A Dangerous Dress (28 page)

I felt kind of bad. Which is not to say I didn’t see the funny side of it, too. I did. Still, I patted him on the back and wiped his eyes with the napkin. Which was, you guessed it, black.

Reed skipped his beer, even though I told him it would ease the coughing. I finished mine even before he stopped coughing.

The Boilermaker incident turned out to be a pretty good ice-breaker. We were able to relax and not be at all self-conscious, so we just had fun. Reed did not mention the Republican National Convention once. Although he was starting in on Dartmouth when, fortunately, the food showed up. We shared this three-tiered seafood thing that was almost too good to believe. And for dessert I had a raspberry beer float, which was not just ice cream and raspberries, but had ginger beer and alcohol in it too, I think. Odd as it may sound, if you ever have the chance to get one of those, get two.

I have to admit, I was feeling . . . well, cozy. The setting was lovely and dark and velvety, there were a bazillion candles glowing and very seductive electronic music was pulsing in the background. Not to mention that Reed was still a very good-looking man who now seemed very clearly interested in me as a woman. On top of that, he was about to make me into a big TV star. So I was a little dismayed when I realized I had a severe case of déjà vu, as if I had done all this before. Only I had. With Josh. Handsome man. Perfect dinner, perfect setting, drinks . . .

No no no!
Reed most certainly was not Josh. Reed was not going to stick me with the check. He was not going to ruin our evening. He was going to seize this romantic opportunity.

I was extremely disappointed when he asked, “Can we talk a little business?”

“Business?”

“Just a little,” he said. “Get it out of the way. Then we can get on to”—and then he blushed—“other things.” At which my disappointment vanished.

He said we would start with two appearances a week on Michael Smith’s program. Assuming the response was what they expected, they’d gradually ramp it up to every day.

“If they like me, you mean.” I will be honest with you: I was fishing for compliments.

“Of course they’ll like you,” Reed said. “Trust me.”

“But they might not.”

“They will.”

“What if they don’t?” It is hard to stop asking when a smart, sophisticated, good-looking man is stroking your ego so obligingly.

“They will,” he said again. But he could see that I was looking for more. “They
will.
I’m sure. And even if they don’t . . .” He smiled. “Even if they don’t,” he said, “I promise you, no matter what, we won’t kick you out of the hotel and throw away your clothes.”

We both laughed.
So there, Josh Thomas. From now on, I am sticking with the un-Josh.
To underscore my decision, I gave Reed what I hoped was my very best come-hither look.

He got the check, and as we stood up to go, he took my hand in his.

He was focusing on the hotel door.

Okay, so maybe my come-hither look wasn’t obvious enough. I turned toward the elevator and gave him a little tug in that direction.

He looked at me.

I smiled at him. Not just any old smile. And, to be sure I was being quite clear, I winked.

He jumped.

I
mean he literally jumped. About a foot straight up into the air. Which is not exactly the reaction I was looking for.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. Because now he was grabbing rather frantically at his belt.

“Hotline,” he said. I am not kidding. Like he thought he was Batman or something.

He found his cell phone. I guess he had the vibrate setting turned up too high. Anyway he flipped the phone open and listened. “Uh-huh,” he said. Looking quite grim, I might add. “Uh-huh.” Looking grimmer. “Uh-huh.” From his expression, I was sure somebody had died. “Okay,” Reed said, and snapped the phone shut. He looked at me. At the hotel elevator. Back at me. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I have to leave. There’s a crisis.”

“What kind of crisis?” If I’m going to get turned down, I think I’m entitled to know why.

“A news crisis,” he said.

“What kind of news crisis?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

I should not be so harsh. I’m sure there could be a legitimate news crisis he genuinely could not tell me about. Something involving confidential sources and leaks and grand juries and such. Still and all, I did not much like the idea that some news crisis was more important than, well, you know. I was beginning to think that Reed was not only a victim of poor timing, but also poor judgment.

I bet screenwriters don’t get news crisis phone calls on the Hotline. I bet Josh would’ve just let the stupid phone ring, and not even answered it.

I wished I would just make up my mind.

“Oh,” said Reed, “I forgot to tell you. You have a meeting tomorrow afternoon at the studio.” Great. Now he was
all
business. “I won’t be able to be there, but my associate producer will take good care of you. A car will pick you up at two. Unless you want somebody to come by earlier and drive you around. You know, show you the sights.”

It sounded like the kind of offer he would make to anybody, as opposed to somebody who had just extended a potentially intimate invitation. Even if the invitation was more implicit than explicit. But if he was going to treat me like just anybody, he was putting at very serious risk his chances of ever getting to the explicit part.

If Reed could instantly turn distant and businesslike, well, so could I. “No thank you,” I said. “I’ll just walk around by myself. Do some shopping.”

“Good idea,” Reed said. “Buy American.” Then he gave me a little hug. A producer hug. Not a boyfriend hug. He turned, walked through the revolving door, and was gone.

I went back to my room, got out of the Prada outfit, hung it up carefully, and crawled between those lovely sheets. All alone.

I will say this: Notwithstanding my nap, I was so tired that I fell asleep instantly. Which meant I did not have any time to lie there and stew about Reed and his stupid Hotline crisis.

When I woke up, it was ten A.M. And do you know? I did not care about what happened with Reed. Because it hit me: I was in New York City, with nothing to do until two o’clock.

Correction: I did not have nothing to do. If you will forgive the double negative. There were two very important things that I absolutely, positively had to do. First I had to eat. Because I was starved. Then I had to shop.

I have already told you my views about clothes and power. So my corollary theory about shopping will come as no surprise. If clothes confer power and liberty, then by definition, the act of getting clothes—
shopping
—is empowering and liberating. You have probably always enjoyed shopping, but don’t you feel even better, now that you know it’s good for you?

I looked at the closet, at all the outfits Celestine gave me, to pick clothes for shopping. You cannot wear just anything to go shopping. Especially not to go shopping in New York.

I felt a sudden pang because Grandma’s dress was not there in the closet. It should have been. Without it, I never would have gotten to Paris, much less New York.

Although I did write my “A Dangerous Dress” paper all by myself, so I kind of earned Paris. And I actually found the perfect dress, even if evil slut Nathalie had torn it up. And until fashion moron George showed up, I was doing awfully well at Armani Collezioni. And Grandma’s dress had nothing to do with me landing my Fox News job, either. So maybe I was selling myself short, and giving the dress too much credit for determining my destiny.

I looked at the closet again. I still got a pang, but it was less sharp this time. And it was pretty much gone once I put on the cute Moschino outfit that Celestine gave me. The pants are just white and cropped, almost plain. But the top is this bright red thing with odd fringes, and there are big numbers printed on it, white numbers on the front and black on the back. It pretty much cried out
European designer.
Which is why I picked that outfit. I suspected I would never wear it around Reed, or anyone else from Fox News, and I didn’t want it to go to waste.

I wondered if the Fox News people could be a little flexible on the whole buy-American thing. It hadn’t stopped Reed from buying a tie at Armani Collezioni, had it? Although perhaps the policy did not apply outside the territorial boundaries of the United States. I decided I wouldn’t ask until after Reed had made me a big star. I would have more bargaining power then.

I turned on my cell phone and took it with me, just like Reed asked me to. In case they needed to reach me. Although I hoped they would not need to reach me in the middle of shopping. Then I had breakfast and headed for Soho, which the concierge with the funky haircut told me was shopping paradise.

The streets were crammed with cars. The sidewalks and crosswalks were jammed with pedestrians. Horns honked. People shouted. Sirens wailed. And despite the chaos I had the strangest realization: I wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated. I felt like the city was extending me a big loud invitation to join a club—a club to which, somehow, I already belonged.

Given where I come from, these were very peculiar things for me to be thinking and feeling. I wondered if Grandma had felt just as comfortable in Paris. Maybe it was in my blood. Maybe this was my true inheritance from her—an even greater gift than her dress had been.

I crossed impossibly crowded Canal Street into Soho. The concierge was right: I just couldn’t believe the stores. Anna Sui and Betsey Johnson and Cynthia Rowley. And that was just ABC. I bet if I had time I could come up with amazing places for the whole alphabet. Everyone who was anyone. Places with fun, different, dramatic, silly, great clothes. Places that positively radiated the power of shopping.

Surrounded by fabulous shops with famous names, I decided that, oddly enough, I was not looking for a famous name. Needless to say, I wanted someplace fabulous—but a place I never heard of. Nobody had ever heard of me, and in a few days I would be Fox’s fresh new American voice. I hoped to find a boutique I had never heard of, that would be my own personal fresh new American shopping mecca.

I looked around, and there she was: Debra Moorefield. I’d never heard of her. For all I knew, this was her one and only store. But the clothes looked awfully sweet. So Debra it was.

As soon as I stepped inside, I knew I had made the right decision. The boutique was filled with clothes that, oh, say, Audrey Hepburn would wear. Perfect lovely classic never-out-of-style clothes, but with a little magic. Things I could wear to look perfect on the arm of my dashing handsome slightly conservative Fox News producer when he escorted me to timeless but slightly stuffy four-star restaurants . . . and that I could also wear to look perfect while clubbing at three A.M. in neighborhoods that Reed probably didn’t even know existed. I just knew the clothes would look good on me. Right away I spotted the most darling little silky lacy black dress—in my size, which you may remember is a six, and since I was in New York I no longer cared what that translated to in centimeters, and neither should you.

The salesperson showed me to a dressing room. Before I pulled the curtain closed, she said, “I love your outfit.” Maybe it was just good salesmanship. Salesgirlship. Saleswomanship. Whatever. You know, flatter the customer. On the other hand, the Moschino outfit was pretty marvelous, so she was probably just showing me she had good taste. Which meant that if she liked the way I looked in the darling little black dress, I would have to buy it.

Incidentally, if you find a perfect little black dress, buy it. You can never have too many. Although if you are reading this, you probably already know that.

I slipped out of the Moschino and into the Debra Moorefield, zipped up the dress, flipped back my hair, and looked in the mirror. Not a dangerous dress on the scale of Grandma’s, to be sure, but dangerous enough. And I thought,
Oh yes. You are coming home with me.

When I emerged from the dressing room, the salesperson said, “Let’s see.” She gave me a long up-and-down look. Finally she said, “That is
perfect
on you.” Which was not, in my view, just sales talk. It really did look pretty perfect on me. “Shall I wrap it up?” she asked.

I felt totally invigorated. And empowered. I
deserved
to be a star. I
deserved
to be in New York. I
deserved
to be shopping. I
deserved
this dress.

I looked at the price. Only $358. And I do mean only. With all due respect to the Dolces and Gabannas of the world, if this dress was theirs, I could not have touched it for three times the price. Or four, or more. And let me tell you, this dress showed every penny’s worth, which is to say that it concealed me in just the right places, and showed me in just the right places. It was simultaneously modest and dangerous, which is no mean feat. I thought Reed would love it. Depending, that is, on where it was made.

I had not yet had the nerve to look at the tag to see the country of origin. I really was going to have to talk to Fox News about this buy-American thing.

Whether it had been sewn in the USA or China, I was about to say “Yes, I’ll take it.” Until I remembered I had no room on my credit card. And I still had not resolved my stupid Bank of America Visa ATM card situation. In Paris, Celestine bought everything. Which does not make me a freeloader. The deal was that as soon as I got paid at Armani Collezioni, I was going to cover both our expenses until we were even. Only then I got fired. You know the rest.

So I told the salesperson I left my wallet at the hotel. I was not about to tell her all my credit cards were frozen. I don’t think she necessarily believed me. For a split second, I thought about assuring her it was no problem, she could trust me, because after all I was about to be a big TV star on Fox News. I was confident.