Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  “I love hearing these New York stories. Only in this city can you be a nobody one day and a total rock star the next,” says Tessa. I take her cue and wrap it up.

  “Yeah, well, I might not be there much longer…” I mutter, as the fear settles in again like a fog bank. Then I get an idea.

  “Hey,” I say, “Maybe you can coach me. How do I…talk to a celebrity? I know that sounds stupid…or naïve. But do I just go up and say hi, or…what I mean is, Carey Taylor is over there,” I say, nodding my head. “If I can get a quote from him about this place, I’ll save my job and get my first story in the magazine.”

  “Carey? Oh, he’s totally sweet. I’ve styled him a million times. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He owes me, anyway. I put him in an amazing forest-green Gucci suit for the SAG Awards and he got named best dressed by, like, everyone. Come on, I’ll take you over.”

  Instantly, terror courses through me, followed by itching. Hives take shape on my palms and chest, the tingly heat that refuses to be ignored. Everything in my body tells me to stop.

  Tessa pulls me to the corner banquette where Carey Taylor is holding court with half a dozen gorgeous models. On the table sit two empty jeroboams of champagne. One blonde perches on his lap and whispers something into his ear, and they break into a fit of laughter.

  I couldn’t be more petrified if I were locked in a cage with a hungry lion. I do my best to play it cool and try with all my might not to do another back flip into someone else’s arms.

  “Carey! Hey! So good to see you,” says Tessa, boldly cutting into the blonde’s space and double air-kissing Carey.

  “Tessa! I didn’t know you were here. Come, sit,” he says, patting the seat next to him, as the blonde slides off his lap to the other side.

  “I wanted to introduce you to Anna Starr from Celeb,” she says, turning to me and gesturing like Vanna White. “She’s Bernie’s assistant. And you know what that means. Don’t piss her off, or you’ll get skewered in next week’s issue!”

  “Hey, good to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand.

  I smile and nod, step forward, and almost bend down into a curtsy before him, as if he were royalty. I lightly grab his hand, careful not to touch my sweaty palm to his. Words don’t come out. My voice has disappeared. Oh God, oh God, say something, Anna! This is my one chance. Suddenly, Aunt Sylvie’s words of wisdom pop into my head: Stars are just regular people, Anna. Talk to them like you would a friend.

  “Hey, you too,” I manage to get out.

  My bone-dry mouth makes my tongue feel the size of Texas. I muster enough saliva to swallow and get out a few more words.

  “So, what do you think of the place?” I say, awkwardly motioning toward the room with robot-like arms.

  “It’s brilliant. Why should bubbly be only for special occasions? It’s high time someone changed that.” He pauses to take the last sip from a flute on the table in front of him, like he’s performing a scene in one of his blockbusters. “I love the bubbly stuff…and I’m comfortable enough in my manhood to admit it.” He flashes his multi-million-dollar smile to his model dates and then to me.

  Inside my head, I do an end-zone victory dance—his quote is enough for a story, and the champagne comments will totally make it. I did it! I really did it! I just spoke to the world’s biggest celebrity, and I didn’t swallow my tongue or say something completely inappropriate.

  Buoyed by my success, I venture another question—the more details I get, the better the story. “What’s your favorite champagne?”

  He points to the two empty jug-sized bottles and turns one toward me, showing off the Cristal label.

  “Only the best,” I say, spewing out a trilling, girly giggle that sounds nothing like my usual laugh. “I should’ve guessed.”

  I don’t even recognize my own voice, I’m strung so tight. But if I can find out the name of the girl he’s with, I will be golden. A new Carey Taylor girlfriend would be cover-worthy.

  “So…a night out with friends?” I say, softballing the question.

  I see his guard go up immediately.

  “Listen, you got your quote. You tell Bernie that I’m out with a friend. That’s all she gets this week. Any more and I’ll have to sic my publicist on you,” he says with a smile, though he and I both know he’s not joking.

  “You got it. Thanks so much.”

  “Anything for Bernie.” And he turns back to the bevy of beautiful women surrounding him. I take my cue and walk away, while Tessa stays behind to chat.

  A wave of relief rolls through me. I scoot to a small stand-up bar and take a deep breath, knowing I’ll be able to deliver for Bernie. I grab a clean-looking cocktail napkin, find a pen in my bag, and quickly jot down Carey’s quote.

  “Do you have an extra cigarette?” I hear a beguiling Italian accent close to me. Looking up, I see a chic girl with golden skin and a black pixie cut, wearing a tight canary yellow and black patent-leather strapless dress that I recognize as Prada.

  “I don’t really smoke,” I say warmly, happy to be talking to someone. “You could say I’m a social smoker. But I haven’t bought a pack since college.”

  “That’s too bad,” she says, looking at me with a mock sad face, half laughing. She looks back at her friends, a tall, slim black man with dreads to his shoulders and a shorter guy with long brown hair and dark olive skin. She seems so natural, so much in her element here that a twinge of envy bubbles up inside me.

  “I’m Isabella, but call me Bella,” she says, with the affection of an old friend. I instantly warm to her.

  “This is Fabio, and…”

  “And I’m Max,” says dreadlocked guy, as he stares straight into my eyes, grabs my shoulders, and leans down to kiss both of my cheeks. He has an infectious energy that I want to soak up.

  “I’m Anna Starr,” I say back to them.

  As he pulls away, he looks at Fabio and Bella and starts laughing. Bella suddenly links her arm through mine and hands me a glass of bubbly.

  “Cheers,” she says, as she holds her glass up to mine and clinks, then clinks with the two guys. “To old friends—and new,” she continues, glancing over at me. “And to the best city in the world!”

  The four of us sip our champagne. An instant camaraderie blooms—one that only happens in these circles in New York: If you’re at the party, you’re assumed to be part of the exclusive club, and suddenly it’s an even playing field. In the newsroom, I’d heard stories about things like this, but it’s never happened to me.

  Bella huddles for a moment with Max and Fabio, and the three of them turn to me.

  “We’re going to Bowery Bar. There’s a thing there tonight in the VIP room,” says Bella. “It will be a good crowd. Melodie is supposed to be there. Come with us.”

  I’d heard about that event but knew it would be next to impossible to get into. Going would be such a coup, but how can I leave with people I just met? As if she’s watching over me from above, Aunt Sylvie’s voice speaks to me: Real reporters follow the story, no matter where it takes them.

  “Come with us,” Fabio echoes Bella’s words.

  We’re at one of the most exclusive events in the world right now. They can’t be deranged killers if they’re here. In fact, they’re probably some boldfaced names I should already know. I turn to the crew and smile as I whisper, “I’m in.”

  I go to hail a cab once we’re on the street, making like a seasoned New Yorker. One begins to pull over to us.

  “Hey, over here,” says Max, as he rounds the corner.

  We stop in front of a shiny black BMW 7 Series. It’s gorgeous. Through the tinted windows, I make out the outline of a driver, and at the same moment, the car roars to life. “Come on, Anna,” says Bella, waving.

  I slide in the back with Bella and Fabio as Max slips confidently into the passenger seat and the BMW pulls away from the curb, ready to make the ten-block ride uptown. The supple leather seat envelops me
like a cloud, and I rest my head back and close my eyes for a moment, trying to process the events of the evening. Max turns the radio on to Z100, and the sound system fills the car with powerful sonic waves that crash into my chest, making my body vibrate.

  “Musica! Musica!” he shouts as he throws his hands in the air and dances in his seat. His energy is infectious, and we all start moving to the beat.

  When we arrive, Max walks confidently up to the man behind the velvet ropes and nods, and the ropes part. Just like that, we’re in. No banter with a clipboard-wielding man, no “Who are you?” The ropes just give way before us, as though we are royalty.

  We’re shown to one of the center banquettes in the VIP room. My eyes go wide as saucers, taking in the scene, as we’re escorted through the club. How quickly circumstances can transform someone from outsider to insider.

  “We’ll have four Long Island iced teas,” Max says to a waitress, as he turns to Bella, Fabio, and me. “This is getting good!” He jumps up from his seat and starts dancing, and he pulls Bella up, too. Fabio stays seated with me and sways, grabbing my hand and raising it in the air to the beat of the music.

  The drinks arrive. After one sip, the powerful concoction makes my head heavy, and I feel heat flush my cheeks. I put it aside. Though I may feel like an insider, I’m not one of them. I think back to what I told Tessa earlier: I’m not from anywhere. Still, the lure of this glittering New York life is like a powerful drug. The VIP room, the royal treatment—it’s all pulling me in. I feel like I matter, for the first time.

  “So, what do you do, Miss Anna Starr?” asks Fabio. He has a thick Italian accent.

  “I’m assistant to the editor in chief at Celeb magazine.”

  “You work for Bernie Roberts?” asks Max, who’s returned to the table and is sipping his drink.

  I nod.

  “Hot shit. Miss Starr is a star!”

  I demur as they ask the usual questions about the job.

  As Max nurses his drink and nods to practically everyone, he tells me that he’s an actor in commercials; he does bit parts in movies, too. Fabio offers up that he lives in Greenwich Village, where he owns a restaurant called Stellina. I promise to come by for dinner with my best friend Cari as soon as we can.

  While Bella sways to the music, Max tells me she’s heiress to the Italian bridal design label Atelier Modena, the Vera Wang of Italy. Bella leans in without missing a beat of the thumping song and says that she lives in Milan and is just here for Fashion Week. I feel myself in the presence of a new level of fame and fortune—the enduring, born-into-it variety.

  Moments later, two of their friends appear and join us at our table—both impeccably dressed guys with dreadlocks. They hug and air-kiss me, like they’ve known me forever.

  The VIP room comes alive with the energy of Max and these two guys. One of them stands up on the banquette and pulls me up, starting to dance. Everyone feels it and begins to move. People jump up from their tables and writhe to the beat. Everyone is standing, pumping their hands in the air along with the dreadlocked boys. From the corner of my eye, I see Max hand something to Bella. Then she grabs me and pulls me to the ladies’ room with her.

  “Want to do a bump?” she asks, as we’re locked in the private bathroom.

  “What?” I ask, woozy from the champagne and Long Island iced tea.

  “A bump,” she says, wiggling a small packet. “Of coke.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t think so. Not my thing.”

  “Why not, sweetie? It makes the party. That’s how we all keep going.” She gives me a wink and a smile.

  Bella takes out a baggie filled with white powder. She makes a loose fist with her right hand and pours a mound onto the plateau between her thumb and index finger.

  “You do it like this,” says Bella, as she brings her right hand up to her nose and takes one quick snort.

  “Here, try a little. Makes your whole body feel tingly and alive,” she says, grabbing my hand and doling out some of the white powder.

  I feel like I’m in a movie about someone else’s life, and I want to see how it ends. With a mix of fatalism and abandon, and with my defenses down, I bring my hand to my nostril and inhale sharply.

  My head explodes with a heat that washes over it. I tip it back, and I feel a smile erupt on my face. All the synapses in my brain feel like they’re dancing, spinning in cozy warmth. The haze of drunkenness disappears, replaced by clarity and joyfulness. I taste a chalky bitterness in my throat and swallow it down.

  “Whoa,” I say, looking at her sheepishly.

  “I know,” she says as she grabs me by the shoulders, turning us both around to face the mirror. “Now, most important thing to remember: Before you go back out, check your nose. Huge party foul to get caught out.”

  Bella wipes her nose with her finger and then runs it over her front teeth.

  Like a good soldier of the night, I follow suit.

  She pulls a lipstick out of her purse and starts to reapply. Her hand is a little jittery as she gives it to me. As we finish primping, I look at myself, and for the first time in my life, I feel beautiful. The slight curve of my nose, which I’ve always hated, seems perfectly designed. My eyes sparkle, my smile is full. My dirty blond waves fall in perfect soft crescents. I stand up straighter with my newfound chemical confidence.

  Bella turns and gives me a hug, then extends her arms, holding my shoulders, “Ready to rejoin?”

  With the party in full swing, we head back to our private table. The two dreadlocked guys dance on the banquette with a swarm of girls. A small crowd in front sways and shouts over the music. The whole room feels electrified. I sneak a check of my watch: It’s just after 1:00 a.m. The other night, I was still in the office at this hour, closing an issue. Now I’m at the top of the New York scene, seated at one of the best tables in the VIP room of a hot club.

  “You feeling good?” Max asks, appearing at my side, smiling and dancing, his long hair swaying gracefully.

  I nod as the music starts to move my body. I’m riding the wave of the party, feeling sexier than I ever have. The searing nerves from earlier have disappeared, the coke erasing them as if they’d never existed.

  A famous writer swings by and says hello, as does the TV star Keller Folsom, who has drank way too much, as usual. I take mental notes for tomorrow’s Celeb editorial meeting. Models, and girls who look like models, swarm our table.

  I spot two more stars at another table drinking Scotch. Then in walks Carey Taylor with his entourage, coming from the Bubble Lounge party. I make another note. No Melodie, but I have more than enough to report.

  “Una buona notte!” shouts Fabio over the music.

  “A good night, yes!” says Bella, as she looks around, nodding and smiling.

  “So, what do you do at Celeb?” asks Fabio.

  “I fetch a lot of double skim lattes at Starbucks.”

  “Are all the rumors true? Is Bernie pazzo?” he says, circling his finger around his ear, making the sign for crazy.

  “She definitely has her moments.” I think back over the last few hours and the agony I went through to get that Carey Taylor quote. “Tonight, she gave me the invite to the Bubble Lounge but said if I didn’t come back with a story then I shouldn’t bother coming back at all.”

  “Oh, merda!”

  “Yeah.” I look over, nodding.

  “So?”

  “Yeah, I got something.”

  “Starr lives to fight another day in the big city.”

  Max joins us at the table. He’s on one side of me, and Fabio is on the other. Max discreetly passes around bumps of coke. Under the table, I hold my hand in a loose fist, the way Bella showed me, and Max dumps a little mound of the powder onto it. I quickly turn toward the banquette, hold my hand up to my nose, and inhale.

  With the last bump, I hear Fabio’s words echo in my head. I lived to fightanother day…I just got my first story, and now look at me. You’d think I’d won first place in a mara
thon, when I’m still at the starting line. I envision the gossip headline describing my demise: Starr in Stripes! Bernie’s Assistant Jailed After Getting Caught Doing Coke in Bowery VIP Room.

  “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow,” I say suddenly, grabbing my bag and scooting out of the banquette. “Well, actually, today…in a few hours.” I wave a hurried goodbye and pour myself into a cab home.

  3

  The Wolfe of the Art World

  Climbing out of the subway station at 51st and Lex, I feel like I’m moving through molasses. At the same time, my heart beats quickly and I’m sweating in a horrible, clammy kind of way. I jam up my sleeve to feel for my watch. It’s 8:03 a.m., and I’ve got about an hour before the Celeb daily staff meeting. Just enough time to get Bernie set up for the day, type up my reporting, and stop at the food cart on the corner—if I can pull this all off with a head full of what feels like pea soup, barely able to form a cohesive thought. Must get ritual hangover breakfast stat.

  I sidle up to the cart on the corner and order the broke New Yorker’s breakfast of champions: an exceptionally grease-laden egg and cheese on a roll and a piping hot cup of watery coffee, all for about three dollars.

  While watching the man assemble my order with the deftness and grace of a jujitsu master, my mind rewinds through the past eighteen hours. Did I really fall into the arms of a man who touched my soul and experience a lightning-like connection spark between us? Suddenly, I feel it again, just as strong as last night.

  Damien brimmed with passion and seductive honesty, unafraid to operate from his heart. For the first time since moving here, I felt…at ease. I didn’t feel ashamed—ashamed that I’m country on the inside, that I’m trying to live a dream that I’ve had since I was nine, that I’m not polished enough for the world I’ve been thrust into. My stomach clenches thinking back to that last look he gave me, and to my hand cradled in his strong, warm palm.