Mercury in Retrograde (21 page)

“Thanks. I'm having a great ride with you,” he said. Dana flushed a deep, dark red.

“So, has she told you all of her design secrets?” Jack cut in, turning back to Dana and Gerard, having had enough of the DeBeers diamond for the moment. “Darling, where in France do you come from?”

“She's French?” Ann DeBeers asked her partner loudly. “I thought French women don't get fat?”

Dana's mouth hung open in shock. She clutched her dinner fork so hard her knuckles turned white.

“She's not fat,” Gerard said, wadding up his napkin in anger and throwing it in Ann DeBeers's direction. “She's gorgeous!”

Dana thought,
Thankyouthankyouthankyou for that.

Shooting the DeBeers heiress a withering glance, Jack changed the subject. “Lena said she got her dresses while in Paris. Are you from there or did you just school there?”

 

Back at Lipstick's table, dinner plates were being cleared, several bottles of wine had been emptied, and things were taking an odd turn.

Kitty Foil, the pixie-esque teen actress who'd clearly made the most of cocktail hour and the table's wine, was hiccuping. She seemed okay at first, even charming, but as the wineglasses were emptied and she made more and more frequent trips to the bathroom to “powder her nose,” she'd resorted to the annoying habit that many actresses adopt when they're not the center of attention—doing funny, quirky things to corral the attention back to her.

Throughout appetizers and dinner she talked about being devirginized at the age of fourteen “in the back of a tour bus in Cannes by Jagger,” informed everyone of her equal hatred of underwear and papparazzi, tried to appear intelligent by claiming (dubiously) that she'd been accepted to Harvard a full two years early, and shrieked at an assistant who was hiding behind a hawk cage that “my fucking cell phone won't work in here and Johnny Depp is trying to get ahold of me about that Darfur benefit! Do something—now!”

After dinner was served and waiters interrupted her impersonation of Nicole Steele, her
Teen Deathmaster 4
costar, Kitty became annoyed that the other guests at the table used the arrival of food as an excuse to talk to each other—and not to her. So she tried to start a food fight with the vegetables on her plate. (There were no rolls; Anna Wintour was on the Atkins diet and had banned bread and all other carbohydrates from the gala.)

When nobody seemed interested in reciprocating, Kitty, with white powder lining her nostrils, sat sullenly for a moment before tugging on Lipstick's arm. “Do you (hic) do yoga?” she asked.

Grateful for the interruption of yet another thirty-minute monologue on Jann's inner genius, Lipstick gushed, “Yes! Actually, I love it. I have a group of girls I do it with twice a w—”

“My Rollerblades are heeeeere,” trilled Kitty, interrupting Lipstick with what seemed like another non sequitur.

“Huh?” Lipstick said.

“My Rollerblades,” Kitty said, rolling her eyes as a frightened-looking assistant dropped off a gym bag at Kitty's feet and scampered away. “I'm bored and (hic) you're box blocking me with Jann Elder.”

“Box blocking?”

“It's like cock blocking but with girls,” Kitty said, kicking
off her Jimmy Choos and putting her Rollerblades on her bare feet. “I've been trying to talk to him (hic) all night, and you keep butting in.”

“You want him?” Lipstick whispered. “You can have him—want to change seats?”

But Kitty wasn't listening anymore and had gotten up from the table in her white, tiny minidress with feathery fringe and mini angel wings attached to the back and, before swilling down the last of the wine in her glass, announced, “Look! I can do (hic) yoga in Rollerblades!” Before anyone could stop her, she grabbed the back of her chair with one hand and with the other pulled one Rollerbladed foot over her head, exposing her crotch. “Seeee? Rollerblading yooooga!” she said.

“Man, that is so cool,” said Jann, to Kitty's delight. A security guard advanced toward the table. As the guard got within grabbing distance, Kitty dropped her leg and said, “Byeee!” and zoomed off. The guard whispered something in his walkie-talkie and took off after Kitty, who was zipping around the tables like a wheeled elf on ecstasy, or to be more precise, five lines of cocaine.

Several more guards joined the pursuit, but Kitty eluded them for a good fifteen minutes as amused party guests watched, assuming Kitty was part of the evening's entertainment.

“She's pretty good,” Lipstick said to no one in particular.

“She's so hot,” Jann said. “I want her for my next movie.”

And then, Lipstick, as if in a trance, saw Kitty heading for Dana and Jack's table, on a direct collision course with a peacock and a white-gloved waiter carrying a tray of wine and water carafes.

“Nooo!” Lipstick cried. She stood up as the trio of disaster convened toward Dana's back. “Stop!”

But it was too late. The peacock, which had been resting
behind Dana's chair, spotted Kitty coming right at him. He let out a raucous caw and spread his tail feathers, confusing the waiter, who stumbled into Kitty's path. Kitty hit the waiter at full speed, dumping his tray of water and wine carafes all over Dana, just as she, for the third and final time, told Jack, “No. I'm not French. I'm from Cleveland. I do not
design
Dauphin. I'm
wearing
Dauphin. I'm a
lawyer
. I practice the law.”

The icy water and white and red wine cascaded over Dana's head, down her shoulders, and onto her dress as Jack, also doused, shrieked, “A common lawyer? From
Cleveland
?”

The cavernous hall became silent as guests watched in horror. Dana put a hand up to the back of her head, which took a direct hit from a glass carafe. When she pulled it away, it was covered in brown Can-O-Hair.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, her eyes tearing up.

“Is that blood?” Gerard asked before yelling, “Call a doctor!”

“Blood?” Jack squealed and fainted, falling off his chair.

Dana tried her best to keep it together and smile through the tears that were mixing with the liquids already dripping on her face. She looked at Gerard and said, “It's not blood,” she said, “I'm fine. Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.” She ran as fast as she could in her soggy feathered dress to the ladies' room.

As Dana ran off, Kitty pulled herself to her feet, flung her hands in the air, and, giving her audience a ten-thousand-megawatt smile, screamed, “Ta DAAAA!” before slipping and falling over Jack's prone body.

“Well, there goes Kitty's chance at getting in
Vogue
—ever,” Helena Hoff smirked to Jann Elder as Lipstick excused herself to follow Dana to the bathroom.

 

Lipstick ran into the bathroom and found Dana in the handicapped stall, hyperventilating.

Lipstick grabbed as many paper towels as she could and, drying her friend off, whispered, “It's okay, it's okay. We'll get out of here. Shhh, it's okay.” She wiped the brown trail of Can-O-Hair off Dana's back and kissed her forehead as Dana silently cried in mortification.

“I'm so sorry,” Lipstick said softly, starting to cry as well. “I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“You should've warned me that
I
was supposed to be Dauphin,” Dana said, sniffling.

“I know,” Lipstick said. “But I guess I thought I could pull it off without anyone knowing. I thought I could just allude to it. And we could get our pictures taken, eat dinner, and leave. I just didn't plan on Bitsy and Jack.”

“Or a coked-up idiot running into a waiter and dumping water and wine on my head,” Dana said. She laughed hysterically. “Look at me! All my hair washed off. I mean, what happened? Did the clock strike twelve and I turned back into a pumpkin?”

“I'm so sorry,” Lipstick repeated.

“It's okay.” Dana sighed. “You couldn't have known. And up until that crazy girl went nuts and Jack started flipping out, I was actually having a decent time. Despite that horrid old biddy calling me fat.”

Lipstick gasped. “Who called you fat?”

“That DeBeers woman.”

“I'll kill her,” Lipstick snarled. “She'll never be in the magazine again.”

“Thanks,” Dana said, wiping her eyes. “What do you say we get outta here? I need some air.”

“Done,” Lipstick said, grabbing her purse from the bathroom floor and helping a soggy Dana up from the toilet.

Dana linked arms with Lipstick, and they paused to look at themselves in the bathroom mirror. Dana's hair was wet and her makeup was half washed off her face. She had brown stains run
ning down her shoulders, while Lipstick's mascara had smudged, leaving her looking like a raccoon-eyed plebian. “Look at us—gorgeous!” Lipstick said, and they both started to laugh.

“Let's make a discreet exit out the side door—follow me,” Lipstick said. She pushed open the bathroom door, just in time to catch Bitsy Farmdale, in a crouching position, with her ear to the entrance, as if she'd been listening the entire time.

Bitsy stood up, her silvery feather dress swinging back and forth like a bell.

“Oh hello, Bitsy,” Lipstick said.

“I heard you,” Bitsy said.

“So?' Lipstick asked.

“So. I heard everything.”

“Again,” Lipstick said, smiling. “So?'

“So…this will ruin you on Socialstatus.com.”

“Bitsy.” Lipstick sighed. “You're pathetic and I don't care. Oh, and by the way—Thad asked if he could call me. I said no. You two deserve each other.” Lipstick and Dana brushed past Bitsy and walked out the side entrance.

On Fifth Avenue, Dana looked at Lipstick and said, “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow,” Lipstick said.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Lipstick said and laughed. “Actually I am. Do you know that's the first time I ever stood up for myself with Bitsy? I'll probably be fired tomorrow from
Y
and ruined socially, but right now I feel pretty good.”

“You should,” Dana said, squeezing Lipstick's hand. “Let's walk for a bit. It's a nice night, and I need to dry off some more.”

But as the girls started to walk down Fifth, someone yelled after them.

“Dana!” a man's voice said. “Dana, wait up!”

They turned around to see Gerard Applebaum running after them. The blood rushed to Dana's face. He was adorable. In a red, puffy way.

When he caught up to the girls, Gerard bent over his burgeoning belly, with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. His face was red, and he was sweating in the warm spring night.

“Phew!” he said after a minute of huffing and puffing. “I know you'll be shocked by looking at my fabulously fit physique, but I'm not used to running. Good thing I wore my Converse, eh?”

“Good thing,” Dana agreed, smiling. “This is Lips—sorry, Lena Lippencrass. Lena, Gerard Applebaum.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lipstick said, shaking his hand.

“You too,” Gerard said. Turning back to Dana, he shook his head, “I can't believe you were going to leave without saying good-bye.”

“Well, it seemed the best thing to do,” Dana said. “My design mystique was ruined, and my hair got washed away.”

“Your hair?”

“Yes,” Dana said, turning around and lifting up the back of her hair to show him her bald spot, “it wasn't blood on my hands. It was my fake hair.”

“So?”

“So. I have stress-induced alopecia. I'm going bald.”

“Ah well,” Gerard countered, rubbing his shiny head, “I don't mean to point out the glaringly obvious, but I beat you on the hairless front years ago.”

Lipstick, sensing she was becoming a third wheel, hailed a taxi. Before Dana could say anything, she hopped in and yelled from the open window, “Don't feel so well. Have to go, see you tomorrow, byeee!”

Which left Dana and Gerard on the corner of Eightieth and Fifth. Alone.

“My driver's right over there,” Gerard said, pointing out a bicycle rickshaw in the sea of limousines. “Can I offer you a ride?”

“Thanks,” Dana said, “but I'd like to walk a bit.”

“Can I keep you company?”

“I'd love it.”

Which is how Dana Gluck ended up walking eighty blocks home to Soho in four-inch heels, talking and laughing the whole way with Gerard Applebaum.

Penelope's night didn't begin much better than Dana's had.

After Penelope helped Lipstick and Dana into the car taking them to the Met Gala, she hoofed it back up the stairs to her apartment to get ready for work.

What does one wear to a call-girl coffee klatch?
she wondered, frantically rooting through her closet and several piles of clothes that had somehow found their way onto the living room sofa.

Penelope finally settled on a black pencil skirt, black pumps (“The librarian look is good for authority”), and a teal short-sleeved sweater topped with a strand of fake pearls.

To complete the outfit, Penelope swept her hair up into a bun and added a faux pair of black glasses.
Nice,
she thought, looking in the mirror behind the shower door.
But Lipstick would probably say it was ‘too
-too.' She took the glasses off, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door at precisely 8:23, thirty-seven minutes before airtime.

By the time she made it to NY Access, all the women she
and Thomas had secured were there already, crammed into the makeup room. “Putting on their faces,” Eric cracked.

There was Randi, an outspoken twenty-five-year-old brunette “party specialist” from VIP Luxury Concierge Service, dressed in a black backless jersey floor-length gown (Thomas found a bright pink scarf to tie around her neck so Marge wouldn't have a fit), and Tania, an African-American “thirty-something” foot fetishist expert from Feet Me, dressed in jeans, a Yale sweatshirt, and five-inch Lucite heels that showed off her perfectly pedicured toes. Representing the geriatric segment of the population was Bernadette, from the Grandma Party Hotline, in what looked like a hundred-year-old red lace and satin nightie with matching robe and four-inch heels. And finally there was Penelope's old pal Olga, in a light gray business suit and a pink button-down.

“Makeup room is full—you'll have to do yours in the bathroom,” Marge said, striding by Penelope on her way to her office.

“Why is Marge still here?” Penelope asked Thomas, who was setting up the studio.

“It's sweeps. She lives here,” he said, laughing.

“Ah, of course,” Penelope said, putting on her microphone. “So, what's the deal?”

“The deal is, tonight is live—not taped. And we have fifteen full minutes to fill before our first break. Marge wants sex, drugs, money, and scandal. But be careful, Penelope, don't let them name names. The lawyers will be on our ass, and then we'll all be screwed.”

“English, please.”

“Don't get us sued.”

“Oh, right. Okay!”

David, on hand as Marge was still in the office, walked up to the two in the studio and said, “Penelope, hurry up and get
your makeup done; we're on in like seven minutes. Thomas—go away!” David marched Penelope over to the bathroom and pushed her through the swinging door.

Six and a half minutes later, David barged into the ladies' room, grabbed Penelope as she was putting on the final pat of powder, and yodeled, “Shoooow tiiiime!” before guiding her back out to the studio and plopping her in the “interviewer” chair from IKEA, next to the four women, all lined up sitting cross-legged on the couch.

“Three, two, one,” Thomas counted down, “and go!”

Penelope read from the teleprompter: “T
HANK YOU FOR JOINING US.
W
E'RE HERE WITH FOUR
N
EW
Y
ORK WOMEN WHO MAY LOOK LIKE YOUR AVERAGE SUBWAY RIDERS, BUT BY NIGHT THEY RIDE THE SHEETS.
”
Who wrote this crap?
Penelope thought.
Ride the sheets? Seriously?

“They're prostitutes.” She turned to the women. “How did you all get into this line of work?”

 

 

Penelope looked nervously at Thomas, whose eyes had widened. “Right, okay,” she said. “Next question! Ladies, do you
guys have boyfriends? And do they know what you do?”

 

 

Penelope sneaked a peek at Thomas, who had a
what the hell did we get ourselves into?
look on his face. “Well, let's um…” she wanted to change the subject but wasn't sure how. “Aren't you worried about health concerns?”

 

 

Penelope wasn't sure NY Access should be giving people tips on how to be a prostitute. She wanted to change the subject again but Randi interrupted.

 

 

Thomas was dragging his index finger across his throat and looking vaguely ill.

 

 

Penelope was sweating now. “Okay! Time for a break. Thank you, ladies, it's been informative, and thanks to everyone who's been watching. We'll be back in two minutes!”

The second the cameras stopped rolling, the phones started ringing.

“What's going on?” Penelope asked Thomas, who, after loosening his tie, was trying to undo the top three buttons of his shirt.
Yum,
Penelope thought, catching a glimpse of some chest hair.

“What did I tell you?” he gasped, looking faint.

“It was live?”

“And no names!” he said.

“Oh, God. Oops.” Penelope gave him a wan smile.

“Yeah. Nice touch, getting them to call Clooney's chick a whore and outing Tarantino as a foot fetishist. Oh my god, we're both fired. I should've stayed in Pakistan doing documentaries. At least there you could hear the bombs before they dropped.”

“Penelope!” Marge roared over the din of the phones. “You're back on in two seconds. What're you doing chatting up Thomas? And someone shut off those damn phones! We're live here!”

Penelope took her place back in the interviewer's chair but before she could admonish the women for naming names, she heard Thomas's voice, “Three…two…one…”