A Dangerous Dress

by Julia Holden

  We hadn’t even reached the Seine, but as soon as the driver had gone a block and I was sure we were out of sight of the hotel, I told him to pull over. I gave him all the money Reed had given me. It was probably the best tip for the shortest fare that driver ever got.

  I looked at my watch. It was past two in the morning. I didn’t care. I walked all the way back to Celestine’s apartment. Trying to figure out what it all meant.

  And, for the first time since I left home, I really, truly wished I was back in Kirland.

  40

  I called my parents to tell them what was going on. This time they were home. Needless to say, my mom wanted to know all the details I had left out of my answering machine message.

  I told them that, with Grandma’s dress as my guiding light, I had instantly found the perfect dress, which, of course, the starlet of the movie adored, and now she was my second-best friend in the world, right after Celestine. My third-best friend was now Celestine’s father, who it turned out was a world famous director, and who introduced me to the very crème de la crème of French haute society, like for example Johnny Depp, who I assured my mother was even more handsome in person. Not to mention thoughtful, because as soon as my movie job ended, he introduced me to his good friend Mister Giorgio Armani, who immediately hired me to work in his boutique alongside Celestine. Just as my career in high-end retail was taking off, though, I met the very dashing Reed James, TV news producer extraordinaire, who insisted on making me a star as the fresh new voice of Fox News. In fact, he was in such a hurry to get me on the air and boost Fox’s ratings, he was flying me to New York—First Class, no less—the very next day.

  Well, some of it was true.

  My parents were very supportive, and agreed it was an excellent opportunity. Then again, they also sounded anxious. Cautious. Parental. “It seems awfully sudden,” my dad said.

  “It is awfully sudden,” I said. “My whole life is awfully sudden these days.”

  “That’s what I mean,” he said. But if he thought it was a bad idea, he didn’t say so. My dad is the least judgmental person I know. Which I really appreciate, even if I don’t always tell him. Or ever tell him. Maybe he’ll read this eventually. So I’m telling him now: Thank you, Dad.

  Then there was an awkward pause. I knew exactly what it was about: My mom was waiting for me to ask her to call Uncle John again.

  “I’ll call Uncle John,” I said.

  “You will?” My mom was clearly surprised. Relieved, too.

  “I can’t ask you to do that twice.”

  “He won’t like it.”

  “I know. But I’ll take care of it.”

  After we hung up, I actually thought about maybe not calling. But I knew I couldn’t do that. So I called. I told Uncle John that Fox News was giving me a job as their fresh new voice.

  “You already have a job.”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “You’ve been gone a week.”

  “It’s a big opportunity.”

  “You have responsibilities. How do you expect to fulfill them?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the Fox News job won’t work out.” Even though I didn’t believe that. I was going to be a star. Reed said so. “If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll just come back.”

  “Maybe when you decide to come back, you won’t have responsibilities here anymore.” Then he hung up. Leaving me wondering, Had I just been fired?

  You’d think I would know. Particularly since I had been canned twice within the last week. With so much recent experience, you’d think I’d be an expert on the subject. But both times they actually said, “You’re fired.” Not, “Maybe you won’t have responsibilities here anymore.” Who knew what that meant?

  Anyway I couldn’t dwell on it. I had a plane to catch.

  In spite of the fact that she was really upset I was going, Celestine was an angel helping me get ready to leave. “You must come back,” she kept saying.

  “I will,” I kept saying.

  “You must promise,” she said.

  That made me stop and think for a minute. About promises. Here I was, packing my bag to go running off to New York with Reed James. So why was I thinking about stupid Josh Thomas and his stupid promise to himself to wear a stupid Astros cap? I guessed he would have to buy a new one now, since he had bled all over the old one.

  Of course, Josh wouldn’t have been bleeding if Reed hadn’t hit him. Which Reed wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t practically told him to.

  Chasing a lost cause. Just exactly what did Josh mean by that, anyway?

  “Well?” Celestine asked. “Do you promise?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I promise.” Then I added, “I’ll be such a big star on Fox News, I’ll be able to visit as often as I want. I’ll even get them to send me to Paris on assignment.” We both smiled at that. Then I did my best to concentrate on packing.

  Packing made me confront the fact that Grandma’s dress was really gone, and that hurt all over again. As long as I stayed in Paris, there was at least a chance I might still find it, although let’s face it, the chance was pretty slim, and any hope I’d held that Josh might tell me where to look had been shattered the moment Reed punched him in the nose. I was just going to have to face up to the fact that I was leaving without the dress, and trust in the skills of Reed’s investigative team.

  I wondered if the curse only applied in Paris, or if it would follow to New York and haunt me forever.

  I tried to find a bright side. At least packing was easier this time, since the disposal of my mom’s suitcase had left me with almost nothing to pack. In theory, anyway. But Celestine wouldn’t let me go with nothing. She kept throwing clothes at me. Literally throwing them. Until there was this huge pile of gorgeous expensive designer clothes on the floor all around me. She would say “Gaultier” and fling a leather bustier at me. We both got such a case of the giggles that we had to sit down on the floor until we could breathe again.

  I finally agreed to take a few things. Only things she swore she didn’t wear. I didn’t really believe her, because the clothes she gave me were absolutely wonderful. Plus she pulled out this classic Louis Vuitton bag and put the things inside. It wasn’t an actual suitcase, more like a big carry-on, but still—a bag like that costs a fortune. “I can’t take this,” I said.

  “It’s old,” she said. Which I guess it was. But if you take care of a Vuitton bag, it will last you pretty much forever. “I can get another one,” she said. She probably could. Then she said, “I want you to have it.” What could I say to that? So I took it.

  The next morning she got up early and made me breakfast. Which is actually quite a big deal, because Celestine is not much of a cook. I should know, having lived with her for a year. Anyway, she ran out early to shop, then cooked the most Midwestern breakfast she could think of. So what if she burned the bacon, and the eggs were a little runny? And the fire she started in her frying pan was only a little one. She is without question the best friend I ever had.

  Then it was time for me to go. We hugged each other and cried. I asked her to walk me downstairs, but by the third step down, she was crying so hard I told her good-bye right there and sent her back to the apartment. Before she closed the door, she said, “Remember. You promise to come back?”

  “I promise,” I said, took a deep breath, ran down the stairs, and went outside.

  A black Lincoln Continental sedan was waiting for me. It is not the kind of car you see in Paris every day. In the middle of all the tiny little Peugeots and Citroëns and Renaults, a flying saucer would have been less conspicuous. Do not ask me how Reed found it. He had the driver pop the trunk, even though I only had the carry-on from Celestine and my little duffel baggy. Reed eyed the carry-on disapprovingly. “Louis Vuitton?”

  “It’s . . . a copy,” I said. “I bought it in Chicago. Cheap.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. He closed the trunk and held the door for me, then climbed in on the other side and sat ne
xt to me as the driver pulled the car into traffic.

  “I want to say something,” Reed immediately began. I waited. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know who that guy was. And it’s none of my business. But I shouldn’t have hit him.”

  I thought that was pretty grown-up of him. Because I hadn’t even asked him to apologize.

  “You shouldn’t have hit him,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I was picturing Josh bleeding all over his hat, and all over Flavien.

  “I know.”

  “He did something mean to me.” I wasn’t saying that for Reed’s benefit. I was trying to shake feeling sorry for Josh, and I wasn’t entirely succeeding, even though I hated him. “When I got kicked out of my hotel, he was the one who had them throw away my suitcase. My clothes.” I almost said my Grandma’s dress, only I thought that if I said it, I would start to cry. So I didn’t. “But you still shouldn’t have hit him.”

  “I know.”

  Then we rode for a while and didn’t say anything. Until a full fifteen minutes later. Out of nowhere, Reed said, “I am really, truly sorry.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  41

  We were flying American Airlines.

  Which kind of figured. You know, what with Fox News and all.

  Flying First Class is way better than flying Coach. The seats in First Class are like huge comfy La-Z-Boys that recline all the way back. Plus the minute you sit down, they pour you champagne, and bring you a ceramic bowl full of warm mixed nuts, and hand out little hot washcloths for you to wipe your hands. There is an endless parade of flight attendants, and when they distribute the menus you get to pick real meals, starting with a fresh salad, then yummy elaborate entrées, then hot-fudge sundaes. Not to mention more champagne, and wine, and after-dinner liqueurs. It should have been wonderful.

  But it wasn’t. For starters, even though Reed had apologized, I was still feeling pretty bad about his punching Josh. Do not get me wrong: I was still just as furious and unforgiving as ever about what Josh did with Mom’s suitcase, and specifically Grandma’s dress. Although it occurred to me that he couldn’t have known Grandma’s dress was in it. Not that I would forgive him anyway. But I couldn’t help seeing his side of it. His movie didn’t happen on account of me. I guess if I were him, I’d have been mad at me too. And we all do stupid things when we’re mad.

  Feeling bad for Josh made me feel not as good about Reed. Or about myself, since Reed only hit Josh because I said he was bothering me. Maybe that’s why everything was a little less fun than it should have been.

  Then somewhere in the middle of my third glass of champagne, it struck me: I wasn’t just upset about Grandma’s dress and Josh. I was upset because I had failed. Over and over again. When I left home eight days earlier, I had thought this was my chance to be a huge success. Instead, I had left a trail of people who didn’t want me around. The Movie People. Everybody at Armani. Josh. Uncle John. Okay, in the meantime Mom and Dad still loved me, but they didn’t know yet that I had lost Grandma’s dress.

  Maybe that was why I’d been so quick to say yes to Reed. I didn’t care that much specifically about becoming a star on Fox News. I think I just wanted—needed—to prove to myself that I could do something right.

  So when the flight attendants started serving lunch, I asked Reed, “Could you be a little more specific? About the job, I mean.”

  Reed told me how Fox News had picked the anchor from one of their local affiliates, a man named Michael Smith, and was trying him out with his own half-hour format. So far they were only testing him in the Northeast, but his numbers looked good, so they were thinking about rolling him out nationwide. They would introduce me as a commentator during Michael’s show, and make it a regular spot if things went well. “Which I know they will,” Reed said.

  Incidentally, Michael Smith is the man’s real name. But don’t bother looking for him on Fox News. He no longer works there.

  Reed asked me if I have a cell phone. I told him of course. He took the number, and he said that once we started having meetings I should keep it turned on at all times, in case they needed to reach me, twenty-four hours a day. Which made me feel sort of important. They don’t need to reach just anybody twenty-four hours a day, right?

  The business conversation finished about the same time dessert arrived. Instead of dessert, Reed had a glass of port. Then he adjusted his seat way back and went to sleep.

  While Reed slept, the flight attendants gave everybody in First Class their own personal DVD players, with a whole album of movies to choose from. I watched Ghost World first, mostly because Scarlett Johansson is in it, and as you know I supposedly bear some very slight resemblance to her. Then I watched Chicago, which stars Renée Zellweger, who is quite good in it, although I prefer her in the Bridget Jones movies. After the second movie, I napped for a while.

  When I woke up, there was still quite a bit of time to kill, because the flight from Paris to New York is very long, since you are going against the jet stream. I opened up my little duffel baggy and pulled out Josh’s script. I enjoyed reading it all over again. Only it also made me sad all over again. Because I truly believed it would have been a very good movie, if only I hadn’t screwed up. And I truly believed Josh and I could have been happy together, if only I hadn’t screwed that up, too.

  I was just putting the script away when the pilot announced we were starting our descent. Reed woke up and said “Hi,” so I said “Hi.” He reached into the seat pocket in front of him and took out this cute little toiletries kit, which is another benefit of First Class. He went to the lavatory, then a minute later came back smiling and smelling like toothpaste and mouthwash. Which was awfully considerate. And he was awfully handsome. Maybe even handsome enough to make me stop thinking about Josh Thomas.

  The plane bumped to a landing, and I realized I was scared. Barely a week earlier, I had been ready to conquer Paris, but I was the one who got conquered, and then some. Now I was in New York, and stardom awaited.

  Either that, or disaster.

  42

  Given that Reed is the type of person who can find a Lincoln Continental sedan in Paris, it probably goes without saying that a driver with a luggage cart met us at the gate.

  I only had the Louis Vuitton carry-on from Celestine and my duffel baggy. Still, the driver insisted on taking them both, in addition to Reed’s briefcase and computer bag. We went down to baggage claim and waited what seemed like forever until Reed’s two huge black Tumi suitcases finally made their entrance onto the carousel.

  The driver took us and our bags to the Fox News Hummer. Actually it is a Hummer 2. I don’t know if Hummer is the official monster SUV of Fox News, or if this was the only one. And it was not red white and blue or anything cheesy. It was black, with a little logo on the door.

  By the way, I should mention that Hummers come from Indiana. Hummers and Hoosiers. The Indy 500. And Bobby Knight, but not anymore.

  I had never been to New York before, so I stayed very alert on the drive to Manhattan because I didn’t want to miss the skyline. Do not get me wrong. As I have told you, Kirland, Indiana is just a twenty- or thirty-minute drive from Chicago. I have been to Chicago I have no idea how many times. And Chicago has plenty of tall buildings. In fact, the Sears Tower, which I know quite a bit about, having written a paper about it during the course of my so-called education, is taller than anything in New York. The point is, even though I have seen plenty of tall buildings, somehow I knew that seeing the tall buildings in New York would be different.

  It took a while before I found out if that was true or not. Before you get to Manhattan from JFK airport, first you have to drive through Queens. Queens is a borough. A borough is not a neighborhood, and not a city. Actually, I am not exactly sure what a borough is, but New York has five of them: Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island.

  I turned to Reed. “Are you a baseball fan?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Who do you
root for?”

  “The Yankees. Who else?”

  I turned back to the window and watched Queens blur past. For all I know, Queens may be a fine place to live and work, and it appears that plenty of people live and work there. But Queens is not a tall-building place.

  Then finally I saw Manhattan.

  I first saw it from a distance, so it was not immediately overwhelming. On the contrary: From far away, even the Empire State Building looks small. But then you get closer, and Manhattan grows, and grows, and grows. Until you are just across the river, and then it strikes you that the whole thing just roars up out of the ground into the sky, and it makes you wonder how it doesn’t sink under all those tall buildings.

  We crossed the East River. The Seine in Paris is a cozy romantic river with cozy romantic bridges, but the East River is big and serious and all business, and the bridge we crossed was big and serious and all business, too.

  The next thing I knew, we arrived at my hotel. I did not immediately recognize it as a hotel, because there was no sign. None whatsoever. Then a young man approached the Hummer. He had cool spiky black hair, and he wore all black clothes. I wondered why he was coming up to us. He opened my door. “Welcome to the Tribeca Grand,” he said. Incidentally, Tribeca is a made-up word. It’s short for triangle below Canal, and it is the name of a neighborhood. I looked at a map. Although Tribeca is below Canal Street, I don’t think it’s exactly a triangle. But I guess they can call their neighborhood whatever they want.

  Reed walked me to the front desk. He carried my bags, even though I just had the two little ones. He checked me in and confirmed that everything was being charged to Fox News. Incidentally, everybody at the front desk was wearing all black, too, just like the man who opened the Hummer door for me. Reed leaned down and whispered, “The suits book people into boring Midtown hotels. I figured you’d like this better.”