by Jessica Jiji
Standing before the apartment door, I was ready to be blown away. I had been inside the most fabulous New York apartments, but I’d always imagined Vanessa’s would be extraordinary, just like her—expansive and bright and filled with interesting intimate objects, souvenirs of the deep relationships she’d cultivated over the course of her life. Like a temple of wisdom, I’d thought those allowed to enter would leave with some profound insight.
But when a bulky, middle-aged man opened the door, wearing a faded argyle sweater, I almost had to laugh at my delusion. The fantasy faded quickly as I took in the sterile surroundings. Her place was decorated like a suite in a chain hotel—everything standardized to fit a dull color palette of grays and pastels.
Vanessa came scurrying over. “Darling,” she said to Mr. Pixley, “meet Laurel. I told you about her.”
“The one who just got a divorce?” he guessed. She shook her head and tried to interrupt.
“No—”
“The one who started her own business?” he asked again.
“No—” she repeated.
“That’s good,” he said brightly, “‘cause you always say she’s such a whiner.”
It was an awkward moment, but Vanessa covered it by quickly ushering me into the living room and pushing him off to the bedroom.
Seated on her cloud-colored couch, I could tell Vanessa was eager to bring me back into the fold. She took my hand in hers and locked eyes with mine. “Laurel, I thought about everything you said, and it’s true; I haven’t shared enough about myself. So today, I want you to learn all about me. Where shall I begin?”
She had me there. It wasn’t exactly a normal friendship if someone had to hold a debriefing about their background all in one afternoon, but I gave it a go. “Where’d you grow up?”
“Mom and Dad met at our town church in Lofton, Massachusetts,” she began. “Dad’s grandfather’s father was a Scotsman, but Mom’s side of the family was Irish-Dutch-German-Swedish.”
“Is that so?” I asked, wishing she would let go of my hand so I could sit back comfortably. No such luck. As Vanessa droned on about her genealogy, birth, childhood, and the rest, I struggled to look interested. This was worse than one of Lucien’s endless lectures about obscure art—at least he’d been sexy to look at. Vanessa just looked small and sad. The woman I’d always thought was larger than life—a force of nature, beautiful, uninhibited, and strong—was actually just another Vassar alum who’d made herself out to be more than she was.
And I’d been a willing participant in the charade. All too keen to find a magic solution to my problems, I’d embraced her in the role of fairy godmother, or more accurately, substitute sister.
“…I used to teach our dog, Chestnut, to fetch Dad’s slippers. It was the cutest thing…” she was saying. For all the spa treatments and fancy meals, Vanessa had always shown signs of being mortal; I’d just conveniently ignored them so I could preserve the image of her as my savior. The way she always put Splenda in her coffee, just like my mother. The way she sometimes pretended to know all about matters, like the publishing industry, by dropping facts that she had culled from her news feed. I was working for Gallant at the time but suppressed my more informed opinions to not undermine her authority.
“…my dress was made of taffeta, and I wore the same necklace Mummy had worn to her prom…”
Yes, Vanessa was an ordinary American girl turned self-proclaimed saint, but I’d been fully responsible for joining her church.
I managed to escape before she got to her tenth wedding anniversary by making excuses about walking Bogey and Bacall. Vanessa let me go but not without signaling first, pinky to mouth, thumb to ear, that I should call her. Although I nodded, I knew I never would.
Walking to Mrs. Lilianthaller’s apartment, I consoled myself that my infatuation with Vanessa hadn’t all been a waste and that the grandiose parts of her I’d imagined were in fact a projection of my own inner qualities. I didn’t need her to take me to the Duplex anymore, to coach me on making my dreams come true, or to tell me what they were. She’d been great in her own way, but I was unhappy with Lucien and Gallant, and if I’d followed her, I’d still be stuck with them both. It was time to harness my impulse to believe in a greater future for myself and combine it with good old common sense.
Nona hadn’t realized it, but she’d pointed me right to my dream job. Of course, how could I not have seen before? I thought of all those hours I spent at the library sneaking peeks at Celebrity Style when I should have been at Celebrity Style getting paid to do what I love!
I knew the destination; I’d just have to figure out how to get there.
When I arrived at Mrs. Lilianthaller’s, I learned that the poodles were out with another neighbor, but she invited me up. In truth, the sweet retiree needed just as much company as the dogs did, so I climbed the stairs to her floor.
“How nice of you to stop by,” she said, leading me into the dusty, cramped apartment. It was the perfect antidote to Vanessa’s place, crammed with personal touches: dozens of pictures of kids, grandkids, and even a great-grandbaby competing for space with postcards sent by friends from around the world.
“So how’s your new place in Tribeca?” She was referring to my planned love nest with Lucien.
“Oh, it didn’t work out,” I said.
“Found a better one?” she asked, tottering to the kitchen in search of some sweets.
“Nah . . . I’m back with my parents.”
Mrs. Lilianthaller returned with a plate of graham crackers. “Don’t they live on the Island? I thought you work here.”
“That’s the thing,” I said, crunching on a stale cracker. “I lost my job. But as soon as I get a new one, I’m looking for a place.”
“Well, if it’s in the next few weeks, let me know.” She leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “Apartment 4-F downstairs is moving out. I may look like just an old lady, but the super has a huge crush on me,” she added with a wink.
Hmm… I thought. A couple of weeks to get a new gig. And wouldn’t Irwin be surprised when I told him about a Village apartment in a rent-controlled building.
Salli Simmer’s maternity leave would be my foot in the door. Task number one: Find out the name of her replacement. Task number two: Replace her replacement with me.
“Hello?” I said in my best business-like tone, calling from my parents’ den and hoping the sound of the lawnmower out back couldn’t be heard through the phone. “I’m with Central Supply. We’re updating our records, and we understand Salli Simmer’s going on maternity leave in December?”
“That’s right,” chirped a bubbly-sounding receptionist.
“So whose name should we put on the account during her absence?” My cheeks burned at my own audacity. Surely this woman would realize there’s no such thing as Central Supply.
“That would be Fatima Smith,” she said obligingly.
“Great, thank you.” I hung up quickly and began my search of Fatima Smith’s articles.
A quick Google revealed that this woman had more entertainment journalism awards than just about everyone except Salli Simmer. How was a girl whose last published work was a poem in the Hoboken Herald going to compete with credentials like that?
“It’s our first double-date!” Trish squealed as we arrived at the Island Bowl-A-Rama. “Just like we pictured when we were kids!”
“Only it’s not Richie Menzel and Jump-Shot Jimmy,” I laughed.
“Thank God,” we both said at once.
The noisy alley was full of happy couples, and as with seemingly all other sports, Irwin was a natural, hitting strike after strike. I bowled nothing but gutter balls, but it was worth it to have him put his arms around me to try to improve my form.
Ever the provider, Trish had brought snacks for us all, but not the ones Tom wanted.
“What about my mom’s cookies? Kids ate them again?” he asked.
“Every single one,” she replied. When Tom went up to take hi
s turn, Trish leaned in and confessed the truth. “I threw out his mother’s chocolate chip wonders.”
“Were they that terrible?” I asked.
“The opposite—they’re divine. That’s why I never let Tom have any. If I do, he’ll realize what he’s missing when mine come out of the oven.”
Oh, the sneaky ways of wives, I thought. But at the same time, I grasped the strategy, and it was brilliant: Never let your understudy get on stage.
By the end of the evening, I felt like I’d heard enough clattering pins to last a lifetime, but Trish had other ideas. “We should make this a standing date. Like girls’ night out, only all of us together!”
“How about we check out a movie next time?” Irwin suggested, as though he’d read my thoughts.
“Yeah, we could check out what’s playing at the Film Forum downtown,” I said. Just because I was no longer with Lucien didn’t mean I’d given up on culture.
“You mean in the city?” Tom asked doubtfully. “Too much traffic. We’ve got movie theaters here.”
Trish backed him up. “Last time we drove around for an hour looking for a spot. We ended up spending sixty bucks on a garage.”
I complained about their attitude to Irwin in the car on the way home. “I love Trish and Tom, but don’t they realize there’s a whole world on the other side of the Midtown Tunnel?”
“Hey, baby, I’ll take you to a movie in Paris if you want, but I can see their point,” he said, a little too sympathetically. “When you get used to life around here, you don’t really want to bother going to the city. It can be such a hassle.”
That night, he showed me a closet he’d cleared out, but I didn’t feel any closer to wanting to move my stuff in.
- 23 -
I had no hesitation, however, about trying to my make big move into Salli Simmer’s job at Celebrity Style. I had worked it all out in my head, but, lost in the crowds pouring through the lobby of the Condé Nast Building, I realized how far plans can be from reality.
I got off to a rocky start, accosting four pregnant women who were not my prey, including one who turned out to be a male undercover cop. Luckily he didn’t give me a summons for harassment, but I nearly lost my nerve after that.
My fears only grew when I finally spotted a harried-looking woman clearly in her final trimester who was screaming at an old merchant behind his candy stand.
“Again? Still no Mentos? What is it with you people? I can’t walk across the street in this condition, and I need my Mentos!”
I could see she was frazzled, but I reminded myself that even the hungriest dog loves to be stroked, so I reached into my bag, pulled out a copy of the magazine and a pen I had at the ready, and approached her. “Oh my gosh. Aren’t you Salli Simmer, the star reporter for Celebrity Style?”
She turned toward me with a suspicious snarl on her lips. “What’s it to you?”
So it was her. “I’m your biggest fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written. Your coverage of the Winter Olympics—I cried my heart out, it was so inspiring. Could I please have an autograph?”
Salli rolled her eyes but took my pen obligingly. As she started to sign her name with a flourish, I went in for the kill. “So I hear Fatima Smith is replacing you when you have the baby. She’s awesome!”
Salli blanched and handed me the magazine, keeping my pen. “Do you happen to have any Mentos?” she asked impatiently. “‘Cause if I don’t have one in the next five minutes, I swear this baby will start going through withdrawal symptoms.” She clutched her stomach.
“I might have a Lifesaver…” I stammered.
“What are you, deaf? I want a Mentos. Ach,” she groaned, “this kid is elbowing my bladder.”
Before I could say another word, she took off toward the lobby coffee shop.
I followed her inside and saw her make a beeline to the bathroom. Frozen in place, I pondered the ethics of the situation. Surely Salli deserved to pee in peace. Just then, a hostess stepped up and made it clear that if I wasn’t going to take a table I’d have to take it outside. Noticing there were two exits in the restaurant that Salli might escape from, I knew there was only one option for me.
Darting past the hostess, I slipped into the bathroom and headed into the one empty stall. Salli was farting loudly, and I considered giving up the whole project, but I knew I had to hold my nose and proceed.
I sat on the closed toilet and leaned toward the partition. “I’ll say one thing for that Fatima Smith,” I said loudly, my voice echoing off the dingy tiles, “she really knows how to convey the lives of the rich and famous.”
“Did you follow me in here?” Salli asked angrily. “What are you—some kind of pervert?”
This was not going according to plan. “I had to pee, too,” I said weakly.
There was a loud flush, and I could hear Salli trying to quickly zipper up her maternity jumper, so I rushed out of my stall to catch her before she escaped.
While I washed my hands next to the famous columnist, I gave it another try. “Wow, you must be really confident to let Fatima step in your shoes.”
“Why—what do you mean?” She shot me an irritated look in the mirror.
“Fatima stops at nothing to get what she wants. Just look at her exclusive last week,” I said, hoping she’d take the bait before I lost her.
“What, that little hospital bed nonsense? I get those interviews on a bad day.” Toweling off her hands, she turned to leave and said, with finality, “Well, have a nice life.”
I ran out, following her to Broadway. Salli stopped in her tracks and confronted me in a huff. “Look, you got your autograph. Are you some kind of stalker?”
“No, I’m just an admirer. I want to congratulate you for having the guts to choose somebody as good and clever and incisive and ambitious as Fatima to replace you. I mean, temporarily of course.”
“Yes, well, thank you. Thank you.” Salli looked at me with disdain and stuck out her arm to hail a cab.
“Most people would be too insecure to do that; they’d be worried that Fatima might try to steal their job,” I said, feeling my desperation mount.
A taxi pulled over, and Salli stepped into it. “She wouldn’t try to steal my job; she loves me. In fact, she threw me a huge baby shower at her own expense.”
Salli squeezed herself into the cab, and as I took a step toward her, she closed the door between us. “As a matter of fact,” she added through the open window, “Fatima bought me a two-year pass to Mommy and Me classes at Curves.” Turning to the driver, she commanded, “Park and Seventy-Fifth,” and they were off.
As the car pulled away, I ran alongside and hurled my last frenzied pitch. “But what did she write on the card?” I screamed.
I was left standing in the dust, watching the yellow cab drive off when it screeched to a stop and began backing up slowly. The window came down, and Salli stared at me, looking white as a ghost. “I remember exactly what she wrote on that card,” she said. “It seemed so innocent at the time: ‘Take a nice long rest, and don’t worry about anything. I’ll handle the readers so they’ll never notice you’re gone.’”
“Oh, I bet that’s exactly what she wants,” I goaded.
Salli stepped out of the cab and put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself. “Do you think it’s all a big setup?”
“Either that, or she’s genuinely sweet.”
“In this business? Impossible. How could I not have seen it?”
“Well, it’s not too late to protect yourself,” I nudged.
“But this is my last week,” she said desperately. “What can I do?”
“Just make sure your replacement is someone who makes your readers miss you,” I suggested.
“How can I find someone bad enough to make me look good at such short notice?”
“Hey, I’m a failed writer!” I said brightly.
By the time I’d told her about my poem in the Hoboken Herald, “Total Eclipse of the Canoe Trip,” and the fact that Gal
lant Publishing had paid me to not write a book, she was sold.
“I’ve got an interview now, but can you be back here at four?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, praying her water wouldn’t break before then.
That’s how I found myself, two hours later, seated in front of the editor-in-chief of Celebrity Style, Weldon H. Sutton.
“Maybe it’s those hormones,” he began, crossing his arms skeptically, “but she’s threatening to quit if I don’t hire you outright.”
Yay! The plan had worked.
“Of course, I can’t do that.”
You can’t? I thought. What about my plan?
“You have no published work, unless you count winning some crappy contest over ten years ago,” he said, looking at me with pity. “But I told Salli I’d give you a chance—one chance—to prove yourself.”
So I still had a shot!
“If you can deliver me a crisp, eight-hundred-word profile of an A-list celebrity worthy of publication in our magazine, I’ll sign you on as her replacement.”
Goal! I thought, wondering who they’d assign me to interview and feeling ready to jump out of my shoes with excitement. “So who’s the big star?” I asked eagerly.
“That’s what you have to tell us,” he said.
“You mean I have to find the celebrity?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the reporter?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll find someone huge. I have tons of phone numbers,” I promised, my heart sinking, knowing they all belonged to failed writers, suburban housewives, and dog owners.
I desperately relayed the news to Irwin over a Middle Eastern salad at Saint Marks Place, where he’d sweetly brought me, knowing I’d had enough of Long Island kultcha.
“I have to be six degrees away from someone huge, but who? Don’t you have any patients whose mom or dad or uncle or cousin or somebody is an A-list celebrity?”
“Closest I come is that crown I did for a guy who drives a limo,” he laughed.
“I’m serious!” I whimpered. “This is my big shot.”
“So why don’t you go back to your candy-ass ex-boyfriend? He’s supposed to know everyone in town.”
