Der Kaffeeatlas. James Hoffmann

this place has just the right demographics, so let’s put our husband-catching hats on, just for fun, and—”

      “Our whats? And did you just say we? So now it’s we? I don’t think—”

      They slide in beside us before she has a chance to object any further.

      “Hi guys! Thanks for the drinks,” I say to the better-looking one sitting next to George.

      “Yeah, thanks,” she grumbles.

      “You’re welcome,” he say. “I’m Trevor. And this is Ron.”

      “Hi,” says Ron.

      “I’m Holly, and this is George.”

      George half smiles and looks down.

      “George?” Trevor says. “Bit of a funny name for a pretty lady like you, isn’t it?”

      “Maybe that’s, you know, like her work name or something,” Ron says to Trevor out of the side of his mouth.

      “Her work name. I get it,” he nods.

      George and I exchange glances. Who knows? Maybe they’re into names or something. “Well, even though I’m a Holly, I wasn’t born in December or named after Christmas or anything silly like that, though people often assume that I am. I guess my parents just thought it was a nice name, you know?”

      But Ron and Trevor just stare at George as she proceeds to deskewer her sword of maraschino cherries with her teeth.

      “Yeah, that’ll do it,” Ron says. “That’ll do it.”

      Trevor apparently agrees. “Let’s get to it, then! I assume you ladies are working tonight?”

      “Huh?” I am utterly confused.

      For a change, George is not. “They think we’re hookers, Holly.”

      The burgundy leather banquette squeaks as the offending parties shift uncomfortably.

      “What?! Are you joking?” Three drinks have not dulled my capacity for righteous indignation.

      “Wait! It’s okay if you’re not!” Ron suggests frantically.

      “Yeah, that’s totally fine, too. We just thought—”

      “You just thought what?!”

      “Holly, let’s get out of here…”

      “No, G! I want to know why they would think we’re hookers!”

      “Maybe it’s her hair,” Ron points at George. “And her…her…wow. Those right there. And your lipstick! I don’t think bright red is the way to go at happy hour.”

      Trevor shoots him a nervous look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

      “My sister works for Avon,” he explains.

      “Man, you’re so queer…”

      “You can go now,” I tell them.

      I whip my compact out of my purse while George slumps down as far as she can without completely disappearing under the table. True, I am a little more made-up than usual, but I figured the occasion called for a touch of sophistication. As for George’s hair, it is undeniably large.

      Scanning the room, I suppose we’re a bit out of place. The only other women in Taylor’s are the waitresses and a few frumpy accountant types. I am definitely the only one with an attempt at an updo, while George’s cleavage apparently speaks a thousand words.

      “Can we get out of here, Holly? Please?”

      “Fine. But don’t look so glum. This is going to make a great ‘What Not to Do’ appendix for the book.”

      George reluctantly agrees to give my tactics some more thought as we scarf down Chinese takeout in the cab on the way back to my place. If it were easy, I reason, then everyone would be doing it. Chapter One will just have to wait until we are a little further into the game.