by Alix Strauss
Back in my apartment I strip down naked, put on the brace, and stand in front of the mirror. I look strong and powerful. My collarbones look sharp and seem to jut out from my neck and shoulders. My breasts are firm, legs long. I look great!
Fuck him. I’ll go myself.
The pamphlet says the TES-TiNG group is for adults under thirty-five who are interested in S&M and who are looking for a safe space in which to explore, discuss, and understand what we do, why we do it, and how to do it better, more safely, and more creatively. They meet at 10:00 p.m. on the first Wednesday of each month in a basement bar.
The cab drops me off at the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Street. I stand outside and watch hard-looking people—men in tight pants, leather jackets, and black boots, women with long colored hair, tight spandex or colorful leggings, low-cut shirts, bellies hanging out—walk downstairs and disappear.
I want to go in, but my legs won’t venture forward. I reach for my cell phone and think of who I can call to meet me for a drink instead. Most of my friends are married and have completely different lives now. Their area codes have changed. Their number of family members has increased. They have weddings and reunions and events. They have other friends who have children and pets and playdates and school activities. I have only me. And my parents.
More people brush past me and enter the hidden hovel, some hold hands, some enter alone. I think about calling Bernard, telling him I’ve made a mistake, but I can’t seem to make my fingers dial his number. My body is acting on its own. At this moment, I don’t exist. And before I know it, my hand flies up, a cab comes screeching over, and my body is inside, my mouth is open, and my voice is telling the driver my home address.
Chapter 4
Morgan
Amenities and Special Programs
With Thanksgiving already a memory, the first week of December flies by too, leaving me to deal with literally the busiest time at the hotel. Yesterday was spent introducing forty-nine journalists to the Ty Warner penthouse on the top floor that costs $35,000 per night. Long-lead magazines and dailies flashed in and out of the groom suite, took photos, asked questions, drank Prosecco, inhaled mini appetizers (courtesy of our new chef), and had an outstretched arm before they even got to the door in the hopes of grasping a goodie bag that contained a press kit, two drink coupons, homemade truffles, and bottle of Bvlgari Eau Parfumée—a ninety-eight dollar value that, when someone rents the suite, is free. This morning I allocated budgets for each department and approved expenditures. Over the next two weeks I’ll be reorganizing the staff, doing a tasting of the new menu, reassessing room rates, and deciding which of the managers will be on twenty-four-hour call over the weekends and holidays, myself included. The last thing I want to do is cover for Julia, who’s out sick, but I accept the job with the positiveness of a campaigning politician.
I coast through the lobby searching for Ellen Thompson, who has applied for a room renovation/decorating job in the hotel. There isn’t one available at the moment. There’s only been talk that the hotel might want to create a day care program, one that would be available to guests with children, but it’s so preliminary that decisions to move forward wouldn’t happen for at least another year. For some reason, Ellen Thompson, who must know someone very high up, has talked her way into a meeting.
Julia has prepped me for her visit, stating that Mrs. Thompson mentioned she was pregnant several times during the conversation. I spot her immediately. Decked out in a long knit coat, two-piece sweater set, drawstring black pants, and comfortable black flats, everything about her, even her face, reads “expecting.” A velvet headband holds back her hair, and pearls are wrapped around her neck. A pink folder with her bio, resume, references, and list of offices that she’s decorated is under my arm. Stepping toward her I think how perfectly the folder and her cable-knit cardigan match.
“Mrs. Thompson? Hi. I’m Morgan. Welcome.”
“You can call me Ellen. I thought I was meeting with…what’s her name…” She looks confused and snaps her fingers a few times as if trying to spark some information. “It’s true what they say about retaining facts when you’re pregnant.”
“No problem. Julia, who was supposed to meet you, is out sick.”
“She isn’t coming?” I watch her face collapse with disappointment.
“I’m sure the last thing you want is to be around contagious people…”
“It’s just that we’ve had several conversations about my decorating work…”
“To be honest, Julia would be passing along your information to me anyway, so it’s just as well that we’re getting the opportunity to meet.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Her face brightens again.
“So how far along are you?” I ask as we walk slowly toward the elevator.
“Six and a half months. Or a hundred ninety-three days, but who’s counting.”
We smile at each other. “You must be very excited.”
“It’s my first so the whole thing has been really amazing. I’ve loved every moment. Well, almost every moment. The nausea finally stopped.”
The elevator comes and I wait for Ellen to enter first. I eye the large ring on her freshly manicured nails, take stock of her professionally blown hair, her cashmere outfit, and realize that her need for this job isn’t financial. It’s something else.
“So is creating a baby playroom a new phase for the hotel?” The doors open and Ellen leans forward, taking a large gulp of air as she exits, making me want to follow suit. “Who better to decorate than someone actually going through the experience?”
“Well, nothing is set in stone just yet. It’s only an idea we’ve had. We’ve just started interviewing…”
“So you’re looking at other people?” Fear has seeped into her voice.
“We’re compiling a list. But you’re the first person we’ve met with. I guess you know someone rather high up on the corporate end…”
“My in-laws worked here,” she tells me. “In fact, that’s how they met. And my husband and I were married here as were his two brothers, so the Four Seasons is more than a special place to us. It has a history.”
I nod, push through the door, and reveal a space typically used for meetings.
Her face lights up and her smile widens. “This room is lovely.”
She rests a hand on the wall, feels the paper, then knocks a few times, I guess to judge the thickness. She pulls out a tape measure, which she runs from the floor to the ceiling, and retracts it as quickly as it appeared. “I’ve been a decorator who specializes in redesigning offices and hotels for the past decade, so I do know a lot of people in the industry. A past client knows someone who works here, and they mentioned you might be in need of someone like myself and I guess called on my behalf.”
“Oh.” I look at my watch.
“I’ve gone ahead and scribbled some things down,” she says, removing a sketchbook from her handbag. “I was thinking bright-colored walls, shelves of educational toys, music instruments, stuffed animals…As you can see, there’s lots of room for Mommy and Me classes or one-on-ones.” She flips to another page. “The room could be divided into ages and stages …This section for cribs and naps, this section for a class—” She stops, her face winces.
“Are you okay?”
“I just felt her kick.”
The sketchbook falls from her hand but neither of us reach for it just yet. Instead, we’re still as statues and it’s only until I see her relax that I bend down, retrieve it, and hand it to her. I look into her eyes, see something angelic and hopeful, and suddenly, I want to know what it feels like. Want to know what all of my friends—the ones who have gotten married, the ones who’ve had a ring slipped onto a waiting finger, packed their possessions and moved away, given up the shimmery nightlife for the subdued suburbs and are no longer here, making holidays lonelier, visits scarce, and phone calls almost nonexistent—are feeling.
Before I know it, my hand is outstretched. In slow m
otion I see it moving toward her stomach as the words flow out of my mouth even though I know it’s wrong. You don’t ask a guest if you can touch them. But I feel as though we are experiencing this moment together. Witnessing something larger than ourselves.
Ellen unbuttons her coat, raises her pink sweater, and lets me place my hand on her belly, which is warm and taut and round. I wait for something to happen. I hold my breath and concentrate very hard as a moment of loss passes over me: for the husband I don’t have, for the grandchild neither my sister nor I have given my mother, for this minute I’m not sharing with Dale. Anger slips in quickly as I feel cheated out of a lifetime that I’ll never get with her. I want the sonogram photo on my fridge. I want to pick out baby clothing. I want be the one calling friends on the phone saying, “Both mom and the baby are doing great.” I want to be the one planning the shower, holding her hand as Dale’s husband says, “Push.” But I’ve been duped out of being the favored aunt. Left behind and left out.
I force a smile at her as I wait and feel nothing. Nothing at all. No kick. No movement.
“Anything?” Her voice is eager, childlike.
“I’m not sure.”
As I remove my hand, Ellen places hers over mine and presses it firmly against her. “It’s fleeting and only happens for a second or so. But sometimes it comes in pairs,” she adds, as if I don’t believe her. Her eyes are glassy and I don’t want to upset her. “My husband will die if I don’t get this job. It would mean the world for me to be working here, like his parents did. It’s all the memory he has of them.”
I try to take a step back, but she’s strong. Forceful. Eyes intense, face now covered in red patches. Her sketchbook is still in my free hand and I don’t know what to do.
“Please, I’ve had two miscarriages. This child is all that’s holding my marriage together. Please tell me I’ve got the job. I can make this room look beautiful. I can create anything you want. If you don’t like the sketches I can start over. They’re only a few thoughts I had. I’d want your input and I take direction well.”
“I’m sure you do. This is really just an informal meet and greet. I’m not the final person who decides this anyway. I’m the first stage in…”
“I’ve wonderful references and if you’d want to see some of the spaces I’ve redecorated and the looks I’ve created we can do that. I can take you to all the past jobs I’ve had. People really like my work.”
Her breathing is shallow and rushed. It matches mine. My hand is rising up and down as she spits out short puffs.
“Oh, right there. I felt something,” I lie, hoping this will get me free.
“You did?” Her eyes glisten and she releases my hand as a smile returns to her face, spreading like a blossoming flower. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I hand her the sketchbook. We leave the room and wait for the elevator in silence and when it finally comes I say I have a meeting and that I’m sure she’ll find her way out of the hotel on her own.
“Yes, of course. And many thanks again,” she calls, her words getting lost as doors begin to seal her inside.
I take to the stairs. I’m shaky and sad and late for my next appointment.
There are people in this world you expect to run into. People you are prepared to meet accidentally while crossing a certain street, eating at a restaurant you know they frequent, showing up at a wedding where the guest list is endless and the event a free-for-all. Friends from high school, co-workers from old jobs, acquaintances of your parents and ex-boyfriends all fall into these coincidental categories. Yet the predicament is usually embarrassing and you never look as good as you intended. The way you have imagined this scenario happening, playing itself out during late-night insomniac fits, is always different. In your self-created fantasy you look great, are dressed stylishly, and are running terribly late for an important, yet exciting, meeting. In real life, unfortunately, things of this nature never go as planned. This is how I felt last week when I answered the trilling phone on my desk and was asked to hold for Honor Kraus. The Honor Kraus. PR icon to rock stars. She can make magazine editors in chief tremble, cause concert promoters to cry.
My interaction with Ellen has left me unsettled, but I push the feelings away and make room for the ones I hope Honor will create. I was cool and calm when I agreed to lunch, to discuss a matter of great importance, which, she said, was too important to tell me on the phone. I wait for her now at our best table in the main dining room, dressed in my best power suit, nervous and uncomfortable.
When a sophisticated, high-fashion-looking woman who appears to be in her midfifties enters, I know it’s Honor even though her eyes are shaded by sunglasses, her face hidden by a hat. I observe her swift, efficient movements as she talks to the host, as he escorts her to my table, and as I stand to grasp her hand, matching the strength of her grip.
When she removes her clothing paraphernalia, soft whispers escape from the mouths of guests. It’s a sound I often hear when a celebrity enters or is already seated and a guest suddenly notices they’re at the next table.
An Hermes belt cinches her thin waist, black high heels show off her long, lean legs. She’s wonderfully stylish and ravenously funky at the same time. She could easily be a stand-in for the actress Ann Magnuson, should Ann need a stand-in, and should Honor decide to leave her reign as Queen of Rock ‘n’ Roll PR.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Morgan.”
She sits. So do I. Before the hostess can walk away, Honor orders martinis for both of us.
“I love this hotel.” I watch her eye the room, take stock of the decorating changes: the new wallpaper, recently upholstered seat coverings, the resurfaced bar. “See that table over there,” she motions with her head. “Bowie, Mick, and I had drinks back in seventy-nine. It was an incred—” Her cell rings and as she answers, I, too, pick up my phone and pretend to dial someone. I nod and use my office voice and say good-bye just as Honor clicks her phone shut and looks at me. Mirroring her, I leave the mini unit on the table.
“Sorry. It was an incredible time in the music industry.” Her hand moves up and down her thin neck as she plays with her diamond pendant while laughing and tossing her head back Katharine Hepburn style. “My career started here. Every client I signed was celebrated with drinks. I was a power player before those words meant something.”
She removes a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses from her bag, and browses the menu while telling me about the time she organized a concert for Stevie Nicks, went on a road tour with the Dolls, and when Bowie came to her in the very beginning of his career. “He was a spit of a boy, a wiry nobody with a sketchbook filled with scribble and bits of used napkins all with song lyrics written on them and asked if I would represent him.” She wears success like the wash boys in the kitchen wear their cheap cologne—strong and powerful—and I want to reach over from across the table, grab onto her hand, and say, Please, tell me everything. Tell me all the stories you have. Tell me what I need to know about life and your company and how to further advance my career.
Eventually she sets the menu down on the table and takes a swig of sparkling water before talking. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I got your name from the guy who manages Coldplay. Said you’re very professional and extremely organized. He was very impressed with the event you threw for Chris and Gwyneth last May.”
I nod.
“I have a favor to ask of you.” She leans forward, lowers her husky voice a bit. “I’ve a client I’d like to stay here for a month or so in one of your suites while she works out a few issues.”
Her eyes become very intense and her facial expression turns stonelike. And I know already what she’s trying to tell me but can’t say. I’ve seen the best and the worst of it. Celebrities who come here to cheat on their wives or husbands, who use our bathrooms for drug deals, our lobby for their film and TV sets.
“Many stay with us to recoup
after a tour, after some cosmetic procedures…” My voice trails off. I lean in closer to Honor, smell her expensive perfume. “We can certainly be discreet. We’ve done this,” I pause. “I’ve done this before.”
She nods. “I know.”
“I’m assuming we’ll remove the items from the minibar and restock it with organic juices and such.”
At this Honor nods and smiles, leans back in her chair. An unofficial official deal has been struck. And by the time the waiter appears to take our lunch orders, Honor knows everything will be fine.
Once our drinks are placed in front of us, Honor gives me a CliffsNotes version of Louise, her dear friend and client, who’s an old rock star trying to reinvent herself as a clothing/jewelry designer.
“She’s already got name recognition and God knows all the other assholes out there are doing it so why not her.” She lifts her glass, takes a dainty sip, removes a green olive, and slips it into her mouth.
Louise used to be in a band called Hit Me Harder before going solo, and is rather infamous for hanging out with New York rockers like Debbie Harry, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop. She was briefly engaged to one of the Eagles, but Honor can’t recall which one. When she broke away to cut her own album, she called herself Unlimited Lou, a name taken directly from Aleister Crowley’s famous 1922 British novel, Diary of a Drug Fiend, which seems fitting since Lou has a nasty little habit with the devil’s powders. Like all good musicians it landed her in a lovely room at Betty Ford’s. This was followed by a visit to Golden Door, which was followed by a stay at Silver Hill, rehab to the rockers.
“By the time she was clean and sober nobody else was. The post-punk wave had come and gone and the grunge kids were dominating Seattle, DC, and LA, making the New York music scene almost nonexistent,” Honor adds.
She spills all this to me in between ordering lunch, talking on her iPhone, checking her BlackBerry, and downing her second martini. Mine sits untouched. The only second I’m on is water.