“Yeah, but I’m afraid she’ll pick up our scent when she comes back. Plus, all the chenille and shantung in here is making me congested, I think.”
“Just let me finish here,” Jake said. He was holding up a Luna CD. “Mine or hers?” He shrugged and stuffed it in his bag.
“Why do you have to do this now?” The thought just occurred to me.
“Because we’ll probably break up this weekend.” Jake said matter-of-factly.
“Probably? You haven’t decided yet?”
“Nah, it depends on how ol’ Crumbcake’s tests come out. If the poor thing’s really sick, I don’t want to depress her even more. I’m a nice guy, right?”
“I abstain… So, what do you think?” I said, modeling Miranda’s dress.
Jake turned and paused, but in a good way, I thought—not in a “how shall I say this gently way.”
“Perfect.”
“Really?” I was unconvinced.
He got up and stood in front of me. Was he going to ask me to dance? He pushed my hair behind my shoulders. “There.”
I smiled. I felt something like excitement.
“Shall we?” Jake opened the door and we were off.
Excitement turned to nausea as the cab neared Ms. Libby Bates’s elegant town house on a leafy stretch of Carnegie Hill.
“Well, this is very quaint—if you’re into vegetation,” Jake said, eying the block’s prewar splendor with the detached ennui that only Jake could pull off convincingly.
Perhaps it should have set in earlier, but it was only at that moment that the reality of my current situation became clear: I was sitting in the back seat of a cab with another woman’s boyfriend, in her dress no less, preparing to attend the party of the mother of my current crush (neither of whom I had yet met) in her home. Just another day in the life.
Moments later, we stood on Libby Bates’s doorstep. The door swung open—and Jake and I were enveloped by the other half.
I felt the urge to swoon. Impeccably groomed guests wandered about the grand space. Plenty of wan smiles, the lilt of a distant French conversation, a lone voice rising to the climax of an amusing anecdote, followed quickly by the eruption of gentle laughter and knowing glances. All looked trim and rested and a disturbing proportion wore sherbet-colored cardigans draped with casual calculation around their newly bronzed shoulders (courtesy of Saint Barts, no doubt). “Look at that woman’s brooch. It’s gigantic,” I said, overcome.
“Yes, but why is she eating a corn dog?” Jake said.
Sure enough, I looked over to find Brooke Astor’s doppelganger daintily picking at her newfound delicacy with a dessert fork.
“That’s strange, but it might explain why I saw a plate of something that looked a lot like s’mores when we walked in.”
“Oh, I get it. It’s peasant food as entertainment.”
“Jake…”
“I can just hear the conversation, ‘Oh, I know what would be so fun—commoner food!’”
“Jake, please don’t get worked up.”
“Lena, relax. I’m just kidding. Sort of.” He slipped his arm around my shoulder.
“Stop it. We can’t look like we’re together.”
“We are together, Lena.”
“We’re here together, but we are not together and when you put your arm around me then it looks like we are, Jake.” I was worked up, officially.
Jake paused and rocked back on his heels. “So, who am I supposed to be—your walker?”
“Just be my associate producer.”
“To your producer?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t carry subordination very well—you know that. It doesn’t suit me.”
“Really,” I said dryly.
“And I’m dressed much more like an executive producer. In fact we both are. We blow this crowd out of the water, I’ll tell you that right now.” He rubbed his shoulder against mine playfully.
Jake had done his job admirably—we managed to fit in but still stand out, if you follow me. The Upper East Side casual dress code was in full effect—men wore open shirts sans jackets. Michael Kors made a strong showing among the women, though Prada and Escada didn’t disappoint. I wondered which one “she” was amidst it all, and realized she could have passed by already—after all, we’d never met.
“Lena?” I felt a gentle hand on my arm and turned to see a gigantic sapphire nested on an impeccably maintained hand. I blinked back the glare and followed a trail of jewels up to the smiling face of…
“Libby Bates. So glad you could come, Lena.”
Okay, I suppose we didn’t blend quite as well as I had imagined.
“My pleasure.” I felt a fleeting instinct to curtsy.
“This was my dear friend Delia’s idea, I’m afraid.” Libby waved her bejeweled arm around toward nothing in particular. At that moment, I noticed a dunking booth and an aimless clown. “It’s a little silly really. It’s supposed to look like a country fair. Or is it a carnival? Something like that.” The decidedly gingham-esque print of Ms. Bates’s Carolina Hererra skirt betrayed her professed embarrassment, however.
“Oh no! We were just talking about how fun it all seems. This is Jake, by the way.”
“Yes, hello. Jake Jennings.”
“Hi there, Jake. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes, Jake’s my…”
“I’m Lena’s intrepid assistant.”
“Pleasure.”
I marveled at their seamless interaction. A gift.
“Well, you two should enjoy yourselves—I’m going to make sure things are running smoothly and we can talk later.” And she was off.
“Jake Jennings?”
“Yeah, has a ring, don’t you think? Better than Jake Brokaw.”
“This is really too much to take in.” Jake was spying a cluster of Blaine Trump types as they buried their taut faces into masses of pink and blue cotton candy. One plaid-wearing playboy with a pink oxford opened just down to there proudly presented his paramour with a freshly frozen Charleston Chew.
“I’m going to start a class war right now. Lena, back me up here!”
“Oh, Jake, it’s not so bad. Don’t be a snob toward snobs,” I said, even though I kind of saw his point.
“You may be right. Excuse me one second, I just spotted a debutante in distress.” With that, Jake made a beeline toward a sweet young thing searching for her Cracker Jack prize. I guess a truce had been forged.
I decided to make my way through the house, taking in the details. The furniture was beautiful but not precious—it was made for living, for raising a family, for active hands and feet. Vibrant, exotic paintings, antique furniture, objets d’art, lots of terraces with lush, fertile plants spilling out from large iron pots.
And then there was the staircase. It made no apologies for its grandeur, no concession for its opulence. It was simply awe inspiring—deep marble steps winding their way up to the next level guided by a carved wooden railing.
Yes, they were beautiful stairs. In fact, it just seemed natural to climb them—imperative, really. So I did. From the top, I paused to watch the frivolity below. There were more people there than I thought, tucked away in hidden corners, trailing out of various corridors. I noticed for the first time that there was music playing.
I felt comfortable from my new vantage point, so comfortable that I saw no harm in exploring the second floor just a bit more. How could I not? I was an investigative journalist, wasn’t I? It was time to do some fieldwork, that’s all. “Politeness” and “social boundaries” were for ordinary party guests. I was liberated from that restraint—I was doing my job.
One by one, I toured the successive bedrooms. Lots of muted shades of taupe, punctuated by a simple silk pillow or a cashmere throw here and there—every surface seemed elegant and right.
I arrived at the last room. It had to be his. I felt a gravitational pull. Pros vs cons filled my head. My bullshit rationalizations aside, I knew that I would most certainl
y have crossed an unhealthy barrier if I were to go into my crush’s childhood room. Countering this unappealing argument was the very real sense that I might not get this opportunity again. What to do, what to do—my mind wrestled with this question as I pushed opened the door. It creaked stubbornly. I slipped inside. Where to start? I would not touch or open anything—what was the harm in standing in his room for a few minutes. Emboldened, I made my way in.
The plush carpeting enveloped my heels, and I caught my balance on a mahogany nightstand. Okay, so I touched one thing! The room had that familiar, time-warp feeling common to childhood bedrooms—at once intensely personal yet somehow universal in its depiction of a person’s evolution toward maturity. It could have been my room, I thought—had I been a boy, a child of wealth and an avid collector of model airplanes.
I eyed a cluster of framed pictures on a nearby bureau. Colin, I realized, had been a beautiful child, I thought to myself without a pinch of bias. Unfortunately, most of the pictures around did not have him in them, of course, which in theory was a reassuring sign (would I like someone who had pictures of himself around?). I was still left wondering what he looked like now.
I stopped. At first, all I could hear was the unmistakable rhythm of flirtation—the deep bass followed by the obligatory high-pitched giggle.
“I noticed you the second you walked in.”
“You did not!”
Forget Miranda’s apartment. This was my Charlie’s Angels moment. I needed to hide, but where? Of all things, why didn’t Colin have his own bathroom?
The door creaked. I froze.
“Lena?”
Nick stood before me wearing a waiter’s uniform. A drunk young wisp of a thing was draped on one arm like a wet towel.
This, I had not expected.
“What are you doing here?” He looked as shocked as I felt.
I thought for a moment, realizing that I no idea how to answer that question even if I intended to lie.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m working.”
“I can see that. You’ve always been such a dutiful worker.” I glanced at Tiffany or Britney or whomever it was he had found himself with this time. Had it really been only a matter of months since I was the giggling idiot fooled by Nick’s so-called charms?
“Look, you haven’t answered my question.” He was on to me and we both knew it. He had that smug, self-satisfied smirk that meant he might not know the details, but he knew I’d been caught and he was enjoying it. The drunk waif managed to extract herself from Nick’s torso and flopped herself onto Colin’s bed. The mattress sighed.
“I’m a guest at this party.” I felt stupid saying this, even to Nick. So I continued, “I’m doing a piece on the host’s son. He’s a hugely talented writer.” At this point, the truth was the only thing that didn’t sound ridiculous.
“Oh, I see,” Nick said.
Why was he making me feel uncomfortable?
“Don’t you have some corn dogs to serve or something?”
“Oh, oh, oh!” The drunken waif rose to her knees on the bed. “Corn dogs are divine.” And then she collapsed again.
“I’m a bartender here, Lena. So you know.”
Oh, he was so not a real bartender—pouring champagne spritzers and Shirley Temples for this crowd was one rung above Isaac on The Love Boat.
“Look, I’ve got to go.” I didn’t want to leave these two in Colin’s childhood bedroom to fornicate, but I was beginning to realize that the only thing worse than being found in Colin’s room alone was to be found there with Nick and his little tart.
I raced down the stairs, a little too fast. I saw Jake at the center of a swell of socialites. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and he was nursing a beer, straight from the bottle. I waved my arm—this carnival was leaving town.
“Darling.” I heard Libby Bates’s voice behind me. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, she saw me in her son’s room. She heard me with Nick. She can’t believe what a reprehensible young woman I am. She’s going to tell Colin. Hell, she’ll probably call The Times—this woman knows people. I wanted to die. I wanted to die.
“Lena.”
“Oh, hello!” I turned and did my best impression of a relaxed, perfectly innocent party guest.
“I’ve been looking for you and Jake everywhere—I was afraid you had gotten sick of all the nonsense.”
You didn’t look in your son’s room though, did you?
“Oh, I’m sorry, I was just admiring your home.” That was true, sort of.
“Well, if you’re up to it, I wondered if you wanted to talk about Colin’s interview.”
“Sure thing!” Jake said from behind me. The intrepid assistant had returned, slightly buzzed, his ego flying high.
“Great—let’s go upstairs where it’s quieter,” Libby Bates offered.
“Oh, yes. I’d love to see the rest of your home,” Jake said, clueless of my previous sojourn.
We made our way up the stairs—I could see the imprints of my own footsteps from before etched in the freshly vacuumed carpet. And I could smell Nick’s cheap cologne.
“Have a seat.” We arranged ourselves in the front sitting room—or more descriptively—two doors down from the scene of the crime.
“Now, where should we start?”
Everyone was looking at me, and I didn’t feel capable of stringing a sentence together, much less conducting a meeting.
“Well, it’s very simple. We need to interview you in order to get to the private, more personal side of your son’s life,” Jake said, sensing my hesitation.
“Yes, we won’t take up much of your time—it shouldn’t last more than an hour for the whole process,” I added meekly.
“Oh, don’t worry—I could talk about Colin all day—I just don’t think he’d want me to!”
“Great to hear. So, let’s just go through some preliminary questions. It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Uh, Jake, I don’t think that—”
“Oh, that’s fine—not a problem at all.” Libby Bates looked excited.
“Well, first off—tell me about your relationship with Colin. How he was as a child? Things like that.”
Okay, maybe this would be fine.
“Well, he was always reading from the beginning, anything he could get his hands on. But not always what his teachers wanted him to read.” She laughed. We took her lead and laughed, as well.
I interrupted the hilarity. “Tell me, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Bates, when did he start writing on his own?” I had my bearings now. I was in control.
“Oh, very early. I would read him a bedtime story and he would make up the ending. Before long he would cross out the final paragraphs of books and write his own. My favorite was ‘Clifford—the small purple dog!’”
We all laughed again.
“When did you know he was serious about writing as a career?” I wondered if she realized how generic these questions were.
“Well, it was more of a feeling of the inevitable, you know. Much to his father’s chagrin. He wanted another lawyer in the family.” She rolled her eyes again.
And we laughed again. It was expected at this point.
“All of his brothers went the traditional route, but not Colin. He was always an ‘artist.’ His brothers used to sneak out to bars, but Colin and his friends used to sneak out to go to readings!” This time, Jake rolled his eyes while Libby and I laughed.
“Tell me about his friends.”
“Well, there’s Caleb—that’s his best friend. Wonderful person, but perhaps a bit…misguided you know. He’s still finding himself, or what have you.”
Jake was nodding now, scribbling “notes” in his notebook—yes, he had thought to bring a notebook.
“And his girlfriends?” Jake asked without looking up. He said the words as if he were reading down a checklist of obvious questions.
Libby Bates paused. I blushed. Jake scribbled.
I imagined she was thinking one or all
of the following:
a) I understand now that you are both psychopaths.
b) You need to leave my home immediately.
c) I will call Colin now and tell him the truth about you.
“Oh, I don’t think he’s found the right one yet. He had quite a serious one back in high school, but I guess…” She trailed off.
She guessed what?
“You guess what?” Jake asked. Thank you, Jake.
“Oh, now there I go. I just think he hasn’t found the right woman yet, that’s all.”
“Would you say he has a fear of commitment?” Jake was fearless.
Oh God, this was weird.
“Oh, I, well…” Libby Bates was confused.
“We’re just trying to get a valid profile in order to find our angle on the story.” Jake said this so assuredly and matter-of-factly that even I believed him (sort of).
“Oh, of course, of course.” She nodded. “What I meant was that he always gets so involved in his writing that he can’t always be involved in a serious relationship.”
“Is he involved right now?” Jake’s tone was so serious he could have been asking, Is he having chest pains?
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “No, not that I know of.”
Shew. Mission accomplished. It was time to go.
“What would you say—” Jake began his question. He looked up at the ceiling, rubbed his chin, and searched for the right words “—he’s looking for in a woman?”
“Mrs. Bates,” I interjected before that question had fully registered, I hoped. “Thank you so much. I don’t want to get too much information before the official interview. Want to keep it fresh, after all!”
“Oh, I hope I didn’t bore you too much.”
“No, not at all,” Jake and I said in unison.
“I’ll be in touch soon to set up the details for the shoot.”
“Great. Maybe we can have it on the veranda or perhaps in front of the Matisse.” She was thinking out loud. Her event-planning mode had been activated and I felt reasonably confident that she wouldn’t dwell on our conversation.
“You really have been a tremendous help, Mrs. Bates. I hope we weren’t too much of a bother to you this evening.”
Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe Page 6