Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  Sammie looked at me expectantly, as though she was waiting for me to slap my forehead and say, “Thank you. Hearing you explain it to me that way makes me realize for the first time how crazy my desire was. Finally I see the light.”

  Ignoring Sammie, I turned to Tanya. “Please, I know it’s a long shot, but humor me. Let’s say I do come back with a seven-figure check. Would you promote me?”

  “No way,” Sammie said, rolling her eyes. She turned to Tanya. “If you ask me, Holly has some nerve to make such a ridiculous request.”

  “I don’t recall anyone asking you,” I said.

  Tanya regarded Sammie with cold speculation.

  “You won’t promote her, right?” Sammie said. “After her mistake? How can you ever trust her?”

  “Sammie, when you saw the name Penis King in the presentation, didn’t that raise a red flag?” Tanya asked.

  “I just assumed…”

  “What? You assumed that was his name?” Tanya said incredulously. “Thirteen years at Spence and you honestly believed a woman from a socially prominent family on the Upper East Side of Manhattan would name her son Penis?”

  It was my turn to smirk, but I didn’t because I’m too polite.

  Tanya looked me in the eye and smiled wickedly. “You’re on, Holly. You bring me a million-dollar check, I’ll give you Sammie’s job. I’ll even double your salary.”

  Sammie bolted from her chair. “What!”

  “Triple,” I said. “You’d have to triple my salary if I brought in that much. I know what the curators make.”

  “Yes, I suppose I would,” Tanya said thoughtfully.

  “What? Huh, no! Excuse me, hello-oh!” Sammie was having a connipshit over this unexpected turn of events. “You can’t do that. My mother is a trustee…”

  “I giveth and I taketh,” Tanya said. “You were hired over Holly because your mother assured me you could bring in donations. Well, we just lost a huge fish. Holly’s to blame, but so are you. Whoever brings me a million-dollar check first is my new curator. The loser can be my assistant.”

  Sammie looked at me with loathing.

  “But she can’t get the money from her mother,” I said. “That wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Life isn’t fair, Holly,” Sammie said, “or haven’t you noticed?”

  Oh, I’ve noticed all right.

  Tanya nodded. “Holly’s right. Your mother’s already a donor. Find someone else.” She extended her hand. “Shake?”

  “No,” Sammie cried. “It’s not fair. If I lose, I lose my job. If Holly loses, she keeps the job she already has.”

  “Life’s not fair, Sammie,” I said, “or haven’t you noticed?”

  Sammie screwed her face up like a cross child. Apparently she was not familiar with the concept of setbacks. It’s so satisfying when things go badly for snot-brained she-devils like Sammie Kittenplatt, who have never had to struggle for anything in life besides staying a size two.

  Finally, Sammie thrust her hand toward mine and shook.

  “Trust me, you will fail,” Sammie said as we left the office.

  “Just you wait, Sammie Kittenplatt. Just you wait,” I said.

  Fools Rush In

  I STUCK MY NOSE IN Nigel’s office. He was finishing up a call. Closing the door behind me, I cried, “We have liftoff!” I jumped on his couch and danced the Tom Cruise. “Tanya said I could go. Yippee! She promised to make me a curator and triple my salary if I come back with a million-dollar check before Sammie does. Double yippee!” I told Nigel everything.

  “That’s brilliant!” Nigel said.

  “Do you think I’ll do it?” I cried.

  “Not a bloody chance in hell.”

  “Shut up,” I said, jumping off the sofa. “Really? You don’t think I can? Oh, but I have to. I will! I’m gonna get that check from Denis King. Ooh, I can just imagine Tanya’s face when I bring him back as a benefactor.”

  “There’ll be lots of rich people on board. Why go after him?” Nigel said. “Didn’t you see how ticked he was when he left?”

  “He’ll cool off,” I said. “He was such a gentleman when he rescued me from the rain. And did you see how he insisted on meeting and thanking everyone at the museum before the presentation? Have you ever seen a named donor do that? I haven’t. No, I intend to devote my not-inconsiderable talents to the immediate solicitation of a million-dollar donation from Mr. Denis King for our beloved museum. Tanya will be totally impressed.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “You’re so negative.”

  “All Sammie has to do is call a few wealthy relatives. You’re screwed, my friend,” Nigel said.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” I said.

  “You asked my opinion,” Nigel said.

  “So lie. Give me hope.”

  “Let’s not fight, luv,” Nigel said, tilting his head and curling his lower lip. “I know just what you need.”

  “What?”

  “Retail therapeeee! We’ll go shopping in the vault and select your wardrobe for the cruise.”

  “Not today, Nigel,” I said. “I’m beat.”

  “Don’t be a bore. C’mon,” Nigel insisted. “It’ll be a hoot. Besides, haven’t you noticed all those pesky security guards from Lloyd’s of London that are starting to lurk about? This could be our last chance.”

  GUS OPENED THE DOOR to the vault and gave me a friendly wink. Seeing him, smelling the cedar-lined walls, surrounding myself with beautiful clothes, thinking about the trip—I immediately felt better. I could never have afforded to go to Europe on my own. After all I’d been through, a week on a luxury liner sounded heavenly.

  Nigel scoped out the room, looking for outfit candidates. There were many to choose from. Besides the eighteen thousand costumes and accessories from Corny’s collection, twenty-five thousand more ensembles had been donated or acquired at auction through the years. Compared to the Met’s hundred thousand garments, our collection was small, but it dazzled. Most pieces came from society doyennes, so the size would be right. In New York, socialites wearing anything over a size four were pretty much considered cows.

  Nigel stepped over to the trunks that were packed with costumes from the Audrey Hepburn show. “Holly, I’ve just had the most inspired idea.”

  “I’m listening,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Nigel put his index finger to his mouth and tapped his foot in thought. “The Hepburn show starts on the twenty-sixth, right? Why not take the reproduction costumes from that god-awful TV movie? You could wear any of them on the ship, display them for your talk, whatever you like, no harm, no foul.”

  I nodded slowly. When Sony Pictures produced the movie of Audrey Hepburn’s life a few years back, they re-created the best-known dresses and gowns from Hepburn’s pictures. These pieces were new, sturdy, and replaceable. For our opening gala, we had hired Audrey look-alikes to act as show guides and dressed them in the wardrobe from the TV film. The Istituto di Moda in Rome was using the same gimmick for their launch party.

  “The cruise ends in Rome on the twenty-fourth,” Nigel continued. “After you dock, take what you borrowed to the museum. This way, no one can fault you for traveling with the clothes. You’re hand delivering the reproductions for the opening night party. It’s perfect.” He laughed like a mad scientist.

  “I’m not sure,” I mused. “Sony Pictures lent them to us. If I’m going to take this kind of risk, shouldn’t it be with clothes from our own inventory, maybe some newer items?”

  “Puh-leaze, these are Jennifer Love-Hewitt costumes, circa 2000,” Nigel said. “If by some accident anyone catches on, we have a better cover story than if you borrowed original pieces from the museum.”

  My heart leapt into my throat. “You really don’t think anyone would find out?”

  Nigel knelt by the six brown leather trunks that were ready to ship. He examined the packing slips attached to each, and then slapped the side of the third container. “Here are the repros. We sti
ll have to box up the mannequins and call the art shippers. As soon as that’s done, everything’ll go out. I’ll fill a dummy trunk with fabric and boxes, so six cases will still be dispatched. No one will know you borrowed a thing.” Nigel’s eyes took on a diabolical cast as he spoke.

  “But what happens when the cases are delivered in Rome and the reproductions are missing? They’ll flip out.”

  “Luv, with the timetable we’re on, the whole lot won’t get there until the last minute anyway. I’ll call Rosa Di Giacinto the day everything arrives and tell her the guides’ costumes will be hand delivered in time for the party. It’s foolproof!”

  “Let me get this straight. What you’re really saying is, I wouldn’t be taking them so much for myself, but I’d be taking them because it could be safer than shipping them.”

  “One might look at it that way,” Nigel said.

  “So this isn’t a loss of integrity on my part, it’s a means to an end, a service to the museum—I’m just making sure the dresses get where they’re supposed to be on time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “Marvelous!”

  “Let’s see what’s inside,” I said, my heart performing a swan dive into my stomach.

  Nigel opened the trunk and began sorting through the garment boxes where the dresses had been securely wrapped and encased. Each had a snapshot of the costume it held taped to the front. “Perfect,” he said. “You’ll need three things for formal nights, and that’s exactly how many gowns we have.” He pulled out copies of the white strapless confection I loved so much from Sabrina, the red chiffon from Funny Face, and the cream-colored silk brocade gown from Roman Holiday with its matching tiara, collar, and earrings. The oversize trunk contained eight more suits and dresses, including an impeccable duplicate of the elegant black number Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I pulled it out of its box, stood in front of Corny’s full-length mirror, and held the iconic piece to my body, imagining myself peering wistfully into the famous jewelry store window while munching on a croissant from a brown paper bag. Maybe if I wear the same gowns as Audrey, I’ll inherit some of her style and grace, I thought. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “These will do for the other nights and for your speeches,” Nigel declared. “During the day, you’ll wear shorts. Those you can get on your own. The Mediterranean is positively sizzling this time of year. Now, what’s your shoe size?”

  “An eight,” I said, my voice quivering. Even though these were copies and I was merely making sure they were safely delivered for the opening party, I still felt like a borderline criminal (or at least a bad seed) borrowing them. They were gorgeous, hand-made reproductions that belonged to Sony Pictures, not the museum. Of course, I would treat them as I would my own children. Then I remembered I didn’t have children. Okay, I would treat them as I would my beloved cat. Then I remembered Kitty was lost. Oh, screw it; I would care for them as I do my headgear, which is in mint condition after six months of daily use. My orthodontist said that was practically unheard of.

  Something fell in the back of the room, clattering when it hit the floor. “Gus?” I said.

  “Sorry to scare you. It’s me,” Sammie trilled. “Is Nigel with you? Tanya’s looking for him.”

  I glanced at Nigel, concerned that Sammie may have heard us. But he seemed unfazed as he excused himself to go look for our boss.

  “Are you guys packing up the Hepburn show?” Sammie asked. “Can I help? I need to learn how to do that.”

  “Gosh. Darn it,” I said. “You’re too late. We just finished.”

  Just One of Those Things

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT my old apartment that night, I realized I’d forgotten the key.

  I pressed my neighbor’s buzzer since I wasn’t sure Alessandro would let me in.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Levine said through the intercom.

  “It’s me, Holly. I lost my key. Can you let me in?”

  “You do this all the time, Holly. You’re disturbing Herman’s nap.”

  “I’m sorry, but please be a dear and let me in.”

  The latch clicked and I entered the ancient vestibule and bounded up the stairs.

  A door opened from two flights below. Looking down, I saw a cloud of brassy-colored hair attached to an old woman who was shaking her fist and yelling, “Holly, not so loud! You’ll wake Herman. And get another key.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Levine.”

  “Herman’s an artist. He needs his rest. If it happens again, I won’t let you in.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Levine, there won’t be a next time.”

  Upstairs, I checked under the mat, where I had recently stashed my spare key. Bingo! To my great relief, Alessandro hadn’t changed the locks. I opened the door and found him asleep on the couch wearing only his Simpsons boxers. His face was unshaven, but the Skid Row stubble didn’t look cool on him like it did on Ryan Seacrest. His skin had taken on a chalky sheen. There were empty cans of soda and beer strewn around, a bong, and Twinkie wrappers on the couch. Dirty dishes and pots were stacked in the kitchen.

  “Alessandro?”

  Slowly, he emerged from what must have been a deep slumber. “What time is it?”

  I checked my watch. “About seven fifteen.”

  “A.M. or P.M.?”

  “Night.”

  He shook his head to wake himself. Then he sat up. “Why haven’t you returned my calls? Have you canceled the wedding plans yet?”

  I dropped the binder on the coffee table. “I’m leaving the country next week. You’ll have to do it yourself.”

  Alessandro sat up. “I…wha…no…I don’t have time.”

  I looked around, my eyebrows raised. “Yes, I can see how busy you are.”

  “You lost Kitty,” Alessandro said.

  “Who told you?”

  “There are flyers all over the neighborhood.”

  “We’ll find her. You’re not back on Broadway.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You’re here and it’s after call time.”

  He frowned. “They cited the morals clause and fired me. Disney won’t allow accused sex offenders to act in their plays. Bastards.”

  “Gee, what a surprise. Well, that’ll give you incentive to work really hard to cancel these contracts,” I said, pointing to the notebook. “The deposits are on your AmEx card. If I were you, I’d get right on it. You’re on the line for upward of fifty grand.”

  Alessandro gulped. “Shit! How could you spend so much?”

  I sat on the only chair I could find that was clear of Alessandro’s debris. “That’s what weddings cost these days. You agreed to everything. See.” I opened the notebook and pointed to his signature on one of the contracts.

  “Fu-uck,” Alessandro said, falling back into prone position. “Why didn’t you sign?”

  I shrugged. “Because I only have a debit card and there’s no money in my checking account. Anyway, they only needed one signature.” Alessandro looked so lost that I almost felt sorry for him. Then I remembered that he cheated. He dumped me. By text message. I was not the villain here. “Oh, this is for you,” I added, slapping a pink piece of paper on the table.

  “What is it?”

  “A pawn shop receipt. They gave me two thousand for the ring. You can buy it back anytime in the next ninety days for two grand plus interest.”

  Alessandro blew off the couch like a geyser. He grabbed my arms and shook them hard. “That ring cost twelve thousand dollars!” he screamed. “How could you do that to me?”

  I pushed him away. “I can’t go on a cruise without cash in my pocket.”

  “You’re going on vacation while I’m facing criminal charges? While I’m out of work? While I’m trying to rescind God knows how many contracts for our wedding? While I have to pay two thousand dollars to get back the engagement ring that’s rightfully mine out of hock? What kind of bitch are you?” he spat.

  I smiled. “I’m t
he bitch you almost married, Alessandro. And don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, because I don’t. Good luck and good riddance.”

  My heart was beating so fast I could barely catch my breath as I raced the four flights downstairs and out the front door. Alessandro and I were so over. I couldn’t remember what had made me love him. And that was just sad.

  As I walked down the street where I lived for the last time, I inhaled deeply through my nose and chanted “oms” to calm myself. Alessandro broke up with me, I reasoned. He should clean up the mess. I kept two thousand dollars from the ring. Big deal. Alessandro could redeem it, sell it, and have ten thousand left over. That was more than fair. I am not a bitch. I am not a bitch. Om, om, om. So what if I am a bitch? Who cares? I am sick of being Little Miss Doris Day Nicey-poo. Om, om, om.

  Anything Goes

  ENTERING THE WORLD OF Muttropolis cheered me immensely. It was filled with my Lower East Side neighbors and their dogs enjoying yappy hour, a weekly favorite among customers and canines alike. The air smelled of freshly baked cookies mixed with dog odor. My friend BL was serving tea and pastries to the humans and homemade meat biscuits to the pups. I gave her a wave.

  Irving the humping poodle quivered at the sight of me. “Irving, no,” I said, shaking the gray-haired pup off my leg, but he held tight.

  “You excite him, heh, heh, heh,” Irving’s creepy owner said. He was a tall, skinny guy with stringy brown hair and a birdlike wattled face, not someone whose dog I wanted to hump in public.

  I laughed politely and gave Irving a friendly kick so he’d find a new victim.

  The room was hopping with Pops playing piano and singing “Fascinating Rhythm.” His voice was a cross between Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra, croaky and deep from years of smoking and drinking, but also smooth and intimate. He had a way of expressing the meaning of a song with the sort of vocal storytelling that only the greats seemed to master. The plastic cup on top of the piano overflowed with dollar bills. Watching him, I was filled with love for the man who had taken me to my first day of school, told me the facts of life, and worked extra shifts to pay for my sewing lessons as a child. We never had much, but we had each other.