Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe

by Courtney Litz

  “Gee, I didn’t realize that you’d set up an office here.”

  “Very funny. Actually, Colin was here earlier, but he went for a run and I’ve just been going through the paper. What’s up?” Parker had made one of her frantic phone calls, imploring a group meeting ASAP.

  “Where’s Tess?”

  “She’s on her way. She just called from a cab.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait.” She sat down impatiently, clearly about to burst with the excitement of her secret.

  “Parker, are you okay?”

  “No, I can’t wait. It’s too much. I’ll just tell her later.”

  Now, Parker always had a story she was dying to tell, some nugget of fresh gossip that she had picked up from one of her many sources and which would mercilessly preoccupy her until she had delivered it to a hungry audience. Only then could she exhale and go on about her business.

  “Parker, what is it?” I settled in for what would very likely be another scandalous story involving her arch enemy, rival publicist Sissy Leventhal.

  Parker leaned forward in her seat. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were watering with what could have been either tears of joy or sadness. I couldn’t tell which.

  “Oh honey…” She was crying in earnest now. “It’s about you.”

  “Me?”

  At that moment, Tess walked in and, even in my state of confusion with Parker, I could tell she had just refreshed her lipstick in preparation for a possible encounter with Macho Macchiato.

  “Parker, what’s wrong?” Tess asked.

  “Lena’s getting married,” Parker declared with glee.

  “What?” Tess and I blurted out at the same time. Somehow, this was not how I’d imagined my engagement announcement.

  “You’re what?” Tess looked at me, confused.

  “I’m what?” I looked at Parker, confused.

  “Okay, I should explain.”

  “Yeah, I think you really should,” Tess said, taking a seat.

  “Well, you know how Brad and I have been arguing over wedding bands?” Parker began.

  Tess and I nodded vigorously.

  “He likes—”

  “Tiffany’s,” Tess said.

  “And I like—”

  “Harry Winston,” I finished.

  “And no matter how many times I’ve tried to explain to him that the only people who would think to buy a wedding ring from Tiffany’s are—”

  “Tourists—” Tess began.

  “Or new money,” I finished.

  “Okay, I guess I did tell you guys that story already. Anyway…”

  “Sorry to interrupt you there, Parker, but could we possibly get to the part about me, well, getting married?”

  “I’m getting there,” Parker said haughtily. She did not like to rush her stories.

  “Well, we compromised,” Parker smiled proudly as if it were now clear that her marriage was clearly built to last the stormy tides of matrimony that had wrecked so many other unions.

  “You see, I found this verrrry exclusive jeweler in SoHo that custom-designs engagement rings and wedding bands.” She paused. “You won’t find Marsden rings in the pages of In Style, let’s be clear.”

  “Okay, I’m still not following.” Even Tess was getting impatient.

  Parker looked at me with deep, meaningful eyes. For a second, I thought she might propose.

  “I saw Colin there.”

  “You did?”

  She nodded, her eyes closed. She touched my hand. “Oh honey.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t see me! I ducked into the patisserie next door when I saw him through the window.” She smiled. “I’m quick like that. I didn’t want to ruin his surprise, after all.”

  “Well, Parker—if it is true…” Tess began.

  “Oh, it is true, Tess.”

  “Then it’s not going to be much of a surprise for Lena, is it?”

  “Surprise?” Parker spit the words out. “Oh please! I don’t want to deprive poor Colin from his little moment, but a woman—” she started a new declaration “—should not be surprised by a proposal. A woman should look ravishing and be dressed in a matrimonially acceptable way. She should be composed, yet exhilarated. A woman should not, however, be surprised. Who knows what might happen then? She might choke on her food or knock over her wine. She might be suffering from menstrual cramps or be wearing something she’s worn before.”

  “Okay, let’s all calm down. Nothing conclusive has happened.” I was suddenly the voice of reason. Yet in my head or, I should say, in my heart, I could feel a twitch, a shift—could it be true?

  Yes, I could see it so clearly…

  It would be in Vermont, at a quaint chapel in the country. Not a huge affair, but a careful selection of our dearest family members and friends. My dress would be elegant and superbly tailored. Something deceptively simple that would likely influence bridal trends for years to come once the pictures inevitably ended up in Town and Country. I would wear one of Colin’s grandmother’s jewels that his mother would give to me one day unexpectedly, with a tear in her eye and a hushed monologue on how blessed she felt to have me in the family. My eyes would gleam, my hair would shine, and my pores would be invisible. We would write our own vows—Colin would quote Keats and I would reference Tennyson. There would be the requisite moment of matrimonial levity—a prolonged kiss by the groom, perhaps—inspiring laughter from an approving audience. Afterward, we would have our reception at a small bed-and-breakfast, with guests spilling outside (of course, the weather would be beautiful) to lounge on hay bales as they sipped champagne to the sounds of crickets. At some point, Colin would whisk me away from the parade of well-wishers to the back terrace where he would tell me again how lucky he was to have me and how much he loved me. And we would stay there together, alone under the stars.

  On the way home, I found myself noticing the fingers of everyone I encountered. I was astounded by the number of rings I saw—gold, silver and platinum spheres, all shining their significance proudly. Some nested snugly with sparkling engagement rings, others stood alone, simple and solitary. They were everywhere. Bare hands suddenly looked empty, insignificant, naked. I rubbed my own empty finger and considered what it might feel like to have a ring of my own, to announce to the world, silently but resolutely, that I was not available for sideward glances, lame chitchat, get-to-know-you brunches, or quick and painful meet-for-a-drink auditions. Could I possibly be finally, completely—legitimately—spoken for? I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I took a detour by the green market to buy flowers and fresh vegetables. Ah, domesticity! Through the gauzy lens of my new tranquility, my life started to make sense. One chapter had closed (work) just as another had opened (Colin). In fact, work and all its misery had brought Colin to me. The suffering now made sense. In this light, Colin could be seen as the just reward for so much heartache and frustration. It had not all been for naught.

  Once at home, I quickly and happily prepared a vibrant salad. It’s amazing what figuring out your future in the span of an afternoon can inspire. I even made croutons!

  I reached for the phone. I so wanted to talk to Jake—he had always been my reflexive first phone call when either something wonderful or terrible happened to me. My good mood ran cold when I thought of our last interaction. The phone rang with my hand still on it.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Lena.” It was Colin. I felt myself beaming.

  “Listen, I’m going to be stuck here with Knox for a while so I don’t think dinner’s going to work.”

  Knox was Colin’s editor and, for some reason, always seemed to prefer doing business late into the night. I had started calling him “Knox-turnal.” The two were deep in the throes of editing Colin’s second novel, so last-minute cancellations were de rigeur these days.

  “Okay.” I was a little disappointed. My new information made me anxious to see him again, to observe his behavior. It was sort of like that feelin
g when you buy a new pair of shoes to go with an outfit and you can’t wait to see how it looks—on a much grander, more meaningful scale, of course.

  “We’ll have the whole weekend together, though,” he said. “Does that sound good?”

  We’ll have our whole lives, I thought. “That sounds great, Colin,” I said.

  “You know, they say it’s a sign of adulthood when a young woman buys a matching set of luggage.”

  “Really?” I said, considering that idea for a second before continuing to try to shed the perky saleswoman who had been shadowing me ever since I made the mistake of lingering too long in front of a Jerome Gruet carry-on.

  “Well, I’m not a girl,” I teased her, “but I’m not yet a woman, either.” I headed directly to the Samsonite section. “As Britney likes to say.”

  I hadn’t meant to be shopping. In fact, I was on my way to mail my application for unemployment, but the magnetic pull of consumerism had won out over that somber task for the time being. Besides, all I had in the way of luggage was a battered backpack that had been dragged through one too many European youth hostels.

  “And where will you be traveling?” Jeez, she would not give up. Salespeople had to be the only New Yorkers that always seemed starved for conversation.

  “West Virginia,” I said flatly.

  She looked at me quizzically, pursing her lips as if she’d just smelled sour milk or perhaps seen a vinyl attaché.

  That did it, I smiled to myself.

  “Excuse me.” I had to beg for the clerk’s attention now.

  “Yes,” she said distractedly.

  “Do you know where the closest post office is?”

  “Two blocks down on the right,” she informed me without turning around. “Next to Marsden.”

  “Marsden?” I said the name quietly. Reverently.

  “It’s a jewelry store.” The clerk turned to me, peering over her glasses. “But it’s very high end.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled. “I know.”

  It was a quaint little town house, painted slate-blue with an iron gate. A small gold plaque discreetly inscribed “Marsden” announced its identity. My heart skipped a beat.

  I rang the bell and, after a few moments, the door buzzed open. No one was in sight. The decor was spare and modern, the space completely silent except for the subtle buzz of the air conditioner. I walked slowly toward the granite counter and peered down at the selection of precious metal before me. A strange calmness washed over me as if I were in church.

  The door buzzed open again and my reverie was interrupted by a well-dressed couple with expectant eyes and intertwined hands. They were obviously swirling happily in the giddy, unreal haze of premarital planning. Dating was a lot like swimming with sharks and engaged couples always seemed to have the slightly dazed glee of having made it out of the water before being maimed. The couple walked with purpose toward the counter—it was time to claim their prize. A salesman appeared, wearing a black Nehru-collared coat and a superior expression.

  “May I help you?” he asked me sourly.

  “I’m just browsing, really.” Does one ordinarily “browse” for wedding rings? And then to cover, asked, “Do you sell other types of jewelry?” Of course then, I stopped short, realizing that I might have asked a question that I didn’t want to know the answer to. After all, maybe they sold money clips, business-card holders. Maybe Colin was here buying a new key fob.

  “No.”

  “Oh good!” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Excuse me, I have a question,” the well-dressed man interrupted us. He looked like the kind of man who generally got his questions answered quickly. The salesman abandoned me, rushing to his aid. The three conferred in somber tones about platinum settings.

  “Actually, the designer is in the store today,” Nehru-collared man said in a way that made it sound as if all who were present were very, very fortunate.

  “Malena, could you come out here for a second?”

  A swift kick in the stomach was the sensation that followed. The ghost from Colin’s past had returned, this time in the form of a beautiful high-end jeweler. She emerged from the back room looking as ethereal and luminescent as the wedding bands she sold.

  “You had a question?” She addressed the couple politely.

  The well-dressed man’s face softened in the way that it does when a man sees a beautiful woman. I guess even the giddiness of engagement can’t cancel that out.

  “You’re Malena Marsden?” I heard myself ask in a voice several octaves higher than normal.

  The well-dressed couple, Nehru-collared man and the beautiful designer all turned to look at me.

  “Do we know each other?” Malena Marsden looked at me again, searching for some sense of familiarity. My mind stalled as I stamped out my knee-jerk tendency to answer questions honestly. I mean, in a sense, I did know her.

  “Oh, I must have read about you in a magazine.” They continued to stare. “I think maybe it was In Style.”

  The group’s collective look of confusion suddenly gave way to condescending laughter.

  “Um, I’m sorry, dear, but Malena would never appear in In Style,” Nehru-collared man sniffed.

  I found myself mumbling an apology and shuffling out the door like a homeless woman kicked out of a fancy restaurant. I could hear the faint lilt of laughter inside. I was alone now, left only with the detritus of my former fantasy.

  “Colin, I need to talk to you,” I said out loud finally. The words, planned fifteen blocks or so earlier when I had found myself walking directly toward Knox’s office, had been festering ever since. It felt good to set them free.

  “Lena?” Colin sat up from his reclined position across from Knox’s desk. The two were eating Chinese food in his office—pages of what I assumed to be Colin’s new manuscript were strewn about, bloodied with red edit marks. I had burst through the door moments earlier, every bit the living embodiment of a woman scorned. I cringed at the cliché—I could easily be reenacting the climactic scene of just about any Lifetime movie at that moment. Wordlessly, Knox slipped out of the room.

  “What are you talking about? What’s going on?” He seemed truly baffled.

  “Malena,” I said firmly.

  “What?”

  I stood silent.

  He looked small and frail in his chair. An errant lo mein noodle stuck to his left pant leg.

  “What about her?”

  “I know what’s going on, Colin.”

  “Lena, you’re not making sense.”

  “Don’t make me spell this out for you. It’s hard enough as it is.”

  When I had envisioned this confrontation, I hadn’t really planned for follow-up questions.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Help me here.”

  Help him?

  “Parker saw you at Marsden. I was just there. I saw her. Malena Marsden. God, I’m so stupid.” I shook my head, which must have triggered the tears, because they soon followed.

  “Malena is just an old friend of mine, Lena.”

  “Oh, I know. Vanessa made that very clear.” Her words rang in my head. “First loves run deep.” “Are you a jealous person, Lena?”

  “You’re basing all this on something Vanessa said?”

  “It’s not just Vanessa.” There had been so many signs. Or there had seemed to be. Everything that had been so certain in my head now seemed tenuous and circumstantial when said out loud.

  “I saw her. I know you were there.” The golden vision of Malena still haunted me.

  “Do you even realize what you’re saying to me? Think about this, Lena.” His words were slow and steady, as if I were standing on a ledge, threatening to jump.

  “Colin, I—”

  “I know you have a vivid imagination, but suddenly I’m cheating on you because I went to visit an old friend?”

  “She’s an old girlfriend, Colin,” I corrected him.

  Colin paused for a moment and then bent down, reac
hing into his bag. He pulled out an ivory envelope and handed it to me wordlessly.

  “Read it,” he said.

  Reluctantly I pulled out the card inside:

  “Malena Chapman Marsden and Raphael Esteban Consuelos III, together with their parents, Edward Mann and Mary Elizabeth Marsden and Enrique and Raquel Consuelos request the honor of your presence at their wedding…”

  What had I done?

  “This is not the way to have a trusting relationship, Lena.”

  “Colin, I just thought—”

  “You just thought you would come in here in the middle of the day and hurl accusations at me. Is that it?”

  “Colin, I’m so sorry.” And I was.

  “You have to trust me Lena or—”

  “I trust you, Colin, I trust you.” Now he was the one on the ledge and I was trying to coax him down. I moved in closer, putting my arms around him, holding on to him. He didn’t move away, but he didn’t move toward me, either. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve got to trust me, Lena. There’s no other way.” I thought—I hoped—that his voice had softened.

  “I know. I do. I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no other way.”

  “I just get these ideas and—”

  “I know you do, I know.” He was comforting me now.

  The drama had passed. The fire engines pulled away. Show’s over.

  chapter 11

  “So, you’re not getting married then?” Parker asked, disappointedly. “I was so sure of it.”

  “That sort of misses the point, Parker,” Tess said sharply, and then turned to me. “Oh, Lena, I can’t believe what you’ve just been through. I’m sorry.” She looked as devastated as I felt. The three of us were piled on Tess’s bed like teenagers at a slumber party.

  I had just finished describing the horrible drama to them in such exhaustive detail that I felt I had relived the whole ordeal all over again. I curled myself into a fetal position and wondered what would happen if I stayed like that forever.