Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe

by Courtney Litz

  “He’s not?” Parker and I asked at the same time again.

  “No.” She was clearly feeling uncomfortable.

  Next topic.

  “Lena, are you going to Jake’s thing tonight?” Parker asked innocently.

  “What thing?”

  “His art opening,” Parker said.

  Jake. Art. Vanessa. Stairs. Swedish fish. I felt myself getting hot, the cloying sticky-sweet smell of confectionery sugar filled my lungs, my temples pounded.

  “No, I doubt it,” I said finally.

  “Why not?” Again, another innocent Parker question.

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  Silence. Next topic.

  “Tell me, which one was Mel Gibson?” The bakery assistant appeared, smiling, fork in hand.

  I would go to see Jake that night. I had to. It was an important night for him. And no matter what had happened, we were friends—old friends, solid friends, maybe even best friends (if Jake were able to say the phrase without immediately asking to have a sleepover). I wasn’t kidding myself, twisting reality, or manipulating the truth for my own purposes. Jake and I were friends that would last—not friends who fall away over time, reintroducing themselves every fifth year or so with a Christmas card, complete with pictures of unfamiliar children dressed in holiday colors, surrounded by wreaths and trees, or maybe a fuzzy puppy or two. No, we were face-to-face, phone-calls-daily, dinners-weekly, I-know-what’s-in-your-fridge—and your medicine cabinet—where-you-bought-your-shoes, how-much-rent-you-pay friends. Period.

  I was confident about this. And when I slipped into my new Nanette Lepore dress and slid into my Stephane Kelian pumps, I felt like a soldier preparing for battle. Vanessa be damned. She would, I felt at that moment, literally dissolve in my presence.

  The scene was, predictably, a good one. On one brief half-block stretch, I encountered an Andy Warhol actor, Vincent Gallo, the current Calvin Klein men’s underwear model and Lewis Lapham. I winked at Diego, who was tending the door, and made my way in. It was crowded, the air was thick with the vapors of status and money and lust. Jake had kept the lights low—even though this was an art showing—with only a single candle to illuminate each work. I ordered a vodka tonic and began to scan the crowd’s perimeter.

  It wasn’t long before I caught sight of Vanessa holding court in the center of the room. Most good parties (and Jake’s were always good) had one particular person—almost always a woman—whose presence invigorated the room and sent a kind of electromagnetic charge throughout. She would be in the periphery of just about every man’s line of vision (and not a few women’s). She would be the sun around which all the other shifting constellations of party-goers would orbit.

  Vanessa was definitely the sun tonight. She was the energy source, the power station, the fuel from which the party produced its energy. God, I hated her. Her skin was smooth and bronzed. Her dress was dramatic, what would be described in Vogue’s fashion parlance as “deconstructed” with strangely shaped pieces of fabric strung together in what seemed to be only inconsequentially serving as coverage for the body. Vanessa, in that dress, became avant-garde, progressive and intrinsically cool. Most women would look like they were wearing a trash bag.

  I started to make my way around the space—which, I noted, Jake had done an excellent job of keeping just raw enough. I surveyed the art—mostly paintings, with the few odd sculptural pieces thrown in for good measure. In the corner, a nude couple covered only in silver paint contorted themselves into various intertwining postures—collecting an audience of awed bankers’ wives. It was a typical gallery show in which the act of viewing art was secondary to both the act of being seen viewing art as well as watching others view said art.

  I hadn’t gotten very far along when one particular painting caught my eye. It looked familiar. It looked like me. A voice came from behind me.

  “No, you’re not imagining it.”

  Jake.

  I turned and smiled. I could feel my heart in my throat. “I’m so glad to see you,” I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  He looked so perfect in his black suit and three-day stubble. He seemed to be every bit the downtown curator that he meant to portray.

  “Did you paint this, Jake?” Who else would have painted it? I thought. I was shocked and touched. It made me miss him more desperately than I already did. He said nothing.

  “How’ve you been?” I asked tentatively.

  “I’ve been okay.”

  Awkward silence had never been an issue for Jake and me. I felt that my very presence repulsed him.

  “Listen, can we go outside for a second?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  “We’re talking.”

  I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him stone-faced in front of me and wondered if Jake would ever be Jake again.

  “Come on,” he said finally, and headed toward the door.

  In the corner of my eye, I could see Vanessa watching us. For the first time in a long while, I felt a flutter of hope.

  We rounded the corner and Jake leaned against a lamppost, staring up at the sky. I sat down on a fire hydrant and looked up at him, unsure of what to say.

  “I’m not dating Cecily anymore, in case you’re wondering,” he said, still not looking at me. “She broke up with me actually—I know you were concerned about her feelings.”

  I deserved that.

  “Are you dating Vanessa?” I hadn’t meant to ask, but I was too curious not to.

  “Why do you care? Or are you just worried about her stealing Colin away?”

  I deserved that, too.

  “No, to answer your question. Vanessa’s an artist. This is business. That’s all.”

  “Colin and I aren’t together anymore. He was cheating on me the whole time with Cecily.” I could tell he was startled by that last bit, but he quickly recovered.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I was wrong about them, Jake. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things.”

  More silence.

  “So why did you come tonight?” he asked finally.

  “Because I wanted to see you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you’re my friend.” I looked down. “My best friend.”

  “Lena, I didn’t paint that picture of you.”

  “You didn’t?” I was confused.

  “Nick painted that picture. It was from a long time ago.”

  “He did?” My stomach fell flat. “I just thought—”

  “I know what you thought. I know exactly how you think. God, Lena, you’re thinking I painted that picture and that means that I’m going to forget about what happened between us and we’ll just go back to normal. We can’t go back. You can’t expect me to follow your imagination’s story line. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Jake, please just let me—”

  But Jake wasn’t listening. He kicked the lamppost with his foot and lit up a cigarette. “God, Lena, do you think I wanted to confront you at Colin’s house? Of course not. But you were so wrapped up in him, I could never get in touch with you. Do you know how completely freaked out I was?”

  “Freaked out by what? What was it?”

  “Oh my God.” He looked at me now. “You still don’t get it?”

  “Get what, Jake? Tell me,” I said, my eyes searching his.

  “Lena, that night, I was trying to tell you.” He stopped himself.

  “What? Please.” I moved toward him.

  He looked me in the eyes. “I was going to tell you that I loved you,” he said.

  I felt my whole body go numb. I couldn’t breathe.

  “When you feel something like that, you can’t wait for the appropriate time to express it,” he said.

  I looked down, too overcome to meet his gaze.

  “Maybe you’ll feel that way about somebody someday, Lena.”

  And with that, Jake turned and wal
ked away. Again.

  “Scotch and soda, please.” I took a seat at the end of the bar. After my conversation with Jake, I walked aimlessly around downtown until I found myself standing in front of Super Si’s bar. It seemed right—I needed to think and this place centered me better than yoga. The nighttime crowd was younger and livelier than the daytime scene, but it was still fairly empty.

  “Well, well, well, drinking alone, I see.” That English accent sounded familiar. Nick? God, it was becoming difficult to be anonymous in this city.

  “I could say the same for you, Nick.” Judging by the look of him, the last thing he needed was a drink. His eyes were bloodshot, he could use a good shave, and the fresh smear of ink from the stamp on the back of his hand made me wonder if he had rolled out of the nearest club.

  “I saw you at Jake’s party earlier. What made you rush off so quickly?” he asked, and for a second I wondered if he had seen me talking to Jake.

  “I guess I wasn’t in the mood. Why are you here, anyway?” I asked, not caring whether I sounded rude.

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I’m here to have a celebratory drink. And, ironically enough, I have you to thank.” He took the seat beside me. “Barkeep, one flute of your best champagne, s’il vous plaît.” He tapped the bar for emphasis.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You, my dear, made me a cool five grand tonight.”

  “Don’t be funny, Nick. It doesn’t work for you.”

  “Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” he said, unable to stop the smirk from spreading across his face. I didn’t answer.

  The bartender placed Nick’s champagne down on the bar. It was in a wineglass with the words “Holiday Cheers 1996” printed in chipping green and red paint.

  “Well, if you must know, your adoring friend Jake just bought my portrait of you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Nick took a very festive swig of champagne and laughed. “He actually got into a rather nasty bidding war with a very nice retired couple from Westchester. They were about to close on it, but he dashed over, put his teeth in and wouldn’t let go.”

  “He did?” I said with disbelief.

  “He did, indeed. And the funny thing is, he’s my dealer now. He’s supposed to be making money off of me, not giving it to me!” Nick was lost in the memory, his face shiny with glee and greed. “Glad I finally got a return on investment for our rather dismal relationship,” he said.

  But I wasn’t listening. All I could think about was Jake.

  “He’s a real knight in shining armor, that one,” Nick snorted as he slung back another swallow of champagne.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh God, Lena. Don’t play dumb with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, when are you two gonna stop fucking around and just get it the fuck over with? It’s annoying.”

  “That’s a lovely sentiment, thanks, Nick.”

  “Jesus, it was bad enough having to put up with your ridiculous charade when we were dating, but just be real for once.”

  “You think I want to go out with Jake?”

  “For Christ’s sake, yes. And he’s practically obsessed with you. Back when we were together, his girl Mandy or Mindy, the one with the dog—”

  “Miranda.”

  “Yeah, Miranda. We used to joke about it.”

  “Miranda was always paranoid.”

  “Whatever, Lena.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, is she single now?”

  “Look, this is crazy. I love Jake, but—”

  “But what? Why do you make everything so goddamn complicated?”

  “I don’t. It’s not complicated. We just know each other too well.”

  “Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you know him inside out and that you love him, but the idea of taking it further is out of the question.”

  “Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

  “Lena, darling, if I may be completely frank with you, I think what you’re saying is that you’re scared shitless.”

  I wasn’t sure how best to respond to that, so I just went with, “Oh God, why am I even talking about this with you?”

  “You’re just pissed because I have you figured out and you can’t stand it,” he said, the smirk returning to his face.

  “You think you’ve got me figured out?” I laughed out loud. “So then tell me, Nick, why do you think we broke up?”

  “That’s easy.”

  “Oh really. Enlighten me.” This should be entertaining, I thought.

  “Because we never dated.”

  “Come again?”

  “You dated an artist named Nick, but that’s about all he had to do with me. Your Nick was some kind of mythical figure who quoted Joyce and went to the symphony.” His face turned sour. “That whole charade was exhausting. I was actually quite relieved to be done with it.”

  “You think I tried to make you into something that you weren’t?”

  “Bingo, as you Americans like to say. By the way, I was actually born in Scranton. I knew that would kill you if you found out while we were dating.”

  “Nick, you have it all wrong.” I tried to sound convincing.

  “Listen, as much as I’d love to continue to belabor the state of your love life with you, I have a very hot rendezvous with one Ms. Vanessa Vilroy.” He finished his drink and took out his wallet.

  “Vanessa Vilroy?” I repeated the name.

  “Yeah, do you know her? She was at the party earlier—and she looked fucking amazing, by the way.” He seemed lost in the memory of Vanessa and her sexy dress.

  “I do know her, actually. You two would make quite a couple.” I smiled to myself.

  “Oh man, looks like I’m out of cash at the moment,” Nick said as he closed his empty wallet. “You’ll spot me the drink though, right, love?”

  “Just like old times, love,” I said.

  And with a wink and a smile, Nick—or whoever he was—disappeared.

  chapter 15

  I had been waiting for Tess at the corner of Gansevoort and Ninth Avenue for close to half an hour. It was the night of Parker’s engagement party, which also meant that it was the night I would see Greg again for the first time in five years. Tess and I had a plan, though—never, ever let each other out of our sight. We would arrive together, mingle together and, in general, save each other from either tedious or traumatic interactions.

  The very idea that I would be sharing oxygen and finger food with Greg Olin within the hour was too much for me to comprehend. I couldn’t even imagine what he looked like now. When I tried, all I could come up with was a hazy picture of a balding and bloated blank-faced man, albeit one who was still wearing Tevas and Levi’s, a backward baseball cap, and a Jansport backpack.

  With all the recent chaos in my life, I hadn’t really had the time to properly obsess over our imminent reunion. I had, however, found the time to obsess over my outfit for the evening and had purchased a wildly expensive black Versace dress, cleverly rationalizing the cost as the price one must pay to calm one’s nerves. My cardinal rule—if you can’t rise above, at least look like you’ve risen to another income bracket.

  I looked at my watch. Where was Tess? We were officially late and I noticed the neighborhood’s working “girls” were beginning to start their shifts on the corner. I tapped my foot and made accidental eye contact with a slow-moving BMW that had circled the block at least twice before. The driver stopped the car in front of me. Oh God, what do I do? (I was not a little offended that he mistook my high fashion for transvestite hooker-wear.)

  “Hey there, are you looking for a date?” A pasty middle-aged man leaned out the window lecherously.

  Wasn’t that supposed to be my line? I thought to myself.

  “Uh…” I mean, I was looking for a date. When wasn’t I looking for a date?

  “You look like you’re ready for a good time,” he continued.

&nbs
p; Okay, that was far enough. I should just cut to the chase.

  “I’m a woman,” I said with finality. I was sure of that, at least.

  He examined me for a second as though I might not be telling the truth. Jesus, this was not the self-esteem boost that I needed before reuniting with my ex-boyfriend and engaging in the painful task of premarital revelry for hours on end.

  “Damn bitch,” he said, slamming on the accelerator, spraying a thick mist of mud all over my outfit. Men.

  “Lena?”

  Tess called my name as she got out of a cab.

  “Lena, who was in that car?”

  “Some guy who thought I was a transvestite prostitute,” I said plaintively as I looked at my dress in disbelief.

  “I see,” she said.

  “What am I going to do about my outfit?” Let’s get to the important matters first, I thought.

  “Oh honey.” Tess leaned over to inspect the damage. “I’m so sorry I’m late.” She glanced at her watch. “There’s no time to go home—it’s ten till nine.”

  “That’s okay—how bad is it?” I moaned but felt so much better already, glad that Tess was there to be the mom of the situation, to listen to me whine and to make everything right again.

  “We’ll go straight to the bathroom when we get there. I’ll fix it and it’ll be good as new,” she said.

  My heart rested. Tess would take care of it. And then…

  “Hey there. I’m sorry we’re late.” A beautiful man emerged like a phoenix from Tess’s cab. His bronzed, muscular arms encircled Tess. Macho Macchiato.

  “Lena, this is Marcel,” Tess said.

  I stared back at him, transfixed (partly by surprise and partly by his utter gorgeousness). Tess eyed me nervously.

  “Hi there. It’s great to meet you.” I extended my scrawny, chalk-white hand, which he enthusiastically shook with his warm, beautiful one.

  “It’s really a pleasure to meet you, too.” He even sounded like he meant it.

  He was wearing a tie. He was coming with us. I was glad for Tess—this was big for her. She’d come to an emotional crossroads and had made it to the other side. She had found someone who she actually had a passion for, was invested in, someone meaningful to her who was able to seep beneath her cynical surface.