So, here I was, twenty years later, and not much had changed. Except this time, I held the key to the lock box of my dear crush’s inner world—and I was required to look inside, inspect the contents thoroughly and report my findings. As difficult as it would be, I knew I had to quell my feelings and get serious. I might work for a show that considered a segment on Sienna Skye’s Buddha collection to be hard-hitting news, but I was still a journalist, dammit!
I picked up the phone at least three times to begin my investigation, only to put it down swiftly when the realization of my task overwhelmed me. I needed coffee. That was it. I could be a different person when properly caffeinated—nothing would stand in my way. I was hyped-up, no-non-sense Lena after a particularly potent espresso.
I marched to the kitchen to search for my loot. I stopped short when I noticed a rim of spiky gelled hair peaking over the refrigerator door—it had to be Chase. The door closed. It was just me and the Cheese.
“Leeena. Heeey!”
He was holding a Stonyfield Farms yogurt, french vanilla. I felt strongly that it was not his. I always wondered who would steal their co-workers lunch out of the communal fridge. Cheese would. I had no doubt.
“Hi, Chase. Just getting some coffee.”
“Midafternoon slump, huh?”
Could blood really boil? I pondered the thought.
“Uh, no Chase. I’m riding high on the adrenaline of my job.”
“Oh right.” He looked flustered. “Me, too.” I’d challenged his own intensity. Cheese apparently had no capacity for sarcasm.
“We’re just tweaking the Skye piece. It looks aaaaawesome, I have to say.”
He had to say that his piece looks “aaaaawesome.” Perhaps because I shot all the footage and did all of the pre-interviews. Perhaps because I had all the visuals selected and edited. Perhaps because all Cheese had to do was position himself behind the editor with his arms crossed, and nod while Nadine called the few remaining shots.
“How’s that thing you’re working on?”
Physical violence seemed inevitable.
I said nothing. I eyed his yogurt. He shifted uncomfortably. I eyed his yogurt again and then looked into his beady, lying eyes, burrowing through his tinted contacts to pierce his dark, little soul. Yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese.
“Okay, well I’ve got to get back to the edit,” he stammered, backing away. I waited.
“Hey, Chase.”
He turned cautiously. I paused.
“Don’t you want a spoon?” I let the words slither out slowly.
His mouth was slack, his eyes wide. He said nothing and scampered away like a roach caught by the kitchen lights.
I marched back to my desk, resolute. I didn’t need coffee—I was running on rage. Call number one: Professor Leedy.
I punched the numbers as casually as if I were calling Tess. It rang. I waited.
“Hello?” An elderly man answered.
“Hello, Professor Leedy?”
“Speaking.”
I could hear classical music in the background. I imagined he was working on a lecture, editing a book, formulating a new school of thought, while smoking a pipe of some sort.
“Hi, I’m Lena Sharpe. I’m working on a television profile of Colin Bates.”
“Oh, yes, yes, dear—he told me you might call.”
I loved Professor Leedy already. He was the sort of college professor that I was supposed to have had—not the endless stream of messy-haired grad students with bad breath, trudging through their sixth Ph.D. year, working on dissertations about the role of identity and gender in twentieth-century post-WWII Slovakian cinema.
I pictured Professor Leedy, settling back in his worn leather chair, surrounded by richly hued mahogany furniture, plush Oriental rugs, and an eclectic array of classical busts and collected artifacts from his travels throughout the world. He would be reserved but warmhearted, pleasantly rumpled but mentally disciplined. He would listen carefully, speak infrequently, but counsel wisely. He would drink bourbon and wear tweed.
“Colin, I can tell you,” he began unprompted, “is a real talent. Have you read his poetry?” He asked, sounding as if he truly hoped I had.
“Well, no—I didn’t realize he wrote poetry.” I was blushing.
“Oh, you must read it, Lena. Though I’m sure Colin would be incensed if he knew I’d shown it to you! He’s still a young man trying to preserve his tough outer shell, after all.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s my job to chip away at that very shell.” I wasn’t sure where my words were coming from, if you must know.
“I suppose it is, my dear.” He paused, raising one eyebrow I felt sure. “I think you’ll find it to be a rewarding task should you be persistent.”
Was Professor Leedy testing me? Could the wise, aged professor be sniffing out a potential match for his prized protégé? It was a ridiculous thought, but… I panicked—how does one appeal to an octogenarian Milton scholar? What would an octogenarian Milton scholar look for? Intelligence, yes—I could string a sentence together, perhaps toss in a literary reference or two, sure. Problem was that I never found myself to be less coherent and more ditzy than when I was trying to project an erudite image. And, let’s be honest here, I was not in the daily habit of deconstructing classic literature—it just wasn’t how my life was organized at the moment.
“So, it’s done—I will send you my volume. I really think that it will help you get to the heart of, well, his heart.” He chuckled lightly.
There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? The next call, however, would not be as easy. There really was no way to prepare for this one. I cleared my throat and tried to detach myself from the bizarre nature of the task at hand. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job.
Libby Bates answered the phone herself. She sounded refined, elegant, educated. And tall. Definitely tall.
“Hi there.” Hi there?
I looked down at my notes—yes, I had notes.
“This is Lena Sharpe. I’m an associate producer at the television show Face to Face and I’m calling about the profile of your son, Colin, that we’re doing.” I started to understand how a telemarketer must feel: And, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss your long-distance telephone service.
“Oh yes, of course. Could you just hold on for one second?…Teresa, would you mind watching the stove for me for a moment. I’ll need to take this call. Thank you.”
I was a call she “needed to take”! I wondered what she was cooking. I was glad that she didn’t expect Teresa to take care of everything.
“Yes, I’m so sorry. We’re having some people over tonight, so it’s a bit chaotic here.” She said this in a way that seemed to convey that she didn’t mind the chaos so very much.
“Oh, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I can certainly call back at a better time.”
“Oh no, don’t be silly. I’m glad you called. I’m just so proud of Colin—I realize of course that that’s not a shock, coming from his mother after all.” She laughed. She did seem proud, but not in a boastful, “my child’s talent is a reflection of my own” or “isn’t it now obvious what a fabulous job I have done raising my child” way. Just genuine excitement and goodwill. Touching really.
“I was just calling to see if you might be willing to do a short interview for the piece—”
“I’m so sorry, Lena. One second.” And then, “Teresa, would you mind letting Emmylou in—she’s scratching at the door.” Emmylou! Colin’s Emmylou?! Yes, I was this excited over a dog.
“I know!” Libby Bates exclaimed suddenly. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Teresa, Emmylou or me.
“Why don’t you come over tonight for the party and we can talk about it there?” She was pleased with her solution. I was speechless.
“Oh, well, of course,” I stammered and then, worried that I seemed rude, I tried to be more emphatic. “Of course, I’d love to.”
&nbs
p; “Fantastic. We’re at one-eighteen East Ninety-second. You should come by around eight or so. It’s just a silly casual thing for the Central Park Children’s Zoo.”
“This is so kind of you, Mrs. Bates.”
“My pleasure, darling. Really. See you soon!”
I hung up the phone—confused, nervous and excited. This was not in my notes.
chapter 5
I flung open my closet and glanced at the clock. I had exactly four and a half hours to reinvent myself as the perfect daughter-in-law designate. I knew what I needed to do.
“I need your help.”
“Honey-bunny, what is it?” Jake said, sounding as if he’d just woken up. Or maybe he was drunk?
“I need you to come with me to Colin’s mom’s house tonight.”
“Lena, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not still fixated on this one, please.”
“It’s not a fixation,” I said, irritated by the description. “It’s a…it’s, I don’t have time to explain what it is. It’s my job. Can you come with me or not?”
“Well…”
“Just—can you come? Say yes.”
“I was planning on alphabetizing my CDs.”
“Nice try, but we both know they’re already alphabetized.”
“Not by genre.”
I said nothing.
“Seriously, I’m sorry, Lena—I have to watch Crumbcake tonight. She had some tests at the vet today and she’s wearing one of those lovely doggie cones around her neck. It’s a pathetic sight, really.”
Crumbcake was Miranda’s dog. Correction, “Gateau” was her dog; Crumbcake was what Jake had rechristened her. She was bony and loud, with a bracing bark that could sound both whiny and critical. In other words, she was Miranda.
“Bring her with you.” I knew then that I was, legitimately and officially, panicked.
“But she hates you, Lena.”
“True.” He had a point.
“Plus, Miranda will find out and then I’ll have to deal.”
I imagined Crumbcake and Miranda having a furious and intense discussion of her trauma.
“I know, I’ll ask Super Si to watch her,” I said. Si was my super and on more occasions than I care to remember, I had called on him to chase cockroaches around my apartment, fish a necklace out of the drain, and perform various forms of spackling triage on my crumbling walls. I call him Super Si because he’s a super and because, well, he’s super. I tried to explain this to him once, but it didn’t translate, like so many thoughts I had, when said out loud.
“God, Jake—for fuck’s sake, get over here.”
“Is there really a need to swear and use the Lord’s name in vain? I think one or the other would suffice.”
“Jake—it’s so not the time.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry—I’ll vespa right over.” For the record, Jake did not have a Vespa, but he felt that he really should have one. No, he had a used ten-speed.
I felt calmer instantly. Jake’s skill with a closet was akin to a natural chef’s ability to transform saltines, ketchup and canned tuna into a sumptuous feast.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived. Head-to-toe Paul Smith. An irate Crumbcake accessory was the only thing that detracted from his perfection.
“You look…perfect,” I said with a mixture of envy and admiration.
Jake, oh so modestly, made an exaggerated, Mark Vanderloo-esque turn.
“I really, really do—don’t I?”
He was only half kidding.
“But there is one, reluctant concession.” Jake pulled from his pocket a gleaming gray silk tie like a magician displaying his hidden string of scarves. Jake didn’t do ties. I was touched. “Just in case.”
“So, how casual is casual?” he asked as he made his way to the kitchen to deposit Crumbcake.
“Therein lies my predicament—I’m not sure.”
“Do we have any clues? Indicators?”
“None,” I responded solemnly. “She just said that it was a benefit for a children’s zoo and that it was…casual.”
A somber tone had overtaken us both. We could have been talking about global warming, missile treaties, or maybe the ethical consequences of human cloning.
“I see, so it’s ‘casual,’ but not casual.” He seemed to have gleaned a key piece of information.
“Maybe I should just call and ask?”
“Better you show up nude. Then she’ll really know you’re a neophyte.”
“Do we have to resort to name-calling?”
“I don’t think you’re a neophyte—and all the better if you are. I’m channeling the mind-set of a sixty-year-old socialite, that’s all.” He shook off the thought with a chill.
“Okay, let’s get down to business. Show me your little black dress.”
I inhaled. I had dreaded this question. “I don’t have one.”
Jake paused. “You don’t have a little black dress?”
“No.”
“How can you not have a little black dress?”
“I know, I know—it’s on my list of things that I really need to purchase.” I was forlorn, distraught. “That and a spice rack.”
Jake began to pace, rubbing his chin as he thought.
Jake, in the social sense, was the proverbial little black dress—he could go anywhere, accessorize accordingly and fit in flawlessly. He could chat up little old ladies in their Chanel gowns about the best places to winter their furs and the best spots to summer in Maine. Of course, he could charm the young debutantes with his lingering eyes and inherent hint of danger. Later he’d lose the tie and go share a joint in the kitchen with a chummy caterer and a gaggle of reverent Dalton boys. Parents were impressed, their kids were awed. They might not think he was “one of them,” but they certainly wanted him to be.
“Okay, don’t freak out, but this is what we’re going to have to do.”
“What?” I buried my face in my hands.
“You’re going to wear Miranda’s dress.”
“Uh, no.” I felt suddenly lucid.
“Lena, hear me out.”
“Next idea.”
“Don’t argue with me, Lena. It’s the only way.” His words were grave.
“Why Miranda? I should call Tess.”
“Won’t work.” His words were firm.
“Why? Tess has beautiful clothes.”
“Of course she does and I would recommend her if this were a black-tie emergency. It’s not.”
True. Tess’s collection did tip toward the uber-glamorous—lots of chiffon, and silk sheaths, etc. She never worried about silly things like “appropriate dress”—it was appropriate if she liked it, and she liked couture.
“But I don’t want to be too casual, either.”
“You won’t be. And better to be too casual than over-dressed.”
“What?” I was confused. “Why?”
“Oh, Lena—these people can sniff out a wannabe in seconds. The worst thing you can do is try to look like you’re…trying.”
“Right.”
“Put it to you this way. Consider the theater—who are the people that wear ties and prom dresses to the Wednesday matinee of Annie Get Your Gun?”
“I get it now.”
Still, Miranda?
“I don’t know, Jake. I can’t think of a dress Miranda has that I would even want to wear.”
“Tuleh.”
Except that one. I inhaled sharply. I could feel my pulse quicken as I mentally pictured myself in Miranda’s beautiful, beautiful dress. “Ready to go?”
“Great—this way I can steal back some of my CDs while we’re at it.”
Problem solved, we shared a moment of calm.
“What’s that noise?”
Crumbcake. We rushed into the kitchen to find Miranda’s precious morsel relieving herself on the kitchen floor. Was she smiling?
Jake grabbed a newspaper and placed it under Crumbcake midstream.
“Lena, you may want to come look at this.”
“Honestly, Jake, if there’s one thing that I’m fairly certain I do not want to see, that’s it.”
“No, come here.”
“What?” I looked over his shoulder. I saw a photo of a jeweled neck and the smeared inky face of an aging bottle-blonde. The caption read: “Libby Bates enjoys a drink at the Annual Spring Gala for the Southampton ASPCA.”
“Cheers,” Jake said with a laugh.
Half an hour and one stop to deposit a testy Crumbcake (and a thank-you box of Krispy Kremes) at Super Si’s later, I found myself standing in front of Miranda’s faux gilded full-length mirror.
“What is with this mirror? I am not this skinny.”
“Stop it. I’m in no mood to feed your ego tonight.” Jake was in a giddy trance as he gathered his long-lost CDs in one of Miranda’s silk pillowcases.
I imagined Miranda standing in front of this mirror, modeling her latest cashmere cardigan or applying her ever-present lip gloss. The thought made me queasy.
I had the nervous feeling that I always got when I used to watch Charlie’s Angels and one of the girls was sneaking into an office, stealing crucial, top-secret files with freshly manicured hands. This scene would be interspliced with footage of the suspect slowly ascending the stairs, on his way surely to discover her.
“Okay, we should get out of here. I’m nervous,” I said.
“Relax—she’s nowhere near here, I swear. It’s her pedicure and Pilates night.” Jake continued with his mission.
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