Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  “Did you try the white truffle tempura?” a gentleman from the Post asked.

  “What? Huh?” I said.

  “The truffle tempura,” he said. “It’s wonderful.” His skin bore scars from a serious acne condition, but the look suited him.

  “Not yet,” I said, glancing at the spread. “My Lord, will you look at that tower of lobster.”

  “It’s a fucking temple,” the man said.

  A sexually ambiguous person in jeans was piling his/her plate with sushi. “I’m going to take mine home with me,” he/she confessed. “You should do the same.”

  I looked over and saw Denis laughing with Nigel and Elaina on the other side of the room. Sammie was walking toward them with her camera crew in tow.

  “Excuse me,” he/she said, “are you taking any of this home?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I probably will,” I said. “Can I help you put sushi in your bag?”

  “How thoughtful,” the androgynous person said. “And would you mind stuffing a few bonbons in my pocket? I’m Sloan Scott from the Times. Normally I cover science, but our fashion reporter was out sick today. She said I should come for the food. That why you’re here?”

  “Oh, yes, the food, of course,” I said, taking a bite of a toro maki roll. “Mmmm, delish. Forget the tiaras, maybe you should write about the sushi.”

  Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off

  YOO-HOO, EVERYONE,” TANYA ANNOUNCED. “If you’ll gather round, I’ll introduce our newest senior curator, Sammie Kittenplatt, who will tell you about a breathtaking exhibit that will soon grace our humble institution.”

  The Extra crew situated themselves up front next to Annie, who was watching her father. All the other journalists pushed toward the stage and snapped open their notepads. Sammie stood with Denis King by her side. He was beaming as he gave a little wave to Annie.

  Sammie hit a button on her laptop and a larger-than-life photo of the Oriental Circlet tiara designed by Prince Albert and worn by Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother appeared on the big screen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Sammie started, “we are honored to announce the latest exhibit that is soon to open at the Fashion Museum—Denis King presents: Tiaras through Time. Thanks to loans from private collections, royal vaults, museums, and esteemed jewelers from around the world, this breathtaking exhibit will trace the evolution of the tiara from ancient Greece and Rome to the early eighteenth century to the present day, and it will provide an extraordinary look at the scintillating jewels themselves, their powerful owners, and intriguing histories…”

  Those were my words that Sammie was speaking. I wondered if I could kill her while she was at the podium and make it look like an accident.

  “But before we give you a sneak peek at the majestic tiaras that will soon dazzle and delight, we must first recognize the man whose generosity is making this retrospective possible, the man who has underwritten the show, the man of the hour. Members of the press I give you…” (reverent pause as the theme from Rocky was cued). Sammie hit a key on her laptop and Denis’ picture appeared on the big screen. Henry VIII’s crown had been Photoshopped onto his head. A bold headline hung over the image reading “Denis King—The Biggest Man in Town!” Sammie looked to the sky and held her arms high in a wide “V.” It was dramatic but cheesy. Reporters chuckled, then guffawed that evolved into loud hoots and whistles. I thought they were laughing at Sammie’s goofy pose, but then I saw what was up. The headline had a typo. Instead of “Denis King—The Biggest Man in Town” it said “Penis King—The Biggest Man in Town.”

  I gasped and grabbed a press kit, to see if the mistake had found its way into the handouts, and yes, there it was in black and white, right on the first page of the package: “Penis King—The Biggest Man in Town!” Flipping through, I saw that his name had been misspelled only once, on the cover page, but that was little comfort.

  Denis stared bug-eyed at the screen. He pointed the typo out to Tanya, who clapped her hand to her mouth. She grabbed Sammie and swung her around (while she was still holding that ridiculous “V”). Sammie scrambled to hit the off switch on the computer, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I could see Annie’s lower lip trembling dangerously from across the room. The pockmark-faced man from the Post was scribbling in his notebook, a cigarette of lobster dangling from his lips. I could already imagine tomorrow’s headline.

  Sammie’s face went crimson and she held her hands up to silence the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please, I’m so sorry. Mr. King, Annie, our deepest apologies. We meant no disrespect. My assistant, Holly, typed this for me and obviously she made an egregious error.” Sammie pointed accusingly at me and all heads swung in my direction.

  Oh, this was rich. All respect I ever had for Sammie Kittenplatt just vanished into thin air, not that I ever had any. Hello! I told her I hadn’t proofed the document. Making my way to the front of the room, I could hear what everyone was thinking: “Dead Penis Walking.”

  The smirking crowd watched me expectantly. After Tanya had publicly fired Martin at What’s My Line? I fully expected to suffer the same fate. Denis eyed me with a steely gaze, a far cry from the smile he’d offered just moments ago when we met and shared a few chuckles. Humor. The man has a sense of humor, I thought. Use it. “Hi, folks,” I started. “Well, that’s the last time I ever rely on spell-check to proof a page. This should be a good lesson for all of us.”

  The crowd chuckled as they realized how this mistake must have been made.

  “You know,” I said, “now I understand why the reporter from Penthouse showed up to cover the press conference. I couldn’t figure it out before. But in all seriousness, I’m really sorry, Mr. King.”

  The room fell into laughter again with a smattering of applause. Denis leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I’m smiling and pretending to be joking with you, but I want you to know that I’m unhappy, very unhappy. This is inexcusable. You people humiliated me in front of…Forget it. After my exhibit is over, I will never give this two-bit museum another dime.”

  “Oh, Mr. King, you’re so funny,” I said, slapping his back while laughing knowingly (knowing I was about to be fired). Denis grinned at me really friendly, and then at the reporters.

  I turned the laptop back on, and finished giving the presentation that Sammie had abandoned. The only glitch was a typo on the last slide thanking Denis for his “pubic service,” instead of his “public service.” Luckily, I caught it immediately and switched off the computer. At that point, I received a standing ovation. Well, there were no chairs in the room, but they would have stood, that’s how much the audience liked me and appreciated my quick thinking and keen sense of humor. If only Denis felt the same way.

  As soon as the applause died down, Denis leaped off the dais and said a few words to Tanya. As he and Annie dashed off, Tanya hastened after them and snatched the 1904 Gwendolen Maxwell tiara off the child’s head.

  “Ouch,” she yelped. “You pulled my hair. Daddy, she pulled my ha-aaaair.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tanya said, her hands clasped in front of her heart. “You forgot to give it back…Please forgive me. I never meant…”

  Denis kissed his little girl’s head, took her hand, and led her out the door.

  As soon as the last reporter left, Tanya (with Sammie in tow) cornered me. The Extra camera crew continued filming, while the sound guy stuck a microphone boom in my face. “I don’t know what to say to you,” Tanya said.

  “How about ‘Thank you for taking the blame for Sammie’s mistake.’ I told her the presentation hadn’t been proofed.”

  Sammie’s jaw dropped. “This was my first week on the job. How am I supposed to know his name was Denis and not Penis?”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said.

  Tanya laid into me. “Your mistake made us look like fools, Holly.”

  Is this it? I wondered. Am I to be finished off by an errant typo, now, on top of everything else?

  “You humiliated Denis Ki
ng,” Tanya continued. She was on auto-rant. “He made it clear we would see no more money from him after the tiara show ends. Do you know how long I’ve been courting him? Do you know how much your negligence is going to cost us? What were you thinking? No, never mind,” she said, not letting me get a word in. “You weren’t thinking at all.”

  “That’s right, you weren’t thinking at all,” Sammie parroted as she stormed out of the room behind Tanya, with the Extra crew on her tail.

  As I watched the Satan twins disappear, I crumpled to the floor and rested my head against the wall. In my mind, I went through a checklist of everything I’d lost. Promotion. Check. Wardrobe. Check. Kitty. Check. Apartment. Check. Alessandro. Check. Denis King’s respect. Check. My dignity. Check.

  Admittedly, not all had been perfect. Who wants to be a curator for a megalomaniac like Tanya? Who needs a cat with three legs when you could have one with four? Who wants to marry a hypercritical child-molesting lying rat fink like Alessandro Vercelli? Knowing what I know now about him, I see that my life had been no more than a facsimile of a cheap imitation of a sham. But still, it was my sham, my promotion, my beloved cat, and now they were gone.

  “As God is my witness, I will reclaim my life,” I declared aloud. Not my old life, a better one! It was all very Scarlett O’Hara without the dirt and turnips. But I meant it. I was sick of playing it safe. I chose Alessandro because he was safe, and look where it got me. From now on, I’m going for what I want, no more selling myself short or letting people walk all over me. For the first time in my life, I felt an inkling of my own power. I would have my happy ending. It was all up to me.

  I’ve Got the World on a String

  MY EAR WAS GLUED to the door, but I couldn’t hear what Nigel was saying on the phone. Old mansions are so solidly built. Damn them.

  Nigel whipped the door open, causing me to jump back.

  “So? What did they say?” I asked, biting the inside of my lip. This was step one of my master plan to take my life back. Nigel was pitching me to speak on the Tiffany Star’s upcoming trip to Rome. He knew the booking agent from just having lectured on the French Riviera cruise.

  He smiled. “There was good news and bad news, luv. They would be happy to have you speak, but not on that trip. You see, they’ve already scheduled a fashion expert.”

  “Shoot,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It has to be that cruise. When Denis King picked me up, he specifically said he was taking the Athens to Rome trip.”

  “I told you there was good news, didn’t I?” Nigel said. “The speaker they’ve booked is Cosima Fairchild. You know how she loathes public speaking.”

  I stood up. “Of course. Do you think she’d give me her spot?”

  “It’s done,” he said. “I told them she has a conflict, but that we’re sending the assistant director of the museum instead. They were thrilled.”

  “But I’m the assistant to the director.”

  “Semantics, my child,” Nigel insisted. “Cosima’s been going to a hypnotist for weeks trying to prepare for this. Last night she was in sackcloth and ashes over it. You’ve done her an enormous service.”

  “Thank you so much. And I can bring a companion?” This would be my chance to take Pops on the Roman holiday he’d always promised me.

  “That’s the arrangement. Every cabin is a suite, so your father can sleep in the living room while you’re in the bedroom. Wait’ll you see the ship. It’s sooooo luxurious. And you get a butler.”

  “A butler! What do I do with a butler?”

  “Whatever you want,” Nigel said. “He’ll help you unpack, iron your clothes, bring you tea, caviar, champagne, anything your charming little heart desires.”

  I started to skip around Nigel’s office. “I’m getting champagne, I’m getting caviar, I’m getting a butler, I get to live like a moo-vie star…”

  “You have to give three talks,” Nigel said. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Pish,” I said, waving my hands as though that were nothing. “I wrote the presentations.” Then it hit me. “I haven’t got a stitch to wear. Neither does Pops.”

  “Darling, you’ll borrow some pieces from the vault.”

  “I don’t know,” I fretted.

  “Relax. We’ll choose dresses that can take the wear and tear.”

  “But what about Pops?” I asked. “He owns one suit, from the Salvation Army; he needs a serious bath, a haircut, a shave, a…”

  “An extreme makeover, eh?” Nigel said, stroking his chin in Sigmund Freud–like fashion.

  “The works.”

  “Well, you needn’t fear, because I am queer,” he said. “I have an eye for this sort of thing. It’ll be fun.”

  “Right,” I laughed. “The Queer Eye.”

  “Exactly,” Nigel said. “And I have contacts at every men’s fashion house in Manhattan. Your father will be the best-dressed passenger on the ship. Just get me his measurements.”

  “I’ll take them tonight,” I said, jumping up and hugging Nigel. “I love you so much. You’re my guardian angel.”

  Nigel corrected me. “Puh-leaze, luv, I’m your fairy godmother.”

  It Ain’t Necessarily So

  SAMMIE AND I SAT in the visitor seats across from Tanya’s desk. “Nice counterfeit purse you’re carrying,” she whispered. “If you ever want something real, I have some bags set aside for Goodwill.”

  “Thank you, no, I’d rather chew glass. You’re brave to be seen in last season’s Ferragamos,” I muttered, nodding toward her shoes.

  “Is that Dana Buchman you’re wearing?” Sammie sneered. “Where’d you get it? Dress Barn?”

  No, it’s vintage Mary Quant from Corny’s closet, I thought. Lucky for Sammie I could be fired for wearing it, otherwise I would have called her on her clueless remark.

  Tanya swung her leather executive swivel chair around to face us. She shuffled a few piles on her desk, and then gazed at me with a stony expression.

  Okay, sparring practice was over. Clearing my throat, I started, “I just wanted to tell to you both that I’m sorry about what happened earlier.”

  “You should be,” Tanya said, straightening some papers. “That was unforgivable. I’m stripping you of your senior assistant status. You’re back to being my regular assistant.”

  Sammie’s lips curled in a triumphant smirk.

  This was going to be harder than I thought. I took a sip of water. “Tanya, I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Alessandro was arrested. Then we broke up. It’s no secret I was disappointed about not getting that promotion.”

  “After yesterday’s performance, can you see that I made the right decision?” Tanya said. “This is a small museum. We needed Denis King. Your little mistake could cost us millions.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll ever recover,” Sammie said sadly. She looked as though she might cry. “Did you see Extra last night? The whole ugly mess was broadcast for the world to see. That story was supposed to be about me and my life as a top socialite, but instead it was about you and your stupid mistake.”

  “You’re right,” I said, “and I never want to screw up like that again. If I could just take time away, heal, I could come back fresh—”

  “Now. You want time off?” Tanya said. “Now?”

  “No, no. Not time off. I have an opportunity to sail on a cruise and speak on behalf of the museum starting September fifteenth. After all that’s happened, it would be a break for me. I could come back rested, ready to pull my weight.”

  “Who said you could represent the museum like that?” Tanya demanded, her back stiffening. “I certainly didn’t.”

  “And wouldn’t.” Sammie sniffed.

  “It’s an opportunity,” I said. “I’m asking your permission. Yes, I messed up this week, but think of all the good work I’ve done for you and the museum in the past.”

  “What about Tiaras through Time? It’s opening at the end of the month,” Tanya said.

  “You are stripped of that
responsibility,” Sammie declared. “After what you did, we don’t want you anywhere near Denis King.”

  Tanya flashed a searing look at Sammie.

  “You agree, don’t you?” Sammie backpedaled. “Holly’s done enough damage. I can be the liaison with Mr. King.”

  “Yes, you be the liaison,” I agreed. “My work for the show is done. I’d be back by the twenty-fifth. The opening’s the thirtieth, in case you want me to do anything. In the background, I mean.”

  “You’d be rewarding bad behavior,” Sammie trilled.

  “Okay, go,” Tanya said, giving Sammie a frigid stare. “We could all use some space. Sammie, you can fill in for Holly while she’s gone.” She dismissed us with a wave.

  “Oh, Tanya,” I said, as though I just remembered something. “This cruise is on the Tiffany line. There’ll be a boatload of wealthy passengers on board. If I can land the million-dollar donation that you said I never could, will you agree to make me a curator?”

  Tanya burst out laughing. Sammie giggled. I didn’t see what was so funny.

  “Holly, you’ve got to be kidding,” Tanya said, wiping a tear from her eye.

  “Is she too much, or what?” Sammie said.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I deserve this chance.”

  “Are you mad? You want me to promote you?” Tanya said.

  “If I prove to be a rainmaker, yes.”

  Tanya gave me a look of pity. “Holly, these things take time and finesse. You don’t just meet a big fish and waltz off with a check. It takes years to secure a seven-figure donation. If you were of this world, you’d know this.”

  “I’ve seen it with my parents,” Sammie explained. “There’s an art to separating a rich man from his pocketbook, a slow dance that takes place. The rich are a special breed. If you’re not brought up in their milieu, you’ll always be an outsider. To gain their trust for donation purposes, you must come from within, and you never will. That’s why you can’t be a curator. Do you get it now?”