by Lila Monroe
Richard’s classically handsome with these waspy, blond-haired, all-American good looks, and is the sweetest guy ever. He’s just … how can I put this? Not all that interesting? In fact, talking to him basically produces instant narcolepsy. I have no idea how Jess stays awake long enough to fuck him. She must recite the alphabet backwards or something.
“Oh my god,” she says, literally recoiling in horror. “NO! That is so gross! We would … I would … never!” she stammers, her face the color of a summer tomato.
“Never is a mighty long time, Sis,” I say with a wicked smile. “You should try it. What’s the worst that could happen—you might actually have a good time?”
“You’re completely depraved,” she shoots back, practically sputtering now. “Richard and I have a normal sex life,” she insists. “Normal. We would never do … any of that!”
See, what did I tell you? She’s definitely reciting the alphabet when he fucks her. Or counting ceiling tiles. Besides, I love making my sister squirm. It’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel: a direct hit every time.
“Relax,” I laugh. “You’re probably getting more action than me, even if it is on a schedule. Seven p.m. bath-time, seven-thirty p.m. bedtime stories,” I tease. “Eight to eight-fifteen, conjugal intimacy.”
“I hate you.” Jess scowls, but she’s laughing. “And I’ll have you know, it’s more like eight to eight-thirty.”
“Go Richard!” I cheer. “Who’d have thought the man had it in him?”
After we hang up, I’m still not tired, even though I have to be up early, so I grab the remote and switch on the TV. When Jess and I were kids, before our parents finally split, I was dumped in front of the television practically every day after school while they had it out in the kitchen. As a result, TCM kind of became my best friend, and I still find it comforting to disappear into the fantasy land on screen: a world where the women are strong and sassy and well-dressed, and the men really know how to treat a lady.
A little champagne with dinner? Yes, please.
For once, I’m in luck—An Affair to Remember is on, lighting up the screen in glorious Technicolor. As I watch Cary Grant tenderly push back Deborah Kerr’s flame-colored hair from her celestial face, I settle back into the cushions, pulling my feet underneath me. Now this is more like it. Waiting at the top of the Empire State Building for hours in the freezing cold for the woman you love, AND pining for her for years after she didn’t show up? That was romance.
Coming on a lady’s chest halfway through sex? Please.
I roll my eyes at the thought, draining my glass of wine and setting it down on the floor before curling up with my grandmother’s purple knitted afghan.
Cary Grant would never pull that shit.
Lizzie
When I walk into the museum the next morning, the sound of my boots clattering against the marble floors tells me I’m definitely hungover. Ouch. But even through my pounding headache, I still get the same kick as always, passing through the main hall with its gilded ceiling and ornate details. The Met is one of the greatest museums in the world, home to amazing works of art and culture, right on the edge of Central Park. I would come here all the time when I first moved to the city, just wandering the halls and taking in a new exhibition every other weekend. Todd always scoffed at it, saying I was obsessed with the past, but he never understood it wasn’t about the artifacts, but the stories they told. A thousand different cultures over hundreds of years, all asking the same questions about life and love and our place in the world. The day I landed my assistant curator position, it felt like my life was finally back on track—I was doing something just for me, after spending so long following his plan.
But today, I barely give the grand staircase a second glance. Nope, I’m in emergency mode: heading straight for the basement in search of my next fix.
O coffee machine, where art thou?
A whistle pierces straight through my skull. “Someone had fun last night.”
I groan. Our head of corporate PR, Bernard, is at the espresso machine, whipping up something perfect and espresso-adjacent. As usual, he’s impeccably tailored in Italian cashmere and slacks. I hate him for being sober right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t grovel to get what I need. “How much do you love me?” I say with a begging face.
He takes pity on me. “Enough to stop you making a fool of yourself. Here.”
“Angel.” I grab the tiny cup and gulp it down in one, then hold it out beseechingly.
He sighs. “Just one more, then I’m cutting you off. You’ve got a problem.”
“Sure,” I lie. “Whatever you say.”
He sets the machine on again, then checks his phone. “Shit, I’ve got a donor call. Remember, just one more.” He pauses. “And, umm, maybe do something about that.” He gestures vaguely at my whole body before he heads off.
I don’t blame him. My reflection in the silver espresso machine shows a pasty-faced ghoul staring back at me, so I reach into my purse for a tube of red lipstick, drawing it carefully across my lips. It’s a trick I learned when I moved to the city—red lipstick forgives all sins. You know, like on mornings after I’ve consumed half a bottle of wine while lamenting the death of romance.
I pour another espresso, knowing I’ll be back for more before noon, then navigate the narrow staircase that leads to my basement lair. The main museum itself is all airy hallways and massive exhibition rooms, but behind the scenes, it’s a different story: a warren-like maze of back rooms and storage closets. When they first showed me to my office, a low-ceilinged box in the corner of the basement, I thought it was some kind of joke. Hazing for the newbie on her first day. But now that I’ve settled in, I kind of like it. The ventilation pipes only rumble every half hour or so, and I decorated the walls with framed prints from classic Hollywood films like Bringing Up Baby and The Philadelphia Story, and my big bookcase is jammed with artifacts depicting love and romance through the ages. What can I say? I’m a nerd when it comes to ancient courtship rituals.
I’m just opening my laptop when Skye, my intern, comes bounding into the room. Well, “bounding” may be stretching it a bit since she’s wearing a pair of wedge sandals so high I’m surprised she doesn’t get a nosebleed just walking to work. With her long blond hair and curvy figure, she resembles a modern-day Veronica Lake, complete with that trademark swoosh of hair falling over one of her big green eyes.
I would hate her if she wasn’t so naïve. It’s hard to hold a grudge against a girl who thinks the guy who picked her up in a bar last night is a big-shot photographer who, like, is totally going to make her a star now that she’s done a private naked modeling shoot for him.
“Hey Skye,” I yawn. “Did you get any memos through? I need to catch up before the staff meeting in case Morgan picks on me again.”
“Never mind memos,” she announces breathlessly. “Did you hear the news? Jake Weston is back!”
Crap.
Jake Weston. The name alone is enough to make my skin prickle with irritation. Jake is a freelance “finder,” which means that he travels the world tracking down artifacts for museums, antique hounds, and private clients. If a basketball star wants a limited edition sneaker, Jake will find it. Front-row tickets to Hamilton on a moment’s notice? Jake’s your guy.
But the only interaction I’ve had with him so far has been over email, where “condescending” doesn’t even begin to cover it. His favorite phrase is “Well, actually …” For some reason, every time I open his missives, I picture him as some tight-ass, fifty-year-old guy with rapidly thinning hair.
Apparently, he’s been in Thailand recently, tracking down some rare statue of a golden monkey, and I guess he’s finally back. Good thing, too, because as much as he annoys me, he’s going to be indispensible in locating a few key pieces I need for the Golden Age of Hollywood exhibit I’ve finally managed to talk my boss into.
“Did you hear what I said?” Lizzie’s voice cuts through the thoughts in my hea
d, which is still pounding like crazy in spite of the coffee. “He’s back!”
“I’ll alert the media,” I say dryly, closing my laptop. I’m clearly not going to get anything done with Skye blabbing at me a hundred miles an hour.
“The staff meeting is scheduled to start in five minutes,” she says in a slightly disapproving tone, putting her hands on her hips and assuming the pose of a sexy-but-pissed-off third grade teacher. “Morgan asked me to make sure you were on your way since you were so late for last week’s meeting.”
“I was two minutes over!”
She shrugs. “Don’t shoot the messenger. God, I’m tired,” she yawns prettily, as I check email then grab my folder of notes for the meeting. “I worked at The Box till three last night. I’m trying out this new routine where I’m suspended from the ceiling and then lowered into a champagne glass filled with whipped cream. You would not believe how long it takes to get it all off,” she says with a sigh, as if cleaning dessert off her body every night was absolute torture.
Skye moonlights as a burlesque dancer three nights a week at a club downtown. In her initial interview, she told me that either she wants to someday be a) a curator like me or b) Dita Von Teese. Good thing for her that she has plenty of time to decide.
“God, what I wouldn’t give to be back in college,” she moans. “I could sleep ’til noon every day and still make it to all of my classes. Those were the days, you know?” she says, her voice tinged with nostalgia that might be poignant if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
“You only graduated last year, Skye,” I say, resisting the temptation to roll my eyes. “And can you run and grab me another cup of coffee before the meeting? I had a bit of a late night myself.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I find myself stifling another yawn. Dammit, why are those things always contagious?
“Oooooh!” she squeals, the sound like a jackhammer in my brain. “Your life is so glamorous! Did you have a hot date?”
Let’s see: I woke up still passed out on the couch in the clothes I’d worn the night before, which stank of stale, cheap beer in the worst way possible. Not exactly glamorous. Or hot, for that matter.
“Hot? No. A date? Yes,” I say, standing up and stretching my arms overhead and tugging at the big loopy bow at the neck of my blouse, which suddenly feels like it’s strangling me.
“Don’t worry,” Skye says, “you’ll totally meet someone. Probably when you least expect it. I mean, that’s how I met Spencer.” Her green eyes widen, and she moves closer, her expression serious as a government official’s while revealing state secrets.
“I’d sworn off all guys for at least a week, and then in walks Spencer. He sat in the front row the first night I danced at The Box and picked up my rhinestone thong when I dropped it off the front of the stage during my ‘Star Light, Star Bright’ number, you know? The one with the American flag? Well, we’ve been together ever since,” she says dreamily.
I blink at her uncomprehendingly. I’m not awake enough for this shit yet. Is ten a.m. too early for a drink? Because a little hair of the dog sounds pretty good right about now.
“That sounds . . really romantic, Skye,” I manage to choke out while gathering up my notes on the exhibition.
“Oh, it was,” she says, snapping back to reality. “Most guys these days don’t understand romance at all, but Spencer just gets it, you know? The other night, after I brought home Chinese food? He let me pick which fortune cookie I wanted before he did. He knows how much I love cookies!”
Oh my god, I think with a sigh. There’s no hope for today’s men. None at all.
Skye keeps chattering about Spencer’s amazing romantic gestures (he puts the toilet seat down! Sometimes!) and I zone her out as we head upstairs for the staff meeting. My boss, Morgan, is already standing at the head of the conference room table. We’re still a few minutes early, and the meeting hasn’t even begun, but her expression makes it clear that she’s five minutes past wanting to start.
“We’re finally all here,” she says, giving us a pointed look. “So let’s begin.”
I slide into a seat and realize too late Skye never got me that fourth cup of coffee. I’m going to have to face this one cold. And cold is the right word: our high priestess and overlord, Morgan, could put those ice queen femme fatales to shame. With her glossy dark hair, steely gaze, and eyebrows penciled into an expression of perpetual disapproval, she keeps our department running like a precision German automobile. From the 1940s.
“Bernard?” she demands sharply. “Updates?
We work through the upcoming calendar, touching on all the exhibits in progress. The Met prides itself on an eclectic program, and we have everything from Romanian folk art to a history of Black Pride protest photography. By the time she gets to my Hollywood show, I’m half asleep, but when I hear my name, I snap out of my hungover reverie and sit up straight.
“Lizzie is going to be making her debut as lead curator with a show this summer, which is, how should I say, a bit of a departure for the Met,” Morgan says with a condescending smirk.
I swallow hard. I’ve been pushing the museum forever to curate an exhibition on the “Golden Age of Hollywood,” and while the fact that Morgan finally said yes is a dream come true for me, I’m also painfully aware that curating the show is my biggest responsibility to date. I’m flying solo in the pilot’s seat for the first time, and I can’t fail if I ever want to move up the food chain at the museum.
“I can’t wait to hear what she’s planning,” Morgan continues, icy, “but let’s all congratulate her first on this milestone—which she hopefully won’t make a mess out of.”
Everyone giggles in a way that instantly makes me nervous. I stand up and smile to a round of polite applause, imagining lasers beaming down from above, burning through Morgan’s herringbone pantsuit.
“Thanks, Morgan, for your confidence in me,” I say, shooting her a smile so saccharine that I’m surprised she doesn’t immediately get diabetes.
“I’m really excited about this opportunity,” I continue. “I know Hollywood isn’t our usual focus, but I think that now more than ever, in this age of digital media, where dating apps have largely taken over how people, meet, match, and break up with one another, romance has somehow fallen by the wayside. What I’m aiming to do with the Hollywood exhibition is to explore the movies’ role in evolving romance narratives, showing how they interplay with more traditional courtship traditions, and built on them in the post-war era.”
I look around for feedback, but everyone is checking their phones or zoned out, waiting to get the meeting over with.
“And as you may have heard,” Morgan interrupts, “Jake Weston arrives this morning to begin working with Lizzie on acquisitions for the show.”
Just like that, everyone perks up. The room fills with titters and low chatter, the air buzzing like a beehive that’s just been kicked. I watch as two women who preside over the Egyptian wing bend their heads together, blushing and whispering furiously.
“So let’s all be sure and give him your full cooperation with whatever he may need,” Morgan continues. “Especially you, Lizzie.” She gives me a condescending look. “Jake brings a wealth of experience, and I’m sure you can learn from him.”
“Absolutely,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now, as I was saying, about the exhibition—”
“No need, we get the picture.” Morgan waves me down dismissively. “Next?”
I take a seat again, my blood already starting to boil. What is it with this Jake Weston guy, anyway? And why is he stealing my thunder for the most important moment of my career?
After the meeting, I head back to my office and get to work. There are a million tiny details to plan for any exhibit, and right now, I’m still in the sourcing phase—trying to figure out what artifacts and pieces I can actually get in time, and how they can work together so the exhibition is more than just stuff sitting in a room. That’s the real key to a great exhibit—everything needs to tell a
story or show a different side to the theme, so that people walk away from it actually having learned something they never knew before, or have their perceptions changed.
I kick off my shoes and start sending emails, trying to track down not only a film print of Casablanca that I might be able to borrow for the show, but Humphrey Bogart’s infamous trench coat and fedora to place in the exhibit. I’m deep in memorabilia dealers on the west coast when a sharp knock comes at my door.
“Wrong place,” I call, without looking up. Nobody knocks around here, which must mean the mail kid is lost again. “Deliveries are at the end of the hall.”
But the door swings open and a guy walks in. Not just any guy, but a drop-dead handsome man looking like he stepped out of a frame of a Bogart movie. He’s got the leading-man chiseled jaw, and he’s wearing a dark, slim-cut suit with the jacket stretching across his broad shoulders.
Hello, lover.
“Um, hi.” I blink. Did this guy take a wrong turn in 1952 and wind up in my office? And can we please close the portal and never send him back?
I flush, suddenly wishing I’d at least had time to take a shower this morning. Deodorant spray covers many evils, but right now, I’d give anything to be fresh and bright and wafting the gentle aroma of a summer night’s breeze. I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”
“I doubt it.” He strides into the room like he owns it. Suddenly he’s standing in front of my desk and holding out a hand for me to shake, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’m the one here to rescue your little exhibit.”
“Little exhibit?” I repeat, tensing. I guess he brought his mid-century chauvinism with him through the slipstreams of time. “It’s the major show of the summer season. And it doesn’t need rescuing, by you or anyone else. Who are you, anyway?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
He looks at me like I should know already. “I’m Jake Weston,” he says.
Wait, Jake?
Condescending Jake. “Well, actually” Jake. Bane-of-my-inbox-existence Jake?
