-blonde persona, I had also apparently checked my embarrassment at the door. For a second, I actually reveled in the liberty of it all. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be freaking out. I pushed my plate dramatically away and stood up.

  “This is disgusting,” I said, contorting my face into a mask of repulsion. Heck, I should win an Oscar for this performance. “I can’t believe you would bring me to a place like this,” I continued, putting my hands on my hips angrily and striking a pose that I hoped looked both stupid and defiant. “A place that would...that would”—I drew a big breath, pretending that the words were difficult to say—“that would murder innocent frogs!” I concluded.