My phone was now vibrating on an almost continuous basis. I excused myself and called Sherri from the men’s room. She was, as I expected, furious: furious over the “old lady” cashmere shawl and the “meaningless” card, furious over missing our anniversary, completely furious that I hadn’t straightened out the situation the minute I saw Felicia, and over-the-top furious that Felicia had on her little black dress. I calmed her down as much as I could and promised to make the night a short one and come right over afterward. I said that we would reschedule and that I would make it twice as special. Just when I thought I was out of the woods she said, “Make sure you tell her that I want that dress back.” Oh, boy. I could never do that.
I walked back to the table and a strange thing happened. I saw Felicia and I felt a little flutter in my stomach. I couldn’t possibly have feelings for a woman I had worked beside for years. I chalked it up to my sweet tooth—the longing I always feel after a good meal for a little sugar. Hopefully the restaurant’s signature cotton candy and the Black Forest cake we had ordered for dessert would satiate me.
“So, besides dinner at the Four Seasons, what else is on your New York bucket list?” I asked.
“I’ve never seen a show at the Carlyle,” she said.
There was a pause—one I probably should have filled with an invitation to the Carlyle, but I didn’t want to lead her on. She didn’t seem to notice the lack of a forthcoming invitation and came right back with “How about you?”
“Hmm…” I thought. “I’ve never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Really?” she said. “Well, that’s an easy one. I know the best pizza place right on the other side—my treat!”
I smiled and agreed to her implicit suggestion. “Sounds good.”
“How’s Sunday?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “It’s supposed to be beautiful out on Sunday.”
I should have said I had plans, but something stopped me.
CHAPTER 11
An Out-of-Borough Experience
By Albert, Jeremy’s Publicist
Age: 35 going on 60
As usual I woke up half an hour before my alarm, and as usual I ceremoniously waited in bed for it to go off. I don’t know why I do that. I’m always hopeful that I’ll doze off for a few more minutes’ sleep, but I never do. If a shrink were to enter my head for that half an hour and observe the varied thoughts, memories, and forecasts that collide erratically into one another like balls on a pool table, they would certainly find substantial material for analysis. But today I focused my concern solely on the day ahead.
Hank called last night with what I thought was a pretty solid idea, and I was stressing because I hadn’t been able to pull it off. Since no one had seen the girl’s face, he thought it best that we hire our own girl, someone who looked like Bloomingdale’s Girl, and substitute her in the new, staged paparazzi shots. More control of the situation, he said. Hank was always looking for more control. He was worried about trusting Bloomingdale’s Girl and was determined to firmly quash the rumors about Jeremy being gay. I was actually kind of proud of the way Jeremy declined to comment on the rumors, and kind of insulted by the way Hank said gay with the same intonation that he used for Nazi sympathizer or Republican. He never bothered to filter himself.
I called Jeremy to ask about us casting a new girl to be his beard, but he was adamant about sticking with Bloomingdale’s Girl, whose name was apparently Natalie. He went on and on about some guy named Flip Roberts. I stopped listening after I realized his answer wasn’t going to change, and concentrated on a game of Candy Crush Saga. Unsuccessful all around.
After spending the morning promising the pictures to a choice selection of news outlets, I headed to the photo shoot around noon. We were meeting at Astoria Studios in Queens. A friend at HBO hooked me up. They were shooting a red-carpet scene for a Lana Turner biopic and he said we could use the set during lunch. With the basic red carpet set up and the right Photoshopping, we’d have the perfect pictures and all our problems would be solved. Hank insisted that I pick up Jeremy in a car, but Jeremy wanted no part of that either. He said he was taking the subway to Queens. I don’t know what’s gotten into him; I didn’t think he even knew how to take the subway, let alone to Queens. Images of him being swarmed by fans on the R train had me reaching for my first nibble of Xanax of the day. This whole thing had the potential to turn into a publicist’s nightmare, and I was worried that it would blow up in our faces and ruin us both.
I met the beard outside the HBO lot. As soon as I saw her I understood what had gotten into Jeremy, or rather who: Natalie from Astoria. A cab pulled up around 1:15, and he emerged, late but in all his glory. He never failed to take my breath away. He had the hair of Ben Affleck, the smile of Robert Redford, the abs of Ryan Gosling, and the walk—the walk of Denzel Washington. I imagined that every gay man worth his weight in Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Cream was filled with hope upon reading that he was one of us. I felt guilty for my part in disappointing them.
“Why is it that when I’m late it’s like the whole city conspires against me?” he said, flashing that box-office smile. Lateness forgiven.
“What happened to the subway?” I asked with a quick pat hello.
“I didn’t have one of those cards.” He turned to Natalie. “Where do you get one of those cards that you used the other day?”