The Road to Reality

by Dianne Burnett

  At 7 P.M., most of my colleagues had left the office. My client Scott, dressed in a suit, arrived with his brother. We encouraged clients to bring in family members for moral support, and it underscored the importance of their career choice. I escorted Scott down the hall, and we left his brother in the waiting room thumbing through the latest issue of Faces.

  “Our director of talent has taken a special interest in you,” I said as we walked to Ellen’s office. She was perusing his portfolio as we walked in.

  “So, Scott, I understand you want to take your career to the next level,” Ellen began.

  Twenty minutes later, we were discussing what package best suited his needs. Ellen offered him a “Silver” placement: a full-page color ad with five different looks. Scott responded that he was honored, but at $4,000, it was out of his price range. The full-page black-and-white for $2,500 was what he had in mind. Ellen amiably tried to convince him to take the Silver placement, but he remained firm in his choice. We were just about to sign the deal, when in strode the vice president.

  “Mark Burnett,” he said, gripping Scott’s hand in a knuckle-crushing handshake.

  “Mark is our vice president,” said Ellen. “He’s flown in from the Los Angeles office.” She gave a subtle roll of the eyes in my direction.

  Mark opened Scott’s portfolio, dramatically flipping through the pages as I carried on with my closing pitch, running down exactly what was included in the full-page, black-and-white package. Mark loudly shut the portfolio. “Scott,” he said, “after looking through this, it’s obvious you belong on the Publisher’s Page.” Very few people were offered this prestigious placement, he added. I looked on amused: The price for the “Publisher’s Page” placement, $7,500, was nearly double the price of the Silver package that Scott had already nixed.

  “I’m flattered,” said Scott. “But I’ll stick with the full-page black-and-white.”

  Mark laid into him. Did he want to make it or not? Was acting just a little hobby? To make money, to get exposure with all the millions of struggling actors out there, he needed to seize the opportunity Mark was offering. If Scott didn’t take the offer, someone else would. Only an idiot would turn it down. Scott looked uncomfortable.

  I jumped in. “Scott, you’re being offered a very prestigious placement. But the Silver package is attention-grabbing as well.”

  “I’ll take the Silver,” he said, signing the contract. Mark continued hammering—insisting that Scott would kick himself tomorrow, but by then, the spot would be filled.

  Scott put down the pen. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead. It was the moment when ordinarily we would reinforce the sale, making the client feel he’s made an intelligent decision, but Mark wouldn’t let up, harping that Scott upgrade to the Publisher’s page placement.

  Scott went pale, and fell on the floor.

  “Shit!” said Mark. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s having a seizure!” I yelled. “Go get his brother in the waiting room.” I knelt on the floor beside him, stunned.

  Mark ran down the hall, the brother ran into the office, and after a few minutes Scott stopped convulsing. Apparently, he was prone to attacks when under intense stress, and Mark’s badgering had kicked it off.

  “You were sure right about the vice president,” I said to Ellen as we left the office. The vice president, I noted, had disappeared.

  I took the 45-minute train back to the Syosset station on Long Island, then drove 30 minutes to my apartment, thinking how much easier it would be just to live in Manhattan. My sister Lisa and I had been talking about getting an apartment in the city, but I hadn’t yet broached the topic with my live-in boyfriend, Jake. I also hadn’t mentioned that I wanted to break off our engagement. The next morning when I told Jake about the ordeal with Scott, I might as well have been talking to a head of lettuce. He was entirely uninterested in my career, and by that point, I was losing interest in him.

  At the end of June, Mark made another trip to the Manhattan office, and that day, he steered clear of my meetings. I scarcely saw him at all. That night I went out for drinks with my co-workers Wendy and Maria, first dropping by Wendy’s apartment, where I asked to borrow something more casual to wear.

  Wendy handed me a pair of perfectly faded Levi’s with little rips in all the right places. She called them “the magic jeans” because she always met someone intriguing when she was wearing them. I slipped them on and they fit perfectly.

  “It’s your turn for magic tonight,” she said.

  We all squeezed into the cab, and headed to the Midtown neighborhood called Hell’s Kitchen to a multilevel bar called Spodiodies. It was an upscale dive that pulled in well-heeled sorts and the occasional celebrity—such as Bruce Willis—and it was the hot place back then. Our colleague Stephanie was to join us there.

  When Stephanie walked into the bar, I was surprised to see Mark was with her. Oh great, that guy; I wondered who he’d reduce to convulsions that night. To my surprise, when Mark saw me, his face lit up and his eyes twinkled. I looked again, thinking it must be the light, but his eyes were literally sparkling. Thankfully, he’d left his puffed-up vice-president persona at the office. When we squeezed into a booth and order a round, he proceeded to crack us up with hilarious stories about the difference between Californians and New Yorkers—imitating both perfectly. Then he launched into tales about arriving in Hollywood from working-class England: the former commando took a job as a nanny for a well-to-do Malibu family. He told us funny story after funny story about his “nanny days” —from his bewilderment at American appliances like dishwashers to anecdotes about the kids, who were prone to stick peas up their noses. His adoration of children was obvious.

  Just when I was thinking how handsome he looked that night, the music started and Stephanie pulled him upstairs, explaining she wanted to talk about business matters. After a while, I yelled up—“What are you guys doing up there?” Mark waved me up, and Stephanie took off.

  I slipped into the booth. Then I noticed the lipstick on his cheek.

  “Who’s been kissing you?” I asked.

  “Maybe it was you,” he replied.

  “If it was me, it wouldn’t have been on the cheek.”

  The next second, he planted a hot kiss on my mouth, a real zinger that gave me goose bumps. Whoa, what a kisser! Then he kissed me again. Oh my God, I’d just kissed a married man—a definite no-no in my book.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, standing.

  “I’ll get you a taxi,” Mark replied, walking me out—a gesture I appreciated, as Hell’s Kitchen was pretty dodgy back then.

  The minute we were on the sidewalk, Mark took my hand.

  “Um, Mark, aren’t you married?” I’d seen a photo of his wife: she was a real looker.

  I shook my hand away. He took it back.

  He described it as a marriage of convenience: Kym had been his friend as well as partner in a T-shirt business they’d started on Venice Beach; they’d gotten married because he needed his green card, he said. Mark described her as a great person, talented in business and incredibly smart. “But,” he added, “we’re not in love.” He said he slept in the guestroom, and added, knowingly, that she had a male “confidante.”

  I wasn’t sure that I believed him, but I sure wanted to. We walked along for blocks, looking in vain for a taxi. At that hour, all of them had fares.

  “Guess I’ll have to walk you to Penn Station,” he said. I didn’t protest.

  “So, Mark, I don’t understand how you ended up in the U.S.”

  “Motherly intuition,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mum never worried about me when I was a paratrooper with the British military, even when I was fighting in the Falklands War. But when I was leaving for L.A.—which was only supposed to be a quick stop en route to Central America—she told me something at the airport.”

  “What?”

  “She said she had a bad feeling
about the ‘security’ job I was about to take in Central America. She urged me to reconsider taking it.”

  “So you did?”

  “Of course. I’m the sort of guy who listens to his mum. We’re really close.” He sketched out his upbringing—he was the only child of parents who worked at London’s Ford factory. His parents had instilled in him the idea that determination was the key to success.

  Wow—a man who listened to his mother. And liked kids. And had an adorable accent. And was a knock-your-socks-off kisser—a skill he reminded me of yet again when he saw me off at the station. Too bad he was married, and too bad he lived on the West Coast.

  I couldn’t get Mark out of my head during the whole ride back to Long Island. Maybe those jeans were magic.

  Chapter Five

  SHE’S GOT A TICKET TO RIDE

  The follies which a man regrets most in his life are those

  which he didn’t commit when he had the opportunity.

  — Helen Keller

  “AMERICAN FLIGHT 117 FOR Los Angeles, now boarding at Gate 6.”

  It was September 29, 1989, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Lately, I’d been grinning so much that my cheeks hurt. Happiness is great, but I had reason to wonder if I’d lost my mind. Was I deluded? Living in a fantasy? Throwing my life away? I thought about the possibilities in my immediate future and smiled again. I stood at a precipice—poised to make a leap that might reward me with supreme contentment. On the other hand, it might be disastrous. I just didn’t know.

  The boarding announcement was called out a second time as my mind raced through the events that had brought me to this moment—a scenario that just a few months earlier hadn’t seemed to be in the cards.

  It had all started with the magic jeans—the Levi’s that Wendy had lent me back in June. After that night at Spodiodies—and all through the following weekend—I couldn’t stop thinking of the Englishman whose kisses had knocked me off my feet.

  “Helloooo, Dianne, get a grip!” called out the voice of reason back when I had one. Geez, I’d only kissed the guy, and we’d held hands on the way to the train station and kissed a few more times. I was making too much of it, the rational part of my brain pointed out. And then the irrational part of my brain reminded me that I’d never, ever felt such passion with anyone before. If someone had snapped our photo with infrared film, they would have seen sparks flying.

  “Quit exaggerating!” the voice of reason countered. “Stay in control.”

  But I wasn’t the only one acting Cupid-struck. On Monday, back in the office, just when the rational part of my brain had appeared to emerge victorious, the phone rang. It was Mark. “Can’t stop thinking of you,” he said. “Those kisses.” And then he hung up.

  In the afternoon, he called again. “When will I see you again?” And from then on, he called every day.

  Mark didn’t have any scheduled trips to New York, but three weeks later he convinced Faces president George Goldberg, his wife’s stepfather, that a situation had arisen requiring his presence at the Manhattan branch.

  From the minute he popped his head in my office that morning, I couldn’t think of anything but Mark and our secret date planned for that night. He took me to one of Manhattan’s most romantic spots—the posh Indian restaurant Nirvana.

  Perched atop a skyscraper, the window-wrapped penthouse restaurant revealed dazzling views of Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline beyond. With spangled tapestries billowing from the ceiling, batiks on the chairs, and a sitar player dressed in white plucking away, Nirvana was the most exotic restaurant I’d ever been to (good-bye, Panama Hattie’s!), and it had been a favorite celebrity hangout since its opening party thrown by George Harrison and Ravi Shankar.

  The night we dined there, Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes sat at the table to our left, and actress Martha Plimpton was to our right. But the celebrities kept glancing over at us—the googly-eyed young couple who kept stealing quick kisses between courses.

  “Here’s to Anglo-American relations,” Mark said, as we toasted with champagne. At first, I tried to stay composed and hide the way I was feeling—but as we were nibbling on samosas, Mark kept cracking me up with his asides, and impressing me with his stories about being a paratrooper. I’d never known I liked military men before. But by the time the spicy chicken tandoori arrived in a ceramic pot, I couldn’t mask the fact that I was entirely smitten. Either Mark was doing a fine job of acting, or he felt the same way.

  It was after midnight by the time we left the restaurant, but the summer night was still balmy as we strolled along Central Park.

  “Hey, you two look crazy in love,” one of the horse-and-buggy guys called out. “Want to go for a ride? I’ll give you the lovebird discount.” From the minute we stepped aboard to the minute we descended, the ride was one long, scintillating kiss.

  “What time is it?” I asked, as we stepped out of the carriage. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It’s late,” he said, pulling me close again. “Stay with me tonight.”

  Long Island trains were already on their late schedule, running only every hour and a half. If I left right at that moment, I would just make the 12:40 train.

  “Penn Station isn’t safe at this hour,” Mark said, slipping his arm into mine. “Stay with me.”

  “I won’t have anything to wear to work in the morning.”

  “I’ll buy you something to wear to work in the morning.” He gave me another kiss. “It’s decided: you’re staying with me.”

  My heart and body urged me to stay. My mind and conscience told me to bolt. My heart and body won the debate. We walked a block to Central Park South at Sixth Avenue.

  “I hope these lodgings are to your tastes, madame?” Mark asked.

  I looked up at the art deco building that shot up 34 floors and was crowned with a gold arch on the top. It was the Trump Parc—formerly the Barbizon Plaza, a residence hotel that had housed celebrities during the Jazz Age. Not too shabby. Donald Trump had snagged headlines the previous year when he’d converted the apartments into luxury digs.

  Faces International kept an apartment there. The white-gloved doorman greeted us, and I took in the chandeliered foyer as Mark led me to the elevator. The place was dripping in opulence—with special touches like handcrafted Venetian door knobs, oak floors, and elegant furnishings in the halls.

  Once inside the condominium, Mark played the Gipsy Kings and poured us some wine, while I gazed out at the spectacular views overlooking the “front yard”—Central Park. Its “pond” was so close it looked like you could dive in from the terrace. Sweet.

  “I really should go,” I said, not wanting to taint my well-earned reputation as a prude.

  “Get those Minerva lips over here!” Mark ordered, giving me another zesty kiss that made even my feet turn hot.

  The next day when I walked into work wearing the same clothes—I declined Mark’s offer for a new outfit—I was torn between three emotions: guilt, guilt, and all-consuming infatuation. I thought that I’d been in love before. But whatever I’d felt previously, it was never like this. From then on, throughout the entire summer, whatever the day, whatever the hour, wherever I was, I felt intoxicated.

  A new logic quickly paved roads across my gray matter, and annoyingly, all avenues of thought led to the Englishman. When I saw pictures of movie stars—and I was surrounded by them at Faces—it made me think of Hollywood, which made me think of Mark. If I saw a picture of dowdy British prime minister Margaret Thatcher, it made me think of England, which made me think of Mark. Reading the word tea on a menu, or seeing a Levi’s billboard was enough to set me daydreaming again. I’d gone crackers.

  “I think they suspect something,” Mark said when he phoned from L.A. the next day. He was so worried we’d be discovered that he began calling me from phone booths. And he switched his method of wooing me to something old-fashioned: handwritten letters.

  Every day for the rest of the summer, Mark shot off another passionat
e missive, sometimes two—always sent to my mother’s address, since Jake hadn’t moved out yet, although he was looking for a new place—and always signed: “Your Mark.” He sketched out step by step how we’d gotten together, saying that from the moment his eyes landed “on the blonde bombshell,” he’d wanted to be with me, and how just that day Wendy had told him about “the magic jeans.” He was shocked that I’d turned up wearing them.

  … I pulled her to me for the best kiss of my life. Lips were so soft that I sunk into them as I held her tiny body next to me and felt like kissing her for hours and wishing us both away from that place to be alone somewhere special. I suppose Spodiodies will always be special for me now, and I certainly couldn’t laugh at those jeans if they played a part. I have a real lot to thank them for.

  We ended our evening walking through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station. Although to me, while walking with the blonde bombshell, I could have been in Venice or Rome or Paris or Vienna and not felt any happier than I was on that walk. Lots of things begin with wishful thinking, but few end up with your wish in your arms and on your lips. What a pair of jeans, and what a body inside them. I hope she ends up mine, but isn’t that wishful thinking?

  I replied in the same love-struck tone, addressing letters to Mark’s post office box, since we wanted to keep our romance a secret until he had the courage to confront Kym. Whenever I thought of her, my fantasies melted under the glare of reality. I was carrying on with a married man. Before, I’d never even considered holding the hand of a married man, much less kissing a man who was married. Now I was flipping for one. What was wrong with me?

  Mark continued to insist that his marriage of a year was more of a friendship, saying he and Kym weren’t in love, and that it had been all about getting his green card. Still, I didn’t like it. Every so often, the rational part of my brain convinced me that we had to end this long-distance affair. But my resolve would crumble after another letter, or another clandestine phone call. The one day when I forgot to mail a letter, causing Mark to greet an empty mailbox, he was crushed.