Oh! You Pretty Things, Page 26

“I’m meeting him in the lobby at six thirty,” Eva says. She takes a fluttery green washed-silk Stella McCartney tunic from the rack, tags still dangling from the bodice: $1,855.

  Why don’t I have my own room, again?

  “I’m thinking this with those gold Prada flats I got.” She scans the room, looking for shoeboxes. “Where are the shoes from Jeffrey?”

  “There weren’t any shoes.” I gesture to the rack and the side table where I’ve laid out the various accessories. “Everything is right here.”

  “There were three pairs of shoes. No, two. I didn’t get the Demeulemeesters.”

  “I’ll call right now,” I say.

  “This is such a bummer,” she says, as anguished as if I’ve just told her one of the Rosebuds died. “How did this even happen?”

  “Why don’t I jump in a cab and go down there while Jess figures it out?” Scout says, then tells me, “Text me once you’ve handled it?”

  “Scoutillish, you’re so awesome,” Eva says.

  I punch in the phone number for Jeffrey from the receipt I’ve stacked with the others on the coffee table while Scout stands with her hand on the doorknob, waiting for someone to call her off her fool’s errand.

  “This is Jess with Eva Carlton,” I tell the associate who answers the phone. “I think you left a bag out of a pickup I made earlier.”

  “Ohmygod,” the guy says, his voice escalating from ennui into obsequiousness. “We’ve been freaking out. We didn’t have a number. It’s right here. We’re so sorry.”

  I give Eva a dorky thumbs-up. “We’ll have someone come down and get it right now.”

  “Absolutely not,” he says. “Tell me where you are and we’ll bring it to you right away.”

  “Parker Meridien on Fifty-Sixth. Take my cell”—I spool out the number—“and call me from the lobby.” I turn to Scout with what I hope is a convincing smile. “Stand down, soldier.”

  Eva’s wrapped up in her phone screen, not even paying attention anymore. “Dude. Tony texted me a poem! You want to hear it?”

  “I don’t really get poetry. That’s more Scout’s kind of thing.”

  Eva reads us the poem. He compares her eyes to a jungle cat, a panther, and, just for emphasis, a tiger, too. I can’t tell if it’s poetic or if he saves the good stuff for the Mississippi Review.

  “He’s been on night shoots for the past three days,” she says. “I’m going to have him here for dinner. Oh, shit, that reminds me. Can you go to Diptyque or wherever and get me a shitload of candles? The lighting in here is like a morgue.”

  It isn’t, but I’m not going to argue, nor am I going to point out that the only Diptyque stores in New York are nowhere near midtown. The “or wherever” part is what I’m taking to heart. One hour and $575 in tips and merchandise later, I’m back at the door, carrying a large brown-and-white-striped bag stuffed with a variety of candles from Henri Bendel, which I had the concierge coordinate and execute, and the Jeffrey bag with the shoes Eva so desperately needs. I’m feeling pretty perky, because I also snuck in a shower at the hotel spa, and had room service bring me a bourbon on the rocks. They even gave my clothes a tumble with some Febreze or something, so I don’t smell like the waitresses’ locker room at a Vegas casino.

  When I walk in the door, Rihanna’s “Umbrella” is blaring from Eva’s travel speakers, there’s an empty bottle of Cristal on the coffee table, Eva’s standing barefoot on the desk chair and shimmying in the Stella McCartney like she’s in front of a sold-out crowd at Madison Square Garden while Scout is wearing a Rachel Pally caftan that I’ve been coveting since I saw it in one of the tabloids on a pregnant Jessica Simpson. It’s black-and-gray-patterned, with a floor-sweeping hem and open sleeves that show just enough shoulder to keep it from looking staid. That’s a three-thundred-dollar dress. A drop in the bucket, but still: I’m fucking envious.

  And holy shit, Scout’s face. Minka worked some kind of esthetician voodoo, and Scout looks like a twenty-first-century Greek goddess, her eyes lined in kohl, her hair pinned on her head in a loose pouf and cascading down her back in abundant curls. Despite my spa shower and fluffed-up clothes, I suddenly feel like I’m rattling a used Starbucks cup for change over on Sixth Avenue.

  “Holy fuck.” I give the Prada box to Eva, then start unpacking candles. “You guys look beyond amazing.”

  “Tony’s going to be here any minute,” Eva says. “I made you guys reservations at Má Pêche.”

  “Má Pêche?” I say. “In the Chambers Hotel?”

  I’ve never been to the restaurant, but I stayed at the Chambers once when my ex-husband and I were first dating. Even at my glammed-out best, I felt like an imposter just sitting in the lobby.

  “I can’t go to Má Pêche looking like this,” I say, gesturing to my anemic hair and wilted white T-shirt.

  “You’re fine,” Scout says. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. We’re so invading Eva’s space right now.” She grabs her new Rebecca Minkoff studded clutch. “Text us after your dream date. We won’t come home until the coast is clear.”

  Sixty

  On the walk to Má Pêche, Scout starts lecturing me on how to be Eva’s friend. “You have to give her space when she wants it,” she says. “You get that she’s under a microscope ninety-eight percent of the time, right?”

  “And you get that I’m not here as a friend, right?”

  Scout stops in front of an oddly placed Benihana restaurant. “I honestly don’t know what is wrong with you. The universe keeps throwing you a life preserver and you still act like you’re drowning.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, and we stand there awkwardly for a minute, then start walking again.

  At Má Pêche, Scout orders pineapple upside-down cake as her entrée and the waiter doesn’t raise an eyebrow. To his credit, he’s equally gracious when I order an El Diablo and tell him to hold the cassis and the ginger.

  “So basically you want a glass of tequila,” he says.

  “You got it,” I say.

  When we finish dinner, it’s not even 9:00 P.M. The bill is almost two hundred dollars and the only thing I ate was a dish of ice cream that is famous only because it tastes like the leftover milk from a bowl of cereal. I pay with Eva’s card and we head up the curving staircase and through the lobby to the street.

  “Let’s get Red Bulls at the bodega and find a coffee shop,” Scout says.

  “You know what?” I say. “I’m really wiped, and I need to go over all the press stuff for tomorrow.”

  “What press stuff? I thought she just had Kelly Ripa in the morning.”

  “She has Kelly Ripa, then Jon Stewart, which tapes at six P.M., then there’s a red carpet at the Levi’s store for some new limited-edition denim jacket or something.”

  “That’s so gay,” she says. “I wanted to go to Brooklyn tomorrow. There’s a tarot reader in Park Slope who’s supposed to be amazing.”

  There are so many things wrong with that statement, but Scout’s use of the word “gay” to mean boring or stupid is an irritant and she knows it. It’s one of those button-pushy things friends do to each other, I guess, but I’m not in the mood.

  “Unless you want to pony up ten grand for an hour of Eva’s time, then you’re going to have to deal with the gayness of the schedule,” I say. “Here, let me give you the Reader’s Digest version of your tarot reader: You’ve been through heartbreak. You feel creatively stifled. A recent disappointment weighs on you heavily.”

  “Fuck you,” Scout says, but she’s laughing. “Wait, Eva’s getting ten thousand dollars to show up at the Levi’s store? That’s fucking retarded.”

  Well, first of all, the only thing worse than gay as a put-down is retarded. And second, I’m immediately twanged with guilt that I just talked about Eva’s income.

  “Listen,” I say. “I don’t want to be a buzzkill, bu
t I need to get some work done. I’m going to head back to the hotel and hang in the lobby or whatever.”

  The thing about needing to work is only marginally true, but the thought of spending three hours in a midtown coffee shop with Scout hopped up on Red Bull makes me want to put spikes in my ears.

  “You can’t hang out at the hotel,” she says. “What if Eva comes in with that guy?”

  “Am I going to turn into a pillar of salt? It’s been a long day and my shirt smells.”

  Scout fires up a clove. “We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for her. Don’t be such an ingrate.”

  Before I can fling her into the path of an oncoming bus, she twirls around with her arms in the air. “Look at where we are,” she says.

  A homeless woman squatting in the doorway of the Norma Kamali store raises her head and says, “Best fuckin’ city on the planet.”

  Apparently the movie of my life involves wise homeless ladies whose advice must be heeded, because I let Scout drag me toward Fifth Avenue. “Let’s go have an adventure.”

  Turns out Scout’s idea of an adventure is a short ride on the N train and a walk through Times Square to the Paramount Hotel. She and Eva had an epic stay here once, that ended with Scout kissing a Native American bellman named Bodaway in the ice-machine room while Eva was entertaining Johnny Depp or someone in her suite.

  Eva finally texts at midnight. I’m so bored. He kept talking about books. What r u guys doing? Come home.

  Scout and I link arms and weave through the drunken tourists as we leave Times Square and walk up Seventh Avenue. When we near our street, Scout turns to me, taking both my hands in hers, all caffeinated seriousness. “Eva is my best friend.”

  “I know that,” I say. “And I don’t ever want to come between you.”

  Scout rears back, affronted. “You couldn’t.”

  “I know, I get it. You and Eva are inseparable. I’m the chicken in the bacon-and-egg breakfast. You guys are the pig.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The chicken is involved and the pig is committed.” I’ve had five drinks and I’m not in any shape to explain myself. “I just don’t want to triangulate.”

  “You can’t,” Scout says, and there’s a controlled anger in her voice. “I just mean, you don’t seem to have her best interests at heart. I thought you would have her back.”

  “How do I not have her back?”

  “Well, you felt compelled to tell me that she’s getting paid ten grand for her appearance tomorrow.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t realize I was being deposed.” With a little edge, I say, “And after all, you’re best friends.”

  “I’m just saying be extra careful with the information you’re slinging around. I mean, if I mentioned that you’d told me she was getting paid for that Levi’s thing, she’d freak.” She considers. “But I would never. I don’t want to create drama.”

  Sixty-one

  The ride to the Live! with Kelly and Michael show is mercifully short. Five of us are crammed into a blacked-out Lincoln Navigator, so I’m sitting up front with the driver. We usually don’t travel so deep, but Kelly and Eva are friends from their soap opera days and Eva is comfortable enough with her that she’s asked Minka and Todd to come along, as a treat for them. Although if you ask me, there’s nothing rewarding about spending the morning in a green room watching the show on an oversize HDTV when it’s happening live just forty feet away.

  It’s clearly just me, though, because Minka and Todd are effusive about the potential other guests.

  “I hope it’s Justin Timberlake,” Minka says. “Did you see him on SNL? He’s dreamy.”

  “Hopefully it’s those girls from Scores,” Todd says.

  “Right,” I say from my banished position up front. “Because strippers are such a mainstay on morning television.”

  “Why don’t you know this, Jess?” Scout says, frowning. “Didn’t Janine tell you?”

  “She did, as a matter of fact, but I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s fantasies.” I scroll through my phone for the information. “It’s a basketball player from the Nets, that pet-psychic lady from Long Island, and a director who didn’t even get name-checked on the call sheet. It literally just says ‘director.’”

  Eva rolls her eyes and puts her head into Scout’s lap. Scout is wearing a tie-dyed vintage silk nightgown over a pair of black leggings and she crosses her legs and pets Eva’s head like she’s soothing a crying child.

  I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s only about a mile from the hotel to ABC Studios, but it’s a dog leg past the edge of Central Park and down Broadway, and it’s taking forever, especially at the unreasonable hour of 8:00 A.M. Also, Eva has not said one word to me this morning, except a curt request that I stop at the desk on the way out and extend her stay for two days. No details, just “I need to stay a couple of extra days. Can you make sure that’s handled on our way out?”

  If Minka and Todd hadn’t been in the room, I would have asked her what was going on, even though I know better. I mean, I would have just gotten an innocent shrug anyway. Pointless.

  When we arrive, a page whisks us into Eva’s dressing room, which is half the size of our hotel room and is populated with the requisite loveseat and coffee table adorned with an amenity basket. There’s a square vase of white peonies, and everything else is a tasteful, muted beige. The tiny sofa, the coffee table, the walls. It’s like standing inside a three-dimensional graham cracker. The page stands awkwardly in the doorway, her hand pressed to her ear as she listens to a producer.

  “They’re ready for you in makeup,” she tells Eva, doing a New York version of the un-stare.

  “I’m good,” Eva says. “I’ll do a touch-up on my way to set.”

  Normally, this is the part where I intervene so Eva doesn’t have to make her needs known directly to a stranger, but everything is off-kilter with so many bodies in the small room.

  Eva flops onto the sofa and props her feet up on the table next to the bulging basket from Zabar’s. “Jess, it’s a little close in here. Can you go see what the green room’s all about and get me something for after?”

  Most green rooms have a few sofas and chairs, a couple televisions, and a spread of food that’s nothing as elaborate as a normal day at craft services, even on a weekly cable sitcom. But this green room is pretty swank. Fresh melon and berries arrayed on thick, white porcelain platters, baskets of bagels and croissants and pastries, crocks of butter and jams. There’s a cheese board, a charcuterie plate with glistening rosettes of prosciutto and rows of thinly sliced salami, and a wire basket filled with hard-boiled eggs.

  There are clusters of people huddled in two distinct groups in the room, but no one looks up when I enter.

  “Will this be okay for you guys?” the blond page asks rhetorically.

  “It’s perfect,” I say. “What do you need from me?”

  “Well,” she says, holding her hand to her earpiece like she’s a Secret Service agent at a presidential press conference. “Kelly is on her way down and I need to get back to Ms. Carlton’s room to facilitate that. Is there anything I can get you?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Great,” she chirps, and beelines off down the hall. “On my way back to talent,” she says to the vapor.

  I peel a plate of boiled eggs and head back to Eva’s dressing room. The hallway is momentarily deserted, and I slow my pace and breathe for a moment. There are closed doors at evenly spaced intervals on both sides of the corridor. The guests have whiteboard nameplates in the shape of stars, with their names written in Sharpie, I’m guessing by the intern with the best handwriting.

  I pass the doors for the basketball player and pet psychic. Then, at the end of the hall, a final door swings open and I catch a glimpse of the handwritten name.

  I’m in a different hal
lway, in a different state, three thousand miles and fifteen years away, and then I’m back, my face flushed, my body cold and numb. I look down at the floor as a cluster of stilettos flanking a single pair of scuffed men’s wingtips come to a halt in front of me.

  “Let’s give makeup a pass,” the man says, and his voice sparks a chill of recognition up my arms and into my neck.

  I raise my gaze and there’s Trent Whitford, close enough to touch. He’s barely aged at all, and his face is as smooth and shallow as a wading pool. He’s puffing on an e-cigarette and smiling at one of the women flanking him, a friendly, avuncular, untroubled smile.

  “Whatever you want, Trent,” the woman says, her voice a silky purr.

  He notices I’m staring. There’s no hint of darkness in his eyes as his gaze flicks across my face without a glimmer of recognition.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks.

  I shake my head and take a step backward.

  He steps forward, his eyes creasing in concern. “It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is gentle and kind.

  Everything goes blurry at the perimeter of my vision. I’m not a fainter, but I seriously feel like I might pass out or throw up if I don’t lie down.

  “You want an autograph?” Trent asks, and his unknowing politeness is more unsettling than if he’d leered and lunged.

  I nod, almost imperceptibly.

  “Wait here,” he says, and touches my arm. “I’ll be right back.”

  He slips back into his room and I stand there for a moment, feeling his fingers on my arm like a bruise.

  Once he’s out of sight, I stumble back to Eva’s beige cubbyhole. Thankfully, a page has collected Minka and Todd for their tour, so it’s just Eva and Scout, sitting on the half-size loveseat with their heads together, giggling about something. They fall silent when I enter.

  “I brought you some food,” I say, then realize I don’t have the plate anymore.

  “Are you okay?” Scout asks.

  I open my mouth to answer and a sob boils up in my throat. I hesitate for a second, then let it rip: the full-on ugly cry. It’s easier to give in. Trying to stifle the ugly cry only makes it fester, like slapping a Band-Aid on a third-degree burn.