The Lonely Hearts Club

by Brenda Janowitz

  Tweet from @LAtransplant:

  Will I see you at the Lonely Hearts Club Ball? #LonelyHeartsClub #almosthere

  Tweet from @Misfits91:

  It’s all happening soon. #LonelyHeartsClub #LonelyHeartsClubBall

  Tweet from @GreenDayOfficial:

  Come see us perform at the #LonelyHeartsClubBall. Order tix here: http://tinyurl.com/q2zsoxm

  Tweet from @JohnnyRottenlives:

  It’s going to be the night of the year. #LonelyHeartsClubBall

  Tweet from @Blondieismyspriritanimal:

  The goddess is coming! The goddess is coming! Blondie’s performing at #LonelyHeartsClubBall #dreamcometrue

  33 - Hanging on the Telephone

  The music takes care of itself. The acts practically book themselves—as we plan the party, managers call us, hoping to get their acts on the roster. Everyone wants to be a part of it—every punk rock band I’ve ever admired—but there’s something missing. Something I can’t put my finger on.

  We’ve got the bands I’ve been listening to lately ready to go: Green Day, Blink-182, and Fall Out Boy. We’ve got the bands I’ve always loved, like No Doubt, Panic! at the Disco, and Garbage. And we’ve got the bands I grew up on, like Joan Jett and the Blackhearts and the Violent Femmes. Even Blondie herself, Debbie Harry, is set to make an appearance on the Lonely Hearts stage.

  But there’s still something I have to do. A feeling I just can’t shake. This high-profile event, this enormous thing I’m planning, this party that will garner more press than anyone could ever dream of—my band should be playing. The Lonely Hearts Club Band.

  My band hasn’t played together in two years—hell, we haven’t even spoken in as long, with the exception of a hello and good-bye at my ill-conceived birthday bash. And I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. It’s been months that I’ve been thinking about getting my band back together, but I can’t bring myself to make the call. I can’t make any of the calls.

  I hop onto Twitter and see that the Lonely Hearts Club Ball is trending. People are getting excited about the bands we’ve booked, and the band themselves are thrilled to be a part of it. I send a few retweets and compose one of my own:

  Where will you be on February 14th? If you’re a Lonely Heart like me, you need to be at the #LonelyHeartsClubBall so we can rage.

  I hit SEND and immediately get retweeted hundreds of times.

  @Iloverockandroll tweets, mentioning me and my tweet: What are you waiting for? Get your tix now!

  I think to myself, What am I waiting for? I pick up my cell and dial. I don’t have to look up the number. This one, I know by heart.

  “Hi, Frankie?”

  My cell rings, and even though I usually screen all my calls, I pick up. I’m still so jazzed about making that first call to Frankie, the Lonely Hearts Club Band’s lead guitarist. Next on my list is a call to Kane. I try not to think about the fact that I’ll need to find a new drummer. Someone to fill Billy’s place.

  “Jo Waldman?”

  “Yes,” I say, not recognizing the voice, and instantly wishing I’d let the call go to voice mail.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the Lonely Hearts Club Web site,” he says, after a long introduction about who he is. I instantly forget about ninety percent of what he’s said. He’s speaking quickly, and I can barely process what he’s saying. “We’ve been following your site for a while, and we’d like to make you an offer to sell the site.”

  “Sell?” I say. This, I can understand. I may not fully understand who this guy is, but now I get what he wants: He wants me to sell my band’s Web site. “I’m sorry, the site’s not for sale.”

  I don’t know why I’m so surprised to be getting this call—it’s what Max has been building toward this entire time. A big sale, a nest egg, the chance to get the loft back. But even with all that he’s prepared me, I’m still shocked that someone’s offering to buy.

  “Why don’t we meet in person?” he says.

  “I’m not meeting you in person,” I say. “I have no idea who you are.”

  “I run a number of Web sites, and we think your site would be a great addition to our brand.”

  “What’s your brand?”

  “Relationships,” he says. “Love.”

  “Love is not my brand,” I say. “In fact, it’s the exact opposite of my brand.”

  “I represent some Web sites that are very well known.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “The one I think you’re most familiar with is Love, Inc. We’re their parent company,” he says. “They’re the biggest advertiser on your site.”

  “Not the biggest,” I say. “We’ve got bigger.” But I know that all this is beside the point. I know that I’m just stalling for time. It doesn’t matter who the biggest advertiser is on the site. What matters is that he wants to make me an offer.

  “Why don’t I take you for lunch, tell you a little about who we are and what we do? I can give you a full proposal at that time.”

  “Not interested,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Tell you what, I can give you my contact information and when you change your mind, you give me a call?”

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” I say. “I never do.”

  “It’s a lot of money, Jo.”

  “The Lonely Hearts Club site is not for sale.”

  34 – Surrender

  “The peach really brings out your eyes,” Barbie says.

  I’m in a dressing room at Vera Wang, trying to wrangle myself into a duchess satin floor-length gown. The material has no give to it, and once I’m able to (finally) pull it up, I notice that there’s a humongous bow up top that will cover my breasts.

  “My eyes are brown,” I say.

  “The peach brings it out,” Barbie says.

  I frown as I look at my reflection in the three-way mirror. Does anyone ever really want a color that helps to bring out the brown in their eyes?

  “The bow is so chic,” Barbie’s sister says.

  “So chic,” her other sister says. “It reminds me of that black-and-white Valentino from last year.”

  They’re both wearing the same dress as me, and I must admit, on them, it does look impossibly chic. On me, it’s a mess. I’ve got bulges everywhere, the peach drains every ounce of color from my face, and I can barely walk.

  “Should we try the chiffon?” Barbie says. She’s sitting on a couch, sipping a champagne cocktail. I suggest that perhaps she should be the one modeling the dresses, since her figure’s so perfect, but she doesn’t fall for it.

  I retreat to my fitting room (at least I don’t have to share one with Barbie’s sisters) and look at what the salesperson has pulled for me. There’s a peach chiffon dress, all whispers and lightness, and next to it, there’s a black dress that I know Barbie didn’t pick out. I pull back the curtain to see which dress Barbie’s sisters have on, and the salesperson catches my eye. She winks at me and motions for me to go try the dress on.

  As I take the dress off the hanger, I realize that it’s midnight blue, not black. A navy so dark it almost looks black, it’s edgier than the ones that Barbie’s been picking out. Fabric drapes everywhere, and there are pieces of fabric falling every which way. It looks like something Gwen Stefani would wear, if Gwen Stefani ever had to serve as a bridesmaid.

  I give it a twirl, and as much as I hate to admit it, I really like the way I look in it. Love the way I feel in it. I’m already imagining myself at the wedding, dancing with Max in it.

  “How’s the fit?” I hear the salesperson call out to me.

  “I think it’s good,” I say. “But I can’t get the zipper up.”

  “May I?”

  “Come on in,” I say, and she pulls back the curtain to enter my dressing room.

  “Oh, this is great on you,” she says. And then, in a whisper, “I’m wishyouwerehere. Love your site.”

  I smile back at her. “Thanks,” I say. “This is great.”

  “What’s gr
eat?” Barbie says.

  “I just pulled this for your fiancé’s sister,” the salesperson says. “Sometimes you just look at someone and know what will work.”

  “That’s not peach,” Barbie says, hands on her hips, pout beginning to form on her perfectly full lips.

  “I know,” the salesperson says apologetically. “You’re right. I just thought—”

  “I said peach,” Barbie says, her voice an unmistakable whine. I’m not sure which she’s about to do first: start yelling or start crying. “We all like peach, right?” I half expect her to start stomping her feet.

  Barbie’s sisters quickly agree, but I can see them all eyeing the dress I’ve got on. Even with gorgeous blonde hair, perfect figures, and blue eyes, is peach really anyone’s favorite color when it comes to formal dresses?

  “Sorry about that,” the salesperson says. “Peach is fabulous. But you know, Shana Slade had her bridesmaids in midnight blue, so I just thought—”

  “From the Real Housewives of Long Island?” Barbie says. “Oh my God, I love that show!”

  Her sisters are a Greek chorus of “I love it, too!” and “That’s the best show on TV!” and “Shana Slade is my favorite housewife!”

  “Yes,” the salesperson continues. “I love the show, too. Shana had a ten-person bridal party, just like you. Vera did each girl in a different dress, each one wearing midnight blue, the color Jo is wearing.”

  “We’ll take it,” Barbie says.

  The salesperson and I share a tiny smile as my cell phone rings.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say.

  “Hi, Pumpkin,” he says. “I was calling to rescue you from bridesmaid dress shopping. Should I make some excuse for you to leave? A bridal bouquet-drying emergency, perhaps? Or we can pretend I signed you up for a class in flower drying, to really sell it.”

  “I’m actually fine,” I say, as I see Barbie’s sisters retreating to their fitting rooms, arms filled with midnight blue.

  “Fine?” my dad says. “You’re at Vera Wang. Trying on bridesmaid dresses. I figured by now you’d be broken out in hives.”

  “We actually found something I really like.”

  “You found a peach dress that you like?”

  “I think the color scheme is changing,” I say. “And yes, I like it.” I twirl again and watch the dress as it floats around me.

  “Do I need to come over there and take your temperature? You must be ill,” he says.

  “I think we’re doing navy dresses now,” I whisper into the phone.

  “How did you swing that?”

  “I don’t know, really,” I say, with a touch of laughter in my voice. I really don’t know what just happened or how I accomplished it, but I’m happy either way.

  “Well, let’s meet at Balthazar for lunch,” my dad says. “You can tell me all about it then.”

  “The girls are all going out for lunch,” I say. “And I think some of Barbie’s sorority sisters are meeting us.”

  Dead silence on the line.

  “Dad?”

  More silence.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry,” my dad says. “I thought I just heard you say that you’re going for lunch with Barbie and her sisters and her sorority sisters, too, no less. We must have a bad connection.”

  “No, you heard me correctly,” I say and laugh.

  “Something’s different with you lately,” he says. “What is it?”

  “Nothing’s different,” I say. “Same girl as before.”

  “Are you?” my dad asks. And as I twirl in front of the mirror in a glamorous Vera Wang gown, I have to admit: I’m not really sure I am.

  35 - Is This Love?

  “There’s a lot of chatter about this pianosoundslikeacarnival guy,” Max says. “Do you want me to do something about it?”

  “Want you to do something about it?” I ask. “You sound like you’re in some mafia movie or something. What are you going to do? Take the guy out for posting negative comments?”

  “No,” Max says, laughing. “But I can block him from commenting.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “I can do anything you want.”

  “Now that sounds interesting,” I say, smiling. “Tell me more about this ‘anything I want’ thing.”

  Max crawls across the couch to where I’m sitting. He kisses my ear. His kisses are always so gentle, and I can feel my face lighting on fire just from his touch. Then he moves to my neck, and I lean back and run my fingers through his hair. My cell phone rings, and he asks me if I need to get it. I grab my phone from the coffee table and look at the caller ID.

  “I don’t have to answer,” I murmur.

  “Who was that?” he asks.

  “No one important,” I say. “Just these guys who wanted to buy the Web site.”

  Max pops up and regards me. “That’s amazing. What did they offer?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, climbing over to him. “I turned it down anyway.”

  “What do you mean you turned it down?” Max asks me. He stands up from the couch and begins to pace.

  “I said no.”

  “No? You don’t just say no. That’s not how these things happen,” Max says. He’s panicking, grasping at straws. “They have the lawyers draw something up, they send you a proposal. You don’t just turn it down. You can’t just turn it down.”

  “I told them I wasn’t interested,” I explain. “Look, Max, it’s not a big deal. It’s not what I wanted. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s not what you wanted?” he asks. “I thought it’s been what we’ve been building up to this entire time?”

  “I’m not ready to let it go yet,” I say, almost under my breath. I don’t want him to hear me say it out loud—that I don’t want to let the band go, I don’t want to let my old dream go. I can’t let it go. I just can’t.

  “How much money was it?”

  “The Lonely Hearts Club Band Web site is not for sale,” I say. “I thought I’d explained that to you.”

  Max exhales deeply. “How much money was it?”

  “A lot.”

  “I don’t understand,” Max says. “Why’d you just say no outright? Why wouldn’t you at least entertain the offer? What does it hurt to hear what they have to offer?”

  “I don’t want to be a sellout,” I say.

  “This again,” he says. He rubs his hand across his forehead, as if I’m a toddler and I’m giving him a headache with my ridiculous logic. “You don’t want to sell out. You don’t want to make money. Are you scared of being a success or something? I’ve heard about this—people being scared of their own success so they sabotage it. Self-sabotage, it’s called. Is this what it’s all about?”

  “How is selling my Web site being a success?”

  “Well, let’s see,” Max says, pacing the floor. “You create something. You build it up. And then you sell it. For a lot of money. That money enables you to do whatever you want. Like move back into the loft, for example. Or find your own place. Or book expensive studio time. You can make the music you want. On your own terms.”

  “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “Do you want to move off Chloe’s couch?” Max asks. “Or do you want to just keep our relationship secret for the rest of our lives?”

  “This is about us now?”

  “Is this a relationship?” he asks.

  “Of course it is.”

  “Okay, then why are we keeping it a secret? It’s been almost a year. You haven’t told your family. You haven’t even told your best friend.”

  “You know why,” I say. “You know I can’t.”

  “Lemme guess,” he says, standing up from the couch to pace around the living room. “You don’t want to be a sellout.”

  “No,” I say. “Yes. I mean, the site is important to me. I thought you knew that.”

  “I do know that,” he says, running his hand through his hair. “What I’m trying to
figure out here is if I’m important to you.”

  “Of course you are,” I say, grabbing his hands and pulling him back down onto the couch. “You know you are.”

  “Did you really mean what you said on The Today Show?”

  I can’t even recall what he’s talking about. There have been so many interviews, so many magazine stories, so much coverage that I can’t even remember what I said anymore.

  “What I said?” I ask.

  “That you’re done,” he says, looking down at my hands. “No more love for you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “No?”

  “No, I didn’t mean it.”

  “Jo, I love you,” he says. He takes my face in his hand and gently kisses my lips. “I love you.

  “I love you, too,” I say. And then I kiss him back.

  36 - Dance the Night Away

  It’s here. It’s finally here. It’s Valentine’s Day and anyone who is anyone is at the Lonely Hearts Club Ball. The Chalice has the entrance lit up in various shades of black, gray, and white (my mother’s brainstorm) and there’s a gray step-and-repeat setup at the red carpet. Which is actually a black carpet (Kitty’s idea).

  My mother is far too busy bossing around Kitty to make an appearance on the black carpet, but Barbie insists that she and Andrew get photographed. When the photogs ask her who they are, she says, “I’m Jo’s sister-in-law, silly!”

  Chloe and I stand at the edge of the black carpet, greeting guests, giving interviews, and everything seems to be going according to plan. Of the 7,000 tickets we sold to the event, about 4,000 guests have arrived already. The party is in full swing.

  An enormous black limo pulls up and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. Most of the celebs we invited are already on the step-and-repeat or inside, firmly ensconced in the vaults at the VIP area, so I’m not sure who it could be. Who else could need such pageantry to show up to the Lonely Hearts Club Ball? My mother’s already here, so it can’t be my parents. And Chloe and I don’t have any friends with the sort of money to spend on a limo. Our crowd is more public transportation than private limo, anyway.

  I see a long, tan leg make its way out of the car, followed by a long black sequined gown. Then I see a mountain of blonde curls, and I know. I just know. It’s Amber Fairchild. Yes, that Amber Fairchild.