Skye moonlights as a burlesque dancer three nights a week at a club downtown. In her initial interview, she told me that either she wants to someday be a) a curator like me or b) Dita Von Teese. Good thing for her that she has plenty of time to decide.
“God, what I wouldn’t give to be back in college,” she moans. “I could sleep ’til noon every day and still make it to all of my classes. Those were the days, you know?” she says, her voice tinged with nostalgia that might be poignant if it wasn’t so ridiculous.
“You only graduated last year, Skye,” I say, resisting the temptation to roll my eyes. “And can you run and grab me another cup of coffee before the meeting? I had a bit of a late night myself.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I find myself stifling another yawn. Dammit, why are those things always contagious?
“Oooooh!” she squeals, the sound like a jackhammer in my brain. “Your life is so glamorous! Did you have a hot date?”
Let’s see: I woke up still passed out on the couch in the clothes I’d worn the night before, which stank of stale, cheap beer in the worst way possible. Not exactly glamorous. Or hot, for that matter.
“Hot? No. A date? Yes,” I say, standing up and stretching my arms overhead and tugging at the big loopy bow at the neck of my blouse, which suddenly feels like it’s strangling me.
“Don’t worry,” Skye says, “you’ll totally meet someone. Probably when you least expect it. I mean, that’s how I met Spencer.” Her green eyes widen, and she moves closer, her expression serious as a government official’s while revealing state secrets.
“I’d sworn off all guys for at least a week, and then in walks Spencer. He sat in the front row the first night I danced at The Box and picked up my rhinestone thong when I dropped it off the front of the stage during my ‘Star Light, Star Bright’ number, you know? The one with the American flag? Well, we’ve been together ever since,” she says dreamily.
I blink at her uncomprehendingly. I’m not awake enough for this shit yet. Is ten a.m. too early for a drink? Because a little hair of the dog sounds pretty good right about now.
“That sounds . . really romantic, Skye,” I manage to choke out while gathering up my notes on the exhibition.
“Oh, it was,” she says, snapping back to reality. “Most guys these days don’t understand romance at all, but Spencer just gets it, you know? The other night, after I brought home Chinese food? He let me pick which fortune cookie I wanted before he did. He knows how much I love cookies!”
Oh my god, I think with a sigh. There’s no hope for today’s men. None at all.
Skye keeps chattering about Spencer’s amazing romantic gestures (he puts the toilet seat down! Sometimes!) and I zone her out as we head upstairs for the staff meeting. My boss, Morgan, is already standing at the head of the conference room table. We’re still a few minutes early, and the meeting hasn’t even begun, but her expression makes it clear that she’s five minutes past wanting to start.
“We’re finally all here,” she says, giving us a pointed look. “So let’s begin.”
I slide into a seat and realize too late Skye never got me that fourth cup of coffee. I’m going to have to face this one cold. And cold is the right word: our high priestess and overlord, Morgan, could put those ice queen femme fatales to shame. With her glossy dark hair, steely gaze, and eyebrows penciled into an expression of perpetual disapproval, she keeps our department running like a precision German automobile. From the 1940s.
“Bernard?” she demands sharply. “Updates?
We work through the upcoming calendar, touching on all the exhibits in progress. The Met prides itself on an eclectic program, and we have everything from Romanian folk art to a history of Black Pride protest photography. By the time she gets to my Hollywood show, I’m half asleep, but when I hear my name, I snap out of my hungover reverie and sit up straight.
“Lizzie is going to be making her debut as lead curator with a show this summer, which is, how should I say, a bit of a departure for the Met,” Morgan says with a condescending smirk.
I swallow hard. I’ve been pushing the museum forever to curate an exhibition on the “Golden Age of Hollywood,” and while the fact that Morgan finally said yes is a dream come true for me, I’m also painfully aware that curating the show is my biggest responsibility to date. I’m flying solo in the pilot’s seat for the first time, and I can’t fail if I ever want to move up the food chain at the museum.
“I can’t wait to hear what she’s planning,” Morgan continues, icy, “but let’s all congratulate her first on this milestone—which she hopefully won’t make a mess out of.”
Everyone giggles in a way that instantly makes me nervous. I stand up and smile to a round of polite applause, imagining lasers beaming down from above, burning through Morgan’s herringbone pantsuit.
“Thanks, Morgan, for your confidence in me,” I say, shooting her a smile so saccharine that I’m surprised she doesn’t immediately get diabetes.
“I’m really excited about this opportunity,” I continue. “I know Hollywood isn’t our usual focus, but I think that now more than ever, in this age of digital media, where dating apps have largely taken over how people, meet, match, and break up with one another, romance has somehow fallen by the wayside. What I’m aiming to do with the Hollywood exhibition is to explore the movies’ role in evolving romance narratives, showing how they interplay with more traditional courtship traditions, and built on them in the post-war era.”
I look around for feedback, but everyone is checking their phones or zoned out, waiting to get the meeting over with.
“And as you may have heard,” Morgan interrupts, “Jake Weston arrives this morning to begin working with Lizzie on acquisitions for the show.”
Just like that, everyone perks up. The room fills with titters and low chatter, the air buzzing like a beehive that’s just been kicked. I watch as two women who preside over the Egyptian wing bend their heads together, blushing and whispering furiously.
“So let’s all be sure and give him your full cooperation with whatever he may need,” Morgan continues. “Especially you, Lizzie.” She gives me a condescending look. “Jake brings a wealth of experience, and I’m sure you can learn from him.”
“Absolutely,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now, as I was saying, about the exhibition—”
“No need, we get the picture.” Morgan waves me down dismissively. “Next?”
I take a seat again, my blood already starting to boil. What is it with this Jake Weston guy, anyway? And why is he stealing my thunder for the most important moment of my career?