Live from New York, It’s Lena Sharpe

Live from New York, It’s Lena Sharpe
Courtney Litz

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Mom, Dad and Paige

Special thanks to:

My parents, Edward and Mary Litz,

and my sister, Paige Litz.

And:

Josh Horowitz, Alexandra Bresnan,

Charlotte Morgan, Renee Kaplan, Jennifer Cohan

and Sarah Jones.

Also:

My sincere thanks to Isabel Swift, Margaret Marbury

and Farrin Jacobs for their encouragement

and invaluable editorial guidance.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

chapter 1

Do you ever have those moments when you wonder how the many twists and turns in your life have brought you to a particular (usually disappointing) juncture? This was one of those moments.

5,4,3,2,1…Rolling

Cue Music—

Kelly Karaway, Host: Hello and welcome to Face to Face. I’m your host, Kelly Karaway. Each week for our special segment, “Reinventions,” we spotlight a different celebrity as you’ve never seen them before. Last week, we saddled up our horse and joined your favorite heartthrob and mine, Harrison Ford, as he gave us a private peek at his other starring role—as a Montana cattle rancher. Boy, that was worth suffering a few saddle sores for, wasn’t it, ladies! And this week, we’ve got a special treat for all you guys out there! You know her as the breakout WB star and four-time Maxim cover girl, but tonight on “Reinventions,” we’ll show you how actress Sienna Skye has reinvented her spirituality. Hello and welcome, Ms. Sienna Skye!

Sienna Skye: Thanks, Kelly. It’s so great to be here.

Kelly Karaway: This past year has been a crazy one for you, hasn’t it? Tell us, if you can, what is it like to be Sienna Skye?

Sienna Skye: Well, it’s very, very difficult. I’ll be honest with you, Kelly, when I’m working, I’m just giving and giving, and sometimes I just feel like I don’t have anything left, you know? Like when I was playing Cassidy—

Kelly Karaway: Excuse me, Sienna, I just need to explain to the audience in case they’ve been in a coma for the last six months—Cassidy was your character in the WB movie of the week, Cassidy’s Crisis and she was both a stripper and a single mom.

Sienna Skye: That’s right. And you know, Kelly, sometimes I would come home from the set and I would be so immersed in the character that I would just feel like I was a stripper, you know…

Kelly Karaway: Mmm, that’s fascinating, Sienna.

Sienna Skye: And so when Rafe asked me to chant with him…

Kelly Karaway: And Rafe would be…

Sienna Skye: He’s my colorist, but he’s also just so much more to me, Kelly. Anyway, Rafe introduced me to Buddhism and that has made all the difference.

Kelly Karaway: That’s just fascinating Sienna, really. So what is it about Buddhism that works for you? Can you explain it?

Sienna Skye: I feel like, well, I feel like I can breathe again. Buddha, he’s just my number one guy right now.

Kelly Karaway: Oh, that’s so beautiful I can’t even stand it. Thank you so much for sharing that with us, Sienna, really. And today, we’ve got a special treat for all our viewers because Sienna’s going to show us her extensive and exquisite collection of Buddha figures!

Sienna Skye: That’s right.

[Wide shot as camera pans across Buddha display.]

Kelly Karaway: Now, I absolutely adore this one. Look at those shiny eyes!

[Close-up on Buddha.]

Sienna Skye: Well, that’s a very sentimental one, actually. The eyes are made from sequins taken from my stripper costume in Cassidy’s Crisis.

Kelly Karaway: That is fascinating, Sienna. Sal, could you just move in for a close-up on this one, please… Oh, for Christ sake, Cut! Who put this glass of water here? Lena! Who the hell’s in charge here?

CUT

“Lena! Lena! Stop daydreaming!”

I was deep into a conversation with Martin Scorsese and Joan Didion, so I didn’t hear Sal yelling at me. Marty was after me to see his newest film and Joan just couldn’t stop raving about my latest think piece for the Sunday Times. Such a sweetheart, that Joan.

“Hey, Lena, you gotta clean this crap up. I don’t got all day here,” Sal, and I don’t mean Salman Rushdie, barked at me between bites of his pastrami sandwich.

And that’s when I started wondering: How did I get here? To this moment? How had all the events in my life added up to this? In theory, I was a television producer working on a location shoot in downtown Manhattan. In reality, I had been rearranging a TV starlet’s glittering Buddhas for the past four hours. This schism between “what should be” and “what is” has proven to be, shall we say, a major theme in my life so far.

“Here, hold this cable, Lena. We’re gonna do some close-ups on Sienna. I want to get a good shot of her stomach.” Sal eagerly hoisted a tangle of wires onto my lap and went in for his shot. The stomach in question, which by all accounts did not look wide enough to actually contain vital organs, belonged to up-and-coming actress/model/singer/spokesperson and all around “it” girl, Sienna Skye.

At this particular moment, Ms. Sienna Skye was doing her very best to fan the flame of her generally agreed upon fabulousness. I watched her now as she preened for the camera to the delight and amazement of the crew. Of course, anything that she might think to do right now would very likely be deemed exquisite/otherworldly/magical, and just absolutely right. You see, this was Sienna Skye’s moment.

“Guys, I’m going to go make a quick change. This tube top would look better in pink, don’t you think?” Sienna chirped as Sal and the rest of the crew looked at her slack-jawed, their line of vision matching up exactly with the tube top in question. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” She hopped down from her perch and scampered off to her dressing room.

“All right,” Sal tried to collect himself, “Nina, where are you? Nina?”

“Lena?” I asked.

“Uh, yeah, of course that’s what I meant.” Sal looked annoyed. “Listen, you’re about Sienna’s size. Get up there and stand in her place so we can fix the lighting.”

“Sure,” I said, noting the crew’s palpable disappointment. “She’s coming right back, you guys.” They didn’t seem comforted. It was true—I was about Sienna’s size—only my chest was a few inches flatter, my skin was a few shades paler, and my hair was a few tones darker than her platinum locks. Essentially, I could be Sienna’s “before” picture in a makeover story.

Sienna and I did have at least one thing in common, I thought to myself as I did my best impression of a hot young ingénue—Arch back! Suck in stomach! No, I didn’t dream of a Playboy pictorial or my own line of lingerie, but just like Sienna, I had come to New York looking for something bigger than what I had left behind.

Mine was a tale as old as Dreiser and as new as Felicity: Small town girl moves to the big city to grab her slice of the pie and a little bit of glamour on the side. Her parents fear for her safety, she fears for her bank account, but most of all, she waits for her turn to come.

My life, I figured, could be divided into three rather distinct phases—BC, DC, and PC. Let me elaborate:

BC: As the letters imply, BC (Before college) was a dark, desolate time in my life’s history. It encompassed a period of small-town ennui mixed with a difficult blend of adolescent angst and general alienation from my fellow peer group, a perplexing herd who expressed a troubling contentment with pep rallies and jobs at the mall. Overall impression—melancholic.

DC: During college. Known to some close friends as the “Greg” years in honor of my omnipresent boyfriend of the time, this period was marked by a perceived sense of liberation and freedom, which, upon reflection, was neither. The smell of boiling ramen and patchouli incense are key indicators of the DC era. Overall impression—naively happy.

PC: Post-college years. Otherwise known as the Breakfast at Tiffany’s years or, more simply, as the present. PC is the time I’ve dreamed of my entire life, the moment when my life became my own, when everything was supposed to make sense. Yet somehow everything seemed more complicated than it ever had before. Overall impression—equal parts exciting and confusing with a sprinkle of adult-size fear for good measure.

A bit melodramatic? Perhaps. But then I’m convinced that just about everyone living in New York City feels they are currently starring in the movie of their own life, just a small step away from their own much-deserved “moment.”

My cell phone rang. Sal rolled his eyes.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, it’s Nick.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Why are you calling me?”

“Relax, darling. I’m finally getting around to picking up my canvases from your apartment and I can’t find a few of my things.”

Nick the painter. Long story short—we met at a gallery opening the previous summer. He wasn’t textbook good-looking, but he had a certain way about him that made the whole greater than its parts—does that make sense? Olive skin, crooked nose and the fullest, ripest lips. Plus, he spoke Italian and could whip up a pencil sketch of my likeness (only prettier!) in a matter of moments. What else could a girl want?

And it was summer, when life sort of slips into that hazy mode of possibility and the idea of skipping work to frolic in the park with your smoky artist boyfriend seems romantic, not irresponsible.

Of course, winter came, the haze evaporated, and, alas, Nick’s lips became horribly chapped. Love’s languor was definitely lost. I had gone from being the enchanted muse to the broke patron. That phase lasted several painful more months until we had broken up officially. Now it was summer again, and I was single once more.

“So, do you know where my bottle of gin is?” he asked.

“I bought that gin.”

“But you don’t drink gin, love.”

“Nick, I don’t intend to drink it. I intend to use it to ignite the fire I will set if you’re still in my apartment when I return. Cheers, darling.” I snapped my phone shut.

“Jesus, Lena, you don’t beat around the bush.” Sal grinned at me through a mouth full of Doritos.

Okay, where was I before Nick so rudely interrupted me? Speaking of men, I should make one thing very clear—I’m most certainly not some vapid princess waiting for my handsome Prince Charming to save me. Please. I’m fully aware that the only way I’m going to get my ruby slippers any time soon is with an AmEx card and a couple weeks of overtime. Five years on my own in this city has toughened my shell and significantly toned down any lingering Pollyanna reflexes. But a girl’s gotta dream, right?

Some days I imagine myself a boyish Annie Hall with my tweed pants and quirky hats, coyly befuddling and effortlessly stylish. Other days, I am the spunky young professional, the bright-eyed Mary Richards chasing her dream with a wink and a smile. And then, as you know, there are the parties with Marty, Joan and the rest.

“I hope you’re getting all this down on the shot list…between phone calls, I mean,” Nadine said to me in her distinctive half-joking-but-all-too-serious way that still manages to unnerve me after more than a year under her reign. Nadine (my “superior”) and I, we just didn’t quite “gel,” to use one of her favorite terms.

She had the unfortunate habit of viewing her job (and thus mine) as something on par with the pioneering work of Edward R. Murrow. “Do not underestimate the power of journalism, Lena. It’s our duty to tell the story, the whole story.” She would say these aphorisms with a hushed, reverent tone. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that our particular “news” program, an hour-long fluff parade called Face to Face, leaned more toward Entertainment Tonight than World News Tonight.

“You did finish asking her the preliminary questions, correct?” Nadine continued her inquisition. “You know we’ve got to prepare for the shopping segment.” She said this in a way that managed to simultaneously convey both doubt that I had finished as well as disregard for any work that I might have actually done. If I wasn’t so consumed by my unhealthy hatred of her, I might have marveled at the effort.

“Don’t worry, Nadine. I grilled her while she was getting waxed this morning,” I said as dryly as possible while hoping not to swerve accidentally over the line of contempt. Hiding my disgust had become a full-time job.

“That reminds me. Sienna’s in the tanning booth right now for a touch-up. Remember to make sure she’s out in ten minutes. Got it?” Nadine said, glancing down at her clipboard.

“Of course. We certainly wouldn’t want a burnt Sienna!”

Nadine looked at me, expressionless. “Whatever, Sharpe,” she said, and moved on to her next victim.

Believe me, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wanted to be Murphy Brown, not Mary Hart, dammit. But here I was, laboring at the task of crafting the story of Ms. Sienna Skye, attempting to inject heroic purpose into her work as…well, as whatever it is that she does.

Of course, telling the “story” of Sienna Skye is a mind-numbing affair to be sure, but despite her endless references to the powers of yogilates and her colonic therapist, there is a story there, nonetheless.

You see, everyone has a story. This I know for certain. The trick is to weed out all of the standard, boring parts that muddle up the narrative. Of course, you might find it all very interesting—the childhood crushes, the “hilarious” high-school pranks, the first car and the last deadbeat boyfriend. It’s your life, after all. Frankly, and I speak with some authority on the matter, no one else cares. Really. Better you realize that now, then on the winding-up side of a long-ass explanation of your last blind-date fiasco.

The trick is to find “the hook,” that little kernel of experience where your life and other people caring about it intersect. I suppose you could call me a “hooker,” which is actually a fitting alternate title for a TV producer, if I’ve ever heard one.

So, what’s my story then? That’s a question I don’t find so easy to answer. Of course, I could easily do the In Style version. That’s my job after all:

One might suspect the striking young woman seated before me to be an aspiring young model or perhaps the pretty young thing of some high-powered television executive. In fact, she’s Lena Sharpe and she is fast becoming a power player in the world of television all on her own. At this moment, however, she’s sitting with me in a charming café just down the street from her new Tribeca loft trying to decide between the egg-white omelette and the granola fruit plate. She looks glamorous, yet casual in slim Katayone Adeli pants and a crisp white Prada shirt (see how you can get Lena Sharpe’s look on here!), and I can’t help but notice the steady stream of gentlemen heading for the pay phone to sneak a look. She wears not a trace of makeup, but her skin appears virtually devoid of pores. (“Just a little soap and water. Nothing fancy. You can’t worry too much about your beauty regime when you’re field reporting in the Balkans!” she insisted earlier with a laugh.) “So, what would you like to know?” As Lena looks up from her menu and smiles brightly it becomes all too clear how this talented young reporter has won over an unprecedented Internet fan following as well as a coveted spot on People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People list….

But what about the 60 Minutes version? The Mike-Wallace-in-a-trench-coat-with-a-roving-camera-crew-and-a-running-litany-of-hard-hitting-questions version? Well, that was tougher. That required the truth and a lot of independent sources. What, in the end, would my story be? I kept turning the pages, past the twists and the turns and the disappointing moments, but I couldn’t even find where my real story began.

chapter 2

“Hey, Lena, your phone’s ringing,” I heard Sal shouting at me.

Dammit, Nick, I thought, but then immediately relaxed when I saw the number.

“Lena. Meet me at the corner of Tenth and C at ten o’clock.”

I could feel a wide smile spread across my face. It was Jake. And that meant that my night had taken a sudden U-turn for the better. You see what I mean? It can be as simple as that. Just one phone call, and everything changes. The city opens its arms and lets you play its secret games. Your moment could be just around the corner.

Of course, when I got to the corner, Jake wasn’t there—not that I had really expected him to be. He wasn’t the type to loiter for anyone.

I noticed a wobbly couple stumbling down the stairs of an unmarked brownstone and I had a hunch that that was my intended destination. Once inside, I followed the echoes of a throbbing bass up a spiral staircase. The building was abandoned and police caution tape lay tangled in a mess of cinderblocks in the corner. If I didn’t know Jake as well as I do (or if I hadn’t lived in a building with a similar aesthetic for several years), I might have been more than a little afraid.

At the top of the stairs, a guy with hooded eyes and a vintage Gucci fedora leaned against the door.

“Who do you know?” He squinted at me critically. I appreciated his ability to remain haughty and suspicious of my cool factor despite his obvious stupor—quite a talent.

“Jake Dunn.”

He glanced at the door in approval.

I rolled my eyes and entered. The place resembled a cross between a professor’s library and an opium den. Couples lounged about in various configurations on the pillow-strewn floor. A midriff-bearing waif with a swan’s neck balanced a tray of drinks with Hindi-painted hands. The scene was quintessential Jake. His coolness barometer was so precise he couldn’t even hang out at bars anymore—they were too passé for him before they even opened to the general public. For the past year or so, he had taken to organizing “social spaces”(as he would call them) in abandoned apartments or buildings. That way, he could quickly change venues before “the wrong crowd” (read: anyone who lived—or would consider living—above Fourteenth Street) caught on. This wasn’t a Jake event, but I could only assume it was the work of one of his acolytes.

Through the clouds of smoke, incense and various vapors of the illegal variety, I saw Jake’s profile. Not surprisingly, he was the center of a swelling crowd.

How could I sum up Jake? Physically, he is tall and lean with dark wavy hair and deep blue eyes, which he knows how to use to full effect. More simply put, however, Jake is just cool. He knows it, I know it, and just about everyone who enters his orbit knows it, too.

Now don’t assume he’s just another snide hipster who chooses to define himself by his Alphabet City address and perpetual lack of employment. Jake, I long ago decided, sees it all for the game that it is—and he’s the one to beat. The world is his to mock. I tell him he’s so far ahead of the rest of us that he has to work to keep things interesting. He kind of likes that explanation.

So what, you may be wondering, does he see in me? Honestly, I’m still not quite sure. We shouldn’t fit together, but somehow we just do.

I took a seat on a leopard-print chaise and quickly put on my studiously nonchalant “I’m alone at a party, but that means I’m independent, not dorky” face. A strung-out guy wearing entirely too much crushed velvet sat across from me. I began to ponder this point: Should a man ever wear crushed velvet? (I’m leaning toward no).

“Hey, sexy, you look thirsty.” Jake slid his arm around my shoulder and handed me my drink. And yes, I do mean my drink. At the moment, it was Absolut Currant with cranberry juice. Jake has counseled me that a signature drink is a crucial element of one’s personal style. I humor him (but of course it’s Jake, so I also follow his lead).

“Oh…my…God.” Jake fixed his eyes on a wide-eyed couple huddled at the door. “Honestly, pressed khakis? This place is dangerous. I shouldn’t have lured you here.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was either this or face the artist colony that is my apartment right now.”

“What? Nick the Dick?” he asked with bemusement. “Time to give that artist a chance to struggle.”

Jake says that there is no such thing as a regretful relationship if you get a good story from it. With Nick, I had my starving-artist story all set, not to mention a nude oil painting of myself to drag out when I got really drunk.

“So, what are you doing later? There’s a group of us going down to Ursula’s to hear the latest self-styled, Dylan-esque knockoff. I’m sure it will be very earnest. Lots of corduroy.”

“Ooh, I don’t know. I don’t want to run into that bartender I had the thing with. I still feel guilty about it and—”

“Guilty about what? About not calling him back after you had sex? You just did what every man does on a bimonthly basis—it’s your right. You should feel proud in your womanhood. You’re advancing the cause, Lena.”

“Okay, you made your point.”

“Besides he hasn’t been there in months. Unless he morphed into a Latin lesbian with a spider tattoo on her stomach. She’s the one working there now.”

“Stranger things have happened,” I joked, but couldn’t help but feel relieved. Jake reached out for my hand and pulled me to my feet.

“Come to think of it, I don’t think you have a tortured-musician story yet, do you?”

Ursula’s was, and very likely would forever be, permanently stuck in the year 1993. It had all the elements of the grunge era down perfectly—the perpetually pot-smoky air, the basic beer and hard liquor, and, of course, the sullen alt girls and boys wearing every shade of faded denim and worn leather. The walls were covered with tattered flyers announcing the next march/benefit/protest rally. Personally, I couldn’t imagine anyone here mustering the required energy to stand up straight, let alone rally against the Man, but it was a nice touch. And of course the music was predictably angst-ridden and mournful enough to make Eddie Vedder proud. I half expected to see Winona and Ethan hashing it out in a dark corner somewhere.

Jake had run into his girlfriend du jour, Miranda, at the door, so I went in search of a free table. I glanced over at the bar just to make sure Jake wasn’t tricking me and was relieved to see the spider woman herself pouring a generous drink for a Kim Deal look-alike.

I spotted a table next to the stage and motioned to Jake.

“Excellent work, Lena,” Jake said as he approached the table.

“Hey Lena,” Miranda said, looking past me.

It is often like this with Jake’s girls. In the fruitless endeavor of trying to get a firm grasp on Jake’s roving affections, I am the enemy. Of course, I always try to temper the situation by keeping my distance, making overt references to any current boyfriends, etc. But Jake usually throws a wrench into my efforts with a subtle touch to my face, an unnecessary story of “that time we had to spend the whole night in the car together.” Yes, he loves the game.

“Oh, Lena, do you know if I left my cell phone at your apartment the other night?” Jake couldn’t help smirking as Miranda visibly bristled. I half expected her perfect little head to spin off of her perfect little body.

“Oh, Jake, you’re so funny,” I started to say, but a piercing noise erupted from the speaker that was, apparently, faced directly at us. So that’s why the table was free.

“Maybe we should move,” I mouthed to Jake. And for once, Miranda appeared to be on my side.

But before Jake could answer, the crowd rushed forward toward the stage, surrounding us as the band started in on their own variation of melodic melancholy. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to make chitchat with Miranda.

I sipped my Guinness (ordering “my drink” in this place would be akin to donning a hot-pink boa) and settled in.

I had to admit the band was pretty good, and one of them, the bass player, caught my eye. I watched him bend over his instrument, his shaggy hair obscuring his (undoubtedly soulful) eyes. And like any perfectly sane person, I imagined how our life together would be.

Let’s see—after going on the road for a few club tours and collecting a slew of zany stories as two young free spirits, “Ben” (a sensitive yet masculine name, I think) and I would settle down in a brightly painted Brooklyn apartment filled with funky art and mementos from our touring adventures. Our adorable toddler named…Coda, or something similarly eccentric, would be along soon enough. The house would be teeming with pets and plants, signifying our thriving fertility and life-breeding spirit. I’d attend PTA meetings wearing the latest frock from my collection of cutting-edge hand knits that I sold at my hip Williamsburg boutique (which was frequented by all the major fashion editors and constantly featured in the pages of underground European fashion magazines). At night, we’d laugh and talk as a family to the strains of Ben’s latest composition for the film score he was working on. Coda would, of course, grow up to be a critically acclaimed filmmaker of socially and artistically progressive films, never failing to credit his parents for their loving and “creatively liberating upbringing” while giving interviews or delivering Academy Award acceptance speeches. It was so clear to me now.

And then, my beloved fantasy mate pushed his shaggy locks away from his eyes and…James?

I swiveled around so fast, I nearly spilled my beer. Jake looked at my fearful “Oh my God!” expression and instantly put the pieces together.

James the bartender, the one that Jake had promised me wouldn’t be here tonight. He was a former quasi-flame whom I had abruptly and, I’m ashamed to say, not too gently let fall by the wayside when Nick and his lusty lips had hit the scene. I wanted to die.

I looked around at the swelling crowd. I was trapped. I kept my head turned toward Jake and prayed for the set to be over so I could make my frantic exit. Finally the last irritatingly soulful song was played.

Jake leaned over, sensing my panic. Miranda stiffened. Jesus woman, this isn’t about you! I thought to myself. I wanted to throttle her little neck.

“Am I to assume that your evening is over?” he smiled. My panic impulses always amused him.

“Um, yes,” I said sharply.

At that moment, I felt the brief stillness that you feel when a private exchange suddenly becomes public.

“Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while.” Jake had slipped into his low bass voice and Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly a heterosexual male was present. I turned to face the inevitable.

“James!” I tried—and failed—to sound surprised to see him.

“Hey, Lena, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know…” I said. Um no, he doesn’t know, you moron, I thought to myself. You conveniently disappeared from his life nine months ago.

“Hope you enjoyed the show, glad you came by.” Of course, I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, Glad you came tonight when I look totally hot and you’re bloated with Guinness and playing third wheel to the Jake and Miranda show.

“Oh, I did. You sounded great.” Such conversational skills, no doubt he was thinking, How did I let this one slip by?

“Well, we’re going to leave you two alone.” Jake winked at me and guided Miranda over to the bar.

“I’m exhausted. Mind if I sit down then?” James asked.

“Oh, of course, please…sit.”

So there we were, James and I.

“I didn’t know you joined a band,” I said, simply to distract my brain from concentrating on ways to kill Jake. “You were really good.”

“Oh, thanks.” He seemed genuinely flattered. No discernible bitterness—what was going on here?

“So, no more bartending, huh?”

“Oh no, had to grow up sooner or later and get a real job.”

“Really? What’re you doing?”

He looked around the room cautiously and whispered, “Investment banking.”

We laughed conspiratorially.

“Can’t say that word too loudly in this place.” I smiled.

What the hell had I been thinking? I dropped sweet sincere James for Nick the Dick? I could feel my heart racing. It was fate—it must be. Nick was clearly the “temp,” a harmless distraction until I was ready for James, otherwise known as “The One.” Suddenly the chaos of my life made perfect, divine, joyous sense. We chatted some more—such a subtle, sophisticated sense of humor he had! And those sparkling brown eyes!

We would live in SoHo, no scratch that—the West Village, far west, near the Hudson. In a charming little town house with red shutters, a spiral staircase, and a beautiful garden in the back where I would grow herbs and James would barbecue. We’d take our time decorating the place together. There would be weekend trips to Vermont for antiquing, dinners at Tartine around the corner, summers at our beach house in Bellport (still fabulous, but not so “sceney”). After all, we were low-key, with an elegant understated sense of style. Definitely not one of those plastic Upper East Side couples dripping designer labels and angling for a Patrick McMullen shot in Hamptons magazine. No, James and I would be—

“Lena?” James was talking to me. For God’s sake, I thought to myself, pay attention to the conversation or he’s going to think you’re totally spacey!

“Yes?” I said brightly.

“I want to introduce you to Madeleine.”

Madeleine? My perfect Village town house had just been invaded by a willowy redhead with a Fendi bag. Home wrecker.

“Great to meet you, Lena.” She slipped her hand around James’s shoulder, and smiled at me warmly. Well, of course she was happy—she was dating my husband!

“Hey, I love your skirt,” Madeleine said, as if she actually meant it. The sincerity of these two was really beginning to annoy me.

“Madeleine’s a fashion designer. She just opened a shop on Crosby Street.” Was he actually beaming with pride? It was beginning to make sense to me now—James had found “The One,” a discovery that had left him so giddy that he had enough leftover glee to happily embrace any former flames with nothing but goodwill.

“Yeah,” Madeleine said. “You should stop by sometime.”

“Oh definitely,” I said between gritted teeth. This needed to end—now. I found myself getting out of my chair and, I’m sure, overexplaining how I really would love to chat more, but had to get home and…stick my head in the oven.

I elbowed my way through the crowd, searching for the sweet relief of an exit.

Once outside, I hailed a cab and headed home, mentally licking my wounds. Another night, another chance lost, I continued to pity myself. The city had won its hand.

The next morning, I had a ten-o’clock “progress meeting” with Nadine about the Sienna Skye segment. When I got to the conference room, however, I was surprised to find her already seated, chatting away with Chase Bolton.

Chase, or “Cheese,” Bolton as he was more widely known, was a self-styled media mogul in waiting, a runt Rupert Murdoch if you will, who was biding his time answering phones for a VP until he had snagged his rightful corner office. Cheese had been my intern the previous summer, but after just one week of memorizing my Rolodex and vigilantly working his smarmy way up the ass of half the higher-ups, he had been whisked off to become an assistant in the executive suite.

“Hello, Lena,” Nadine said, clearly disappointed that I had interrupted their conversation. Cheese gave me a cocky half smile and eyebrow-raise—a look that I’m sure he had rehearsed repeatedly in his bathroom mirror.

“Okay, so back to work,” Nadine said, but of course offered no explanation as to why Chase was present. She looked at me briefly and then at Cheese, letting her gaze linger. He gave her his best half smile, but with a wink this time.

Oh…my…God. Were they flirting? The very idea made me sick to my stomach. Was Nadine attracted to sleazy Cheese? Sure, Nadine and I had our issues, but as a human being, as a woman, I wanted to grab her by her Claire’s Boutique earrings and shake some sense into her—he’s practically twelve years old! His feet barely graze the floor when he sits down! He wears his sweaters tucked in with pleated pants! He listens to Tony Robbins tapes! Don’t do this!

“So,” Nadine chirped in her blissful delusion. “The Skye segment is coming along pretty well….” I relaxed a little, sensing that at least this wasn’t going to be one of her hour-long bitch sessions.

“And there’s been a really interesting development.” She paused dramatically. Nadine loved to pause dramatically.

“Sienna has agreed to let us film her—” another pause, and then in one breath “—while she shops for her People’s Choice Awards dress.” Nadine leaned back as if the weight of her announcement had left her exhausted. Cheese slammed his hand on his knee, in the most masculine form of giddy approval that he could muster.

I spoke up just to pierce their shared bubble of joy. “Great, so I’ll start rewriting the lead and I’ll notify the crew for the shoot.”

Nadine turned to me with her silly grin still pasted on her face. “Oh, Lena actually there’s been a slight change in the lineup.” She loved to use sports talk. She thought it made her sassy.

I knew it. She was going to pawn off sleazy Cheese on me to help with the segment, so she could indulge her latent schoolgirl hang-ups. I started to formulate my diplomatic yet inarguable defense as to why this could never ever happen. And then…

“I’m putting Chase in the producer spot for the second half of the Skye segment.” She shared a look with Cheese. I think the word “nausea” would have best summed up my feelings at this point.

“Nadine,” I tried, in vain, to sound composed. “I’ve spent the last two months on this story and I really think it’s best if I see it through.” I was appalled at my sudden inability to argue and humiliated by the dawning realization that I was now groveling for permission to continue work on a Sienna Skye profile. This had to be some kind of professional nadir.

“Lena, it’s part of my job to match my staff to their strengths and…” She glanced at the ceiling searching for just the right inflated language to explicate her lofty sense of professional mandate. She continued, “While you can be quite the worker bee, you’re more of a serious Sally and this segment needs someone with the right…” Eyes to ceiling, searching, searching…

“Je ne sais pas!” Cheese exclaimed, now perched on the edge of his seat.

“Yes!” Nadine exhaled with a postcoitalesque finality.

“Quoi,” I seethed.

“What?” Nadine asked, distracted. Her eyes were still locked on her little lover.

“Quoi! It’s Je ne sais QUOI!”

The two of them looked at me blankly. And then back at each other.

At this point, I could distill only two coherent thoughts: Can a regular Bic pen puncture skin? And should I get these two a cigarette?

“Why don’t you two switch research now, so we can get the ball rolling.” Any further discussion was clearly over as far as she was concerned.

Chase handed me a hardcover book and a manila folder.

I was still confused. “What do you mean switch research?”

“You’re going to be working on the project that Chase was doing.” She looked down at her notes. “Colin Bates.”

Now, I’d been to every agonizing editorial meeting under Nadine’s regime and not once had I heard mention of such a thing.

“I don’t understand. Who’s Colin Bates?”

“Well, he is a…” Nadine stalled.

“Writer,” Chase pronounced triumphantly.

“Yes!” Nadine nodded. “He is a writer.”

“I haven’t even heard of this segment. When is it supposed to run?”

Nadine drummed her fingers on the table like she always did when she was dreaming up her next fib. She clasped her hands together decidedly. “Well, that hasn’t been determined yet. It’s really sort of a favor to one of the board members, I think. He’s the author’s uncle or some sort of thing.” Which was another way of saying, it was a back-end segment that would be chopped to pieces and used to fill up the hour when the lead stories (like the Sienna Skye story!) left a few minutes of dead air.

“But don’t worry, Chase has been working on this for some time. I’m sure it’s practically finished, anyway.” Nadine blushed. Chase beamed. I scowled.

chapter 3

Many New Yorkers viewed brunch as a shrewd social maneuver. They saw it as a neutral date to be offered in lieu of a more time-consuming commitment. It served as an agreeable meeting ground for sort-of friends, old acquaintances, out-of-towners, or new alliances—essentially, anyone who didn’t quite clear the “let’s go out Saturday night” bar.

For my friend Tess and me, however, Sunday brunch was now a tradition—a breach of its standing would be a first-degree offense to our friendship. Of course, we talked on the phone nearly every day, but nothing could replace our once-a-week heart-to-heart over scrambled eggs and strong coffee at Café Colonial.

I walked past the swirling line that had already begun to snake around the corner of Elizabeth Street and winked at Alberto (whose undying affection for Tess had won us a specially reserved table) as he stacked coffee cups behind the bar. Others may value their stock tips, their summer shares, or their courtside Knicks tickets, but I had come to cherish our table at Café Colonial to an unhealthy degree. I could not count how many perplexing guy issues, frustrating work fiascoes, and general I-feel-like-my-life-is-overwhelming-mehow-do-I-get-out-of-this-funk conversations I’d had at this very table. I suppose it’s probably sacrilege to ascribe the wondrous catharsis of a religious experience to a vinyl seat and a plate of pancakes, but there you go—how else is an agnostic/lapsed protestant supposed to find enlightenment?

Tess was already seated. She looked immaculate as usual—her pale blond hair was gathered in a neat, low ponytail and her sea-green eyes gazed out the window. Tess always reminds me of a beautiful cat: serene, impeccably groomed and a little mysterious. She is the type of girl who uses words like “handsome” to describe men, can wear a string of pearls without a trace of irony, and hasn’t owned a TV since she left home for boarding school. She has no problem sitting through the endless card games and executive dinners at the Metropolitan club with her current companion, Stanley. In fact, she has no problem with the name Stanley. Don’t get me wrong, Tess is not a prude, far from it. She could sling one-liners and swill cocktails with the best of them. She just approaches her life from a different perspective than most (myself included). Sometimes, I can’t help but think she understands me and my life so well because she is on a different plane altogether.

Tess is a two-kiss greeter. She has dated so many Europeans it has become second nature. I am strictly a one-cheek girl, but I leaned down and indulged her all the same. I slid into my spot next to the window and felt my body relax instantly.

“Sweetie, you look exhausted. I’m getting you a drink.” Such endearments would normally annoy me—hon, honey, sweetheart—coming from anyone except my mother or my amore, but as with all things Tess—normal rules simply didn’t apply.

She held up one delicate hand and I could almost hear Alberto snap to attention. Two bellinis appeared instantaneously.

“So, what matters of business do we need to cover this morning, my dear?” Tess was only half kidding. I knew she took these sessions as seriously as I did.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parker had appeared at our table, seemingly out of nowhere. “Had to get one last fight in with Brad while I was trying to get a cab,” she said, struggling with her coat.

Tess gave me a look that, if expressed in words, would have said something like Oh, I see that Parker has joined us for another cycle. I responded in kind.

It had been at least three months since either Tess or I had heard from Parker (aside from the occasional group e-mail updating us on our bridesmaids’ responsibilities—yes, she was marrying Brad) and much longer since she had made it to Sunday brunch. Of course, this kind of separation was not all that unusual after a certain age, when couples seemed to drift off into their own private biospheres. It’s something a single girl must learn to accept in the way that she must accept painful blind dates, anxious mothers, and the sole responsibility of killing bugs and constructing bookshelves.

“Brad, I will talk about you if I damn well please…fuck you, too!”

Tess and I shared a confused look and then Tess remembered. “I always forget you wear that phone headset wherever you go. Good thing I didn’t start laying into that no-good Brad like I usually do,” Tess said mischievously. We could hear the muffled strains of an irate Brad through the earpiece. Parker smiled as she turned off her phone and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.

I’d known Parker since college, but it seemed like she had been at least three different people since then. When we first met, she was deep in the throes of her party-girl persona— I think the first conversation we had took place as we both got sick in side-by-side stalls in a beer-soaked frat-house bathroom. Soon after, she gave up her hard-living ways and began her passionate quest to single-handedly launch the second women’s lib movement. She grew out her hair, threw out her makeup, and even tried to adopt unisex pronouns in her speech. Then she met Brad.

Despite the transient nature of our friendship, she was the most direct link to my past life. She witnessed firsthand the Greg saga, in its glory and its tortured defeat. In fact, Parker, Brad, Greg and I had spent the better part of our undergraduate career in tandem. This shared history would perhaps be a source of comfort had it not meant that I would soon have to see Greg again at Parker and Brad’s upcoming nuptials. Anyway, now she’s a publicist and the professional world seems to suit her. She has a closet full of Gucci suits, wears dark-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and has cut her dark hair into a sleek pageboy. Even better, she can easily work herself up into a genuine tizzy over anything from the newest line of lip glosses to the latest PalmPilot upgrade.

“Well, I think we better start with you, Parker. What’s going on?” Tess said, observing the damage.

Now, knowing Tess, this suggestion was very much intentional. Parker, when present, always went first. Why, you might be wondering, would the least reliable friend be allowed to go first? Very simple. Both Tess and I (and very likely even Parker) knew that she would quickly launch into a twenty-to-thirty minute monologue on the actual and tangential issues relating to her current crisis. She would insist vehemently (and completely unconvincingly) that this time she would cancel the wedding.

Meanwhile, Tess and I would simply nod or smile or frown, when appropriate, while we finished our breakfasts (French toast with lingonberry sauce for Tess; eggs Florentine with fruit salad for me). By the time she was finished, Parker would very likely have come to her own conclusions about her quandary or at least have exhausted herself by turning it inside out. Tess and I, now fully satiated, would have had enough time to properly caffeinate ourselves for our own respective rants.

I was polishing off my second bellini when I knew this was going to be a very specific type of Sunday affair. Every now and then, our brunch would extend well beyond the “meal” and turn into a messy, drunken, no-holds-barred, daylong event of relentless self-examination. And today was one of those days. It surely wouldn’t be over until one of us had cried, argued, or made a spontaneous phone call to an angry ex or an unsuspecting crush.

I knew this because, against my better intentions, I could hear myself unraveling the tightest knots of minutiae about my failed relationship with Nick to the rapt attention of Parker, Tess and Wanda the cashier, who had joined the table after her shift was over.

“Honey,” Tess said solemnly. She moved my head with her hands so that, had I not lost all ability to focus, I would be looking her in the eyes meaningfully. “You’ve got to stop romanticizing these boys.”

“You’re right,” I said. And she was. It might seem strange to take such advice from someone who had gauzy scarves draped over every light fixture in her apartment, but I had to admit where men (or boys as she stubbornly insisted on calling them) were concerned, Tess had figured some things out. She understood my problem. Hell, even Wanda understood my problem at this point.

“Sweetheart, here in New York he’s an artist with a sexy accent,” Tess continued. “I’ll bet you back home in Liver-pool, he’s just a short bloke with a coloring-book fixation.”

“Wait.” Parker put down her drink sharply and pulled herself back from the table dramatically. Tess and I looked at her expectantly.

“He’s…short?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “You’re getting this upset over a short guy?”

“I’m with Parker,” Wanda said, picking at Parker’s cold French fries. “Case closed.”

With that, glasses raised, we all burst into the gleeful laughter of four drunk girls, gaily skewering the male species for sport.

Oh, to bottle those moments of alcohol-induced clarity before they hit the wall of sober confusion. Why couldn’t those moments last longer than the hangover?

I didn’t make it back to my apartment until dusk. Not entirely drunk, though certainly not sober, I was getting that slightly apprehensive, sinking-stomach feeling I always got as Sunday night descended. Plus, having spent the majority of the day avoiding necessary errands, household chores and, of course, work, this anxiety was laced with a heavy dose of slothfulness.

Determined to at least portray the idea of productivity, I turned on This American Life, straightened up my disheveled living room and set up my computer. Whether I actually did work was less important than the comforting idea that I could, if necessary. I poured a tall glass of water and set about the not-too-painful task of answering e-mail. And then, this one caught my eye.

Hello Lena,

Chase Bolton gave me your name as the new contact person for my segment. Could you possibly let me know what’s going on with it? It’s been dragging on for some time now and I’m leaving town in a few days.

Thanks,

Colin Bates

I felt an inexplicable rage begin to well up inside me: Who does he think he is—writing me like this, pressuring me to get going on “his” segment? I found myself typing furiously.

Mr. Bates,

While I appreciate your predicament, I must also demand your patience. I was only recently handed this assignment and cannot be held responsible for the actions, or lack thereof, of my predecessor, Chase Bolton. I also do hope you’re aware that this segment will be quite short and has no determined airdate.

Regards,

Lena Sharpe

With a haughty sniff, I sent it off. Who did he think he was? He was just some no-name writer telling me how to do my job. I looked down at the screen—a new message was blinking—it was from Colin Bates. Suddenly I began to feel painfully sober. I read nervously.

Hey Lena,

Not a problem. Just let me know when you can. And please, call me Colin.

—cb

What? I was beyond confused. Why was he playing this humble act?

I picked up his book, realizing that I hadn’t even looked at it yet. It was plain and relatively thin, with the author’s name printed inconspicuously below the title My Indian Summer. Oh God, I thought, no doubt it was the poor little rich boy’s story of his fab summer vacation!

I flipped to the back—okay, so it had gotten some good reviews, even from the Times (but it wasn’t Kakutani so it didn’t count as much, I consoled myself). On the inside flap, there was a picture of a man’s legs from the knees down. Underneath, it read: “A view of the author from the perspective of his dog, Emmylou. The two reside in Grafton, Vermont, where they enjoy playing Frisbee and taking long afternoon naps.” I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I responded:

Colin,

Sorry for the terse message before. I was caught off guard when Chase handed over the story—just trying to get my bearings. Thanks for understanding.

Lena

Okay, so I wasn’t playing hardball, but Jesus, after my work drama Friday and my brunch catharsis earlier that day, I was feeling pretty drained. Colin responded in moments. This was getting weird.

Lena,

Please—you’re the one stuck with documenting my boring life! Anyway, I have to ask, what’s the deal with Chase? I think he probably left me 20 messages about what I should wear for the sit-down interview. Strange one, no?

—cb

I was starting to like this guy. I wondered if he lived in a farmhouse. I could almost picture him lounging on a front-porch swing looking out at an apple orchard…no! I scolded myself. I had made a pact with myself—it was time to face reality. This was business. I sat up straight and began typing purposefully.

Colin,

If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of friends, family members, fellow writers, etc. that we can interview for background material. You can forward me the information via this e-mail address.

Lena

There. That wasn’t so hard.

Lena,

Sure, no problem. Though, I have to say I feel a little silly getting all this attention. You’re going to know everything about me and we’ve never met. I will get to meet you, won’t I?

—cb

I thought for a moment about how active my imagination could be, how much trouble and heartache it had caused me over the years. And then gradually, imperceptibly, I found myself thinking about gingham tablecloths, jars of apple butter, and crickets at night. Dammit.

chapter 4

“Oh, Lena,” Tess said wearily as she took a glass of champagne from a circulating waiter.

We sat down on a red velvet banquette and surveyed the crowd—a quintessential Parker production, more commonly known as a press party.

I didn’t respond to Tess. I regretted having said anything to her at all about Colin and tried to look preoccupied with the scene around us, but that was almost futile. I had been to so many of these types of events, I was on a first-name basis with the waitstaff. It was always the same party with the same food—an assortment of tuna tartare on toast, mini quiches, and duck spring rolls. The cast of characters rarely changed—the usual mix of suit-wearing executives, a cluster of chain-smoking models, the stray B-list actor, and the odd club kid or two thrown in for the illusion of street cred.

“Hey, Lena, I’m sorry.” Tess touched my arm gently. “It’s just that I thought you were going to try to stop getting ahead of yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt again, you know?” Why did the avoidance of “getting hurt” always involve some other type of pain? I wondered.

“Tess, don’t worry. I just think he’s intriguing. He’s a writer. He lives in the country. He has a golden retriever, for God’s sake,” I said. “He couldn’t be more different than Nick.”

“Well, that’s a good start,” she said.

“Besides, I haven’t even seen him. It’s fun just to daydream, you know?” I said lightly. In fact, I had not responded to Colin’s last e-mail immediately for this very reason. The sheer ambiguity of our exchange allowed me countless fantastical projections about just who Colin Bates was and how our obvious connection would evolve. Could he have soulful gray-green eyes and a talent for making homemade pasta? Why of course! These questions (and my imagination’s affirmative answers) could go on for days. I would sit at my desk happily sorting faxes or stapling Nadine’s “memos” fueled by the giddy daydreams of Colin reading to me from his new manuscript as we slurped down freshly made gnocchi. Sigh.

“Just promise me you’ll go slowly, okay?” Tess said, not giving up.

“Of course,” I said, but she eyed me suspiciously. “I swear, Tess!” I said, and looked away.

Circles of guests performing their festive obligations collided around us. I noticed a woman wearing men’s pinstripe pants and a tie wrapped around her chest like a bandeau top. A pencil-thin woman balanced a toddler on one hip and chatted on a cell phone—doing her best Jade Jagger-esque approximation of a bohemian parent. I spotted Parker expertly weaving her way through the crowd toward us, clipboard in hand, of course. She was in her element—a beautiful space, beautiful people and, most importantly, the position of authority to determine exactly who would be selected to enjoy it all. (I felt sure if Sleazy Cheese worked for Parker, he would be busy scrubbing floors in the back.)

“Thanks for coming, you guys—my agency friend flaked out on me again so we’re a little short on the model quotient, but you guys help fill the space,” she said brightly.

Tess and I shared a mental eye roll. It wasn’t personal— Parker was like a choreographer and press events were her ballet. To her, Tess and I were the klutzy understudies that always came through when the prima donna ballerinas got sick—or, in this case, got last-minute bookings for a Stuff magazine photo shoot. Parker adjusted her headset and perched herself on a windowsill cluttered with party detritus.

“I’m also glad you’re both here because I wanted to talk a little bit more about the dresses.”

And we were trapped. Tess flagged the waiter for another round and we girded ourselves, secretly praying for a heated coat-check incident to carry Parker and her premarital monologues away. As if a sign from God, Tess’s cell phone interrupted Parker’s intense dissection of the difference between periwinkle and robin’s-egg blue.

“Hey, Parker—I’m so sorry. I’ve really got to go,” Tess announced, snapping her cell phone shut. “I’m going to go meet Stanley for a nightcap at the Knickerbocker.” She gave me a heartfelt glance and with a kiss to each cheek she was gone.

“It’s almost impossible to sit the two of you down long enough to go over anything.” Parker looked annoyed.

“Actually, Parker, we haven’t seen very much of you since the engagement.”

“What?” She looked slightly offended. “I’ve been busy, Lena. Getting married is a full-time job. Brad and I have practically every weekend booked with appointments these days.” It must be so taxing to explain these things to a hopelessly single person….

“So, are things better now between you two?”

“Of course,” she said, without a hint of contemplation. Parker didn’t contemplate. “We argue, that’s all. It’s a sign of passion, Lena.” There were so many things she had to explain to me. Clearly my naiveté was exhausting her.

I wondered what it would be like to live inside Parker’s head—to love your job and not question its “meaning” constantly, to see your future in front of you, down to the color scheme of your first child’s (a boy—Bennett, or if it’s a girl— Bethany) nursery. What was it like to imagine your husband and see an actual face that you knew—not some vague collection of traits that seemed “ideal” but weren’t any more real than your childhood crush on Andy Gibb? Parker knew the rules and played the game. She knew what she wanted and she went after it with a zeal that sometimes scared me. She believed in the hierarchy of the world and comfortably, confidently, took her place within it. It was fun to make jokes about her new obsession with tulle and taffeta and her search for a good-looking reformed rabbi who wouldn’t dwarf Brad, but at least she was living a real life, planning real events that were meaningful, not snidely standing by on the sidelines waiting for something, anything to happen.

“So, I don’t know, Lena—I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind?”

“Uh…” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“It’s just that your color, as nice as it is, doesn’t quite complement the overall theme.” Parker raised her hands grandly and fluffed up the hair around my face, her eyes squinting critically.

“What color do you want it to be?” I asked.

“Brown with copper undertones.” She smiled brightly.

“My hair is brown, Parker.”

“Yes, but it has golden undertones.”

Yes, I thought, Parker’s world made sense to her. It did not, however, make sense to me.

“Parker!” One of her publicity plebes rushed to her side, his headset tangled in his overgelled hair. He blurted out some story about a nasty goody-bag tiff and Parker rose from her seat like a general facing the enemy.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Now that Tess was gone and dinner was taken care of (making a well-balanced meal out of finger food was a particularly good skill of mine), I figured it was time to call it a night. But then…

“Mind if I sit down?” A guy wearing a rumpled blue suit and a loose tie took over Parker’s vacated seat. Lightning-quick mental assessment: Points added—broad shoulders, full head of hair. Points subtracted—ditch the cuff links and (oh no!) lose the class ring for God’s sake.

Points to be determined—these events were usually all business, more about the illusion of a good time than the actual act—the subject’s approach could indicate that he’s an event novice, a naive young thing who has mistaken a publicity party for the pickup scene at the Cub Room.

“I’m Skip.” Skip. This wasn’t looking good. Point subtracted.

“I’m Lena—nice to meet you.” Well, you have to be polite, after all.

“So, do you work for TCT?”

After a moment of confusion, I realized he was talking about the “star” of the party—some tech company’s newest cell phone model (which Parker would gladly tell you both Brad Pitt and Gisele “absolutely swore by”). I imagined a walking phone with a feather boa and Gucci stilettos sauntering by.

“No, no…just a fan.” I decided to joke with Skip. He looked confused.

“Yeah, so—I’m here with some friends from UBS.”

Okay, I swear I’d misheard him when I said the following. “You work for UPS?”

“No.” Skip looked genuinely offended. “UBS—the investment bank,” he said, with a tone mixing both condescension and disdain. Did he know Nadine, I wondered? And what was so bad about UPS?

“So, what do you do at UBS?” I asked, in an attempt to ease his wounded ego.

“Well,” he inhaled. And we were off. Let the discussion of “me, Skip” commence.

It always amazed me how some men would answer this question with such intense, highly unnecessary detail. I watched Skip’s overbleached teeth bob up and down as he talked about internal messaging systems and transaction litigation. I noticed a mole, just under his nose. It had a long gray whisker just waiting to be plucked.

“So, me and the boys are just out to celebrate the deal.”

And so you came to a phone party.

“I know the party planner and she got me in,” he added.

Oh Lord, he was talking about Parker. I recoiled at the notion that Skip and I had other connections between us besides our mutual attendance at a phone party.

“So, what do you think of this tie?” His eyes gleamed. His eyes were gleaming over a tie. Bless him.

“Uh, it’s great.” How else do you answer that question?

“Got it down in Dallas when we were scouting out the service provider like I was telling you. Funny story, actually…”

Actually no, it would not be a funny story. Not at all, that much I was sure about. Why was Skip talking to me in the first place, I thought to myself while he droned on? He must, in some deep, dark recess of his beer-soaked, post-big-deal, three-martini-lunch state of mind, think there was a possibility that we had some level of compatibility?

He grabbed a chicken skewer from a passing tray. I looked at him and knew he was one of those guys who spread his legs out on the subway, taking up an extra seat. I watched him concentrate on his skewer, like an animal with his kill. I hated him right then. Intensely. I bet he played golf.

I really was being harsh. On some level I knew I was wrong and petty. Maybe, just maybe, Skip saw something that I wasn’t able—wasn’t ready—to see.

“Hey,” Skip looked up from his skewer. Our eyes met. “Did I mention that I really like your hair?”

The next morning, as Andre dutifully put the finishing touches on my new cut, I mentally repented for my previous night’s transgressions and made my usual resolution never to drink or smoke again, to go to the gym, reorganize my closet, and to be nicer to men like Skip in the future.

“Little bit different this time, Lena darling.”

“New season, new me.”

Andre winked at me approvingly in the mirror. I wish I could wink like that. Mental note: work on wink.

Not that I felt sorry for Skip—not in the least. Skip, in all his plain vanilla banality, was going to lead a perfectly pleasant, content life. After all, he fit into the world’s design like a hand in a glove (preferably by Brooks Brothers, of course). He very likely laughed at sitcoms, enjoyed dinners at the Country Club, and thought corporate culture was good and natural. He probably wasn’t even embarrassed to read People magazine in public. Despite myself, or perhaps as some sort of punishment for my previous rudeness, I couldn’t stop myself from imagining our life together…

I would drive a Honda minivan—we had considered a Lexus SUV, but that really wasn’t the place to put our money right now, what with the kids being small and the dog would tear it up anyway, so the minivan it would be. There would, of course, be a bumper sticker espousing our love for some sporting team or proudly trumpeting our honor-student kids. Our life would be a cheerful stew of organized events—PTA meetings, neighborhood board meetings, Little League games, homecoming games, bake sales, charity drives, 5K runs, winter carnivals and summer barbecues. I’d wear a bob and layers of loose-fitting clothing by Dana Buchman and Eileen Fisher. Natural fibers, earth tones and sensible shoes would enter my life. I would make casseroles. We would play bridge.

I couldn’t continue. And I wondered if it was because, perhaps, that life didn’t really seem as odious as I would like to imagine.

I exhaled audibly as I exited the salon, feeling safe in the knowledge that Andre—who was at least twenty times cooler and more stylish than myself—felt I had made a sound hair decision.

My cell phone rang. I swung my new tresses to the side and answered.

“Jesus, Lena, I cannot believe you!”

Parker. Here we go.

“Why? Of all people? Why did you have to single out Brad’s best friend to perform your one-woman sarcasm revue?”

Skip was Brad’s best friend? Of course.

“Look, Parker…” I decided to deal with her calmly.

“Sometimes, I just don’t get you,” she said, exasperated.

Even more positive affirmation, I thought happily. I was definitely feeling better.

“You do realize he will be walking you down the aisle, don’t you?”

“What?” I do believe I screeched.

“Stop it, Lena. You’re the only two that are unattached—you’ll practically be spending the entire evening together. I thought it would be a good thing for you.”

Yes, I thought, good like a colonoscopy is good for you.

“What do you have against nice guys, after all?”

Screw calmness. This was my moment.

“He called you a party planner,” I said, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

There was silence. And then the brittle tap of Parker’s manicured nails on her brushed metal desk. And then…

“That fucker.”

At 9:58 p.m., I poured some Chardonnay into my favorite plastic cup and folded myself snugly on the couch with my laptop resting nicely on a stack of throw pillows. I wondered briefly if this was how Internet porn users approached their task, but pushed the thought out of my mind as quickly as possible.

At 10:06, a particularly inauspicious time I thought, I typed a message.

Colin,

Just happened to be online—are you?

Lena

I took a sip and waited. And waited. And then…

Lena,

Hey there. I’ve been sitting here staring at the same paragraph on my computer for a solid hour. What’s a more, ahem, literary word for “sticky”? Anyway, I could use some pleasant procrastination. What’s up?

—cb

Interesting. He was approaching our online exchange as a welcome, almost expected—and appreciated—diversion. Subtle signs, but good ones. Still, must proceed cautiously. After all, I had made the initial overture.

Colin,

I know that you’re loath to subject yourself to the grimy, swarming mass that is the modern-day media, but—alas—I am a working gal and I’ve got a pesky little deadline (not to mention a pit-bull of a boss)… Can we talk business?

Lena

I took another sip of wine and waited.

Lena,

You bring up an interesting point. Isn’t the better question, this one: Why have you let yourself become a willing player in a liar’s game? Lena, I’m concerned—help me understand.

—cb

Oh, he was good. I paused, considering my response.

Colin,

You are quite sly, but don’t think I’ll be distracted from my objective by the lure of dissecting my own story—it’s not that interesting.

Lena

His response took an unbearably long time. I began my self-loathing monologue—I’m so boring. Why am I assuming such familiarity? I’m just a big, big, big, big dork. And then…

Lena,

So, how does one convince you to tell your story?

—cb

My heart leaped. He wanted to know my story? Mine? And then I panicked—I don’t have a story! There is no story! I’d set him up for a story and I did not have one!

Lena,

I’m waiting…

—cb

The cursor blinked impatiently—or was it flirtatiously? He was not, I could tell, in the mood for business. Shouldn’t I welcome this exchange? Yes, yes I should. I was sure of that. But how? Time was passing, I felt desperate. I started typing—something, anything.

Colin,

Nice try, but I think it’s best if we concentrate on you right now, the next big literary thing that you are.

Lena

I was so lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. What was wrong with me?

Lena,

I don’t think you think it has to be that way. What do you think?

—cb

Colin,

Hmm, let me think about it.

Lena

Lena,

But I’m bored with “me.” Isn’t that why we write, after all, to avoid the unrelenting burden of self?

—cb

Colin,

You are certainly quite the philosopher tonight. But, for the sake of sparing me the rancor of my superior, I must beg you to shoulder the “burden of self” for just a few moments…

Lena

Lena,

Excellent opening—thank you. Let’s talk about this boss of yours. Explain this relationship.

—cb

I didn’t respond. I had lost control of the conversation. I didn’t really want to talk about myself, but, on the other hand, did I really want him to stop? I was flattered by the idea that he wanted to know about me, but I was terrified that the sad truth of my answers would extinguish any further curiosity. I decided to be sarcastic, as usual.

Colin,

I couldn’t begin to explain that relationship. Any attempt, however, might cure your tendency to procrastinate.

Lena

Lena,

Okay, new topic. What’s your favorite time of day?

—cb

My favorite time of day? I paused, unsure how to respond. Now he was posing esoteric, soul-searching questions. Jesus, couldn’t we just talk about movies or something!

Colin,

Is this a trick question?

Lena

Lena,

No, just an innocent one.

—cb

Colin,

You tell me first.

Lena

Lena,

Dawn. Trite but true.

—cb

Colin,

Midnight.

Lena

Lena,

Why midnight?

—cb

Colin,

You first.

Lena

Lena,

Oh, you know—the world’s asleep, the day is new, the streets are empty, Hallmark card shit. And I can finally let my dog run around without a leash.

—cb

Colin,

Eloquent.

Lena

Lena,

Thanks. Your turn.

—cb

He had a way of unnerving me. I felt like I had to answer his questions. And well.

Colin,

Because it’s the dividing line. It’s the point between yesterday and tomorrow, between reasonably late and obscenely late. It separates the men from the boys, so to speak. Does that make sense?

Lena

What was I talking about? I had that feeling I got when I realized that I had said something intensely personal without meaning to.

Lena,

Are you a writer?

—cb

I didn’t know what to say—or write. I was so embarrassed by my poetic declaration. He was a writer, not me.

Lena,

Hello? Are you there?

—cb

I exhaled and sat up straight…

Colin,

Don’t be silly…I’m just a TV producer—that annoying person who’s supposed to sum up your life in 9 minutes and 22 seconds. As such, it’s my professional duty to remain impartial, objective, inscrutable. Now, start sharing.

Lena

He was trying to have a real conversation and I had blown it. He made me wait for his answer. Retribution?

Lena,

How am I to spill my innermost feelings to an “impartial, objective, inscrutable” listener? Hmm?

—cb

Good question.

The next day, Colin finally relented.

Lena,

I will boldly get this ball rolling, if for no other reason than to stop my publicist from leaving me threatening messages— I think I’m getting some insight into that boss of yours. Now, forgive my bluntness, but here is a list of the people who will likely (hopefully!) speak about me in unwavering, hyperbolic platitudes.

MOM (also known as “Libby Bates”): A no-brainer really. Should be very useful for teary, sentimental moments, if you so choose…

DR. ARTHUR LEEDY: Bespectacled, tweed-wearing professor who wisely spotted young Colin’s burgeoning talent and took him under his esteemed albeit aged wing.

CALEB: Best friend since boarding school, like a brother, good for embarrassing but good-natured stories about youthful high jinks.

There. A perfectly embarrassing start. Please kindly refrain from undue mocking.

Yours,

Colin

I sat at my desk for nearly an hour before it sank in that my job—my professional mandate—was to examine the life of my most recent crush.

How fitting. I was, after all, a girl with a long and tortured crush history. They had started early and with a fierce intensity. The first one, as is so often the case, was the most painful. His name was Rodney and he loved Spider-Man. I spent endless recesses watching him play dodge ball, wishing unchild-like ill will on his opposing teammates. When he got a nosebleed during a lecture by the local fire chief, I cried quietly in the bathroom, hoping for his swift recovery. I wanted to know everything about him. I watched which foods he chose at lunch—sloppy joes or hot dogs, which ice cream he liked—Nutty Buddies with the occasional Fudgsicle for good measure. One day, he gave me a plastic Minnie Mouse ring on the playground. I thought it meant something. It, time cruelly proved, did not. Rodney moved away to Akron a year later. I looked it up on the map—it was three thumbs away. It might as well have been Africa, I remember thinking.

So, here I was, twenty years later, and not much had changed. Except this time, I held the key to the lock box of my dear crush’s inner world—and I was required to look inside, inspect the contents thoroughly and report my findings. As difficult as it would be, I knew I had to quell my feelings and get serious. I might work for a show that considered a segment on Sienna Skye’s Buddha collection to be hard-hitting news, but I was still a journalist, dammit!

I picked up the phone at least three times to begin my investigation, only to put it down swiftly when the realization of my task overwhelmed me. I needed coffee. That was it. I could be a different person when properly caffeinated—nothing would stand in my way. I was hyped-up, no-non-sense Lena after a particularly potent espresso.

I marched to the kitchen to search for my loot. I stopped short when I noticed a rim of spiky gelled hair peaking over the refrigerator door—it had to be Chase. The door closed. It was just me and the Cheese.

“Leeena. Heeey!”

He was holding a Stonyfield Farms yogurt, french vanilla. I felt strongly that it was not his. I always wondered who would steal their co-workers lunch out of the communal fridge. Cheese would. I had no doubt.

“Hi, Chase. Just getting some coffee.”

“Midafternoon slump, huh?”

Could blood really boil? I pondered the thought.

“Uh, no Chase. I’m riding high on the adrenaline of my job.”

“Oh right.” He looked flustered. “Me, too.” I’d challenged his own intensity. Cheese apparently had no capacity for sarcasm.

“We’re just tweaking the Skye piece. It looks aaaaawesome, I have to say.”

He had to say that his piece looks “aaaaawesome.” Perhaps because I shot all the footage and did all of the pre-interviews. Perhaps because I had all the visuals selected and edited. Perhaps because all Cheese had to do was position himself behind the editor with his arms crossed, and nod while Nadine called the few remaining shots.

“How’s that thing you’re working on?”

Physical violence seemed inevitable.

I said nothing. I eyed his yogurt. He shifted uncomfortably. I eyed his yogurt again and then looked into his beady, lying eyes, burrowing through his tinted contacts to pierce his dark, little soul. Yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese, yogurt, Cheese.

“Okay, well I’ve got to get back to the edit,” he stammered, backing away. I waited.

“Hey, Chase.”

He turned cautiously. I paused.

“Don’t you want a spoon?” I let the words slither out slowly.

His mouth was slack, his eyes wide. He said nothing and scampered away like a roach caught by the kitchen lights.

I marched back to my desk, resolute. I didn’t need coffee—I was running on rage. Call number one: Professor Leedy.

I punched the numbers as casually as if I were calling Tess. It rang. I waited.

“Hello?” An elderly man answered.

“Hello, Professor Leedy?”

“Speaking.”

I could hear classical music in the background. I imagined he was working on a lecture, editing a book, formulating a new school of thought, while smoking a pipe of some sort.

“Hi, I’m Lena Sharpe. I’m working on a television profile of Colin Bates.”

“Oh, yes, yes, dear—he told me you might call.”

I loved Professor Leedy already. He was the sort of college professor that I was supposed to have had—not the endless stream of messy-haired grad students with bad breath, trudging through their sixth Ph.D. year, working on dissertations about the role of identity and gender in twentieth-century post-WWII Slovakian cinema.

I pictured Professor Leedy, settling back in his worn leather chair, surrounded by richly hued mahogany furniture, plush Oriental rugs, and an eclectic array of classical busts and collected artifacts from his travels throughout the world. He would be reserved but warmhearted, pleasantly rumpled but mentally disciplined. He would listen carefully, speak infrequently, but counsel wisely. He would drink bourbon and wear tweed.

“Colin, I can tell you,” he began unprompted, “is a real talent. Have you read his poetry?” He asked, sounding as if he truly hoped I had.

“Well, no—I didn’t realize he wrote poetry.” I was blushing.

“Oh, you must read it, Lena. Though I’m sure Colin would be incensed if he knew I’d shown it to you! He’s still a young man trying to preserve his tough outer shell, after all.”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s my job to chip away at that very shell.” I wasn’t sure where my words were coming from, if you must know.

“I suppose it is, my dear.” He paused, raising one eyebrow I felt sure. “I think you’ll find it to be a rewarding task should you be persistent.”

Was Professor Leedy testing me? Could the wise, aged professor be sniffing out a potential match for his prized protégé? It was a ridiculous thought, but… I panicked—how does one appeal to an octogenarian Milton scholar? What would an octogenarian Milton scholar look for? Intelligence, yes—I could string a sentence together, perhaps toss in a literary reference or two, sure. Problem was that I never found myself to be less coherent and more ditzy than when I was trying to project an erudite image. And, let’s be honest here, I was not in the daily habit of deconstructing classic literature—it just wasn’t how my life was organized at the moment.

“So, it’s done—I will send you my volume. I really think that it will help you get to the heart of, well, his heart.” He chuckled lightly.

There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? The next call, however, would not be as easy. There really was no way to prepare for this one. I cleared my throat and tried to detach myself from the bizarre nature of the task at hand. This is my job. This is my job. This is my job.

Libby Bates answered the phone herself. She sounded refined, elegant, educated. And tall. Definitely tall.

“Hi there.” Hi there?

I looked down at my notes—yes, I had notes.

“This is Lena Sharpe. I’m an associate producer at the television show Face to Face and I’m calling about the profile of your son, Colin, that we’re doing.” I started to understand how a telemarketer must feel: And, if you have a moment, I’d like to discuss your long-distance telephone service.

“Oh yes, of course. Could you just hold on for one second?…Teresa, would you mind watching the stove for me for a moment. I’ll need to take this call. Thank you.”

I was a call she “needed to take”! I wondered what she was cooking. I was glad that she didn’t expect Teresa to take care of everything.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. We’re having some people over tonight, so it’s a bit chaotic here.” She said this in a way that seemed to convey that she didn’t mind the chaos so very much.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I don’t mean to interrupt. I can certainly call back at a better time.”

“Oh no, don’t be silly. I’m glad you called. I’m just so proud of Colin—I realize of course that that’s not a shock, coming from his mother after all.” She laughed. She did seem proud, but not in a boastful, “my child’s talent is a reflection of my own” or “isn’t it now obvious what a fabulous job I have done raising my child” way. Just genuine excitement and goodwill. Touching really.

“I was just calling to see if you might be willing to do a short interview for the piece—”

“I’m so sorry, Lena. One second.” And then, “Teresa, would you mind letting Emmylou in—she’s scratching at the door.” Emmylou! Colin’s Emmylou?! Yes, I was this excited over a dog.

“I know!” Libby Bates exclaimed suddenly. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Teresa, Emmylou or me.

“Why don’t you come over tonight for the party and we can talk about it there?” She was pleased with her solution. I was speechless.

“Oh, well, of course,” I stammered and then, worried that I seemed rude, I tried to be more emphatic. “Of course, I’d love to.”

“Fantastic. We’re at one-eighteen East Ninety-second. You should come by around eight or so. It’s just a silly casual thing for the Central Park Children’s Zoo.”

“This is so kind of you, Mrs. Bates.”

“My pleasure, darling. Really. See you soon!”

I hung up the phone—confused, nervous and excited. This was not in my notes.

chapter 5

I flung open my closet and glanced at the clock. I had exactly four and a half hours to reinvent myself as the perfect daughter-in-law designate. I knew what I needed to do.

“I need your help.”

“Honey-bunny, what is it?” Jake said, sounding as if he’d just woken up. Or maybe he was drunk?

“I need you to come with me to Colin’s mom’s house tonight.”

“Lena, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not still fixated on this one, please.”

“It’s not a fixation,” I said, irritated by the description. “It’s a…it’s, I don’t have time to explain what it is. It’s my job. Can you come with me or not?”

“Well…”

“Just—can you come? Say yes.”

“I was planning on alphabetizing my CDs.”

“Nice try, but we both know they’re already alphabetized.”

“Not by genre.”

I said nothing.

“Seriously, I’m sorry, Lena—I have to watch Crumbcake tonight. She had some tests at the vet today and she’s wearing one of those lovely doggie cones around her neck. It’s a pathetic sight, really.”

Crumbcake was Miranda’s dog. Correction, “Gateau” was her dog; Crumbcake was what Jake had rechristened her. She was bony and loud, with a bracing bark that could sound both whiny and critical. In other words, she was Miranda.

“Bring her with you.” I knew then that I was, legitimately and officially, panicked.

“But she hates you, Lena.”

“True.” He had a point.

“Plus, Miranda will find out and then I’ll have to deal.”

I imagined Crumbcake and Miranda having a furious and intense discussion of her trauma.

“I know, I’ll ask Super Si to watch her,” I said. Si was my super and on more occasions than I care to remember, I had called on him to chase cockroaches around my apartment, fish a necklace out of the drain, and perform various forms of spackling triage on my crumbling walls. I call him Super Si because he’s a super and because, well, he’s super. I tried to explain this to him once, but it didn’t translate, like so many thoughts I had, when said out loud.

“God, Jake—for fuck’s sake, get over here.”

“Is there really a need to swear and use the Lord’s name in vain? I think one or the other would suffice.”

“Jake—it’s so not the time.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry—I’ll vespa right over.” For the record, Jake did not have a Vespa, but he felt that he really should have one. No, he had a used ten-speed.

I felt calmer instantly. Jake’s skill with a closet was akin to a natural chef’s ability to transform saltines, ketchup and canned tuna into a sumptuous feast.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived. Head-to-toe Paul Smith. An irate Crumbcake accessory was the only thing that detracted from his perfection.

“You look…perfect,” I said with a mixture of envy and admiration.

Jake, oh so modestly, made an exaggerated, Mark Vanderloo-esque turn.

“I really, really do—don’t I?”

He was only half kidding.

“But there is one, reluctant concession.” Jake pulled from his pocket a gleaming gray silk tie like a magician displaying his hidden string of scarves. Jake didn’t do ties. I was touched. “Just in case.”

“So, how casual is casual?” he asked as he made his way to the kitchen to deposit Crumbcake.

“Therein lies my predicament—I’m not sure.”

“Do we have any clues? Indicators?”

“None,” I responded solemnly. “She just said that it was a benefit for a children’s zoo and that it was…casual.”

A somber tone had overtaken us both. We could have been talking about global warming, missile treaties, or maybe the ethical consequences of human cloning.

“I see, so it’s ‘casual,’ but not casual.” He seemed to have gleaned a key piece of information.

“Maybe I should just call and ask?”

“Better you show up nude. Then she’ll really know you’re a neophyte.”

“Do we have to resort to name-calling?”

“I don’t think you’re a neophyte—and all the better if you are. I’m channeling the mind-set of a sixty-year-old socialite, that’s all.” He shook off the thought with a chill.

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