There's Something About Her, A Manhattan Love Story (3 page)

I shuffle down 59
^th
Street to 57
^th
and 3
^rd
Avenue to my mom’s luxury condo. She used to live in it before she took a girls’ trip to Vegas, met Cobey Miller, and married him on a whim. He’s a hedge fund manager and twenty years younger than her, which makes us the same age.
 

Since they met in Vegas, they moved to Vegas. My mom has become infatuated by the warm desert nights, dry hot days, and all the sin in Sin City. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and Cobey were swingers or furries. She’s become strange ever since Aunt Carlotta died. However, other than paying the utilities and cable, she lets me live in the seventeenth-floor apartment rent-free.
 

As soon as I get home, I slip out of my slinky light-blue dress and into a red short dress that barely covers my crotch. I tease my limp hair until it runs home crying and put on bright-red lipstick. I rummage through my mom’s closet and find a pair of gold-studded stilettos. I check myself in the full-length mirror. My hooker outfit should work. It’s nine p.m., and I’m already late. I scarf down a cold meal of last night’s mu shu pork and a bottle of water and rush out into the night.
 

Hailing a cab outside of my building is always easy. One stops as soon as I lift a hand. Cabbies can smell a big tip from twenty miles away, and a lot of rich people live here. I’m not one of them, so I don’t tip, but the driver won’t know that until we reach my destination in East Village.

Normally I’d walk the forty-five blocks or take the 6 Train down Lexington Avenue, but I’m afraid some creepy guy will ask me how much I cost. It doesn’t take long to get there. The venue is on the top floor of a nightclub. Hookers and johns are filing in to the red-brick building sandwiched between a gray and a yellow one. I see the partygoers mingling through the windows upstairs.
 

I pay the driver ten bucks. He snorts and gets a good look at my face as if he’s memorizing it so he doesn’t get stuck with the cheap girl in the future.
 

“Right,” I mumble as I hop out and head in.
 

There’s a good turnout. It’s not surprising; Monroe has a lot of acquaintances. People stand around sipping cocktails, conversing, and checking each other out. What’s strange is they’re playing old school gangsta rap. I hear a lot of “fuck” and “shit” and “bitch.”

I make it to the bar to meet Hannah, a stylist, Cleo, an executive producer for a popular early morning talk show, and Monroe, a trust fund baby. They’re already three sheets to the wind.
 

“To you, mother dear madam!” Monroe says as she raises her glass and slams it on the bar top without taking a drink. I take it she was merely adding drama to whatever she was saying.

I squeeze in between Monroe and Cleo. “I’m here!”

First they assess me as if I arrived at the prom covered in pig’s blood.

“That’s what you call a hooker?” Monroe asks.
 

She’s in a mesh see-through top and mini-skirt. I can see her vagina, which is probably why a good number of johns are hovering. In one word, she’s hot. In two words, she’s naked. She’s tall and slim but not too skinny. She has nice round butt cheeks and squeezable tits. I’ve heard we have the same physique, but I don’t see it. Neither do the men standing around drooling over her.
 

“This dress isn’t short enough?” I tug at the hem.

“That’s not short. It’s mid-thigh, Miss
Little House on the Prairie
,” Monroe says.

“It’s not only short, but it’s tight. Look at this!” I rotate. “I’m just as much of a hooker as you are.”

“Sure, you are,” Hannah says. “But tell us. Did it really happen? Is your panty-drenching cousin off the market for good?”
 

I roll my eyes, then flick them back to get a good look at her cat-woman latex jumpsuit and red thigh-high boots. She resembles a dominatrix more than a hooker! I’m pretty sure Monroe pointed that out when Hannah first arrived.

“Yep. He’s never divorcing her, so you’re going to have to find another guy to stalk,” I say.

“Oh, God, he’s so damn hot. Just once is all I need. You think they’ll have an open marriage? Or even better, a mistress?” Hannah asks.

The crazy thing is she’s serious.
 

“Shit, Hannah, you basically handed him your pussy on a platter, and he didn’t want it. Why do you think he’ll want it when he’s married? Jeez,” Cleo says.

“Thank you,” I say. Cleo said exactly what I was thinking. She’s quicker on the draw than I am.
 

Cleo is the other me. We’re both five foot seven and a half to Hannah and Monroe’s five foot nine and a half. Her naturally blond hair is fine like mine. She’s pretty, but guys have to do a double take to see it when she’s standing anywhere near Monroe and Hannah.

“So did you make any contacts while you were there? I know tons of high-powered people who were invited to that wedding,” Monroe says. She’s all about networking.

“Oh, do you know who I sat next to? Mandy Hill!” I reveal.
 

“The actress?”

“Yeah.”
 

Monroe gasps. “I want to meet her! I want her to play my mom in the movie they’re making out of my book.”

“What? They’re making a movie out of your exploitative tale about your mom’s trashy life story?” Cleo asks, once again unfiltered.

“Hell yes,” Monroe replies.
 

Monroe’s mother, Chloe Richardson, was a big movie star in the seventies and eighties, and she was a New York City madam by night. She died in an airplane crash with her big-time politician lover in the mid-nineties. Monroe spun it as if the guy was the love of her mother’s life, but in truth, according to Monroe, they were only sex buddies. His wife was a prude, and her mom was a whore.
 

“It’s simple mathematics,” Monroe had said.
 

Monroe tilts her head. “And I’m moving to L.A. in August. Maybe earlier.” She mumbles the last part and guzzles her drink after dropping that bomb.
 

“Really, Monroe? This is how you’re going to break this to us? While we’re in hooker costumes?” Cleo asks.

We study each other’s stunned expressions and hideous outfits before bursting into laughter. After that, I let them know just how much of a psycho Mandy Hill is. Maybe Monroe will rethink the idea of her starring in her movie.

“Psycho meets psycho. What’s the problem here?” Monroe says.

Christopher Lamb, her editor, walks up to us, unable to take his eyes off of her nipples. If it weren’t for that, I would think he was gay. Or maybe she’s so sexy not even gay men can resist her.

“Monroe, the show’s going to start soon, and I want you to meet someone,” he says.

“What show?” I ask.

Monroe flexes her eyebrows. “Just wait and see.” She links arms with Christopher and lets him lead her away.
 

The mysterious show starts ten minutes later. Butt-naked women strut out and gyrate to the type of music that screams red-light district, circa 1970s. Before long, they’re fanning their legs spread eagle, showing their twats. It’s nasty as hell and yet too captivating to look away.
 

Before the night ends, I down three cocktails and have two conversations with men who want to know how close I live, as if I’m that easy to take home and thump. Since it’s three in the morning and I have to be at work in three hours, Cleo and I share a cab. She only lives a few blocks away from me.
 

I slog into the apartment and look around. The purple velour sofas and glass coffee table, end tables, and shelves have my mom’s taste written all over them. One day I’m going to make enough money to move out of this relic of poor taste.

I make a pot of coffee. I’ll stay up for the next three hours so I won’t be drowsy for the first half of the morning. I can already hear Cruella La Bitch speaking to me as if I’m the town idiot. She’s so patronizing, and she never looks me in the eyes. She always looks me up and down as though I’m some kind of freak of nature or I’ve worn the wrong outfit to work.
 

I take my cell phone out of my purse to charge the battery and notice a missed call from Jack L. and one new message. I narrow one eye. I can’t believe he called me on his wedding night. The call came at 2:17 a.m., which wasn’t too long ago.

I sit on a rod-iron stool at the breakfast bar and listen to the message as I wait for the coffee to steep.

“Hey, Mags. Don’t go into the office this morning. You’re done at Make it Work. You now work for A&RT Media Group. Heard of them? I’m sure you have. It’s a good paying job, and they’re going to put your talents to use. Report to HR on the twenty-second floor tomorrow at noon. I figured you went out tonight, which was why you ran up the street. Hanging out with your crazy friends.” He chuckles. “All right, Mags, I’ll call you from Malta to see how it’s going. You’re missed. Charlie is being a jackass. Later.”
 

I can hardly breathe. That was quick. I can’t believe Jack secured me a new situation, and hell if I won’t take it.
 

Right?
 

I hop off the stool, go into my bedroom and fall on top of the bed. Gazing at the ceiling, I can’t deny the overwhelming feeling that has fallen over me. I feel as if I’ve just been freed from a twenty-year prison sentence or arrived at the finish line after a treacherous 26.2 mile run. I can close my eyes in peace and get some sleep.
 

I yawn. “Good-bye, Cruella La Bitch…”
 

Chapter 3

Home Sweet Home

I woke up an hour ago, still a little drowsy from last night but walking on air nevertheless. I stuff my letter of resignation in an envelope, address it, stamp it, go to the mailboxes, and drop it in the outgoing mail slot. It’s only right that I do this. I’ve received six frantic voice messages from Cruella La Bitch. She fired me in the last one. Not once did she ask if I were okay. For all she knows, I could’ve gotten hit by a bus. It happens!

It’s ten thirty a.m. My cell phone rings as I head back to my bedroom to get dressed. Once again, it’s Cruella La Bitch. I’m not even tempted to answer it.
 

I hum the national anthem as I scramble two eggs, brown a slice of toast, and warm up the coffee I made earlier. I take my time eating while reading the first chapter of
The Great Dame
, Monroe’s book. I had promised her I would read it and tell her what I thought.

Jack never told me what my new job would entail, but I’m sure it’ll be a hell of a lot better than what I had before Patty fired me. I grab one of the suits I bought for job interviews. It’s a sensible navy blue with a pencil skirt and nipped in the waist jacket. I once read in a magazine that if a candidate is pulled together for job interviews, then potential employers will view her as organized, efficient, and professional. The article provided images of this inspiring suit. I went out and bought three just like it: one black, one navy blue, and a pale gray pinstriped one.

To my dismay, I’m unable to rub off last night’s red lipstick. It was the permanent kind. I brush on mascara, pin my hair up, and slide into a sensible pair of closed-toed pumps. I jump in front of the bathroom mirror to take a look at myself and gasp. Instead of a lowly associate-slash-assistant, I’m looking at the boss. Maybe it’s a sign.

Before beating the pavement, I print out a few resumes just in case HR asks for one, Google A&RT’s address, and learn that it’s A&R with a small “t” Media Group. I snatch my long trench coat out of the closet and walk to the building near Rockefeller Center. It takes fifteen minutes to get there, walking at a perspiration-free pace.
 

I take the elevator to the twenty-second floor. For the first time since hearing about the new job, I’m nervous. There’s no time to panic. The elevator doors open, and I’m right in the thick of it.
 

That old familiar New York energy buzzes in the air. People work diligently in cubicles. Offices surround the cubicles. I can see inside all of them because the blinds over the windows are open. I scan the floor wondering where they’ll put me. With my luck, I’ll probably be somewhere out of sight and out of mind.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Excuse me, are you Maggie?”
 

I turn spastically. “Yes.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” says a woman with a pleasant smile, long brown hair, and curves that go on forever.

“That’s okay. I mean, yes, I’m Magnolia Conroy.”

She extends a hand. “But you prefer Maggie?”

I arch an eyebrow and accept the offer to shake hands. “Um, yes, I do.”

“That’s what we heard. If you could follow me.” She’s still very pleasant.

People are always nice in the beginning. The claws don’t come out for at least two weeks. Wearing the blue suit was spot-on. She has on one just like it, and her whole demeanor screams organized, efficient, and professional. A number of people look up to notice the new girl.
 

She stops at an office with a closed door. “By the way, I’m Linda Matthews, your assistant.”

I can’t stop my eyes from bulging in disbelief, but other than that, I hold it together. “Thanks, Linda.” What sort of situation did Jack finagle for me here?
I have an assistant?

She knocks on the door. We wait together in awkward silence. My skin has grown hot under my jacket, and my head is light. I just might pass out.
 

A fashionable woman in a mustard-colored suit opens the door. She puts the article I read on what a suit says about you to the test. Her skirt is pleated and her jacket is fitted but short and flirty, yet she embodies professionalism. Her hair is jet black, and her tan skin is flawless.
 

“Hello, Maggie.” She shakes my hand. “Please come in.”

I turn to Linda. “I guess I’ll see you soon.”
 

“I’ll be at my desk.” She smiles.

I go into the woman’s office, and she invites me to sit in the chair across from hers.