Opportunity Knocks

by Alison Sweeney

  “I just didn’t expect to see you here. I had no idea you were coming to New York.” I put a question in my voice, hoping to get him talking so I can get my mind to reboot.

  “I’m here for a couple of days, a big convention in New Jersey your dad wanted me to attend.” That sly grin that I used to think was so adorable now has me wondering if this is what a quarter-life crisis feels like. “He wanted me to check on you while I was out here. Make sure everything was ‘on the up-and-up.’” Sean lowers his voice and does air quotes for my dad.

  And suddenly it all seems so easy. I could just tell Sean everything. Well, not everything… just the relevant details. He could tell my dad for me. They would bring me home. Hire a lawyer, I don’t know. They would make it all go away.

  “Hey, honey… is everything okay? You look kind of pale.” Sean puts his hand on my forehead to feel my temperature, the way a mother would. And somehow that seals the deal. Even if I end up working at a pharmacy selling ninety-nine-cent lipstick, I’m not going home to be treated like a little girl again.

  “I’m fine, Sean. It’s just been a crazy morning.” He nods as if waiting to hear more. “You know, early hours. It’s brutal, really. But I love it!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster.

  “I’m so glad, Alex. Can I come see where you work?” he asks, looking back to where the security guards watch the elevator banks. I follow his gaze only to realize that several of the guards are still eyeing me suspiciously. Oh God. I’ve got to get out of here.

  “Actually, I’m on my way to do a personal makeup. I’m running a bit late,” I say apologetically. “If only I’d known you were coming!” I throw in passive-aggressively.

  “Of course. Of course.” Sean grabs me by both shoulders and hugs me again. “I’ll be around for a couple of days. When your schedule clears up, text me.” He looks me straight in the eye. “We really need to talk. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll text you.” I smile as I head to the doors, forcing myself not to check to see if the guards are still watching me. Luckily it’s an off time, so several cabs are winging their way up Broadway, and I flag one down before collapsing into the backseat.

  My mind is a mess as I scramble to exit the taxi and force myself past the swarm of tourists spilling out onto the busy street. Navigating pedestrian traffic has become second nature already, but my mind is occupied with desperately trying to figure out my next move. Finally I track down Emma—with no choice but to accept her offer to join her one-woman walking tour up Fifth Avenue.

  We’re already well into the walk before I work up the courage to tell Emma what happened. At first her outrage on my behalf gets us odd stares from the foreign tourists. But when the whole story comes out, she clams up. She’s judging me, I can tell. And now here we are, marching up Fifth Avenue, my getting fired existing silently between us. Emma is determined to ignore it, and I see nothing to do but to go along with it until she’s willing to talk about this situation with Hillary.

  “And here is the Empire State Building,” Emma announces proudly. Seeing it up close for the first time takes my breath away. The Empire State Building is so old and… distinguished. It reminds me of my grandfather somehow. I know immediately that I love this place and it makes me love the whole city even more for taking such good care of its elders. In LA everything competes to be the newest and the brightest. I love feeling the history here seep into my pores.

  I promise myself that I am going to survive this, and that I will go up to the top one day when I can enjoy the experience. But right now I have to focus on playing Frogger through the huge crowd of Japanese tourists in matching green shirts to keep up with Emma.

  Every time I go into a building here, I’m forcefully reminded that I’m not in LA anymore. The air-conditioning makes every building feel like a meat locker in contrast to the humid, sunny spring heat outside.

  “Listen to me, Em, you have to know I didn’t throw away my entire future just to gossip. I had no idea who this guy was.” I have to keep throwing it into the conversation. Because I know Emma; I know she grew up pretending nothing is wrong. Never confronting anything. And I can tell she doesn’t want to start now.

  At any other time I would be gawking at the incredible architecture, the way the different buildings are pushed up against each other, their competing styles meshed together to create one long city block. Emma speeds past a little café on the ground floor of a huge building, determinedly brushing past the quaint shops with ficus trees and little bistro chairs that create as much of a Parisian scene as a New Yorker can.

  And then I’m totally sidetracked. “What is this?”

  Emma’s finally stopped at the base of some stone steps leading up to a gorgeous building with three imposing arches demanding attention.

  “The New York Public Library.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” I whisper as we step inside, but then I’m back on track. “Emma, come on, you have to believe that I wouldn’t do something like this. Not on purpose.” The expanse of dark woodwork, the ornate ceilings, and the upstairs balcony all serve to echo my sotto voce pleas. “Wait… I recognize this. I’ve seen this in movies.” When I realize I know it from the original Ghostbusters movie, I can’t help but smile. But given her mood, I’m not going to be scoring any points with Emma by bringing up my eighties obsession now.

  “Oh, I’m sure. They film here all the time.” She is primly moving toward the study section.

  “Emma.” I put all my cards out on the table, not caring how many people are shushing me at this point. “I’m going to need your help to get out of this.” But Emma can’t take the pressure of all the evil eyes on us. She shoots me a silent dirty look across her favorite study table. But I don’t back down. She knows I will follow her around forever. Finally, she gives in to my Hillary wannabe death stare and marches back outside. But the second we’re through the turnstile door, she springs her counterattack.

  “Alex, you owe Hillary five million dollars. You violated your NDA.” An aggressive cabbie almost veers into me as we cross the street, grabbing our attention. I can’t keep up because it’s just ingrained in me to stop at crosswalks before I step off a curb. A born-and-raised New Yorker, Emma seems to have no such hesitation. I look both ways at the next intersection, even though it’s a one-way street, and now I’m rushing to catch up with Emma.

  “I know. And it’s a huge mistake. I know what I did was wrong. But I can fix this. I know I can. I just need your help.”

  She finally slows down on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral to look at me. “Alex. This is Hillary P. we’re talking about. If she found out that I was talking to you, I’d be fired, too.”

  “She never has to know.”

  “Do you know how small this town is?” she shouts at me. Obviously she does not mean the teeming crowd shoving past us on Fifth Avenue. “I mean TV. The business. She finds out everything.” Before I can even start to object, she gestures to me. “She found out about this.”

  “Emma, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Alex. I want to help you, I really do, but I can’t afford to lose my job.”

  “I don’t want that, either. But, come on, I can’t do this alone.”

  “Alex, I put my neck on the line for you to get this job. You should’ve kept your mouth shut!” She immediately regrets saying it, I can tell. But she doesn’t take it back. “Please, please don’t make this harder than it is.” She turns down Fifty-first Street and before I know it, she’s gone.

  Without anywhere to go, I see the trees of Central Park peacefully waving in the distance and decide I need a time-out. First, I have to return to the Palace Hotel to retrieve my wheelie. Like a lifelong New Yorker, I pretended to be a hotel guest to store my kit at the bell desk so Emma wouldn’t see it. It would be a distraction, seeing me pulling my makeup through the city, and I was afraid to call attention to the situation, in case she decided she had to just kick me out. I end up paying twenty bucks I can’t afford, bu
t at least I am now in possession of my makeup kit and comfortably sitting in the park on the first uninhabited bench I’ve found. The image of Sean jumps to the front of my mind. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t appealing. The idea of just giving up, turning this problem over to my parents. They’ve always been there for me. Bailing me out of one bad decision after another. This would eventually be just another funny story my dad would tell the cousins at Thanksgiving.

  But I didn’t come all the way to New York City to fail. I uprooted my life and moved thousands of miles across the country to succeed at the thing I truly love doing. That’s why I can’t let Hillary P. send me crawling back to my parents. I am not giving up.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After I regroup at Emma’s, grateful but not sure how long I’ll have access to her apartment, a quick Internet search has me on my next quest. A huge publishing building on Sixth Avenue, otherwise known as Avenue of the Americas, is home to Liz Daniels, managing editor for Identity magazine. I feel the massive old skyscrapers looking down on me in judgment. Trying to shake off my prevailing sense of doom, I try for a little pep talk as I handily manipulate my bulky makeup wheelie and an overnight bag I hope I won’t need through the heavy revolving glass doors at the entrance.

  When the security guard glances down at the clear plastic bag slung over my shoulder, revealing brushes, a dozen lipsticks, tissues, and a bulky supply of powder puffs, he waves me toward the elevators without a second thought. It’s clear I have the right gear to infiltrate the fashion capital—makeup. I take a few deep calming breaths, keeping my mind on the scam I’m trying to pull rather than the crowd of businesspeople and delivery guys all jammed in around me with boxes and briefcases. Most of the people are taller than me and I use my old trick, looking up at the ceiling rather than the close shoulders boxing me in. Thankfully the crowd thins out pretty quickly and I meet no resistance from the woman at the front desk when I get off the elevator, either. Life-sized posters of Identity covers are on every wall. Major celebrities from the last thirty years have graced their cover. It is definitely intimidating. It took me all twenty-three floors to come up with what I thought was the perfect story to get into Liz Daniels’s office. But the hungover-looking assistant saw my tools of the trade and directed me with no resistance to the editorial offices in the back. She made no move to escort me, which was probably good, because I knew this last line of defense wouldn’t be so easy.

  “I’m here to do Ms. Daniels’s makeup?” I announce to one of the busy-looking assistants in her front office. I try to sound bored, as if it doesn’t matter to me at all whether I get through those mahogany double doors or not.

  “Oh, sorry. You must have the wrong day. She doesn’t have any press today.” The harried-looking guy with an earpiece barely looks up at me before returning his attention to his computer screen. Now, back into his mouthpiece, he says, “Sorry, yes of course, she’s been waiting for Ms. Burch’s call. I’ll put you right through.”

  Thinking he’s off the phone now, and relieved to know at least Liz Daniels is in fact inside her office, I try again. “So, it’s really important that I see Ms. Daniels. Um, I’m not here to do her makeup.” Glancing up from nervously picking at a thread on my sweater, I realize he’s not even listening to my confession. He looks engrossed in something, but from my angle I can see he’s not working on his computer. “Hey. Excuse me.” I wave my hand in his line of sight. He scowls at me as he pulls one ear free of his headset. Gotcha.

  “What?” He smirks. “The magazine will be happy to pay your day rate if it was our mistake. Which I’m sure it wasn’t. Someone will call your agency and reschedule.”

  “Would Liz Daniels be happy to know you’re listening in on her conversations with moguls like Tory Burch?” It was a huge gamble, but it worked. And my morals apparently are taking a backseat to my survival.

  “Excuse me?” He snorts in disbelief and finally gives me his attention, pulling the whole headset off his head without knocking one blond strand out of his perfectly manicured ponytail.

  “You’re eavesdropping on your boss. You know that could get you in a lot of trouble. Did you even read the NDA you signed?” The irony in my tone is thick, but it passes over his frosted head.

  “Of course he did. Industry standard.” I hear the smoke-filled, throaty New York rasp behind me and whip around to face a woman who can only be the great Liz Daniels. She’s petite, which surprises me. I was sort of picturing Meryl Streep, I think, from The Devil Wears Prada, but that’s not this woman at all. Her deeply tanned, artificially unwrinkled skin can’t contend with the creases around her lips that give away a lifetime of smoking. “Who are you?” she asks, with an intrinsic authority that makes me want to tell her my whole pathetic sob story. But that’s not my plan.

  “I used to work for Hillary P. I want to talk to you about the story you’re doing on her.” I figure if I stick as close to the truth as possible, I might attract her interest.

  “Hillary?” she says slowly, and then continues to stand there in silence, sizing me up. I feel immediately uncomfortable in my casual A-line skirt and V-neck T-shirt. She is dressed in a fabulously snug black dress with a thin tortoiseshell patent leather belt at the waist, matching her tortoiseshell stilettos.

  “I’m intrigued. Five minutes.” She pivots with minimal movement and disappears back into her office. Obviously I don’t react quickly enough, because I hear her assistant mutter, “It’s only four and a half minutes now.” With only a tiny jump of surprise, I’m heading after her.

  Liz Daniels is standing at her windows, looking out over her cinematic view of the city. The sunlight emphasizes that she definitely doesn’t need anyone to tell her how to do her makeup. It’s carefully applied to seem natural and light.

  “Did Hillary send you to plead on her behalf?”

  “No. I’m here for me.” I’d better get that said right up front. “I want you to know what a slimeball Nick Slants is. I can’t imagine you would want to associate yourself or your magazine with him at all, let alone trust his voice to tell a story as scandalous as the one he’s claiming about Hillary.”

  “I’m going to stop you right there.” Liz Daniels steps around the back of her desk. “The exposé on Hillary P.’s outrageous behavior and the truth about her real personality is a huge story. I’m not going to give that up lightly. Nick Slants could be Hannibal Lecter and I’d still run the story.”

  “But… he’s—”

  “Look…” She hesitates, clearly trying to remember my name.

  “Alex. Cleary,” I offer.

  “Let me explain something to you, Alex. You have to understand this isn’t just about me running Slants’s story, right? I can’t not run the story. If I don’t, he’ll sell it somewhere else.” Immediately, I see that she’s right. “What’s your plan? To run all over town chasing down every major editor, begging them to ignore this gold?” She holds up a thick stack of papers. “Slants may be a slimeball, but he’s got a good reputation. The story is solid, sexy, and true. Hillary P. is about to fall off her self-made papier-mâché pedestal, and I personally think she deserves it. You can’t protect her from this.”

  I STORM OUT of the publishing building on fire, and proceed to march up Sixth Avenue, my anger so apparent that even the usual crowd of oblivious pedestrians are giving me a wide berth. As the city blocks give way to the paved walking paths of Central Park, my righteous anger collapses into self-pity, and pathetically, the tears begin to stream down my cheeks as I pass by kids feeding ducks and runners circling the reservoir. I just keep walking. When I’m all cried out and the ache in my feet has pinpointed to twin blisters on my heels, I spend money I shouldn’t on a cab to take me back to Times Square. I could have walked all over LA in my flip-flops, but in New York, that’s what I get for wearing nice ballet flats to impress Liz Daniels. Blisters. I look around me, hating the neon lights and huge billboards. I shoot dirty looks at everyone—the colorful selfie-taking tourists as well
as the bustling crowd of anonymous New Yorkers dressed in all black. As I scan the crowd, an ad with Hillary’s larger-than-life face flashes on the screen above me. There she is, cooking, laughing at a guest, and then a still photo of her smiling down at me. I wonder how long it took them to Photoshop the smugness out of her expression.

  But none of that matters now, does it? The self-pity routine isn’t something I’m proud of, but I can’t seem to help wallowing in it. Knowing those ads are on a loop, I propel myself east, away from the square, before she comes on again. New York is still so new to me, I can’t help but find comfort in one of the few places that feels familiar. The heavy wooden door at TJ’s opens with ease.

  There’s a bit of a crowd rooting for a baseball game at one end of the bar. Stupid Mets. By the time the bartender comes over I am determined to numb myself and my poor abused feet. “Two shots of tequila.”

  “Salt? Lime?” I shake my head. No judgment from the bartender; he doesn’t even glance around looking for my companion. See, that’s why you gotta love bartenders.

  When he returns with the goods, I throw back both shots before he’s had a chance to set out the seasoned popcorn the bar serves instead of old-school mixed nuts. No doubt my grimace is a dead giveaway that I don’t normally drink like this, but I don’t care. I’m considering this a special occasion.

  “Okay, how ’bout a Cadillac margarita,” I tell him. Not slurring my words yet. Excellent. “And some chips, por favor.”

  He smiles. “Don’t you usually get the guacamole with that?” I nod and feel embarrassingly emotional that he remembers my order. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and off he goes to see to it. It’s weird to sit here not doing anything. Usually I would automatically reach for my phone. Check Facebook, or play a word game. Not interested. I unabashedly watch the sports fans groaning and then cheering in unison as the game continues. I count the grains on the bar. I eat the chips dipped in what passes for guacamole this far north. I slurp the margarita.