When she died last month, no one even blinked. It took a week or so for her mailbox to get clogged with junk mail and bills. When I saw the morning papers piled up at her door, I assumed she’d forgotten to stop the paper while she went to Florida. The coroner said she’d probably been dead a week by the time the doorman called the police. A whole week . . . very creepy.
Another good reason to subscribe to the daily New York Times.
I yawned, feeling much older than my thirty-one years. Old and all alone. What would my tombstone say?
HERE LIES MADISON
A HELL OF A LOT OF FUN
TOO BAD SHE NEVER FOUND THE RIGHT GUY
I didn’t want to end up like Mrs. Endicott. No, Spirits, no! I wanted a partner in life. Companionship. Someone to do the crosswords with over coffee on a lazy Sunday morning. Someone to notice if I should slip on the stairs and lose consciousness for a few days.
Was that too much to ask? Answer me, oh Spirits!
27
December 9, 2003
After hitting the snooze button half a dozen times, I woke up with a headache, dry throat and itchy, dry eyes. Had I spent the night squeezing fun out of a worm-shaped tequila bottle, I would have deserved this look, but after a night spent aiding a friend in need? It just wasn’t fair.
Of course, I was late for work, not only because I was dragging my ass, but also because I had to drag my ass over to Rockefeller Center to pick up Leo’s Prada boots, and, as luck would have it, the rink didn’t open until ten A.M. Why didn’t I think of that? As a publicist, I’m supposed to have an overall sense of the workings of public events and institutions. Blame it on sleep deprivation. Biding my time with a huge Starbuck’s venti, I waited for the rink to open, knowing Leo would never forgive me if I abandoned his boots.
Huddled at a corner table in the coffee shop, I hugged my cup and tried to relax. My boss wouldn’t stress over me being late, so why was I? Besides, my work was under control. The pace as a museum publicist was far different from the demands of catering to Diva Katherine at her hipster downtown gallery. Ever since I’d joined the Taft Museum a few years ago my skin had cleared up, my cholesterol had dropped, and I was able to sleep at night without being haunted by visions of the shrill, vicious Katherine Moone getting in my face over the fact that I’d served an art critic the wrong color wine. To be honest, there wasn’t a lot of day-to-day turmoil at the museum. Oh, there were deadlines and disappointments when grants were turned down, but the deadlines were generous and very often, when you didn’t get a grant, the foundations told you why your project was rejected and gave you a second chance to submit your proposal.
A do over. If only we could get second chances across the board. Instant replays in which you could reshoot the scene and fix the mistake. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here alone in a coffee shop waiting anxiously as the decade of my thirties loomed ominously.
Then again, was there any one guy I would “do over”? Who among my past boyfriends would have made a suitable spouse? A big fat zero, if you ask me.
By the time I got to the museum, I was shaking from caffeine and lack of sleep.
“We got your message,” Nicole said blandly as I strolled into our modest workspace. She occupied the desk beside mine, and though she had her moments of humor and kindness, I could always count on her to compete with me for the boss’s favor. “You’re just in time to brew another pot of coffee.”
“I feel like hell,” I said, dropping Leo’s boots under my desk.
My boss, Barry Fleck, poked his head out of his office, stroking his mustache. “Oh, dear. You look like hell,” he commented. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure, if you enjoy spending the night in the hospital.”
Barry gasped. “You poor thing! Tell us what happened.”
As I tossed my navy Harve Bernard trench coat over the coatrack and folded my Pendleton plaid scarf, I launched into my tale of woe, reminding myself to go easy on Barry. He was such a gentle soul; even the slightest conflict ruined his day. The man definitely belonged in the arts, though probably not in the PR/education department. Halfway through my story, Nicole wandered off to seek more caffeine, but Barry listened intently.
“Poor Leo,” he said. “Well, of course, you take whatever time you need to help patch him together. Everything on your desk can wait, can’t it?”
I turned to my desk and perused the folders of notes, the proofs for brochures, the calendar. Across December ninth was scrawled: Teddy Bears!
“Oh, sh-sugar.” I caught myself just in time; Barry didn’t care for cursing in the office. I had completely forgotten about the mountain of stuffed animals Leo and I were supposed to transport from FAO Schwarz to hospitals and day care centers. Today.
“What is it?” Barry asked. “Did we miss the printer’s deadline on the Book of Kings?” Barry was incessantly worried about missing deadlines, which meant paying late fees, which meant going over budget. Most times his paranoia was understandable. In these times when museum funding was shrinking, we had to stay on top of costs and deadlines for grant applications. But sometimes I imagined Barry going through the supply closet at night, counting reams of paper.
“No, no, that’s all covered,” I said. “It’s about a toy delivery. Leo was going to help me take care of it, but now that he’s out of commission, I don’t know how I’m going to pull it off.”
“What about Sugar?” Barry suggested. “She goes off the air at ten. Doesn’t she have the afternoon off?”
I shook my head. “Although the show broadcasts in the morning, they’re busy doing promos all afternoon. She told me I could use her SUV, but she’s not free until the evening, and most companies close down by five.”
Barry shook his head. “I’m sorry, Madison, but I just can’t spare another employee. I’d help you myself, but I’m responsible for docent training for the month of December.”
“I understand.” I hated making decisions while Barry was watching, especially since he was a guy who sweated the details. “Listen, Bar, I’ll work it out, okay?”
He placed a hand over my arm. “If it’s too much for you, remember, you can decline the gifts. This program has blossomed into something beyond the museum’s expectations and goals. You don’t have to do it, Madison.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I said, sitting at my desk so that Barry would go away.
“Okay, then,” he said. “Give Leo my best.”
“Will do.” I was already turned away, logging on to my computer to get the contact info for FAO Schwarz. I had to get in touch, but what would I tell them? Should I cancel, or postpone? And who could I wrangle to help me transport toys all over town during the next two weeks—the busiest weeks of the Christmas season?
The problem was, this toy drive was my brainchild, my creation. Last year, while we were brainstorming ways to make our museum appear more kid-friendly, I’d dreamed up this campaign to have private companies donate toys that tied in with our exhibits. A costume wholesaler donated two hundred sets of plastic armor to support our medieval masterpiece exhibit. A toy maker gave us hundreds of jewelry-making kits to tie in with our “Crowns of Kings and Queens” exhibit. When schoolgroups came to visit our museum, we would pass on the gifts, and they ended up taking home something that made the museum exhibit come alive.
Well, that was the theory. The thing was, our campaign—which rolled out during the Christmas season—was so successful that other companies contacted us with contributions for the 2003 Christmas season. Big contributions, like a thousand toy bears from FAO Schwarz, twenty cases of Legos from Toys “R” Us, a hundred bicycles from a bike shop in Queens. This year, we had been offered more toys than we could store here at the museum, and quite frankly, even the most creative public relations officer, such as myself, would have trouble finding parallels between stuffed bears and the pandas painted on a few vases in our Asian Art Gallery.
The general consensus had been to say “No, thanks,�
� to the toys we couldn’t store or tie in to our educational arts program.
But that had bothered me.
I mean, was I the only one who saw the opportunity to get fabulous Christmas gifts to children who would really appreciate them?
Apparently so. But when I’d told Barry that I was going to make the transport of these donations my personal mission, he didn’t stop me. The museum couldn’t pay for delivery or van rentals, but Barry would allow me to use my time to move the goods from the donors to the children. With Leo’s help, I could have pulled it all off, but now, as a one-woman show, I wasn’t so sure.
The FAO people were lovely on the phone. So accommodating, but there was one problem. The bears were already on the loading dock, ready to go. If I didn’t pick them up today, the company would have to truck them to their warehouse, as they didn’t have the storage space in the New York store for a thousand bears.
I had created a Christmas monster.
“No, that’s okay, I’ll pick them up today,” I told them. I hung up and called Sugar at the radio station. She was in a meeting, so I left a message with her assistant. “It’s Madison. Tell her to call her doorman and leave me the keys to the SUV.”
I was going to have to go it alone.
That night as I climbed the steps to Leo’s apartment, which he’d lovingly dubbed “the garret,” I wasn’t sure I’d make it back down. Not that looking down at my gold Manolo Blahniks with their pert brown bows didn’t give me a lift. But at the moment, I needed more lift than a three-inch heel could provide.
“I’m wiped,” I said as Leo opened the door for me.
“What, trying Xanax again?”
“No, just exhausted. I did the teddy bear run on my own today, and let me tell you, those little critters are bulky. Sugar’s SUV is big, but I still had to make three trips, with cute little bear faces pressed up against the glass like the damned teddy-bear parade.”
Leo’s mouth dropped open. “I’m so sorry I missed it. What’s in the bag?”
“Dinner. You have your choice of chicken almondine or spinach quiche. I know, it’s totally schizoid, but I stopped by the French deli and I couldn’t decide.”
“Let’s split both,” he said, hopping into the kitchen to get utensils. “So, you did the delivery? What about the next one? Isn’t that the huge shipment you need to rent a truck for? Who’s going to help you?”
“I don’t know,” I moaned, flopping onto his daybed and sinking back against one of the faux fur cushions. “Right now I’m too tired to think ahead.” The toy-moving business was tiring, and my trek through the magnificent displays at the toy store had taken an emotional toll. Last Christmas, I’d been dating a guy who’d needed gifts for his nieces and nephews, and we’d spent hours playing with the displays of toy trains and Legos and Leapfrog computers. Kurt was a kid at heart, a quality that had seemed so endearing as we played in toy stores by day, in bed at night.
Today, while I was waiting for the paperwork at FAO Schwarz, I had ventured into the aisles of dolls and toys. Christmas carols were playing softly, and a few toddlers stumbled past me like drunken spinning tops, bouncing from one giant stuffed animal to the next.
As I’d rounded the corner of the computer game department, I swore I spotted Kurt there, grimacing as he maneuvered the controls of a Nintendo Gamecube.
Of course, I was wrong. It was a teenage boy, probably cutting school. But Kurt had haunted me for the rest of the day. I had to remind myself that I was the one who’d wanted to end it in January. After the Christmas shopping had ended, Kurt still wanted to play with the toy displays. When I’d left him, he was trying to make it to the next level of Jet Set Video Future on his X-Box.
Chances were, he was still sitting in the same position on his living-room floor.
“You’ve got to get help!” Leo insisted.
“Because of the ghosts?” I asked.
“Fuck the ghosts, I’m talking about the deliveries.”
“Jenna suggested that I approach one of the doormen from my building, but I don’t think I have enough bribe money in my savings account. She says hi, by the way. She’s coming in for my party Friday.”
“She must be rather large by now,” Leo said, slicing his chicken.
“She’s due next month. And she promised to bring her neighbor to my party. A gorgeous bachelor.” I took a large bite of quiche so I wouldn’t have to elaborate on Jenna’s pregnancy and the feelings of jealousy it aroused deep inside me. I sensed that Leo was aware of my struggle, especially since he changed the subject.
“I spoke to Wolf. He’s decided to ditch Portugal and come here for Christmas.”
“G-weat!” I mumbled over a mouthful. “Was he disappointed that you didn’t feel up to making the flight to Europe?”
“Didn’t sound that way. I think he’ll be glad to escape from his evil brother’s clutches once again. So I’m covered for Christmas . . . which brings us to you. Would you get off this ghost theme? So you’ve spent a few Christmases with a few different boyfriends. Don’t you realize how lucky you are to have found a few good men? Honey, I’ve been out there, and the pickins are slim.”
“Leo, did you listen to those messages on my machine? Henry . . . married Henry. And Ryan! Fucking Ryan, my adolescent albatross.”
“I love it when you call him that.” He grinned. “Tell me again about that Christmas when you guys did it. What were you . . . stretched out on the kitchen counter or something?”
“No, that was Greg. Ryan was on the couch of the sitting room. But you’re getting off the point. Don’t you think it’s a little weird to hear from these guys out of the blue?”
“Not at all.” He paused. “Did you call them back?”
“Of course not. You know I don’t date married men—at least, never knowingly. And Ryan . . . that guy is like the kid brother who keeps trying to horn in on everything big sis tries to do. I mean, getting my number from my mother? What a suck-up! And apparently he was married, too. Am I the only one who hasn’t found a match in all these years?” I sighed. “Fucking Ryan.”
“Funny how you keep saying that. If I were a Freudian I’d have a field day with you.” Leo sniffed. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Ryan in that fancy uniform again.”
“That was ten years ago! He’s probably fat and bald by now.”
“Ahem.” Leo smoothed a hand over his shiny head.
“Okay, bald is beautiful, but he’s probably got a belly like a beached whale.”
“I’m not defending Ryan,” Leo said. “It’s you I worry about, Bridget Jones. When a person pushes past the thirty mark and she hasn’t found a suitable mate, it’s time for that person to re-evaluate her high standards.”
“You’ve been reading Cosmo again.” I stacked up our dinner plates and brought them into the kitchen. “Besides, maybe the person doesn’t have such high standards. Maybe she just hasn’t met the right mate. Did you think of that; Dr. Phil?” I stuffed the napkins into the garbage. “And it’s not like I don’t have anyone in my radar. Frank and I are having dinner tomorrow.”
“Who the hell is Frank?”
“The reporter? Remember? We met him at Morrell’s.”
“Oh . . . Frank with the silver highlights? The old gray mare?” Leo slapped his hands to his face in an imitation of The Scream. “That guys shrieks baggage.”
“Does not!”
“I’ll bet he’s got three kids, two in college, and still hasn’t figured out where his marriage went wrong.”
“And you call me a skeptic?” I protested.
“Take my advice,” he said. “When Frank mentions his ex-wife—and believe me, he will—walk, do not run, to the nearest exit.”
“He already admitted that he’s divorced. Even has two kids.” Not to mention the fact that I’d checked him out online. Hey, I’d learned my lesson. I was never, ever going to fall for another married man. “I can’t believe you don’t remember, Leo. Were you paying attention to anything that night?”
/>
“Alas, I was exhilarated from being on the ice.” He propped his knee up higher on the arm of the sofa. “Which proved to be my downfall.”
“Well, I’m meeting him at Bloomingdale’s.” Don’t ask me why I felt compelled to defend Frank so vehemently. Truly, I had no idea if he would have mileage as a friend or lover or more, but somehow I felt the need to prove that there were still a million other possibilities out there without having to lower my standards and fall back on old boyfriends who hadn’t made the cut.
“Still giving that test?”
I nodded.
“You are such the Christmas maven. Would you mind rinsing the dishes before you go? I’m supposed to stay off my feet.”
I didn’t mind at all, but I had to torture Leo. “No problem. But I don’t wash windows, and I won’t be around tomorrow night. Got a hot date with Frank.”
“Right.” He clicked on the television and began to sing. “‘The old gray mare, he ain’t what he used to be—’”
“Oh, you’re lucky I don’t toss these dishes out the window.”
Leo laughed, turning to Jeopardy. “I know you won’t. They’re Spode, and you gave them to me.”
“Unfair.”
He smiled. “Virginia, rules are made to be broken.”
28
December 10, 2003
The next morning I was bound and determined to get to work on time to make up for all the hours I would be missing in toy transport, but the world seemed to be working against me. I broke a nail. My Jimmy Choos had chewing gum on the heel, and my Manolo Blahniks didn’t really go with the black pants I was wearing, so I had to switch to a denim skirt and duster-length sweater. On top of that, my toaster didn’t pop up and the smoke set off my smoke detector. Which brought a call from the doorman downstairs.
Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Page 23
