Peabody-Lathams? She knew immediately this wasn’t a feminist joining of bride and groom names. This was his family name, which his wife took on. Dana would eat her Easter bonnet if these two weren’t Old Money. She immediately imagined Grandmama Peabody-Latham furnishing the rooms and supplying the first year’s rent.
When they reached the apartment, Dana noticed two things simultaneously. The herringbone wood floors were a rich, warm reddish brown—even lovelier than they looked in the photograph—but the living room wasn’t nearly as sunny. It didn’t dampen Dana’s enthusiasm, but she hoped the Peabody-Lathams were at least a little turned off.
“I thought it would be sunnier,” Dana said, pointedly.
“So did I,” the man said. “How about you, Ainsley Beth?”
Ainsley Beth? These people loved burdening their kids with extra names.
“It gets sun in the morning,” the Realtor assured them. “And it’s an overcast day. Let me show you the kitchen.”
Even though she knew the answer, Dana inquired about a doorman.
“I was just about to ask that,” said Ainsley Beth.
The Realtor explained that there were only twelve units in the building, so it didn’t warrant that kind of staff. But it was a good neighborhood, she assured them, and there were never any security problems.
Dana had to fight the urge to gush over every detail. She needed to play it cool, pretend the place wasn’t all that. In fact, it was all that and more. When the couple shut themselves into the second bedroom to have a private chat, Dana feared they were phoning Grandmama to get the money wired.
When they emerged from the bedroom, the husband put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and told the Realtor they needed some time to think it over.
Time? Ha! Old Money could buy a lot of things, but not New York savvy.
Dana waited until they left, counted two beats and then turned to the Realtor with her decision.
4
On Friday, as Dana sat in the hair-and-makeup room getting ready for her set, she wasn’t thinking about the rooftop party, the apartment she hadn’t yet told Ari about or even the line of clothing she would be selling on that day’s show. She was thinking about a conversation she’d had with Megan several months ago—a conversation she liked to replay at quiet moments.
“Was it great?” Megan had asked. “You look like the poster child for post-coital bliss.”
It was the day after Dana had first slept with Ari Marks, and she was still floating in a dreamy haze.
“Great?” she had repeated, mulling over the syllable. “I think that word is too...terrestrial.”
Megan’s eyes went wide. “Tell me.”
Dana studied her own hand, a shiver tickling the tips of each vertebra as she remembered the transcendence of Ari’s touch, the spark of his desire igniting her. And sure, she understood that there was always hunger in sex, especially after the tease of a relationship that took so long to finally click. But this...this was an alchemy she never could have imagined.
“You know that specific sex feeling,” she said, “that desperate please, please, please, you—”
“I get it,” Megan interrupted. “You were in the elevator and wanted to reach the penthouse.”
Dana shook her head. “Not just that,” she said. “I’m talking about...the feeling that there’s always more.”
“Darwin 101,” Megan explained. “It’s what keeps us having sex—we’re compelled to feel like we haven’t quite reached the final destination.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Dana said. “With Ari, it feels like I’m there. Right there.”
Megan reached out and gave her friend’s hand a squeeze. “I’m glad, Dana. Just remember that this stupid wonderful feeling doesn’t last. It can’t. I’m not saying it won’t work out with Ari—just that it’ll change.”
Megan’s heart was in the right place, but on this, she was wrong. Because here Dana was, all these months later, and it hadn’t changed. If anything, the feeling had intensified.
Now, she tried to focus on her show as the two most gossipy women in the company were busy making her camera-ready. But their chatter centered around what they planned to wear to the company party that night.
“Not a tank top,” Jo, the manicurist, was saying. “More like a blouse, in a shiny copper.”
Felicia, the makeup woman, nodded. “That color will be gorgeous with your eyes.”
They had the kind of thick New York accents you heard in old sections of Queens or Brooklyn. Neighborhood accents, utterly unselfconscious. It was like overhearing a conversation on a stoop, and Dana loved the music of it. As an actor, she listened for the nuances she could imitate if a role ever called for it. Dat cullah will be gawjis wityawreyes.
“What are you wearing tonight?” Jo asked Dana, as she worked on her nails.
As a Shopping Channel host, her hands were everything, and Dana got a fresh manicure before every show.
“I brought a dress to change into. Black V-neck.” The party was just after her segment, and she would have enough time to make a quick change in her dressing room and go right up to the roof.
“Clingy?” Felicia asked.
Dana nodded. It was her favorite cocktail dress, and she worried that it might be just a little too sexy for a work event, especially since she planned on cozying up to the ostentatiously pious Ivan Dennison. But she hardly ever had an excuse to wear it. And besides, the rest of her wardrobe was still evolving from her days as a Hot Topic cashier, and she knew that a concert T-shirt and ripped jeans weren’t going to cut it tonight.
There was a knock on the open door, and Dana looked up to see Ari, his tall form filling the doorway. Her heart bobbed in a bath of pure pleasure. She hadn’t been expecting him, but wasn’t surprised he had been able to get past security without her permission. Being a New York City homicide detective had its advantages.
Still, he rarely popped in, and she took a quick scan of his expression to make sure nothing was wrong. As a detective, he had perfected his poker face, never giving too much away. But over the months, she had come to read him, and could discern a hint of joy dancing in his winter-blue eyes. She wondered what good news he had received, and hoped it had to do with the exam he had taken to qualify for a promotion to detective sergeant. She had been waiting breathlessly for those results so she could tell him about the apartment.
“Look who’s here,” Jo said, switching to a kittenish voice. “I hope you brung your handcuffs, Detective.”
Dana shook her head, amused. It was harmless flirting, and Jo couldn’t help herself. Few men were as tall, dark and smoldering as Ari.
“Did someone break the law?” he asked, playfully.
Jo fanned herself with her hand, as if the room were getting too hot. “Oh, I’m a bad girl.” She tilted her head coquettishly.
“Okay, cool it,” Dana added, good-naturedly enough for everyone to laugh. She looked up at Ari. “You have news?”
“I passed,” he said, trying to keep his expression in check. He wasn’t entirely successful, and his smile warmed her like cognac.
“Passed what?” Jo asked.
“An NYPD promotion exam,” Dana explained.
“You got a promotion?” Felicia chirped. “Congratulations!”
“Not so fast,” Ari said. “It’s just step one. I have to be recommended by my superiors.”
“An important step,” Dana said. “I’m proud of you.”
He walked inside the room and gave her a careful hug, avoiding her nails and makeup. And even that small touch felt significant, as if he were conveying a message about their future. If this promotion comes through, he seemed to be saying, everything will fall into place for us.
He released her and she looked into his eyes, certain she had read his message correctly.
“Y
ou got to suck up to your bosses?” Jo asked.
“Something like that,” he said. “In fact, they’ll all be at the captain’s birthday party with their wives tonight, and I think it’s important for me to show up.”
“You want me to come with?” Dana asked.
“Always,” he said, “but you have your office thing.”
“I could meet up with you afterward. This party shouldn’t go too late.”
He offered a grateful smile and then gave her the details.
“We’ll make sure she don’t drink too much,” Jo said.
“Or flirt,” Felicia added. “She’s wearing a sexy number. I’d be worried if I was you.”
Dana and Ari locked eyes again. His expression remained stoic, but his right eyebrow betrayed him, rising a pica-width. Dana understood. The beginning of their relationship had been fraught with tension, as he came into her life just as she was ending something with a coworker. She moved mountains, drained oceans and rearranged the planets to convince him she and the sound guy were history, but some of the hurt lingered. Besides, Lorenzo still worked at the channel, which meant daily intimate contact as he threaded a microphone wire under her clothing.
Felicia looked from Dana to Ari. “You know I was just kidding, right? You got nothing to worry about. She’s insane for you.”
“How could she not be?” Jo said.
Ari’s tension released into a laugh as he gave Dana’s shoulder a final squeeze, and left. She imagined showing up at his event and charming his superiors. Then she could tell him about the apartment, and he’d be mad, but maybe not too much. And once he saw the place he would understand she had done it for them, and that it was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. In the end, he’d be grateful, and eventually they would laugh about it.
A short while later, as Felicia stroked mascara onto Dana’s lashes, another unexpected visitor appeared in the doorway. Ivan Dennison.
“Hello!” he called jovially. Dana intuited that he intended to be booming, but his voice was thin and tinny, concentrated in the space behind his nose.
Still, he managed to suck the relaxed energy right out of the room. The three women returned his greeting, but he made his next comment looking straight at Dana.
“I hope you’re coming to the party tonight. Big news!” Then he winked, and left.
“What do you think that means?” Felicia asked.
“I bet Dana’s getting the prime-time slot,” Jo said.
Dana shook her head, as that would be good news for her, but bad news for Vanessa Valdes, who currently hosted that show. “I don’t think he’d be announcing that at the party,” she said.
Felicia put the mascara wand back in the tube and twisted it shut. “What, then?”
Dana shrugged. She couldn’t figure it out, but one thing was certain. Ivan wanted her there, and she would use that to her advantage.
Less than an hour later, Dana was on set, standing next to a rack of hooded tops made by SoftChic, a line of cotton knits that bridged the gap between sweats and casual wear. Her live running commentary was accented by constant rubbing and touching and cooing to drive home the sensual softness of the fabric. She spoke directly into the camera as if sharing a special secret with her closest friend, and listened as her segment producer, Jessalyn, whispered into her earpiece: Heather blue is moving—push desert sand. Dana pulled the tan shirt off the rack and did a riff on the sumptuousness of the color, explaining how great it would look with jeans. She ran her hands up and down her own sleeves, giving herself a hug to show how much she loved wrapping herself in the cozy cotton. She twirled to illustrate the loose and forgiving fit, which she insisted would flatter every body type.
At last, the show wound down and Jessalyn said, “Good work. You were 1.2 percent over projections.”
Dana let out a breath. It was a squeaker.
She hurried to her dressing room, where her manager—who also happened to be her best friend—was waiting for her. As Dana’s official rep, Megan had been invited to the company party, and was decked out for it in a short red dress and high black boots.
“Wow,” Dana said. “You look hot.”
She meant it. Megan Silvestri often complained about her looks, but Dana thought she nailed it with a dress that flattered her ample curves and complemented her olive skin and lush, dark hair.
“Only because you’re still in that schmatta,” Megan said. “Once you slither into your dress, I’ll go back to looking like a troll by comparison.”
“Trust me, if we were going to a bar, guys would push me out of the way to get to you.”
“Good thing you’re an actor. You almost sold that.”
Dana gave her friend a hug and told her she was a pain in the ass.
Less than a year ago, they were just ordinary besties. But then Megan announced that she was giving up on her acting career, and in the same breath offered to be Dana’s manager. She made a strong case, insisting that she believed in her friend’s talents, and would get her more auditions than her overtaxed agent. Megan’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Dana agreed. She never could have imagined that in a matter of months—just as she was at the end of her financial and emotional rope—Megan would sober her up and march her into an audition at the Shopping Channel.
Dana pulled off the hooded top that would be going back to wardrobe, and took her black dress off the rolling chrome rack in the alcove of her dressing room. She slipped it over her head and smoothed it out. It was long-sleeved, with a plunging neckline and a flouncy skirt that emphasized her long legs. She opened the shoebox she had brought, and pulled out a pair of glittery silver platform pumps with dangerously high heels.
“You sure you want to wear fuck-me heels to an office event?” Megan asked.
“Bad idea?”
“Not if you want to get laid.”
Dana bit her lip, thinking about her later rendezvous with Ari, and the amorous mood that would surely follow. “I’ll take my chances.”
5
When Dana first learned that the company was throwing a rooftop party in November, she thought she had gone to work for a group of sadists.
“We’ll freeze out there,” she had said.
But they insisted the Shopping Channel always held rooftop parties in the fall, with the help of massive outdoor heaters and a semi-enclosed tent. Coats and scarves, she was assured, were unnecessary, and it would all be quite lovely.
Still, she was unprepared for the transformation of the rooftop. When she and Megan pushed open the metal door, they found themselves in a twinkling urban wonderland, right there on the West Side of Manhattan. Strings of delicate white lights outlined every surface. Even the George Washington Bridge, arching majestically over the Hudson River in the distance, seemed part of the enchanted décor. The only thing that broke the spell was the deafening volume of the party. An industrial generator had been brought to the roof, and a band on the far end had their amps cranked up to overpower the pulsing noise. It was a little bit like holding a party inside the engine of a Boeing.
“It’s beautiful,” Dana shouted.
Megan cupped her hand to her ear. “What?”
“I said it’s beautiful!”
“I can’t hear you.”
Dana took a deep breath and boomed, “It’s beautiful!”
Megan laughed. “I’m fucking with you, Dana.”
“What?” Dana said.
Megan opened her mouth to repeat herself, but stopped when she caught Dana’s expression. “Funny.”
Dana pointed to a setup on the other end of the roof, beyond the white tent. “I think that’s the bar.”
The tent was more like a canopy they had to pass under to reach the two bartenders—one male, one female—who were moving with the quick grace of experience as their nimble hands shook and squeezed and poured and plunked to meet the
needs of a line of impatient New Yorkers.
It was warmer under the vinyl, with all the bodies concentrated and the giant heaters at full blast. There was a clear plastic square in the center of the tent’s ceiling, so people could look up at the stars. Dana preferred the open air, but passing through the crowd gave her a chance to ogle all her coworkers and their plus-ones. Eleanor Gratz was there with a man Dana presumed to be her husband. He was about her height, with blond hair and a scruffy beard. When Dana got close enough to say hello, she could tell he was quite a bit younger than his wife. Maybe by about ten years. Eleanor introduced him as, “My husband, Philip Wagoner,” and Dana understood that since Eleanor hadn’t changed her name, she made a point of giving her husband’s full name so no one would make the mistake of referring to him as Mr. Gratz.
Dana introduced the two of them to Megan, and soon learned that Mr. Wagoner taught at a private middle school in upper Manhattan.
Before the conversation wound down, Eleanor put a hand on Dana’s shoulder and gave a nod toward the area of the tent where Ivan was holding court amidst a circle of eager sycophants. Dana made note of it. She would approach him when the party settled down a bit. At very least, she needed a drink first.
Dana’s new temporary assistant, Ashlee St. Pierre, was also surrounded by admirers trying to get her attention. She was an imposing beauty—over six feet tall and defiantly big-boned, as if her very existence (and certainly her confidence) told the fashion industry it could just go to hell. As a child, Ashlee had done the pageant circuit in her home state of Tennessee. It was, Dana assumed, where she learned her poise and self-assurance. And like so many Shopping Channel staffers, she had acting ambitions.
Megan grabbed Dana’s arm, breaking her reverie. “Who’s that guy?” she asked, pointing to an unfamiliar man at the bar. He was mid-to-late twenties, with a big square head and a pleasant face. To Dana, he wasn’t particularly handsome, but Megan had a type, and this guy was custom-made, from his tousled hair and nerd glasses to his rumpled sports jacket and jeans. Dana hoped, for Megan’s sake, he wasn’t someone’s date.
The Rooftop Party Page 3