My phone was now vibrating on an almost continuous basis. I excused myself and called Sherri from the men’s room. She was, as I expected, furious: furious over the “old lady” cashmere shawl and the “meaningless” card, furious over missing our anniversary, completely furious that I hadn’t straightened out the situation the minute I saw Felicia, and over-the-top furious that Felicia had on her little black dress. I calmed her down as much as I could and promised to make the night a short one and come right over afterward. I said that we would reschedule and that I would make it twice as special. Just when I thought I was out of the woods she said, “Make sure you tell her that I want that dress back.” Oh, boy. I could never do that.
I walked back to the table and a strange thing happened. I saw Felicia and I felt a little flutter in my stomach. I couldn’t possibly have feelings for a woman I had worked beside for years. I chalked it up to my sweet tooth—the longing I always feel after a good meal for a little sugar. Hopefully the restaurant’s signature cotton candy and the Black Forest cake we had ordered for dessert would satiate me.
“So, besides dinner at the Four Seasons, what else is on your New York bucket list?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen a show at the Carlyle,” she said.
There was a pause—one I probably should have filled with an invitation to the Carlyle, but I didn’t want to lead her on. She didn’t seem to notice the lack of a forthcoming invitation and came right back with “How about you?”
“Hmm…” I thought. “I’ve never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Really?” she said. “Well, that’s an easy one. I know the best pizza place right on the other side—my treat!”
I smiled and agreed to her implicit suggestion. “Sounds good.”
“How’s Sunday?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “It’s supposed to be beautiful out on Sunday.”
I should have said I had plans, but something stopped me.
CHAPTER 11
An Out-of-Borough Experience
By Albert, Jeremy’s Publicist
Age: 35 going on 60
As usual I woke up half an hour before my alarm, and as usual I ceremoniously waited in bed for it to go off. I don’t know why I do that. I’m always hopeful that I’ll doze off for a few more minutes’ sleep, but I never do. If a shrink were to enter my head for that half an hour and observe the varied thoughts, memories, and forecasts that collide erratically into one another like balls on a pool table, they would certainly find substantial material for analysis. But today I focused my concern solely on the day ahead.
Hank called last night with what I thought was a pretty solid idea, and I was stressing because I hadn’t been able to pull it off. Since no one had seen the girl’s face, he thought it best that we hire our own girl, someone who looked like Bloomingdale’s Girl, and substitute her in the new, staged paparazzi shots. More control of the situation, he said. Hank was always looking for more control. He was worried about trusting Bloomingdale’s Girl and was determined to firmly quash the rumors about Jeremy being gay. I was actually kind of proud of the way Jeremy declined to comment on the rumors, and kind of insulted by the way Hank said gay with the same intonation that he used for Nazi sympathizer or Republican. He never bothered to filter himself.
I called Jeremy to ask about us casting a new girl to be his beard, but he was adamant about sticking with Bloomingdale’s Girl, whose name was apparently Natalie. He went on and on about some guy named Flip Roberts. I stopped listening after I realized his answer wasn’t going to change, and concentrated on a game of Candy Crush Saga. Unsuccessful all around.
After spending the morning promising the pictures to a choice selection of news outlets, I headed to the photo shoot around noon. We were meeting at Astoria Studios in Queens. A friend at HBO hooked me up. They were shooting a red-carpet scene for a Lana Turner biopic and he said we could use the set during lunch. With the basic red carpet set up and the right Photoshopping, we’d have the perfect pictures and all our problems would be solved. Hank insisted that I pick up Jeremy in a car, but Jeremy wanted no part of that either. He said he was taking the subway to Queens. I don’t know what’s gotten into him; I didn’t think he even knew how to take the subway, let alone to Queens. Images of him being swarmed by fans on the R train had me reaching for my first nibble of Xanax of the day. This whole thing had the potential to turn into a publicist’s nightmare, and I was worried that it would blow up in our faces and ruin us both.
I met the beard outside the HBO lot. As soon as I saw her I understood what had gotten into Jeremy, or rather who: Natalie from Astoria. A cab pulled up around 1:15, and he emerged, late but in all his glory. He never failed to take my breath away. He had the hair of Ben Affleck, the smile of Robert Redford, the abs of Ryan Gosling, and the walk—the walk of Denzel Washington. I imagined that every gay man worth his weight in Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Cream was filled with hope upon reading that he was one of us. I felt guilty for my part in disappointing them.
“Why is it that when I’m late it’s like the whole city conspires against me?” he said, flashing that box-office smile. Lateness forgiven.
“What happened to the subway?” I asked with a quick pat hello.
“I didn’t have one of those cards.” He turned to Natalie. “Where do you get one of those cards that you used the other day?”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “A MetroCard. It’s very exclusive, I can’t tell you.”
“She likes to tease,” he said, a goofy look on his face. Suddenly he frowned and, biting his bottom lip, asked if Hank was coming.
“Nope, it’s just us,” I responded, causing him to release his lip and unleash that smile again. I melted. Natalie the beard spotted my reaction and gave me a knowing smirk as we entered the lot.
She was really quite refreshing. Wide-eyed like a kid in a candy shop. She didn’t pretend for one second to be cool or unaffected. She oohed and aahed, and when my friend picked us up in a too-small golf cart, she peppered him with a million questions about the set and the studio, hopping right onto Jeremy’s lap as if she’d been sitting there all her life. They certainly didn’t seem like they’d met only a few days ago. This had rebound fling written all over it, which just increased the odds that this would all blow up in our faces. If Jeremy was going to love her and leave her, I needed to know, so that we could take measures to stop her from talking to the press. There really is no rest for the publicist. When she went to change into her dress I came right out and asked him, “So, you slept with her already?” I fixed his tie as he made kissy faces at me, mocking my inquiry.
“Of course not, Albert. You know she’s not my type.”
The photographer was testing the light and Jeremy asked him to take a picture of us. We smiled for the camera and he threw his arm around me. “This guy is the love of my life!” He grabbed my face and gave me a big smooch, right on the lips!
I swatted him away. “Okay, okay, quit fooling around—you know what Hank said about kissing dudes!”
“Whatever. Who needs Hank Haberman!” he shouted, full of bravado.
I laughed. We both knew the answer to that. But I appreciated how he treated me. He really was the best guy. He had this way about him that made you feel special, as if you were the star. Very few people recognized this in him; they couldn’t see past the smile, the hair, the abs, and that cool strut of his to what was inside.
Natalie came back in the little black dress. She looked stunning. It was something different from Hollywood stunning. She lit up as she looked to Jeremy as though to say, “Do I look okay?” There was something so sweet about her. She didn’t seem to want anything from him.
“You know, actually, I can see you with a girl like her more than I ever could with your ex,” I said as he looked at her longingly.
“Me too, but she doesn’t see me like that.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true. She’s totally great, I really like her. But
she’s stuck on this ex of hers. I wish I could erase this whole week from my mind. Between being cheated on and now this rejection, I feel…horrible. Let’s just get this over with.”
I snapped into action and made everything happen quickly. The last thing I needed on my hands was a depressed actor, and at this point I just felt bad for him. He was so much more fragile than he seemed. Within minutes we had the perfect shots, including plenty of close-ups where, with a little help from Photoshop, you wouldn’t be able to tell the set backdrop from that at the premiere. I pretended I had pressing matters to discuss with Jeremy so he would have an excuse to leave with me instead of her, and we were out. Natalie looked disappointed, but I didn’t care. Better she should be disappointed than my guy.
I was home by dinnertime, sitting on my couch with my boyfriend, eating takeout from Havana Shanghai, this delish Chinese-Cubano place up the block. All in all, the day was as painless as possible. Until 7:30 that night, when the pain came on tenfold, set to the ever-familiar Entertainment Tonight theme song.
You know the one—don’t make me sing it.
“SEE EXCUSIVE VIDEO AS HEARTTHROB JEREMY MADISON REVEALS HIS NOT-SO-SECRET LOVE, HIS PUBLICIST ALBERT STEIN, ONLY ON ENTERTAINMENT TONIGHT!”
Maybe you saw this coming. Obviously, I did not. Someone at the film studio had had a camera, caught Jeremy proclaiming his love for me, and sold it to Entertainment Tonight. While gays of the world rejoiced, I choked on my Cuban pork dumpling, my boyfriend threw a glass of very expensive wine in my face and stormed out, and Jeremy called my cell in a total panic.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! Someone filmed me saying ‘Who needs Hank Haberman!’ ” He was completely irrational. “I need Hank Haberman! I need Hank Haberman! He’s going to drop me. I’m coming over!”
“Don’t come over!” I said, dabbing at my face. “You’ll make it worse! We can’t be seen together!” He’d already hung up. Reaching into my pocket for a Xanax to nibble on, I frantically texted him to stay away, but faster than the delivery boy from Havana Shanghai, Jeremy appeared at my door. I braced myself for more hysteria, but he seemed fine.
“You’ve calmed down,” I said suspiciously.
“There’s a bunch of press and paparazzi in front of your building.” He shrugged. “I got a chance to explain myself.”
“Thank god,” I said, feeling suddenly very calm myself. Phew. He had come to his senses, he’d cleared it all up, he’d told the world he wasn’t really gay and he wasn’t really in love with me. I stopped nibbling my Xanax. I sat on the couch and breathed. “What did you say?”
He was very confident. “I said, ‘Hank Haberman is the best and most supportive agent there is, and clearly my comment was taken out of context.’ ” He beamed at me as though he’d just brokered world peace, when all he’d done was make things right with Hank. I popped the whole Xanax.
CHAPTER 12
A Sunday Kind of Love
By Arthur Winters, Attorney-at-Law
I was late to meet Felicia because again I changed five times. I have seen this woman nearly daily for years and I was suddenly unreasonably consumed with worry over my appearance. It made no sense. This wasn’t a date, just a walk over a bridge I had seen countless times. Never before, though, had I crossed it. There was a metaphor if ever I’d heard one.
Even though it wasn’t a date, I hadn’t told Sherri about it. I’d told her I had a business thing. She was so angry that I hadn’t ended the Four Seasons mix-up before it started, how would she understand me actually planning to spend a Sunday with Felicia, or, as she called her, my washed-out secretary? I was beginning to wonder what I was doing myself. After all, I was lying; it was beginning to feel a bit like an affair, not that I had ever had one. Only I would cheat on a young blonde with my middle-aged assistant. Though affairs with assistants are commonplace. What am I talking about? This is not an affair! I promised myself to talk about business a little bit so that when I saw Sherri later I wouldn’t have to lie. Well, not completely.
As my cab pulled over at City Hall, I saw Felicia on the sidewalk. She was wearing tennis shoes and capris. She looked…adorable. She approached the cab, and as I stepped out to pay she leaned over to give me a kiss hello. It was meant for my cheek, but I inadvertently turned my head and her lips ended up on mine. It was as if it unlocked something in both of us, and we began to kiss on the sidewalk like two teenagers with nowhere private to go. It seemed endless and was interrupted only by the cabbie shouting at me, “Mister—your change!” I looked Felicia in the eye.
“Do you really want to walk across the bridge today?”
She couldn’t even speak; she just shook her head. I turned to the cabbie. “Keep the change. Take us to 57 Sutton Place, please,” I said, pulling her into the cab with me.
We made out the entire way. I don’t even know how we composed ourselves enough to walk past my doorman. I pointed to the camera in the elevator and we stood in separate corners. When the doors opened it was like a race to my apartment. I fumbled with the keys and she grabbed them and opened the door for us. We barely made it to the bedroom, and by the time I touched her bare skin, she literally shuddered with desire. I had never thought about whether or not I was good in bed until I started dating someone half my age, and then I became suddenly and awkwardly aware. With Felicia it was as if I had magic hands. Every move I made, every touch was electric. And it was catching. It felt so good to make someone feel so good.
When it was over we lay staring at each other. I wondered what she was thinking. I knew what I was thinking. I was thinking, I wonder if I’ll ever feel that good again in my life. And then we did it again. Twice. No Viagra. I was officially having an affair with my assistant.
Afterward we curled up under the covers and watched TV. She nuzzled into the crook of my arm as I switched channels. We both jumped at The French Connection. It had already started, but we’d both seen it before so we settled right in. We got to cross the Brooklyn Bridge that day after all, but with Popeye Doyle in his 1970 Buick.
“Did you know that this was the first R-rated movie to win an Oscar?” Felicia said, adding, “Depending how you look at it, though. Two years earlier Midnight Cowboy won, but it was rated X at the time. It was changed to R, so retroactively that’s really first.” I had no idea she knew so much about movies. I looked at her wonderingly. What else was there I had to look forward to in getting to know her better? My look must have felt scrutinizing, as she suddenly seemed embarrassed. “I know a lot of meaningless trivia about movies…I’ve taken a lot of movie classes.”
“I would love to take a movie class,” I said, trying to make her feel more comfortable. I was amazed. We’d just had the most explosive, uninhibited sex I could possibly imagine and I hadn’t detected any embarrassment, yet this embarrassed her.
I looked over at the clock. It read five p.m. I panicked. How had it gotten so late? I was due to meet Sherri at Elio’s at six for dinner with my girls. It was our family tradition to meet at Elio’s every Sunday night. Marilyn and I started it when the girls were teenagers so that we’d be guaranteed some face time over the weekend, and it stuck. It grew from the four of us to six with the addition of my two sons-in-law, then to six and a high chair for my beautiful granddaughter. When Marilyn died we kept it going. I think it was my girls’ way of checking on me and getting me out of the house on weekends, when they worried, I think, that I would just shuffle around the apartment in my pajamas. The first time we walked in without Marilyn was brutal. There was our table in the corner, set for six and a high chair, as usual. One of my sons-in-law whispered in the maître d’s ear and we watched as a busboy removed the sixth chair. Not one of us uttered a word that night. Even the baby seemed to sense our pain and just sat there sucking ziti from her little fingers.
Over the past few months with Sherri my Sundays have been very different. My old Sundays with Marilyn involved reading the Times cover to cover, maybe taking a walk in the park, and usually seeing a m
ovie, either at the theater or right here in the very bed I was lying in with Felicia. Sundays with Marilyn were blissful and familiar. Kind of like this Sunday had turned out, though now there was the minor addition of my having suddenly become Don Juan at sixty—a whole new definition for sexagenerian! Sundays with Sherri, on the other hand, usually involved brunch at some “amazing” new place downtown with an organic menu featuring artisanal cheese, heirloom tomatoes, and, if I was lucky, the occasional gluten-free doughnut. I once made a joke about Sherri’s generation speaking about gluten the way mine spoke about crack, and was stared at blankly by her six young friends. These boozy brunches were followed either by a shopping spree or, occasionally, a gallery visit. But no matter how we filled our Sundays, they all ended with me heading uptown alone to get ready for dinner with my family while she moped because she wasn’t invited. I could hardly tell her the real reason that I didn’t want her to come: I couldn’t bear for her to sit in Marilyn’s seat, or the looks from the staff at Elio’s when they saw I was dating someone closer to my daughters’ age than my own. But I had an ironclad excuse; the rules of Sunday night dinners had been set long ago, as soon as our oldest started dating: no significant others until they were engaged. We still met plenty of boyfriends over the years, but Sunday night was family night, and there were no exceptions—until the Four Seasons mix-up, that is. When I’d been unable to produce the little black dress, I had attempted to make up for it with an invitation to Sunday night dinner at Elio’s. Don’t ask me why I felt the need to keep pretending with Sherri. I just couldn’t bear to disappoint her, although I knew that it was coming, and that it would ultimately be for the best. But tonight wasn’t the right time to end things with her. So I had one hour to get Felicia out of my apartment as chivalrously as possible, shower, and get to the restaurant where a woman that I had nothing in common with would sit in my wife’s seat while my daughters faked happiness for me and the waiters rolled their eyes at the cliché I had become.
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