by Ava Cummings
“Anna, I need to get back up there and work the room.”
I nod.
“But I’m not going to let you go so easily again.”
He asks to take me for a drink, and I say yes probably too quickly, trying not to beam, again responding with my emotions before I have a chance to think about Alec or Damien’s girlfriend or how none of this makes sense. I fish my card out of my purse and hand it to him.
And then I remember that I have to meet Jesse tonight at Cipriani Downtown. I glance at my watch. I’ve got half an hour to get there. God, I don’t want to leave Damien, break this spell.
“Great, Miss Anna Starr,” he says as he looks at my card. “With that name, you need to be famous.” I feel another tingle course through me from head to toe, as my stomach flutters in uncontrollable excitement.
We climb the stairs back to the exhibition.
Coming back to reality, I think of Alec for a moment and wonder if he’d be upset to learn I was talking to someone else. I’d want him to, but a hesitation nags at me, and I realize I don’t truly know how he would react.
When we say goodbye, he turns to face me, takes both of my hands in his and leans in, placing his lips on my cheek. I feel a rush of heat where they touch me and my head feels light. He lets his lips linger on my cheek and I feel him softly breathing in…as his eyelashes brush my cheek. My stomach clenches and I practically lift off and fly away. “You’re mine,” he whispers, as he pulls back and locks eyes with me, and then turns to go. I float over to Cari and try to come back down to earth.
“Any sign of Sasha Slade?” I ask, still trying to process his parting comment.
Cari tells me she saw her downstairs at the main bar. We stop by on our way out, and I see her, with drink in hand, wobbling on the arm of her artist boyfriend. After I gather enough intel for a possible item to present at tomorrow’s morning meeting, I ask Cari to come with me to meet Jesse.
“I’m gonna head home. Long day, and you know how much I like my eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.”
I give her a look.
“So, what happened with gorgeous art boy?”
“I hugged him. He probably thinks I’m a freak.”
“What possessed you to do that?”
“He told me that he just got his first solo show, and it was a reflex thing. I was just so happy for him that I grabbed him.”
“Anna, you’re crazy.”
“But the crazier thing is that it felt so natural and comfortable. Like home. I fit into his arms like I was made for him.”
“Sugar cube lady is totally you,” teases Cari.
“Well, nothing is going to happen. Not while I have Alec,” I say, trying to convince myself.
15
The Other Woman
“Hey, Starr. So, how’s Bernie treating you these days?”
“Things are all good,” I say, pulling up the stool next to Jesse at the bar. I hide a cringe as I remember that wild night with Alec in her office. She raged the next morning when she saw the broken dish on the floor—it was her son’s kindergarten art project. Feeling guilty, I offered to glue it back together. When she blamed it on the cleaning crew, I lowered my eyes and said nothing.
As I settle into my seat, I realize that I almost pushed it too far that time. When I’m with Alec, I do things his way. I want to please him. But I need to keep myself in check. Getting caught would’ve meant nothing to him; the stakes are higher for me. I would be done. Back to Clark. I make a silent vow not to lose myself in him.
“Drink?” says Jesse, looking sweet, with his loose jeans and floppy hair.
“Sure. What are you having?”
“Whiskey.”
“I’ll do a glass of pinot,” I say, as he gets the bartender’s attention and orders for me. “For once, Bernie’s not the issue.”
“What, has she been taking happy pills lately?”
“Jesse, listen,” I say, changing the subject, “thanks for meeting me tonight. I needed to see you.”
“I know you’ve been missing me—all the girls do. I mean, who wouldn’t?” he says with a wink.
“Ha, ha. You know I love you, but you’re a player, and I’m actually seeing someone—an investment banker. But we’re not here to talk about my love life.”
“No? But it sounds fascinating. Tell me more.”
“Maybe later. Listen, I’ve been freaking. Something weird is going on at the magazine.” I tell him about Chelsea, how something is up with her. How she’s been bringing in scoops and exclusives practically every day. Her sources are not that good; they can’t be. She’s so young. And that all the senior reporters are pissed at her.
“Not Chelsea. She’s a good kid. From a good, wealthy family, and so what if she’s driven? She’s allowed to be good at her job. All you girls are so jealous of one another.”
“That’s not all.” Jesse leans in and perks up. “And no items on Page 10 about this. It’s all off the record until I say so.”
“You got it, Starr. Word of honor,” he says, crossing his hand over his heart.
I explain the whole expense report thing to him. How the charges didn’t seem right—the fake receipt from the Dior sample sale and the charge for Glenn Goodall.
“Do you know any source or PR person with that name? It’s not someone we use at Celeb.”
“I don’t know the name. But let me ask the guys on the news desk.”
“That would be great.” I pick up my wine glass, take a small sip, and add the last piece. “Here’s the craziest part. When I showed up earlier this week to do a set visit to Charlie Grant’s new show, the network publicist came sprinting up and shoved me out just as I walked in the door.”
“Now, this is getting good,” he says, rubbing his hands together, eyes ablaze.
“Yeah. And get this: As I was being pushed out, Tessa, that stylist who’s working on the show, approached me. When I asked her what the hell was going on, she told me, ‘You can thank your ace reporter.’”
I take a long sip of my wine.
“Okay, I’ll hand it to you. You might be on to something.”
“Will you help me? I can’t do this on my own.”
“You know how much I like a good story.”
“Remember, though—all off the record until I say so. It has to be.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll help. Off the record. You got it, kiddo.”
“Thanks.”
“First, let me find out who this Glenn Goodall is, and we’ll take it from there. Now, back to your fascinating love life…”
“Well, after you ditched me,” I say sweetly, “I met a great guy, a true gentleman. His name is Alec, and he works at Goldman. He’s a numbers guru, some kind of genius. Apparently, he has, like, a perfect track record, and all the banks want him.”
“Is he any fun?”
“Maybe even more than you,” I tease, thinking about all the crazy things Alec and I have done.
“Nah, not more than me, ” says Jesse, flirting.
I laugh as I take another sip of wine and look around Cipriani, surveying the scene at the bar. It’s packed with young Wall Streeters in bespoke suits, blowing off steam.
A group of guys is having a rowdy good time down the bar from us. One of them looks like Alec, moving in that controlled way of his. I crane my neck to get a better look.
“Shit, I think Alec is here. Over there,” I say pointing. “I’m gonna go say hi. I’ll bring him back over to meet you.”
Jesse sits up and changes his mood. “No thanks, Starr. Listen, got to go meet one of my sources. Still reporting my story.”
“All right, all right, I get it.”
“I’ll check out Glenn Goodall tomorrow and give you a call.”
I lean in for a hug, as Jesse pays and gets up to leave. I hop off my stool and walk down the bar to say hello to Alec, excited to have an impromptu meet-up. I get a good look; it’s definitely him. I smile. He doesn’t see me yet. It’s crowded, and he’s laughing with
his buddies. Maybe it’s serendipity, running into him here. I can’t wait to surprise him—and maybe tonight will be the night he takes me back to his apartment. I won’t take no for an answer.
As I draw near, Alec turns his head slightly and lifts his beer to take a sip.
I stop in my tracks, as darkness invades the corners of my eyes. I whip around before he can spot me and push my way through the crowd, tears welling in my eyes, trying to stay calm as they spill down my cheeks and I hold in a rack of sobs.
I grab ahold of my purse around my shoulder, holding onto it for dear life, trying to keep from breaking down as I bolt out and hail a cab, moving on autopilot, in shock, heartbroken, and embarrassed at myself for being so naïve, so…so stupid.
“Take me home,” I blurt to the cabbie, between quiet sobs. “29th and Lex.”
I stare out the window, the city lights blurring from my burning, tear-soaked eyes, as we fly uptown, zigging and zagging through traffic. I feel like time is suspended, my feelings lost in some in-between state. It doesn’t feel like reality. My life is happening in front of me and I’m somewhere else, above it, or at home in my bedroom in the quiet calm of Clark. This life, this city is overwhelming…I feel like I’m in too deep, in love, in work, in every aspect.
As I run into my apartment, I go directly to Cari’s room without taking off my coat or putting down my purse. I flop onto her bed, as another wave of tears rolls through me and I release the heavy, deep sobs that I’ve been holding in. She reluctantly pulls herself out of her slumber.
“What’s up?”
“Alec” I manage to say between short, quick sobs. “At Cipriani,” I take a deep breath, wipe my nose on my sleeve, and recount the story.
“So, I jumped off my stool to go say hi and surprise him.”
“Did he diss you in front of his friends?” Cari says, all righteous and protective. “I hate it when guys do that!”
I try to find the words to tell her and the reality of it all hits me in another wave. “As I was walking over to him, he took a swig of his beer and…I saw a gold…wedding band…sh-sh-shining on his finger.”
“Oh, Anna, I’m so sorry.” Cari, with her soothing voice, rubs my back and lets me cry.
“I liked him,” I say, burying my head in her pillow, mascara staining her pristine white case. “He took care of me. I thought he could’ve been my knight in shining armor.”
“But remember all the questions you had about him? He did leave a lot out.”
Cari pulls me to her and I sob, not just for the loss of someone I liked, but the betrayal, the lying. And it hurts. As much as it did the first time when my dad left.
16
Undercover Intel
“What’s our list this week?” Bernie barks at our senior news editor, running through the lineup.
“Ten most expensive divorces, ten worst celebrity breakups, or ten biggest homes in Hollywood. Your choice.”
“I want homes,” she says, scarfing a messy bite of her blueberry muffin. “Who’s number one?”
“Keller Folsom. His ranch is a 50,000-square-foot palace, and we have good shots of it.”
“Get me an A-lister for number one, or we’re not running it. He’s a drunk, and his show’s on life support, for fuck’s sake,” she says, brushing the crumbs from her shirt and taking a long gulp of coffee.
The news editor looks down and grumbles, scribbling something on his notepad. Bernie, miffed by what she perceives as the team’s general incompetence, lets the awkward silence hang in the air as she takes another bite of her muffin. It’s so quiet, we all hear her chew, sloshing the mix around in her mouth.
“I’ve got something,” Chelsea pipes in, breaking the mood. “I just need another day to confirm it.”
Bernie perks up, and stops chewing with a half bite still in her mouth.
“Katy Simpson attempted suicide last night.”
A grin slowly spreads across her face—clearly, she’s entertaining visions of issues flying off newsstands and her bonus racking up, solidifying her position as Oldenhouse’s darling. I quietly gasp, watching the emotions play out.
The stars are nothing but cover lines and dollar signs to her. She’s like a Wall Street broker, with celebrities the commodities she bundles and sells; her market is the newsstand, rather than NASDAQ. They aren’t real people who are struggling, hurting, falling. I feel a wave of nausea roll through me at the realization. How can she do this day in and day out, year in and year out?
A hum erupts in the room. We assistants are in shock, still new to this, not yet jaded. The photo and design teams are all business, talking images and layouts, and the senior editors roll their eyes; some sigh, heads cast down. Chelsea’s made them look bad, and they’re avoiding Bernie’s wrath.
“I need another twenty-four hours, but she and Russell Hanover got into a huge fight, and she went home, downed a bottle of Percocet, chased it with a bottle of Dom, and smoked a joint,” says Chelsea. “She got into the bath and then passed out, and she would have drowned if her assistant hadn’t broken in and saved her.”
“Biggest pop star tries to off herself over fight with leading-man boyfriend,” says Bernie, imagining the headline and waving her arm through the air. “This will get me on TheToday Show!”
“And apparently, she’s been off the rails lately. Think she’s stopped taking her meds. I’ll confirm it all by tomorrow,” says Chelsea.
“This is brilliant,” Bernie says, rubbing her hands together, still holding a dirty napkin in one.
“Okay,” she continues, assessing the room like we are a bunch of incompetent monsters, “moving on to the front of book. Simon Bond’s new restaurant, Julien, is opening tomorrow night. Anna, you’ll be covering it.”
I smile and nod, feigning a balanced mix of seriousness and competence. At first, covering openings and parties was exciting. I was finally on the other side—in that world that was always out of reach. But the reality wasn’t as sweet as the fantasy. It never is. I’m a bottom feeder, scraping for little items—stars drinking too much or behaving badly or voicing vacuous opinions about new stores or restaurants.
“Brendan, put a photog outside. We’ll block out a page for it in the news section.”
Bernie takes a deep breath, eyebrows furrowed, studying the lineup again and sizing up the issue.
“Things are coming together. Chelsea, we need that scoop on Simpson. We can beat Hollywood Insider with it.”
Chelsea smiles and nods.
“All right,” says Bernie, slapping her hands on the conference room table and moving to heave herself up—her signal that we’re done with our daily berating. “Get to work.”
Since the meeting, Bernie has been on a tear. A steady stream of senior editors has filed in and out of her office all morning. They’re entering nervous and exiting frustrated, beat down. Chelsea’s made them look bad. And Bernie is cracking the whip. They all want to commiserate with me outside her door.
“Celeb, this is Anna,” I say, thankful to answer my phone and escape the drama, if only for a few moments.
“Hi, Starr.” Jesse’s deep, melodic voice, with the over-enunciated inflections of the born-to-it upper class, floats over the line.
“What’d you find out?” I ask urgently, relieved to finally receive the call I’ve been waiting for all day.
“I’m not sure you want to get mixed up in this.” His voice sounds serious—a tone I’ve never heard from Jesse. My stomach clenches, and I scoot to the front of my chair, all senses on alert.
“Tell me,” I say, “I need to know.” My hand grips the phone even tighter, palms dampening with a cold sweat.
“Seriously. This isn’t amateur hour here.”
“Listen, she pitched another scoop this morning. Bernie’s spent the rest of the day reaming out the other editors. I’m getting to the bottom of this, with or without you.”
“I asked the guys around the newsroom, and I found out who Glenn Goodall is.”
&nb
sp; “Well? Murderer? Stalker?”
“Stalker is close,” he says, going on to explain that he’s a private investigator but not the type we typically use in the tabloid circles. He’s a real scumbag. The guys at The Reporter won’t even use him anymore. He’s sleazy, unethical—not the usual tailing and snapping pictures kind of thing.
“Apparently, we stopped using him after he hacked into a hedge fund manager’s checking account, trying to find charges related to a rumored affair between the hedge fund guy and a stripper.”
“Oooh.” I wince, processing the information—not sure what to say or do next.
“Yeah. You get arrested for that shit, Anna. If you get caught.”
“I’ve got to see who this guy is, get a face with the name. He’s probably out at the same parties we are, lurking in the corners, and we don’t even know it.”
“All right, so how are we going to do it?”
“Really? You’re in this with me?” I say with way too much enthusiasm.
“You know I can’t resist a good story.” Or helping out a friend. I don’t say anything, but underneath the playboy exterior I think he’s a good guy.
“Give me another hour, and I’ll have a plan. Sit tight.”
“Go, Starr. You might just turn into a real reporter yet.”
While Bernie is out to lunch with Oldenhouse, I run out to Hale and Hearty to get a salad. The line is out the door, but it moves quickly as the counter workers spin salads at record speeds. I order my usual: mixed greens with grilled chicken, carrots, peas, crunchy Chinese noodles, and Asian dressing.
As I walk the three blocks back to the office, I try to revel in the peaceful moment away from my desk, savoring the bright sunshine warming my face and staring down Sixth Avenue as far as I can see. The office has turned from a place of possibility and excitement—my journalism career finally in motion—to one filled with questions. My mom would say in her laid-back way that it will all work out the way it’s supposed to; have faith in the universe to serve you what you need, when you need it. But as thoughts swirl from Chelsea to Goodall, my jaw clenches and the sinking feeling sets back in.