“Oh, great!” Gwen exclaimed. “Let me just make sure Livie’s settled.”
Gwen followed me out. As I passed Morgan, who was cooing at Olivia, she shot me a good-job nod. Clearly she’d heard every word in the conference room and was impressed that Gwen was threatened by me.
Gwendolyn Welle, senior editor extraordinaire, threatened by me. After six years of hard work, I’d made it. I couldn’t wait to tell Eloise. I ran to her office, but she was deep in conversation with Daisy. I thought about calling Timothy, but it seemed too early in the romance for that. We weren’t at the call-each-other-for-anything stage yet. I might as well tell him tomorrow when he was feeding me his homemade enchiladas. That would be celebration enough. I skipped to my office and reveled by swiveling around on my desk chair.
The intercom buzzed. “Jaaane,” Morgan whined. “You’re wanted in the conference room for a staff meeting.”
A staff meeting? Was I getting promoted? I was. I was getting promoted! Why else would Remke call a staff meeting on a Friday? Remke, Jeremy and Gwen hadn’t stayed after our little meeting to discuss the Backstreet Boy. They’d stayed to discuss my promotion to Associate Editor!
Deep breath, deep breath. Affect the poise of an associate editor. I pulled out my compact and de-shined my nose, then touched up my lips with my trusty Clinique Black Honey lip gloss. A fluff of the hair, and I was ready to be congratulated.
The editorial staff and the art department were gathered in the conference room. Two champagne bottles and a bunch of plastic cups were on the table, along with a platter of cookies. Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. I was getting promoted. This was it.
“Since we’re all here today, including Gwen,” Jeremy began, “I thought it would be a good time to announce some wonderful news.”
My heart was ba-booming so fast. What if I couldn’t speak when Jeremy announced the promotion? Deep breath, deep breath.
Jeremy cleared his throat. “I’m very happy to announce my engagement to Carolyn Klausner, an executive vice president at Vogue.”
The ba-booms stopped. I felt eyes on me. Four eyes, to be exact. Morgan’s and Eloise’s. Everyone was clapping. I forced myself to clap, too.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Remke said. “Let’s make a toast.”
As the champagne popped and poured, Eloise snaked her way over to me and squeezed my hand. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
I nodded and squeezed back. I wasn’t upset over Jeremy. Quelle surprise, but I wasn’t. Yes, a Heidi Klum look-alike-slash-executive-vice-president-at-Vogue was marrying Jeremy. My Jeremy. The man I’d been dreaming about for five years. But the only thing I was upset about was that I’d been stupid enough to get my hopes up about the promotion. Maybe Gwen hadn’t been threatened by me, after all, Maybe she simply thought I wasn’t up to the task.
What Tiffany’s was to Holly Golightly, Bloomingdale’s was to me. Nothing very bad could happen to you in Bloomies. Except for maybe having your credit card revoked for exceeding the limit or getting sprayed with five different perfumes by aggressive floor models. Granted, Bloomingdale’s wasn’t exactly the elite of New York City department stores, but bad things could happen to you in Barney’s or Bendel’s or even Saks or Bergdorf’s: Saleswomen could appraise your clothes and shoes and purse and hair and makeup and raise their noses in the air and not even bother asking if they could help you.
My favorite part of the store was the main floor, with the cosmetic counters and accessories and jewelry and hosiery. You could spend an entire afternoon in Bloomies without spending a penny: getting a free makeover, trying on stylish clothes and shoes you could never afford, imagination-decorating your entire apartment. And the bonus was people watching.
The Flirt Night Roundtable was meeting in front of the MAC counter to try on lipsticks before heading up to the registry to fill out the paperwork for Eloise. Eloise was busy asking the MAC beauty advisor about bridal makeup for the big day. For a woman who’d burst into tears when telling her best friend she was engaged, she sure was going full steam ahead.
“Hey, ya’ll!” Amanda called with a wave as she weaved her way over. She beelined for an empty spot in front of the lipsticks and applied a shimmery pink. “What do you think?” She puckered up.
Eloise kissed her on the lips. “There. Now you can see how it looks on me.”
“I think it looks different on an engaged woman,” Amanda said. “You know, when your skin’s glowing, pink looks pinker.”
But Eloise wasn’t glowing. She was fake-happy, and I knew it. I wondered if Amanda knew it, too. I’d been tempted a few times yesterday to call Amanda and get her perspective about Eloise’s engagement, but I hadn’t wanted to talk about El behind her back. Anyway, Amanda didn’t know Eloise the way I did. And I didn’t want Amanda to get the wrong idea, that I was jealous or something. That was what I was afraid she’d think. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe because they both had serious boyfriends, and I had two dates under my belt.
“So Jane! Looks like you and Timothy are gonna be getting engaged soon, too!” Amanda said. “He told Jeff he owes him big—like a Porsche—for fixing him up with you!”
The smile burst out of me. “He said that?”
“Hey, who knows,” Eloise said. “Maybe we’ll have a double wedding! Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
“Can I help you ladies?” asked a male beauty advisor.
Saved. Amanda and Eloise lunged for the lipsticks and an available mirror and the advice of a guy with pink hair. A double wedding. Dana’s wedding was enough wedding for a long time to come. Okay, okay, I wouldn’t mind an engagement ring twinkling on my finger. I wouldn’t mind a wedding in a mini-ballroom at the Plaza Hotel. I wouldn’t mind being married to the man I loved.
Was I jealous of Eloise? I suddenly felt like Ally McBeal when she shrank to teeny-tiny size on her chair after she was made to feel small, small, small. I didn’t think that was it, but maybe it was. Maybe I was simply jealous that I was being left behind. Losing my best friend.
After a half hour of makeovers that cost us each over fifty bucks in cosmetics we didn’t need, we descended on Registry Lady. Forms in hand, Eloise, Amanda and I hit my second favorite part of Bloomingdale’s: the bed and bath department. We wandered around the entire department to look at everything, and then Eloise started making selections. We decided to put one of each thing she chose in our shopping baskets so that she could immediately see if colors matched or if she didn’t like something fifteen minutes later.
Eloise chose thick dark purple towels (twenty bucks for a bath towel!) and a very cool bath mat with tiny cartoon moose. Art Deco-y accessories, and a shower curtain that was a movie poster of Casablanca with Bogey and Ingrid Bergman in a heated, tense embrace. A down comforter thicker than my winter coat. A duvet cover more expensive than my winter coat. Pillows, thick and thin, down and synthetic. Calvin Klein sheets and pillowcases in a three-hundred-thread-count. Flannel Ralph Lauren sheets. A feather bed. A talking scale.
Two hours later, Eloise announced she’d changed her mind. She wanted a paler color scheme. Who even knew if Serge would like any of this? she’d worried aloud. Maybe she should come back some other time with him and they should choose together, she’d said. And so the three of us took our baskets and dumped everything on one of the display beds when the salesclerks weren’t looking.
“Let’s move the Flirt Night Roundtable to a round table,” Eloise said, looking a tad grim. “I need a drink.”
Amanda and I looked at each other and nodded. And ten minutes later we were sitting at one of the low round tables near the fireplace at Arizona 206, a Southwestern restaurant across the street from Bloomingdale’s. Three frozen margaritas, Eloise’s Marlboros Lights and a book of matches were before us. Eloise had decided this wasn’t the time to give up her favorite bad habit.
“So you haven’t had a single puff since last Saturday?” Amanda asked. “Wow, Jane! That’s so great!”
“Let’s toast to Jane’s one-we
ek anniversary as a nonsmoker,” Eloise said, raising her margarita.
We toasted, my eyes on the familiar light-brown-and-white pack of cigarettes. She’d admitted she’d sneaked more than a few cigarettes over the week; it was one of the reasons she’d avoided me. I’d told her she should feel comfortable puffing all she wanted in front of me. I was stopping in the name of love. She already had smoking love.
And that had made the three of us crack up. The tension had been cut, and the Flirt Night Roundtable was in full session on East 59th Street.
“Oh shit!” I said. “I forgot to buy Dana her shower present.”
“Just give her money,” Amanda said. “It’s what couples want anyway. No one wants another hideous Mikasa vase.”
“But they’re gazillionaires,” I reminded her. “What does she need my hundred bucks for?”
“Rich people are obsessed with money,” Amanda said. “They can never get enough. Because they spend so much. Trust me, your measly hundred bucks will help pay the Plaza bill. Why do you think they’re inviting so many people?”
She had a point there. “Still, you don’t think Dana will find money from her cousin too impersonal?” Dana was definitely money and status obsessed, but we were family, after all.
“No way,” Eloise said. “She’ll think it’s ever so appropriate.”
I raised my margarita. “Okay, if you guys say so.”
“Jane, are you sure you’re okay about Jeremy?” Eloise asked.
Amanda looked from Eloise to me. “What about Jeremy?”
“He announced his engagement to some Vogue VP,” Eloise said, exhaling a stream of smoke up toward the ceiling.
“Yeah, instead of announcing my promotion.”
“Ooh, sorry, Jane,” Amanda said. “Are you okay?”
I was. And I didn’t know why. Why wasn’t I a blubbering mess? The man I’d been obsessed with for five years had gotten engaged to another woman, and all I could think about was whether or not Gwen was truly threatened by me or not. Where was my broken heart? Where were my tears? Where were tissues and pints of Häagen Dazs? Perhaps I was okay because I was actually happy for Jeremy. How could I not be happy for someone who’d stood up for me in front of Remke and Gwen? He’d praised my work at exactly the right time, in exactly the right place, in exactly the right way. Maybe I’d gotten what I needed from Jeremy after all. His approval. No. That wasn’t quite it, either. I’d been nuts about Jeremy. I’d fantasized about him forever. I hadn’t been after his approval; I’d wanted him. Was it Timothy? Were two promising dates enough to make me forget about Jeremy Black? I didn’t think so. So what then? What, what, what?
Maybe it was hard to be upset about Jeremy’s engagement when things were going well in my life. I had earned Jeremy’s praise on the excerpt; that had done a lot to fill me up inside. And I had made Gwen nervous; I was sure of it. I thought of the Gnat, sobbing all over my pillow. All but begging her mother to accept a visit. At least I had Aunt Ina and Uncle Charlie and even grumpy Grammy. They’d do anything for me. And I had Eloise and Amanda, who’d also do anything for me. And I might even have Timothy, who in a mere twenty-four hours would be folding over tortillas with my name on them. Maybe I was simply in a “good place,” as they said in the self-help books. What other explanation could there be for my lackadaisical response?
“I’m totally okay,” I insisted. “I really am. I’ll get promoted when the Gnat finishes her book. When I turn in that baby, edited brilliantly, I’ll be an associate editor the next day.”
“A toast to Jane’s much-deserved and forthcoming promotion,” Eloise declared, raising her glass. We clinked. Eloise lit another cigarette and was careful to blow the smoke away from both Amanda and me.
“Are you really going to the Gnat’s parents’ tomorrow?” Eloise asked.
I nodded and explained the whole story to Amanda. The midnight visit. The crying. The slumber party. The pancakes. Her conversation with Mommy Dearest.
“You mean her mother’s conversation with Daughter Dearest,” Eloise said with a laugh.
Eloise caught me off guard. I hadn’t meant that at all. Somewhere, somehow, a smidgen of sympathy had developed in me for the Gnat. Probably because her hard work had enabled me to condense her chapter into that “excellent” excerpt so easily. She’d saved my butt from Gwen’s claws. I owed her one, now. That was all.
“She’s not going to Dana’s shower, is she?” Amanda asked.
I sipped my margarita. “No. We’re taking the subway to Forest Hills together, though. The Gnat thinks it’ll be fun to go slumming on the F train instead of taking a car service, but she’s afraid to go by herself.”
“What’s she gonna do all day while you’re eating bad deli and watching Dana open present after present?” Eloise asked. “I can’t see Natasha Nutley shopping in Banana Republic or Bolton’s on Austin Street.”
Me neither. “She wants to spend the morning and afternoon walking around the old neighborhood, check out her old route to the schools we went to, where she used to hang out, that kind of thing, and then we’re meeting in Starbucks at three forty-five to head over to her parents’.”
“That is one long day,” Amanda pointed out. “How are you gonna have energy to hook up with Timothy for your big third date?”
I smiled. Eating and having your clothes removed required absolutely no energy at all.
Twelve
“So, um, I have something for you,” I told Natasha as we settled ourselves on the hard orange seats of the F train bright and early Saturday morning. I handed her a Barnes & Noble shopping bag. I’d toyed with the idea of getting her a card while I was at the bookstore, but that seemed to be going too far. The book seemed to be a card and a present in itself.
“What’s this?” Natasha asked, surprised. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Well, um, I was in the bookstore this morning, and I noticed it on a display, and I thought it might be useful. Unless you have it already.”
She pulled out the heavy paperback of What To Expect When You’re Expecting. She glanced at me, her face breaking into a huge smile, then she started flipping through the book. “Jane, this is so thoughtful. Thank you so much! I was meaning to buy this book.”
She was pregnant. Right here, right now, a life was growing inside of her. I wondered what that felt like. I couldn’t just ask her; she’d probably think that was the strangest question she’d ever heard. I couldn’t imagine what it was like to know you were carrying life inside you, that a little baby version of you and your man was developing in your womb, growing every second. What did that feel like? Maybe you couldn’t physically feel the baby growing at this point, but the knowledge of it must be wild. You probably never felt alone.
“Jane, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this gift,” Natasha said.
I smiled. “You’re wel—”
“Can I have your autograph, dear?” a woman interrupted.
Natasha and I glanced up from What To Expect When You’re Expecting. A middle-aged woman was beaming at the Gnat, a piece of paper and a pen extended toward her.
“I hate to bother you,” the woman gushed, “but I just love you and all your movies. I didn’t know you took the subway! This is so exciting! You’re so beautiful!”
What movies? The Gnat was strictly small screen.
“I’m so excited!” the woman exclaimed. “It’d mean the world to me if you’d sign your autograph.”
What a fool I was. I was feeling sorry for the Gnat last night? Ha! She didn’t deserve an ounce of my sympathy. She was famous. Faux celebrity or not. She’d been on so many talk shows earlier this year that she was recognizable to the stay-at-home set. The whole thing seemed so sleazy. This woman—and countless others—wanted Natasha Nutley’s autograph because she’d slept with a famous actor? A famous actor who made his women sign documents while screwing them? Why did that merit fame?
Now I knew why the Gnat had wanted to take the subway instead o
f a car service. So she could whip around her ringlets and have strangers fawn all over her for her autograph. It was a good thing the subway was practically empty. Like I needed to spend the forty-minute ride watching the Gnat sign her name?
Natasha smiled at the woman and took the piece of paper and pen. She leaned the paper against the book, which rested on her unusually conservative dress-covered thigh. The Gnat typically wore skimpy tank tops and tight bootleg pants and high-heeled sandals. Today she sported a pale blue linen dress with a high round neckline, cute cap sleeves and a hem just past the knee. It was very Audrey Hepburn. A pale blue thin cardigan was tied around her neck. She wore sandals, but with a reasonable heel. Instead of her usual Prada or Gucci or Louis Vuitton purse, a pale pink straw tote bag was slung over her arm. She looked like a fourth-grade teacher on a class trip to the White House instead of the infamous Gnatasha Nutley on a Saturday morning.
I glanced at the autograph as the Gnat handed the paper and pen back to the woman. My mouth dropped open. Signed in black ink in a slightly illegible scrawl was: Nicole Kidman.
The woman beamed as she stared at the autograph and pressed it to the chest. “I can’t wait to tell my husband!” she exclaimed, and scurried away.
Okay. Was I missing something here? I glanced at Natasha. “Nicole Kidman?”
“You didn’t think she wanted my autograph, did you?”
Um, yes, I did. “Why not? You’re famous.”
“To you, maybe,” Natasha said, eyes on her lap. “Not to your average person on the F train or walking down the street. I’m mistaken for Nicole Kidman all the time.”
Woe is her for the hundredth time. How tough that must be. To be mistaken for one of the most beautiful actresses in the world.
“But how did you know that woman didn’t want your autograph?” I asked. “She could have looked at the autograph, been totally confused and said, ‘I thought you were Natasha Nutley.’”
She laughed and raised an eyebrow. “Well, she didn’t, did she?”
See Jane Date Page 19
