I'm Your Man

by Timothy James Beck

  “Are you kidding? We both know what we want. Besides, you’re the creative one in this outfit. I’m just the pretty one.” She laughed, knowing how untrue that statement was. Josh was pretty, too.

  Josh turned to me and said, “I almost forgot. Adam and I were talking about the progress that’s been made toward setting up Lillith Allure’s new offices. That same afternoon, I got the invitation in the mail for the opening gala. Pretty snazzy; they must have cost a fortune. It looks like it’ll be a great party. I hope Sheila and I can make it.”

  We laughed at the idea of the company’s spokesmodel being a no-show. I was certain Lillith had gone to great lengths to make sure the event would not be star-crossed.

  Later, after Sheila and Josh went to their suite, I settled into my room, running over my mental list of all that would have to be done to complete the next two photo shoots and the television spots I’d set up. I jumped when my cell phone rang and flipped it open.

  “Lions?” Lillith asked. “Lions?”

  “Lillith? Lillith?”

  She laughed, and I was relieved. She didn’t always handle her business with a sense of humor.

  “I think you should know, in 40 A.D., Bonnie—she was a centurion, then—had me thrown to the lions. But not before she snatched my amulet from around my neck. Be that as it may, Frank approved it, so I suppose it’s too late now. Proceed.”

  She hung up without another word. As I snapped my phone shut, I remembered my message and looked up my brother’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “Nicky?” I asked.

  “Chuck,” he said. I panicked, wondering how I was going to explain a call to Nicky. But I didn’t have to, since I heard Chuck drop the phone and yell Nicky’s name. Apparently phone etiquette was a thing of the past. After a pause, Nicky picked up the phone.

  “Nicky, it’s Blaine. I’m returning your call.”

  “You didn’t have to. Did you tell Chuck it was you?”

  “No. What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You must have called for a reason. Did you need to talk about something?”

  “No.”

  I suppressed my sigh, trying to remember what it was like to be a teenager. Which didn’t work, because I felt like Nicky, at fifteen, was braver than I’d been at twenty-five. After a moment, a solution presented itself. I tried to imagine Daniel at fifteen.

  “Did something happen at school?”

  “Yeah,” Nicky said, and I felt grateful for Daniel’s diatribes about his troubled youth.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “All right,” Nicky said. “We have to choose our classes for next year. Should I take drawing or photography?”

  I almost felt disappointed. I was not staying in the Hall of Justice, after all. I was in the Hall of Guidance Counselors. While we talked about his schedule, he asked me several questions about the advertising business, which seemed to explain why he’d called me. But as our conversation wound down, he surprised me with a question.

  “Uncle Blaine, do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I did. We broke up.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “Why do people always change the subject when they get a tough question?”

  “There’s no easy answer,” I said. It dawned on me that, regardless of his age, trust was something that had to work both ways. “Relationships are complicated. I can’t narrow it down to one pat answer. But I can say that we wanted different things.”

  “So it was easier to break up than work it out?”

  I held the phone away from myself and briefly took on the appearance of a mime screaming loud enough to shatter glass. “Something like that, I guess,” I said, wondering why I was the one who felt like I was fifteen. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Nope. My mom’s home. I have to go.”

  “Do you have an e-mail address?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got mine. You can call or e-mail me anytime.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said and hung up.

  I stared at the phone, thinking I had two choices. I could either dispatch Violet to teach phone manners to everyone who called me, or I could do what I really wanted to do. I dialed the phone and waited through the customary three rings.

  “Hello?”

  “I think my nephew is gay,” I said.

  “That’s an opening,” Daniel said.

  “Original?”

  “No, you’re the third one today.”

  “The reason I’m calling is because rumor says that we’re going to be attending the same wedding.”

  “I need to call Demi Moore and tell her to keep her kids off the phone,” Daniel said.

  It took me a few seconds to figure that one out, then I laughed. “I was wondering if we could agree to be civil. For Sheila and Josh.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that yet. Let’s get back to the nephew thing.”

  I must have been thinking about Nicky’s question, because I heard myself ask, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Your nephew’s too young for me. Is this the hunky one that plays football?”

  “No, and he’s too young for you, too. This is the formerly geeky twin.”

  “Nicky?”

  “Right.” I told him what had been going on with Nicky, finishing with my doubts about whether I’d been any help, or could be.

  “He called you, Blaine. You must be doing something right.” I’d forgotten how supportive Daniel could be. “And the answers are yes. And no.”

  “Yes, you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, we can be civil at the wedding. No, I have a boyfriend.”

  “Wait, does that mean yes or no?”

  I could almost hear Daniel count to ten before he said, “I have no boyfriend.”

  “But you’re seeing someone?”

  “That was just a friend with me at Whole Foods.”

  “Gretchen told me you’re seeing someone.”

  “Gretchen was misinformed.” There was a long pause. “By me.”

  “Because?”

  “Can we talk about the nephew thing again?”

  “Daniel . . .”

  “Because I thought you had a boyfriend. I was being petty and insecure. Then Sheila told me he’s your personal assistant.”

  I’d also forgotten how honest Daniel could be. I decided to be as honest. “I’ve dreaded making this call. But it hasn’t gone too badly, has it?”

  “No. See? We can be civil.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me, too,” Daniel said, and added, “The next one might be easier.”

  That sounded promising, and I figured we should quit while we were ahead. “I have to get back to work. I’ll—”

  “Don’t say you’ll call me,” Daniel said, and I felt my heart turn over. He’d said that to me after the first time we’d had sex.

  “You remember that?” I asked.

  “Of course I remember. I told you to say, ‘See ya.’ ”

  “And I did.”

  “Then I said, ‘I’ll call you.’ And I will, Blaine.”

  “Okay.”

  I assessed myself for damage after we hung up, but I only felt good. Our conversation had consisted of none of the drama and recrimination I’d feared it would. And Daniel didn’t have a boyfriend. And he said he’d call me.

  I was amazed at how well the work in Miami went. I examined the contact sheets while I rode to my apartment. There could have been any number of problems, since we’d used real lions for the Leo shoot. I was sure Sheila had visions of being mauled. On the other hand, I’d had visions of the lions not wanting to be photographed, or not sitting still long enough for Josh to get the shots I wanted.

  Sheila was dressed as a ringmaster, her hair styled to give her a leonine appearance. She was seated in the bleachers, her booted legs resting on one of the five male and female lions
that surrounded her. They were indifferent to the popcorn scattered around them, their eyes riveted to the circus act: buff, hot men in leopard-print squarecuts jumping through hoops, perching on stools, and leaping on barrels.

  Sheila had proved to be the most glamorous lion tamer anyone had ever seen. She professed not to be too concerned about the risk I was taking with her million-dollar overbite, since several animal trainers were on hand to make sure nothing went awry. In fact, she’d been a real sport, considering that in the past week I’d had her dangling from a cliff then surrounded by potentially dangerous animals.

  If anything, she was less enthralled by the Virgo ads. When she heard that she would be dressed as Marie Antoinette, she was sure my plan involved a guillotine. Just to prove that I wasn’t always jeopardizing her life, the worst thing I inflicted on her was two hours in a corset, repeating the line, “The revolution was written in the stars by Zodiac,” for the taped ads.

  I was exhausted from traveling and didn’t need an astrologer to tell me that a hot shower and a massage from the healing hands of Gavin were in my future. When I finally got to my apartment, my keys jingling as I started to unlock the door, it flew open and I was nearly bowled over by Violet.

  “Welcome home,” Gavin said. “Violet was just showing me what she thinks I could wear to the Lillith Allure party.”

  “I’m also here to drop off the contact sheets from the shoot in Colorado. They’re in the FedEx envelope on the kitchen counter. Gotta run.” Violet waved at Gavin, then me, and whooshed down the hall.

  I walked inside and decided that my massage would have to wait. I found the envelope and pulled out the contact sheets, losing myself in my work.

  Two weeks later, our limo pulled up to the entrance of Lillith Allure Cosmetics’ new location on Twenty-sixth Street. I was gratified by the turnout of reporters and photographers lining the red carpet leading into the lobby. It felt more like a movie premiere than an office’s grand opening because we’d strategically leaked the names of celebrities who would be making appearances—Sheila not among the least famous.

  The driver opened the door to let us out. I looked at Sheila and Josh, wondering which of us should exit first. Sheila gave me a soft boot with her left foot. I stood, helped Gavin out, then we waited for Sheila and Josh before making our way to the door. We paused occasionally, just long enough to be blinded by the flashes of photographers leaning over velvet ropes to get shots for the society and style sections of their papers or magazines. As we headed for the door, Sheila worked the carpet like a seasoned pro, trailing behind to answer questions in ad-libbed sound bites.

  “Who are you wearing?”

  “My fiancé, Josh Clinton,” she said, which garnered laughter from the paparazzi. “Dolce and Gabbana. They design all my clothes for the Zodiac ads.”

  “Is it true that you’re leaving Metropole?”

  “I’m also wearing Gemini, by Zodiac. Which means I’m unpredictable.”

  “How do you feel about Lillith Allure moving their headquarters to New York? Is this a sign of better things to come?”

  “It’ll certainly cut down on my commuting time to the office,” Sheila joked. “Our demographic research shows us that New York women love the Zodiac line. So it’s like coming home.”

  “Did you pitch snake oil in your last life?” I murmured.

  “You’d have to ask Lillith,” Sheila said, with one last brilliant smile for the cameras before we went inside.

  When we reached our floor, one of the security guards ushered us to the back entrance, which led to a VIP lounge that was lined with plush sofas and velvet upholstered chairs. We had a stunning view of upper Manhattan and the Hudson River.

  Lillith and Frank greeted us warmly and introduced us to a few of the other people in the lounge. Almost the entire cast of a popular sitcom sat around a small table, chatting and laughing. They had come because the four women on the show used Zodiac products during taping.

  “I think I’ll find Violet. Hopefully she isn’t working,” I said to no one in particular.

  I was excused with nods as the others headed for the bar. I found Violet listening to the lighting designer explain how he’d gotten his light show to work. The ceiling of the office had been transformed into a nighttime sky with projectors and lasers. Twelve constellations traveled in a circular pattern around the room.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” Violet asked, staring into “space.”

  “You did a fantastic job organizing it,” I said, truly pleased with how everything looked. The caterers were dressed in tuxedos and bustled about refilling drinks and carrying trays of delectable hors d’oeuvres.

  I offered my arm to Violet, determined to make her relax. I stopped a passing server and ordered her a drink. Just then, something out of place caught my eye.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to a woman I didn’t recognize.

  “Between Lillith’s, Frank’s, and your invitee list, I can’t possibly put a face to every name. I have no idea,” Violet said.

  The woman in question had long, curly blond hair framing her triangular face. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and lipstick too dark for her pale complexion. I identified it as Aries; she needed Libra. Lillith would not be pleased. The woman’s black dress fell clumsily over her plump body and spilled onto the floor in a pool of sequins and lace.

  “Let me go introduce myself. Care to join me?” I asked, trusting that Violet’s photographic memory would recall the name and ascertain whether or not the woman was a party crasher.

  Our quarry held a cosmopolitan, which she passed back and forth between her hands. She was standing outside a circle of men and women who were chatting joyfully, not seeming to notice her as she shifted in her obviously uncomfortable shoes. I saw her gaze dart toward us as we approached.

  “Hello,” I said cheerfully, not wanting to scare her if she happened to be an acquaintance of Frank’s or Lillith’s. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s a magnificent event. You’re Blaine Dunhill, aren’t you?” she asked in a Spanish accent. This only made me more suspicious, and judging from the look on Violet’s face, she was ready to pounce.

  “Yes. May I introduce my assistant, Violet Medina, Ms.—?” I paused for a response, which came a second too late for my liking.

  “Mrs. Vallejo. Regina Vallejo.”

  Violet’s face lit up, a smile breaking from ear to ear as she launched into a flow of quickly moving Spanish.

  The woman stared at Violet blankly, and as she tossed her blond hair over her right shoulder, I saw something that looked like a wire leading into her black sequined handbag. Violet’s Spanish litany came to an abrupt end with an injection of English.

  “. . . no recording devices.”

  Violet reached out and yanked the handbag from the woman’s shoulder, which caused the wire to rip out the side seam of her dress, sending sequins flying. The woman dropped her cosmo and attempted to reclaim her bag, but ended up tripping on her hem. She caught herself before falling, and her wig shifted to reveal a shock of bright red hair. I recognized her immediately.

  “If it isn’t our favorite gossip columnist, Lola Listeria,” I said with a smile and waved Gavin over. “Please escort this woman off the premises and confiscate all contraband cameras and recording devices.”

  “Sure,” Gavin said in a deep, don’t-fuck-with-me voice. Lola glared at Violet as Gavin led her away.

  “I knew that wasn’t Mrs. Vallejo,” Violet said. “Mr. and Mrs. Vallejo are in Buenos Aires and sent their regrets. That stupid bitch, thinking she could fool me with her fake Spanish accent.”

  “Good work, Jackie Brown. Let’s get back to the real guests.” I turned as I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “What was that about?” Frank asked.

  “That was Lola Listeria, party crasher,” I said.

  “I’m glad you got her out of here before Sheila spotted her. Our model might have learned a thing or two fr
om those lions.”

  “Believe me, those lions were docile compared to Sheila on a rampage,” I said, bending to scratch Rowdy’s ears. “How’s this one liking Manhattan?”

  “He prefers Riverside Park, but Washington Square Park is closer to the office, so he’s adjusting. Have you found a new apartment yet?” I was surprised that he remembered I’d been thinking of moving, and shook my head. Violet made a strange noise. Frank looked at her and said, “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” Violet answered and added, “Excuse me.”

  “She never stops working,” I said as we watched her walk away.

  “Like her boss,” Frank said. “Now that you’re a couple of months ahead of schedule, I hope you’re planning to take some time off.”

  “Men’s line,” Lillith spoke behind us. Rowdy whimpered, expressing the feeling that must have shown on my face. “It’s deplorable that you’ve trained that dog to react to me this way.”

  “I swear it’s his genuine response,” Frank said, trying not to smile.

  “Hmmm,” Lillith answered. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to create the products, Blaine, the way Frank did before the merger. You only have to develop a brilliant ad campaign. In two weeks.” My mouth dropped open, and she whinnied with laughter. “Mercury goes retrograde in June, so your window of opportunity will be between mid-July and mid-October. I expect to be advertising before the end of the year.”

  “Perfect,” Frank said. “After Sheila’s wedding, you can use my cabin at Lake Geneva for a working vacation and please both of your bosses.”

  I decided not to blurt out the first words that came to mind: Lyme disease. I had two months to find a plausible way out of an adventure in the great Wisconsin outdoors.

  “It sounds perfectly dreadful to me,” Lillith said. “Be that as it may, I came over here to steal Frank. Entertainment Tonight wants to interview us with Sheila. Excuse us, Blaine.”

  They walked away, and I was left alone. From my vantage point, I could see Lillith and Frank being positioned in front of a display of Zodiac products while lights were adjusted around them. Sheila was introducing Josh to the ET correspondent in front of TV cameras.