I wondered briefly why he’d chosen to impart this bit of information to me, but I realized that Tabitha and I probably seemed like the best of friends, giggling and hanging on to each other as we walked through the party. He’d been lingering outside the bathroom and watching us as we left. Maybe he thought she called me for help. Unbelievable that he was lighting up a cigarette in the middle of the main gallery as if no one would stop him. And no one did.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr.…?” I began.
He eyed me suspiciously, surprised that I didn’t know who he was. I wish I had never asked.
“Francis. Robert Francis.”
“Well, Mr. Francis, why haven’t you asked her?” I replied, desperately hoping to take the focus away from me.
“We’re still not talking,” he said. He appeared slightly taken aback and seemed to think that I should know this. “Well, it was nice chatting with you … I didn’t get your name?”
“A friend,” was all I said.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll talk again,” he said and slipped into the crowd, leaving me standing there, bewildered.
I was starting to feel really sorry for the fabulous Tabitha Eden. What did she have to do with this creepy guy? Maybe she was too busy upchucking in museum toilets to talk about her “plans,” whatever they were. A waiter carrying a silver tray filled with champagne flutes approached me.
“Miss? Would you care”—I grabbed one and threw it back, the champagne bubbles going straight to my brain—“for champagne?” he finished saying as I put the glass back down on his tray and grabbed another.
Thankfully, they weren’t checking IDs that night.
10
“Holy crap, that’s really good!” I said to the waiter. He looked at me funny, and I realized that I had dropped my Audrey accent. I avoided making eye contact. Okay, it was time to blow this Popsicle stand, as Grandpa used to say. I wouldn’t be able to keep this up.
“Nice dress,” said a smooth, deep voice from behind me. Was I busted? I spun around, unsure.
Smiling at me, with dimples so sexy they were wicked, was none other than ZK Northcott. How was it that a couple of cute little dents in a guy’s face, even a face as nice as his, could make him even more appealing? My heart stopped pumping, I swear. His dark, wavy hair was slicked back. I’d bet he just rolled out of bed looking gorgeous. Not like the gorillas I knew who spent as much time (and product) on their hair as the girls. Up close, I could see that his eyes were even more enticing: hazel, caramel-colored with flecks of green and gold. Jeez, talk about genes. He grabbed a bottle of champagne from one of the passing waiters and refilled my glass a third time.
I eyed the line of his jacket against his shoulder and almost swooned. Some guys were just born to wear two-thousand-dollar formal wear. Giorgio Armani would be pleased. I wondered where his date was. Lost, I hoped.
“Everyone wants to know how Tabitha is,” he said. What did he say? Who was Tabitha? I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. My mind went totally blank. He was gorgeous. For a second I flashed on the fear that he would recognize me from outside on the street when our eyes locked. But of course not. When I went gaga, gazing into his eyes, he didn’t even notice me. We settled into an uncomfortable silence because I had no idea how to respond.
I took another sip of champagne, buying time to think, but the bubbles made it harder. Finally I began to sputter, “Well, Tabitha was, well…”
“There you are!” ZK turned, and Dahlia Rothenberg inserted herself between us before I could utter another word. Dahlia Rothenberg. Holy shit. She was even more perfect up close than she was in the magazines.
“Yes, how is our dear Tabby?” she asked. “We’re all dying to know.” She stared right through me as though I were made of tissue paper. I was so over my head, I felt like I’d plunged into the deep end with piranhas and had forgotten how to swim. Time stopped. How long had I been standing there absolutely tongue-tied? No line lifted from Sabrina or Tiffany’s or Roman Holiday. No witty retort. A total blank. All I could think of was that ZK was starting to look bored, which seemed the worst possible thing in the world. Each second ticked by excruciatingly.
“Well, I guess dear Tabitha’s the center of attention as usual,” I finally offered, smiling, hoping this would pass for conversation. It was only the most obvious thing I could think of, but Dahlia and ZK laughed as though I was brilliant. Good grief.
“You know her too well!” ZK said and gave me an amused look. I felt as though he knew I was faking and was congratulating me on my recovery, but it didn’t really matter what he was thinking. I was gobsmacked by his gold-flecked eyes.
“Well, you haven’t done poorly yourself,” Dahlia added, watching ZK watching me, but he barely seemed to notice. As I searched for a witty reply, I saw Joe the security guy leaning over the upper gallery stairs. He was pointing right at me and looking down at—Jess! She’d just reached the bottom stairs of the main gallery.
I was in so much trouble. Jess motioned me to come right away. I shrugged helplessly, unsure how to extricate myself.
“Is there something going on over there?” Dahlia asked. She couldn’t quite see Jess, and even if she had, a mere museum employee wouldn’t register for her.
“Not at all, it just seems as though someone has had too much fun and it’s time for them to go home,” I said sadly. Jess pulled a waiter over, handed him a note, and pointed in my direction.
“And I’m afraid I will be on my way as well. It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said and turned from my newfound “friends.” But ZK grabbed my arm. First the creeper, now Mr. Underwear-Man … these rich people were so grabby.
“I’m curious, have we met before?”
“Darling, I assure you, no one knows me. I’m quite a homebody, actually,” I said in my quietest Audrey voice.
“Excuse me,” the waiter interrupted. “I believe this is for you.”
“Thank you, dear.” But before I opened the note, a perky thirtyish young woman with a blond ponytail and an expensive camera interrupted us.
“Page Six?” she asked.
“I’d rather not,” Dahlia started.
“Oh, come now. Take one of the three of us,” ZK said. He put one arm around Dahlia and the other around me before I could say a peep. God, he smelled good. Like citrus, musk, and leather—all sex appeal. ZK squeezed me tighter, as if we were old friends. It was so totally absurd that I practically giggled as the camera flashed.
I caught Jess’s eye. She was in shock. It took a second to register what I had just done. There was now Page Six photographic evidence of me wearing the Audrey dress. Oh God, I was a total screw-up.
“Thank you,” the photographer said, looking down at her camera. “Would you mind spelling your name?” Before she looked up, I slipped into the crowd without answering.
ZK, Dahlia, and Page Six were probably wondering who I was and where I came from.
I walked deliberately in Jess’s direction, savoring the last few seconds of everything—the champagne, the dress, the sad pop princess, and my too-big shoes, leaving the world of my dreams to begin the unavoidable descent back to my sad, uneventful life.
11
The Hole.
If you wanted to visit my own personal version of hell, it was right off the Jersey Turnpike, exit 14C.
Everybody called it the Hole, except tourists. Our semiofficial motto was, “It’s gotta taste better than it looks.”
It wasn’t the worst job in the world, but it was close.
At 11:08, I was late for my shift. I overslept—if staying up all night and passing out for two and a half hours could be considered oversleeping. It seemed more like undersleeping. But how could I stop thinking about that night? The shimmering dress, vomiting pop stars, and gorgeous baby moguls.