Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  Then he was gone, as quickly as he appeared.

  The cart man hands me my breakfast, all neatly tucked into a brown paper bag, and my body suddenly swings from wired to tired with a mix of nausea, dizziness, and jitters. The memory of Bella, Max, and Fabio moves front and center. They lifted me into the New York that I’ve coveted since that dinner at Tavern on the Green, a place of privilege and parties, where the regular rules don’t apply.

  As I hurry to the office, trying to keep it all together, I worry that I’m teetering on the brink of disaster. My free hand flies to my mouth, and I start to work chewing a nail off, assuaging the feelings, beating myself up for making reckless decisions.

  The thing is, though, I want to feel like I belong—somewhere. And I felt it last night, even if it was just for a second, and even if it was thanks to the chemicals. It was there. I never fit in back home in Clark or in my family. They were back-to-the-land hippies, counterculture and counter everything, opposed to anything that wasn’t pure or of the earth.

  Even more, I want to feel that safety and security of love, of having someone there with me, to catch me when I stumble. I chuckle to myself…catch me, yes. Damien did just that when I needed it most.

  Bernie sits at the head of the long table in the main conference room while the staff gathers. The senior staff fills the available chairs, while I lean against the wall with the junior editors and the other assistants, forming an outer ring—an old-school newsroom hierarchy that’s been in place since the dawn of the broadsheet.

  Bernie tears apart the latecomers in a feast of public humiliation, counting the ways that they’re incompetent until they apologize profusely. We run through the stories planned for this week’s issue and any breaking news that could change the lineup.

  “The Cruz story is on track,” says Bernie, her face expressionless as she scarfs a blueberry muffin and sips her ever-present Starbucks. We all spend our days trying to read her—is she happy, mad, sad?—to anticipate her reactions and prep our responses. “We had dinner last night, and he gave me the rest of the back story on the movie,” she continues. “And after a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, he let slip more details about his fling with Lola Muniz. Brendan, how’d the shoot go?”

  “It went well. We did an old Hollywood thing. Got him in a bathtub with a gin and tonic, wearing a smoking jacket and ascot. We’ll do an edit with you this morning and get the cover going.”

  “Any news overnight?” asks Bernie, crumbs trailing down the front of her Armani top. She may lack manners, but this petite, fashionable iron lady controls Hollywood. “Chelsea, anything?”

  “I’ve got something good on Robert Lawson,” Chelsea says, pausing and looking around.

  “Good,” says Bernie. “He sells.”

  A twinge of jealousy bubbles up. Everything comes easily to Chelsea Peters. She has the confidence and innate sense of belonging that comes from being born into this world and the trust fund that goes with it.

  “It is good. He’s cheating on his wife—with their nanny. It started when she was in Montreal filming Gilmore Road.”

  I see the whole newsroom erupt in chatter and spot several eye rolls among the senior reporters. For the past several weeks, Chelsea’s come to the morning meeting with exclusive scoops. It puts my champagne quote from Carey Taylor to shame.

  “Great work, Chelsea. Let’s do it on page one of the news section and put it in a box on the cover.” Bernie turns to me. “Anna, how was the opening?”

  I snap to attention. The rush of adrenaline instantly clears my head. Hanging onto the boost of confidence still lingering in me from last night’s chemical indulgence, I stand up straight and take a deep breath. “The Bubble Lounge was great. Hot place. It was packed,” I say, stumbling a bit over the jumbled thoughts in my head. “Carey Taylor was there, canoodling with a bevy of models. He gave me a great quote about champagne—that he loves it and is ‘comfortable enough in his manhood to admit it.’”

  A snicker erupts among the senior editors.

  “And he was all over this one blonde. Maybe we can ID her from the photos. He wouldn’t give me her name. But, for the record, I asked.”

  “That’ll be a great pic for the front of the book,” Bernie says.

  I nod in grateful acknowledgment. Emboldened by my success, I continue, “We could do an item for the news section on the Bubble Lounge with the headline “Stars Who Sip.” We have Carey’s quote, and then we’ll pull the pictures of all the other stars who were there, drinking bubbly.”

  “Love it, Anna,” says Bernie, nodding her head slowly and giving me a pleasantly surprised look. “Write it up today, fifty words for the front section, and get Brendan to pull the best images. We’ll do a half page with lots of pictures.”

  It takes a moment for this to set in. She said it so quickly, so matter-of-fact, as if I were a regular reporter and this weren’t my first story. I do a fist pump inside. Trying not to beam, I play it cool and take the chance, while I’m in her good graces, to make another pitch.

  “Actually, there’s one more thing. At the VIP room at Bowery Bar, I saw Keller Folsom. He was crazy drunk—again. Could be a good small item, if there are pictures. The angle could be a tongue-in-cheek, how-does-he-keep-up-with-his-shooting-schedule type thing. Get a quote from a Dr. Drew to round it out.”

  “If we can get a picture, I want this item, too,” says Bernie. “Nice work last night, Anna. Maybe you should be our new night crawler. Looks like we have a budding reporter here.”

  Another victory dance erupts inside me. I passed Bernie’s test! There won’t be a “Falling Starr” headline, at least not today. And she actually uttered a word of praise. Looking up toward the ceiling, I silently thank Aunt Sylvie.

  The meeting breaks and the staff begin to file out of the conference room. Feeling a surge of confidence, I tap Chelsea on the shoulder.

  “Hi,” she says tonelessly, as if flatlining.

  “Great story today, with the Robert Lawson scandal. I mean, cheating on his wife with the nanny? You can’t make this stuff up.”

  “None of them can keep it in their pants. They all think the rules don’t apply to them. But he’s going down,” she says, flipping her perfectly highlighted blond hair.

  “Listen, Chelsea, you’re on such a roll lately. My God, the stories you’re breaking!”

  “Thanks,” she says, and goes to head out the conference-room door.

  “No, wait! Just a sec. I just wanted to ask you something.”

  I start to sweat profusely and stammer my words. My tongue feels like it’s the size of a Popsicle. I can’t get the words out. My short-lived confidence has evaporated.

  “I…I…I…”

  “Spit it out, Starr. I have a cover story to write, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Well, I was just wondering if we could go to lunch sometime. Grab some sushi or something. You could tell me more about the business and how it works. Maybe you could take me under your wing a bit and share your wisdom.” She’s just standing there staring at me like I’m an idiot, arms folded over her crisp, white button-down, perfect blood-red nails almost imperceptibly tapping impatiently. Time to double down on the enthusiasm. “I want to be a real reporter. And who better to teach me a thing or two than the best one on staff?”

  She looks at me blankly.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t ask much. Just a lunch and some advice…” I backpedal.

  Chelsea pauses and lets an awkward silence hang between us.

  “Yeah, and then we can go get mani-pedis, hold hands, and sing ‘Kumbaya.’”

  She turns as if released from captivity and strides out of the now-empty conference room, sarcastically laughing, and then yells, “I don’t think so, Starr.”

  Sheesh. I feel like I just got yelled at by my dad—and it’s been a long time since that happened.

  Alone in the vast conference room, I quickly pick up my notebook and bolt back to my desk, running from the feelings.

&n
bsp; Bernie shoots me a frustrated look from inside her office as the phone lights up. I push the Chelsea episode out of my head and dive into my day as gatekeeper to one of the city’s most powerful editors. A line of staffers begins to form in front of my cubicle. I can see in their eyes that they all need Bernie urgently.

  “Hey, Anna Banana, I got to get in there and do the edit for the Cruz photos,” Brendan says, as he sidles up to me.

  “You know I have to control who gets in and for what. She can’t be disturbed right now. She’s talking with the big boss.”

  “I’ll just hover, then,” he says, pacing outside her office.

  “Her day is insane. Why don’t you do an initial edit on your own and then present her with three options? I can find some time for you at noon, right before her lunch.”

  “You know that never works,” say Brendan, rolling his eyes dramatically then relenting with a huff and stalking away.

  The phone lights up with another round of calls. Keller Folsom’s publicist asks—no, begs—us not to run the Bowery pictures from last night. I make a note for Bernie to call back. Maybe she’ll work one of her deals, relenting but only in exchange for getting an exclusive on another, bigger star. Our lawyer wants to talk through the Lawson story and the possible legal ramifications. Cruz’s publicist calls, asking to get approval on the cover story. Bernie will never allow it. That’s the church and state of publishing, but I take a message.

  With the phones under control and the editors at bay, I turn to my next task: reading the daily papers and stacks of magazines, scanning for items that might be of interest to Bernie.

  I flip through the latest issue of New York, slowing down to take in the “Culture Pages” section. Suddenly my vision tunnels and I let loose an audible gasp. There on the second page, nestled in the bottom left-hand corner, in the “Meet…” column, is a photo of a very familiar man, one with piercing hazel eyes and a heartbreaking smile: Damien. My eyes feverishly dart up to the headline, which reads “Meet….The Wolfe of the Art World.” I read on.

  Name: Damien Wolfe, the rising art star, has a penchant for pop and the provocative, using unusual materials (poppies and petrified fruit , anyone?) and tackling subjects of the moment.

  Gallery: Shows at Gary Lehman in So H o .

  Inspiration: “My muse, of course.” What a throwback to Picasso , Manet , and many other greats— we love this at the Culture Pages! “Throughout history, artists have been inspired by the presence of certain other people in their lives who motivated them to create their best work. Doesn’t every artist need one? ”

  Ideas Hunter: “Art comes from everywhere. It’s your response to your surroundings.”

  A Special Someone ?: So H o’s sexiest bachelor has a girlfriend, but he stopped short of offering more details. “Private life isn’t called that for nothing,” he quipped.

  Next Up: Check out Wolfe’s latest in the upcoming Whitney Biennial, the famed showcase for the best new artists.

  I remember the connection that I was so sure we were both feeling: The lightning pulsing through our fingers when he held my hand, his gaze on me for a beat too long, the instant sense of intimacy.

  And then my heart sinks to my toes, and my whole body flops down with it—shoulders slumping forward in defeat, eyes unfocused and staring blankly. Of course he has a girlfriend. And is a famous artist. And is so out of my league.

  “Anna!”

  Bernie’s voice pierces my thoughts and I catapult myself from my cubicle to the front of her desk, grabbing on my way the vital information I need to convey to her.

  “Here are your messages. Your 1:00 p.m. lunch is confirmed, the car will be here at 12:45, and Brendan will meet with you at noon with three cover options.”

  “Get me a latte—I’m dying.”

  “The usual?” I inhale to keep myself from fainting, realizing I’ve been holding my breath, as if stuffing down the swirl of emotions roiling inside me.

  My heart starts racing and I want to run—out of the office, down the street, and on and on until the thoughts and feelings, and the well hidden pain that’s poking through my tough shell, somehow disappear, dissipate.

  “And I want you to go to the Versace party at the Tunnel tonight. I’m going to the runway show, but I don’t want to go to some hideous party at a sweaty dance club. You’d think Donatella could have picked some place a little more classy. But let’s see if my budding night crawler can get us another item.”

  The roller coaster of feelings—hurtling, looping, sending me reeling—suddenly snaps back into check. But I’m still rattled, my thoughts a jumble. Aunt Sylvie’s voice pops into my head. A reporter’s path is challenging, but take everyopportunity. Your career is built in steps. Your credentials will be built piece by piece, story by story. Every once in a while, you’ll get lucky and break a big storyand make a splash, but thoseonlycome along once in a blue moon.

  With Aunt Sylvie’s strength, I find the words—and my balance.

  “Absolutely. Bernie, thank you for giving me a chance.”

  4

  A Warning Sign

  Waist-high piles of black garbage bags wall the street corners, emitting an overpoweringly pungent smell that seeps deep into the olfactory recesses of my brain. This wholly unnatural scent could only be born in a concrete jungle where organic matter has no home. Looking ahead, down Sixth Avenue, at least a dozen shades of gray and brown—the hues of the asphalt streets, the concrete and brick buildings—dominate the urban landscape. I join the hordes pouring out of office buildings and into the subway, rushing to the next thing, hip-checking and shoulder-bumping one another as they scramble by.

  In the roaring subway car, a pang of homesickness bubbles up. I’m missing the rich, earthy colors, the vast landscapes, and the quietness of farm life, marked by the cadence of the seasons. A tiny piece of me envies people who can be satisfied with the simplicity of that existence.

  Walking into my apartment, my spirits sink. Cari isn’t home yet—her hours as a first-year lawyer are even worse than mine. There’s so much I need to fill her in on, that I need her to help me make sense of—the Damien debacle and the disheartening run-in with Chelsea.

  But when I head to my room to get changed for the Versace after-party, I do a dorky jig of excitement in front of my closet. A few months ago, a normal evening meant I’d be curled up on the couch, devouring New York, Vanity Fair, and Vogue and dreaming of creating a life like the ones portrayed in the magazines.

  Reaching into my top dresser drawer, I grab the Cosabella lingerie that I got as a freebie at work. I think of Bernie’s sneer as she promptly passed them on to me with a snarky, “Who wears dental floss to the office?”

  I shimmy into the G-string panties, which are made of fine black lace, and pull on a sleek, black, one-shouldered Christian Dior dress that I snagged for about 80 percent off at an invite-only Dior sample sale.

  I shake out my hair and smile as it does a sexy, soft-waves-from-the-beach thing. I line my eyes with a new Bobbi Brown black liner, another freebie. After applying a coat of Cargo berry lip stain, I step back from the full-length mirror hanging behind my bedroom door and take in my reflection.

  Reflexively, my hand goes to my mouth and I start to chew my nails. As I survey every curve and bump of my five-foot-nine-inch frame, my inner critic starts up as if on cue: butt’s too big, waist’s pouching out, thighs too muscular. I wish I could ignore that critical voice, or put it in a box and throw it out the window. But it feeds off my insecurities and always seems to regenerate itself with newfound strength.

  The phone rings, jolting me from my thoughts. Checking caller ID, I pick it right up.

  “Mom!”

  “Hi, sweetie,” says my mother’s smooth, warm voice. I slump down on my bed and exhale deeply, with a sense of release.

  “I’m so glad you called. I was missing you today. Missing Stone Ridge. Yes, I just admitted it. I miss the farm. Let the ribbing begin.”

  “Any time yo
u want to come back, the door is wide open.”

  I can tell there’s a big smile on her face as she does her little softball sell, lovingly teasing.

  “So, what’s going on in the big city? Tell me something good. It’s so quiet out here, I need to hear about some excitement.”

  “Great things are going on at work, actually.” I fill her in on how Bernie paid me a sort of compliment today and tell her I’m getting my first story in the magazine this week.

  “I think it was a test. She wanted to see if I could actually report. And I did it. I got a great quote from Carey Taylor, the action star.”

  I leave out the details about Max and Bella and the Bowery Bar.

  “I also met a guy last night. But it was nothing…is nothing. I mean, at first I thought it was something; I really thought it was. It felt like we really had a connection. But he didn’t ask for my number—or my full name, for that matter. And then I found out today that he has a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.” Her words wrap me in a warm hug.

  I sigh deeply and swallow the lump in my throat. “This guy last night, Damien, I had met him for two seconds, and I was telling him about Aunt Sylvie. He seemed so…different. It was like he tapped an emotional well in me, and my feelings came pouring out.”

  “Sounds like you had your first whiz-bang moment,” my mother says. “Sometimes, it means something—but sometimes, it’s just a passing feeling. You will find love, sweetie. I have no doubt. When the time is right, and when you’re ready, it will come to you.”

  Taking my place in a chaotic line at the Tunnel, on Twelfth Avenue in Chelsea, I hold the invitation firmly in hand as a mob of people shouts at the bouncers. The crowd isn’t moving, and people start to get agitated and pushy. A tense energy fills the block, a mix of excitement and desperation, and it feels as though one “Sorry, you’re not on the list” from the bouncer might trigger a riot.