Mercury in Retrograde (22 page)

 

Penelope looked up and saw Thomas, sheet white, hoarsely whispering, “Wrap it up! Wrap it up!” Next to him was Marge, who was gagging after attempting to dry swallow a Blue and a Green, and David, who was trying hard not to laugh.

 

 

The next ten minutes were a blur. Between the women leaving, Marge choking on her pills, David trying to hand her a glass of water and tripping over the camera wires, accidentally dousing her with it, Penelope wasn't quite sure what to do.

She was snapped out of her trance by Thomas, who took her arm and said, “Let's get out of here. Now.” And he dragged her to the elevator. But before they could get on the elevator, Trace, there to do the late-night news, appeared. Drunk.

“Hello, gorgeoush,” he slurred to Penelope.

“Ew, get away from me, you nutbag,” she said.

“Kish me,” Trace slurred and lunged at Penelope.

Thomas stepped in, pushed Trace, and said in a low voice, “Don't go near her.”

Penelope had had enough. Irate and sick of Trace's constant lechery, she looked at Thomas and said, “I got this.” Just as the elevator doors opened, she cocked her fist back and punched the soused anchor full in the face, knocking him to the floor.

As she heard Marge scream in the background, “What the hell…?” Thomas grabbed Penelope's arm, pulled her into the elevator with him, and escorted her outside.

“You know there's a high likelihood that we'll both be out of a job by tomorrow,” Thomas said as they lingered outside of the NY Access building.

“Yep,” Penelope said. “Figured as much.”

“So.”

“So.”

“Should we go, maybe do something to celebrate?”

“Yeah, okay,” Penelope said, surprised—it was, after all, the first time he'd ever asked her to do anything outside of work. “Wanna, um, have a drink by my house?” she asked.

“Sure,” Thomas said, grinning. “Where?”

“There's this great bar, The Room. Just beer and wine and stuff,” Penelope said, trying to be nonchalant.

“Sounds good.”

They walked away just as news trucks from NBC, FOX, and ABC local affiliates were pulling up outside NY Access. Penelope could hear one ABC producer yell, “Yeah! Yeah, they just put on the air that the mayor had an affair. With a dude and a bunch of hookers! We're on it!”

They hopped on the subway, got off at the West Fourth Street station, and started walking south on Sixth Avenue.

“We've worked together every day for months now, and this is our first after-work drink,” Penelope said. “Why is that? Why do you always have to rush home after work? Do you have a separation of church and state thing going on?” she asked. “Or do you have a secret wife and kids to take care of?”

“No,” Thomas said, looking away, “nothing like that.”

“So what is it, then?”

“My mom's been sick,” Thomas said as they turned east onto Houston.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” Penelope said, embarrassed.

“It's okay. That's why I work at New York Access in the first place. I was doing documentaries in Pakistan for the BBC when she was diagnosed with a pretty aggressive case of multiple sclerosis. I had to come home and take care of her.”

“What about your dad?”

“He died when I was a kid.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Yeah, my life for the past couple of years has basically been work and my mom. Last month she finally got approved by Medicaid to go to a decent hospice in Queens, but it's been…hard.”

“Wow. I had no idea,” Penelope said. She felt ridiculous. His tale of woe and selflessness had somehow turned her on even more than she already was. She wondered if that were wrong.

“Well, shit happens,” Thomas said. “And I can start having a life again, I guess. I'm glad to be out tonight with you.”

“Thanks, me with you too,” Penelope said, blushing.

“And whatever happens with New York Access because of tonight, Trace, and that stupid Coffee Klatch, I'm glad I met you.”

Just as Penelope was starting to think all was right with the world, despite her possible once-again imminent joblessness, she spotted something odd.

As they were turning onto Sullivan Street, Penelope saw a woman in a brown bobbed wig and what looked like a silvery feather duster crouched down between two cars, clutching a camera and looking at the entrance to her apartment building.

“Hey,” Penelope whispered to Thomas, grabbing his arm. “Stop.”

“What's up?” Thomas said.

“I think my neighbor's stalker is here.”

“Your neighbor has a stalker?”

“Shhhh!” Penelope hissed, pulling Thomas into a nearby doorway.

“What is going on?” Thomas whispered.

“Just wait for a sec. See that woman with the bob hiding by the cars?”

“Yes.”

“She's been following my friend.”

Sure enough, three minutes later a taxi pulled up. Lipstick,
in her beautiful green dress, emerged from the backseat. The woman with the wig started taking pictures with her camera.

“Lipstick!” Penelope yelled, “she's here—your stalker!”

As Lipstick turned toward Penelope, the woman, caught in between them, stopped taking pictures and tried to run off. But she was blocked by Penelope, who grabbed her arm and ripped off her wig, exposing her blond hair tucked up underneath.

Lipstick gasped.

“Who are you?” Penelope demanded from the struggling woman. “And why are you following my friend?”

“It's all right, Penelope,” Lipstick said, “I know her.”

“Huh?” Penelope asked. “You do? Who is she?” Turning to the woman, Penelope shook her and demanded, “Name!”

“It's Bitsy Farmdale,” Lipstick said. “You can let her go.” Bitsy'd seen Lipstick leave the Met and, while Lipstick and Dana had strolled for a block outside, had taken a cab back to Sullivan Street to get there ahead of her.

“Really?” Penelope asked. “That chick who's always so mean to you?”

“Yes,” Lipstick said.

“I can rough her up a bit, if you want. I'm from Cincinnati. Jerry Springer used to be the mayor there, you know.”

“Let her go.” Lipstick sighed.

“Fine,” Penelope said and released Bitsy with a shove.

“If I have one bruise, you'll be hearing from my lawyer,” Bitsy snarled at Penelope, rubbing her arm.

“No, she won't,” Lipstick said, standing up straight. “You won't be calling anyone, Bitsy.”

“Really? You think so?” Bitsy said with a mean laugh. “Just wait till I'm done with you. You humiliated Jack tonight by bringing some random person—and not that designer—to the ball and now you're clearly shacking up with some bum in this…tenement. He'll be so pissed.”

“Why is anything I do your business?” Lipstick asked.

“Because it is!” Bitsy said, stamping her foot. “You think you can just have my spotlight after all these years I've spent cultivating my seat at the top of society? You were always trying to steal my thunder at the debutante balls and in cotillion. You were always the center of attention, and finally I worked my way onto the right committees and into the right luncheons and was considered
the
young socialite. I even stole my boyfriend back after you took him.”

“What?” Lipstick said, aghast. “I didn't take Thad away from you.”

“Liar!” Bitsy cried. “We'd gotten back together for three months before you two started dating.”

“I had no idea, Bitsy,” Lipstick said. “He told me you two were just friends. And it's not like you and I talk to each other.”

“I was going to be Mrs. Thad Newton III until he broke up with me tonight.”

“He broke up with you?” Lipstick gasped.

“You know he did, you bitch. I don't know what you told him, but whatever it was—he left me.”

“I don't think it was anything I said,” Lipstick said, confused. “I think it had more to do with you treating him like a dog. And you should be thankful. He's a liar and a cheat.”

“How dare you?” Bitsy snarled. “Even so. Even if you didn't say anything, you're still a fraud, living down here in this cesspool, and your mysterious designer is a lawyer! Wait till everyone finds out.”

“Please. Everyone finding out?” Lipstick laughed. “About what? About me actually working for a living and paying my own bills in an apartment my salary can afford? And
I
made those dresses. So what! They're great and everybody loves them.”

“
You
made them?” Bitsy asked, looking genuinely shocked. “That's not possible.”

“Remember all those stupid etiquette classes we had to take from Mrs. Frampton?” Lipstick asked. “While you and your friends shunned me and skipped class to go have lattes, not to mention locked me out on balconies, I stayed there and had to learn how to sew. All these clothes I've been wearing are just deconstructions of my old closet.”

“They'll eat you alive on Socialstatus.com.” Bitsy sniffed.

“Please. What if I told people you were so obsessed with me that you've been dressing up in wigs and spending your time following me? And that you're the one behind all the nasty posts on Socialstatus.com? I'll sue you for stalking and harassment and you'll never get over the shame!”

Bitsy turned sheet white. “You wouldn't.” She gasped.

“This is getting good,” Thomas said.

“Are you on drugs? Should we call a doctor?” Penelope asked Bitsy delicately, not wanting to further enrage a woman she was convinced had probably snorted her fair share of lines that evening.

“This is ridiculous!” Lipstick said. “Bitsy, go home and don't bother me ever again. I'll shut my mouth if you shut yours. Permanently.”

“I hate you,” Bitsy spat out, stalking off to the corner of Sullivan and Houston to hail a cab.

“Wow,” Penelope said as Bitsy got into a taxi. “That was…interesting.”

Lipstick was silent.

“I've never seen you angry before. I've never even seen you raise your voice,” Penelope said in awe. “You totally took command of that situation. That was awesome.”

“Socialites are so fucked up,” Thomas said.

“Tell me about it,” Lipstick said. “And who are you?”

“Thomas, this is my neighbor and friend Lena,” Penelope said. “Lena, this is my producer, Thomas.”

“Oh yeah,” Lipstick said. “I've heard about you.”

“It's all lies, I assure you,” Thomas said.

“How 'bout a drink?” Penelope asked. “I think we could all use one.”

“No, you two go ahead; I just want to go to bed,” Lipstick said. “I'm exhausted.”

But as she was climbing the stairs to her apartment, Lipstick reconsidered. The night had been such a mess. Except for in the very beginning, with Penelope and Dana. And she thought back to Zach and how he'd looked at her. Like he'd never seen anything or anyone so beautiful. Lipstick smiled. Even though she'd been through hell, remembering Zach made her feel like a princess.

Feeling empowered, she stopped on the third floor and, taking a deep breath, knocked on Zach's door. When he opened up, Lipstick said defiantly, “You said to stop by for a drink. I've had a hell of a night.” Before she could say anything else, he leaned in, put his arm around her waist, and kissed her.

“Wanna come in?” Zach asked when they finally came up for air.

“Yes,” Lipstick said, and the door shut behind her.

The next morning was the start of a gorgeous late spring day. The birds chirped from the small trees dotting the Soho streets. The sun shone between the buildings as a few bankers who had to be at their trading desks by eight a.m. brushed by the last of the bums waking from their slumber on the steps of Saint Anthony's Church, as they went on their way to the coffee shops and subway stations. Over at 198 Sullivan Street, Lipstick, Dana, and Penelope were just waking up. And one of them was not in her own bed.

Lipstick opened her eyes and scanned the room that was darkened by heavy drapery. She was in a small room in a smallish bed that didn't smell like her or even remotely feel like her thousand-count Pratesi sheets. An electric alarm clock, which certainly wasn't hers, blinked 7:02.

Where the heck was she? Her eyes eventually focused on Zach, snoring softly next to her. She slapped her forehead.

She was an idiot. Who sleeps with a guy on the first date? Actually, it wasn't even a first date. God, he was cute. And nice.

And then she remembered the previous night's non-Zach events. Lipstick pulled the covers up over her head and sighed. Zach mumbled in his sleep and flung an arm across her.

What am I going to tell Jack?
she thought, feeling overwhelmed and panicky.
What is Bitsy going to do? What will be on Socialstatus.com? What am I going to tell my mother? She will be furious. I have to get out of here.

She silently lifted Zach's arm and slipped out of the bed, careful not to wake him. She found her underwear that had been flung onto his dresser during the night's activities, stepped into them, and tiptoed out of the room. In Zach's living room she found her feathered dress lying atop his easel with its edges dipped into some oil paint, her purse on the floor by his fridge, and her heels stuffed into the cushions of the leather sofa.

I can't squish myself back into this,
Lipstick thought, looking balefully at the dress.
And half the feathers have fallen off anyway.

Lipstick bit her lip for a moment and then—rationalizing that as she lived only one floor away and no one in the building roamed the halls before eight a.m.—grabbed her paint-spattered dress, purse, and shoes, clutched them to her chest, and, clad in just her underwear, bolted up one flight to the safety of her own apartment.

 

Five minutes later and one floor up, Penelope woke to her CD alarm clock blaring Journey's “Wheel in the Sky.”

She yawned, stretched her arms, and, in doing so, acciden
tally punched Thomas in the face, waking him.

“Ow!” He cringed, covering his nose with his hand.

“Oh, sorry,” Penelope said, more than a little hungover from the night before—which aided in her momentarily forgetting she had a houseguest. “You're here.” Looking under the covers, she added, “And we're naked.”

“Yep,” he said.

“Right,” Penelope answered.

“Awkward,” Thomas said.

“More like odd.”

“Why's that?”

“I've never even seen you with your jacket and tie off, much less your underwear.”

“Am I that uptight?”

“Kind of. In a nice, nerdy way.”

Thomas turned toward her, grinned, and murmured, “I promise to never wear a jacket and tie again if you promise to go out with me again”—which lead to Penelope slamming down the sleep button on her alarm clock.

 

Half an hour later they finally got out of bed.

“I can't believe I belted Trace,” Penelope said.

“That was brilliant.” Thomas chuckled.

“He's going to kill me.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

“Oh. And the hookers…and the mayor!”

“That was also brilliant, in a totally different we-might-not-have-a-job way.”

After they'd both showered, Penelope asked, “Should I call in to work and see if we're fired?”

“No, let's just show up and see what happens. It's more fun that way,” Thomas answered, buttoning up his shirt.

 

Penelope and Thomas walked out of 198 Sullivan and into the eye of the storm.

At the newsstand on West Third and Bleecker, by the train station, they caught a glimpse of the day's papers.

The
Telegraph
's headline read, “Swallows Is Spitting Mad Over Call Girl Klatch.”

The
Post
had “Swallows Chokes: Gets Kinky with Knicks” on its front page.

The
Daily News,
a champion of the mayor's, blared, “Swallows: I Won't Take This Lying Down!”

Even the
New York Times
got in on the fracas, albeit with a more subdued headline in the Metro section that read, “Prostitutes Tell Local News Station They've Slept with Mayor and Unnamed Knick.”

“Wow,” Penelope said, grabbing Thomas's hand, which, she noted, fit perfectly into hers. It had been a long time since she'd felt that way about anyone, and she savored the moment. “I guess I didn't really realize what we did. Or what happened. I can't believe it's on all the front pages.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said, “Let's just hope those hookers don't recant and say we drugged them.”

Penelope's looked at her cell phone. She'd forgotten to put the ringer back on after turning it off before filming the night before. It registered six messages. All from that morning.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “Six messages before nine a.m. is never good news.”

She turned the ringer back on just as the phone rang.

It was Marge.

“Where the hell are you?” Marge hollered. “Get here now! We got the biggest story in town, and the woman who broke it—my reporter,
you
—are nowhere to be found!”

“I'm on my way!” Penelope said, “but I'm actually early.”

“And where's Thomas?” Marge asked.

“Thomas?” Penelope giggled, looking at her rumpled crush.

“Yes, Thomas! The producer who was seen slinking off with you last night. He's not answering his phone!”

“How would I know? He's probably on the train.”

“He'd better be! We got more news to break. Every outlet in the city is dying to get ahold of you. The girls have gone underground, can't get ahold of 'em, so we're under siege. Every news truck ever made is outside, so come in the back way.”

“So I'm not fired?”

“Fired? Why the hell would you be fired? You've put us on the map! The mayor is pissed and threatening to shut us down, but who cares? We're on the front page of every paper! All the morning shows are on the horn. Every station I ever worked for is begging me for an interview with you. I got calls from a station in China this morning! Everyone wants to talk to you, but they'll have to go through me first.”

“Okay,” Penelope said, swallowing hard, “I'm on my way.”

“Now!”

“Now.”

“But Marge,” Penelope said before her boss could hang up.

“Yes?” Marge snapped.

“About Trace—”

“That's been taken care of,” Marge said curtly.

“What do you mean?”

“We'll discuss it when I see you,” Marge said and hung up.

Penelope looked at Thomas. “We gotta go. She's ramped up. But good news. We still have a job, and she actually sounds pleased. It was odd. Almost uncomfortable.”

Just before she and Thomas descended into the subway station, Penelope checked her messages.

 

MESSAGE 1: “Penelope Fleming, this is Marge Gelb Green. We need you at the station now. Wake the fuck up already.”

 

MESSAGE 2: “Penelope Fleming, this is Marge Gelb Green. Your boss. Where the hell are you? Call me back. Now.”

 

MESSAGE 3: “Honey, it's David. Where aaaaaare yoooou? Please call me back. Soon. Marge is about to blow up and I can't find her blues—and she's run out of the greens.”

 

MESSAGE 4: “Darling, it's David again. Please tell me you haven't been shot on the mayor's orders and dumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. We need you in the station. Now. It's a little nuts here. I've staved Marge off with a couple of pinks I found in the crevice of her chair cushion but they won't last long. Get here, ASAP.”

 

MESSAGE 5: “Penelope, it's your mother. What is going on? You didn't tell me you were going to be on
Good Morning America
and the
Today
show! But there I was this morning, fixing your father his holy hash and on comes a clip of you and some hookers. Your father got so upset he locked himself in your old bedroom with his Jesus doll. But what's this about the mayor and the hookers? You said you were only on local cable. Call me. I'm very confused.”

 

MESSAGE 6: “Penelope, it's your mother again. Kelsie Browsmith from down the street called. She's so jealous. Her daughter's never been on TV.”

As for Dana, she woke late at 8:15 a.m. with a smile on her face and swollen feet. She checked her messages. Gerard had already called.

“Dana, it's Gerard. I don't know when I've had such a nice night. Can we do it again tomorrow? I have the babysitter for Michael, so I'm free until ten. But this time no walking.”

Dana was elated. She couldn't remember having a nicer night either, or at least a nicer walk home, despite the drama and the catty comments from the DeBeers woman. And the Can-O-Hair stain was still on her back and her pillowcase. As she lay in bed, Dana gave Karl a kiss and stroked his stomach. She'd love to go out with Gerard. But tomorrow night she had to be at the office late. Again. Actually, she had to be at the office late every night for the next month. As she thought of her grueling work schedule, her smile faded, her stomach started to cramp, and she unwittingly put her hand to the back of her head, pulling out yet another small clump of hair.

Work was killing her. If she didn't do the hours, she wouldn't make full partner. But why did she want to make full partner so badly? The rent was paid for ten years, thanks to Noah. She already made a decent six-figure salary. Why did she need it so badly?

“What do you mean?”
she heard her mother's voice in her head.
“You need to be the best! If you're not first, you're last.”

“Listen to your mother,”
she heard her dad say.
“I don't want to get involved.”

“You are the smartest person I know,”
she heard Penelope's voice try to break in.

“My sister and her Lubovitchers are horrified. There's never
been a divorce in our family,”
her mother's voice rang out.
“You failed at marriage and failed at having children. Where will the failures end?”

“You're my idol,”
Lipstick whispered.
“And you don't have to prove anything to anyone.”

“God, you're such a fat loser,”
Noah chimed in.
“You can't do anything right. You can't even have a baby.”

“Enough!” Dana shouted, pounding a fist into her pillow and scaring Karl under the bed.

Taking a deep breath, she got out of bed. Before stepping into the shower, she called her assistant and said, “Please tell Mr. Kornberg I'd like to have an eleven a.m. meeting with him. I'll be in by nine.”

 

Lipstick arrived at the offices of
Y
at 9:30, dressed in a green sleeveless top of her own design and dark, skinny jeans—which she felt was a bit of an oxymoron. No one looked skinny in skinny jeans except anorexics. The waistband cut into her knot-filled stomach as she sat down at her desk. She popped the top button on her jeans and relaxed. A bit.

She took a deep breath and turned her computer on. The second she logged in, an instant message popped up.

“See me. Jack.”

He couldn't possibly be here this early,
Lipstick thought, chewing on the inside of her lip. She started to perspire, and her eyes darted around the empty office.

It was the day after the Met Gala, after all, and historically no one came in until at least noon.

“He must have sent that yesterday,” Lipstick rationalized.

But two minutes later, another message appeared.

“See. Me. Now.”

Her phone rang. It was Jack's assistant, Christina.

“Good morning, Lena,” Christina's voice clipped through
the line. “Jack will see you now.”

“Okay, I'll be right—” Lipstick said, to a dial tone.

Lipstick stood up, rebuttoned her jeans, smoothed down her shirt, and walked around the corner to Jack's office. She was thirty feet away from the glassed-in enclosure when she saw two other people in there with him. They had their backs to the entrance, sitting on Jack's plush “punishment” sofa.

He must have called human resources. You couldn't fire someone without human resources there. Lipstick stopped, took a deep breath, and began the death march down to the office.

As she passed Christina's desk, the impeccably dressed blond assistant looked up. “Well, there you are; I thought you'd never get here—” she snipped as Lipstick brushed by, ignoring her.

She pushed the glass door to the office open, walked in without turning to look at the HR people on the couch, looked only at Jack, who was dressed in a Ralph Lauren Purple Label dark gray pinstriped suit over a starched white shirt and light blue tie. His face was accented with a black eye, a leftover from Kitty slamming into him on her way down to the floor.