Wishing in the Wings (15 page)

Nope, at ten thirty in the morning, coffee was all we needed. After all, we were just using the restaurant to kill time. To kill time and to organize our offensive. I tapped the folder I’d brought with me. “So, I’ll take the lead, explaining why the Mercer thinks your play is a story that needs to be told, why we chose it now.”

Ryan nodded. He’d updated his geek-boy wardrobe for our meeting, managing a tie and an oxford cloth shirt beneath a bulky brown sweater that I suspected earth-mother Dani might have knit. Unfortunately, his hair was already beginning to rebel against the combing that he’d given it. My fingers longed to reach across the table, to smooth it back into place, but I knew that my fussing would only make him more nervous.

He made the issue moot by running his own hands through his hair as he sneaked out an anxious laugh. Glancing at his watch, he pounced on his coffee cup, ignoring the fact that the liquid was the approximate temperature of a nuclear power plant core as he gulped a healthy swig.

“Relax,” I said, purposely lowering my voice to an intimate sing-song. “This is going to be fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You take these meetings all the time. This is the first one I’ve gone to since interviewing for my Peace Corps post.”

I contemplated telling him that I hadn’t attended a single outside meeting since taking over the Mercer’s dramaturgy position six months before. Oh, I had planned some meetings, all for the coming season. And Hal had designated me the chief correspondent for our ill-fated Crystal Dreams; that would have resulted in lots of meetings. And I’d studied the science and art of meetings in school, sitting through incredibly boring classes on finance, so that I knew all the right words to use, the correct phrases to dangle, the way to sound like a trustworthy businesswoman.

But actually presenting a case, arguing that my theater company was worth the investment of a donor’s hard-earned money? That was all new to me. Newer than the Eileen Fisher cardigan sweater I’d draped over a silk turtleneck that morning, tying the cashmere belt with a casual twist, as if I always wore designer clothes.

No. Ryan and I would both be better off if I didn’t share just how nervous I was.

I glanced at my own watch. T minus fifteen minutes, and still no sign of Teel. I wondered if I should excuse myself, head to the bathroom. I could lock myself in a stall and press my tattooed fingers together, summon my genie from wherever she’d gotten to.

My eyes darted around the restaurant. Was she playing some game, hiding out in one of the booths, masquerading in a form unknown to me? From my current vantage point, I couldn’t begin to make out the wrists of every single customer, couldn’t spy the flames that would be Teel’s dead giveaway. Any single person—male or female, young or old—could have been my genie. Watching. Waiting. Amused, no doubt, at my expense.

Yet another glance at my watch. Another wince as Ryan scalded his throat with coffee.

And then Teel swept in.

It was the teeth that gave her away. Those perfect teeth, flashing against a slick of lip gloss. Lip gloss, and a tawny foundation that made her look like she’d just returned from a month-long stay at a beach resort.

And mascara. Lots and lots and lots of mascara.

Did I mention the mascara?

None of which would have been a big deal, really, if Teel had dressed the way she had in my bedroom a few days before. Somehow, though, she’d misunderstood when I’d given her notice of the meeting, when I’d told her we were going to the International Women’s Union. She must have thought I’d said Hookers’ Union.

It had never crossed my mind that that a real woman might actually wear fishnet stockings, especially in the first week of March. I certainly wouldn’t have risked them, rubbing between my toes inside my thigh-high leather boots. They couldn’t provide her with any actual warmth, any insulation at all beneath her tiny plaid, schoolgirl miniskirt.

At least she’d worn a blouse with long sleeves, as I’d demanded. Her tattoo was completely invisible. Foolish me, though. I had completely forgotten to mention that a bra was a required undergarment. And it had never crossed my mind that scarlet might be considered an appropriate fashion statement for the boardroom.

What had happened to my conservative little dramaturgy student? Where had the demure khakis-and-sweater woman gone?

This meeting was going to be a disaster.

“There you are!” Great. In addition to raiding the closet at Slutwear United, my genie had adopted a bubble voice that would have put Marilyn Monroe to shame.

She sailed over to our table. Ryan started to stand out of polite reflex, but she settled him back in the booth with crimson talons on his shoulder. “Please! Don’t get up!”

I was ashamed for all Yale dramaturgy students everywhere, real and imagined.

Teel slid in beside me, looking expectantly at Ryan. “Um, Ryan Thompson,” I said, by way of introduction. “This is Teel—” I didn’t know my genie’s last name. I didn’t even know if my genie had a last name. “Daugherty,” I tossed out, silently remonstrating with myself to remember her made up name for the rest of the day.

“Charmed,” she said, offering her hand across the table. It was almost an accident when her winter-white flesh came dangerously close to tumbling out of her blouse.

“This is the student I told you about,” I said to Ryan, hoping to deflate his goggle eyes. “She’s in the same program that I graduated from last year, taking courses in professional dramaturgy.” I emphasized the penultimate word, barely resisting the urge to pinch her leg beneath the table. Hard.

“Eleven out of twelve dramaturgy students complete externships,” Teel breathed.

“Um, of course,” Ryan said, but the three words sounded like a question. A mighty confused question. An absolutely uncertain, Becca-have-you-taken-leave-of-your-senses question.

I sighed. “We’d better get going.” I added to Teel through set teeth, “Don’t you have a coat? It’s freezing out there!”

“Oh no.” She batted those painted lashes at me. “I’m actually quite hot.”

Ryan blushed.

I took the opportunity to elbow Teel as I slid out of the booth. “Quit it!” I whispered as loudly as I dared. She pretended not to hear me.

Things didn’t get better as we made our way to the Union. Or as we waited in the reception area. Or as we sat down in a conference room opposite Ms. Eleanor Samuelson, the vice president in charge of community relations.

I fervently wished that Ryan and I had been accompanied by the first Teel I’d ever met. Lawyer-Teel and Ms. Samuelson would have had a lot in common, starting with their conservative navy suits. Ms. Samuelson inspected my current genie’s incarnation over the top of her eyeglasses, raising a single haughty eyebrow in silent summary of her evaluation. Somehow, though, we made it through the introductory phase of the meeting. I explained what the Mercer was all about. Ryan delivered his elevator pitch for However Long, reducing the power of his play to about three minutes.

Ms. Samuelson leaned back in her chair, tapping the eraser of her needle-sharp pencil against the wooden table. “I have to tell you, the Union has never undertaken this kind of sponsorship before. I wouldn’t even be talking to you, if it weren’t for a new initiative that we’re launching. We’ve declared this to be the Year of the Young Woman. We want to build our membership from the ground up, increase the number of women that we reach. Some of my colleagues think that contemporary theater might be a way to do that.”

Some of her colleagues. But not Ms. Samuelson, I was willing to bet. Nevertheless, I smiled encouragingly, ready to explain that our missions could mesh well. Before I could speak, though, Teel leaned forward, stopping just short of cascading out of her blouse entirely. “If I could address that?” She cooed, “Since only one out of four of us is a young woman?”

What the hell did she think I was? A patient on the geriatric ward? I glared at her. Her job—her entire job—was to sit still and keep her mouth shut.

Before I could figure out a way to take back control, Teel pursed her glossy lips and bubbled, “Young women want challenges. We want excitement, for excitement’s sake. We aren’t dried up and boring and old.”

From across the table, I could see a fine sheen of sweat break out on Ryan’s upper lip. I couldn’t tell if he was reacting to Teel’s seductive wriggling, or if he feared our source of potential funding was about to evaporate before our very eyes.

Ms. Samuelson straightened in her chair, and hard lines deepened from her flared nostrils to the corners of her mouth. “Here at the Union, Ms. Daugherty, we believe that young women want to be recognized for their ability. For what they contribute to the world around them.”

“And that is why—” I started to say, but I was silenced by Teel’s hyena laugh, a shocking bray that seemed especially loud after her floating voice of mock-innocence.

“Blah-de-blah-de-blah, blah, blah,” she said. “All your fancy words don’t add up to one single woman’s real experience. One single young woman, anyway.”

“Teel!” I gasped.

Ms. Samuelson pursed her lips and said, “I can assure you that we’ve commissioned some of the country’s finest academics to study this problem for us. We’re not improvising answers, Ms. Daugherty. We’re studying them. We’re committing to them.”

Teel yawned, opening her mouth and curling her tongue with the complete dedication to the task that only a sleepy, fireside cat could demonstrate. Before she could say one more word, I grabbed her arm and tugged her out of her chair, out of the conference room, into the hallway.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hissed.

“Trust me,” she whispered. And then she giggled, like Gidget’s flightier younger sister.

“You are destroying this meeting!”

“I’m making it more interesting.” She took advantage of the glass on a framed print commemorating the Seneca Falls Convention to reapply her lip gloss.

“We don’t want ‘interesting,’ Teel! We want professional! We want boring and mundane and staid and trustworthy! We want money!”

My voice had risen as I berated my genie. My vocal cords tightened as my anger spiked, each word becoming a little more shrill than the one before, until I sounded like a very loud, very hyper Minnie Mouse. On helium.

I glanced over my shoulder. In my rush to extricate Teel, I hadn’t closed the conference room door.

I swore. “Stay here,” I said. She started to answer, and I snapped, “No!” She drew another breath and I glared. “Not. One. More. Word.”

I went back into the conference room. Ryan was doing an excellent impression of an arborist, studying the table as if it held the secret to all known tree life. Dani would be proud of him. She might even be able to use his acquired knowledge for her guerilla gardening.

Ms. Samuelson was staring daggers at him, but she transferred her gaze to me as soon as I crossed the threshold.

“Ms. Morris, contrary to your apparent expectation, the International Women’s Union is not a bank.” She spat out the last word. “We build partnerships with organizations. We work with like-minded groups to advance the cause of women. All women. If the only thing you desire is money,” the word had never sounded so absolutely, completely filthy, “then I can assure you this meeting is done.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, loading my words with all the emotion I truly felt. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

My mind raced as I tried to think of something, anything, that could redeem us. Before I found my words, though, Teel laughed from the hallway. Each of us heard her coo to an unknown person, “Have you heard the one about the lap-dancer and the rabbi—”

“Teel!” I screamed.

“We’ll be going now,” Ryan said, standing stiffly.

“I think that would be best,” Ms. Samuelson answered. The old expression, “If looks could kill” was seared into my brain.

“Thank you for your time,” I whispered. I don’t think Ms. Samuelson heard me, though. Teel’s bray sucked every last molecule of air from the building. We saw ourselves out.

* * *

“I am so sorry.”

“You said that before.” Ryan’s voice was tight, and he refused to meet my eyes. Instead, he found the mottled workbench in front of us fascinating, nearly as enthralling as the purple grow-lights that gave us both a ghastly pallor.

Dani emerged from her bedroom, frowning as she carried a stack of gray cups that looked like moldy rejects from the Dixie factory. She kept her voice completely neutral as she said, “Yes she did, Ry. At least twice since I got here. I think she’s waiting for you to accept her apology.”

I had sent Teel away as soon as we all escaped from the International Women’s Union. I’d reminded my genie that she had a “train” to catch, to get back to a “class” in “New Haven.” I’d been so furious that I’d considered blowing her cover entirely, but even in my rage, I’d been pretty sure that she’d find a way to close off my throat, to knock me silent even as I blasted her. She’d make me look like an even bigger idiot in front of Ryan, in front of all of New York City.

With Teel gone, I’d apologized to Ryan for the first time. He’d only shaken his head and started the trek back home to the Bentley. The wind had been brisk in our faces, and I’d thought about hailing a cab, but I was reluctant to spend the Mercer’s money in light of my utter failure to score a sponsor for the play. After about six blocks, though, I’d considered spending my own severely limited funds. It was cold out there. Alas, when I looked around, there wasn’t a single cab to be found.

Ryan and I had trudged on, our silence growing heavier with every passing block. Only when we’d made it to our respective front doors on the Bentley’s eighth floor did I manage to apologize again, stammering out an absurd-sounding explanation about how Teel had seemed totally reasonable when I’d met her before, when she’d approached me about her externship.

Before Ryan could respond, Dani had alighted from the elevator, balancing a bag of potting soil across a granny cart that rattled in the carpeted hallway. “What a day!” she’d exclaimed, waving a piece of paper in front of her.

Desperate for a break from genie-induced misery, I had sprung to my neighbor’s assistance. The piece of paper turned out to be a citation she’d received from one of New York City’s finest. Despite the bitter wind blowing outside, Dani had decided to turn the earth around four trees on our block, getting them ready for some secret guerilla midnight planting, once the danger of frost was past. It was just bad luck that a tired, bored, cold cop had stopped her, demanding to know what she was doing. Her behavior must have seemed especially strange, given the bite in the air.