“Who are these chicks?” Seth muttered, squeezing past the tiny girls to take his place next to the beached whale. “Is this the B-list? Are there two press tents?”
“You missed Clooney and the wife, Aniston, SJP, Damon was here, Susan Sarandon, David Geffen showed up—”
“Come on.”
“You’re asleep at the wheel, my little friend. We started an hour ago.”
Was that possible? Seth checked his watch and ran the times through his head. Seven p.m., the invite said seven and the screening over at the Ziegfield starts at eight. Is tonight the Ziegfield or is it the fund-raiser for PEN? He felt a pebble of sweat creeping down the side of his face. You missed Clooney. That was a mistake, someone over at the Times was going to make note of it. Clooney always stopped to chat with the clowns in the press line, everybody in town would have a decent quote. Except for him.
“Hey, Marissa! How you doing, you look incredible.” Schaeffer waved at a pretty teenager in a peach mini dress. Brown hair curled down her back and a wide belt with the biggest silver buckle he’d ever seen cinched the dress at the waist. Her eyes were bright but honestly, the kid looked like an anorexic ten-year-old. “She’s only got a few minutes, guys,” her publicist announced. He hovered sternly, to make sure they didn’t take advantage.
“What are you working on, Marissa?” Schaeffer was on it. Seth just listened and scribbled down the answers.
“Well, I just did four days on the new Noko Matsui film, that was a total blast.”
“Oh yeah? You like working with Noko?”
“Oh my God, he’s a genius, he’s such a genius.”
“What’s your favorite movie that he’s made?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“Not unless you don’t know the answer.”
“You’re awful,” she grinned.
“I’ll pick one for you. You get to do any action sequences?”
“No, I just got shot.”
“You get to fall off a roof or anything?”
“I did! How did you know?”
How did he know? Seth was convinced that Schaeffer just sat around his apartment all day, surfing the internet and storing every meaningless fact he could find in that fucking big brain of his. One time over drinks Schaeffer admitted he had a photographic memory, which may have been a lie, except for the fact that Schaeffer wasn’t exactly proud of it. He was drunk and morose, and confessing that he had gotten kicked out of MIT for some ridiculous cheating scandal, hacking computers or selling prewritten papers to terrified freshmen, something totally needless and stupid. And now here he was, chatting up starlets and writing dazzling paragraphs about who these pretty girls were dating, or what talk show they were going to be seen on next. Seth didn’t get it. But he liked the guy. Compared to all the vapid know-nothings who regularly showed up on this beat, fat Schaeffer had the air of a tragic desperado about him.
In fact, at that very moment Schaeffer was waving wildly at the next starlet down the line. He was flushed with delight, or that might actually just have been the heat. The whole thing was dreary as hell. Seth started digging through his shoulder bag, looking for the ultra-handy celeb cheat sheet that Arwen always stuffed in there, to let him know who and what to expect at these things. He couldn’t find it. “Shit. I’m taking off,” he said. “Did I really miss everybody? ’Cause if it’s just B-list from here on in, I got two other parties I have to cover before midnight.”
“You telling me you wouldn’t want to tap that?” Schaeffer muttered, by way of reply. Seth glanced up, finally, so that he might make an informed answer to the everlasting male question. The answer leaped rather quickly to mind.
I already did.
Alison Moore, in a skintight lavender mini dress, clocked his presence. Then she leaned over and kissed Schaeffer on the cheek.
“Hey, Schaeffer, you look awesome. Hi, Seth. I heard you were covering these things for the Times, but I’ve never seen you at any of them.”
“He’s always late and often lazy,” Schaeffer informed her. “You look fabulous.”
She did look fabulous. Her figure was flawless in that dress, and the color was so fragile and pale it took you a moment to register that it was there at all. Cascading seed pearl earrings were her only accessories; she didn’t carry a clutch. Those great long bangs were still there, the long legs too. Her eyes were even greener in person, but maybe that was the dress. She looked free, spare, and fearless, like someone who might split and duck into your Chevy, take a road trip to Montauk, and make out in the backseat all night.
“What are you up to, Alison?” Schaeffer asked her.
“Show’s on hiatus, so I’m out and about,” she shrugged.
“You think you’ll get an Emmy nod this year?”
“Absolutely. Best sex on camera, they’re giving me a special award.” Schaeffer was a puddle of adoration.
“What show is this?” Seth asked.
She shot him a glance which scorched his eyeballs. “No, seriously, I’m not trying to be an asshole,” he protested. “I just don’t watch much television. I’m out most nights.”
“Yes, I see that, you clearly have much more serious things to do with your time.” That got tossed off with a throaty laugh. She had gotten somewhat better at hiding it—the laugh was fantastic—but she was still trigger happy. He remembered that temper, how easy it was to wound her. He also remembered how great she was in the sack.
“It’s the best show on television,” Schaeffer gushed.
“Thanks, Schaeffer.”
“I was so relieved when you got your pickup for next season.”
“Yeah, we were on the bubble a little bit this spring.”
“Until you and Rob got back together. You are holding that whole show together.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she warned him.
“All the chat rooms are saying the same thing, that you absolutely saved the show,” Schaeffer continued, with an OCD insistence. “I know you don’t read what they’re writing about you, but you really should check it out, the past few months you have been on fire. Seriously, this is a total breakout year for you.”
Schaeffer was notoriously unabashed in his star worship, but this was whole new territory for him. The poor guy’s fat cheeks were positive pink with excitement. It wasn’t just the heat. “Why don’t you get a selfie and make it your background photo, fan boy,” he observeed, only half to himself. Schaeffer turned, surprised for a moment that Seth had intruded—it was an unspoken rule that you didn’t interrupt; everybody got their thirty seconds to ask a question, no matter how inane. The idea that you would make fun of a fellow reporter? Schaeffer’s bewilderment was innocent, then confused, and then the pure understanding of Seth’s careless dig landed. A lumbering embarrassment rose to his face. He turned back to Alison, sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said, trying to laugh. “I just like your work.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Alison told him, firm. “Your friend’s a know-nothing asshole.”
“Hey,” Seth started, but she was taking no prisoners.
“Excuse me, prick. Know-nothing prick.” The PR reps were starting to turn their way. And why not; Alison was speaking loudly enough for everyone within a square block to hear.
“Come on, Alison.” Seth glanced around, aiming for the merest shred of discretion. But Schaeffer was already starting to put two and two together. Like everyone else.
“Lou Schaeffer is a fantastic journalist,” Alison continued, certifiably pissed. “And if he is kind enough to say a few words of support for my work, then who the fuck are you to tell him to shut up?” This was getting the attention of every reporter in shooting distance.
“Whoa, wait a minute.” The eyes and ears of the blogosphere were turning their way. But Alison was just getting tuned up.
“You didn’t even show up for the fucking press line. Which gives you, I would say, no rights at all in this situation. You arrogant fuck.” Someone actually clapped a
t that. It was because he worked for the Times. They were all jealous. And now those press reps were all pouncing, handling her ruffled feathers with crispy finesse.
A short skinny guy in a nice suit descended, apparently her personal PR handler. “That’s it, guys. Thanks. Alison, this way.” Alison swiveled and stalked off. For a second, she wobbled. Was she drunk? No. She’s just not so good at walking on those fucking heels. Beside him, Schaeffer exhaled softly. “Va-voom,” he whispered.
And not two hours later, thanks to the magic of the Twittersphere, their idiotic exchange had made it into every major New York gossip blog. “The press line at Bryant Park provided its own drama Tuesday night, when New York Times reporter Seth Fraden traded words with television actress Alison Moore. Fraden, who apparently was annoyed that he had missed the chance to interview some of the night’s biggest celebs, was on a rampage about the ‘B-list’ stars, such as Moore. Moore didn’t seem to care, calling the reporter several choice and unprintable names.” When did the coverage become more real than the thing being covered? His cell phone was blinking and buzzing furiously, as everyone in the known universe texted him about his moment in the sun. It was a disaster. And over what? How had it exploded so fast? The sullen realization that the whole needless mess was his own fault did not make the situation any easier. Sitting alone in the back of a shitty bar in the Garment District, downing Jameson on the rocks, didn’t make the situation easier either. The clipped text from his editor—call pls—also didn’t help.
“It’s a complete misunderstanding,” he said, as soon as Eric picked up.
“Okay, just tell me one thing: Did you sleep with her?”
This caught him so unawares he felt his brain do a half step. “Whoa, what?” he said.
“Oh, God.”
“Hey, Eric, no, I didn’t,” he lied.
“Tell me again that you didn’t.”
“I didn’t!”
“You know there’s a lot of talk about you. You’re partying with these girls, you’re using your position to get laid.”
“Okay, that is—”
“Spare me.”
“Look, if I’m being accused of something—”
“You ever hear of sexual harassment, Seth?”
“Okay, that’s crazy. That is—”
“Using your power and influence to coerce sexual favors. This is no joke. You understand me?”
“I know it’s no joke. I’m saying it’s completely no joke, and no, I didn’t do it.”
“I don’t care if you did it or not. Did you leave us open to a lawsuit? That is what I want to know.”
Of course that was all they cared about. Fucking politically correct bullshit. Those girls throw themselves at you and if you take them up on it you’re the one with the problem. Since when did it become illegal to fuck a woman? His thoughts were racing now, or trying to race. He regretted having had that third drink, which he had downed unthinkingly on this, his most pathetic of all birthdays. Sexual harassment. If they fired him over the merest suspicion of something like that, his career was toast. What career? For a brief moment he had nothing but contempt for all the choices he had made since swanning into New York on the wings of that overhyped Harvard BA. Everyone wanted to take a meeting with the culture editor of the Crimson, but what had come of it over time amounted to less and less and less, clouds floating in a queer blue sky. He had spent eleven years writing nothing about people who were doing nothing.
In the rising of his self-doubt, he unwisely let the silence go on too long. “Answer the question,” Eric snapped. He should have taken more care with Eric. There were plenty of writers out there who wanted his idiotic column—there were plenty of writers, in fact, who would happily shoot him in the head if they thought they could crawl over his body and grab that stack of party invites.
“No. No. No lawsuit,” he promised. “Just give me a minute, would you? Alison and I are old friends, and we were, honestly, Eric, we were horsing around.”
“You’re ‘friends’?”
“Swear to God. We’ve known each other for years. She was like, best friends with one of my old girlfriends, and I hadn’t seen her for a while, so we were just, you know—”
“I don’t know, Seth, which is why I’m asking. ’Cause the shit I’ve been hearing about you, it is not good.”
“Eric, I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but I know you wouldn’t just go flying off the handle because of some whispering campaign. Everybody talks shit on each other in this business, but that’s all it is. As I think you well know.”
This time, Eric paused. It was a fairly played hit; Eric had been famous for his cocksmanship in the day. He was tired, he was pissed, the job wasn’t any fun anymore, all that was a given.
“You want Alison to make a statement that this is all a big misunderstanding, I can call her and ask her to do that,” Seth offered. “But I think it’s making too much of it.”
“There are plenty of people who have already made too much of it.”
“That’s my point.”
“No, that’s my point.” An edge of exhaustion had drifted into Eric’s side of the conversation. “Just take care of it,” he sighed. “Get her to call somebody over at Page Six and set it straight.”
“Page Six isn’t going to do us any favors.”
“Then get somebody else to do us a favor! Get her to tweet about it! I don’t care where it shows up, but someone has to print a story that exculpates you on this, or so help me God you’ll be writing obituaries for the next six months.”
Seth raised his finger toward the bartender; this warranted another Jameson. Thirty-three years old, a degree from Harvard, a byline at the Times, features in every major magazine that still existed, and now he was going to have to get on his knees and beg some actress to publicly vindicate him for telling the truth for once.
“Today’s my birthday,” he told Eric.
“Yeah, happy fucking birthday,” Eric said.
Seth hung up the phone and stared at it. Who would have Alison’s cell number? Didn’t he get it from her—when was that even—three years ago?
He sighed. The only person who might know how to get in touch with her was Lisa, to whom he hadn’t spoken since the night he stepped out on her—which had been, in fact, three years ago. This was going to be an endless saga of sucking up.
twelve
ALISON STARED as the tribe of waiters marched into their private dining room, twelve of them—all in black tuxes, even the women—carrying course number eight, pork belly with wilted chard. She had been warned ahead of time that this was going to happen; this restaurant was duly famous for serving ten-course dinners and a flight of wine with each. But it was one thing to hear about it and another thing to experience it.
“They’re small courses, but it’s definitely a long-distance event. You have to pace yourself,” Ryan informed her. They had gone out for cocktails to discuss how things were going with the oh-so-shiny movie director who had a lot of projects she “might be right for.” An invitation to a private dinner party with his closest friends and their wives and girlfriends indicated that things were progressing nicely. But as usual Ryan had a lot of advice. “Wear something tight. It’ll show off your figure, and keep your appetite in line. One bite of each course. That’s it.”
“You said they serve the most beautiful food in New York.”
“Beautiful food is for you to look at, and other people to eat,” he warned her.
“Can I at least get a doggy bag?”
“No, you cannot, and don’t say the words ‘doggy bag’ within three blocks of me ever again.”
“I miss food.” She was actually eating the olives from her martini with a little too much gusto, she realized; a tiny pile of pits had piled up on the bartop in front of her. Ryan eyeballed them, and her, a dangerous warning in the tilt of his head.
“Trust me, the food you will be served tomorrow night will be exquisite.”
“But I’m s
till only allowed to look at it.”
“You’re allowed to taste it; I never said you couldn’t taste it. But there are ten courses! Some of them very rich. The coddled egg is legendary.”
The coddled egg was legendary for good reason. Course number two, it was so delicious and she was so hungry, she absolutely gobbled it down, breaking every promise she had made to Ryan. Every other dish—oysters, goat cheese and frog legs, diver scallops drizzled with a basil reduction, lamb medallions, lobster tail, even the foie gras, which came nestled in a bed of fresh creamed corn—she took one bite and then set her fork woefully to one side, while she wallowed in the explosion of flavors for as long as she could make that one bite last. But the dress presumably was worth it. A rich green satin, skintight, narrow skirt, boldly strapless, it was so cinched at the waist that her figure looked like Ava Gardner’s in The Barefoot Contessa. The thing was so tight it even made her boobs look big, the way they used to, when there was more of them.
But there was a problem with the plan: course number three, the wildly delectable foie gras. When Alison took her one bite and dutifully set her fork aside, the gorgeous chicklet sitting on her left took note. “That’s all you’re going to eat?” she asked.
“I’m just not very hungry,” Alison lied.
“You came to Per Se for a ten-course meal and you’re not hungry?” the girl asked, loud enough for the whole table to hear, and gleefully hostile enough to make Alison blush. Immediately, of course, the entire table was watching her turn beet red. Her accuser saw her moment and held on to it. “How much does a dinner like this cost? Don’t tell me. If you have to ask, I know. But that’s got to be fifty bucks’ worth of foie gras!” This hideous slut’s name was Suzy something; she had been in a studio feature last year, eight lines, she was brash and nasty, apparently that was her whole skill set. She made a little stabbing gesture, like she was going to nab the food off Alison’s plate. No one laughed, which made her even more aggressive. “And what about the poor goose who was force-fed for our delight?” Fearing that Suzy might actually start acting this process out, Alison took charge.
I'm Glad About You Page 16
