I watch the first couple of innings with complete concentration. There’s something so peaceful about the Yankees decimating their American League opponent. While the other team warms up a new pitcher, I take a moment to appreciate the Lost numbers hanging there on the retired Yankee jerseys.
“You want anything? Alex?” Emma pulls me out of my zone during a switch in pitchers.
“No, I’m good.” I haven’t touched my beer. And the popcorn is half gone from being passed around.
“Okay. Text me if you need anything. We’ll be right back.” As all three girls inch past me, I turn my knees to the side to let them by, and accidentally lock eyes with a guy who’s been sitting near us. He is clearly from the Bronx; his accent as he’s been shouting out batting advice is a dead giveaway. I go back to reading my program without acknowledging him. Unfortunately, he seems unwilling to take the hint.
“How’s it going? I’m Gary.” He leans over the seats made empty by my friends. And I get a fresh whiff of his cologne mixed with sweat.
“Great game.” I smile and gesture to the field. The relief pitcher on the other team has finished warming up and the Yankees are at the top of their lineup. Apparently drawing his attention back to the game is a futile endeavor.
“It’s gonna be a great season. Yankees are looking good.” He seems determined to extend our chat. “You’re a big fan?”
“I am.” I gesture to the notes I’ve been taking. “Looks like Tanaka is shaping up to pitch another no-hitter.” And then I return to marking up my score sheet.
“From your lips…” Gary chuckles deeply. I can sense him looking for a new topic, and I know I can’t do anything until my friends come back. “So, it’s just ladies’ night tonight?”
I’m not a big fan of lying. It’s not that I’m morally against it or anything, it’s just that when I try to lie I always seem to make things worse. Case in point: With an overly friendly Yankees fan, I could: (a) make up a story about a longtime boyfriend who is a Mets fan; (b) say I’m a lesbian (And then, what? I just never bring a guy to Yankee Stadium? No way.); or (c) stick to the truth, no matter how it hurts.
“I just haven’t met the right guy yet,” I tell him. At first he smirks, thinking it’s an opening. But then he surprisingly, insightfully realizes I’m including him in that statement. I’m holding my breath until, amazingly, he backs off.
“Well, when you do bring him… he better stay the whole game. That’s how you’ll know he’s the one.” He laughs again. And sits back in his chair, turning to his friends. But somehow his pronouncement stays with me. He makes a good point. I can’t stand people who leave before the end of the game. Even when it’s clear we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning, I stay. I’ve never left a game in LA early. I wonder for a second if Billy Fox is the type to leave games early. I’d like to believe he hangs in to the end, rain or shine. But that’s probably just wishful thinking.
“YOU LOOKED GREAT on the Jumbotron at the game on Friday!” I say enthusiastically to Hillary first thing Monday morning.
“What the fuck are you talking about? I got crucified all over the Web for it,” she responds from behind huge bug-eyed sunglasses. I don’t have a Twitter account yet, but it occurs to me I should check out the Internet before opening my big mouth and pissing her off.
“How is that possible? Everyone around me at the game thought you looked hot.” Once Hillary gets on track it’s impossible to change her mind about something, but I have to try. “And most of them didn’t even know I work for you.” There were plenty of wolf whistles from my section of the stadium, so it’s not a lie.
“Look at this. Just look.” She jams her iPad in my face, and I almost can’t focus on the picture she has pulled up. I take the tablet from her to get a better look. “I look like the goddamn Joker, Alex. What were you fucking thinking?”
The picture was clearly taken outside the stadium; it must’ve been at the end of the night, because almost all the curls had fallen from her hair. The humidity came on heavy after ten o’clock. I see exactly what Hillary is referring to, but at first I can’t understand how it happened. I look at her helplessly before zooming in on the picture again.
“Yeah, look at that fucking disaster close-up. Dear God, you know America expects me to be perfect, right? I’m not going to let you fuck up my image, Alex. You’re lucky I don’t fire you right now.”
There’s definitely a burst of adrenaline from her threat. At this point I am completely dependent on her paycheck to survive in Manhattan. And… “I don’t know how this happened.” There are three white streaks on her face, one on each cheek below the eye and the other bright as day across her forehead. It almost looks like she’d put on war paint. “You looked fantastic on the big screen during the game. You couldn’t see these streaks at all. Is it your powder?” I think aloud. “It must be.”
“Of course it’s my damn powder. How could you give me something that would do that?”
“Well,” I offer hesitantly, “did you blend it in?” She inhales deeply. “I mean, you know, you must have applied it after you threw the pitch, right? Did you use the brush I gave you? You have to kinda smooth it all in.”
“You think I don’t know how to apply my own damn makeup? Of course I blended.” She’s worked herself up into a rage and now blindly grabs something off my makeup station to hurl across the room. It doesn’t land near me, and given her perfect aim at the game, it’s safe to assume she didn’t mean to hit me. When I feel the words “What the f—?” about to explode from my mouth, I just run out of the room before she hears them, leaving my broken mess of liquid foundation all over the floor, spreading to her faux fur area rug.
Once in the hallway, I take a bunch of deep breaths, trying to figure out what to do. It’s like the tenth time in just weeks that I’ve thought about quitting. Hillary must be bipolar. She’s a maniac. But I manage to keep reminding myself of the big picture here. I don’t want to go back to LA; it would be totally humiliating to explain, especially because I wouldn’t really even be able to tell my parents why Hillary P. is a nightmare to work for. That damn confidentiality agreement—no wonder Hillary demands everyone sign one. I’m surprised she’s not the lead story in Star every week.
After I pull myself together, I realize I’m just going to have to suck it up. I know it’s not my fault that she didn’t fix her makeup right as she was leaving the game. And she knows it, too. She’s just embarrassed and has to take it out on someone. It’s not that big a deal. I go into the crew kitchen area and grab some paper towels. But I decide that the next time I’m alone with her, I’m going to tell her I draw the line at throwing things. I don’t really care if she yells. But I’m not going to just lie down and become Hillary P.’s doormat.
“HE’S SUCH A JERK. I’m so sorry.” Emma puts down the slider to hug me again.
“I know. Sean is a total jerk. I mostly just wish I hadn’t wasted so much time on him.” We’re drowning my latest embarrassment in bar fried foods. TJ’s around the corner from the studio has become our nightly hangout. “He was with my parents too, you know? They were all on the phone together telling me if I can’t handle my first job in Manhattan I should just come home.”
“Total douche move,” she concurs wholeheartedly.
“But I can’t even really blame them. It just sucks ’cause I’m not going to explain to them what’s really going on with the Dragon Lady. I’m sure I just seemed like this vague, whiny brat who couldn’t hack it in the big city.”
“Do you want to go home? Really?”
“No. Absolutely not.” I am completely firm on this, which of course is totally at odds with how upset I am. “It just makes me feel like I’ve wasted all this time with someone who obviously doesn’t know me at all. I mean, Sean didn’t even really try to figure it out. They all just assumed I would fail here.” I take another onion ring and add, with my mouth full, “It’s very depressing.”
She nods to the TV behind t
he bar, which has some sort of cage match playing on mute.
“Want to watch something else? We could see if the Dodgers are playing,”
“I want to take my mind off him. And Her. But I doubt even baseball will do the trick tonight.”
“Oh my God, Alex. I never heard how things went with Billy Fox! You have to share every juicy detail!” Emma demands. And of course, I do have to. I couldn’t have kept it a secret from Emma for a thousand NDAs.
“He’s amazing.”
“I knew it! OMG, Alex, I’m dying…”
“We talked forever. We danced.” I pause, remembering how it felt to be in his arms. “He’s a really good dancer. And he likes eighties music.”
“Oh, thank God. He can live,” Emma says sardonically. “So… then…” She rushes me along. “Get to the good stuff!”
So, I go into as much detail as I can, and I know I’ve done a good job distracting us from my family crisis because Emma’s fanning herself when I finish.
“Good lord. So has he called you yet?”
“I didn’t leave my number,” I say as casually as possible.
“You said you wrote a note!”
“I did. I wrote something like, ‘Thanks for an amazing night.’”
“How could you not leave him your number?”
“He’s not going to call me, come on. Let’s be realistic here. He’s a movie star, right? I’m just… me.”
“But you didn’t even give him the chance to. I mean, Alex… why wouldn’t he be totally into you? Just because stupid Jerk Face”—our new nickname for Sean—“is a complete idiot doesn’t mean every guy is.”
“Well, it’s over now. I don’t have his number either, so I won’t be tempted.” And just to get us off the topic, “What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?”
After we work out the logistics of our morning commute, Emma reminds me she has to pop back to the studio to prep her bird for tomorrow’s show. I get a glass of water to sober up a bit while I wait for her to get back. In New York, taxis are the perfect designated drivers, but I’m too old to be getting hammered on a school night.
“Wow, you’re getting soft on me, Alex.” I smile back at Nick as he shrugs out of his jacket and sits down next to me, ordering his drink. “Water? So early?” I’m starting to feel like a local, recognizing the same people in TJ’s all the time. I love that I have friends in New York already.
“Nah, I’ve had my fill. I’m just waiting for my friend, and then we’re heading out.”
“Well, you look good, Alex. I mean, as good as anyone can look on a Monday.”
“Yeah, it was definitely a Monday.”
“Your boss again?”
“Yeah. I got bitched out for something that totally wasn’t my fault. And I just had to suck it up. Which… sucks.” I crunch on some leftover ice.
“That totally sucks. I’m not good at that—I’d probably mouth off and get myself in trouble.”
“Believe me, I thought about it. I fantasize about it. But I know I’d lose my job in a heartbeat.”
“Well, at least you’re free until tomorrow. She lets you sleep, right?”
“Except when she calls me in the middle of the night,” I mutter.
“Okay, now I’m dying to know what kind of shitty job you got yourself mixed up in. What are you, a spy? You get midnight phone calls?”
“Nothing as cool as that…” What can I say without giving too much away? “It’s never about something important. She just vents to me on the phone. Sometimes about things I do that she doesn’t like… um, later, when she thinks about it.” Yes, Hillary DVRs her own show and then watches it in the middle of the night to critique everything. I’m probably not even her first phone call.
Nick is looking intrigued, but I know I shouldn’t say more. It just feels so good to be able to have him see what I’m going through. And since he has no idea what I do, it feels safe to vent a little. “I just think… this woman I work for… might be bipolar or something. Sometimes she gets so irrationally bat-shit crazy, and other times, I don’t know… I feel like I’m seeing through the BS to the real her, you know?”
Nick is in listening mode. I’m not sure why I feel I can talk to him more than I can Emma. Probably because Emma is in it, too; she’s chosen to work for Hillary P. for years, so it feels weird questioning whether I can make it through another week. “Maybe I’m just fooling myself. Who knows?” I see Emma through the window. “Okay. God, it’s almost ten o’clock. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Nick.” And I rush to meet Emma at the cab.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Alex, hi.” I turn around, unwilling to believe what my ears are telling me. There is Billy Fox. Casually strolling toward me down the studio hallway, as if we run into each other every day. “Just the person I was looking for.”
“Hello, Billy,” I say, since I can’t think of anything better. Emma was grilling me about him last night and now here he is. We summoned him.
“It’s nice to see you.” He takes the expression literally, as an opportunity to look me up and down. Every time I imagined running into Billy Fox again, I envisioned myself in some fabulously trendy dress ripped from the cover of InStyle magazine. Which clearly did not happen. My kooky tie-dyed Chuck Taylors, a rebellion against the close-toed shoe policy, actually look normal compared to my MC Hammer–style sweats and the three tank tops I layered instead of wearing a bra. In my defense, I was looking for a passive way of marking my independence from Hillary without actually getting myself fired. I never for one minute thought I was going to be seeing Billy Fox today. Or ever.
“I was hoping to see you that morning in my suite, but you disappeared on me.” His Southern drawl is thicker than usual.
“I, um, I had a flight to catch. I wasn’t trying to sneak away.” Which of course is total BS. Luckily, Billy is kind enough not to call me on it. “What are you doing here?” I’ve got to take control of this conversation.
“I’m doing the Late Night show,” he says, as if he’s just an average Joe out getting the newspaper, not a huge movie star who gets top billing on any show he wants. There are several TV shows running out of these studios. In Manhattan everything is packed together. “Are you done for the day?” he asks me, as if he has nothing but time to chat. I’m sure there are like nine people from the crew of Late Night looking all over for him.
“Me? Oh, um… no. I have to pack up my kit to take to Hillary’s. I’m doing her makeup for some event tonight.” I’d been griping to Emma that it would’ve been nice to have some advance notice, since I had to cancel my first dinner down in SoHo for this. I was also complaining because I had to come back to pack up my stuff. But suddenly I’m very grateful for Hillary’s last-minute demands.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it.” But he doesn’t move, just stares into my eyes some more. And even though I’m standing here without proper undergarments on, I just do not want this moment to end. He really is staring into my eyes right now. I don’t speak, because I am truly tongue-tied. He finally breaks the silence. “I’d like to buy you dinner sometime.”
“Really?” I ask honestly, before I can stop myself.
“Yes. Really.” He takes my phone from my hand. It’s still open to my iMessage conversation convincing Emma that this walk up Fifth Avenue she is determined to make happen is basically akin to hiking Mt. Everest.
He chuckles at what I wrote—“Sorry, I couldn’t help but read it”—as he backs out and finds the Contacts app. “I felt the same way when I first came here. We like our trucks in Texas.”
“I thought you were gonna say horses,” I say, doing a terrible impression of a Southern twang. Which makes us both laugh.
I watch him add his cell phone number. “Call me when you have a free night. I’m going to be in New York for business in a couple of weeks. I would love to see you.” He leans in and kisses my cheek and then walks past me toward the elevator bank. I stay still, faced away from him, until it seems s
afe; he must have rounded the corner by now. And it’s a solid minute before I can pull myself off the wall I leaned against because my knees wouldn’t support me.
I stare down at my phone with his number in it. I don’t know what to do. Panicked, I hit edit and scroll down to the delete icon. If I get rid of it now, then I won’t give in to temptation and call him. But I can’t bring myself to do that. I stare at it a second longer, before an incoming text lets me exit out of the app, leaving his number intact.
THERE ARE A bunch of things about living in New York that are still so damn frustrating. I miss my car so much as I haul my makeup kit up the steps at the Upper West Side subway station closest to Hillary’s fancy Central Park West address. I’ve heard about her home a half dozen times already, and I know it’s going to be worth it just to get a peek inside.
I’ve gotten better about walking with purpose through the crowded sidewalks, which took me a while to figure out. But now people move out of my way, as opposed to the almost apologetic sidestepping I was doing at first. It’s not my natural mind-set, so I chant motivational catchphrases to distract myself as I see a particularly large group gathered, waiting at the light for the row of cabs coming out of the park.
Hillary’s building has a fancy doorman in uniform, like it’s a hundred years ago. He’s super nice and rushes forward to help me get my bulky bag through the doors into the lobby.
“Go on up, Miss Alex. She’s expecting you.”
“Thanks, Victor.” I smile, reading his name tag, and take the fancy elevator he gestured toward all the way up to the penthouse floor. It’s one of those tiny, old-fashioned elevators. I try to pay attention to the ornate moldings and fixtures, but I’m still sweating a bit as I step out into Hillary’s apartment. The tight feeling from the tiny elevator box is immediately relieved by the huge open space around me. I mean, it’s probably the same square footage as my parents’ house in Northridge, but this… is different. Every window has a stunning view, mostly of Central Park, with the buildings of the Upper East Side towering behind the greenery.
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