Fly Me to the Moon

by Alyson Noel

  “How’s the book coming?” Harrison asked Cadence while sliding his arm around me.

  Book? What hook? I watched her closely. Please let it be a how-to hook. Please let it be a beauty tips hook. Please don’t let life be so unfair as to give her genuine talent and a great mind in addition to all of her other obvious gifts.

  “Advance reviews are starting to come in, and so far it’s being really well received,’ she said, smiling modestly with perfect white Chielet teeth.

  “Cadence wrote a book of short stories,” Dane explained. “She’s being touted as the next Jhumpa Lahiri.”

  Oh, is that all? I smiled weakly. I was being eaten alive by envy.

  “Well, it’s been great meeting you, Hailey. But we really should be going,” she said, glancing quickly at her gold Bulgari watch.

  Dane nodded and extended his hand. “Harrison,” he said, and then turning to me, “See you around, Hailey.” He smiled.

  I watched as they weaved their way through the cocktail-toting party goers, stopping frequently for a quick hello as Dane kept his hand pressed firmly in the small of Cadence’s silky back. And just before they left, I could’ve sworn he turned and looked at me, with the weirdest expression. But before I could confirm it, Harrison said, “What do you say we go grab a bite?”

  And by the time I looked back, they were gone.

  “But, it’s your party!” I said. “I mean, you can’t just walk out on your own party. Can you?”

  “We’ll find out,” he said, slipping his arm through mine and leading me toward the door.

  The last time I’d been to Elaine’s was nearly six years before, after I first moved to the city and couldn’t wait to visit all the places I’d only read about. And knowing that it was supposedly a big, glitterati, literary hangout, it was at the very top of my to-do list. But after squeezing into the overcrowded bar and spending the next ten minutes attempting to order a drink from a surly bartender who seemed hell-bent on ignoring me, I quickly crossed it off my list and doubted I’d ever return.

  But going to Elaine’s with Harrison Mann was a whole new experience. Suddenly every member of the waitstaff was my new best friend, as a glass of red wine, a scotch on the rocks, and a table full of appetizers appeared within seconds of our being seated.

  Ignoring the significant buzz I was already feeling from the two glasses of champagne I’d just quaffed at the party, I lifted my glass and smiled at Harrison. “Do you own this table?” I asked, taking a sip of cabernet.

  “It’s an illegal sublet, and I was lucky to get it.” Me smiled, raising his glass and tossing back a hefty amount of scotch.

  I gazed around the crowded room, then leaned toward him excitedly, still not quite believing we were actually sharing a table. I mean, I had so many questions I didn’t even know where to begin. But deciding not to waste any time, I cleared my throat and said, “Harrison, I was wondering—”

  “Harrison! Darling!’

  I looked up to see a Very Famous TV Interviewer whom I’d recently served on a New York to L.A. nonstop (and who’d been so rude and demanding that the flight had seemed twice as long as usual) puckering her bright pink lips and veering toward Harrison’s cheek. Then, using her thumb to erase the faint tattoo she’d left behind, she planted herself right next to him, glanced briefly at me, and, instantly calculating that I was no one special, placed her hand on his forearm and proceeded to monopolize all of his attention.

  I just sat there, picking at the appetizers and drinking my wine, as the table began to fill with famous faces. And even though it might seem fascinating and exciting to be surrounded by celebrities, the fact that I was being so systematically ignored made it no different than when I was forced to serve these exact same people on an airplane. So after five pieces of shrimp cocktail, a bowl of linguine with clam sauce, a glass and a half of cabernet, and a complete lack of attention from Harrison, I decided to leave.

  “Excuse me, Harrison?” I said, reaching for my purse. “I’m taking off.”

  “Wait, I’ll walk you out,” he said, rising from his seat and leaving the literary bad boy, the newscaster, the Broadway star, and the political pundit to fend for themselves.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, holding the door and rushing to hail a cab.

  “Oh, I can walk,” I said, knowing my wallet was down to its last twenty and that the ATM definitely wouldn’t cooperate between now and payday.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He motioned me into the backseat, and for a brief moment I wondered if he was planning to come along. But then he closed the door between us and said. “How about dinner? This Saturday? Somewhere quiet.” He raised his heavy eyebrows and waited.

  “Okay,” I said, reaching into my purse and scribbling my number on the back of a Rite Aid receipt, wondering if he really would call.

  Then I watched as he tossed the driver a twenty, waved goodbye, and headed back to Elaine’s.

  “I know that guy,” the cabbie said, peering at me through the rearview mirror as he pulled into Second Avenue traffic. “What movie was he in?”

  “He’s not an actor,” I told him, leaning back onto the slick vinyl seat. “He’s a writer. A Pulitzer prize winner.” I smiled.

  I was sitting in my usual Starbucks at my usual table, next to the window, just north of the condiment counter, waiting impatiently for Clay, who was now more than fifteen minutes late even though he was the one who’d initiated this whole early-morning, emergency summit.

  “Hey,” he said, striding through the front door, a little too casually for someone so late. “Where’s Kat?” He removed his Gucci sunglasses and tossed them on the table between us.

  “She’s in Greece,” I told him. “Again.”

  “Must be love.” He shrugged, reaching over and breaking off a piece of my biscotti.

  “Is that why she’s always going there?” I asked, curiosity fully peaked. “She’s dating someone?”

  “Probably,” he said, covering his mouth while he chewed. “But she’s acting all hush-hush, so who knows?” He shrugged.

  “So, what’s going on with you?” I asked.

  He looked at me and shook his head sadly. “Peter and I are over.”

  “Oh Clay.” I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. I’d never actually met Peter, but he seemed like a decent guy. “When did this happen?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly told him yet, but trust me, it’s over.”

  I dropped his hand, leaned back in my seat, and looked at him. “Okay, so when do you plan on giving him the good news?” I asked.

  “Soon,” he said, taking my recycled paper napkin and folding it down to a small, neat square. “I should have this case wrapped up in a week; then I’ll just lay out all the evidence, and that will be it.” He shrugged.

  “Evidence? Who are you? Charlie’s fourth Angel?”

  “Very funny.” He rolled his eyes. “For your information, this is serious. Ever since I accidentally said ‘I love you,’ he’s started acting really strange. I’m telling you, its the worst thing you can ever say in a relationship.” He shook his head sadly.

  I watched him unfold the napkin, smooth it out, then start all over again. This time making triangles. “But do you love him?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, sounding like a two-year-old.

  “So let me get this straight. You just spent the last four days slinking around town, spying on him?”

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer the word ‘observing,’” he said, rolling his little paper triangle awkwardly across the table.

  “Oh, so it’s really more of an anthropological study, rather than a crazed, psycho boyfriend stalking kind of thing,” I said.

  “I sense that you’re not taking this seriously.” He dropped his little origami project in the center of the table, leaned back in his chair, and gave me “the look.”

  But I ignored it. “Because it kind of seems like you’re the one who’s been freaking ever since those fateful words
were spoken. You’re the one who’s flirting with everyone, dressing up in drag, and spying on your boyfriend.”

  “I wasn’t in drag, Hailey. I was in hetero. I was wearing baggy jeans, a flannel shirt, and a backward baseball cap.”

  “New York Yankees?”

  “Fire Island. I lost the Yankees on a layover.”

  “Oh yeah, real hetero.” I laughed. “So tell me, after all this observing, what exactly have you come up with? A chaste kiss on the cheek? A clandestine meal at the most overlit restaurant in Chelsea?”

  He just shrugged and looked away.

  “Which leads me to conclude that maybe you’re the one with intimacy issues, not Peter.” I leaned back in my chair and smiled triumphantly, wondering why I never had that kind of clarity in my own romantic disasters.

  But Clay refused to look at me. “I will consider your opinion, but I make no promises,” he said, and I watched as he got up from the table and headed for the counter.

  And then, just as I popped the last piece of biscotti in my mouth, Dane walked in.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked, combing his fingers through his wavy brown hair and smiling.

  “Great!” I mumbled, covering my mouth and chewing furiously while feeling for any random crumbs that might’ve gotten stuck in my lip gloss.

  “How was the party?”

  “Great! Thanks for inviting me. I mean, for getting me in.” God, why am I always so verbally challenged around him? I wondered, taking in his charcoal gray suit, lavender shirt, and blue tie, and thinking how I might start coming here every morning around this time, since it seemed to be part of his normal routine.

  “And Harrison?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Harrison was great!” I said. Ugh, why did I keep saying”‘great”? Surely I knew other descriptive terms. I mean, what kind of hack writer was I?

  But he just nodded.

  “We left shortly after you guys, and then grabbed some dinner at Elaine’s,” I said, wondering why I’d just divulged that.

  “Elaine’s, huh?” His face wore an expression I couldn’t quite read, though I would definitely rule out surprise.

  And was that an amused nod? Or just a regular nod? Jeez, where was Clay when I needed him to dissect my own romantic dilemmas? I looked toward the counter and saw Clay flirting with the guy behind it. Figures.

  “In fact, I’m supposed to see Harrison this weekend,” I informed him. Tourette’s. Could I possibly have Tourette’s?

  But Dane just smiled. “Well, I’m gonna grab some coffee and run. Good seeing you, though.”

  “You too.” I smiled. “And say hi to Cadence!” I added, to my own dismay. Then I spent the next five minutes obsessing over our dialogue, and cringing every time I came to my part.

  “Hailey?” Clay slid onto the seat across from me with coffee in one hand, barista’s screen name in the other. “Who was that?” he whispered, watching Dane leave.

  “That was Dane, the guy that got me into the party.” I shrugged, avoiding his eyes.

  “You’ve been holding out on me.” He gave me an accusing look.

  “No, I haven’t.” I gazed down at my scattered biscotti crumbs.

  “I can’t believe you went out with him. He’s gorgeous.”

  “Okay, first, I’m not quite sure how to take that. And second, I didn’t ‘go out with him.’ He had a date. And believe me, she is overgifted in every possible way. You should have seen her: shiny, glossy, and word has it completely brilliant, too.”

  “But you like him,” he said, as though it was fact.

  “I do not!” I said, sounding like a seventh grader.

  “You do too!” he said, sounding like a bully.

  “Clay, are you not listening? He has a girlfriend.”

  “How do you know it’s a girlfriend? How can you be so sure it wasn’t just a hookup?”

  “Because I saw her and you didn’t. Believe me, there’s not a straight guy on the planet that wouldn’t want to live happily ever after with her.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” He shook his head.

  “Clay, trust me. She’s a Triple Crown—winning thoroughbred, and I’m—” I hesitated, searching for just the right words. “I’m a Shetland pony forced to work the kiddie carnivals.”

  “Yeah—cute, stubborn, and a helluva ride.”

  just because Harrison Mann was a Pulitzer prize—winning author didn’t mean I wanted him to know where I lived. So after agonizing over what to wear (I was so desperate I even asked Lisette’s opinion), I settled on a colorful Diane vonFurstenberg wrap dress I’d bought on sale two years ago but still loved, a pair of strappy gold stiletto sandals, and my trusty Bombay chandelier earrings. Then I hurried uptown, narrowly avoiding a death-by-taxi situation, until finally arriving at Elaine’s short of breath, wobbly of heel, and with a forty-dollar blowout that was threatening to strike.

  And just as I was about to step inside and head for our designated meet spot, I heard someone say, “Ms. Lane?” And I turned to find a tall, thin man dressed in a somber black suit and chauffeur’s hat motioning toward a long, shiny black limo, where Harrison Mann held court in the back.

  “Do you always travel by limo?” I asked, attempting to climb inside without hitting my head, breaking my heel, or flashing my panties.

  “Ever try to grab a cab on a rainy Saturday night?” He reached for two champagne glasses and proceeded to fill them up.

  “That’s where my MetroCard comes in,” I said, taking my glass and smiling.

  “Did you fly today?” he asked, settling back against the seat and crossing his long legs.

  “Nope.” I shook my head and sipped.

  “Yesterday?” He looked hopeful.

  “Yesterday I flew back from Scottsdale, via Salt Lake City,” I told him, watching his eyes light up. Bingo.

  “Is that your usual route?” He leaned toward me, his interest obviously piqued.

  “Not really. I pretty much go everywhere.” I shrugged, taking another sip.

  “Any international?”

  “Sometimes.” I smiled, thinking how nice it was that he, the big famous author, was trying to show a little interest in my job.

  “But which do you prefer?” he asked, sliding so close I could make out all the clogged pores on his nose and the shiny gold filling in his far left molar.

  “I like international, but it’s hard to get,” I said, leaning against the door and wondering where we were headed.

  “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever seen someone do?” he asked, staring at me in anticipation.

  Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. People always asked this question. It was right up there with, “What city are we flying over?” As though I could identify it simply by glancing at the landmass from thirty thousand feet. Or, “Are you showing a movie?” which invariably came just after we showed the preview.

  The truth was, I’d pretty much seen it all in the last six years, and I had no idea what qualified as the craziest. Could it be the breast-feeding seven-year-old who paused long enough to order an orange juice? The inebriated movie star who mistook the first-class coat closet for the bathroom? The businessman who stood in the aisle, changing into a matching set of flannel pajamas, sleeping cap, booties, and eye mask during an overnight flight to Europe? The guy who rang his call light during the safety demo to ask if he could sample some of that oxygen he just saw on-screen? The philandering husband who snuck into the lav with another passenger, renewing his mile-high club membership while his angry wife screamed obscenities from the other side of the door? Or maybe it was the blind man who announced he was on his way to a Klan meeting?

  And it’s not like the passengers held the patent on outrageous behavior, because some of the flight attendants I’d worked with were just as weird. Like that Dallas-based guy who insisted on sharing photos of his pet cow’s red, swollen udders. The thirty-year veteran who insisted on wearing elbow-length white gloves and adding a list of “specials” to the first
-class menu with food she’d brought from home. The animal lover who brought her three pet turtles on all of her trips. The girl in training who wanted the job so bad she photocopied someone else’s hire forms, whiting out the other person’s name and putting hers in its place.

  I looked at Harrison, who was patiently waiting for a response, and I knew I wasn’t about to tell him any of those things. I mean, who’s to say I wouldn’t write my own book about it someday? So instead I just smiled and said, “This one time, I saw a man kick off his shoes, and then go into the lav with just his socks on.”

  Then the limo came to a stop and the driver slid open the little window and said, “Mr. Mann, we’ve arrived.”

  WHEN CONFRONTED

  WITH A MEDICAL

  EMERGENCY

  Check responsiveness

  Obtain consent

  Reposition the person if

  necessary

  As we headed for our table I prayed I wouldn’t trip, since it seemed like the entire restaurant was focused on us. And even though I was used to being stared at by planeloads of bored passengers, this kind of scrutiny was all new to me.

  “Does it annoy you?” I asked, placing my napkin carefully across my lap and smiling at him.

  But Harrison just shrugged. “They won’t bother us,” he said.

  I watched as he scanned the wine list, and hoped he was right. I’d been so excited about this night, I couldn’t bear the thought of being ignored again, as I’d spent every free moment during the last week Googling the details of his amazing career. Yet somehow everything I’d learned only seemed to spawn more questions.

  So when the wine was finally ordered and the whole twirling, sniffing, sipping scenario was over, I leaned toward him and said, “Did you always know you wanted to be a writer?” I gazed at him eagerly, watching as he sipped his wine and nodded thoughtfully, waiting for a little elaboration that never came.