by Mary Carter
I am just about to break up this little “trash Melanie” party when I notice Trina’s purse sitting on the console table beside me.
Chapter 27
I don’t steal anything from her purse. Shame on you if that’s what you’re thinking. But I do take a little peek, and her cell phone is right on top. It is turned on and I simply it off. Then I slip into the hall and make a phone call of my own before making my entrance.
“Trina,” I say a few minutes later, bursting in the room. “You’re here.”
Trina looks at me like the Grinch caught stuffing the tree up the chimney. “Of course, I’m here, Melanie,” she says like she’s just swallowed a snake. “We were starting to wonder where you were.”
“I wasn’t,” Greg says coming over and planting a kiss on my cheek. As usual he smells incredible. He’s wearing dark navy pants and a light blue shirt that really brings out his blue gray eyes. I try not to stare at him. “You look incredible,” he says, openly staring at me. I beam, and it takes all the maturity I have not to stick my tongue out at Trina. “What would you like to drink?”
“Surprise me,” I say, holding up my portfolio. “I have reason to celebrate.”
“Are those your clocks?” Greg asks, excitedly flipping Trina a small glance. She looks away. “Kim’s been trying to reach you on your cell phone,” I say, turning to Trina. “In fact you’re the reason I’m late.” Greg, who is halfway to the kitchen, stops to listen. Josh Hannigan enters from the opposite side of the room. “I guess your manager has been trying to reach you all evening,” I continue. “Something about a last minute photo shoot. I guess the model they had hired has food poisoning and can’t make it—”
“But I have my cell phone with me, Melanie,” Trina says. “No one has called. Greg, did you hear my phone ring?”
Greg shakes his head.
“All I know is that Kim called me in a panic saying that your manager has started calling her. Maybe your phone is turned off.”
“My phone is not turned off,” Trina huffs. “I’ll show you.” She marches into the hallway and grabs her Prada purse. There is a moment of silence as she pulls her cell phone out and stares at it.
“Oh,” she says. “Did you touch my phone?” she asks Josh.
“Why on earth would I touch your phone, darling?” he says with a trace of annoyance.
She bites her lip and turns the phone back on. “I’ll check the call log,” she says. We all wait while she frantically pushes buttons on the phone. “My manger hasn’t called,” she says. “Just one unknown caller.”
“Maybe that’s him,” Greg suggests.
“Her,” Trina corrects. “And this came in hours ago.” She tosses her phone back in her purse. “Besides, Melanie—why would that make you half an hour late? I warned you not to blow this. Josh Hannigan is a very busy man. It’s not polite—” She is interrupted by her cell phone playing “Fur Elise.” She gives me a dirty look before answering. She knows this is my fault somehow but just can’t quite put it together for the jury. I smile and catch Greg watching me like a hawk. I turn back to eavesdrop on Trina’s call. “Hello? Hi Kim. You’re kidding. Yes she did—but—but I don’t have any calls from—no, no, I don’t want you to do it. If they asked for me, they asked for me. I’m sure they won’t mind if I leave. Okay. I’m going to call for a town car—call me in ten with the address, okay?”
Trina snaps her cell phone shut and rushes up to Josh. “You can handle this alone, right? It seems there’s a fashion show—not an audition, Melanie—and one of the runway models has a huge zit—not food poisoning, Melanie—this makes much more sense. My manager wouldn’t even bother calling me—it’s the director of the fashion show. Anyhow, I’d better run—it’s the easiest money, and sometimes they let you keep the outfit too. I’m sure you can check out Melanie’s portfolio without me.” And just like that, the Wicked Witch of the West Side is off. I send a quick prayer of gratitude to the Saint of Friends Who Lie For You. Kim Minx had definitely won immunity.
Greg brings me a dirty martini. “Are you hungry?” he says, standing inches away from me. “I’m good in the kitchen,” he adds when I don’t answer right away.
“I’m sure you are,” I flirt. “But I’m too nervous to eat.” The funny thing is—I’m telling the truth. A part of me is dying to see what Josh Hannigan thinks of my clocks. I have to admit, I’m pretty proud of what I had come up with. If I’m chosen for the opening, I can figure out a way to make the actual clocks, can’t I? I could certainly come up with something. Maybe my days of temping are over. Maybe all the lies I’ve told are going to come to fruition! I’ll be an overnight success. Ray and Trina will be devastated by my talent, and Ray will grovel, he’ll literally beg me to come back to him. I’ll say no, of course, but that won’t stop me from relishing a little groveling.
“I can’t wait to see your work,” Greg says. “If they’re half as beautiful—” He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Josh plops himself down on Greg’s soft leather sofa and claps his hands like a bossy seal.
“Let’s get started!” he commands.
Now that Trina is gone he’s all business. I glance at Greg to see if he was saying what I thought he was saying just a moment ago. Was he calling me beautiful? Either I had misunderstood or Josh had broken the spell, for Greg is now seated in a matching leather chair, no longer even looking at me. I sit down next to Josh and gingerly hand him my portfolio.
The silence that follows while he turns the pages of my portfolio is excruciating. Greg and I lock eyes, and he motions for me to breathe. I empty the martini and hold it up. Greg suppresses a laugh and whisks my empty glass into the kitchen. Twenty seconds later I am holding a new one. He is definitely going to be my last-person sex. Maybe even tonight. Josh is going through my portfolio a second time. I take this as a good sign, but if he doesn’t say something soon I am going to bust. I cross and uncross my legs. I breathe. I take another sip of my martini. If I wasn’t mistaken, this one is a little stronger, and I ponder the possibility that Greg is trying to get me drunk. I sneak another peek at him. He is watching Josh with the same intensity that I was. Finally, Josh Hannigan closes the portfolio and sets it on his knees.
“Melanie,” he says after a dramatic pause, “is this truly your best work?”
His tone is that of a teacher speaking to a naughty student. I can see the proverbial red pen hanging above my work waiting to scratch it to pieces with its bloodlike ink. I am suddenly, inexplicably hurt and defensive of my made-up work.
“I picked out my favorite pieces for you, Mr. Hannigan,” I say politely.
“I don’t begrudge your pieces might have an audience,” Hannigan says. “But my gallery certainly isn’t the place for them.”
To my horror, I feel tears forming in my eyes. I bite my lip and nod.
“Maybe you can suggest another forum,” Greg says softly to Josh Hannigan. I detect a warning in Greg’s voice—he doesn’t want Josh to hurt my feelings, and this makes me want to cry even more. “Perhaps—Kmart?” Hannigan says.
I leap to my feet.
“Kmart?” I cry. “You must be joking.”
Josh stands as well. “I wish I was,” he says. “Your pieces are amateur at best—at worst they are a commercial hoax—something you’d find at Kmart for the kids to take back to their dorms. Frankly, I’m shocked you would waste my time with this dribble. You are no artist, my dear. Unless of course you add the word con.”
I stand there like a mute fish—mouth open, fins fluttering, eyes tearing.
“You’ve no right to talk to her like that,” Greg says. “Art is subjective.”
Josh hands Greg my portfolio. “It is indeed, Mr. Parks. And judging from your works of art—you and I share the same taste. Why don’t you tell me what you think of her work.”
I grab my portfolio from Greg just in case he’s tempted to look at it and hug it to my chest. I couldn’t take any more criticism at the moment.
“What’s th
e matter? You don’t want his opinion?” Josh badgers me. “Artists must have thick skin if they’re to survive.”
“Even if her work was not my taste,” Greg interrupts, “I would never speak down to her the way you just did. Quite frankly, I’d rather have a hundred of her worst pieces of art than one of your best. Now do you need me to hold open the door for you or can you manage to squeeze your big head out all by yourself?”
“How about another martini?” Greg asks the minute Josh leaves. He bounds toward the kitchen before I can even answer. It’s strange. Josh Hannigan was right. I am a con artist. I even conned myself. I almost believed I was really a clockmaker. Why else am I so hurt? I’m pathological—there are no clocks and I am no artist! I wanted Josh Hannigan to see something behind my Photoshop clocks; I wanted him to see my soul. I wanted somebody to finally validate that I had something special to give. I wanted someone to tell me I’m not just taking up space in this crazy world, this rotating planet, this insane island of Manhattan. I wanted to be someone.
My whole life I’ve felt five steps behind the ones who’ve “made it.” Sometimes I think I’d rather be like my college roommate, Jo Ella, who was perfectly content to look pretty, paint her toenails, and read fashion magazines. She didn’t sweat about what she wanted to “be” when she grew up. She didn’t have little pinpricks of anxiety that she wasn’t doing enough with her life—she didn’t keep checklists—there was no “to do” list. She didn’t continuously start another diet, another life improvement plan, another self-help book, tape, or hypnosis program. And the bitch of it is, she seemed perfectly content. And me? I’m controlled by fear.
Fear. And it’s not fear of failure—it’s fear of happiness. I don’t think I’d know what to do with it if I had it. It’s not that I’m a walking rain cloud either—I’m just moody. Introspective, impulsive, adventurous—intense. How can I be all of these things and not be an artist? Sometimes I’m extremely positive. But happy? Happy as in—content? Just the thought of it makes me nervous. This is why I need something—like bad boys like Ray or clocks or a good clean lift to carry me through the dark periods. I just need enough to make it to the next day and the next and the next. Until. Until I’m no longer here. I’ll be in the big out there where I imagine everyone will be able to see how incredible I am without requiring proof. My life has been like a perpetual drivers ed course and I still can’t parallel park.
Not that I’m too sure what the afterlife is like. Maybe it’s just like earth, in which case I’d better start doing something with my life. I can’t believe I’m thinking about all this crap. I haven’t indulged in this type of introspection since—well, since my “stint in the psyche ward.” Do you see how long it’s taking Greg to make my drink?
“I made this one a little stronger,” he says, finally entering the room and handing it to me. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” And then he gives me one of those earth-shattering smiles. God, this man is good looking. And funny. And successful. And bright. And he has good taste in furnishings. He’s everything I’m not. Which is why this is never going to work out. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have last-person sex. And I can’t think of a better night than tonight. He sits next to me on the couch and we toast. He smells so good all the time, and before I can censor myself I blurt out, “What is that cologne you wear?”
For a moment, he’s taken aback. I rewind my comment in my mind and realize it sounded less like a come-on and more like an interrogation. “I love it,” I say quickly. “You always smell so good.” He’s turning a little bit red now and hasn’t moved back toward me. I’m an idiot. “Sorry,” I say. “I have a thing about smells.” I have a thing about smells? Who says that? This is why I’m a twenty-nine-year-old grocery clerk. I’m an idiot. “Good martini,” I say, changing the subject. Greg puts his drink down on the coffee table (shiny bamboo), leans back on the couch, and turns toward me. I realize I’ve never seen him like this: relaxed, unprofessional. “You should put that on a coaster,” I say. “It’s a beautiful table.”
“Thank you. You’re right I probably should, but I’m too stubborn.”
“Too stubborn to use a coaster?”
“Exactly,” he says.
I don’t know what to say so I take another sip of the martini. This really is strong. He’s definitely trying to get me tipsy. “Okay, I give,” I say. “What do you have against coasters?”
“They remind me of my childhood,” he says playfully.
“Beaten by coasters, were you?” I say happily. The martini is giving me a warm, floaty feeling. Greg laughs, which makes me float even higher. I would tell him he has a nice laugh, but I don’t want another compliment fiasco so I keep my mouth shut.
“Not quite,” he says, still chuckling. “But my mother was a neat freak. Plastic on the couches, china we couldn’t use—she even wrapped our toothbrushes in Saran Wrap.”
“You’re kidding,” I giggle.
“I’m not,” he says. Then, “I love your laugh.”
I feel my face flush, and a warm feeling buzzes over me like a swarm of bees. “Thanks,” I say. I love yours too, I add silently. “So you won’t use coasters because you’re still rebelling against your mother?”
“Exactly. I still have dreams where I rip off all the plastic in the house. And of course we were never allowed to have a dog. God forbid. I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Why don’t you get one now?”
“I’ve thought about it, but I’m hardly ever here.” We stop talking and stare at each other. I want to jump him right here and now but the Saint of Women Who Chase Men and the Men Who Flee From Them stops me and instead I get up to examine a large black-and-white photo on the wall. It is a night scene of Times Square in the 1940s. The picture was taken from above, looking down on boxy black cars, men in long coats walking hand in hand with women in pillbox hats, and taxis lined up in front of the theatres waiting for the Saturday night show to let out. At least I imagine it to be Saturday night, for the photograph gives off the sense of life and excitement you can only get from a Saturday night in Manhattan.
“Like it?” Greg asks, coming up behind me.
“I do,” I say, my voice catching in my throat. He is so close that if I back up even an inch, we will be touching. I can feel my breath quicken, and every nerve in my body is on edge with anticipation.
“Do you see the dog in the corner?” Greg asks.
“Where?”
His arm shoots around my waist as he points to a corner of the photo. Sure enough, sitting on the steps of a deli is a dog lost in the shadows.
“See,” Greg says. “I have a dog after all.”
“That’s great,” I say.
He pulls his hand back, trailing it gently across my hip as he does. “It is, isn’t it?” he asks. His voice is softer, slower and his breath is labored. I give up all hesitation and step back and into him. His arms immediately circle my waist, and I rest my arms on top of his. We stand there like this looking at long-ago New York from the New York of now. And finally (finally), he kisses my neck. I lean my head back to give him full access. I love how strong his hands are and how firm his lips feel as they trace along my neck. There’s nothing worse than mushy lips. But his are perfect. I spin around and we lean into the kiss at the same time. While we kiss he maneuvers me to the right of the photograph and gently pushes me against the wall.
He puts his hands on either side of me and pulls back. We hold eye contact. I had forgotten how intimate it could be to look into someone eyes like this. We make out like our life depends on it. Then he takes my hand and leads me away from the wall. Last-person sex here I come! So you can imagine my surprise when he takes me to the front door. For a split second I think he wants to do it in the hallway, and I’m more than willing to oblige. But instead of pushing me on the floor and pouncing on me, he opens the front door.
“You’re showing me out?” I squeak.
“I have to,” Greg says. “I’m sorry.”
&nbs
p; Oh Saint of Getting Me All Hot and Bothered and Showing Me the Door, you must be joking. What is this? A cold feeling prickles over me like ice being poured into a hot bath. “I need my purse and—portfolio,” I say, stumbling back to the living room.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. Maybe Trina put him up to this. Maybe this was one big joke. Let’s humiliate Melanie’s clocks and withhold last-person sex. That will show her. I grab my purse and portfolio and will my hands not to shake. I focus on the front door and walk toward it with my head held up, trying not to wobble, begging the Saint of Tears to keep mine at bay at least until I’m past the doorman and well into the streets.
“Thanks for the martinis,” I say in a fake bright tone. Just open the door, just open the door. I reach for it, but Greg’s hand shoots out and shuts it.
“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”
I can’t. I was doing so well not crying—but the dam wasn’t going to hold if I had to look at him.
“Look,” I say, staring at his door. “You made a mistake. It happens. Let’s just forget all about it.”
“Is that what you think? That mid-kiss I changed my mind about you and now I’m throwing you out?”
“Well isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” I say.
He turns me around to face him and gives me a little kiss on the nose. I’m not a fucking Eskimo, I want to say but don’t.
“I’m sorry to cut us off like that,” he says. “But it’s a good thing. If you stay—we’re going to wind up in bed.”
Well of course—that’s usually where last-person sex takes place. Although there are a number of spots in this great pad that we could use. It doesn’t have to be the bedroom. I still didn’t understand the problem.
“And?” I say, looking at his lips.
He groans and kisses me again. The doorknob is jammed into the small of my back, but I don’t care. “I want to take it slow with you,” he says, pulling back again.
“Then make love to me slowly,” I tease. He bites my neck in response. “Fast is good too,” I groan.
