by Anne Dayton
I roll my eyes. This is the problem with being a Christian. For every ten good deeds done in silence by humble, devoted followers, there is one yahoo who is publicly acting like an idiot and giving a bad name to all of us. I click on an article about time management strategies, hoping to calm down for a few moments before I begin work for the day, when my personal cell phone rings.
The screen flashes “Unknown” and I hesitate. I decide to answer. It’s probably just a wrong number.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Jane Williams?”
“Yes?” I say.
“Jane, this is Matt Sherwin….”
A pause hangs in the air. I process what these two words mean. Matt. Sherwin. Okay, Jane. Don’t panic.
“I’m from, uh, the charity?”
I recover. “Hello, Mr. Sherwin. Good to hear from you. Sorry about that.” Why is he calling me on this phone?
“Please call me Matt.”
We are both silent for a moment. What should I say?
“I’m so glad you called. Is there something I can help you with?” We publicists have to be good on our feet. That’s why they pay us.
“Huh? Oh yeah. I just wanted to say, like, how important Aid World is to me, and I hoped that we could schedule a time to meet together.”
Aid World? The charity he represents is called World Aid. We’ll have to work on that. “Sure. When’s good for you? I’d love to meet to discuss World Aid.”
“I’m only just now back from Bali, so, like, maybe sometime this weekend?”
Meet during the weekend? A tad inconvenient, but oh well. “Sure. Love to. Bali? What were you doing there?” This is a classic trick. Make some chitchat with the client so that he feels important to and loved by your company.
“Bali? Oh right, Bali. There was this convention of actors who are concerned about, um, some animal there. What’s it called? Do you know? It’s the endangered one?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, the animal I was trying to protect? In Bali? You know it?”
“No,” I answer slowly. “But isn’t that great of you? You really have a heart for—”
“The giant sea turtle…or was it a yak? I think the yaks were in Tibet though.”
“Hmm,” I say, trying to sound interested.
“Can’t be sure. Anyway, let’s meet this weekend at the pool at the Hotel Gansevoort.”
My eyes get wide. The rooftop pool at the Hotel Gansevoort is the celebrity hangout of the moment, replete with bone-thin women and ultra-tan men. “Su-sure. What time?”
“Let’s say Saturday at three, but I’ll have Nina call you to confirm.”
I jot down, Nina to confirm. Three at Gansevoort. Who is Nina? “Splendid. It will be great to meet you and pick your brain about what you want to do to help with the Strike Hunger Campaign.”
“Yep. Um, bye.”
I hear a dial tone. “Bye-bye,” I say to no one. I’ve talked to the occasional celebrity now and then, but never anyone on his level and never on my personal cell phone. How did he get the number? What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 5
I look around uncertainly. The sleek glass fence of the rooftop pool deck reflects the bright sunlight. Thin, tan bodies lounge on the stylish deck chairs, and small groups of perfectly toned socialites gather under the umbrellas. Beyond the glass, the Hudson River glistens, and the deep turquoise pool glows softly in the sun.
The Hotel Gansevoort is a boutique hotel in the gritty-chic Meatpacking District. Celebrities love to come to New York, and specifically the Meatpacking District, to get away from the paparazzi in Los Angeles that surround even tiny cafés, waiting for just a glimpse of someone famous. And the Hotel Gansevoort is this year’s beehive for the moneyed and famous. Upon seeing the forty-five-foot rooftop pool, I realize that the entire hotel is rather beside the point. The hotel exists to hold this pool high above the hoi polloi. The pool is the scene. This season, anyway.
I scan the area again. I don’t see him. Surely I would recognize Matt Sherwin, right? Every woman in America knows what he looks like. He must not be here yet. I walk slowly to an available lounger on the far side of the deck. I feel out of place in my dark jeans and heels. A few people look up at me as I walk by but, quickly recognizing that I am not famous, look away. I sit down on the edge of my chair and take it all in.
It’s one of those stiflingly hot days when summer feels like punishment, but despite the heat, the pool is almost entirely empty. Just one couple sits on the low steps, chatting quietly. Everybody else is just here to see and be seen. A skeletal blond girl sips something cool and clear through a straw under an umbrella, looking around vacantly. Next to her is a pretty auburn-haired friend. They look kind of familiar, especially the redhead. I rack my brain for a name. The redhead glances up and sees me staring at her, and I quickly look away.
Where is Matt? I should have known better than to show up on time for a celebrity. Maybe I should roll up my jeans and dip my feet in the pool. I lean forward in my chair and begin to roll up my pants, looking up every few seconds to make sure he hasn’t arrived. No luck. I start on my other pants leg, looking around.
I stand up and walk toward the edge of the pool. I stick my toes in, then crouch down to sit on the edge. I swirl my feet around in the water. The sound of swishing water is soothing in the moist, silent air.
I don’t hear the door open, but I notice every head swivels when a large, perfectly muscled man walks out holding a glass. I look quickly. Oh my gosh. It’s him. Two girls to my right lean toward each other and whisper. I take a deep breath. Be cool, Jane.
Matt strides confidently to an open lounge chair, gives a quick wave to the two twittering girls, and sits down. His broad tan shoulders contrast with the white towel on his chair, and his gray swim trunks hug his lean hips. He looks just as good in person as he does onscreen. No, better. I watch as he leans back in his chair, slides his sunglasses down over his eyes, and puts his arms behind his head.
I stand up and pull my pants legs down, slide my shoes back on, remind myself to act confident, and walk toward him. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a woman snapping a photo on her digital camera, trying to be discreet, and I realize that everyone on the roof deck is watching me right now. Matt doesn’t seem to notice me coming toward him, and when I get closer, I notice his eyes are closed.
He wasn’t even looking for me?
“Excuse me?”
“Uh?” Matt mutters, opening his eyes lazily.
“Hi, I’m Jane Williams,” I say, thrusting my hand out. “I’m the publicist for World Aid.”
He stares at me confused. “World Aid?”
“Yes, World Aid. For the Strike Hunger Campaign? Your personal assistant, Nina, confirmed that we were to meet here.” He looks at me, then looks up at the sky. He looks back at me and starts to smile. I can actually see the recognition dawning.
“Oh right, World Aid,” he says, smiling good-naturedly. “That’s right.” He takes my hand and shakes it. “Jen, you said?” He raises his sunglasses and looks me in the eye.
“Jane.”
He nods, taking a long sip of his drink. “Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the empty chair beside him.
“I brought the press kit Glassman and Company is putting together for the Strike Hunger Campaign, and I thought we could go over it and discuss what you’re going to be doing,” I say, pulling a folder out of my bag. “The first major event we’re going to be doing is a benefit party at the Pierre to help relief efforts in Guatemala, and—” I look up to notice Matt has closed his eyes and is making punching motions with his fist. “Are you okay?”
“Wha?” he says, opening his eyes in surprise. “Oh, I was striking hunger,” he laughs. “Maybe I’ll make that my campaign catchphrase.”
“‘Catchphrase?’” I repeat blankly.
“Yeah. My catchphrase.” He takes another gulp of his drink, finishing it. He shakes the glass, then looks in it, apparentl
y hoping to find more liquid inside. He looks up at me and smiles from ear to ear. My stomach drops for a moment. Looking at his dimples and white boxy teeth, I understand what makes some people stars. He has it. That star quality.
His phone rings, and even though we’re working, he answers it. After listening a while he says, “Yeah, dude. Cool. Okay, so St. Tropez. I’ll get Nina to set it up. Okay, bye.” He snaps his phone shut and smiles a big glitzy grin at me. “Sorry about that. I’m going to St. Tropez with some friends of mine. We’re coordinating. Well, I’m not really coordinating, Nina is, but you know.”
I nod. “Right. Your personal assistant. We spoke on the phone.”
“Yup. My right-hand lady. She handles the finer details of my life. She can find anything out. She’s the one who got me your phone number.”
I nod. She’s the puppet master. I see. “She sounds great.”
“She really is. She’s, like, the best…Do you want a drink, Jen?” he asks, placing his glass down on the ground. “We could go inside to the hotel bar and grab something cool.”
“Su—Sure,” I say. “A drink would be good. It’s hot out here.”
“All right,” he says, standing up slowly and stretching. He picks up the towel from his chair and turns toward the glass doors. Matt punches the air several times and says, “Strike hunger!” as we walk. I follow him across the pool deck, acutely aware that every eye is on us as we walk inside the hotel.
As we begin our hike to the pond, the girls whistle the work-camp theme song from The Bridge on the River Kwai, also known as “the cool whistle song from the ‘old’ Parent Trap.” We had them watch a couple of camping-themed movies before we left, as many of the Brownies have never been camping. In fact, some of their parents have never been camping before. These are Manhattan tykes born into typical New York families. Good people, but not exactly the rough-and-ready type. Luckily, both Raquel and I went with our families growing up, so we feel fairly confident we can build a fire at the very least.
The car ride up here was pretty stressful, with Raquel and me both driving SUVs borrowed from the girls’ families. Like most displays of wealth, buying a giant car in Manhattan makes little sense and is insanely popular, so we had no problem securing transportation, but we had some trouble getting all the girls and their luggage into the cars. Some of these kids could have been going on a three-week vacation to Paris for the amount of stuff they brought. Most of them showed up in what their parents thought might make good camping outfits. Kaitlin had on a pink Juicy Couture terry sweat suit with her name embroidered on the butt. Bella had on stylish camo capri pants, a matching camo head scarf, and a little white tank top with rhinestones. Haven had, of course, done her own makeup and was wearing dark shades, although Raquel had apparently forced her to wear a sensible outfit from Old Navy. Once we got everyone into the cars, though, and on the road, we had relatively little trouble getting to the campsite, despite several potty breaks and an endless game of MASH in the backseat that almost made me want to drive off the road. After we arrived we pitched tents, just as we had practiced, and loaded up the girls for the brief hike to Lount Pond to rent canoes and swim. They even seemed to be enjoying themselves on the way, which was as shocking to us as it was to them.
Now we’re at the pond, Raquel and I have just made arrangements for six two-seater canoes and a single canoe for me. I start passing out the life vests to the girls.
“I don’t know how to canoe,” Bella says and hands me back the life vest. “I’m just going to tan on the shore instead.” Bella is the heir to a considerable fortune from a high-end jewelry store in Manhattan. I’m sure she talks to her nanny this way all the time and gets away with it.
I bend over so that I’m eye level with her. “We’re a troop. We’re earning our Water Everywhere badge, and we’re doing it together.” I hand the vest back to Bella. “So suit up.”
Bella makes a snotty face but takes the life vest as if it’s crawling with maggots. I move on. I figure she’ll give in and actually put it on in a moment.
We all sit onshore while I demonstrate how to paddle a canoe and the girls and Raquel watch. Raquel has finally told Jack she is pregnant, and he is ecstatic. So ecstatic he has become a bit protective, so she promised Jack she’d be really careful this weekend. I break them into pairs, splitting up Haven and Kaitlin and Bella. I hold each canoe, put two girls in it, and send it off. One by one, as the girls get the hang of paddling, the canoes begin to make slow progress across the lake. I hop into my own canoe and paddle out to keep an eye on all my little ducklings. As I approach one of the canoes, I hear trouble brewing.
“Stop it, Abby! Stop it! You’re ruining everything!” Bella screams. Haven and Kaitlin seemed to be doing just fine across the lake with their respective partners. But perhaps pairing Bella with Abby wasn’t the best idea, even though I did it with the best of intentions. I always think that if the girls would just spend more time with Abby, they’d see how fun she is.
I paddle up to the troubled little canoe. “How is it going, guys?”
“I want a new partner,” Bella says, standing up in the canoe. “She doesn’t know how to paddle. She’s ruining it for me,” she says, pointing a finger at Abby. Bella looks a little bit like a modern-day Shirley Temple, with a headful of luxurious brown curls.
“Bella, you don’t speak to adults that way.”
Bella puts her hand on her hip. “I’m not kidding, Jane. I hate Abby.”
I look at poor Abby and see her wilt.
“Bella, we don’t ‘hate’ people in the Girl Scouts. Hate is a very ugly word. What if you heard someone else say they hated you? How would you feel?”
Bella doesn’t sit down, but studies my face. “Fine. I don’t hate her. May I have a new partner?”
I smile. “Absolutely not. There will be no changing of partners. And Bella, if you don’t straighten up and fly right, Miss Raquel and I are going to have to talk to your parents about your behavior.” Bella juts out her lower lip. “Being in Scouts is a privilege. If you don’t behave, you don’t get to be a part of our troop.” Bella looks at the other canoes, which are a good distance from them now. I pray it doesn’t occur to her that her mom is on the local council, which would technically make it a bit tricky to kick her out.
“And I really hope you choose to stay in the Scouts, Bella. We love having you,” I say, nodding confidently.
“Fine,” Bella finally says and plops back down, the canoe rocking wildly. She crosses her arms across her chest, and Abby begins to row them toward the other canoes. “Great work, Abby,” I say. “You have a perfect canoe stroke.”
Two hours later, we are all worn out. And even though two canoes have completely capsized and every single girl ended up jumping into the pond, they are having the time of their lives.
By nightfall, the girls are exhausted. We spend our time around the fire recounting the canoeing adventure. Finally, as many of their eyes are drooping, Haven gets everyone to sing “Unchained Melody,” which Raquel and I decide is close enough to a campfire song. When they’re done, we tell them all to go to bed, and they don’t fight us on it.
Raquel and I stay up a little later, make another s’more, and chat and laugh quietly, thankful to have a little time away from the girls. She’s sitting across from me on the picnic table, and I’m telling her how Haven screamed in the pond when a fish swam past her, and we’re both dying laughing.
“Jane,” she says, recovering, “I have to tell you something. I was going to wait until we got back but…” She shrugs.
“It’s okay. Tell me now. I’m sure it’s fine, no matter what.”
“I’ve already informed the Girl Scout Council. I’m retiring.”
“What?!” I screech, forgetting the sleeping girls. I lower my voice to a whisper. “You’re quitting?”
She looks at the table and picks at a splintered piece of wood. “Jane, I know I dragged you into this, and I want to come back to the troop someday, but I ju
st can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired. I’m going to pieces. Jack and I agreed that I need to cut back, or I’ll go crazy.”
I let this wash over me. She’s right. I know she is. Lately, she’s been looking stressed and worn out and she’s already got Haven and Olivia to deal with at home.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “I understand.” Okay, maybe that’s a stretch, but I am trying to understand. “We’ll figure out something.”
She looks up at me and smiles. “Thanks, Jane.” She rubs my shoulder a little. “I guess I’d feel better if I knew that you were going to take over the troop. I know that’s a lot to ask of a single girl, but they love you so much, and I don’t know what some of them would do without Scouts.”
I am shown to a table in the back at Spice Market, which looks like a fancy market in Marrakech or Bombay. Matt Sherwin is actually waiting for me, which is good, since he just told me an hour ago that he made dinner reservations so we could discuss the Strike Hunger kickoff party. I had to drop everything, including my date with Ty, to rush over here, since I wasn’t about to let this campaign slip through my fingers. All eyes turn and watch me as I approach the table, and out of the corner of my eye I see a flash go off as he stands up and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I blush. Just great. Today I discovered a weird spot on my face and didn’t have time to do much in the way of covering it before I came.
“Jane,” he says, pulling back and holding me by the shoulders. “It’s so good to see you.”
