Lala Pettibone's Act Two

by Heidi Mastrogiovanni

  “How is anyone going to get that thing open?” Lala wondered.

  Even as she voiced her concern, a handsome young man wearing the uniform of the catering staff came in and strode majestically toward the massive bottle.

  “Is he carrying a saber?” Lala asked Adele.

  Before Adele could answer, the handsome young man leaned in and wielded the sword like a master duelist.

  The lip of the bottle, with the cork intact, split off in a clean break. The room erupted in applause. A geyser of liquid cheerfully bubbled out of the bottle. Lala lunged for a glass and caught as much of the champagne as it would hold.

  Lala looked up from her rescue efforts to find Marie-Laure standing beside her with a glass, mirroring Lala’s scoop and gulp technique. The champagne stopped spurting, and two other caterers came up to take the bottle away to pour the contents into waiting trays of glasses.

  Marie Laure raised her full glass to Lala and winked.

  “You are a woman after my own heart,” Marie-Laure toasted.

  “At the risk of sounding terse, ditto. I’m Lala Pettibone,” Lala said, clinking her glass against Marie-Laure’s.

  “Merci mille fois. Vous êtes très gentille.”

  “Vous parlez français?” Marie-Laure said.

  Damn, God love her and her dictionary-definition of a megawatt smile, Lala thought.

  “Ohhh, je me débrouille,” Lala said, blushing.

  “Pas du tout. Vous parlez vraiment très bien!”

  “Am I blushing?” Lala asked.

  Marie-Laure giggled.

  “So, let us start a conversation, shall we? Tell me what I have to say to convince you to join our staff permanently.”

  Before Lala could gush that she was signing on immediately to work at Atelier du Monde for the rest of her life because they served champagne in elephantine bottles, and because she would be working next to her future husband, and because Marie-Laure was officially her new best friend, and maybe Marie-Laure should start planning Lala’s bachelorette party right now, Gérard joined them.

  Note to self, Lala thought. Get hypnosis to make these shit-eating grins more manageable.

  Gérard kissed Lala on the cheek.

  I swear, I must look like I’m possessed, Lala thought.

  Gérard kissed Marie-Laure on the cheek. He stood next to Marie-Laure, and the two faced Lala, smiling.

  “You have found each other already. I am so glad,” Gérard said.

  Lala stared at them. The blood in her veins plummeted to the temperature of a Siberian lake. In December.

  They were such subtle gestures. Anyone could have missed one or both. Or interpreted either as entirely innocent.

  Unless one had majored in theater in college and thus always considered herself a student of the human condition. Or unless one had been a lifelong reader of classic literature about the timeless interaction of souls and thus always considered herself a student of the human condition. Or unless one were madly in love with her boss.

  Lala watched Gérard put his arm gently, tenderly, caressingly, and very briefly around Marie-Laure’s waist. She watched Marie-Laure respond with equal intensity and brevity by putting her hand on Gérard’s shoulder for just a moment.

  Lala heard her now frigid blood pounding in her ears. She managed to retain consciousness long enough to realize that Gérard and Marie-Laure were both giving her a quizzical look. She must have been staring at them with the eyes of a lunatic.

  “Yes, we found each other,” Lala managed to rasp. “This is so exciting. Welcome, Marie-Laure. I wish you an absolutely wonderful, successful . . . adorable . . . time in New York.”

  Lala paused.

  “Okay,” Lala gasped. She was finding it hard to fill her lungs. “I don’t want to be greedy with your time. Please don’t let me keep you from meeting everyone else. We’ll continue our discussion later, oui?”

  Lala wandered, blindly, out into the reception area. She sat down. Many years later, whenever Lala would describe that afternoon, she would say that she had no idea how long she was out there.

  “It might have been days for all I knew. I must have lost all sense of time and place because, I swear, I was comprehending jack shit about what was actually going on around me.”

  Lala stared at her surroundings, entirely unseeing. Somehow, her hand found its way into her pants pocket and grabbed her cell phone. And, apparently, it then dialed Brenda’s number, because Lala found herself listening to a ringing sound and then found herself hearing Brenda answer.

  Lala began to speak into her phone.

  In a normal volume.

  At first.

  “Hi, Brenda? Can you talk?”

  It was when Lala heard Brenda say, yes, she was indeed available to have a conversation with her best friend since high school, that Lala began, gradually at first and then with giddy momentum, to get louder and louder and louder.

  “Wanna hear something funny? Gérard has a girlfriend! I think that’s hilarious! And get this! My first impression of her is that she’s lovely! I swear, my initial thought when I realized what was going on between them was to suggest a three-way.”

  Everyone except Lala turned to look at Gérard, who wasn’t nimble enough to quash the instant raising of his brows and the instant smile that wrapped itself around his mouth when he heard mention of a possible ménage à trois.

  “Her name is Marie-Laure!” Lala yelped into the phone, oblivious to Gérard’s facial thumbs up. “How pretty is that! And there’s more! She’s not a cliché! She’s not a . . .”

  Lala swiftly cradled her cell phone between her shoulder and her chin and made air quotation marks.

  “. . . ‘Young bimbo.’ She’s my age! Ish. So I can’t even be pissed at him for being shallow or predictable.”

  Everyone had exited the conference room as Lala’s words grew ever more energetically unglued.

  “I had some kind of scenario playing out in my head,” Lala blared into her cell phone, “in which Gérard and I had this kind of magical chemistry, and I never once asked myself why he hadn’t made a move in ten months because it played into my idea that this was somehow so special that it couldn’t be besmirched with actual involvement with each other, and, meanwhile, I’m a complete idiot, and none of what I’m imagining is true. And it’s not his fault! He’s a great guy. He never led me on. Il faut que je get over myself. It was all in my big, stupid head!”

  The isolation spell suddenly broke. Lala covered the phone and smiled and nodded toward one of her coworkers, who was looking at her with sympathy and horror.

  “It’s true. I have a freakishly large head. My late husband, God love him, used to say it’s because I have so much brain matter in there because I’m so smart. Which, if that’s true, has gotten me exactly nowhere, right? Huh? Right? Because, seriously, it’s freakish. When we were measuring our têtes . . . that’s French for heads . . . in high school for the caps and mortars, I’m guilelessly walking around announcing my head was twenty-three inches in circumference like that’s something normal, and all my friends are looking at me like I’m a freak because their measurements are like eighteen or twelve or something.”

  Lala stuck her cell phone up to her mouth and once again blasted into it. Neither of her ears were anywhere near the device.

  “Brenda! Brenda, are you still there? Brenda, I can’t hear you!”

  With preternatural calm, Adele approached Lala. She smiled at her, and Lala smiled back.

  “Lala, my dear, to whom are you speaking?”

  “Brenda! My best friend!” Lala bellowed.

  “How nice. May I say a quick hello to Brenda?”

  “I don’t think she’s still there,” Lala shrieked. She handed the phone to Adele.

  “Brenda? Hi, Brenda, this is Adele. I’m the office manager here . . . Brenda, are
you able to come over? . . . You were thinking of doing exactly that? How nice. Then we’re both on the same page. Excellent. We’ll see you shortly.”

  Lala was back at her desk working on the captions for the book of miniatures when Brenda barreled into the office.

  Years later, Lala remained unable to recall many of the details of that god-awful afternoon.

  “I still have no idea how I got back to my desk. I wish there had been videotape. It might have been interesting to see. I bet I looked funny, wandering over to my desk like I was sleepwalking or something. I might even be able to laugh about it now, after all this time. Probably not. It’s probably too soon.”

  “Hey, Bren’. Whatcha doin’ here?”

  The rest of the staff hadn’t gone back to their desks. Everyone was milling around, waiting to see what was going to happen next, but trying to look like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that afternoon. Adele strode over and gave Brenda’s hand a grateful shake. Gérard was right behind her.

  “Brenda, how nice to meet you.”

  “You must be Adele,” Brenda said, eagerly pumping her hand. “I’m so happy to meet you.”

  “Gérard Courtois,” Gérard said.

  “Gérard,” Brenda gasped. She stared at him in sudden shock that she just as quickly suppressed.

  Gérard grabbed Brenda’s other hand and for a minute all three of them stood there in an odd kind of handheld circle of desperation and relief.

  They all turned to Lala, who had gone back to focusing on her computer screen.

  “I’ll be with you in a sec, Brenda,” Lala mumbled, totally absorbed in a full-screen image of an artist’s garret in turn-of-the-century Paris. “Look at that tiny, little easel and that teeny, tiny painting on that tiny, little easel. Are they adorable, or what?”

  Adele and Brenda remained silent. Until their great minds came up with a similar idea simultaneously.

  Adele started, with Brenda just a moment behind.

  “Lala . . .”

  “Lala . . .”

  “Would you be able to attend a last-minute meeting at the main branch of the library? It’s starting in just a few . . .”

  “I bumped into an author who was a classmate at college, and he wants to meet with a representative of a French publishing house as soon as possible to discuss a project . . .”

  “Oh, wow,” Adele and Brenda said.

  “Maybe Lala could leave with me right now . . .” Brenda continued.

  “And then you could arrange to meet with the author right after the meeting at the library,” Adele concluded.

  “Perfect!” they both said.

  Lala stared at them for many nerve-wracking moments.

  “That all sounds great!” she finally said. “Cool! Frankly, I would love to get the fuck out of here for the rest of the day.”

  Brenda had Lala out of her chair and into the elevator and on the street and into a cab before Lala could change what was left of her mind.

  It didn’t take but a few blocks of movement for Lala to notice that the taxi was most distinctly not heading uptown from the Chelsea offices of Atelier du Monde. She had been on guard since they had entered the vehicle when Brenda had furtively whispered something to the driver.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Lala demanded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your boss looks exactly like Terrence?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Please don’t do that,” Brenda said. “Please don’t terrify me by not seeing what is so entirely obvious because, I swear, I do not want to have to make the decision to have you involuntarily committed. Gérard and your late husband could be twins.”

  Lala chuckled and gave Brenda’s shoulder an affectionate swat.

  “Stop! That’s ridiculous! I don’t see it at all.”

  “You stop. Seriously. They are twins.”

  Lala shrugged and spoke to Brenda like Brenda was the one who had just spent the entire afternoon going bat crap crazy.

  “Okay, okay, don’t get upset. Sure. They’re twins. If you say so.”

  _______________

  Lala sat stretched out on the loveseat in her living room. She held a mug of tea, and she was covered by a cozy comforter. Her neighbor Pyotr, a lovely gentleman in his early seventies who exuded old world charm, sat reading aloud to Lala in a chair next to the loveseat.

  “But for this spectacularly wealthy diva, apparently hundreds of pairs just aren’t enough. Take a walk into the shoe closet at her Malibu estate, and you will find . . .”

  The front door opened. Pyotr put down the copy of People Magazine and helped Brenda unleash the hounds.

  “They both peed and pooped,” Brenda reported.

  “I could have walked them myself,” Lala said. “I appreciate all of this, but I think I’ve weathered the storm.”

  Pyotr pulled up a chair for Brenda, and they both sat down. The dogs jumped on Lala’s lap and were settled and snoring in short order.

  “Are you sure?” Brenda asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “You are sure?” Pyotr said.

  “I am. I’ll be fine. So go on and get home, both of you, okay? Thank you for worrying. Thank you for being there for me.”

  Brenda and Pyotr leaned forward and wrapped Lala in their arms.

  “Group hug! Group hug!” Brenda declared.

  Lala escorted Brenda and Pyotr to the door.

  “You sure you’ll be okay?” Brenda said.

  “Positive. I’m going to get some writing done, and then I’ll probably watch a little TV, eat a little something, and get to bed early for a change.”

  “Good idea,” Pyotr said. “I’ll let you know what happens at the owners’ meeting tonight.”

  “Oh, shoot, I forgot all about that,” Lala said. “We’ll go together. It’ll be fun.”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Brenda said. “You just relax for the rest of the day.”

  “I will inform you of everything that happens at the meeting,” Pyotr assured her. “It is not necessary for you to attend. You must relax today.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Lala said. “I want to go. Those meetings are always a hoot. It’s like, move over, Melrose Place, because life at the Bancroft is twice as sassy with half the peroxide. I’m not sure what I mean by that image or if it’s even valid in this context, but it sounds clever, no? I’ll pick you up at a quarter to eight.”

  “You are sure?” Pyotr said.

  “Absolutely. The distraction’ll do me a lot of good.”

  _______________

  “Holy shit, Lala, are you okay?”

  Lala peered at her upstairs neighbor, who had ambushed her the moment she entered the Bancroft’s common room next to the roof garden.

  “Hi, Elizabeth. I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeeeeees?” Lala said.

  “You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

  “Yeah. I’m sure. Who did the refreshments tonight? There better be some serious alcohol. Not like that bullshit punch last time that had what? Maybe point oh-oh-oh-oh-one percent booze in it?”

  Lala made a beeline for the card table against the wall and was relieved to find an assortment of already opened bottles of not-at-all-bad wines. She filled a large plastic cup with Viognier.

  Okay, this is a good omen, Lala thought. Maybe my luck really is changing for the better.

  Lala avoided having to engage in additional dialogue about how awful she looked by making sure that her mouth was full of snacks whenever anyone approached her. For dramatic effect and to bring herself a tiny shred of amusement, she would start speaking in response to anything someone said to her, and then instantly pretend she was nearly choking because the inconsiderate person had forced her to try to con
verse while she was shoving food in her maw. Which, of course, necessitated gulping down big swallows of wine and refilling her cup so she could save her own life by administering a kind of liquid Heimlich to herself. Which, of course, meant Lala was well on the way to being seriously potted by the time the co-op board president entered the room and called the meeting to order.

  Lala had a sudden memory of the other time that day she had witnessed a man getting the attention of a roomful of people to make an announcement, but, mercifully, she shook it off before she could do anything crazier than drink with more urgency.

  Stay calm, she told herself. Remain unagitated. Semper serene. Everything’s going to be fine. Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is, in fact, the first day of the rest of your life. This wine is really not bad at all . . .

  Richard Sweetzer, the perennial shoo-in candidate for board president because no one else wanted to put up with that much crap, stood at the front of the room. He put the tips of his fingers together and leaned his chin into his hands as though in prayer. He gazed downward and spoke without lifting his head.

  “God. I . . . Oh, I don’t even . . .” he groaned.

  Richard raised his eyes toward the ceiling, apparently unable to look at anyone directly. A current of nervous anticipation ran through the gathered owners.

  “Look, there’s no easy way to put this, so I’m just going to say it. Apparently the basement of our building is a quagmire of asbestos. It’s pretty much gone nuclear. It’s like a huge-ass Petri dish downstairs, and there is some seriously funky shit growing. Right now. Even as we speak. And I don’t know how this happened, so there’s no point in asking. Everything in the basement is off-limits until further notice. It’s going to cost each unit at least forty thousand dollars to get us out of this mess. I’ll need your checks by the end of next week.”

  No one moved. It seemed that even the breathing in the room had stopped. Silence hung over the assembly until Lala’s guttural wail pierced the air.

  “What the fuck? Are you fucking kidding me? Fuck!”

  _______________

  Sleep was out of the question, even given how drunk Lala already was by the time Pyotr escorted her back to her place after the meeting. No amount of wine was going to still the voices in her head.