Piece of Work

by Laura Zigman

  But when the shoot was finished and when Mary Ford went back into the wardrobe area to change and came out again—her bags packed, her coat on—Julia could see with horror that the rack of clothing was all but empty. The leather coat was gone, as were all of the bodysuits. All that was left were five or six naked hangers still swinging from the pilfered rack.

  Romaine grabbed Julia and dug his fingers into her upper arm. His lips were moving but no words were coming out. Which didn’t matter since Julia knew what he was trying to communicate. For several seconds she stood there next to him watching Mary come toward them as if she weren’t about to abscond with well over ten thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise stuffed into her well-worn Louis Vuitton garment bag.

  Romaine approached Mary and started to cry, explaining in between desperate sobs that he was personally responsible for the safe return of the clothing to the designer’s showroom. Mary nodded and put her arm around him condescendingly and walked him toward the door of the loft.

  “What’s your name, little man?” Mary asked.

  “Romaine.”

  “Romaine? Like the lettuce?”

  He shrugged defensively. “It means ‘Roman’ in French.”

  Mary rolled her eyes toward Julia for support. “Yes, I know that. Why do you think they use it to make Caesar salads?”

  Momentarily distracted, Romaine’s expression changed and he looked up at Mary, completely intrigued. “That’s so interesting. I’ve never heard that before. Is it true?”

  She rolled her eyes again. “No, it’s not true.” She shifted the strap of the obviously heavy garment bag from one shoulder to the other and turned again to Julia. “Who does he work for, this one? Jack or the photographer?”

  “The magazine.”

  Mary nodded as if to process the whole triangulation of the event, but Julia suspected it was really so she could buy herself some time to figure out how she was going to get through the door with the stolen clothes.

  “Now listen to me, Little Caesar,” Mary started slowly. “Donna Karan and I are close personal friends. As soon as I go home I’m going to call her and settle up with her directly.”

  Removing her large arm from around his narrow shoulders, she waved goodbye to the crowd of assistants that was now dismantling the shoot and that seemed to have no idea—and couldn’t have cared less—that a grand larceny had just taken place. When the huge metal door slammed behind her, Romaine turned to Julia in a panic.

  “I thought you said she wasn’t going to steal the clothes!” he cried, in a high-pitched wail. Then he flipped open his cell phone and speed-dialed his office. “Now what am I going to do?”

  When Julia got back to the office sometime after two without Jack—he’d left the shoot before her even though she hadn’t seen him sneak out—she couldn’t help feeling foolish. She’d been slimed—charmed, sucked in, seduced—by Mary Ford, who was as cunning and sly as a compulsive shoplifter, and as she left Jack’s office and walked back to her own, all the excitement and exhilaration she’d felt earlier in the day completely left her body.

  Julia Einstein: starstruck sucker.

  It was a bush-league mistake, one she couldn’t believe with all of her years of experience she’d made, and one she was too embarrassed to tell anyone about.

  Anyone except Jonathan Leibowitz.

  Sitting in her office with the door closed behind him, he listened attentively as she recounted the events of the morning—how, before the theft of the clothes, Mary Ford had actually been quite friendly to Julia; about how she had made fun of Jack and said she couldn’t stand him; and how she had specifically said she wanted Julia to travel with her instead of Jack.

  Jonathan nodded his head knowingly. “She was splitting.”

  Julia stared at him, bewildered.

  “‘Splitting’ is what people like Mary Ford—who are usually diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, by the way—do to manipulate and control others.”

  Julia’s eyes widened. Advanced Abnormal Psychology, like Latin, had not been a required course of study at Vassar either.

  “In other words, they divide and conquer.”

  Jonathan sat forward on the edge of his chair and blinked quickly as if he couldn’t believe that everything he’d been forced to listen to his parents talk about at the dinner table his whole life—pathological narcissism, personality disorders, idealization, transference and countertransference—was actually coming in handy.

  “First, Mary finds someone who seems sympathetic and responsive to her needs, someone eager to please.”

  Julia nodded slowly.

  Me.

  “Then, she charms the person by temporarily making it seem like they are uniquely competent and especially likable. Especially compared to the other incompetent and unlikable person.”

  Me and Jack.

  “Naturally, it’s hard to resist the temptation to believe such praise. Even if it’s true,” he added quickly, then fingered his love beads.

  Julia tried to smile.

  “As a result, tensions that already exist are magnified by the intensification or manipulation of those who are ‘good’ and those who are ‘bad.’”

  Me and Jack.

  “The ‘good’ person eventually betrays Mary’s idealization by some evidence of human frailty.” He shifted in his chair, then sat cross-legged, as if the story was finally about to get really good. “Overcome by the intense sense of rage and betrayal this evokes, Mary then turns on the person like a deadly enemy and attacks. She then goes off in search of someone else to idealize and use as protection, but the person she seduced and left behind feels demeaned and humiliated.”

  Julia put her head in her hands. “I feel like a boob,” she whispered.

  Jonathan nodded sympathetically. “Don’t.”

  “I can’t help it. I should have known she was just manipulating me.”

  “Look, if it makes you feel any better, Mary did the same thing to both your predecessors before she turned on them. And I’m sure when she first met Jack she did it to him, too, probably telling him that John Glom was past his prime and she wanted someone young and hungry like him to orchestrate her comeback.”

  Julia’s mouth fell open. “So John Glom is an actual person.”

  Jonathan laughed. “You didn’t know that?”

  She shook her head. “Have you ever seen him?”

  “No,” Jonathan said.

  “Has Jack?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He lives in L.A. and he’s really old. I don’t think he’s had anything to do with the business for a long time.”

  She felt better, but she still felt vulnerable. She had been so caught up in her own excitement at being back in the game and her desire to prove to herself that she could still manage an impossible situation and succeed where so many others had failed that she was completely blindsided by the fact that Mary Ford would use her the same way she used everybody.

  Julia Einstein: clearly desperate for a comeback, too.

  12

  Five days before the Legend tour was to begin, Jack called Julia into his office. As Mary predicted, he told her that he’d decided that she would be the one to go on the road with Mary Ford. He said the words slowly and, she would think later when she told Peter the story, with the relief of a drowning man—a selfish, desperate, cowardly drowning man who sits on the head of his drowning companion in order to save himself—about to be pulled from the water.

  “You think you can handle it?”

  “Of course I can handle it.”

  Jack DeWack: scaredy-cat.

  Saturday she would take Mary to her first in-store event, at the Bloomingdale’s on Long Island (the flagship store in Manhattan had passed on arranging an appearance); Monday they’d leave for Washington and Atlanta; and the week after that it would be Boston, Chicago, Detroit, and Miami.

  Because of the change in travel plans, she and Jonathan had a lot to do in very little time—switch
ing all the flights and hotel reservations and contact information for all the limousine companies, department store events directors, and hair and makeup people from Jack’s name and phone numbers to her name and phone numbers. And since she was eager to dig into the rearrangements without delay, she ordered in what had already become their “usual”—tuna sandwiches on whole grain bread, a Diet Coke for Julia, and a can of grape soda for Jonathan.

  When the call came that the food delivery had arrived, Julia handed Jonathan a twenty and he picked it up at the reception desk and walked it back to Julia’s office and then they spread everything out on the desk—the food, the napkins and plastic forks, and the bags of Fritos Julia couldn’t help ordering because she knew he liked them. She also couldn’t help smiling when, after Jonathan cracked open his can of grape soda and took a long drink from it, little purple grape-soda marks appeared at both corners of his mouth, making him look like a benevolent teenage version of The Joker.

  “I love tunafish,” Jonathan said, unfolding the white waxed deli paper of his sandwich.

  “Me too,” Julia said back. But what she loved even more was the fact that he called it “tunafish” instead of just “tuna”—the only other person in the world who still did that was her mother.

  Just as she was remembering how she used to take soggy tuna-fish sandwiches to school in brown paper lunch bags, her mother called. It was the first time since Julia had started working that her mother had called her—usually Julia called her mother—because she didn’t want to disturb her at work.

  “I hope I’m not bothering you,” her mother said.

  “Of course you’re not bothering me.” She signaled to Jonathan to start eating without her. “We’re just having lunch.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “My assistant and me.”

  “The boy with the beads?”

  Julia laughed. “Yes, the boy with the beads.”

  Jonathan looked up from his sandwich and smiled.

  “What are you eating?”

  “Tunafish sandwiches,” Julia said happily, wishing she could start eating hers already. “So is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “What’s Leo doing?” Julia and her mother had virtually the same conversation every time Julia called from work on the days her parents babysat Leo, and there was something about the repetitive Groundhog Day nature of them that she found incredibly comforting.

  “He just ate his lunch.”

  “What did he have?”

  “Macaroni.” Her mother was of the generation of people who still used “macaroni” as the generic word for pasta. “And a chicken finger. And two matzoh balls.”

  “You made soup?” Julia asked, hoping she wasn’t going to come home to a plastic container of flavorless, fat-free, salt-free chicken broth in her refrigerator.

  “No, Peter did. He came over and showed me a new fancy recipe of his.” Her mother paused and Julia could tell she was making a face. “It’s a little too ongepatchket for me—too many ingredients.”

  Julia laughed. Peter loved that word, ongepatchket—which meant overly complicated or detailed—even though it was one of the few Yiddish words he had trouble pronouncing.

  “That’s because it’s so ongepatchit,” he’d say.

  “On-ge-PATCH-ket,” her mother would correct him.

  “On-ge-PATCH-kit,” he would try again.

  “On-ge-PATCH-KET,” her father would correct again.

  “Anyway,” Julia said, remembering her mother was still on the phone. “What’s Leo doing now?”

  “He’s playing with his Papa,” she said, her voice brightening. “The game where he pretends to keep falling asleep in the middle of a sentence. Leo loves it. Just like you did.”

  Julia smiled. She had loved it.

  “Leo loves his Papa,” her mother said, sighing.

  “Leo loves you, too.”

  “Oh, I know,” her mother said, but she could tell, her mother was glad she’d said it.

  There was an awkward pause and Julia shifted in her seat. “Was there something you called to tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  Julia thought she heard a catch in her mother’s voice and it sounded like she was trying to collect herself. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just called to thank you.”

  “To thank me for what?”

  Her mother blew her nose and Julia could tell she was smiling. “For Leo.”

  Julia hung up and blew her nose, too, then forced herself to focus on the piece of paper Jonathan had just handed her—the quantities of Legend each of the department stores had taken in the cities she and Mary were traveling to. Grateful and impressed by his thoroughness (he’d even included the exact location of each of the cosmetics departments so she would look hyper-prepared), she nodded and he nodded back. Though they’d worked together for only a few weeks, she and Jonathan had already developed their own boss-assistant routine and now behaved with the intimate understanding of an old married couple. Jonathan had quickly learned to anticipate Julia’s needs (a Starbucks Venti half-caf with half-and-half to get her through the first part of the day and a grande mocha to get her through the second part) and weaknesses (the fact that she was technology-challenged by small electronics: cell phones, Palm Pilots, laptops, iPods, and was unschooled in the official academic language of human behavior). She had just as quickly learned to understand him (that for free food he would do almost anything for her, that he was too nice to ever become a major player in the business of entertainment public relations, which only made her adore him more).

  In addition to the travel rearrangements they had to make, the other important task they faced was to confirm Mary Ford’s instructions and demands regarding her appearances and her hotel accommodations. As they ate their sandwiches, they both read through the seven-page document of demands that specified “folding chairs and tables not be used for any of Miss Ford’s appearances. Such furnishings are not only physically uncomfortable but also offensive to Miss Ford’s aesthetic sensibility” and that “all product-signing tables should be draped in high-quality white linen and adorned with a vase of fresh cut flowers comprised of only white flowers, exclusive of lilies.”

  Jonathan took another long drink of grape soda, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and told Julia to turn to page 2 of the list.

  “‘Mary Ford requires constant hydration and the following beverages must be available to her at all times: (1) Fresca (chilled) in cans (not two-liter bottles) and (2) Volvic brand bottled water or Smart Water brand bottled water (room temperature). No other brands of bottled water—and no water in “sports-tops” bottles—are acceptable.’”

  He flipped ahead several pages and read aloud again:

  “‘As Miss Ford is extremely sensitive to smell, no strong odors should be present in her presence.’”

  He put the list down and stared at Julia. “She’s going to be promoting a perfume. In perfume sections of department stores. How do you prevent the presence of perfume in perfume sections?”

  Julia shook her head. She’d seen—and had to enforce—dozens of these ridiculous lists of demands, and Mary Ford’s, though obviously annoying, was not, to Jonathan’s disbelief, among the worst in circulation. Everybody in the business knew about Mariah Carey insisting that her tea be made only with Poland Springs water and that “bendy straws” be provided for champagne sipping; about Cher requiring a separate room backstage just for her wigs; and Jennifer Lopez—perhaps the most notorious diva to emerge in recent years—demanding that expensive tuberose-scented Diptyque brand French candles be lit not only in backstage areas but throughout all passageways that lead to those backstage areas, that her bodyguards refer to her at all times as “Number One,” and that all personnel in hotels and concert hall venues be instructed not to look her directly in the eye unless spoken to first.

  “Celebrities,” Julia said. “They’re just giant babies who w
ant attention and instant gratification all the time.”

  Jonathan swallowed the last bite of his sandwich and sat back in his chair, holding his almost-empty can of grape soda in his left hand, exposing a little rope bracelet on his wrist just under his shirt cuff. She had never noticed the bracelet before and wondered if some gentle-souled but pierced and tattooed vegetarian girlfriend had given it to him. She was dying to ask him—dying to find out what he did when he went home after work, what television shows he liked, and what his favorite movies were—but she knew they couldn’t afford to kill an hour.

  “It’s actually something called ‘Acquired Situational Narcissism,’” he said, sitting up now in his chair. “My parents were telling me about this professor of psychiatry at Cornell who treats celebrities and was the first person to give the condition a name.”

  “Classic narcissism,” he explained, was a personality disorder with symptoms that included lack of empathy, grandiose fantasies, excessive need for approval, rage, social isolation, and depression, and it was caused by a problematic transition between infancy, when all humans are natural narcissists, and age four, when a more realistic view of the world should develop.

  “People who aspire to stardom tend to be more narcissistic than others,” he added, pushing the bag of Fritos toward her so they could share, “but they don’t develop a true narcissistic personality disorder until they begin to achieve success.”

  “Or failure,” Julia countered. “Has-beens are usually more demanding than non-has-beens.”

  “Has-beens are more full of rage. And more desperate to hang on to what they feel they’re entitled to: fame, fortune, servitude.”

  While Julia cleared away the lunch, she told Jonathan about Joan Crawford’s list of requirements during promotional appearances for the Pepsi-Cola Corporation and for movies—how the chauffeurs of her “air-conditioned Cadillac limousines” were told never to exceed forty miles per hour while she was in the car; how she traveled with a minimum of fifteen pieces of luggage and how a separate luggage van and luggage handler were to be dispatched to meet every flight and accompany her bags back to the hotel; and how it was actually stated in the list of requirements that “Miss Crawford is a star in every sense of the word and everyone knows she is a star.”At least a line like that wasn’t included in Mary’s list of demands.