I checked my e-mail. Sixteen new messages. Nine were from Morgan: Remke’s dictates for Posh employees. The use of blue pen was now against company policy, since it didn’t mimeograph as well as black. Editors were never to use red pencil to edit, as copyeditors traditionally used red. Lunch was limited to one hour, except for author and literary agent lunches, which had to be approved in advance. The use of letterhead for scrap paper was absolutely forbidden. On and on and on. My favorite was: The frivolous use of e-mail is strictly forbidden.
I clicked open a message from Eloise. Tell me how it went with Remke on our cig break!—E.
What would I do without Eloise? I ignored all messages related to work and opened one from Amanda Frank, which had also been sent to Eloise. The three of us met without fail every Friday night for the Flirt Night Roundtable, which included gossip, venting about work, nine-dollar drinks, guy hunting and, of course, flirting. Amanda and her boyfriend had moved in together a year ago, so she was out of the running for the flirting part. But she never missed a Friday. Well, actually, we never did much flirting at all (we mostly eyed cute guys and occasionally tried to meet them). It had been Eloise who’d dubbed our early get-togethers “Flirt Night,” and it had been me, the editor, who’d added the “Roundtable,” since we discussed flirting more than we did it. The name had stuck. Each week for six years now, we’d traded turns at choosing the place to meet and arranging with everyone.
Hey guys! How about Tapas Tapas, the new place on 16th off Union Square, for tonight’s FNRT? Time Out mag says it’s the latest Beautiful People hot spot and has great tapas. It’s super-expensive, but oh well! Same time as usual. See ya’ll later!—Amanda
Amanda was a transplanted cowgirl from Louisiana. Honest—she was from a ranch and everything. She had long blond hair, something rare in New York City, and attracted a lot of guys our way every time we went out, which Eloise and I sincerely appreciated. I typed back a Can’t wait, then clicked onto Word to start drafting titles and back cover copy for the Gnat’s memoir.
Title Suggestion: The Gnat Sucks. Back Cover Copy Headline: The true story of Natasha Nutley, a blood-sucker squashed in her prime. Read it and weep tears of joy that you’re not her!
I smiled. If only.
Natasha Nutley kissed the air close to my cheek. I couldn’t even lampoon it as the Hollywood kiss; everyone I knew kissed like that. Well, except my own friends. Acquaintances and business associates air-kissed, sometimes going so far as to air-kiss both cheeks, as though they were European. If someone was willing to muss up her Bobbi Brown lipstick by actually kissing your flesh, she was your real friend.
Natasha settled her super-thin self into the chair across from me at a back table in the Blue Water Grill. I hadn’t seen her in ten years, since graduation day at Forest Hills High School. She looked exactly the same…well, sort of. At least she didn’t look twenty-eight. Maybe she’d already had work done on her eyes?
“Omigod!” she trilled one second later. “I see my agent. I have to go say hello! Excuse me, Janey?”
I nodded and forced a smile. Janey. Hardly an appropriate name for a big deal senior editor like me. (I wasn’t going to tell the Gnat my real title.) I watched Natasha glide to a table full of tanned men. More air-cheek kissing.
I was grateful for the reprieve. When the hostess had led Natasha to my table, my heart started booming in my chest. Suddenly I wasn’t even Jane Gregg, assistant editor at a respected publishing house in New York City. I was Jane Gregg, brainy loser at Forest Hills High.
Robby Evers’s sixteen-year-old face and his tall, gawky body flashed before my eyes. My heart squeezed with sympathy for the lovesick teenager I’d been. The heart-sick teenager, thanks to the Gnat. How I’d hated her.
I glanced over at where she stood laughing with the Tanned Men. How was it possible that she’d never looked more gorgeous? She was ten years older than when she’d had everyone at Forest Hills High wrapped around her pinky. But now, she had the beauty, body and mystery of a woman. And a truly beautiful woman, at that.
Actually, the Gnat looked a lot like Nicole Kidman. Down to the red Botticelli ringlets, the slightly upturned nose, the beauty and the height. All she was missing was Tom Cruise as an ex. Though if rumor had it right, The Actor Natasha had had the affair with was hot stuff himself.
Natasha Nutley had that celebrity je ne sais quoi. Whenever I saw famous people in New York, it was as though they traveled with their own soft lighting. They didn’t look like ordinary people. And the Gnat was anything but ordinary. Ordinary people didn’t get romantically involved with television actors who made People magazine’s Sexiest Men Alive list. Ordinary people didn’t become famous by not only sleeping with men who made the list, but actually having a relationship with them. According to Natasha’s outline for the tell-all, she’d been his one and only for seven weeks.
On their first date, which had been in his bed (slut!), he’d made her (and every woman he got involved with, apparently) sign The Document. Which basically said that if Natasha discussed him or their relationship in any medium, or even with friends, The Actor could sue her for everything she had and everything she’d earn in the future. Including royalties of the tell-all. So why did she sign such a stupid, insulting document? Why did she even sleep with a man who’d handed her a legal document while taking off her bra? Every spotlight-seeking answer was explained in the outline she’d written for her memoir.
Ugh. It was all so personal! Usually I didn’t feel squeamish about knowing the intimate details of a person’s life—after all, nothing was too personal for the Flirt Night Roundtable, and I’d worked on a lot of tell-all memoirs. But Natasha Nutley? She was supposed to remain at arm’s length. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about her other than what I assumed and judged. And that was the way I wanted it. That her existence on this earth had been full of larger-than-life disappointments should have made me feel triumphant, but it didn’t. It made me feel weird. And I wasn’t sure why.
“Sorry about that!” Natasha sing-songed, sliding into her seat with a toss of her red ringlets. The collection of silver bangles on her wrist jingled. “My agent’s such a doll. He’s delighted we’re having lunch. He promises to come say hi before he leaves.”
I smiled and sipped my tap water. “Great,” I said, trying not to stare at her. How had ordinary Mr. and Mrs. Nutley, who lived right around the corner from the apartment building I’d grown up in, managed to create such a stunning human being? Judith Nutley was five foot three, tops, though she did have the curly pale red hair. Mr. Nutley, whose first name I forget, was tall and thin and had the Gnat’s green eyes. But neither parent was a looker. Not like Marvin and Virginia Gregg.
“So, um, Natasha, why don’t we get started on discussing my ideas for streamlining the first chapter, per your outline. As you know, Posh is thrilled that we’ll be excerpting the first chapter in Marie Claire, and we’ll need—”
“All business!” Natasha stated in a mock scold, her whiter-than-white teeth gleaming at me. “We haven’t seen each other in what, ten years? I have to say, Janey Gregg, you look adorable!”
That was an insult. There was nothing more condescending than being called adorable. “Thanks, Gnat,” I said, recalling how much she disliked her name being shortened. If only she could hear that silent G. “You look really great yourself.”
“Don’t I though?” She laughed, and her green eyes sparkled like the clichéd emeralds. It was so unfair. “I have the most amazing dermatologist. I’ll give you his number, if you want. He’ll zap those little lines right out from under your eyes.”
What little lines?
“I still can’t get over this!” Natasha exclaimed, squeezing a lemon into her six-dollar mineral water. “I mean, Posh signs me, and who should be a big editor there but Janey Gregg from Forest Hills!”
“I’m from here now,” I said. Too defensive, Jane. Calm down. “I live on the Upper East Side. My boyfriend bought in a brownstone on the Upper
West, but I’ve always preferred the East Side.” Why did I say all that? A boyfriend was one thing, but did I have to go into every phony detail? Apparently so.
“Ooh, a boyfriend—and he owns a brownstone! Well done, Jane!”
Yes, well done, I thought, cringing. Don’t ask me his name, I sent to her telepathically. I didn’t have the mental energy to make up a really good one. “Well, not the entire brownstone, of course,” I amended, ripping off a piece of bread from the basket between us. “Just the apartment. It’s a two-bedroom, so he has an office. I have an adorable studio I’m too fond of to give up, but it’s a waste, really, since I spend most of my time at his place.”
Once you got started, you couldn’t stop. Really.
Natasha’s ringlets bobbed as she nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. My boyfriend and I live on his houseboat docked in Santa Barbara. Who could live on land after that?”
Who indeed? Now did you understand why I had diarrhea of the mouth?
“So whatever happened to those quiet twins you used to pal around with?” Natasha asked. “Are you still close friends?”
I envisioned the Miner twins. Lisa and Lora. Tall, thin and as quiet as the Gnat surprisingly remembered. They had been my only friends back in high school. Lisa and Lora had listened to me whine and complain about the Gnat for years, nonstop when she’d stolen Robby Evers from me. Now, every six months or so I’d e-mail either Lisa or Lora, and she’d e-mail me back. They’d moved to San Francisco for college and stayed there. They were both married and had two children with a third on the way. We’d stayed close for a few years, but distance and different lives had had its usual friendship-killing effect.
“Not really,” I said. “People grow apart—you know how it is.”
Natasha looked me in the eye for a moment. I wondered what she was thinking. How pathetic and mousy and nerdy I’d been as a teenager? That I’d never had a boyfriend? That I’d had only two friends—and I wasn’t even able to hold on to those friendships? Natasha had had the entire school at her disposal for friends and boyfriends. She’d defined the popular crowd.
“I have a great circle of friends now,” I added, reaching for my tap water. “Friends are everything. I don’t know what I’d do without Eloise and Amanda.” Wow—a true statement! Didn’t I get a medal for that?
She nodded. “Pretty names. Hey, so did I mention I keep an apartment on the Upper East Side too? It’s just a one bedroom co-op, and I’m rarely in town, but, like you, I can’t bear to give it up. It’s my sanctuary. Wouldn’t it be darling if we were neighbors? I’m on 64th between Park and Madison.” She sipped her water. “But you already know all this—you know my life story! Well, not everything! Just the bare bones from my outline and whatever you’ve read about me in the press.”
Bare bones, indeed, but what more did I need to know to judge her as an opportunistic, spotlight-hungry bitch? I’d already been forced to grudgingly acknowledge that the Gnat had written a decent outline of her ridiculous life story. It had all the necessary elements for a page-turning tell-all. Rags to riches and back to supposed rags (I knew Agnes B. when I saw it) with the all-important moral about self-esteem. I’d say Natasha Nutley had a little too much self-esteem. So forget about considering for a second that there was anything more to her than met the envious eye.
Sixty-fourth Street. No one lived on 64th Street, and especially not between Park and Madison. That was like getting married at the Plaza. It just wasn’t done, unless you were a gazillionaire.
So how had Dana Dreer and Natasha Nutley, two girls from Queens, managed to do the impossible? Maybe your name had to be alliterative.
“Omigod! Natasha? Natasha Nutley?”
Omigod was right. That voice belonged to my cousin Dana.
I turned to find none other than Dana Dreer gaping at the Gnat, her mouth hanging open in wide-eyed joy. Of all the restaurants to have lunch in, did Dana have to pick the Blue Water Grill?
Natasha stared at Dana, taking in her big blue eyes, her pixie blond haircut and her small frame in head-to-toe Prada (compliments of the Internet-millionaire groom-to-be). Suddenly Natasha broke out in a huge smile. “Dana? Little Dana Dreer?”
They both squealed. Dana ran over, the Gnat stood up and the two hugged. Natasha had been Dana’s baby-sitter for a few years when Dana was around eight, nine and ten. You could imagine that this little piece of trivia was something Dana shared with everyone whenever she was in Forest Hills visiting her parents or Grammy.
“Jane told me she was editing your autobiography!” Dana exclaimed. “That’s so exciting! Adding author to your already very impressive résumé!”
Natasha beamed. “Well, writing has always been my first love.”
Oh, really? I thought her first love had been stealing other girl’s almost-boyfriends right before major school dances. Without knowing or caring.
“Jane!” Dana mock-scolded, turning those still-wide blue eyes on me. “I called you this morning, and you didn’t call me back. I wanted to tell you I found the perfect peach peau de soie shoes for you. There’s a store on Lexington at 77th, right when you come out of the subway.” She turned her attention to Natasha. “What a coincidence running into you two here! I’m having lunch with my caterer—”
A waiter-model came by to ask if we were ready to order. I told him we needed a few moments. I noticed he eyed Natasha appreciatively.
“Wow! Little Dana Dreer!” Natasha said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it!”
“I’m not so little,” Dana gushed. “I’m getting married in two months at the Plaza!” As if on cue, a slight pink flush appeared on Dana’s cheeks.
Natasha sucked in the appropriate gasp. “The Plaza! Not too shabby. Did your folks win big at Lotto or what?”
“More like I’m marrying very well, if I do say so myself!” Dana whispered with a chuckle as she held up her two-and-a-half-carat-encrusted left hand and wiggled her fingers. Could I throw up now? “Omigod, Natasha, you have to come! Please say you’ll come! The wedding’s on August second, a Sunday.”
“Well, I’ll have to check my book…” Natasha said with the flip of a ringlet. She plopped her Louis Vuitton satchel on the table and pulled out an appointment book, also covered in Louis Vuitton leather imprinted with hundreds of LV’s. She flipped a few pages. “Let’s see…August second, August second…I’m free!” she announced, slapping shut the book. “I’m in town for two months to work on the first few chapters with Janey’s expert help, and then I’m flying back to Santa Barbara to write, write, write. So pen me in!”
I was shocked. Why would Natasha Nutley, faux celebrity, want to waste six hours of her fabulous life at Dana Dreer’s wedding to Larry Fishkill? Even if it was at the Plaza?
“It’s all right if I bring a date, isn’t it?” Natasha asked Dana. “Sam’s flying out from the Coast for the entire month of August, so…”
Dana beamed. “Of course!”
I stared at Dana. Her ex-baby-sitter, who she hadn’t seen in ten years, could bring a date, but her own cousin couldn’t? Dana probably figured that any date of Natasha’s was either famous, recognizable or at least fabulous enough to add glamour to the guest list.
“So I’ll get to meet Jane’s boyfriend and your soon-to-be-husband!” Natasha said. “I just love romance!”
Now it was Dana’s turn for shock and staring. “Jane’s boyfriend?”
“He’s not going with you to the wedding?” Natasha asked me.
“Well, I—”
“Jane!” Dana said, hands on hips. “Why didn’t you tell me it got serious! Mom said you were seeing someone, but I didn’t realize…of course bring him!”
I swallowed.
“So it’s settled,” Dana declared with a clap of her hands. “You’re both bringing your men. I’ll seat the four of you together at your own table. Good thing I’m having lunch with my caterer—I’ll add three to the list right now! Wow—I can’t wait to tell everyone that Natasha Nutley is coming
to my wedding! Mom and Grammy are going to flip!”
More air kisses. And then Dana finally flitted off.
Natasha leaned her elbows on the table and rested her face between her palms. “I’m dying to hear more about your boyfriend. Where’d you meet him? What’s he do?”
My palms were sweating. I rubbed them against the napkin on my lap. “Natasha, your life is the one interesting enough for a memoir! Not mine. Wow,” I added, glancing at my watch. “It’s getting so late! I think we should order and get started on planning Chapter One. The outline noted that you want to start with the acting class you took as a kid, but I think you should open with meeting The Actor, then work your way back. You know, unfold your life story as it’s relevant.”
“You’re the editor!” Natasha trilled with a smile, opening her menu. “But I want to hear about the boyfriend over dessert. He sounds yummy!”
Glad she thought so. Because I’d have to eat every made-up word.
Three
Flirt Night Roundtable Discussion No. 8,566,932: the Supposed Boyfriend issue. Amanda, Eloise and I leaned forward at our little circular table across from the bar at Tapas Tapas as an Angelina Jolie look-alike set down our drinks.
Amanda waved away a stream of secondhand smoke with one hand and stirred her Tanqueray and tonic with the other. “Hey, maybe you could pass off Jeremy Black as your adoring boyfriend! The wedding’s practically a work thing now that Natasha’s going. I’ll bet he’d go with you. Ask him, Jane!”
I couldn’t even handle asking Jeremy if he’d had a good weekend at our Monday morning editorial meetings. I was suddenly going to invite him to a family wedding?
Deep sigh. “I can’t.”
“Bull’s balls!” Amanda insisted. “You’ve been dying to go out with him for years. It’s the perfect opportunity. I’d ask him.”
See Jane Date Page 4
