by Jamie Shupak
We already knew that Guiliana Layne is “New York’s shot of espresso—petite, potent, and waking up the Big Apple every morning as NYNN’s perky traffic reporter.” Did we need the reintroduction? What we didn’t know—that made us slam on the breaks—was that she shared a bed with her best friend for two weeks during that whole dognapping saga. Hey G, record any Boom Boom Room–style video then? The Toast doesn’t stop there with the salacious details of her former and current boudoirs. Her bed in her new place, “dressed in a soft, cozy grey comforter, pressed up against a white brick wall,” sounds like something we’d love to hop into. Afternoon delight, anyone? Wonder if she’ll cover her own (mis)adventures in her new “Gossip with Guils” segment. This is one for the rubberneckers, for sure. “Told in her typical fun spirit, it’s the entertainment roundup to watch in the city,” the Toast praises. Hey, what about us?
I didn’t even notice V-Dub reading over my shoulder, until he says something about the post. “I think these guys are funny. They usually rip people—it could be worse.” I love that he can be positive even as his world implodes.
“Yeah, it just has Jake Spears’s hands all over it.”
“Jake who?”
Oh shit. He doesn’t even know who Jake is—or what Jake is. Then, like magic, the mastermind appears.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct from: @JakeSpears: SOME PROFILE, GUILIANA. LOVE THAT I KNOW WHAT YOUR BED LOOKS LIKE. NEXT Q: WHAT DO I LOOK LIKE IN IT?
I used to get off a little bit when he would send me wildly inappropriate messages at wildly inappropriate times of day. Like a couple weeks ago, when I tweeted that the Staten Island Expressway was slammed end to end, he replied instantly, “Guess what I’d like to slam from end to end?” No salutation, no chitchat, just some good ol’ fashioned sex talk. And it was five in the morning. Like, aren’t you supposed to be in bed with your wife? Or waking your kids up for school? Something—anything—besides sending dirty messages to a traffic reporter?
My phone vibrates again because I haven’t responded to his message yet. I want to ask why Ben didn’t write the post, or why Jake is insistent on ruining my best friend’s life, but instead I decide to play along, to keep the peace—at least for now.
THANKS! BUT I’M SURPRISED BEN DIDN’T DOWNLOAD YOU ON THE DETAILS.
Actually Ben’s never been inside my apartment, but this is a good test to see if and what he’s told him.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: THAT LUCKY BASTARD. DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHAT HE’S DOING?
I type back. BET YOU COULD TEACH HIM A FEW THINGS.
What am I doing? I’ve sunken to the level of the ones I resent.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: RATHER TEACH YOU.
I don’t respond—thinking it’s better to leave him wanting more. I’m also not sure how much of a hole I want to dig myself with Ben’s boss. Who knows what he’ll copy and paste on to Banter. He is the boss, after all. I’ll ask Ben what he thinks when he calls to tell me how much he loved my Toast profile.
But fourteen hours later Ben still hasn’t called. I’m awake in bed, staring back and forth between the ceiling and my phone. God, I wish Zelda was here snuggled up next to me. Without her adorable little tongue licking my face, my mind is free to wonder about all the reasons Ben might be ignoring me: He got hit by a cab and is in the hospital; some other anchor posted a topless video on YouTube and he’s busy writing a skewering post; he lost his phone. Finally, I let myself settle on the one and only reason why he would ignore me, especially on a day like today.
It’s the same reason JR started ignoring me. The same reason any guy drifts away from a girl.
They’ve moved on to another.
CHAPTER 24
I still think “Gossip with Guils” was more of a consolation prize at its inception just six weeks ago, or leverage to keep me from leaving to go write for Level full-time. But now that it’s generating some buzz, Maryann and Joe want more, more, more. Instead of every Friday, it’s now a twice-weekly segment, which in theory is great—more exposure, more tape for my reel—but it also means making sure there are two days of compelling content. What started as giving people the heads-up about the new Will Smith movie filming on the Queensboro Bridge, and Law and Order shooting on North Moore Street in Tribeca, has morphed into a who’s dating who, who’s seen with who, and who’s eating where free-for-all. And no one is off-limits. Last week it was Alec Baldwin doing yoga with his fiancée near Union Square, followed by Seth Meyers waiting in line at the new Brooklyn outpost of Shake Shack.
On this particular Friday, I have the HBO premiere of Girls from Wednesday night, where the tabloids reported seeing Judd Apatow and his wife Leslie Mann hobnobbing with Brian Williams and his wife, whose daughter, Allison, is one of the cast’s stars. Katie Couric also reportedly stopped by, and one of the Real Housewives was there too. I can always count on them to fill some space in the segment; they are everywhere and they love the press. I have Blake Lively from Gossip Girl seen having a drink with an unknown guy at the new Serafina in the Meatpacking District and Jennifer Hudson sipping Starbucks with two girlfriends on the Upper West Side near Central Park. Even if Eric jumps in to banter with me about any of this, I still have room for another story or two. I tell this to Angel as I skip in the newsroom at 4 AM and see him fan the daily papers across his desk. Usually we eye the Toast’s “Page Five” together with a trifecta of oohs, aahs, and no ways. We scan through quickly like hopeful high school athletes combing the list of names to see if they made the team. We’re looking for the best, most relevant dirt for our viewers, but we’ve got to find it fast, because not only does Angel need to get back to planning the live shots and approving Eric’s scripts, but I need to get into hair and makeup. Our faces squeeze together in the usual fashion, like we’re trying to look through the same peephole. But instead of the usual moans, groans, and giggles, we suddenly both gasp like we’re taking a huge breath of air before going underwater. Angel grabs my wrist so tight I think he’s going to stop the blood from going to my fingers, and my whole body feels like I’m in the backseat of a cab that just hit a huge pothole on the Staten Island Expressway.
Screech. Thud. Ouch.
I knew it.
“Banter Boy Nabs Hot TV Talker,” I read the headline aloud, breaking the silence. I can’t read the blurb because I’m too busy looking at the picture of them, leaning in toward one another, too intertwined for my liking. One hand is wrapped around her back, holding her close. And one of her arms is propped on her hip, making it look skinnier than it really is. The other is placed across his chest, declaring This is my man. And there’s that fucking fake mole. She’s in a body-hugging floor length gown that’s cut low enough in the neckline to make you look, but high enough that you can’t see anything once you do. She’s always been strategic and smart like that about her wardrobe. At least that’s what Stanley Smith always made sure to point out to me. Sloane does this, Sloane does that. And then there’s Ben in his tux. I sigh at the sight of how handsome he looks.
“He’s with her?” Erica leans over and asks, interrupting my downward-spiraling thoughts. “But I thought you two …”—Erica cocks her head back from the paper towards me inquisitively—“Didn’t you two just go out?”
“Nope,” I answer, as matter-of-fact as I can manage. Now’s not the time to get upset or get into stories, just before I have to be on air for the next seven hours. I know better than that. “We’re just friends.”
“Great,” Erica chimes in, this time back in her executive producer tone. “Then let’s get this into the gossip rundown. I’d lead with it.”
I shrug as a sign that I got her message and grab the paper off her desk. “Oh, and just so you guys know, that beauty mark of hers is fake.” Angel, who still has a hold of my wrist, gives me a serious stare and mouths “Are you okay?” Since we both know the answer, there’s
no need to say anything. I squirm free of his grip and walk away.
In between each step of my hair and makeup routine I check the time on my iPhone. Hair in Velcro rollers, hairspray to set. 4:07 AM. Primer, concealer, then charcoal gray eyeliner around the water lines of my eyes. 4:10 AM. I still have eight more minutes before Eric shows up, and I’m getting anxious. I need to freak out to someone about this, and he’s about the only one—or at least the only one who’s awake and available right now—who will understand. Bantering Ben and Sloane “Smiley” Riley. Just saying their two names together gives me a bad taste in my mouth. Smoky gold and gray eye shadows blended together, foundation patted on with a wet sponge, then translucent powder to set it. 4:16 AM. Concealer, fill in the eyebrows, then a bright pink blush swiped onto the apples of my cheeks. Just as I hit the home button on my phone to show me the time, Eric walks in. He knows something is up right away—not just by the glaring look in my eyes, but because Pink’s “Fuckin’ Perfect” is blasting from the speaker of my iPhone.
“Whoa, why the angry tune?” he asks as I grab for my phone and hit pause.
I throw the paper down on the counter, fling it open to the gossip page, and point accusingly at the picture of the happy couple on the red carpet for some movie premiere—I don’t even care which film. “Can you believe this?” I bend my knee and put my hand on my hip, thrusting it out in full high school girl attitude. My head is shaking back and forth while I wait for his response.
“Yeah, I saw them there,” he says hesitantly, and rather quietly too, as if not using his full voice will make it hurt any less.
“WHAT? You saw them there? You KNEW?” I’m trying to do the math in my head, and I can feel my face and my whole body get hot, like an overworked car engine on a steamy summer day. “But that was Wednesday. And it’s … it’s … Eric! It’s Friday now.”
He’s rubbing hair wax between his palms, staring very seriously into the mirror at the flyaways protruding from the crown of his head. He must see the sadness in my eyes when he glances at my reflection, because he turns to face me. “Yeah, I saw them there and they looked really happy together.” His voice is still wearing kid gloves, but I can tell he’s confused by my reaction. “I thought … I mean, yeah … I thought you guys were just friends.”
“We are friends—but … but …” I’m not sure I should say it, but I do. “I kissed him!”
“Jesus, Guiliana.” Eric turns his attention back from the mirror to me. “How are you the city’s ‘golden gossip queen’—or whatever the Toast called you—and yet you don’t keep me up to date on your own gossip?” His tone is even, but there’s something almost mean behind the comment.
“But when I asked about the premiere you didn’t even mention them. You should have.” I reach for my phone and turn the music back on, thinking it will drown out the betrayal that’s permeating the room.
“I really didn’t think you’d care, Guils,” he says, now in a louder voice trying to talk over Pink’s desperate pleas. “Plus I figured it’d be old news to you, being that it’s your job to keep up on things like this.”
“Did you talk to them? Did they seem happy? How long have they been together? I need some details for the gossip roundup.” I also need the details for my own well-being, but I think that’s understood from the way my voice is choking up.
He looks at me with a clenched jaw. “They seemed really comfortable together. Really touchy-feely. I didn’t ask too many questions though, because they were busy doing red carpet interviews … is that enough intel?” Something is definitely up with Eric. He seems pissed at me. Whatever. I’m pissed at him for not telling me any of this. I grab the paper, my curling iron, and my makeup bag and head upstairs to my studio. I’ve heard enough of this.
Almost exactly three hours later, I’m getting ready for “Gossip with Guils,” which we do live just before 7:30 AM, prime morning-TV time, when I get a message from Jake. I’ve been Gchatting with Gemma for the last twenty minutes about the photo, and she’s convinced Ben and Sloane are made for each other. We’ve temporarily made up, or at least we’re texting and Gchatting, which is enough to make me realize that I need to go a little easier on her. And that I miss her. A girl without her girlfriends is nothing. “Gross. Let her have him. Plus, why do you care so much, G?” Annoyed that no one can understand why I don’t want Ben to date fake-mole Sloane, I click over to see what Jake has to say. I’m sure it’s disgusting.
One new message from Twitter.
Direct message from: @JakeSpears: OMG. THESE TWO. SICK.
Sick? He can’t just be referring to the picture. What’s he talking about? I refresh Twitter before responding and there it is. They’re tweeting at each other, publicly.
@BanteringBen: @SloaneRiley Treaure, that is what you are
@SloaneRiley: @BanteringBen Honey, you’re my golden star
@BanteringBen: @SloaneRiley You know you can make my wish come true
Tweeting Bruno Mars lyrics? That’s low, Ben. Even though we’re not even close to the having “our song” phase, Ben and I always listen to Bruno Mars together. Last time we played Ping-Pong together I was singing this song to him all night and had him download the album when he got home.
But now it’s all making sense. That’s where that flurry of Instagrams came from last night. They went to the Bruno Mars concert at the Barclays Center together. I told him about that concert. That asshole. They were probably making out to all his songs all night. I pick up my phone to message Jake back.
TWEETING SONG LYRICS AT EACH OTHER, CUTE. TO AN ALBUM THAT I INTRO’ED HIM TO. EVEN CUTER.
I look at the clock and grab for my IFB, realizing it’s not in my ear. Eddie in master control is already giving me time cues, counting down to “Gossip with Guils.” I take a big breath and psych myself up about calling the attention of our one million viewers to a photo that may or may not make me cry. I channel the September version of myself, the girl who hit a pothole every time she opened her mouth to speak. I summoned all that anger, confusion, sadness, and betrayal and turned it into confidence and control. Everyone’s already seen me in my bra on Banter—so who cares if they see me cry, I’m thinking as Eddie gives me the green light. But I don’t cry. Instead, I cruise through my segment, like I’m driving a convertible down an open country road.
I leave the office at 11 AM, an hour earlier than usual, because I have a follow-up appointment with Doctor Sharoni about my back. It’s still acting up, and he’s trying to get me to go through with the surgery. I want it fixed and I want the pain to go away, but I’ve just hit a really hot stride at work, and surgery and recovery would sideline me for at least two or three weeks, if not more. I know Ben would want to know—or at least the old Ben would. I’m not sure about this new Ben, though, who apparently can’t stop himself from tweeting disgustingly saccharine song lyrics. Maybe he wouldn’t even care, I decide as the fresh air of Ninth Avenue hits my face, but I’m going to be the bigger person and address this situation head-on. I toggle into my contacts and stare at Ben’s name. I know I might regret calling, but we kissed not that long ago. And I know he felt something that night. He had to! I take a deep breath and tap his name to call.
Ring, ring, ring.
“Hey you’ve reached Ben, either leave me a message, send me a text or email me if it’s a Banter tip. Ben at Banter dot com.”
Voicemail, figures. She probably told him not to take my calls.
“Ben, hey, it’s Guiliana. Remember me? Been a while and I wanted to say congratulations, cause I saw the item about you and Sloane in “Page Five” today. Lookin’ good, dude! You were the star of my gossip segment. Anyway, I’m on my way to Doctor Macaroni’s office to probably schedule back surgery … shall I let him know my husband sends his regards? Holler back when you get a sec.”
I don’t get good service inside Soho Medical Center, so after my appointment, when I get outside, I’m convinced I’ll have a message of some sort waiting for me from Ben. But I do
n’t. I try to shake it off, but it sticks with me, like the thought of Gemma inside V-Dub’s head. Sloane Smiley Riley’s always had the ability to get under my skin, no matter how tough I think it is. Even when it has nothing to do with me, like when she landed the morning feature reporter gig at the ABC station here with a chance to be a correspondent for Good Morning America. That never should have bothered me. But something tells me I’d feel horrible no matter who Ben had on his arm, unless it was me.
Confused, exhausted, and deflated, I make my way home. Since I don’t want to be like V-Dub right now—sitting around waiting, crying over someone who’s just not interested—I spend the evening on email setting up three dates for next week. Time to keep moving ahead with the ones who are interested. Plus I need someone to come visit me in the hospital when I’m holed up in bed, recovering from surgery. I’m taking the doc’s advice and going through with it; they’re slicing me open in exactly six weeks.
I snap my laptop shut. Ben better call me back before then.
CHAPTER 25
Two days pass.
No sign of Ben.
Two weeks pass.
Still no Ben.
It’s been almost a month of radio silence from him, and you know what? I’m over it now. Or—this might be a bit more accurate—I’m at least not going to waste my time thinking about him. I decide to call Shelf Boy and instead focus on him—fine, the shelves, whatever. I could do worse than focusing on those arms. We wound up choosing a design plan via email a few days after I left him sitting alone at Barrow Street Alehouse, following my run-in and subsequent freak-out over Courtney walking Zelda. We agreed on a price ($350) and, finally, a date—tonight.
Before he arrives, I make sure I have enough cash in my wallet. It’s stuck in the bottom of my oversize work tote, which is stuffed: MacBook, Prada makeup bag with powder and lip gloss for touchups, water bottle, peanut butter flavored PowerBar, and a little green skirt that Gemma “borrowed” from one of her clients for me. “It’ll be perfect with that black off-the-shoulder shirt for your date Thursday with that Brooklyn bar owner guy,” she told me. I’ll steam it and try it on tomorrow before that date.