Name Dropping

by Jane Heller

  “I know, I know. I’m sinking deeper,” I said sheepishly. “I hate lying.”

  “You’re not lying,” she maintained. “As I said the other day, you’re having an adventure.”

  “An adventure,” I repeated, nodding.

  “Although, technically, you are lying,” she added.

  “Janice.”

  “But you’re not doing it to trap Bill, like some pathetic Rules girl. You’re doing it to satisfy your curiosity about the other Nancy Stern, about what it would be like to live her life. That’s accurate, isn’t it?”

  “It was. It is. It depends.”

  She laughed. “The important question is, how long do you think this curiosity of yours will last?”

  I shrugged. “Bill insisted on picking me up at my apartment tomorrow night. Since I can’t transform it into a penthouse, he’ll figure out right away that I’m not rolling in money like the other Nancy Stern. In other words, my ‘curiosity’ could be over sooner rather than later.”

  “Not necessarily. Just tell Bill your apartment is a pied-à-terre—the cozy little spot where you hang your hat whenever you’re in Manhattan. Tell him your primary residence is a big estate in the Hamptons or wherever. Oh, and call the house something—you know, one of those names like Green Meadows.”

  “That sounds like an assisted living facility.”

  “Okay, then you come up with a name,” she said huffily.

  I smiled. “Now that I think about it, there’s no reason why Bill would expect Nancy to be rich. Remember, she’s not Barbara Walters.”

  “Fine. So don’t tell him about the big estate. But you are going to have to tell him who you are at some point. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be happy that you teach preschool. You said he loves kids.”

  “Yes, but he’s definitely impressed with the other Nancy Stern’s career, with all the celebrities she’s rubbed shoulders with. I’m fairly certain that stories about Fischer Levin won’t be as thrilling to him as stories about Gwyneth Paltrow.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Still, I will tell him the truth. Tomorrow night.”

  She patted my hand. “Of course you will, Nance. By the second date, men start to show their neuroses, anyway. I guarantee you: Bill won’t look as good to you the next time around.”

  On Monday, Alexis Shuler, the girl with the lisp, turned five, and her mother brought a homemade birthday cake to school for the class’s snack. When I say “homemade” I’m not kidding, either. Alexis’s mother was one of those Martha Stewart mothers who makes everything from scratch and then decorates it as if it will be used as a prop for a photo shoot. For this particular creation, Mrs. Shuler assembled various ingredients atop the white cake and frosting to replicate the face of her daughter (red licorice for the mouth, a cashew nut for the nose, green grapes for the eyes, coconut shavings mixed with yellow food coloring for the hair), and she enveloped the entire masterpiece in a nest of spun sugar. By the time the children were through with it, the cake looked like mashed potatoes.

  Later that morning, everybody sat in a circle on the rug and did a little show-and-tell about his or her Thanksgiving vacation. When it was Fischer’s turn, he told us about his trip to Aruba.

  “My dad found buried treasure there,” he said. “He brought it home and put it in this giant box late at night. He thought I was sleeping but I saw.”

  I allowed him to finish his recitation instead of putting him in Time-out, but later I warned him about the pirate business.

  “We’re not going to lie about things, right, honey?” I said, feeling horribly two-faced, given my personal situation.

  “I’m not—”

  “Fischer?”

  “Yes, Miss Stern,” he said without further protest, then chugged over to the circle, where Todd Delafield made a space for him.

  Next, it was Carl Pinder’s turn at show-and-tell. He was the kid who spoke five languages but wasn’t fully potty trained. He told the class about his Thanksgiving at his grandparents’ chateau in the Loire Valley, recounting the entire story in French. As the other children barely understood English, they became restless and fidgety a few minutes into Carl’s story. I’m sorry to report that among the first to become restless and fidgety was Fischer, who socked Todd in the stomach and was put in Time-out after all.

  When I got home, I glanced at my mail, had a cup of tea, and took a shower. I was about to change clothes for my date with Bill when the doorman buzzed, informing me that a delivery boy from the pharmacy was on his way up. As with other recent deliveries, I tried to fend this one off by barking at the doorman. But I was too late. Within minutes, my doorbell was ringing.

  “Delivery for Nancy Stern,” mumbled the young man, who was carrying not only a small bag containing the prescription but a very large boom box. He was a fan of rap music, apparently, and he had the bass turned up so high that I thought my head, never mind the building, would explode.

  “This isn’t for me,” I shouted, meaning the delivery not the music, although I could have done without both.

  Naturally, he didn’t hear me over the ear-splitting sound, but he did hang around until I came up with a tip. I stuffed the money in his hand and scowled.

  “Hey, you’re not gettin’ jiggy wit it,” he said.

  “Whatever,” I said and closed the door.

  I carried the bag into the kitchen and opened it. It contained two prescriptions, it turned out, both for Nancy Stern at 137 East Seventy-first Street but neither for me, since I hadn’t called in any. What’s more, I didn’t take Claritin, since I didn’t have allergies, nor did I take Prozac, since I didn’t have—

  Prozac? Prozac?

  Was the other Nancy Stern depressed? The Nancy Stern with the looks, the boyfriends, the career, the money? The Nancy Stern with the life I coveted? Had I been naive—okay, downright stupid—to think she was coasting along without any problems?

  I thought back over the past few weeks and reminded myself that the tenant in 24A did act a tad strangely—from her anxiousness over the phone calls she’d received while I was in her apartment to her lie about rushing off to interview Sarandon and Robbins.

  Obviously, things weren’t so ducky up there in the penthouse, and I had viewed the other Nancy Stern in a hopelessly simplistic light. Of course she was human. Of course she was vulnerable. Of course she was flawed—depressed, even. She had just seemed to me to be less flawed, less depressed than I was, which was why I intended to have dinner with a man who had intended to have dinner with her. I had assumed, without even knowing her, that she was the possessor of an embarrassment of riches and would, therefore, not miss yet another one.

  Well, she can hardly miss Bill when she isn’t even aware that he exists, I reminded myself. Not only that, just because she takes Prozac doesn’t mean she’s suicidal.

  No, one less man in her life certainly won’t put her over the edge, I decided. Besides, he’ll be back on the market as soon as I tell him who I am—or, should I say, who I’m not.

  Chapter Eight

  For my second date with Bill I dressed casually, in jeans and a sweater, because we were going to a boisterous, pub-type hamburger joint up the street from my apartment.

  “I know you’re used to eating at all the best restaurants,” he’d said when we were discussing where to go, “but ever since I moved here, I’ve been dying for a good burger, preferably with greasy fries and a side order of onion rings.”

  “And a room in Lenox Hill’s cardiac care unit,” I’d joked. “I’ve got just the place.”

  I’d thought it was sweet that underneath his finely chiseled features, wavy dark hair, and tall, lean frame lurked your basic meat-and-potatoes guy.

  At seven o’clock on the dot, the doorman buzzed. “Bill’s on the way up.”

  Right on time, I thought with a rush of pleasure. He must be looking forward to seeing me. Hubba hubba.

  I made a quick check of the apartment, trying to see it through Bill’s eyes. It was smal
l but comfortable—an L-shaped studio, really, with a wall between the bedroom and the living room/dining area. It wasn’t a penthouse but it was a “find” for a single gal with my meager salary, especially considering the high-ticket neighborhood it was in, and I’d felt lucky to have it—until the other Nancy Stern had moved into the building and rubbed my nose in her life.

  I fluffed the sofa cushions, cleared away a couple of dust bunnies, and raced to the door after Bill rang the bell.

  “Hi,” he said as he stood in the threshold.

  “Hi,” I said as I stood there facing him.

  Okay, so we sounded like a couple of imbeciles. What you’re missing is the electricity that crackled between those “Hi’s,” the mutual I-didn’t-expect-to-be-so-glad-to-see-you-again body language. It was incredible. There Bill was, in his blue jeans and ski sweater and brown leather jacket, gazing at me with his deeply set eyes, as if there were no one on earth he’d rather be gazing at. And there I was, one giant nerve ending, on the receiving end of his gaze and nearly bursting with the high octane-ness of it all. If you’ve ever been in this situation—where you had a blind date with a guy and you sensed it went very well but you weren’t absolutely sure, and then you saw the guy a second time and the instant he walked in you knew, just knew, that your assessment of the first date was right on the money—you can appreciate the moment.

  “It’s good to see you in the flesh, Nancy.”

  “In the flesh?”

  “Okay. The truth is, I was thinking about you so much yesterday I started to wonder if I’d conjured you up, if you were real.”

  I smiled. “I’m real, I promise.” It’s only my identity that’s fake.

  “Perfect. Since you’re real, your apartment must be too. How about letting me come inside?”

  “I think that could be arranged.” I stepped aside so Bill could cross the threshold. As I did, I noticed he was carrying something in his left hand. “What’s that you’ve got there?” I asked.

  He held up a magazine. “It’s the new issue of TV Guide. Your article’s in it so I brought it over, not that you haven’t seen it already.”

  “My article,” I said, having no clue what he was talking about. The only time I ever read TV Guide was in the checkout line at the supermarket. “Actually, I haven’t seen it. I never get to see my finished products.”

  “Well, here it is.” He handed me the magazine.

  I flipped nonchalantly through the pages and stopped when I came upon a piece about Morgan Fairchild, written by none other than Nancy Stern. “My, they did a nice job with the layout,” I remarked, settling into my Pretend Journalist mode. “And they seem to have used most of my material for a change.” I glanced up at Bill and shrugged resignedly. “I do my interviews for these publications, but once I turn them in I have no idea what’s going to be printed and what’s going to be cut.”

  “I didn’t know it worked that way,” he said. “Hey, don’t think this is goofy, but I brought the magazine over because I was hoping you’d sign it so I could send it to my kids. They get a kick out of stuff like that.”

  “Sign it? You mean, autograph it?”

  “You do think it’s goofy.”

  “No, it’s just that I’m not the celebrity. It’s Morgan Fairchild’s autograph your sons would get a kick out of.”

  “No question they would, but since you wrote the article and your name is on it, I just thought—” He stopped, taking the magazine back. “You hate the idea. Forget I mentioned it.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, taking the magazine back from him. “I’ll get a pen.”

  I went into the kitchen, grabbed the black Flair hanging from the magnetized holder on the refrigerator, and scribbled “Nancy Stern” across the close-up of Morgan Fairchild’s face, hating myself for deceiving Bill and now his children too. When I returned to the living room, he was seated on the sofa, surveying the room.

  “Oh, you’re probably wondering about the apartment,” I said, handing him the TV Guide.

  “Wondering about it?”

  “Yes. Why it’s so small.” Bill started to protest that he didn’t think it was small, but I interrupted him. “It’s my pied-à-terre. I’ve also got a house in the Hamptons. Down the road from Spielberg’s place.” Gag.

  “No kidding?” said Bill. “Have you met him?”

  “Oh, sure. At parties, movie screenings, you know.”

  Bill smiled. “What I know is that Nancy Stern goes where the movers and shakers are. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’ve been to the White House.”

  “Well, yes. I have, actually.” I said this shyly, demurely, so as to reassure Bill that he was right about me, that I wasn’t snooty or self-absorbed or taken with myself. “But the surprise about the White House is how much it reminds you of your basic mansion in Greenwich or Beverly Hills. I mean, it’s not that big, compared to the homes of some of the people I’ve interviewed.”

  “I guess that’s why you think this place is small,” said Bill, gesturing at our surroundings. “To me, it’s a comfortable one-bedroom apartment.”

  “It is comfortable,” I agreed. “And thank goodness it is, since I spend a lot of time here between trips.”

  Yeah, trips to and from Small Blessings, I thought. I was making myself ill. I needed some fresh air. Instead of offering Bill a drink and some hors d’oeuvres, I suggested we get going. “The restaurant doesn’t take reservations, so we could be in for a long wait,” I said.

  “By the way, where’s your dog?” he asked as he was helping me on with my coat.

  “My dog?” I said.

  “The Jack Russell terrier you send to dog training school.”

  One lie always leads to another, Nance. And before you know it, you really are in quicksand.

  “Oh, you mean Taffy,” I said, seizing on the name of the cocker spaniel we had when I was growing up. “He was such a discipline problem in school today that they decided to keep him there overnight, the little devil.”

  “Is he a biter or something?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A biter and a barker.”

  You should be ashamed of yourself, I thought. It’s bad enough to lie about yourself. But to lie about poor old Taffy, well, that’s about as low as it gets.

  After I had pressed the Down button, Bill and I stood by the elevators and waited for one of them to stop on my floor. A minute or so went by and then one did stop. We had already stepped inside when I realized, to my utter horror, that the only other person in the elevator besides Bill and me was the other Nancy Stern—the very occurrence I’d been dreading.

  “Why it’s Nancy,” she said gaily. Without a hint of depression.

  “Yes,” I said, forcing a smile as the doors closed us in. I don’t recall ever feeling so claustrophobic. “How are you?”

  She was dressed to kill, that’s how she was, her science fiction body arrayed in a very chic gray silk dress (chic because gray, according to the celebrity magazines I’d been reading, was the new black). Her long blond hair was pulled back into a tight chignon. And her earlobes were adorned with tiny sterling silver teddy bears, adding a touch of whimsy to the presentation. I glanced at Bill, to see if his tongue was hanging out. It wasn’t, but he wasn’t disinterested.

  “I’m tip-top,” she said, responding to my question in that affected way of hers. “Are you and your friend going out on the town?”

  No, we’re climbing Mt. Everest, I thought sourly, wondering how it could possibly take the elevator so long to transport us a mere six floors. “We’re just going out for a hamburger,” I said. I did not introduce Bill to her or vice versa. It was unnecessary, I felt. Unnecessary and dangerous.

  “Any more mail for me?” she asked. “Or phone calls?”

  You’re looking at one, I wanted to scream. He’s standing a foot away from you. What’s more, if Bill had called you instead of me, the three of us would be riding down in the elevator under entirely different circumstances. “You had
a delivery from the pharmacy a little while ago,” I said. “I left it with the doorman.” Plus someone did leave a cryptic message on my answering machine for you on Sunday afternoon—the same young woman with the southern accent who’d called before. She didn’t leave her name this time either. Strange.

  “Well, I have a piece of mail for you,” said Nancy. “It’s your rent bill, I fear.” She giggled. “You’ll have to excuse me but I’m giddy with anticipation about the person I’m interviewing tonight.”

  Before I could muzzle her or change the subject or press the Alarm button on the elevator, Bill piped up. “You’re an interviewer too?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she said with interest. “Why? Are you, Mr.…”

  “Harris,” he said. “Bill Harris. And no, I’m not an interviewer but Nancy here has done interviews with—”

  Mercifully, the elevator doors parted. I grabbed Bill by the hand and dragged him into the lobby, moving extremely quickly so as to leave Nancy in the dust.

  “Have a lovely evening!” I called out to her when we were safely out of the building.

  “Who was that woman?” he said as we walked up Third Avenue.

  “A neighbor of mine,” I said casually.

  “I guessed that. But why was she talking to you about mail and phone calls?”

  “Oh, because she used to live in my apartment before she moved upstairs to a bigger place. We’re still getting each other’s correspondence, deliveries, you name it.”

  He nodded. “And she’s a journalist like you?”

  “Not a journalist exactly. She writes a newsletter,” I said, “for a national support group for people with psoriasis. I assume the person she’s so excited about interviewing is a dermatologist who invented a new ointment.”

  No, I wasn’t proud of this explanation, although I was amazed by my ability to think on my feet, as I’ve mentioned.

  Bill took my hand and smiled. “I liked it when you held onto me as we were getting out of the elevator before.”