by Karen Quinn
“I earn forty thousand dollars a year. It’s all I can do to shop thrift stores and rummage sales or sew my own stuff. If you promoted me to curator, I’d get a clothing allowance and invitations to private sample sales. Designers would lend me things.”
“Holly, Holly, Holly,” she said sadly. “It’s not just your clothes. It’s…it’s your whole package. You lack style, polish, je ne sais quoi. These aren’t qualities you can learn. No, you can acquire them only by moving in the right circles. Sammie was raised on the Upper East Side. She went to Spence. Her family is wealthy. She knows the right people. She’ll attract donors. You can’t do that. You grew up, where? In Queens?”
I held my head high. “I lived on Park Avenue till I was twelve. Then I moved to Queens.”
Tanya pursed her lips together. “Yes, well, living in servants’ quarters on Park Avenue isn’t the same thing. When Sammie became available, I had no choice but to take her over you. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed hard. “So that’s why I didn’t get the job?” I said. “Because my father was the help?”
Tanya sighed. “Sammie’s father is heir to a huge fortune. Who do you think will garner more respect from our patrons? You or—”
“Tanya, please,” I said, holding up both hands. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You gave Sammie the job because her parents promised a big donation. Why can’t you be honest instead of blaming my clothes or my lack of pedigree?”
“That’s another thing. You’re always so negative,” Tanya added.
What? I thought. Now, that’s unfair. Joy is my middle name. It really is. Holly Joy Ross. “I’m not being negative. It’s just…I’m trying to understand why you gave Sammie the job you promised to me.”
“Okay, fine,” Tanya said, spritzing herself with perfume, infusing the office with the subtle scent of roses. “There’s truth to what you said. Sammie Kittenplatt will more than cover her salary with the donations she’ll attract. The day you bring me a million-dollar check, we’ll talk about making you a curator. Until then, I’m promoting you to senior assistant. How does that sound?”
I stared at her.
Tanya made an apologetic smile. “Holly, you’re very talented and a hard worker and I love having you by my side. I’ll even give you a five percent raise. That’s two thousand more a year. What do you think of that?”
“Thanks,” I grumbled. My career dreams were dead, at least for the moment.
Send for Me
THAT EVENING, AFTER GOING home to change, I met Nigel at the Coffee Shop. It was a retro-inspired joint on Union Square featuring stunning waiflike waitstaff, mostly young women biding their time before becoming models or actresses. I rarely went there, because hip places intimidate me as a rule. But Nigel was paying, so I made an exception. We sat at the bar.
Nigel regarded me with sympathy and I regarded him back. With his drop-dead looks, he fit perfectly into this place. “How about we make me vice president in charge of cheering you up?” he said, tapping my chin with his finger.
“Leave me alone. Let me sulk.”
“Maybe you should apply at the Met,” Nigel suggested. “I’d hate to see you go, but it would serve the bitch right.”
Being British, he pronounced right like “roit.”
“I’m not going anywhere at the museum,” I said. “She made that clear.”
The bartender interrupted, uncorking a bottle of Cakebread chardonnay that Nigel had generously ordered. He poured a smidge into a glass so that I could test it. I sniffed, swirled it around, and acted like I knew what I was doing. Then I took a small swallow. “Mmm, yummy,” I declared. “So, do you have contacts at the Met?”
“Sweetheart, do I have contacts at the Met?” Nigel asked. “Do goldfish piss in their bowls?”
“I don’t know. Do I look like a marine biologist?”
“It’s an expression, luv.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just frustrated. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone there,” I said, sipping. “You know, tomorrow we’re doing What’s My Line? I should tell Tanya to take Sammie instead of me.”
“Don’t you dare. If you want to work at the Met, then you must sit in,” Nigel pointed out. “I reckon they’ll see how brilliant you are, won’t they?”
I considered his point. What’s My Line? was the fierce competition we held every year against the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum. The Fashion Council–sponsored contest at Bryant Park featured vintage couture creations from top twentieth-century designers. Both museums were allowed to appoint two experts to name the line each outfit came from and the year of the collection. The winner received a fifty-thousand-dollar grant from the Fashion Council. Tanya always appointed herself for the visibility and me for the answers. We’d won the past two out of three years.
“You’re right. It’d be good for me. But let’s change the subject. I’m sick of talking about me. Did I tell you Denis King picked me up this morning?”
“I know, you said,” Nigel said. “But you’re about to be married. What are you doing fancying other boys?”
“I don’t fancy him. He happened to pick me up…in his chauffeur-driven Maybach. Have you ever been in a Maybach? Oh, my God, it’s soooo luxurious,” I enthused. “Anyway, the thing about Denis was, for a powerful guy, he was really kind. You saw what a mess I was this morning, right? Well, he said I looked perfect. Why can’t Alessandro say I look perfect when I don’t? Whyyyy? Oh, lord, I’m slurring my words. Do you think I’m having a stroke?”
Nigel laughed. “Don’t be daft. Why don’t you order something to eat?” He topped off my glass and slid over a menu. Gesturing with his chin, he asked, “Is that bloke over there checking me out? Don’t look.”
I looked. “Yep, he is.”
“Aren’t you happy I’m one of those men who is blissfully unaware of how strikingly smashing he is?” Nigel said. “If I weren’t, I’d be insufferable.”
I punched his arm. “Oh, you…”
“So tell me, did you give King your number?”
I gasped. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t let him know who I was. Number one, I was a mess. Number two, what if he told Tanya he met one of her employees and she was wearing grocery-bag shoes? She’d kill me.”
“The correct answer to that question was, you didn’t give him your number because you’re engaged,” Nigel said.
“And number three, what you just said.”
My cell phone rang and Alessandro’s name appeared. “Speak of the devil…” I whispered. My stomach sank. He would be so disappointed when I told him I didn’t get the job. “Alessandro, I have some bad news for you—”
“Honey, not now, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he said. His voice sounded strained.
“A pickle?” I said, sitting up straight.
“I’m in jail,” he whimpered.
What? I thought. Not my Alessandro. My Alessandro was a staunch believer in the penal code, or so he had always led me to believe. “You’re in jail? Why? What did you do?”
“Tell me. Tell me,” Nigel urged.
I shushed him.
“Soliciting a minor,” Alessandro said in a low tone.
“Soliciting what from a minor?” I asked. Honestly, I had no idea. Soliciting donations? Soliciting phone calls? Soliciting public comment?
“Soliciting sex,” he groaned.
“Sex?” I said. “That’s impossible.”
“What’s he charged with?” Nigel asked.
“Soliciting sex from a minor,” I whispered.
Nigel’s eyes grew wide. “Male or female?”
“Male or female?”
“Female, of course,” Alessandro said. “Do you think I’m a perv?”
“Ah…ah…ah…how could you?” I was about to hang up on him, but he was screaming into the phone.
“She said she was eighteen!” Alessandro bellowed. “I swear! We were on her roof deck and a guy in the buildin
g next door recognized her and called her parents and the police. She turned out to be sixteen, but if you’d seen how she came on to me and the way she was dressed—”
“Jeezus, you’re more than twice her age,” I said. “What were you thinking? We’re getting married next month.”
“It might make the papers,” Alessandro mumbled.
“What? Why? Who is this girl?”
“Not her. Me. I’m on Broadway now,” Alessandro said. “In a Disney show. Fuck! Please call the theater and tell them I’m sick. Then call Suzy Hendrix. She’ll know what to do.”
“Suzy can’t help. She’s an entertainment lawyer,” I said.
“Holly, call her. And don’t worry. We’ll beat the charges.”
“Wait a minute, but did you say ‘we’?”
“Please,” Alessandro begged. “You’re my fiancée. You have to stick with me.”
“You should have thought of that before you stuck it to Lolita on the roof.”
“Please” (whimper, whimper), “call Suzy and then come rescue me. I n-need you.”
“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll call her. We’ll figure this out later.”
“Holly,” Alessandro said. “Be sure to wear something conservative, you know, in case we’re photographed.”
My jaw dropped. “Anything else?”
“Yes, don’t wear red. It bleeds in pictures.”
I snapped the phone shut. My eyes filled and I tried to blink the tears away.
Suddenly, my career worries that had seemed so important a few minutes ago faded. Poof! Gone. Jobs would come and go, but Alessandro was my fiancé. He might not be my Cary Grant, but he was the only leading man I had. Then it hit me. Of course, Alessandro wasn’t my Cary Grant; he was my Hugh Grant.
In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
NOTHING PERSONAL, HUGH GRANT. As a professional in the arts, I appreciate your body of work, and as a woman, I fantasize about your body. But you and I both know that, once upon a time, you did something dishonorable, shabby, and goatish. I have a new appreciation for Elizabeth Hurley and how she must have suffered. Knowing that you’re both doing so well these many years later gives me hope. Of course, you did break up.
It was after midnight when Alessandro and I returned home on the night of his “incident.” Apparently, after one is arrested in Manhattan, interminable waiting is the central theme of the experience.
“We need to talk,” Alessandro said as we closed the front door and collapsed on the couch. Poor Alessandro. Normally so pulled together, tonight he was a mess. His black hair was stringy, his skin pasty, and he smelled like Pine-Sol with a vomit chaser.
“Holly, this will never happen again,” Alessandro said in his most sincere voice, the same one he used as Motel when he tried to convince Tevye to let him marry Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. “It was a terrible mistake on my part. I still want to get married and I hope you feel the same.”
I picked up Kitty and hugged him. He purred as I stroked his head. “Do we have to do this now? I’m so tired.”
“You know, Holly,” Alessandro said, moving toward the kitchen, “I’m worried about you. You’re young to be so lethargic. If you’d take a multivitamin you might have more energy. Wait, I’ll get you one.”
Was he kidding me? I thought as he walked to the kitchen. No, I guess not, I realized when he returned with a One-A-Day and some water.
“Alessandro, I am emotionally and physically exhausted after discovering that the man I’m supposed to marry next month was arrested for—”
“Stop. Please.” He slammed the glass onto the table, splashing water everywhere. “If you saw the girl, you’d understand she looked eighteen.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe she did and you made an honest mistake. Let me rephrase. I’m emotionally and physically exhausted after discovering that the man I’m supposed to marry has been cheating on me. You cheated, Alessandro. How could you? I thought we loved each other.”
Alessandro screwed his lips into pout position. “I do love you. It was a mistake. You have to forgive me.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” I tramped off to the kitchen, opened the freezer, grabbed a half gallon of rocky-road ice cream, stuck it in the microwave, and zapped it until it was soup. With the ice cream carton in one hand, Kitty in my arm, I marched to the bedroom and butt-slammed the door behind me.
Sitting up against my pillows, I clicked on the TV. There was Audrey Hepburn in the tennis pavilion waiting for William Holden. Have I mentioned I keep one of her movies loaded in my DVD player and watch scenes from them every day? Well, not every day. I rarely take them with me when I travel. I drank the chocolate soup out of the carton, but soon felt sick, like there was a tumor the size of Alessandro’s head pressing against my lower intestines. My eyes filled, then tears sloshed down my face. Soon sobs came in hard, painful waves. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair!” I screamed. “Where’s my happy ending?” I threw the ice cream carton at the television set and it made a big brown Rorschach stain on the screen. Kitty leaped out of bed and went over to lick up the drippings.
I was deep in alpha slumber when Alessandro shook me. “Huh? What? What time is it?”
Alessandro was wearing his boxers and his breath smelled like beer. “It’s three thirty. Holly, I’m sorry to wake you, but I had a terrible nightmare.”
“Huh, a night…?” Then it came back to me. What a surprise. The cheater had a nightmare. “Go back to sleep.”
“It was our wedding day. Your mother was there,” he said. “It’s like she came back from the dead to watch you get married.”
“Go away, Alessandro.”
“Please just listen. Your mother came to give us her blessing, but then suddenly you changed your mind. You refused to marry me.”
“Was it because you’re a child molester?”
Alessandro winced. “No, no, you wanted to stand by me, but you were afraid something like this could happen again.”
“Noooooo, really?”
“Your mother came to assure you and then warn you,” Alessandro said, his eyes wide, his voice dramatic.
“Of what?”
“She said if you married me as planned, I would be faithful to you for the rest of your life. But if you marry another, you and your husband and children will be cursed,” he said. “You will know nothing but pain and misery. That was her message.”
I rolled my eyes. “Jeezus, Alessandro, how many times did I see you in Fiddler on the Roof? That’s the dream Tevye made up to convince Golde to let Tzeitel marry Motel instead of Lazar Wolf.”
Alessandro cocked his head. “So it is. That must be the source of the dream, my having acted in the show so many times, but your mother was there; I swear it.”
I buried my head in the covers and muffled a scream. “Go away.”
“Please, give me another chance to love you,” he begged, pulling down the blanket as he tried to kiss me.
It was awkward, because I was wearing my headgear.
“I’m so sorry; please, please Holly. I need you.”
Alessandro ran his tongue down my neck, since the headgear made lip access impossible. Then he started to lift the T-shirt over my face and next thing you know, we were doing it. Don’t ask me why. I was furious with him, but I was desperately afraid to let him go. Is it true what they say—better the asshole you know (than the asshole you don’t)? I was completely flummoxed, so I let him screw me again.
Someone to Watch over Me
THE HOUSE WAS STILL when I snuck out the next morning. Alessandro was sleeping on the sofa. Empty beer cans were strewn about.
I’d hardly slept. It was early. There wasn’t even a line at Dunkin’ Donuts. Pops, unshaven and bedraggled, was manning his stoop, singing “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” to a white teacup Maltese in his lap. I sat down and set up breakfast between us. The smell of rotting trash wafted through the air, making the outdoor picnic less appetizing.
“Cute puppy,” I said.
“Poor thing,” Pops said, crushing out his cigarette stub. “She cried all night. She misses her human. We’re waiting for him.”
I took the white fuzz ball and cuddled her in my hands.
“Did you see the Post?” Pops said.
My face burned. “No, why?”
“Here. Someone dropped it in the trash.”
My stomach sank when I saw it. The headline read “Babe and the Beast,” accompanied by a picture of Alessandro and me fleeing the police station, story page six. I was wearing my red Jil Sander shift, the one I’d picked up at the Sloan-Kettering Thrift Shop. Alessandro was right. Red does bleed.
“Here’s the News,” Pops said.
“Oh, my God,” I moaned. “This is so embarrassing.”
“Broadway Hound,” the headline shouted, accompanied by the same delightful photo of Alessandro and me midflight, story page five. They had an inset shot of the minor Alessandro was accused of violating. It was taken from her MySpace page. The blond nymph was making love to the camera with her striking eyes and a come-hither smile. She definitely looked older than sixteen.
I sunk my head. “A year ago,” I said, “no one would have cared but me. He was just another no-name actor.”
“In my experience these sorts of things can be blessings in disguise,” Pops said. “You never wanted to marry that boy, Holly.”
I held the warm puppy close to my eyes, stifling my tears in his soft fur. “What makes you say that?”
“The way you talked about him,” Pops said. “Like you were trying to convince yourself he was the one.” He stuffed his trash into the Dunkin’ Donuts bag and then tossed the sack like a basketball to the can, missing. “I’m losing my touch.” He got up and threw it in the garbage. A cement truck roared by, sending up a cloud of dust.
