by Jill Kargman
“Isn’t that redundant? Is there anything other than rural Lichtenstein?” he mused. “I never heard of some booming urban metropolis over there.”
“Unclear. But I know what you’re saying. Maybe it’s all fancy poodle obedience schools all over the whole country.”
“That Sherry Von person sounds like a bitch, pardon my language,” he apologized.
“Please, I curse twenty-four/seven now. I never used to, but Kiki’s mouth has been a bad influence on me! I hope you don’t think that’s un-ladylike or something. Since you’re Mister Heartland and all.”
“You’re very feminine.”
“I am trying to edit out the bad words. I always used to ream Kiki, who has a vocabulary that would rival Webster’s, and yet she uses fuck to qualify everything. It’s contagious, I’m afraid.”
“No censoring needed.”
“So, I know you said you’re going away, but maybe when you’re back we can go check out some galleries,” I ventured. Maybe he would teach me how to appreciate some of the “emerging artists” whose prices fetched more than old masters, which I found somehow incomprehensible.
“Um, sure. . . .” He didn’t sound so sure. Maybe he didn’t want to spend time in galleries when he had to do that every day.
“Or if that’s too close to work and feels like a pain, we can do something else—”
“No, no, that’s fine. I would love that.”
We made a plan for a few days later.
“Can’t wait,” he said. “Feel better.”
“Thanks, Elliot.”
“Okay, girl across the park. Sleep well.”
“You, too.”
36
“Marriage is a great institution, but only if you like being institutionalized.”
Now that it was officially countdown to Christmas, and twinkling lights, pine, and red and white tinsel had exploded all over New York, the big hot topic of discussion on the Upper East Side was on everyone’s lips. It was the only thing anyone was talking about the next day at school. No, not politics, or the latest Hollywood gossip scandal.
“So Holly, where are you guys going for vacation?” Mary Grassweather probed.
Every year, the instant the first garland was hung in the first window on Madison, the Inquisition began. Everyone was afire with shared itineraries, comparing Aman resorts, or headed straight from school to Scandinavian Ski Shop.
“Um, not sure yet,” I responded to Mary. “Tim and I agreed to split up the time, but I’m not sure how it’s going to work just yet.”
Oooh, too tricky an answer.
“Well, we’re going to Nairobi to an elephant orphanage!” exclaimed Emilia d’Angelo. “It’s called the Arnold Slutsky-Rosenblatt Trust and each of the kids will select a baby elephant to adopt and they send you pictures and stuff, isn’t that so exciting?”
“Oh, fabulous!” cooed Mary. “But I bet it’s not eighty-nine cents a day like the kids on TV!”
“Yeah, try three thousand a month! But these poooor elephants are endangered!” Emilia said, making an exaggerated sad face like a little kid or a drama tragedy mask. “So,” she said brightening suddenly. “Mary, where are you off to?”
“We’re off to Lyford. Sooo looking forward to getting the hell out of here!” she said it as if New York were some seething lava pit she needed to be airlifted from. “The NetJets people have been great. We’ve changed the date so many times, but finally said, let’s just pull the kids from school a few days early and get down there!”
This I never understood, either. My parents always saw the school calendar as a locked-in grid that would dictate our lives, not some malleable list they could chuck on a whim depending on urges for sand and surf. I never missed school days unless I was on fire with fever. But Miles’s class always thinned out to a skeleton crew in the days before a vacation, as kids jetted off to resorts around the globe for a head start on fun in the sun.
If the exotic locales to be visited by Miles’s class alone were drawn in red lines on a map, it would certainly encircle the earth, with the most concentration in the Caribbean islands and Western ski resorts.
It bugged me how everyone I knew would simply ask where we were going versus if we were going anywhere; it was simply assumed everyone went jetting off in all directions. I’d love to just respond “Abu Dhabi” or something random just for a reaction. And yes, this was a group of the privileged Wall Street offspring, so yes, most people did travel, but some didn’t. There were kids who couldn’t afford to globe-trot or parents who couldn’t take off work. Either way, I knew I’d be having the first Christmas alone in my life. My dad was going to stop by for dinner on his way to his annual trip with his golf buddies, but Miles would be off with Tim, and on New Year’s I would be watching Dick Clark solo with a bag of microwave popcorn. But deep down, I was starting to feel weirdly independent versus lonely. I wasn’t sure whether it was Kiki’s influence, my new pattern of trying to go out more, or just alone time to think and pull myself together, but I was slowly changing into someone less stressed. I didn’t carry around as much nervous energy as I had; I was bolder. Stronger, more daring—like when the CIA recruits spies who are not tethered to anyone; not that I’d be sleeping with a sheik to get international secrets—I just felt free and empowered with possibility. A new year always psychologically felt like a corner was being turned instead of just another day in a chain of days but with a new numeral; it felt like a cliff and a fresh jump across that chasm of 11:59, where I’d land on another cliff and start my next run. I just hoped I could stay strong for the holiday season. But something inside me was gearing up for that moment, as not only would the gleaming megawatt ball be dropping, but hopefully my inhibitions as well.
37
“I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.”
—Groucho Marx
I pressed play on my machine. BEEP! “Hi, Holly, it’s Tristin Archer from Randy Simmons’s office at Celestial Records Publicity; how are ya? So, I’m calling because Randy read the Candygram release you e-mailed her and she loves loves loves your writing. So Randy would love love love to schedule a time for you to come in for an interview. Call me back!” This chick was probably the friendliest girl around. Or she was on major uppers. I scrambled to get a pen to write the number down. Celestial was a cool label and I was very intrigued. They had just been half bought by Warner Music. The Greene brothers, Sean and Noah, always seemed to sign the best bands, from new wave to hard rocker boys that were ubiquitous on MTV2 to star rappers, all minting money. Plus, their offices were a palatial renovated chocolate factory on the Lower East Side, and they had their own studios and hip interiors. It was establishment cool, but still up-and-coming, like Sub Pop records in Seattle circa 1990. And this position could meld my love of music and writing.
Two days later, heart pounding, I went down to the legendary offices, which had been designed by starchitects 4Team, design gurus who had done the hottest restaurants, galleries, and offices around. I knew of them not only because their work had been published and hailed in virtually every shelter mag, but also because Tim had interviewed them when he redid Talbott Capital (he went with Gehry instead). Music played in the waiting room, and everyone who walked by looked interesting and original.
“She’ll be right with you,” cooed the stylish receptionist-slash-vixen as I plopped down on the Corbusier couch and perused the newest Billboard. A few moments later, out walked Randy in head-to-toe black. Her black glasses, black T-shirt, and black leggings were punctuated only by a red stripe down the sides and (yikes) shoe-boots with spikes on them.
I followed her into a massive loftlike corner office as she spoke about the artists on the label. She was a fast talker and clearly took zero bullshit from anyone, but I liked her. As we talked about the industry, I could tell she was definitely going to be a ballbuster.
“So. Holly. Let me be straight with you. I like you. I have always liked Kiki, so I read your piece and really li
ked your writing and your pizzazz. But you worry me.” As Shaggy from Scooby Doo would say: Zoinks. What’s wrong with me? Before I could ask why, she steamrollered on.
“I have a fear that you are creative and want to be creative, and while this position has its creative sides, including writing, what I really need is a salesperson. You would be selling the bands to the press. You have to be convincing. You need to be brash. Basically, you need to be like Kiki. You need to be in-your-face. You seem very poised and uptown to me. But what you need to be is a pain in the ass. You need to be a never-say-die, rubber-cockroach publicist, and I’m not sure you want to be that.”
I sat silent for a minute because I knew she had totally called my bluff—I didn’t want to be a rubber cockroach. But I wanted to work, and knew I could definitely sell. I also knew from the moment I walked into the stunning offices that I felt exhilarated. That this was a place I could go to every day, meet new people, and begin a new chapter. This was, in essence, the perfect day job.
“I can sell. Trust me, I may seem polite, but I can be a hustler,” I said.
“Really?” she said, leaning in, incredulously. I felt like Sandy in Grease when Rizzo says to the gals, “She’s too pure to be pink.”
Clearly I needed to convince her I could hawk the acts to the editors or she’d send me packing.
“I can sell anything. I’ve always been great at convincing people of things. I think it’s because I’m a very enthusiastic person,” I offered with a big smile that was met with a frown. “Sometimes enthusiasm can be very contagious.”
“Or very annoying, depending on how it’s served up,” she retorted.
I looked at my lap. Uh-oh. I shouldn’t have worn my charm bracelet. It definitely looked too mom-ish and un-edgy, with letters spelling M-I-L-E-S dangling from my wrist. Randy looked at me, squinting her eyes, and reached into an Andy Warhol-signed Campbell soup can filled with writing utensils. She took out a single yellow number-two pencil and placed it in front of me at the edge of her desk.
“Okay, Holly. Let’s give you a shot,” she said, leaning back in her swivel chair, and crossing her arms. “Sell me this pencil.”
I looked at it for a second and tried to come up with sassy copy: Mellow yellow! Rock it old school! Forget your snazzy pens, retro is in! A crossword puzzler’s best friend! S.A.T. tool extraordinaire! But instead of my quirky little sales pitch, something came over me, something that had to do, I think, with not giving a shit. I wanted this job, yes, but I had already hit rock bottom and was strong enough to cope if I didn’t get it. So I did take a page out of Kiki’s book. Ripped it out, more accurately. I finally summoned my newfound indie streak and used my impulse to get a bit of backbone.
I picked up the pencil and held it in my hands.
And then I snapped it in half, to Randy’s shock. Then I placed the two pieces gently back on her desk.
“Now you need a new pencil.”
Silent pause.
Then, blue ribbon moment: As the corners of Randy’s mouth slowly turned up, I knew I had scored like Dustin Hoffman’s aggressive audition in Tootsie. Her hand extended across the desk and I shook it.
I’d start two weeks from Monday.
38
“My wife was a great housekeeper. When we divorced, she kept the house.”
Kiki shrieked with joy that I had managed to finagle the job, and howled over my bold move with the pencil. “You are balls out, girl,” she said, practically beaming with pride as my coach to “have more fuck-you,” as she called it. “Okay, so I have some news, too . . . ,” she teased.
“Tell!”
We were getting coffees in Via Quadronno, and she gestured to a nearby table that was suddenly freed up by two ladies who lunch.
“Sit down,” commanded Kiki. I obeyed, curiosity mounting. She took a deep breath and looked at me, eyes sparkling. “Lyle asked me to go to Paris with him!”
“No . . .”
“OUI!” she squealed with glee.
I was elated. I couldn’t believe Kiki was falling so hard, but sure enough she was giggling like a nervous schoolgirl.
“Holl, we were in bed last night and he goes, ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I don’t want to be without you,’ and he asked me to come! And we’re going to Miami this weekend for ArtBasel.”
“Oh, Elliot must be going to that—”
“Yeah, I think he is. Lyle said you guys have plans to go out soon?”
“Yes, gallery-hopping. Wait, Kiki, I’m sooo excited for you! Traveling is major. But international traveling is even more major.”
“I know, bonding right? Having passports stamped together cements you as a couple. Crossing border equals crossing over into boyfriend/girlfriend territory. I didn’t even want a boyfriend! But Holly . . . I think I’m in love with Lyle.”
“LOVE? Love love?”
“Yes,” she said, soberly. “He’s brilliant, and kind, and funny. And goddamn it, what can I say? He worships me!”
“As well he should!”
And what I experienced was the mark of true friendship: butterflies in my stomach on Kiki’s behalf. Her giddiness was my giddiness. Even when I selfishly realized that I couldn’t hang with her over the holidays, as she would be jetting off into a glistening dreamy wonderland of twinkling lights and Parisian love in the air, I was ecstatic.
39
“Scientists have discovered a food that lowers sex drive by ninety percent. It’s called wedding cake.”
Two days later, I met Elliot for a day of walking around town. We wandered into nearly twenty galleries, and his knowledge of the artists was beyond extensive, although we did the quickie Reader’s Digest version of gallery-hopping with quick whizzes through each. In a few he exchanged speedy greetings with a couple of gallerists, but for the most part it didn’t seem like he either knew many of them or wanted to strike up conversation. I wasn’t sure why he seemed so shy but I thought perhaps he didn’t want any of these professional colleagues to think this could possibly be a date. Not that it was.
One show featured a young artist named Atlas Jones, whose vibrant canvases of giant eyes started to make me feel very paranoid.
“I mean, who could live with these?” I asked. “I couldn’t walk naked in front of them; it’s like being stared at.”
“I see your point. I do think he’s very original, though,” he mused.
“His name just sounds like an artist,” I said.
“Really? I thought porn star,” said Elliot.
“Atlas Jones, yeah.” True. “Atlas is kind of a cool name. You don’t hear it often.”
“No, it’s way too much pressure,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s like naming your kid Hercules or something. With my schnook name, I could only go uphill—”
“Oh, stop it. I love the name Elliot,” I countered.
“. . . but with Hercules it’s all about disappointing people.”
He had a point. The kids at school might have a teasing field day.
“Yeah, you’re right. Plus, it would be too weird if he was a toothpick.”
“Hey! Don’t knock toothpicks,” he chided, gesturing to his own lanky frame.
“Trust me, I’m not. I love tall and thin.”
“You do?”
“Sure.”
It was true; Tim’s robust build and six-pack abs were truly not my “type” pre-marriage—all my previous boyfriends had had that thin, nerdy build that I found sexier than some buff hunk. In fact, my high school best friend, Lisa, and I always made up phrases about our love for thinner, more approachable guys, like Toothpick or Take It Elsewhere, Nerd or Need Not Apply, Dork or Don’t Bother.
I had to smile looking at Elliot in that way—he definitely fit the mold of my pre-Tim type. As I looked at his green eyes, I remembered that rare feature was on my laundry list of dream characteristics when I was a teenager, dreaming of Prince Charming.
The last gallery we entered contained not one, not two, but twenty
paintings of clowns. As I drew breath to gasp in horror, Elliot said, “I hate clowns. Who could look at those every day?”
“I know!” I said, laughing. “Everyone makes fun of me because I’m freaked out by clowns, but I would be so paranoid it would jump down from the canvas and strangle me in my sleep!”
“Let’s get out of here.”
After our legs got tired and we warmed up with hot chocolates, we headed uptown in a taxi, and as soon as he confidently said, “Hi, we’re making two stops,” I felt foolish for even entertaining the thought that anything would go down. The problem was this: Now I liked him. A lot. As we were driving, he got a call on his cell and immediately said he’d call back when he got home. He was so polite and never talked on the phone in front of me; his charm and manners weren’t canned ye olde chivalry-style, with dramatic coats thrown on puddles, just heartfelt and sincere like someone who could be a true friend. It was the tiniest gestures that made me feel somehow, not to sound so anti-feminist 1950s, but, taken care of. A light hand on the small of my back. Asking if I was too chilly or tired. A breezy comment about my outfit, how I looked “very Parisian.” All of them made me see the quiet magic of a male companion—platonic or nay; it was nice to get some positive attention and have that companionship where you can feel feminine and spend time at least imagining what it would be like to be in a couple again.
That night Miles and I decided we would go out for dinner, since he was leaving soon for Aspen with Tim and I would be putting my nose to the grindstone at my new job soon enough and wanted to celebrate. We settled on Swifty’s, which was slightly too nice for a child, but he was an only child and accustomed to rising to the occasion and being a mini-adult. In his brown corduroy jacket and navy pants and coat, out we walked, arm in arm into the cold. It was a delightful but bittersweet time, as I knew very soon he would be gone for a whole ten days. Tim’s jet would be flying him, along with Sherry Von and Hal, to Aspen, where he’d be in Powder Pandas ski school, along with countless other hedgie offspring, dropped off by moms who hit not the slopes, but the designer boutiques, clad in Dennis Basso sable coats and toting Chanel bags. In Colorado. It was like New York and L.A. but with snow. I could just see Sherry Von holding court in the Caribou Club, where we ate dinner several nights between party-hopping at various mansions of the financial elite, complete with troughs of caviar you could do a swan dive into, insane artwork, and high-tech security systems that rivaled Quantico. I had been going to the same annual Christmas parties for ten years strong, and every year the hosts would give everyone a tour of that year’s additions—the new office complete with five flat-screen computers, à la Swordfish, that looked like a Dr. Evil-style lair from which they could launch a nuclear assault. There were military de-accessioned night-vision suits for paintball, state-of-the-art snowmobiles manufactured and custom ordered from the Ukraine, and custom skis with the latest in experimental design and laser-etched monograms.
