by Melissa Ford
“If it means that much to you, I’ll talk to Penelope when we get home.”
“No,” I sigh, giving my sandwich one last halfhearted bite. Between my sister and Michael, I’ve lost my appetite. “Penelope, do you want to be the first astronaut?”
“First astronaut?” Penelope asks.
“It’s this really special job in the wedding. You have to walk down the aisle—in a dress so the aliens don’t know that you’re an astronaut—and carry this basket of flower petals that you toss from time to time to mark your way so you know which direction to run if the aliens do end up popping out of the rabbi’s stomach or something gross like that.”
“Yes,” Penelope says happily, her foot keeping a beat against the window. “I want to be the first astronaut.”
“I’ll look into silver dresses,” I tell her, dryly.
“Damn, you’re good,” my sister mouths over her daughter’s head.
Chapter Eight
THE LINE OF people waiting to get into the Nightly taping stretches down the block and disappears around the corner. It is filled with people listlessly checking their smartphones or leaning against the building tiredly. “People get here hours beforehand to try to get tickets,” Arianna informs us importantly as she sidesteps over a woman’s outstretched legs. I want to tell the woman she’s brave. No matter how tired I get, I would never sit down on a Manhattan sidewalk.
“I thought you could reserve tickets online,” Adam says.
“Yes, you have to reserve them online months in advance, and then you still have to wait in these insane lines because not everyone who reserves tickets will actually get in. They overbook every show so every seat is filled.”
“I can’t imagine they’d have trouble filling the seats if they just took everyone who reserved one as well as the people hanging around outside with the hope of an extra ticket.”
“I think they have more important things to worry about than stressing about a seating situation,” Arianna tells us.
“I know,” Ethan says dryly, pausing behind Arianna as she flags down a woman holding a clipboard. “I mean, the staff of the Nightly is out there saving the freakin’ world. They don’t have time to worry about the poor schlubs waiting for three hours on the sidewalk. They are brokering peace deals and singlehandedly setting the economy back into working order.”
I swallow my snicker when I see Arianna glare at Ethan. The woman with the clipboard peers at our party. “Hey Hillary, Noah set aside four VIP tickets for us to today’s taping.”
The woman consults her list and nods. “They’re all under Quinn instead of Arianna. He’s such an idiot.”
Arianna affectionately nods, as if this is par for the course with Noah, which makes me wonder both how she knows what is par for the course with Noah as well as how this random woman who works at the Nightly already knows Arianna’s first and last name.
The woman touches her earpiece and says something quietly into an invisible microphone. Within seconds, a man appears at her side and takes the clipboard out of her hands as if they’re involved in some sort of stationary baton-passing race. We follow her into the building, and Arianna digs deeply into her purse to pull out a Sharpie.
“Hills,” Arianna calls out. “I’m just going to have my friends sign the wall.”
Hills?
The painted concrete walls are filled with signatures—most decidedly unfamous and graffiti-looking in nature, but every once in a while, my eye catches on a name I actually know. Other late night talk show hosts, random singers and actresses, and a tiny drawing of a carrot by one of my favorite chefs from the Food Network. “It’s a tradition to sign the wall,” Arianna states, without explaining how she knows enough about this tradition to come prepared with a Sharpie in her purse. I casually glance around for another copy of her name, but there are too many black squiggles against the white wall. We pass the pen amongst ourselves while Hillary waits patiently by the door.
“I need you guys to go through security,” Hillary tells us as she swipes her keycard through the machine and passes through to the other side of a strange turnstile-walkway that is probably some sort of newfangled metal detecting machine. A uniformed security guard motions for us to leave our bags on the table and pushes a few bins toward us that are presumably for our keys and cell phones. At least, that’s what I place inside and try to walk through the turnstile, but it remains immobile, bruising my hipbone as I knock into it.
“Ooof,” I exclaim, and the security guard looks up from my purse, holding the remains of my granola bar.
“Is this yours, Miss?”
“For fucks sake,” Arianna hisses at me. “I told you no food, drinks, cameras, or recording equipment.”
“It’s a granola bar,” I shoot back, hardly a Starbucks latte or a beef tenderloin from Jean Georges.
“No food,” the security guard grunts, tossing it back in my bag and handing me my purse. I take out the wrapper, spilling the granola bar crumbs over my wallet and travel pack of Kleenex, and drop it in the trash can, handing my purse back to the guard.
“It’s gone,” I tell him, in case he didn’t notice that I just dumped a perfectly good, half-eaten granola bar into the trash can just to be allowed admittance.
The man pushes a button and waves me through along with the rest of our group. Hillary leads us down a narrow hallway, past a cavernous room that Arianna informs us is for the commoners waiting outside, and deposits us in a cozy room with bluish green walls and framed pictures of past guests with the host. There’s a water cooler with a sleeve of white cone-shaped cups and a table holding an odd assortment of individually-wrapped mini candy bars and fresh fruit.
“You guys can crash here until we’re ready to seat people. I’ll let Noah know that you’ve arrived.”
“Thanks, Hillary,” Arianna says warmly and plants herself on a fuzzy, velvet couch. She waits until Hillary leaves before she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “George Clooney has sat here. And Hugh Jackman. And Brad Pitt.”
“Is this where the guests hang out?” I ask, looking toward the doorway to see who would be spending tonight with us. I hope it isn’t a boring economics book writer or some political person.
Arianna opens her eyes and stares at me. “No, this isn’t the guest waiting area. That’s down the hall. I was just meaning that all those people have been here.”
Arianna twists her ring in a continuous loop around her finger. Her fidgeting is making me dizzy for the metal. She crosses the room, picks up one of the candy bars, and then sets it down without even looking at it. Adam fills up two cones of water for us, and Ethan leans against the arm of a nearby chair, reading a framed sign on the wall.
“Can you not do that?” Arianna snaps at him.
“What?” Ethan asks. “Read the sign?”
“Lean against the arm of the chair like that. If you want to sit, sit down in the chair. Or stand up. But it’s rude to sit on the arm like that.”
I give my brother a look, secretly hoping that he’ll laugh it off, grab Arianna around the waist to kiss her. In other words, be his usual, laidback self. But he self-consciously stands up and awkwardly pauses in the center of the room, shifting from foot to foot.
“We have an hour of this?” I comment, accepting Adam’s cup of water. I consider moving to Ethan’s vacated spot on the arm of the chair but decide that I don’t want to press my luck. It has been weeks since I’ve had a real conversation with Arianna, and in that time, I haven’t shared with her any of the wedding plans that have been shaping up or even Lisbeth’s good news. She feels very remote, like she is a long distance phone call, coming through on a cell phone that is going in and out of range. I feel like I’m missing every third word and can’t really follow the conversation. And yet there’s seemingly no way to hang up and try the call again. Dating Ethan has chang
ed everything and not in a good way. It has become a screen between us, with neither of us sharing anything more than what can be easily seen from the outside. Sometimes I think that I’m more intimate with strangers on the blog than I am with my old best friend.
I immediately know that the man walking through the door is Noah before he has said a word. I observe the way Arianna straightens up and flashes a killer smile that extends not only up to her eyes but past her brow and to her hairline. It’s as if her entire forehead and first inch or so of hair are smiling too from the intensity of her mouth muscles. She greets him with a quick kiss to the cheek, and Ethan steps forward and awkwardly shakes his hand, almost as if his arm is moving not of his own volition.
I have a moment before Arianna introduces us where I can observe him, sketching him out in my mind as if I need to remember him for recitation in a blog post down the road. He is slim, his hips as small as or perhaps smaller than my own. He is wearing dark blue jeans that end perfectly over black shoes that look as if they came out of a Parisian cordwainer’s shop. Even though it isn’t cold outside, he is wearing a button-down white shirt covered by a thin grey sweater, leaving the ends of his white shirt showing underneath the bottom hem. I note a gold ring around his thumb on his right hand but no wedding band.
“Hey, you must be Rachel,” Noah says warmly, gripping my hand for a moment. “Arianna talks about you all the time.”
Which is strange to hear considering that she hasn’t actually been talking much to me since she met him. I motion to Adam. “This is my fiancé, Adam.”
“But you’ve been married before, right?” Noah says, glancing toward Arianna for confirmation. “That is a crazy story. We’ll have to have you on when the book comes out.”
“Seriously?” I hear myself say. Being on the Nightly is like placing your book on a virtual catapult. Every book that is covered on the show—even the boring economic ones—hit the New York Times bestseller list within minutes of the show airing.
“Sure,” Noah says vaguely. “I’ll have to hook up your publisher with our booking agent and see if there’s any way to work you in. I don’t know about that end of things,” he adds, releasing himself from any sort of promise for publicity. In fact, he looks as if he wishes that he hadn’t said anything at all. I wish he hadn’t said anything either. When I didn’t know it was a possibility at all, I was ignorantly happy. But now having it offered and yanked back one sentence later, it’s worse than if he hadn’t said anything to begin with.
“Anyway, Ethan, Arianna told me that you like Ken Regan. When he was on the show a few months ago, he gave everyone on staff a copy of a photograph from his new book signed by him, and I wanted to pass mine along to you. It’s Mick Jagger.” He hands my brother a manila folder, and Ethan opens it, staring speechlessly at the picture. “I like the Stones and all, but I think being a photographer, the picture may mean more to you.”
“Thank you. Ken Regan is my favorite photographer,” my brother breathes, turning the picture over to even examine the blank back.
“Yeah, he was amazingly cool. He actually showed me this setting on my point-and-shoot that I didn’t know about, and now I’m taking better pictures.”
“You must get to meet a lot of great people,” Adam comments.
Noah shrugs and sits down casually on the arm of the chair. I notice that Arianna doesn’t say anything at all. “My favorites are the musicians, because they always do a practice set for the staff to test the equipment early in the day.”
“Who has been the worst guest?” Adam asks devilishly, raising his eyebrows at me as he asks. “Please say Clooney, please say Clooney.”
“Nah,” Noah laughs, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “George Clooney is great. We’ve had him on a few times when his movies are opening. We haven’t really had a terrible guest.”
“Come on,” Ethan says. “There has to be some who are prima donnas.”
“Why does someone have to be a prima donna, just because they’re famous?” Arianna shoots back at Ethan.
Noah looks at the two of them uncomfortably. “Really, everyone is great. Maybe there’s something about those new metal detectors out front. They peel away everyone’s pretensions before they get down the hallway to the studio? Speaking of the studio, I got the four of you special seats up front which are unobstructed. The host usually comes out into the audience in the beginning to shake hands and such, so I just wanted to give you a warning that he’ll probably hit your seats.”
“I’m going to touch David Lear?” I sigh.
“And he smells like peppermint. Make sure you tell him that when he shakes your hand, Rachel,” Noah laughs.
“I have a feeling that’s an inside joke?” I ask. “If I say it, am I going to get in trouble?”
“No, he’ll just laugh. I promise. Anyway, I have to get back to the set for prep, but I’d love to meet up with you guys afterwards. Hear more about Rachel’s book and your upcoming nuptials . . . again.” He smiles warmly and touches my shoulder for good measure as he passes. “If I can get away later, I’ll meet you in the lobby. If it doesn’t work out, and I have to stay for editing or retakes, I’ll have Arianna set something up.”
I want to hate Noah, least of all for making my heart leap for a moment and mostly because of Arianna’s attachment to him, but it’s difficult because he’s actually charming. And funny. And very attractive. And thoughtful. I check myself and try to recall everything I said while he was in the room. Did I flirt? Did I giggle like Arianna when I said goodbye?
A little while later, Hillary returns to bring us down to the studio, which is much smaller than I thought from hearing the audience’s laughter while watching the show from home. It is also so cold that it feels as if we’re standing in the freezer aisle with all the display doors open. I shiver, and Adam takes off his jacket and slips it around my shoulders.
“I look ridiculous,” I comment, holding up my hand so he can see that my fingers are hidden inside the sleeve. “David Lear is going to laugh at me when he goes to shake my hand and can’t find it.”
“Don’t forget to tell him that he smells like peppermint,” Adam whispers, kissing my cheek affectionately. “That will distract him from the lack of hands.”
He puts his arm around me and hugs me close, making me feel warm and settled. By contrast, Ethan and Arianna are sitting stiffly beside us, Ethan still staring at the photograph and Arianna examining her manicure, which cannot realistically hold her attention as long as she’s giving her nails. I try to think of something to say to at least drag all four of us into the same conversation, but I’m at a loss. I’m still sitting there silently minutes later when David Lear strolls on stage, completely different from his usual formal character, and begins joking with the audience.
When he comes up to our seats to shake our hands, I am so tongue-tied that I only manage to make a sound halfway between a grunt and a word, so that the host leans forward inquisitively for a moment before his attention is diverted elsewhere, and he gives a high five to the man behind me. He does smell like peppermint.
I am mesmerized being only a few feet away from him, seeing him so completely different from the on-air character he plays. He is funny and a little awkward and not quite as boisterous and confident as he comes across once the camera is rolling. It is bizarre to see someone behave so completely different from how you’ve always seen them. I turn to ask Arianna if she knew that he was like this in real life, but her eyes aren’t on the host as he makes his rounds through the studio. They are trained on the producer’s table where I can see Noah leaning over another man, pointing at something on a piece of paper. As the rest of us watch David Lear turn a cartwheel across the stage, the change from his pocket pinging across the floor, she is a million miles away, her eyes slightly glazed as she thinks about something else.
ON THE WEEKEND, Adam and I take a Z
ipcar and head out of the city, over the Tappan Zee Bridge, which lies so low over the water that it always makes me feel as if I am seeing the Hudson River from a boat. We pull off the highway after we pay the toll, driving slowly through the residential area while the GPS’s mechanical voice flatly reels off directions. It feels cozy, like the day trips we took out of the city when we first started dating, thinking that Kinderhook or Mystic were so enormously different from New York, even though we did the same sorts of activities that we did in the city—sitting in coffeehouses or exploring museums—when we reached our destinations.
“I suppose the people out here get tired of being asked if they’ve ever seen the Headless Horseman,” Adam comments as we pass a sign announcing Sleepy Hollow.
“Please don’t pull out your American literature discussion points today,” I beg.
“Of course I won’t embarrass you,” Adam promises. “Dear,” he adds as an afterthought.
We’re early, so we drive through the shopping district to kill some time, noting the requisite single slice pizza place and a cluttered café specializing in dogs and dog owners. Adam takes another turn and another, causing the GPS to remind us that she is recalibrating, recalibrating, recalibrating as he strays farther from the farm.
He pulls into an empty bank parking lot and rolls down the windows before turning off the car, silencing the GPS woman mid-calibration. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had car sex.”