Jenny Lopez Has a Bad Week

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘Oh, wow, I just suddenly really, really need the bathroom.’ Alex leapt out of his seat, rubbing his head awkwardly. ‘Ladies.’

  ‘Did you kiss him?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes … ’ I admitted. ‘But it’s fine. Really. He’s sweet. You always painted him to be such a dick and he’s not. A little practised, maybe, but not a dick.’

  ‘Let me guess: he asked about your childhood, told you about his parents’ divorce and then told you that you were really smart?’ She stared at me across the table. ‘Classic Craig.’

  ‘He actually said I was funny.’ I pressed my fingers into my temples. ‘Man, am I so out of practice I don’t know when I’m being played?’

  ‘I want to say no but signs point to “You think?”’ Angie kicked me under the table. ‘You can get out of this any time. You have work tomorrow, I’m here to back you up and, bloody hell, it’s only Craig. You don’t even need an excuse.’

  ‘I guess.’ I couldn’t believe it. And I was trying to work out why he’d told me I was ‘funny’ if his standard line was ‘smart’?

  Not giving me time to work anything out, Casanova reappeared with two large, garishly coloured cocktails. But it was too late. My buzz was officially killed and the idea of even sipping on that thing made my stomach turn over. I had another date scheduled for that evening and it was with a grilled cheese and my bed. Alone.

  ‘These are the best, baby,’ Craig’s hand slipped under the table and onto my thigh. I sat up straight, my eyes open wide. Why hadn’t I worn jeans? ‘One taste and you’ll never want anything else.’

  ‘What’s it called?’ I asked, trying to wriggle backwards into my fixed seat, but instead of loosening his grip, he took it as a come-on and his hand slid closer to something he would never, ever get his dirty paws on.

  ‘I call it the Craig,’ he crooned into my ear.

  Dude, really?

  ‘You are so freaking hot. I cannot wait to get you home,’ he whispered. ‘If we even make it home. The bathrooms here are—’

  ‘I need to make a phone call.’ I shoved Craig out of his seat and pushed my way past him, heart beating fast, breath tight and ragged. No way. No way was I being propositioned to get it on in a public restroom on a Thursday night in Brooklyn. Or any night in Brooklyn. Or any public restroom. It had not come to this.

  And so, for the second night in one week, I hailed a cab and ditched a date. So glad that this week was looking better than the last one.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next morning. ‘Just no.’

  Even though I’d only had three drinks the night before, my brain was rattling around inside my skull as if I’d taken it out and freeze-dried it before bed when, in fact, I had actually cleansed, toned and moisturized. Score one for Lopez. Although, I probably lost any points gained due to my intense desire to vomit. Maybe I wouldn’t be running an extra mile that morning. Instead of lacing up my running shoes, I ran a bath, summer time be damned. There were times when only a bath would do.

  I was so disappointed in myself. Old Jenny would never have suffered the trials and tribulations I’d endured this week. My gaydar was totally down, my asshole-recognition software was corrupted and I’d got drunk the night before an important job. Clearly I needed a kick up the ass. And a bloody mary. As soon as I was out the bath, skin moisturized, teeth cleaned and flossed, hair tied back in a practical pony, I turned to my wardrobe. If anything had the power to calm me, it was my closet. I’d spent five years in LA working as a stylist, but I’d spent thirty years living as a fashion addict. When I was broke, I would scour the newspapers for sample sales, hunt down every last designer thread in New York’s finest – and shittiest – thrift stores. No semi-precious stone was left unturned. As soon as I had a real job and real pay-check, I stepped up my game. I started saving, I started splurging, I started my collection.

  The Union had been an awesome stepping-stone job to make connections. As head concierge, I’d had to meet the needs of a lot of persnickety celebs, and that meant hooking them up with ensembles on demand. Within weeks I had every one of the city’s top PRs, fashion houses and department stores on speed-dial and made it my business for them to love me. It wasn’t just my job that depended on it, it was something way more precious. Employee discount. Thanks to secret online checkout codes and special handshakes used in downtown boutiques, my wardrobe had swelled to mammoth proportions. And it was beautiful. Nothing hurt me more than the condition of Angie’s Marc Jacobs satchel. That thing was archive, totally irreplaceable, but it was a mess. I couldn’t even bear to look at the torn lining. Once, it had been a thing of wonder, but as far as I was concerned, it was approaching sad.

  Today’s ensemble needed to be practical, stylish but not too flashy and, above all else, cute. One thing I’d learned working in LA was that no one who was professionally hot wanted to hang around with someone they considered to be gross. You couldn’t be hotter than them, but you had to make some kind of an effort. I settled on skinny black James Jeans pants and a black-and-white striped Rag and Bone tank top with my comfy black YSL Tribute 90 pumps. I was useless in flats. Throwing my Balenciaga motorcycle bag (a well-deserved gift I treated myself to from my old LA roommate’s collection) over my shoulder, I looked myself over in the mirror, gave myself an approving nod and moved over to my dressing table. And so to the make-up.

  Sadie’s driver buzzed my cell just as I was walking through a light spritz of Gucci Guilty.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said out loud. One more look in the mirror and I was out of the door. The sparkling black town car whisked me through the streets of Manhattan, all the way uptown. Erin was holding her event at The Union but Sadie was staying at The Hudson.

  ‘First time you’ve worked with Sadie?’ the driver asked me as we rounded the corner of 57th Street.

  ‘Yep.’ I checked my tasteful make-up in my powder compact and pressed my lips together to refresh my gloss. ‘I hear she’s a handful.’

  ‘A handful?’ He nearly choked on his own laughter. ‘Who lied to you?’

  ‘She’s not a handful?’ I asked carefully.

  ‘I’m the only driver she’ll have.’ He pulled the car up to the kerb and turned to face me. ‘And I’m the only driver who is prepared to put up with her. She’s the biggest dick I ever met. And I never ever speak badly of women.’

  ‘That sounded a lot like speaking badly of women.’

  ‘She’s not a woman,’ he gave me a cheery grin. ‘She’s a hell-hound. You have a good day, though. I’m Chris, by the way. It’s nice to have a name to add in when you’re fetal in the back seat and crying your eyes out later.’

  This was bullshit. There was no way this could possibly be as bad as everyone was saying. I was totally prepared to bet that Erin had briefed this guy to terrify me on purpose. Whatever. I wasn’t scared. By the end of the day, we’d be plaiting each other’s hair and adding each other on Facebook. What was the worst that could happen?

  About three seconds after walking into Sadie’s hotel suite, I realized I had been an idiot. Why don’t I listen to people? Why do I always have to be so relentlessly sure of myself? It wasn’t just my guydar that was out of whack, it was my every instinct. The room looked as though a hurricane had ripped through it. I had worked in hotels for years and I had never seen anything like this. The floor was invisible under piles of clothes, shoes, bottles, boxes, sheets, towels and pretty much anything else I could think of. We were maybe a cat away from an episode of Hoarders. I stepped carefully over an exploded hairdryer, tiptoed around a shattered bottle of perfume and pushed an empty bottle of Jim Beam out of the way with my foot. Whoever had done this hadn’t thrown the flatscreen TV out of the window, but they had wrenched it off the wall and it lay at the bottom of the bed, shards of glass sprinkled around the edges like confetti.

  ‘Sadie?’ My first thought was that she’d been murdered. Seriously. I was doing that thing where you’re looking but not l
ooking, half expecting to find what was left of a supermodel somewhere in the detritus of the room. ‘Sadie, it’s Jenny Lopez. I’m here to get you to the show?’

  Reluctantly, I made my way into the bathroom. Anything bad that happened in hotel rooms almost always happened in the bathroom. The things I had seen … Readying myself for the worst, I opened the door onto a scene that was all too familiar. Giant tub, full to the brim with bubbles, at least five open packets of M&Ms on the soap shelf and a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay hanging over the side, in the hand of a very sorry-looking girl.

  ‘Sadie?’

  ‘I made a mess,’ the girl replied.

  You don’t say.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I set the toilet lid down and perched on the edge. This was interesting.

  ‘No,’ she gave me a look of indignation. ‘Are you an idiot? Don’t you have eyes?’

  ‘Yeah, I got eyes,’ I replied. ‘And I saw the massive shit show in the bedroom. And now I’m seeing a girl in a bathtub who is mainlining candy and drinking wine at ten a.m., so I figured I’d tread carefully. What’s going on?’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Sadie sank further into the water until her nose was covered by bubbles. Whatever products they were using in this hotel were kick-ass. They were some good bubbles. ‘Get out of here.’

  But she didn’t want me to get out. She didn’t curse the day my mother bore me or hurl broken glass at my head. She didn’t even jump out the tub and chase me out of the room kicking and screaming. All of these things and more had happened to me at The Union. It was usually one of the cast of High School Musical.

  ‘What’s wrong with me is a good question.’ I slipped off my shoes. ‘This is kind of my thing. It could be morbid curiosity or, as my friend suggests, it could be because I’m a chronic interferer. I don’t know when to keep myself to myself. So spill. What’s going on? Are you sleeping with Keith Richards or something?’

  Nail. Head. Hit.

  She let out a primal wail and disappeared under the water, dropping the chardonnay to the floor. Quick as a cat, the bottle was in my hand. I didn’t believe in wasting liquor. Ever.

  ‘Well, fuck me, it’s a guy.’ I sighed, stood up and went over to the side of the bath. Thank god Angie hadn’t had this flair for the dramatic when we met. I reached into the bath and grabbed a handful of hair, pulling her up to the surface.

  ‘Honey, no guy is worth drowning yourself in a hotel bathroom over. Maybe the dude who plays Thor. Is it the dude who plays Thor?’

  ‘Dude, my extensions.’ She wriggled and yowled in my grip like a drowning cat. ‘Get off of me.’

  ‘So it’s a guy?’ Satisfied she wasn’t going to try for death by bubbles round two, I let go. My jeans and tank top were saturated. Awesome. ‘Tell me everything.’

  With the sort of confidence that only comes from being a swimsuit model, or really drunk, or both, Sadie lifted herself out of the bath, completely naked, and held her hand out.

  ‘Towel.’

  Nothing I hadn’t seen before, sweet cheeks.

  I handed her a giant, fluffy bath sheet (I always noticed things like the quality of towels and sheets in hotels; I’d worked in hospitality for so long, it was like a sickness) and brushed off the bubbles that stuck to me as she sailed by. All six feet of her and most of it leg. Apparently we were headed back into the bedroom.

  ‘He says he doesn’t love me.’ She threw herself onto the giant bed in the centre of the room, the towel more or less covering her. Just as well given that all the sheets and pillows were strewn across the floor. ‘He says I’m just a dumb model.’

  I couldn’t imagine what gave him that idea.

  ‘He said that we were just fun; he said that he was never in love with me, never respected me.’ She rolled onto her back, her beautiful face puffy and red. I would not want to be the make-up artist who was responsible for making her look human again. ‘He said I’m just a doll. A dumb doll.’

  She turned over, face down into the pillows that remained on the bed. And then the racking sobs began.

  Hands on hips, I surveyed the chaos. OK. I had two hours to get this girl all turned around and to The Union for Erin’s show. Why didn’t I ever listen?

  ‘Sadie,’ I tried not to step in the remains of what looked like an order of Buffalo wings and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘No guy who can make you feel this way, behave this way, is worth getting this upset over.’

  ‘You don’t know him,’ she bellowed. ‘You don’t know how I feel. He’s my heart; he’s everything to me. I would do anything for him.’

  ‘I know I can’t understand.’ I tried another approach, still sticking with the classics. ‘And I don’t doubt that you love him, but would you ever do anything to him that would make him feel the way you’re feeling right now?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Sadie’s voice was a little muffled by the pillows she was attempting to smother herself with. ‘I love him. He could be a clown and I would love him.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a baseball player,’ she replied.

  ‘So he kinda is a clown.’ I utched further up the bed. ‘Honey, you’re one of the biggest models on earth right now. You could have any guy on earth. This isn’t good enough. He isn’t good enough.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I loved an easy win.

  ‘Yeah,’ I agreed.

  ‘But I’m still in love with him. I want him to love me.’

  ‘I don’t know enough about your relationship to really comment.’ I wrung out the edge of my tank top. ‘I only know what I can see and what you’ve told me, but even though he sounds like a total ass to me, if he really does love you, maybe he just needs some time to think about what he did, what he said.’

  ‘You think he might come back?’

  Not in a million years.

  ‘No one knows but him.’

  We sat in a pretty uncomfortable silence for a few minutes while Sadie’s sobs tailed off into sniffles. I checked out the damage to the room from my new angle. It really was impressive. Happily, I noticed all of her clothes and shoes were far away from the violence, hanging neatly in the closet. Girl after my own heart. Trash your room, trash your life, but protect the shoes.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Once the sniffles had subsided into regular desperate, shallow breathing, Sadie turned over, pulled her towel around her body and stared at me.

  ‘Jenny.’ I held out my hand, half expecting her to hand me the towel instead but no, she took it. At least she seemed to be demonstrating some skills as a human. ‘I’m here to get you to the show.’

  ‘You’re my assistant for today?’ She wiped her nose down her arm, tangles of long white-blonde hair starting to dry in a bird’s nest around her head. Maybe not so human.

  ‘I’m with Erin White PR.’ I really didn’t want to say yes. I was worried what it would mean. ‘I’m kinda your chaperone. And amateur therapist.’

  ‘You’re better than my pro.’ She lay back against the pillows. ‘I don’t think I can do the show today.’

  The thing that worried me the most was the incredibly casual nature of the statement.

  ‘Funny.’ I lay across the bottom of the bed, trying to control my blood pressure. ‘Do you have an actual assistant?’ A little help would have been awesome.

  ‘My sister used to do it.’ She stretched a long slender arm way up over her head and tugged at her mess of hair. ‘But I fired her.’

  Oh, maaan.

  ‘Your sister?’

  ‘My twin.’

  Jesus.

  ‘Not identical, obviously.’

  I wasn’t feeling great.

  ‘So, we have a little while before we need to leave … did you eat already?’ Experience told me the best thing to do at a time like this was keep her active. If I let her get comfy, we might never move. I would rather face Erin’s wrath for showing up with the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz than face it for not showing up at all. ‘You want to order room
service?’

  ‘I want pizza,’ she replied, closing her blue eyes. ‘What’s the name of the place in Brooklyn? Down near the water. It’s super-famous.’

  ‘Grimaldi’s?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ she smiled, eyes still closed. ‘You go get me a slice from Grimaldi’s.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ I explained. It was like talking to a child. ‘We have to be at Union Square at twelve, honey.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I meant it when I said I wasn’t doing the show.’ She snuggled in under her towel. ‘I figure if Bry doesn’t love me because I’m a model, I just won’t be a model any more. Make the call, will ya?’

  Son of a bitch. She was entirely serious.

  While I was trying to think of something to say that didn’t start with, ‘listen to me, you bitch,’ I felt my phone buzzing in my purse. ‘I need to take this,’ I explained, unnecessarily. Sadie was preoccupied looking at photos of what I assumed was her boyfriend on her iPhone. And some of those photos were not for my eyes.

  ‘Hey Jenny, it’s me.’

  Me was Erin. Just what I needed.

  ‘Hey,’ I tried to sound as breezy as humanly possible. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just checking in.’ Her voice was brittle. ‘Everything going to plan?’

  If that plan was that the star of today’s super-important show had decided to take early retirement because some misogynistic ass-hat had broken her heart and she was about to destroy her body by consuming her first carbs since 2001, then yes, things were going totally to plan. FML. Maybe I should just give in and call Craig. Definitely needed to stop by the kitty shelter on the way home.

  ‘I knew you could do this.’ Erin let out a sigh that sounded as if she was breathing out the weight of the world. ‘I know she’s a complete bitch but I knew you’d be able to handle her. You, Jenny Lopez, are a star.’

  A star, a delight, funny. So many compliments had been thrown my way over the last few days, but none of them were really helping me out. Where was capable? Where was professional? And, Craig, where the hell was smart? Had I lost my edge? I ended my call with Erin and turned to face Sadie, who was happily dozing on the bed. Right. This was happening. This woman was going to be at The Union at twelve p.m. sharp if it was the last thing I did. And if I had to drag her there on my hands and knees, it probably would be. I would not be beaten.