Over the next four workdays, Richard and I exchange about thirty e-mails a day. It's all disguised as friendly banter, but the sheer volume of traffic suggests otherwise.

At one point, when Michael comes into my office, he catches me laughing at the computer. He darts around my desk, and takes instant note of my in-box filled with Richard Margo's name. There are at least ten in a row.

"Busted," he says.

"Whatever," I say, but my goofy grin suggests that I am, indeed, busted.

"What the fuck's going on here?"

I minimize my in-box and work hard at ridding my face of the guilty smile I can still feel straining at the corners of my mouth.

"Are you schtupping my boss?"

"No," I say with pretend indignation.

Ding! My e-mail notifler rings loudly.

"Is it from him?" Michael demands.

I can't resist checking. It is. Which Michael sees over my shoulder.

"Holy shit. You're so schtupping my boss!"

"There's no schtupping going on," I say.

Yet.

"Now. Can I have some privacy, please?" I say.

When Michael leaves, shaking his head, I read the latest from Richard.

I type back, "Yes." Then backspace and type, "Would love to" before clicking send.

I reread the entire exchange, beginning with another one of his weak attempts at a legitimate business purpose.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27,9:30 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Timothy Lynde

Timothy Lynde just rang. He's interested in paying to take himself on the road for a book tour I think it's worth it. Any ideas on what markets might work best for him? Let me know what you think… By the way, did I tell you I had a nice time at lunch the other day? Thanks for joining me.

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27,9:33 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re:Timothy Lynde

I'll think about cities and touch base with Tim. He's a Mormon so Salt Lake's probably a safe bet… As for lunch, yes, you mentioned that I had a lovely time, too.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 9:38 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Mormons

A Mormon, huh? I went out with a Mormon once… It didn't go so well.

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27,9:44 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re: Mormons

Did she try to convert you?

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27,9:50 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Re: Mormons

No, I slept with her and she was excommunicated… It wasn't good.

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27,9:55 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re: Mormons

Shame on you. When did this happen?

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 9:58 A.M.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: I'm old

High school.The 70s. What are you, Class of 2000?

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, 10:00 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: And you're funny, too

Ha ha.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 10:03 A.M.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: You

I bet you were cute in high school.

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, 10:08 a m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Nope

I so wasn't. I was spectacularly lame.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 10:08 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Re Nope

I bet I was lamer

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, 10:10 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re Nope

You were corrupting hot Mormon chicks. I was student body treasurer Top that.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 10:19 am.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Re: Nope

Well, I was the school mascot…and who said she was hot?

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, 10:25 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Yeah, right

Something tells me that she was hot.

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 10:26 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: I was a stud

Okay. I wasn't really the school mascot. And she actually was pretty hot A dead ringer for Marcia Brady. Which, at the time, was a big deal. Have I impressed you yet?

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, 10:44 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re: I was a stud

Man, you are ancient. Yes, I'm impressed… My boyfriend was more like Screech on Saved by the Bell…

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, 10:49 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Still a stud

I know the show, but you lost me on Screech?… I was a big X-Files fan, though. Wasn't that during your high school days?

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, I 1:01 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: Re: Still a stud

Don't tell me—you had a crush on Scully, right?

@

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, I 1:09 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Re: Still a stud

Ah, Scully.Yes, I did have a crush on her… You actually sort of look like her: All you need is a navy suit and one of those FBI badges pinned on you and you'd be set to go. Can you spout off medical jargon on cue? If so, I might fall in love with you.

From: Claudia Parr

Sent: July 27, I 1:22 a.m.

To: Richard Margo

Subject: This do the trick?

White male, 38. Stress lesions along the superior vena cava, anterior left lung and bronchi… Code Blue! He's bradying down! We need a pericardiocentesis stat!

Are you in love with me yet?

From: Richard Margo

Sent: July 27, I 1:23 a.m.

To: Claudia Parr

Subject: Sure did

Totally am. Want to have dinner Saturday night?

On Saturday Daphne comes into the city to go shopping with Jess and me. Our mission: date wear to impress Richard. Jess guarantees that a new outfit will give me all the confidence I need to make the evening a success. I hope she's right, because ever since I agreed to the date, I've been feeling more nervous than excited. I'm nervous about dating again generally, and I'm nervous about dating someone from work. Compounding my anxiety is the fact that Richard and I have not talked face-to-face since our lunch at Bolo. We haven't even spoken on the phone. I recognize that e-mail allows you to be much bolder than you truly feel inside. Part of me worries that it's the cyberspace equivalent of having sex too quickly and then having to face your guy the next morning, sober and without makeup. Richard and I have said an awful lot of flirtatious things over the computer, but sitting across the table from him is a different matter altogether, and anticipating the first moment in the restaurant makes me nothing short of queasy.

So Jess, Daphne, and I start out bright and early on our shopping spree. We hit Intermix on lower Fifth first as it is only a few blocks from Jess's apartment. The dance music blaring through the store is a pretty good indication that the clothes are too trendy for me. I don't do clubs anymore, and I'm over having to yell to be heard at a bar—so certainly the same applies when I'm shopping.

I shout this sentiment to Jess, but she holds up her hand to signal that she's not ready to leave. I watch her whip expertly through a rack of clothing, finding a funky pair of white pants, a paisley silk halter, and a fuchsia shrug. They are items that I would never pick up on my own—as an ensemble or even individually—but Jess has an amazing sense of style. She also has a knack for pairing garments you would never imagine going together to create a completely original look. Of course, having gobs of money helps in that department. She can afford a lot, but she can also afford the inevitable mistakes all women make when shopping. Who doesn't know the phenomenon of loving something in a dressing room and hating it at home? If I buy something I don't end up wearing, I berate myself for months, but at any given moment, Jess has a dozen designer rejects still hanging in her closet, worn once, if at all. The great tragedy of our friendship, at least from my perspective, is the fact that we don't wear the same size. I would especially kill to make my feet grow one inch and fit into Jess's rainbow of Jimmy Choos.

Still, despite trusting Jess in matters of fashion, I am skeptical of her selections now. "That's so not me," I say, pointing to the halter she is holding up against my torso. I glance at the white pants in her other hand. "And there's no time to get those hemmed." Pants off the rack never work when you're only five four.

"Daphne can do a makeshift job. Right, Daph?" Jess asks.

Daphne nods eagerly. She is a whiz on the domestic front. She knows how to do little things, like fold egg whites, get red wine stains out of garments, or arrange flowers. I don't know where she picked most of the stuff up. It certainly wasn't from our mother, who has trouble lining up the seams of pants on a hanger. Not that I can talk. Hanging pants was one of the things Ben always did for me. Before I lived with him, most of my wardrobe could be found draped over the backs of various chairs. Which is exactly where they've returned.

"Just try them." Jess points to the dressing room again, with authority. I obey her instruction, thinking to myself that when she does have kids, she'll be the rare mother who gives teeth to the concept of time-out.

"A total waste of time," I mumble, but it's doubtful that she can hear me over the pulsing remix of George Michael's "I Want Your Sex." I am reminded of the time Jess went out with colleagues for a little karaoke and picked this tune. Talk about bold—taking the stage to a song that, as a grand finale, has you screaming the words Have sex with me! over and over again to a room full of drunken bankers. Par for the course for Jess.

A moment later, I emerge from the dressing room, thinking for sure that I've proven my point. The pants look and feel baggy, which is shocking because they're a size six, and I'm usually an eight. Then again, I know I've lost some weight since my divorce—at least ten pounds, maybe more. I was just telling Jess last night that there are two kinds of women—those who eat in a crisis and those who lose their appetite in a crisis. Most fall into the chowhound crowd, so I consider myself blessed to be in the second camp.

"Those are incredible," Jess says. "Whether you wear them tonight or not, they're a definite yes."

"Aren't they too big?" I ask, tugging at the waist and checking my reflection in the mirror.

Jess slaps away my hand and explains that they're supposed to hang low, on my hips. "Besides, you can't go tight with white pants. You'll look ghetto. Tight black pants are one thing, but tight white pants are so… Britney Spears," Jess says to push Daphne's buttons.

It's sort of a contradiction to her traditional, homemaker side, but Daphne is one of those full-grown women who loves all things cheesy and adolescent. She has the complete DVD box set of Dawson's Creek. She still keeps stuffed animals on the window seat in her bedroom. She also orders those glittery tank tops from the back of Us Weekly that say things like DIVA IN TRAINING. So obviously, Daphne's a Britney fan. At one point, Daphne went so far as to see her teen idol perform out on Rockefeller Plaza on The Today Show. She was one of the only women in her late twenties, rocking out without a preteen in her company. The funny thing was, a couple of kids in her fifth-grade class spotted her on television the morning before school and seemed to be profoundly impacted by the sight of their teacher singing along to "Hit Me Baby One More Time." I told Daphne it would be like watching your teacher dance on Soul Train or Solid Gold. Impressive, but a little bit unsettling. Teachers, after all, were supposed to freeze in their classrooms at night while we went home and had a life.

Anyway, Daphne and Jess agree that my white pants are fabulous, and Daphne insists that she can hem them, no problem. They agree that the silk halter is flattering, too. It displays what little cleavage I have and is tight in just the right places (which adheres to another of Jess's fashion rules—if the pants are loose, the top should be tight—or vice versa). And the fuchsia shrug is the perfect finishing touch.

"In case the restaurant is chilly," Jess says.

"Or in case Richard keeps the air low in his apartment…" Daphne says, giggling as I spin in front of the mirror on my tiptoes. I have to admit that I do look pretty good. Above all, the thought of being finished with our spree holds tremendous appeal. I really hate shopping. If I won the lottery, one of the first things I'd do is hire a personal shopper—for groceries, clothing, Christmas presents, everything. So I change quickly, hurry over to the cash register and toss down my Amex, purchasing the ensemble guaranteed to give me confidence and make Richard swoon.

That night, I can tell straightaway that Jess and Daphne were right about the outfit. For starters, I fit right in with the crowd at Spice Market, the lavish duplex restaurant in the Meatpacking District. More important, Richard comes right out and tells me that I look fantastic.

"I've never seen you in anything like that," Richard says as we follow the maître d' to our table. His hand rests for a beat on the small of my back. "But I guess I've never seen you outside of a work function…"

"You, either," I say, admiring Richard's corduroy jacket.

I'm suddenly reminded of Richard's flamboyantly gay ex-assistant Jared Lewison. Jared used to keep cards marked 1 through 10 at his desk and would rate people's outfits as they walked by (behind their backs, of course) as if he were a gymnastics judge at the Olympics. Michael, who was pretty good friends with Jared, derived much amusement from the exercise, passing on the results to the rest of us. In fact, I owe Jared gratitude for teaching me one of life's crucial lessons: do not wear patent leather after Labor Day. Michael informed me that I earned myself a 3 for that fashion lapse.

I ask Richard now if he knew about Jared Lewison's cards.

"Sure did," Richard says. "Apparently I was regularly rated between a two and a four… With a high score of six."

"What were you wearing when you got the six?" I ask as our waitress, wearing an orange kimono, delivers us our menu.

"I think it was some kind of turtleneck sweater," he says, laughing.

I smile, recognizing that I'm no longer nervous.

Richard looks as if he's still considering Jared's cards as he says, "I heard that if you had on any sort of Louis Vuitton or Prada, Jared automatically gave you an extra point, while if you wore anything from the Gap, or God forbid, Old Navy, you were docked three points."

I laugh and then say, "Where is ol' Jared now?"

"I'm not sure. But something tells me he's sitting at a bar somewhere with his fashionista friends, all of them telling each other how fabulous they look."

I smirk as I recall another Jared story.

"What?" Richard says.

"Nothing," I say, as I spot a man who I am pretty sure is Chris Noth sidle up to the bar with a gorgeous blonde. He is way shorter than I thought he'd be, and I think to myself, Mr. Medium. "I'm just smiling."

"C'mon. What's so funny?" Richard says again, because it's clear that I'm smirking rather than merely smiling. There is a difference between a smirk and smile—which is especially apparent to the recipient.

"I was just thinking of something Jared did to you once," I say.

"And what was that?" he says, looking worried. Or at least pretending to look worried.

"Well, I heard that he went through your garbage and found a postcard with rather colorful sexual references."

He looks sheepish and says, "Now, when was all this?"

It's hardly a denial, which I point out by saying, "So it happened more than once?"

He makes a hand motion as if to say, Continue with your evidence.

"I dunno. It was about three years ago. I heard that Jared suspected you of sleeping with some woman in the art department," I say, trying to remember her name.

"Lydia," he says.

I snap and point at him. "That's the one. So it was true?"

He nods. "I was, in fact, sleeping with her… But I didn't think she signed her name to that postcard."

"She didn't," I say. "Jared recognized her handwriting. He trotted the postcard and a handwriting sample from her notepad all over the office. That was one of his proudest moments."

"Wow. He was good," Richard says.

"And so were you, apparently. At least according to Lydia."

I surprise myself with this last comment as I've never been one for sexual innuendo. As we study our menus, both of us still smiling, I try to analyze why I feel so open with Richard. I decide that it has less to do with him (although he does put me at ease)

and more to do with my divorce and new mindset. I hate to be jaded, but I can't help feeling that all my fears about marriage were confirmed when Ben and I broke up. I'm not sure I believe in permanent monogamy anymore, and in any case, I don't plan on attempting it again.

Therefore, I don't need to follow any rules. If I thought I was free when I didn't want children, I'm especially free now that I don't even want a husband. Instead of playing hard to get or worrying about perception, I can do exactly what strikes my fancy. Which at the moment is to flirt outrageously with a very hot colleague.

As the night progresses, Richard and I fall into an easy rhythm of talking, laughing, and mocking each other in a way you only can when you feel comfortable with someone and like them a lot. No topics are off-limits. We cover the basics, but spice them up with shock value and humor. We talk about work—and about publishing in general. We talk about travel, books, music, and families. We talk about past relationships.

When we touch on Ben, I expect to feel a bit sad or defensive, but I am neither of these things. I find myself embracing the past tense with a strange sense of relief: I felt, he was, we were. Then I look into Richard's eyes and say, "Enough of all of that."

He nods in agreement as I mentally shift back to the present, feeling happy to be in Richard's company, happy to be moving on.