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  What’s Your Number?

  A NOVEL

  Karyn Bosnak

  Dedication

  To everyone who’s ever second-guessed a decision they’ve made.

  Our past makes us who we are.

  Have no regrets.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  prologue

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  PRAISE FOR Karyn Bosnak and What’s Your Number

  Also by Karyn Bosnak

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  prologue

  stop the insanity

  So I feel like I’m at a twelve-step meeting, like I stood up just as you opened this book. You’re staring at me, waiting for me to introduce myself, waiting for me to tell you why I’m here. And I’m sweating, sweating because I’m nervous, sweating because I don’t belong here, sweating because never in a million years did I imagine I’d end up this way. But since I did and since you’re here, I might as well come clean and explain myself, so here goes:

  My name is Delilah Darling. I’m twenty-nine years old, I’m single, and well . . . I’m easy.

  There, I said it. I’m easy, I am. Now you know.

  I’ve always suspected I was easy but never knew for sure, not until about six months ago, when I broke up with a guy named Greg, a guy I like to call Greg the East Village Idiot. Although it was my decision to end things, I was angry about the breakup, angry for two reasons.

  For one, I wasted four months of my life on him, a guy who didn’t even have a real job. I met him while shopping in Soho one day. He walked up to me, all cute and charming, and was like, “Excuse me, can I ask you a question about your hair?” Yes, he was one of those guys—a young, good-looking stud hired by a local beauty salon to butter me up so I’ll buy a bunch of coupons. Needless to say, I fell for his spiel and for him.

  But forget all that now, forget that he had the face of a Baldwin (Alec or Billy in their younger days, not those other two jokers)—where was he going in life? Nowhere, that’s where. I might’ve overlooked this minor flaw if he had a personality, but he didn’t. Talking to him about anything other than hair was like talking to a box of hair. He was dull, wrapped in a pretty package. He was a foxymoron.

  The second reason I was angry about the breakup is that even though I knew our relationship wasn’t going anywhere, I slept with him. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, which, ironically, is how it ended up becoming a big deal. To be honest, I was getting a bit self-conscious about my “number.” It was getting rather high, and sleeping with Greg didn’t do anything except make it higher. When I say my “number,” I’m of course referring to the number of men I’ve slept with.

  Exactly what number is considered high for a woman my age, you ask. Well, it’s hard to say, because people rarely tell the truth about their number. They don’t; it’s no secret. Men usually up it, believing if people think they’ve slept with forty women even though they’ve only slept with four, they’ll appear to be a bigger stud than they are. Women, on the other hand, usually lower it, leaving out the guys they’d like to forget. (You know . . . the ones they met on spring break, the two who were brothers and the three who are now gay.)

  I’ll admit, I’m just as guilty as the next person is when it comes to fibbing about this. In fact, my number even changes depending on who I’m talking to. For example, every boyfriend thinks my number is somewhere around four. (They also think they’re the only one of those four to give me an orgasm, but that’s beside the point.) My gynecologist thinks it’s closer to seven, all done with protection, of course. (Oh, come on . . . everyone’s had at least one slip-up, and you know it.) My mom—even though I prefer not to talk about sex with her—thinks it’s somewhere around two. (I needed someone to pay for the pill when I was in college.) Even my best friend thinks my number is a little lower than it really is, because no one—I repeat, no one—tells even their best friend everything.

  All these numbers are primarily the reason I was so worried about my own. It seemed high, yes, but with all the lying that goes on, who’s to say?

  The New York Post, that’s who.

  On the very day Greg and I broke up, my favorite newspaper printed the results of the world’s largest-ever sex survey. I had just finished reading a thought-provoking piece of journalism (two blind items on Page Six) and was about to learn how to get the most from my MetroCard (how to find love on the F train), when I ran across the incriminating piece of information. It was right there, nestled in between the average age people first have sex (17.7) and the average time spent on foreplay (19 minutes).

  The average person has 10.5 sexual partners in their lifetime.

  Yes, 10.5. I almost had a heart attack when I read this because the truth is . . . well . . . Greg the East Village Idiot was the nineteenth guy I slept with. Yes, nineteen, as in there were eighteen others before him. My number was almost twice as high as the national average.

  Quickly realizing that I needed to take control of my number before it got any further away from 10.5 than it already was, I took the advice of my favorite infomercial star, Susan Powter, and decided to stop the insanity. How, you ask. Well, it’s simple. I decided to stop having sex. Not forever, don’t get me wrong—I just decided to put a limit on my number, a cap, if you will. I mean, if I kept doing what I was doing, if I kept having sex at the current rate, then my number would be 78 by the time I turned sixty years old. Yeah . . . ewww.

  Considering the current situation was so dire, after careful thought, I decided to make my limit twenty. Yes, twenty. I was giving myself one more chance to get things right. If I blew this last chance (excuse the pun) and wasted it on some random Tom, Dick, or Harry (excuse that pun too), then I’d force myself to live a lifetime of celibacy.

  Maybe setting a limit is crazy, but there comes a point when one drop of water will set a full glass overflowing. I was at that point. Enough was enough. Twenty was it; it was as simple as that.

  Twenty.

  No more.

  Not ever.

  Chapter one

  *Beep*

  Del, it’s Mom. Listen, hope you’re not upset Daisy got engaged before you. Green’s never been your color . . . it makes you look more washed out than you already are. Can’t wait to see you tonight at the party. Bye!

  *Beep*

  Hi, Mom again. I meant to tell you . . . Patsy was in Manhattan recently and thought she saw you buying a dozen cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. She waved but said you didn’t wave back. You must not have seen her. In any case, she said it’s normal for people to overeat when they’re depressed, and thought you were looking a bit hippy. Like I said, hope Daisy’s engagement isn’t upsetting you. Okay, see you tonight.

  a list by delilah darling

  friday, april 1

  A list. Tony Robbins is telling me I need to make a list. A list of things that are wrong with me. Issues. Problems that need fixing. You see, I don’t have a therapist, so I rely heavily on self-help books (usually the audio version, downloaded into my iPod) to work out my problems. I wouldn’t make a list for just any self-hel
p guru, but Tony’s my favorite, not only because he uses sexy phrases like “pathway to power” and “avenue of excellence” but also because he’s freakishly huge and has really white teeth. According to him, if a man with artificial hands can play a piano (which apparently, he can), then a perfectly healthy woman such as myself can overcome a few issues. But first I need to come up with a list.

  Since I’m at the office I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s late Friday afternoon and a mandatory staff meeting is beginning in twenty minutes so it’s useless to start a new work project. What’s not useless, however, is to start a personal project, so I grab a piece of paper and begin writing. Time is tight, but I think I can finish my list before the meeting begins; I just need to focus.

  Things Wrong with Me

  A list by Delilah Darling

  1. I can’t focus.

  2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental.

  3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.)

  4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.

  There, finished. To be honest, this is usually where I stop. Although I say I “rely heavily” on self-help books, I usually just read/listen to whatever the guru has to say and nod in agreement, like “Yep, that’s me. I sure am a mess!” I don’t actually take the necessary steps to fix whatever problem I’m addressing; I usually lose interest by that point. It’s part of the first thing on my list, not being able to focus. But today is the day I’m going to change all that. Today is the day I’m going to explore these issues a bit further.

  Okay, one, the focusing problem. I think the reason I can’t focus is because I have a mild case of undiagnosed ADD. I’m not sure if ADD just didn’t exist when I was younger or if my doctor was a complete moron, but whatever the reason, I’m pretty sure I have it. For example, I can simultaneously play computer solitaire, read Glamour, instant message multiple people, paint my nails, talk on the phone, and work better than anyone else I know. I call this multitasking. I also have a hard time finishing things I start, like projects, for example. Considering my job title is “project manager,” this can be a bit of a problem.

  I work at a company called Elisabeth Sterling Design (ESD for short), a company that designs and manufactures a popular line of household products. Elisabeth Sterling, a woman from humble beginnings, started her now-public company just fifteen years ago in a small Harlem studio apartment. She’s an artist who painted modern geometric designs on dishes that she sold through neighborhood boutiques. The dishes became all the rage in New York City, so much in fact, that she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Being the savvy businesswoman she was, rather than just hire an apprentice to help keep up, she hired a publicist to create some more hype and then a manufacturer and distributor to produce the dishes in mass quantities. Soon thereafter, Elisabeth Sterling Design was born.

  To make a long story short, the line that began as dishes today includes just about every household product you can imagine—from cleaning to decorating to gardening—and is available exclusively at Target stores across the country. Four years ago, in what has become one of the biggest IPOs in history, Elisabeth took the company public and became a billionaire. Elisabeth Sterling is a household name. Elisabeth Sterling is an icon.

  But let’s get back to me not focusing.

  In addition to multitasking and not finishing projects, I tend to go off on tangents and speak in circles. (I sometimes speak in parentheses too.) And also, footnotes.1

  Okay, now that I’ve explored one, let’s move on to two. Yes, I feel like I’m being held back at work, but after re-reading what I wrote about my boss being a lying fat pig, I feel like I should address the fact that I’m a tad judgmental first. I know it’s wrong to judge others, but when it comes to people like Roger, I feel like doing so is justified because he’s a slime ball who once tried to steal an idea from me. About six months ago, I had to come up with a unique color name for a pair of light green oven mitts that my team had just designed (to Elisabeth nothing is ever just orange, it’s pumpkin or persimmon or harvest moon) and was looking out the window, staring at the Statue of Liberty when suddenly, it came to me. “Oxidized copper,” I said aloud. Although “oxidized copper” might initially evoke thoughts of something rust-colored, copper turns green when it oxidizes, which the Statue of Liberty so beautifully demonstrates. “Oxidized copper.” It’s a smart and clever color name, and I knew Elisabeth would love it because she’s smart and clever herself.

  Since Roger is my immediate boss, I report to him, and then he reports to Elisabeth. When he told her about the color name for the mitts, she loved it so much that he somehow ended up taking credit for it. When I found out and confronted him, he started whining pathetically saying, “She didn’t give me a chance to explain, and now it’s too late . . .” and blah blah blah. Lucky for me, my best friend and coworker Michelle is a tough cookie from Queens who refused to let Roger get away with what he did. To help me get the credit I deserved, she and her frizzy red hair marched into Roger’s office and demanded that he confess to Elisabeth, saying she had proof that I came up with the color name and not him.

  “What kind of proof?” Roger asked nervously.

  “If you must know,” Michelle warned. “I was testing out the memo recorder on a new interactive date book that my team is designing and happened to be in Delilah’s office recording when she came up with the name.”

  Yes, it was a farfetched lie, but being the gullible sap he is, Roger believed it and fessed up to Elisabeth the next day. Although she was angry when he did, she didn’t fire him because she said she believed in giving people second chances.

  Anyway, this is why it should be okay to call Roger a lying, fat pig. This is why it should be okay to make fun of his toupee and bad fashion sense.2 This is why it should be okay to send him evil subliminal messages.3 Roger is trying to hold me back. I want to be a designer, not a project manager; that’s what I went to school for. A project manager is a middleman. All I do all day is shuffle papers; it’s hardly an outlet for all my creative energy.

  You know, the more I think about this, the more I think being too judgmental isn’t such an issue after all. Yes, in addition to Roger, I sometimes judge other people, but I don’t do it very often, and when I do, I do it only in my head and who’s that hurting? No one. In fact, it might be helping people because every time I say or think something really evil, I give money to charity to balance out any bad karma it might bring. If I stopped, the food supply in Third World countries might be negatively impacted. Looking at it this way, I think it’s clear what the real issue is:

  Things Wrong with Me

  A list by Delilah Darling

  1. I can’t focus.

  2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental. My Catholic guilt is out of control.

  3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.)

  4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.

  I mean, come on—that’s really what the problem is. Every time I do or think something that’s not considered “nice,” I think God is going to strike me down. Twelve years of Catholic school didn’t teach me much, but it sure did ingrain in me the fear of eternal damnation. I haven’t been to church in years, either. I’ve forgotten the Ten Commandments, I’ve forgotten the Seven Deadly Sins—I’ve obviously forgotten about the evils of premarital sex—why can’t I forget about burning in hell? I mean, there’s really no reason I should be hanging on to this.

  Anyway, on to three. I’m not jealous of my sister, Daisy, and I know it. Yes, she’s younger than me, and, yes, she’s getting married before me, but I’m not bothered by it. What I am bothered by is that, like my mom demonstrated in her voice mails, everyone assumes I’m jealous and/or upset by thi
s and therefore feels sorry for me. Tonight, my mom is throwing an engagement party for Daisy and her fiancé at her place in Connecticut, and I’m dreading going for this very reason. It’s going to be one big celebration for Daisy and one big pity party for me. Back pats and words of encouragement are going to be lurking around every corner.

  To be honest, ever since I’ve been a little girl, things have always come more easily to Daisy than to me, and I’ve gotten used to it. For example, she doesn’t have the greatest job in the world (she sells wallets at Saks Fifth Avenue), but she never has money problems; she lives in a huge loft apartment in the West Village but barely pays any rent (it’s rent-stabilized); and she never diets or exercises but has the body of a supermodel (she could be Cindy Crawford’s twin). Daisy’s blessed, yes, but she’s so friendly and down-to-earth that it’s impossible to hate her for being lucky. So there, that’s settled. I’m not jealous. Once again, looking at this issue more deeply, I think it’s clear what the true problem is:

  Things Wrong with Me

  A list by Delilah Darling

  1. I can’t focus.

  2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental. My Catholic guilt is out of control.

  3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.) My mom is crazy.

  4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.

  She is, believe me.

  Finally, on to four. I’m getting fat. Not fat fat, just chunky fat. I look a little like Sally Struthers looked in all those feed the children commercials she did, a little bloated. You can still see the thin person floating around inside me, so I’m thankfully not a lost cause, but if I don’t do something about my weight soon, I will be. (Just to make it clear, this is the only similarity I have to Sally Struthers; I look nothing like her otherwise. I stand about 5 feet 5 inches tall, and have long brown hair and big brown eyes.)