A Dangerous Dress

by Julia Holden

  As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I had made the right decision. The boutique was filled with clothes that, oh, say, Audrey Hepburn would wear. Perfect lovely classic never-out-of-style clothes, but with a little magic. Things I could wear to look perfect on the arm of my dashing handsome slightly conservative Fox News producer when he escorted me to timeless but slightly stuffy four-star restaurants . . . and that I could also wear to look perfect while clubbing at three A.M. in neighborhoods that Reed probably didn’t even know existed. I just knew the clothes would look good on me. Right away I spotted the most darling little silky lacy black dress—in my size, which you may remember is a six, and since I was in New York I no longer cared what that translated to in centimeters, and neither should you.

  The salesperson showed me to a dressing room. Before I pulled the curtain closed, she said, “I love your outfit.” Maybe it was just good salesmanship. Salesgirlship. Saleswomanship. Whatever. You know, flatter the customer. On the other hand, the Moschino outfit was pretty marvelous, so she was probably just showing me she had good taste. Which meant that if she liked the way I looked in the darling little black dress, I would have to buy it.

  Incidentally, if you find a perfect little black dress, buy it. You can never have too many. Although if you are reading this, you probably already know that.

  I slipped out of the Moschino and into the Debra Moorefield, zipped up the dress, flipped back my hair, and looked in the mirror. Not a dangerous dress on the scale of Grandma’s, to be sure, but dangerous enough. And I thought, Oh yes. You are coming home with me.

  When I emerged from the dressing room, the salesperson said, “Let’s see.” She gave me a long up-and-down look. Finally she said, “That is perfect on you.” Which was not, in my view, just sales talk. It really did look pretty perfect on me. “Shall I wrap it up?” she asked.

  I felt totally invigorated. And empowered. I deserved to be a star. I deserved to be in New York. I deserved to be shopping. I deserved this dress.

  I looked at the price. Only $358. And I do mean only. With all due respect to the Dolces and Gabannas of the world, if this dress was theirs, I could not have touched it for three times the price. Or four, or more. And let me tell you, this dress showed every penny’s worth, which is to say that it concealed me in just the right places, and showed me in just the right places. It was simultaneously modest and dangerous, which is no mean feat. I thought Reed would love it. Depending, that is, on where it was made.

  I had not yet had the nerve to look at the tag to see the country of origin. I really was going to have to talk to Fox News about this buy-American thing.

  Whether it had been sewn in the USA or China, I was about to say “Yes, I’ll take it.” Until I remembered I had no room on my credit card. And I still had not resolved my stupid Bank of America Visa ATM card situation. In Paris, Celestine bought everything. Which does not make me a freeloader. The deal was that as soon as I got paid at Armani Collezioni, I was going to cover both our expenses until we were even. Only then I got fired. You know the rest.

  So I told the salesperson I left my wallet at the hotel. I was not about to tell her all my credit cards were frozen. I don’t think she necessarily believed me. For a split second, I thought about assuring her it was no problem, she could trust me, because after all I was about to be a big TV star on Fox News. I was confident.

  But not that confident. All I could do was slink out of the store and hope the perfect little black dress would still be there once I cleared up my Visa problem, or got paid, whichever came first.

  45

  That didn’t stop me from window-shopping some more. But it was torture looking at all those fabulous stores without being able to buy anything, and I was getting hungry. It was past noon, so I figured I’d better head back to the hotel, where everything was on Fox News’s tab. Especially since I couldn’t buy lunch anywhere else. I had nothing in my wallet, because Celestine and I had no reason to get dollars, and I came back to America in a huge hurry and had forgotten the whole spending-money issue. I guess I could have asked Reed for a little money out of petty cash, but I hadn’t thought of that either.

  The address for the Tribeca Grand Hotel is Two Avenue of the Americas, so I figured the fastest way to walk was straight down Sixth Avenue, which is what real New Yorkers call the Avenue of the Americas. I headed south, which is downtown. At the first cross street, I had to stop and wait for the walk signal. While I was waiting, I looked at the street sign. King Street.

  Why did King Street sound familiar?

  The light changed, and I started to walk. I was halfway across the street when it hit me, stopping me dead in my tracks. Fortunately it is a small street and there were no cars coming.

  Here is why it sounded familiar. On the cover of Josh’s screenplay for The Importance of Beating Ernest, there was an address. On King Street. In New York, NY.

  I was on Josh’s street.

  What if I saw him? I mean, really, I might. I looked west. King Street did not look like a very long street. I couldn’t remember what number the address was, but I figured you could probably walk the length of it in a few minutes. If I did, I would definitely pass Josh’s place. But what if he just happened to step out of his doorway as I passed by? What would I do?

  What would I do if he came up to me and said he was sorry? What if he told me he had been impulsive and stupid? What if he said that ever since then, he had not been able to sleep because he felt so guilty? What if he told me he loved me, and begged me to let him spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to me? What if—

  My cell phone rang.

  Maybe it was Reed. Maybe his crisis was over. Maybe he was calling to tell me he was sorry he had passed up my invitation in favor of a stupid news crisis. Maybe he wanted to come see me right away. Maybe I felt guilty that I had even been thinking about Josh. I answered the phone.

  “We’ve moved your meeting up to two,” said a woman’s voice I did not recognize. “Be downstairs at one thirty.” Before I could say anything, she hung up. So I did not walk down Josh Thomas’s street. And I did not see him. And he did not say any of those things to me.

  For which I was very grateful to Reed. For saving me from Josh.

  Okay it was not Reed himself who called me. Because he was still off dealing with his news crisis. But clearly, whoever called me must have been somebody who worked for Reed. So, in essence, it was Reed who saved me. Just like he saved me when I got fired from Armani.

  On the other hand, Reed had not called to tell me I was more important to him than a news crisis. So no matter how grateful I was to him for saving me from Josh, I wasn’t one hundred percent thrilled either.

  It occurred to me that, given my recent prowess at screwing up relationships with men and landing in strange places without a dime to my name, I should have become a nun.

  Okay I am mostly kidding. Fundamentally I am not nun material. You know that and I know that. But if I was a nun I would not have to keep booting horrible Josh Thomas out of my head. And I would not have to keep struggling to decipher Reed James. On the surface Reed seemed uncomplicated enough, but the longer I knew him, the more inscrutable he became. Polo by Ralph Lauren and Fox News on the one hand. Armani and Johnny Depp on the other hand. How did it all fit together? And was he ever going to kiss me?

  I did not have time to figure any of this out now. I had a meeting to get to, which had just been moved up half an hour.

  I rushed back to the hotel, where I had a shrimp salad for lunch because it was the fastest thing the kitchen could make. Then I hurried up to my room. It was already past one. I brushed my teeth again and rinsed with mouthwash. I smiled in the mirror and checked to make sure I didn’t have any little pieces of lettuce stuck in unflattering places. I picked out the plainest, most American-looking clothes I had and went downstairs at one thirty. Sure enough, the Fox News Hummer was waiting to take me to the Fox News studios.

  I will say one thing about riding in a Humme
r: Sitting way up there, you get an extremely good view of the road. It didn’t take me long to notice that there are more taxicabs in New York than I’d ever seen anywhere, and they’re all yellow, so they resemble a swarm of giant bees weaving everywhere. I might have felt a little insecure if I had been in an ordinary car. But I felt fine. Because I was in a Hummer. Which you will recall is a product of Indiana.

  Just because the traffic did not scare me, though, that did not mean I was not scared. I will confess to you. I was. Scared, nervous, excited. After all, the Hummer was not taking me to any old place. It was taking me to Fox News.

  Where, I will remind you, I was about to become a star.

  46

  “I’m Bertie Thorn,” said Bertie Thorn.

  We were in a conference room at the Fox News complex near Times Square.

  Before I tell you about my meeting with Bertie Thorn, I should say a word about Times Square. Which I had only seen on Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Judging from those broadcasts, most of the twenty million people on hand appear to be drunk and obnoxious. So that is perhaps not the best representation of Times Square.

  I got a very different impression. I thought Times Square was like Disney World. Which is a place I have been, by the way.

  Here is what I mean: Even with all the thousands of pedestrians, who are real people going to real jobs in real office buildings, everything is very big, very bright, very colorful. Miles of neon. Huge billboards. Like the enormous one for Calvin Klein underwear. With the very nicely endowed male model. No boxers, thank you. Definitely briefs. Okay, Times Square isn’t exactly like Disney World. But you get the idea.

  The Fox News Hummer brought me straight to the door of the Fox News studios. Security had my name on their list. They gave me a little badge—a real plastic one with my name printed on it. They told me what floor and what conference room to go to. When I arrived, there was Bertie Thorn.

  “Bertie is short for Roberta,” said Bertie. “But never call me that.” It was a warning.

  “You’re the one who called me before,” I said. Because I recognized her voice.

  “That’s right.”

  Bertie Thorne was tall and skinny and pretty. And very severe. She wore a dark gray suit, with a jacket that buttoned all the way up to her neck, sleeves that went all the way to the ends of her thumbs, and pants that scraped the floor. Her shoes were flats. Her short dark hair was gelled flat to her scalp, and her eyes were lined with thick pencil and shadowed in dark brown. It was as if she had spent her whole life getting tired of people telling her how pretty she was, so now she tried as hard as she could to hide it.

  Bertie shook my hand. Ouch. You’d think she was trying to prove she could shake hands harder than a man. “I’m Reed’s associate producer,” she explained. “Reed can’t be here today.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “He told me.”

  “He did?”

  “At dinner,” I said.

  “Dinner?”

  “Last night.”

  “I see,” she said. “Just dinner?”

  I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. “Well, drinks too,” I said.

  “Then what?” she asked. Which I’m sorry, I thought was a rather personal question. Except that the way things had happened, I could answer it in a perfectly impersonal way.

  “Then he got a call. On the Hotline.”

  “He told you that?”

  “He did. He said he had a crisis.”

  “I see,” she said. “What kind of crisis?” Which struck me as an odd question, coming from Reed’s associate producer.

  “Don’t you know where he is?” I asked.

  She flinched. “I know exactly where he is. I’m just trying to determine what he told you. And whether he divulged anything he . . . shouldn’t have.”

  Humph. “He said he had a news crisis. And that he couldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “Well,” she said. “All right then.” And with that, she smiled as if I had just walked into the room. So I smiled back. “Perfect,” Bertie said. “Excellent. Let’s get you to wardrobe.”

  I perked up when she said wardrobe. Because that meant clothes. And you know how I feel about clothes.

  Now I’m afraid I must tell you that wardrobe was quite a let-down. Stop and think about what people on TV news programs wear.

  Most of the people you see on TV news are men. Which is fairly obnoxious. But if you just focus on what they wear, let’s face it, it’s all pretty dull, suit-and-tie stuff. If you can think of a TV anchor-man who wears Versace, let me know. Because I can’t.

  The women are—I’m sorry, ladies—just as dull. I’m not talking about the girl who does the traffic report on your early morning local news, who wears that tight sweater and is it cold in the studio, dear? I’m talking about the network news women. All, like, six of them. Boring. Even the morning shows. I am sorry, Diane Sawyer, I think you and Charlie Gibson are the best, but tell me you aren’t much more fashion forward at home. Of course you are.

  So I guess I should not have been totally surprised when Bertie and a wardrobe lady named Leila showed me into a dressing room filled with clothes that looked like they all came from Timberland and Lands’ End and the Gap. I guess my disappointment showed, because Leila said, “We want you to look natural.”

  “But this stuff is all so . . . Midwestern,” I said.

  “Where are you from?”

  Bertie answered the question for me. “The Midwest.”

  “Can’t I wear something just a teeny bit more exciting?”

  “Listen to me,” Bertie said. She put her hand on my shoulder like we were best friends. “Our audience wants a pretty girl from Middle America with a point of view.”

  “I have a point of view,” I said.

  “Exactly.” Then she took her hand off my shoulder. Which I appreciated, because I am not overly fond of being touched by hostile strangers.

  “You’ll look great,” Leila said. “Plus makeup and hair will do wonders tomorrow.”

  “Day after tomorrow,” Bertie said.

  “The schedule says tomorrow,” Leila said.

  “We’re pushing the schedule back a day,” Bertie said. “Reed has . . . a crisis.”

  “Ohhh,” said Leila.

  I was hoping they would say more about Reed and his crisis, but they didn’t. Instead we all turned our attention to the clothes. I tried on a bunch of stuff. You already know that I do not set any land speed records when it comes to picking an outfit. Sometimes having other people there makes it go faster. Like Celestine and I pick outfits about six times faster if we are both together. On the other hand, sometimes having other people there does not make it go faster.

  This was one of those times. It took two and a half hours to settle on three possibilities. Not exciting, but not awful either. Oh, and all made in the USA. Leila made sure to point that out.

  “Tomorrow, Reed will pick which of the three you’ll wear for your debut,” Bertie said.

  “Does that mean his crisis will be over by then?” I asked.

  “Well obviously,” Bertie said.

  I wondered what kind of news crisis lets you know in advance when it will be over.

  “What about the other two outfits?” Leila asked.

  “We’ll save those for future segments,” Bertie said. She looked at her watch. “Oops. Five o’clock. We don’t want to keep you too late. Reed feels bad about his crisis delaying your debut.”

  “He does?”

  “Of course he does. He’s a very thoughtful man,” she said, and I thought I saw a little color spring to her cheeks. “He wants you to go out and do something special tonight.”

  “He does?”

  “Of course he does. And he wants you to charge it to Fox News.”

  I hesitated. “You’re sure?”

  “Well of course I’m sure,” she said. This time her cheeks definitely got pink. “I know Reed better t
han anyone. After all, I’m his . . . associate producer.” Which somehow I was pretty sure wasn’t what she originally intended to say.

  “Your car is waiting,” Bertie said. “You’ve got a noon call tomorrow.”

  And with that, I was dismissed.

  47

  I did not hesitate a second longer. I ran for the Hummer. And as soon as I got back to the hotel, I ran straight to the concierge desk. It is not every day that somebody offers to treat you to the perfect night out in New York City. Absolutely for free. At least that never happened to me before. Given how long it takes me to pick an outfit, you can imagine how much time I typically need to plan a big night out. But I only had a couple of hours. I needed help. I needed Sasha.

  Sasha was the concierge on duty at the desk by the hotel elevator. She had inhumanly red hair and two nose rings. Both through the same nostril, not one on each side.

  I told her my situation. And she came up with the perfect idea. Only not immediately. Here are a few of the things she and I discussed, and the reasons we rejected them:10.A Broadway show in general, and in particular The Producers. (Too touristy in general, and in particular because Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick were not back in the cast.)

  9.A Mets game (too outer boroughs) or Yankees game (too out of town, and anyway too Steinbrenner).

  8.The New York City Ballet. (Too highbrow.)

  7.Bowling at Chelsea Piers. (Too lowbrow.)

  6.A taping of Letterman (too hip for the room) or Saturday Night Live (too Tuesday).

  5.A ride on the Staten Island Ferry. (Too cheap, too wet, and too Staten Island.)

  4.The observation deck of the Empire State Building. (Too An Affair to Remember, too Sleepless in Seattle, and, in my case, just too lonely.)

  3.Drag divas at Bar d’O. (Too West Village.)

  2.The Sex Pistols tribute band at CBGBs. (Too East Village.)

  “We’re getting close,” Sasha said. “What’s your favorite song?”