Reed asked me if I have a cell phone. I told him of course. He took the number, and he said that once we started having meetings I should keep it turned on at all times, in case they needed to reach me, twenty-four hours a day. Which made me feel sort of important. They don’t need to reach just anybody twenty-four hours a day, right?
The business conversation finished about the same time dessert arrived. Instead of dessert, Reed had a glass of port. Then he adjusted his seat way back and went to sleep.
While Reed slept, the flight attendants gave everybody in First Class their own personal DVD players, with a whole album of movies to choose from. I watched
Ghost World
first, mostly because Scarlett Johansson is in it, and as you know I supposedly bear some very slight resemblance to her. Then I watched
Chicago,
which stars Renée Zellweger, who is quite good in it, although I prefer her in the
Bridget Jones
movies. After the second movie, I napped for a while.
When I woke up, there was still quite a bit of time to kill, because the flight from Paris to New York is very long, since you are going against the jet stream. I opened up my little duffel baggy and pulled out Josh’s script. I enjoyed reading it all over again. Only it also made me sad all over again. Because I truly believed it would have been a very good movie, if only I hadn’t screwed up. And I truly believed Josh and I could have been happy together, if only I hadn’t screwed that up, too.
I was just putting the script away when the pilot announced we were starting our descent. Reed woke up and said “Hi,” so I said “Hi.” He reached into the seat pocket in front of him and took out this cute little toiletries kit, which is another benefit of First Class. He went to the lavatory, then a minute later came back smiling and smelling like toothpaste and mouthwash. Which was awfully considerate. And he was awfully handsome. Maybe even handsome enough to make me stop thinking about Josh Thomas.
The plane bumped to a landing, and I realized I was scared. Barely a week earlier, I had been ready to conquer Paris, but I was the one who got conquered, and then some. Now I was in New York, and stardom awaited.
Either that, or disaster.
42
G
iven that Reed is the type of person who can find a Lincoln Continental sedan in Paris, it probably goes without saying that a driver with a luggage cart met us at the gate.
I only had the Louis Vuitton carry-on from Celestine and my duffel baggy. Still, the driver insisted on taking them both, in addition to Reed’s briefcase and computer bag. We went down to baggage claim and waited what seemed like forever until Reed’s two huge black Tumi suitcases finally made their entrance onto the carousel.
The driver took us and our bags to the Fox News Hummer. Actually it is a Hummer 2. I don’t know if Hummer is the official monster SUV of Fox News, or if this was the only one. And it was not red white and blue or anything cheesy. It was black, with a little logo on the door.
By the way, I should mention that Hummers come from Indiana. Hummers and Hoosiers. The Indy 500. And Bobby Knight, but not anymore.
I had never been to New York before, so I stayed very alert on the drive to Manhattan because I didn’t want to miss the skyline. Do not get me wrong. As I have told you, Kirland, Indiana is just a twenty- or thirty-minute drive from Chicago. I have been to Chicago I have no idea how many times. And Chicago has plenty of tall buildings. In fact, the Sears Tower, which I know quite a bit about, having written a paper about it during the course of my so-called education, is taller than anything in New York. The point is, even though I have seen plenty of tall buildings, somehow I knew that seeing the tall buildings in New York would be different.
It took a while before I found out if that was true or not. Before you get to Manhattan from JFK airport, first you have to drive through Queens. Queens is a borough. A borough is not a neighborhood, and not a city. Actually, I am not exactly sure what a borough is, but New York has five of them: Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island.
I turned to Reed. “Are you a baseball fan?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Who do you root for?”
“The Yankees. Who else?”
I turned back to the window and watched Queens blur past. For all I know, Queens may be a fine place to live and work, and it appears that plenty of people live and work there. But Queens is not a tall-building place.
Then finally I saw Manhattan.
I first saw it from a distance, so it was not immediately overwhelming. On the contrary: From far away, even the Empire State Building looks small. But then you get closer, and Manhattan grows, and grows, and grows. Until you are just across the river, and then it strikes you that the whole thing just roars up out of the ground into the sky, and it makes you wonder how it doesn’t sink under all those tall buildings.
We crossed the East River. The Seine in Paris is a cozy romantic river with cozy romantic bridges, but the East River is big and serious and all business, and the bridge we crossed was big and serious and all business, too.
The next thing I knew, we arrived at my hotel. I did not immediately recognize it as a hotel, because there was no sign. None whatsoever. Then a young man approached the Hummer. He had cool spiky black hair, and he wore all black clothes. I wondered why he was coming up to us. He opened my door. “Welcome to the Tribeca Grand,” he said. Incidentally, Tribeca is a made-up word. It’s short for
tri
angle
be
low
Ca
nal, and it is the name of a neighborhood. I looked at a map. Although Tribeca is below Canal Street, I don’t think it’s exactly a triangle. But I guess they can call their neighborhood whatever they want.
Reed walked me to the front desk. He carried my bags, even though I just had the two little ones. He checked me in and confirmed that everything was being charged to Fox News. Incidentally, everybody at the front desk was wearing all black, too, just like the man who opened the Hummer door for me. Reed leaned down and whispered, “The suits book people into boring Midtown hotels. I figured you’d like this better.”
“This looks great,” I said. “Thanks.”
“We should have dinner,” Reed said.
“Sure,” I said. I gave him a little hug. Not a big suggestive hug. A thank-you-for-taking-me-to-New York hug.
He looked down at me. “Tonight?”
I was tired. Very tired. Reed had slept most of the flight back from Paris, and I hadn’t. So I was not sure I had the stamina for a romantic dinner. Assuming it was going to be romantic, which was not necessarily a safe assumption, because I could not figure out for the life of me if Reed had romantic intentions or not. On the other hand, Reed
was
smiling that handsome Labrador smile. And let us not forget, he was my knight in shining armor-slash-cavalry officer-slash-Marine who had rescued me from the abyss of Armani-terminated despair. Not to mention that he was going to make me a star.
“What time?” I said.
“Eight o’clock. In the lobby.” He gave me a kiss. On the cheek. Not a lot of romance in that kiss.
Then he was gone.
43
E
ight didn’t give me a lot of time.
As soon as Reed left, I turned to the young woman in black behind the reception desk. She asked how many keys I was going to need.
“Just one,” I said. She had seen and heard my whole conversation with Reed, so maybe she was suggesting something. Or maybe not. Either way, she handed me just one plastic room card key. Then she led me back toward the elevator, which rides up and down in an exposed metal-framework shaft. The elevator, like the whole hotel, is a very funky blend of old and new.
My room was modern and sleek and sophisticated. And cool. Funky hip artsy cool. Not your parents’ kind of hotel at all. Even if your parents have a lot of money.
The whole place made me feel relaxed. Which was kind of odd, considering that I was either hovering on the verge of stardom in a whole new career or teetering on the brink of homelessness on the mean streets of New York. I should have been a nervous wreck, but I wasn’t. Maybe it was the jet lag.
I looked at the Bose Wave clock radio, which was as cool as the room. It was almost five o’clock. I figured my prep time for dinner with Reed was ninety minutes, bare minimum. Which left me an hour and a half to nap. A little risky, because I might wake up feeling worse than before. Then again, falling asleep in the middle of one of Reed’s witty stories about Dartmouth or the Republican National Convention would not be socially correct or professionally advantageous. So I called the front desk and ordered not one but two wake-up calls. Then I drew the curtains shut, took off my clothes, crawled under the soft-as-silk Frette sheets, and fell right asleep.
I got lucky. My nap turned out to be a that-was-refreshing kind of sleep, with not a hint of a bad dream about Grandma’s lost dress or Josh. I got up with the first wake-up call and canceled the second one. I had to get moving.
I headed straight for the bathroom, where I found myself surrounded by very cool brushed stainless steel. Set into the stainless steel was a tiny little TV set. For a second, I thought about turning on the TV and looking for Fox News so I could do a little research, but I didn’t have time to channel surf to find it.
I took a nice hot shower, then brushed my teeth. While I was brushing, I concluded that the hotel was too cool to have a sign outside. If you didn’t know what it was without a sign, you didn’t deserve to stay there. Then I fixed my hair, rinsed with some lovely mouthwash the hotel was thoughtful enough to provide, and put on a little makeup. Which left about twenty minutes to get dressed. And if you have been paying attention, you know that is not remotely enough time for me.
Ordinarily.
Fortunately, the only clothes I had were the five outfits Celestine had given me. I wondered which one Grandma would have picked, if her mysterious adventure had been in New York in 2006 instead of Paris in 1928. Celestine had not given me any dangerous dresses, but I had a feeling Grandma would tell me that a dangerous dress should only be worn under careless, reckless, gorgeous, sexual circumstances anyway. And dinner with Reed did not seem to meet those criteria, at least not yet. So what to wear?
The Prada.
It was almost as if Grandma had whispered in my ear. Which is unlikely, what with the fact that first, Grandma is deceased, and second, to my knowledge, Grandma never heard of Prada. But I still felt as if she was helping me pick. Which made me think that just maybe, even though I had lost her dress, Grandma and her power were still with me.
The Prada was perfect. It was all black, which fit right in with the decor. Plus it was very understated, so Reed would probably just assume it was something I got in Chicago. As if.
I finished dressing and looked at the clock. It was eight P.M. on the dot, which meant I had to kill ten minutes, because it’s important to always keep men waiting. I admired myself in the mirror.
Definitely
the Prada. Then I went downstairs.
Reed was waiting to escort me into the restaurant. I was pleasantly surprised, because he looked kind of hip. He was wearing a casual suit that fit him nicely. No tie, no button-down shirt, but a black T-shirt under the suit jacket. I bet they don’t wear
that
on Fox News.
Not that I had ever watched Fox News, of course.
Our waitress, who needless to say was wearing all black, asked if we wanted anything to drink. “You pick,” I said to Reed. Where had I read that if a sophisticated man is buying you dinner, always let him order the drinks? It gives him a chance to feel like James Bond. Although I am still waiting for a man to order martinis, shaken not stirred.
Incidentally, the let-the-man-order rule does not apply in Kirland, Indiana, unless you’re satisfied drinking Rock and Rye.
“No,
you
pick,” said Reed.
“But—”
“I want to get to know you better,” Reed said. “The real you.”
Oooh. He wants to get to know me better. The real me.
Then, for just a second, I had a flash of Josh back in that Italian restaurant, asking me to pick the wine until I insisted that he pick. I wondered, is there some guidebook about girls that all these men are reading? Does it say,
Rule 11: Always let the girl order the drinks, because that will make her think you are thoughtful and value her opinion?
I shoved that cynical thought, not to mention Josh, out of my head. Reed
was
thoughtful. He
did
value my opinion.
“What do you drink back home?”
I suddenly was not entirely sure I wanted Reed to get to know the real me. “Nothing special,” I said, trying to dodge the bullet.
“C’mon,” Reed urged. “Order two of whatever you drink.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
So to Reed I said, “Okay.” And to the waitress I said, “Two Boilermakers.”
She did not know what a Boilermaker was. She was too young and hip and downtown. Before I could tell her, she ran to the bartender. Even though he was also young and hip and downtown, not to mention also clad in black, he did know what a Boilermaker was. In a minute the waitress was back with two shots of whiskey and two beers.
“You’re kidding,” Reed said when he saw the drinks.
“You said you were sure.” Before he could say anything else, I picked up the shot glass and tossed back the whiskey like I was some fifty-year-old Slovak steelworker. Then I slapped the little glass back onto the table.
Bang.
I believe that Reed is overall a fairly smart man. But he is a man, which means that somewhere not very deep inside him he is really a boy. So of course you know what he did: He picked up the shot glass and slammed the shot down just like I had done.
Only I didn’t spend the next five minutes coughing and crying, and he did.