by Julia Holden
“This looks great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“We should have dinner,” Reed said.
“Sure,” I said. I gave him a little hug. Not a big suggestive hug. A thank-you-for-taking-me-to-New York hug.
He looked down at me. “Tonight?”
I was tired. Very tired. Reed had slept most of the flight back from Paris, and I hadn’t. So I was not sure I had the stamina for a romantic dinner. Assuming it was going to be romantic, which was not necessarily a safe assumption, because I could not figure out for the life of me if Reed had romantic intentions or not. On the other hand, Reed was smiling that handsome Labrador smile. And let us not forget, he was my knight in shining armor-slash-cavalry officer-slash-Marine who had rescued me from the abyss of Armani-terminated despair. Not to mention that he was going to make me a star.
“What time?” I said.
“Eight o’clock. In the lobby.” He gave me a kiss. On the cheek. Not a lot of romance in that kiss.
Then he was gone.
43
Eight didn’t give me a lot of time.
As soon as Reed left, I turned to the young woman in black behind the reception desk. She asked how many keys I was going to need.
“Just one,” I said. She had seen and heard my whole conversation with Reed, so maybe she was suggesting something. Or maybe not. Either way, she handed me just one plastic room card key. Then she led me back toward the elevator, which rides up and down in an exposed metal-framework shaft. The elevator, like the whole hotel, is a very funky blend of old and new.
My room was modern and sleek and sophisticated. And cool. Funky hip artsy cool. Not your parents’ kind of hotel at all. Even if your parents have a lot of money.
The whole place made me feel relaxed. Which was kind of odd, considering that I was either hovering on the verge of stardom in a whole new career or teetering on the brink of homelessness on the mean streets of New York. I should have been a nervous wreck, but I wasn’t. Maybe it was the jet lag.
I looked at the Bose Wave clock radio, which was as cool as the room. It was almost five o’clock. I figured my prep time for dinner with Reed was ninety minutes, bare minimum. Which left me an hour and a half to nap. A little risky, because I might wake up feeling worse than before. Then again, falling asleep in the middle of one of Reed’s witty stories about Dartmouth or the Republican National Convention would not be socially correct or professionally advantageous. So I called the front desk and ordered not one but two wake-up calls. Then I drew the curtains shut, took off my clothes, crawled under the soft-as-silk Frette sheets, and fell right asleep.
I got lucky. My nap turned out to be a that-was-refreshing kind of sleep, with not a hint of a bad dream about Grandma’s lost dress or Josh. I got up with the first wake-up call and canceled the second one. I had to get moving.
I headed straight for the bathroom, where I found myself surrounded by very cool brushed stainless steel. Set into the stainless steel was a tiny little TV set. For a second, I thought about turning on the TV and looking for Fox News so I could do a little research, but I didn’t have time to channel surf to find it.
I took a nice hot shower, then brushed my teeth. While I was brushing, I concluded that the hotel was too cool to have a sign outside. If you didn’t know what it was without a sign, you didn’t deserve to stay there. Then I fixed my hair, rinsed with some lovely mouthwash the hotel was thoughtful enough to provide, and put on a little makeup. Which left about twenty minutes to get dressed. And if you have been paying attention, you know that is not remotely enough time for me.
Ordinarily.
Fortunately, the only clothes I had were the five outfits Celestine had given me. I wondered which one Grandma would have picked, if her mysterious adventure had been in New York in 2006 instead of Paris in 1928. Celestine had not given me any dangerous dresses, but I had a feeling Grandma would tell me that a dangerous dress should only be worn under careless, reckless, gorgeous, sexual circumstances anyway. And dinner with Reed did not seem to meet those criteria, at least not yet. So what to wear?
The Prada.
It was almost as if Grandma had whispered in my ear. Which is unlikely, what with the fact that first, Grandma is deceased, and second, to my knowledge, Grandma never heard of Prada. But I still felt as if she was helping me pick. Which made me think that just maybe, even though I had lost her dress, Grandma and her power were still with me.
The Prada was perfect. It was all black, which fit right in with the decor. Plus it was very understated, so Reed would probably just assume it was something I got in Chicago. As if.
I finished dressing and looked at the clock. It was eight P.M. on the dot, which meant I had to kill ten minutes, because it’s important to always keep men waiting. I admired myself in the mirror. Definitely the Prada. Then I went downstairs.
Reed was waiting to escort me into the restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised, because he looked kind of hip. He was wearing a casual suit that fit him nicely. No tie, no button-down shirt, but a black T-shirt under the suit jacket. I bet they don’t wear that on Fox News.
Not that I had ever watched Fox News, of course.
Our waitress, who needless to say was wearing all black, asked if we wanted anything to drink. “You pick,” I said to Reed. Where had I read that if a sophisticated man is buying you dinner, always let him order the drinks? It gives him a chance to feel like James Bond. Although I am still waiting for a man to order martinis, shaken not stirred.
Incidentally, the let-the-man-order rule does not apply in Kirland, Indiana, unless you’re satisfied drinking Rock and Rye.
“No, you pick,” said Reed.
“But—”
“I want to get to know you better,” Reed said. “The real you.”
Oooh. He wants to get to know me better. The real me.
Then, for just a second, I had a flash of Josh back in that Italian restaurant, asking me to pick the wine until I insisted that he pick. I wondered, is there some guidebook about girls that all these men are reading? Does it say, Rule 11: Always let the girl order the drinks, because that will make her think you are thoughtful and value her opinion? I shoved that cynical thought, not to mention Josh, out of my head. Reed was thoughtful. He did value my opinion.
“What do you drink back home?”
I suddenly was not entirely sure I wanted Reed to get to know the real me. “Nothing special,” I said, trying to dodge the bullet.
“C’mon,” Reed urged. “Order two of whatever you drink.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
So to Reed I said, “Okay.” And to the waitress I said, “Two Boilermakers.”
She did not know what a Boilermaker was. She was too young and hip and downtown. Before I could tell her, she ran to the bartender. Even though he was also young and hip and downtown, not to mention also clad in black, he did know what a Boilermaker was. In a minute the waitress was back with two shots of whiskey and two beers.
“You’re kidding,” Reed said when he saw the drinks.
“You said you were sure.” Before he could say anything else, I picked up the shot glass and tossed back the whiskey like I was some fifty-year-old Slovak steelworker. Then I slapped the little glass back onto the table. Bang.
I believe that Reed is overall a fairly smart man. But he is a man, which means that somewhere not very deep inside him he is really a boy. So of course you know what he did: He picked up the shot glass and slammed the shot down just like I had done.
Only I didn’t spend the next five minutes coughing and crying, and he did.
I felt kind of bad. Which is not to say I didn’t see the funny side of it, too. I did. Still, I patted him on the back and wiped his eyes with the napkin. Which was, you guessed it, black.
Reed skipped his beer, even though I told him it would ease the coughing. I finished mine even before he stopped coughing.
The Boilermaker incident turned out to be a pretty good
ice-breaker. We were able to relax and not be at all self-conscious, so we just had fun. Reed did not mention the Republican National Convention once. Although he was starting in on Dartmouth when, fortunately, the food showed up. We shared this three-tiered seafood thing that was almost too good to believe. And for dessert I had a raspberry beer float, which was not just ice cream and raspberries, but had ginger beer and alcohol in it too, I think. Odd as it may sound, if you ever have the chance to get one of those, get two.
I have to admit, I was feeling . . . well, cozy. The setting was lovely and dark and velvety, there were a bazillion candles glowing and very seductive electronic music was pulsing in the background. Not to mention that Reed was still a very good-looking man who now seemed very clearly interested in me as a woman. On top of that, he was about to make me into a big TV star. So I was a little dismayed when I realized I had a severe case of déjà vu, as if I had done all this before. Only I had. With Josh. Handsome man. Perfect dinner, perfect setting, drinks . . .
No no no! Reed most certainly was not Josh. Reed was not going to stick me with the check. He was not going to ruin our evening. He was going to seize this romantic opportunity.
I was extremely disappointed when he asked, “Can we talk a little business?”
“Business?”
“Just a little,” he said. “Get it out of the way. Then we can get on to”—and then he blushed—“other things.” At which my disappointment vanished.
He said we would start with two appearances a week on Michael Smith’s program. Assuming the response was what they expected, they’d gradually ramp it up to every day.
“If they like me, you mean.” I will be honest with you: I was fishing for compliments.
“Of course they’ll like you,” Reed said. “Trust me.”
“But they might not.”
“They will.”
“What if they don’t?” It is hard to stop asking when a smart, sophisticated, good-looking man is stroking your ego so obligingly.
“They will,” he said again. But he could see that I was looking for more. “They will. I’m sure. And even if they don’t . . .” He smiled. “Even if they don’t,” he said, “I promise you, no matter what, we won’t kick you out of the hotel and throw away your clothes.”
We both laughed. So there, Josh Thomas. From now on, I am sticking with the un-Josh. To underscore my decision, I gave Reed what I hoped was my very best come-hither look.
He got the check, and as we stood up to go, he took my hand in his.
He was focusing on the hotel door.
Okay, so maybe my come-hither look wasn’t obvious enough. I turned toward the elevator and gave him a little tug in that direction.
He looked at me.
I smiled at him. Not just any old smile. And, to be sure I was being quite clear, I winked.
He jumped.
44
I mean he literally jumped. About a foot straight up into the air. Which is not exactly the reaction I was looking for.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. Because now he was grabbing rather frantically at his belt.
“Hotline,” he said. I am not kidding. Like he thought he was Batman or something.
He found his cell phone. I guess he had the vibrate setting turned up too high. Anyway he flipped the phone open and listened. “Uh-huh,” he said. Looking quite grim, I might add. “Uh-huh.” Looking grimmer. “Uh-huh.” From his expression, I was sure somebody had died. “Okay,” Reed said, and snapped the phone shut. He looked at me. At the hotel elevator. Back at me. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I have to leave. There’s a crisis.”
“What kind of crisis?” If I’m going to get turned down, I think I’m entitled to know why.
“A news crisis,” he said.
“What kind of news crisis?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said.
Well. Fine. Be that way.
I should not be so harsh. I’m sure there could be a legitimate news crisis he genuinely could not tell me about. Something involving confidential sources and leaks and grand juries and such. Still and all, I did not much like the idea that some news crisis was more important than, well, you know. I was beginning to think that Reed was not only a victim of poor timing, but also poor judgment.
I bet screenwriters don’t get news crisis phone calls on the Hotline. I bet Josh would’ve just let the stupid phone ring, and not even answered it.
I wished I would just make up my mind.
“Oh,” said Reed, “I forgot to tell you. You have a meeting tomorrow afternoon at the studio.” Great. Now he was all business. “I won’t be able to be there, but my associate producer will take good care of you. A car will pick you up at two. Unless you want somebody to come by earlier and drive you around. You know, show you the sights.”
It sounded like the kind of offer he would make to anybody, as opposed to somebody who had just extended a potentially intimate invitation. Even if the invitation was more implicit than explicit. But if he was going to treat me like just anybody, he was putting at very serious risk his chances of ever getting to the explicit part.
If Reed could instantly turn distant and businesslike, well, so could I. “No thank you,” I said. “I’ll just walk around by myself. Do some shopping.”
“Good idea,” Reed said. “Buy American.” Then he gave me a little hug. A producer hug. Not a boyfriend hug. He turned, walked through the revolving door, and was gone.
I went back to my room, got out of the Prada outfit, hung it up carefully, and crawled between those lovely sheets. All alone.
I will say this: Notwithstanding my nap, I was so tired that I fell asleep instantly. Which meant I did not have any time to lie there and stew about Reed and his stupid Hotline crisis.
When I woke up, it was ten A.M. And do you know? I did not care about what happened with Reed. Because it hit me: I was in New York City, with nothing to do until two o’clock.
Correction: I did not have nothing to do. If you will forgive the double negative. There were two very important things that I absolutely, positively had to do. First I had to eat. Because I was starved. Then I had to shop.
I have already told you my views about clothes and power. So my corollary theory about shopping will come as no surprise. If clothes confer power and liberty, then by definition, the act of getting clothes—shopping—is empowering and liberating. You have probably always enjoyed shopping, but don’t you feel even better, now that you know it’s good for you?
I looked at the closet, at all the outfits Celestine gave me, to pick clothes for shopping. You cannot wear just anything to go shopping. Especially not to go shopping in New York.
I felt a sudden pang because Grandma’s dress was not there in the closet. It should have been. Without it, I never would have gotten to Paris, much less New York.
Although I did write my “A Dangerous Dress” paper all by myself, so I kind of earned Paris. And I actually found the perfect dress, even if evil slut Nathalie had torn it up. And until fashion moron George showed up, I was doing awfully well at Armani Collezioni. And Grandma’s dress had nothing to do with me landing my Fox News job, either. So maybe I was selling myself short, and giving the dress too much credit for determining my destiny.
I looked at the closet again. I still got a pang, but it was less sharp this time. And it was pretty much gone once I put on the cute Moschino outfit that Celestine gave me. The pants are just white and cropped, almost plain. But the top is this bright red thing with odd fringes, and there are big numbers printed on it, white numbers on the front and black on the back. It pretty much cried out European designer. Which is why I picked that outfit. I suspected I would never wear it around Reed, or anyone else from Fox News, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.
I wondered if the Fox News people could be a little flexible on the whole buy-American thing. It hadn’t stopped Reed from buying a tie at Armani Collezioni, had it? Although perhaps the policy did not apply outside the territor
ial boundaries of the United States. I decided I wouldn’t ask until after Reed had made me a big star. I would have more bargaining power then.
I turned on my cell phone and took it with me, just like Reed asked me to. In case they needed to reach me. Although I hoped they would not need to reach me in the middle of shopping. Then I had breakfast and headed for Soho, which the concierge with the funky haircut told me was shopping paradise.
The streets were crammed with cars. The sidewalks and crosswalks were jammed with pedestrians. Horns honked. People shouted. Sirens wailed. And despite the chaos I had the strangest realization: I wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated. I felt like the city was extending me a big loud invitation to join a club—a club to which, somehow, I already belonged.
Given where I come from, these were very peculiar things for me to be thinking and feeling. I wondered if Grandma had felt just as comfortable in Paris. Maybe it was in my blood. Maybe this was my true inheritance from her—an even greater gift than her dress had been.
I crossed impossibly crowded Canal Street into Soho. The concierge was right: I just couldn’t believe the stores. Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson and Cynthia Rowley. And that was just ABC. I bet if I had time I could come up with amazing places for the whole alphabet. Everyone who was anyone. Places with fun, different, dramatic, silly, great clothes. Places that positively radiated the power of shopping.
Surrounded by fabulous shops with famous names, I decided that, oddly enough, I was not looking for a famous name. Needless to say, I wanted someplace fabulous—but a place I never heard of. Nobody had ever heard of me, and in a few days I would be Fox’s fresh new American voice. I hoped to find a boutique I had never heard of, that would be my own personal fresh new American shopping mecca.
I looked around, and there she was: Debra Moorefield. I’d never heard of her. For all I knew, this was her one and only store. But the clothes looked awfully sweet. So Debra it was.
