“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?
After the meeting, I head back to my office and get to work. There are a million tiny details to plan for any exhibit, and right now, I’m still in the sourcing phase—trying to figure out what artifacts and pieces I can actually get in time, and how they can work together so the exhibition is more than just stuff sitting in a room. That’s the real key to a great exhibit—everything needs to tell a story or show a different side to the theme, so that people walk away from it actually having learned something they never knew before, or have their perceptions changed.
I kick off my shoes and start sending emails, trying to track down not only a film print of Casablanca that I might be able to borrow for the show, but Humphrey Bogart’s infamous trench coat and fedora to place in the exhibit. I’m deep in memorabilia dealers on the west coast when a sharp knock comes at my door.
“Wrong place,” I call, without looking up. Nobody knocks around here, which must mean the mail kid is lost again. “Deliveries are at the end of the hall.”
But the door swings open and a guy walks in. Not just any guy, but a drop-dead handsome man looking like he stepped out of a frame of a Bogart movie. He’s got the leading-man chiseled jaw, and he’s wearing a dark, slim-cut suit with the jacket stretching across his broad shoulders.
Hello, lover.
“Um, hi.” I blink. Did this guy take a wrong turn in 1952 and wind up in my office? And can we please close the portal and never send him back?
I flush, suddenly wishing I’d at least had time to take a shower this morning. Deodorant spray covers many evils, but right now, I’d give anything to be fresh and bright and wafting the gentle aroma of a summer night’s breeze. I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”
“I doubt it.” He strides into the room like he owns it. Suddenly he’s standing in front of my desk and holding out a hand for me to shake, his blue eyes sparkling. “I’m the one here to rescue your little exhibit.”
“Little exhibit?” I repeat, tensing. I guess he brought his mid-century chauvinism with him through the slipstreams of time. “It’s the major show of the summer season. And it doesn’t need rescuing, by you or anyone else. Who are you, anyway?” I ask, gritting my teeth.
He looks at me like I should know already. “I’m Jake Weston,” he says.
Wait, Jake?
Condescending Jake. “Well, actually” Jake. Bane-of-my-inbox-existence Jake?