Live from New York, It's Lena Sharpe

by Courtney Litz

  “I was daydreaming,” she responded after a moment.

  “What do you mean exactly?” I asked.

  Parker leaned her head back and looked up at the ceiling. “We were sitting at brunch today. We weren’t talking about the wedding or his job stress and we weren’t arguing about any of the things we usually argue about. We were just sitting there.” Her voice got quieter. “I started watching the other people around us—the families and the couples and I realized that we were the only ones not talking. And then I got this image in my head of the two of us sitting across from each other, thirty years from now, silent. The sad truth is that Brad and I really don’t have a lot to say to each other.” She raised her head to look at us. “Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, it does,” I said quietly as Tess nodded.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Parker said.

  But any of us could have said it. We had all been moving in fits and starts toward what we believed to be our prescribed fates, our “destinies.” And then something—everything—had changed. It was like watching a movie and the picture suddenly goes to black—but when it comes back on, a completely different film appears.

  “God, what am I going to do?” Parker said quietly.

  “Honey, you’re going to be fine. I’m just so proud of you for facing this head-on,” Tess said.

  “She’s right, Parker. Do you know how many people wouldn’t be brave enough to do what you just did?”

  “I don’t feel brave. I feel stupid. Every single person in this restaurant is going to think I’m a flake.”

  “Parker.” I sat up on my flour sack and leaned toward her. “All this wedding stuff…pretty much everything on the other side of these swinging doors, is just a fantasy. You’re dealing with what’s real. And most people never want to face that. I certainly didn’t.”

  “But now you have?” Parker said softly.

  “Now I’m starting to,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Tess added.

  “God, look at the three of us.” Parker smiled. “There’s a great party out there and we’re all hiding in the kitchen.” Then she gathered herself together, making clear that her time to wallow had come to an end. “Okay, I’ve got to go out there for the toast.”

  “Oh honey, don’t you think you can probably skip the toast?” Tess said.

  “No.” She was resolute. “This is an engagement party so there must be an engagement toast.”

  Tess and I shared a nervous look.

  “Plus, I’m dying to try this vintage champagne that I managed to buy wholesale from Veuve Cliquot.” Parker’s eyes lit up, remembering her score.

  Parker was going to be all right. She’d have some explaining to do, but she’d be all right.

  We all got up, dusted ourselves off, and marched out the kitchen’s swinging doors like Charlie’s Angels. I made a beeline for the bathroom—finally. Once inside, I grabbed a stack of paper towels, secured myself in a stall and got to work. It felt so good to be alone.

  As if on cue, I heard the bathroom door swing open and the staccato clip of heels on linoleum. A cell phone rang and I soon realized that I was listening, once again, to the shrill sounds of Sienna Skye.

  “Hi, Whitney, thanks for calling me back. I’m dying here.”

  Okay, this could be interesting. I peered through the crack in the stall’s door to see Sienna bent over the sink examining her pores in the mirror. Did Sienna Skye have pores? Maybe she was trying to figure that out herself.

  “I mean, Jesus Christ, if I hear one more word about that stupid book, you know? I’m like, try making three movies in one year and balance a recurring role on the WB’s hottest teen drama.”

  There was a pause and then a loud cackle as Sienna vociferously agreed with Whitney’s response.

  “And you know—he’s so not as cute as Nadine said.”

  Nadine set this up? Of course.

  “And he’s totally losing his hair.”

  Right on, sister! I felt a sudden urge for a high five.

  “You’re so right.” Sienna was nodding her head. Apparently, Whitney was rife with wisdom. “I knooooow!” Sienna was off on another laughing fit, during which she dropped her lip gloss, which rolled off the counter and over toward the stall next to me. I repositioned myself, careful not to be caught. As I was leaning against the door, I caught sight of Sienna Skye bending down to retrieve the wayward gloss, her micromini edging up her Hawaiian Tropic legs.

  What I saw next would change my view of the world from that moment forward, it would sustain my belief in justice and equality for all of womankind, it would reinvigorate my hope for myself and my future. Sienna Skye had cellulite.

  I emerged from the bathroom with a smile on my face, a mud-free dress (well, less muddy, anyway) and a spring in my step. Spotting fat deposits on a stick-thin starlet can really lift one’s spirits, I decided. I made my way to the bar and took a seat, surveying the crowd. Off to my left, I saw a lone couple dancing intimately.

  “I give them two months.” I recognized the voice behind me. “If the weather stays nice, maybe three.”

  “Why do you say that?” I said, without turning. “I think they look very happy together.”

  “I’ve always admired your optimism.” He paused. “I know I did my very best to make you cynical.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be here tonight,” I said, turning around to look at him for the first time.

  “I didn’t think I would, either,” he said.

  “So, why did you come?” I asked.

  “Well, I knew my best friend would be here.” He paused for a moment, “and I needed to apologize to her.” He looked down at me. “Lena, I’m so sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Jake, did you really buy Nick’s portrait of me?”

  “I did,” he said. “And you’re one lucky girl, I might add. If I hadn’t swooped down and bought it, your face would have ended up above a sectional sofa in Scarsdale. Probably in a rec room,” he said with a shiver.

  I laughed. It felt so good to laugh with Jake again.

  Jake leaned forward and wiped my face gently with a napkin. “You’re going to scare that guy away if you don’t clean yourself up here,” he teased me.

  “What guy?”

  “That guy, standing by the coat check who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked up to the bar.”

  Instinctively I turned to look. The guy in question, a Jude Law look-alike, immediately turned away, embarrassed.

  “What makes you think I’d like him?”

  “Because I know you, Lena.”

  “You do know me. Better than I know myself sometimes, right?” I held his gaze for one brief moment.

  “Okay, would you stop making me beg here for you to go talk to the hot guy in the corner?” he said, breaking the tension. “I already feel like Duckie in Pretty in Pink.”

  “I don’t want to talk to that guy,” I said.

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a firefly.”

  “He’s a what?”

  “Nothing. Because I’d rather stay here and talk to you.”

  We stood like that for a moment, watching the couple dance in front of us.

  “So, tell me. Why do you think this couple won’t last?” I asked.

  He paused. “Because I know them. And I know they were friends first and that they just sort of fell into a relationship.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  He turned to look at me. “It’s not?” he said. He seemed so vulnerable, so un-Jake-like.

  “No.”

  “But what if it doesn’t work?”

  “But what if it does?”

  “It could change things.”

  “It could change everything.”

  We were staring at each other now, the dancing couple long forgotten.

  “Did I ever
tell you—” Jake moved in closer, his confidence was back “—how amazing you are?”

  “I think you did,” I said, looking up at him. “But I was too preoccupied to listen.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m ready.”

  “Well, how do we do this?”

  “We don’t do anything,” I said. “Don’t anticipate. Just follow the music.”

  And with that, we joined the dancing couple, out on the floor. Taking our turn. Just another two singles, trying their luck as a pair.

  5,4,3,2,1… Rolling

  Cue Music—

  Kelly Karaway, Host: Hello and welcome everyone to Face to Face. I’m Kelly Karaway. I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce you to our newest Face to Face correspondent—Lena Sharpe. Each week, she’ll be bringing you a slice of “real life” as she hosts “Reality Check,” a new segment for the show. Hello and welcome, Lena!

  Lena Sharpe, Correspondent: Thanks, Kelly.

  Kelly Karaway: Tell us all about this exciting new segment, Lena.

  Lena Sharpe: Well, Kelly, the idea is to shine the spotlight on some interesting people that you likely haven’t heard of before.

  Kelly Karaway: Everyday people?

  Lena Sharpe: That’s one way of putting it.

  Kelly Karaway: Mmm…that’s so real. Why don’t you give us a sneak peek at what’s coming up.

  Lena Sharpe: Sure. Our first segment profiles Svetlana Ostrakov. She’s currently a waitress at an East Village restaurant, but, in her former life, she was a principle dancer in the Kirov Ballet. We’re going to take a look at her life and hear some of her wisdom.

  Kelly Karaway: That’s fascinating, Lena. So you mean to tell me that I could just go downtown and order a cup of coffee from her right now?

  Lena Sharpe: That’s right.

  Kelly Karaway: Well, I might just do that! I can’t wait to hear her stories.

  Lena Sharpe: Yes, well, everyone has a story, Kelly. That’s what “Reality Check” is all about.

  Kelly Karaway: Now tell me, Lena Sharpe, what’s your story?

  Lena Sharpe: That’s an interesting question, Kelly. I think my story is still unfolding, and I can honestly say that I can’t wait to find out what happens next.

  CUT

  LIVE FROM NEW YORK, IT’S LENA SHARPE

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4870-0

  © 2004 by Courtney Litz.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

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