So 5 Minutes Ago (15 page)

Before I can think of a snappy fashion-worthy comeback, I catch sight of a pile of bags—Barneys, Tiffany’s, Fred Segal, the usual Hollywood sacrificial offerings—on one of the conference table chairs, and I freeze.

“What’s with the gifts? I thought we all gave toward the one big gift.”

“Apparently the Biggies went the extra mile.”

“Those
fuckers.
” I should have known they’d do something like this to embarrass the DWP publicists. “We all chipped in for the stupid Steuben eagle and they get him the good stuff?”

“Relax. See that Fred Segal bag? It’s from you.”

“What?”
Visions of silver-plated condom holders or roach clips dance in my head. No telling what Steven would think is a suitable gift for G.

“Oh, you would have picked it out yourself if you had time.” But before he can elaborate, there’s a commotion at the door. Suzanne, Charles, and G. In his new spiky hair, G looks like Badger in
The Wind in the Willows.
An impenetrable pelt and temperament to match. But to the Biggies, it’s like Mick Jagger has arrived. The room erupts into screams.

“So what exactly did I get G?” I shout over the noise as the Biggies surge toward the door. I glance over at Steven, but he is busy waving a red silk handkerchief. Oh well, at least it matches my chopstick.

One hour, two cupcakes, and three glasses of champagne later, I’ve had as much of G’s birthday as my blood sugar can handle. The eagle has been opened, which means G has tried to kiss all the DWP publicists, which means between dodging him and Charles, who is diligently working the room in a coat and tie as the agency’s newest senior partner, I’ve spent most of the party hiding out in the ladies’ room. It’s during my last visit that I overhear two Biggies talking about another party for G. At some club, tomorrow night. A party to which neither I—nor any of the DWP agents—are invited. Apparently, Rachel was right. G is culling the herd and using his birthday party to do it.

“Hey, Alex,” the Biggies say in unison when I emerge from the stall. They shoot one another nervous looks. “Nice eagle you guys got Doug.”

I head to the sink and turn on the water with such force that it splashes the nearest Biggie. “You think so? Because there was some debate about whether it should be a seagull.”

“That would have been pretty too,” the other Biggie says in the kind of
oh-really
voice you would use on a child.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I say, wiping my hands and turning for the door. “Garbage eater. I thought it would have been perfect.”

I head back into the conference room. I need more info on this after-party party. If Steven knew about the Biggies’ extra gifts, he must know about their little suck-up soiree. I find him foraging among the empty champagne bottles.

“Did you know there’s another staff party for G—a private one, tomorrow night?”

“No, but I’m not surprised,” he says, pouring the dregs into his glass and downing it. “G just screams velvet rope.”

“Okay, Pee-wee,” I say, reaching for his glass. “I’m heading back to the clubhouse now, but I need you to find out more about this party. I don’t mind not being invited, but I need to know what I’m not being invited to.”

I’m just heading for the door when I feel a tap on my shoulder. One of G’s minions.

“Doug wants to see you in his office.”

“Now?”

She draws back like I’ve slapped her.
“Yesss.”

“Uh, sure,” I say, glancing over at Steven. What’s another visit to the principal’s office?

“Okay, Suzie, watch what you say in there,” Steven says when the minion moves off.

“I think it’s going to be more about what G has to say.”

“Look, we’ve all had way too much sugar. Things could get ugly. Just nod politely and get out. If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in after you.”

“Pee-wee, you do care.”

“Make it ten minutes,” he says, checking his watch. “I’m going to the movies later.”

When I hit his office, G is already sitting at his desk. The crystal eagle, a red ribbon tied around its neck, and an untouched piece of birthday cake, the one with his own head shot, are in front of him.

“Alex,” he says, waving me in, “thanks for coming by. And thanks for coming to the party. It’s great when we can all get together like that, don’t you think? Since the company is still all so new?”

I may have had three glasses of champagne, but I can bark on command.

“Absolutely,” I say, glancing first at the eagle and then over at the sofa where the pile of gift bags, including my Fred Segal bag, are stacked.
Shit.
In all the commotion, I totally forgot to ask Steven what he bought.

“Please, have a seat.” G gets up from behind his desk and moves toward me. His new hair comes along too. Up close, it looks even more dense. Like a thatched roof. Or the rough at Augusta. Small animals could live in it and never be seen.

“Oh, no, I can’t stay,” I say, instinctively backing away. Last time I was here, I thought he was going to throw something at me. Well, it’s been known to happen. “It’s been a long day and as always,” I say, nodding at the door, “there’s more to do.”

I have no idea what this meeting is about. Maybe G wants info on Troy. Updates on his court date. Or news about the Phoenix. Her on-again, off-again departure. Or maybe he’s just fucking with my head. Trying a different tactic than fear and intimidation. Between the cake and champagne, I’m too wired to run the options. I shoot him a steely smile. All business. Sir, yes,
sir
!

He meets my gaze for a second and then gives me a chilly smile. “Actually, I wanted to let you know that a few of the publicists are getting together at another, ah, smaller party, and I was hoping you could join us. It’s tomorrow night. At the Viper Room. I know it’s kind of last minute, but I’m hoping you can stop by.”

Stop by?
Stop by?
There is no place I would rather
not
be than at this stupid party. But there is no place I need to be more than at this stupid party. Even on my sugar-and-champagne high, I know somehow and for some reason I’ve made the cut. Made it past G’s velvet rope. It’s just not clear what’s on the other side.

“Oh, that sounds fun.”

The Viper Room is a black hole under the best of circumstances. Literally. You need a coal miner’s helmet and at least three drinks to make it through an evening there. I can only imagine what it will be like when G is running the room. Probably need to get my shots. “I’m sure I can move some things around and stop by.”

“Great,” he says, stepping closer. So close I catch a whiff of his cologne. Or maybe it’s the new-car smell of his hair. “By the way, we’re not inviting all the publicists so if you could just keep this to yourself. You know.” He gives me another tight smile. “So, I’ll see you there.”

He steps toward me again and I realize G is about to put his arm around my shoulder. Maybe it’s the champagne or his new hair, but I step back again, this time stumbling a bit in my mules.

“Great,” I say, catching myself on the door handle. “Great. So, I’ll, I’ll see you all there.”

G leaves his hand in midair for a second—so I can’t miss his thwarted gesture—and then smiles and looks down. “I look forward to it. And feel free to wear your Nixon T-shirt,” he says, looking up and nodding at my chest with the kind of expression John Huston wore through much of
Chinatown.
“Dick looks especially good there.”

“He actually
said,
‘Dick looks especially good there’?”

I am back in the relative safety of my office, pacing and being debriefed by Steven.

“Even I think that’s gross.”

“That’s because you always think in double entendres,” I say, yanking off my jacket and tossing it onto my chair.

“Oh, come on. How else do you think he meant that? As a fashion compliment?”

“Look, I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt,” I say, pausing to look down at my T-shirt. Actually, Nixon does look pretty good swelling out over my breasts.

“Why? Because he invited you to his supersecret party?”

“Of course not. I just don’t want to start seeing plots behind every damn thing he does. It’s depressing. And exhausting. And it makes me feel even more cynical than I normally do. Besides, I have enough to deal with keeping up with my clients.”

“Oh God. You’re falling for his tactics. You’re doing exactly what you swore you
wouldn’t
do. You’re believing what he says. You don’t believe what
anybody
says in Hollywood. Hello? ‘I’ll call you!’ ‘The lawyer’s drawing up the papers now.’ ‘Of course you’re on the list!’ ‘We
love
it!’ ”

Steven is starting to get agitated. Or maybe the circulation in his legs is starting to go, given his Pee-wee suit.

“I could take you a lot more seriously if you would just lose the tie,” I say, suddenly heading for my desk and rooting around in the drawers. “It’s hard to have a conversation with someone who looks like a pedophile.”

Steven scowls but loosens his tie. “It was indecent exposure, actually, and what are you looking for? A Gideon Bible in your time of need?”

“Since we’re out of champagne, I thought a cigarette might do.”

“You haven’t smoked in three years and now you want a cigarette?”

“I want a cigarette every day of my life,” I say, slamming the drawer shut. I realize I’m shaking. Between being up since five, heatstroke from Kelly’s damn photo shoot, all the champagne and cake, and now G’s creepy invitation to his private party, my nerves are screaming for the steadying influence of nicotine.

“Well, I don’t smoke.”

I shoot him a look.

“Well, not at the office.”

“Fine. But can you go downstairs to the bodega and get me a pack of Camel Lights? Please.”

Steven shakes his head. “Then will you play nicely with the other children? And realize they are all lying sacks of shit? You have to play by the rules or you really will get hurt.”

“You’re a godsend,” I say, reaching for my wallet and handing him a five. “And buy yourself something. Like a lawyer.”

“Just for that . . . “ he says, slipping off his tie. He drapes it around my neck and starts to retie it. I’m so happy he’s going for cigarettes I just stand there and let him knot it.

“There,” he says, pulling the ends tight. “Now you look like a waitress at Hooters. At least they know when some guy’s trying to bullshit them.”

“Like you would know,” I say, waving him off. “And remember, Camel Lights.”

After Steven leaves, I reach in my bag for the bottle of Arrowhead I have left over from the photo shoot. I take a slug, make a halfhearted attempt to untie the tie—I never got these stupid bow-tie knots—and give up. I’m still hot from the afternoon in the sun at Kelly’s and all the sugar is only making it worse. I pull out my desk chair and drag it over to the corner of my office that is directly under the air-conditioning vent. I sit down, put my feet on the wall, lean back, and close my eyes. I am waiting for cigarettes. For sweat to dry. For salvation. God knows how long I’m sitting there, semiconscious, when I hear a knock and my office door opening.

“Just hand them to me,” I say without opening my eyes. “I don’t think I can get up.”

“Actually, I just came to say good-bye.”

I leap to my feet so fast, I spill the rest of the water on my skirt. Charles
.
In his neatly pressed shirt and tie. Oh,
great.
I’ve managed to dodge him for two weeks and now he corners me when I look like a dropout from clown college.

“Oh, sorry, I was just waiting for Steven,” I say, rubbing at my skirt. “He went on an errand.”

Charles smiles. “No,
I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His tone is polite, but I can only imagine the impression I’m making. Or not making in my stained skirt, Nixon T-shirt, and bow tie. Whatever chance I had with this guy has clearly sailed. And taken my dignity along with it.

“Oh, this,” I say, pulling at the tie. “It was just a little joke.”

I pull on the tie some more but can
not
get it to untie. Actually, I manage to only make it tighter.

“A very little joke, apparently,” I say, giving up on the tie and giving him an embarrassed if slightly strangled smile.

“Here, that looks very uncomfortable,” Charles says, moving toward me. “Even if it does match your chopstick.”

I squeeze my eyes shut just for a second. Oh God, could this day get any worse? Could I be any more of a train wreck? But he reaches out and begins to gently pull the tie apart.

“I think you have to have gone to a million ballroom dance classes to learn to do this,” he says, working at my neck.

“Well, there you go,” I say. “I only took piano lessons and there wasn’t any dress code.”

He works at the tie some more and I can’t tell if he’s becoming annoyed or not. “Here,” he says, tilting my head back slightly. “That’s easier.”

I close my eyes again as he works at my neck for a minute. And for another minute. I feel the tie begin to loosen and I open my eyes. He’s so close I can see the flecks of gold mixed in the green of his eyes. He looks at me looking at him and smiles.

“So wait,” I say, pulling back, suddenly self-conscious again. “Why are you saying good-bye? I thought you weren’t leaving for another—”

“Shhhh,” he says softly, putting his fingers on the sides of my neck and pulling me toward him. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Don’t move. Don’t even talk.”

I breathe out slowly. “Okay,” I whisper. “But why are you leaving? I mean so soon.”

It’s something back in the New York office. Some legal thing. Or insurance or Stan’s departure. Or something that means he has to take the red-eye. Tonight. “But it doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning in closer, his mouth brushing my ear, “because I plan on being back and forth.” He leaves his mouth there. Just for a second, and I feel his breath on my neck. I want to stay here forever. No cigarettes. No clients. No G’s party. Just Charles and his warm, soothing voice.

“There,” he says, sliding the tie free and stepping back. “You’re free to go.” He hands me the tie and smiles.