by Julia Holden
“I know. You were buying a tie.” In fact, he was holding the small package.
He looked down at it, and I swear, he got this guilty expression on his face.
“No I wasn’t.” He quickly put his hands—and the package—behind his back. Which I thought was odd. Although frankly I had more important things on my mind—like for example, that I had just gotten fired. For the second time in five days.
“I only came in near the end,” he said. “What happened?”
To the very best of my recollection, here is exactly how I answered him.
“This stupid American man bought a very expensive dress for his girlfriend. I tried to tell him he was making a terrible mistake. But he didn’t want to listen. So he paid a small fortune, she wore it, and they both got totally humiliated in front of Jacques Chirac. He needed to blame somebody else, so I got fired.”
“You’re kidding,” said the good-looking tall man. He wasn’t just good-looking: He was also pretty young. Maybe twenty-nine. Maybe thirty.
“I would not kid about something like that.” I looked back at the store. “Fashion morons,” I muttered, thinking about George and, I’m sorry to say, his doormat girlfriend.
“What did you say?”
“I said, fashion morons. Who would believe you’d find them at Armani?”
He glanced at the storefront. Then he turned back to me. “Fashion morons?” he asked, and I nodded, yes. “At Giorgio Armani?”
“Armani Collezioni, actually.” I may have just gotten fired, but if there is one thing my Uncle John has taught me, it is to be precise about your work.
“Stick with Giorgio Armani,” he advised. “We don’t want to confuse people.”
Huh? The only person he was confusing was me. Which he then continued to do. He pulled a little pad and a pen out of his pocket. He furiously scribbled something on the pad. When he was finished scribbling, he looked at the store, looked at me, and said, “This is great!”
“I don’t see how this is so great.”
“But it is. Don’t you see? You’re perfect.”
“Well, thank you,” I said. I still didn’t know what he was talking about. But never turn down a compliment. Especially not one from such a nice-looking man.
“You told that American he was making a mistake buying that dress.”
“I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“And he was sorry later.”
“Of course. They made a ridiculous mistake.”
“This is too good to be true.” He beamed.
“What are you talking about?” I can only take being confused for just so long.
“You don’t know.” At first he sounded puzzled. Then he shook himself, like a big dog shaking off water. “Of course you don’t. Sorry. Silly me.” He was charming and good-looking and a little goofy at the same time. He reminded me of a Labrador. Incidentally, I like dogs. Particularly Labradors. “I’m Reed,” he said. “Reed James. I’m a TV producer.”
Without even thinking, I said, “You’re kidding.” I guess maybe I had kind of a suspicious look on my face. It had nothing to do with Reed. Just a few days before, I had been thoroughly abused by those awful Movie People. And the movies and TV are pretty much the same thing, right? So my first impulse was to assume the worst about Reed.
He misunderstood why I looked suspicious. “No, really,” he said. “I know that sounds like a pickup line. But I really am. I’m a television news producer.”
“News?” That didn’t sound much like the movies at all. I thought maybe I should give the television news producer a chance. So I smiled at him.
“Fox News,” he announced proudly.
At the time, I did not know a great deal about Fox News. I don’t watch a lot of news, but I did have some slight idea what Fox News was about. For example, I knew that it was quite popular in Kirland, because people talked about such things. When you saw them in the market, or at a funeral, or at lunch in the Panel Room after church on Sunday. In fact, I specifically remembered something old Annie Dobash said. Annie is the oldest living person in Kirland, Indiana. She is only going to appear in the story just this once, because she is really not relevant. Except for the fact that I remember her saying she watches Fox News, and she loves seeing Bill O’Reilly give those Hollywood fancy boys hell.
I continued smiling at Reed. “Really,” I said, sounding very interested. “Fox News?” The fact is, I was at least a little interested. Plus, it’s God’s honest truth that men like it when you sound interested in what they do. And Reed was quite adorable.
Reed smiled down at me. “So you know Fox News?”
“Who doesn’t?”
“And you still want to talk to me?”
I laughed. Charmingly, I hope.
By the way, Reed had very long eyelashes.
“All I know,” I said, “is that I love seeing Bill O’Reilly give those Hollywood fancy boys hell.”
37
“I can’t believe it,” said Reed.
“Believe what?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “This is just too great. I mean, it’s too perfect. I’m here in France specifically looking for a fresh new American voice. A real American in Europe who has a real American point of view.”
I have a point of view. In fact I have lots of them. I figured that whatever point of view Reed was looking for in somebody, I must have one in there someplace. I said, “I have a point of view.”
“So I see,” he said. “Plus you’re a girl.” When an attractive, age-appropriate man is talking to me, I ordinarily insist on being called a woman. Nowadays you really cannot let men diminish you by calling you a girl. At least, as a general rule you cannot. But Reed was being so enthusiastic about me that I didn’t want to interrupt him. “We have a little trouble with the female eighteen-to-thirty-five demographic,” he explained. “So your being a girl is a huge plus. And you’re a really cute girl.” Oooh. He thinks I’m really cute. “Which is obviously even better. I mean, with radio, who cares what Rush Limbaugh looks like? But we’re on TV.” He crossed his fingers, as if hoping his next question would have a particular answer. “Where are you from?”
“Indiana.”
“Yes!” He began jumping up and down. Then he stopped, bent toward me, and crossed his fingers again. “Big city or small town?”
“Very small town.”
“Yes!” He got so excited, I swear I thought he was going to hurt himself. He was literally dancing in the street. He wasn’t a wonderful dancer, but hey, nobody’s perfect.
Then he stopped and looked at me again. Finally he asked, “You aren’t a lesbian, are you?”
Let me just say, if he was asking me that question because it had something to do with Fox News and fresh new American voices, it would be bad. Maybe even against the law. But if he was asking me because he was trying to figure out . . . oh, for instance, whether to ask me to dinner, then I thought it was a perfectly fair question.
“No.”
“Yes!” He took a step back, held his hands out at arm’s length, made a frame with his thumbs and forefingers, and looked at me through the frame, the way people do in the movies. Incidentally, I could not help noticing that he had very large hands. Instinctively I looked down at his shoes. He had big feet too. And you know what they say.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
I wondered if he had caught me looking at his feet. I think I blushed. “Reed James,” I said. I wasn’t sure if this was a test, but at least I could show him that I was paying attention. I don’t care how traumatic a situation you find yourself in: When a man that handsome introduces himself, you make good and sure you remember his name.
“That’s right. But I’m also your knight in shining armor.”
“You are?”
“I am.” Then he got a worried look on his face. “Although knights in shining armor are pretty much a European thing, now that I think about it.” He seemed to be talking more to hi
mself than to me. “Maybe I’m the cavalry coming over the hill. Or the Marines. More American.” Then he remembered I was there. “You pick,” he said to me. “Would you rather I was a knight, the cavalry, or the Marines?”
Out of the three, personally I would have to go with the knight. Fairy-tale stuff, you know. And I am sorry, but girls love princess stories. At least I do. For example, since Grandma died, I had invented a thousand stories about how she got her dress, and in every one Grandma was the princess.
On the other hand, it was clear Reed wanted me to go for the cavalry or the Marines. I compromised. “You can be all of them.”
“Excellent. Perfect. I am your knight in shining armor. And the cavalry coming over the hill to save you. And the United States Marines. All rolled into one.”
“Okay,” I said.
I realize that was a pretty noncommittal response. But to tell you the truth, I was still confused. As I have said, he was very good-looking. He was being very nice to me. He thought I was cute. He was happy I wasn’t a lesbian. He had some vague ideas about me being a fresh new American voice with a point of view. And he wanted to be some kind of action-figure hero for me. All fine and good. Only I had not the slightest idea what he was talking about.
I guess my confusion showed on my face. Because he explained. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t understand.” He paused—quite dramatically, I might add—until finally he said,
“I am going to make you a star.”
38
Let me go on record: I have heard a lot of lines from guys. But this was the first time any man ever said he was going to make me a star.
My very first thought was of that scene in the movie Fame. Where the creepy greasy photographer convinces the girl to go to his studio and he takes nasty pictures of her. Well she certainly should have known better. Because he looked like a creepy greasy photographer. Whereas Reed looked like somebody who maybe actually could make you a star. So Reed ended up doing quite well in comparison.
He did even better when he pulled out a business card and handed it to me. In the corner it said FOX NEWS, in shiny raised lettering. In the middle it said REED JAMES, PRODUCER. I guess anybody could go to Kinko’s and print up something like that, but it looked real to me.
“What kind of a star are you going to make me?”
“An all-American star. A Fox News star.” When he said it, his eyes sparkled. Which was a pretty good trick for somebody with such dark eyes.
“Could you be just a little more specific?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “I can be a lot more specific.” He smiled a big smile. “And we can talk about it over dinner.”
I thought that was awfully presumptuous of him. In fact he sounded like a crass frat boy, only older. That kind of approach has never worked with me, so my first impulse was to say no.
Then it struck me: Even though I had just met Reed James, I knew quite a lot about him.
Reed was very tall. Whereas Josh Thomas was not.
Reed was dark-haired and dark-eyed and dark-complexioned. Whereas Josh was not.
Reed was presumptuous and forward, having asked me out within about three minutes of meeting me. Whereas Josh was not. He had not asked me out at all, I asked him.
Reed worked for Fox News. And although I never asked Josh his TV news preferences, or his politics for that matter, I was willing to bet he was not a Fox News type of guy.
Reed saw himself as a knight, the cavalry, and the Marines. Whereas I simply could not picture Josh in any context involving armor or weaponry.
Reed said he was going to make me a star. Whereas Josh had never made any such offer.
Reed was blunt, loud, exuberant, and so far seemed pretty uncomplicated. Whereas Josh was subtle, quiet, and thoughtful, with those complicated eyes and probably a complicated soul, too. And he had kissed me so perfectly, in fact had strung together all those perfect moments like a strand of pearls, only then he ruined it all, ripped the pearls right off my neck, all those perfect moments dropping to the floor and scattering and vanishing in a single instant, when he told them to take away my things, and Grandma’s dress was lost forever.
I looked up at Reed and realized: he was the un-Josh. “Dinner would be great,” I told him.
“Cool,” he said. “Excellent.” He clapped his hands. “Nine o’clock.” He checked his watch. “I’m late for an appointment, but I’ll meet you there.” He whipped out a fancy cell phone, tapped on the keys, and finally said “Perfect.” He jotted down an address and gave it to me, then flipped the phone closed. Then he hailed a cab for me, opened the door, and handed me in. He even kissed my hand—just lightly brushed the back of my hand with his lips. The little hairs on my neck tingled. It was a good tingle. To top it off, he insisted on giving me cab fare home. Whereas Josh Thomas had stuck me with that huge bill at the Bar Hemingway, walked out on me, and left me to wander the streets of Paris all alone in the middle of the night.
“See you tonight,” I said to Reed.
As the cab started to pull away, I heard him say, “This is great.”
For the first half of the taxi ride back to Celestine’s apartment, all I could think about was how Reed’s lips felt on my hand. It made me tingle all over again. I reminded myself that Josh had never kissed my hand like that. Although he had licked the tiramisu off my fingers. But I was not thinking about Josh. I wasn’t. I wouldn’t. I was thinking about Reed.
For the second half of the ride home, I couldn’t help but think about what Reed said. It nagged at me. Remember, I had just been fired. Again. And this total stranger thought it was great. Something was very odd.
On the other hand, he was not Josh.
Plus Reed was really quite appealing. In an in-your-face sort of way. Also very good-looking, as I have said. And, apparently, he really was a TV news producer who was offering . . . well, I didn’t know exactly what. But something. Something involving stardom, I might add.
I have never thought much about stardom. Sure, I watch Entertainment Tonight and read In Style, but I’ve never thought much about stardom for me. I did not grow up planning to be a star. On the contrary: Except for the couple or three times somebody has remarked that I bear the slightest resemblance to Scarlett Johansson, I can honestly say that I never even remotely considered myself star material.
But Reed was so enthusiastic about me. And he was a professional. So I admit, I found it sort of interesting that he thought he could make me a star. Okay extremely interesting. On balance, I was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, he would explain over dinner what he thought was so great about me. If I didn’t like the sound of it, that would be that.
In the meantime, though, I had to get ready. And it takes me a while to prepare for a date.
I don’t know exactly how long I spent. I showered. Twice. I worked on my hair for maybe an hour. And a half. I picked an outfit. Eleven different times. Until finally I settled on one: Calvin Klein. Remember, Reed worked for Fox News and was looking for an American voice. So I wanted to wear something, well, American. But still nice. Calvin was one of the only American designers Celestine had in her closet. Sure, the clothes were actually made in France, but Reed wouldn’t know that unless he looked at the labels. And no matter how cute he was, he was not going to have a chance to look at my labels. Not on a first date.
“For someone who just got fired, you don’t look so sad,” Celestine said.
“I’m compensating.”
“Don’t compensate too hard,” she told me.
“It’s only a first date.”
“No Boilermakers.” Okay, point well taken.
Celestine put me in a taxi and told the driver the address. “Behave,” she said, and waved.
The cab pulled away. When we turned onto Rue de Rivoli, I started to get a familiar feeling. By the time we were approaching the Place de la Concorde, I was downright queasy. It seemed like the taxi was taking me back to Armani Collezioni. Which was th
e last place I wanted to go. By now the store was closed, but what if I ran into somebody?
The driver stayed in the right-hand lane—no Indy 500 around the traffic circle for him—and made the soft right turn onto the Champs-Elysées. Just as I actually started to believe he was taking me back to the scene of the train wreck, he turned down a side street and pulled up by the curb.
There, waiting for me, was Reed. He opened my door, and again paid for my cab. He looked very nice but a little conservative, fashion-wise: navy blazer, blue button-down shirt, gray slacks, all quality stuff. I was betting Polo by Ralph Lauren. Sure enough, as Reed opened the door to the restaurant, I got a glimpse of the little polo player silhouette on his shirt. I suspect Josh Thomas would not be caught dead with a polo player on his shirt. Which is awfully snobbish of him, don’t you think?
The restaurant Reed took me to is called Le Man Ray. “Man Ray was a very famous photographer,” Reed explained.
“I know,” I said. “He took that picture of Kiki de Montparnasse as a cello.”
Reed gave me a funny look, like he didn’t expect me to know such things. “That’s right.”
“Although I don’t see what the big deal is. I think he just wanted to get her naked.”
Reed shook his head. “First Giorgio Armani, now Man Ray,” he said. “You don’t care whose sacred cow you gore, do you?”
I didn’t exactly know what he meant, so I said, “I just say what I think.”
Reed laughed. At first I thought he was laughing at me. Until he said, “You are perfect!” Then he hugged me. Both of which I liked quite a lot. Finally he said, “Let’s eat.”
Once we were seated, I looked around the room. Le Man Ray used to be a theater, which you can tell from its size and shape, the sweeping stairways, and the theater boxes along the balcony. Only I never saw a theater like it. There’s an amazing stained-glass ceiling, and enormous round light fixtures that look straight out of Jules Verne. Up in the balcony is a long multicolored bar. And there are big Chinese statues all over. Even with all the different styles, it’s fantastic and glamorous. That evening—and I bet every evening—it was buzzing with people in their twenties and thirties who were as fantastic and glamorous as the room.
