“I know, you said,” Nigel said. “But you’re about to be married. What are you doing fancying other boys?”
“I don’t fancy him. He happened to pick me up…in his chauffeur-driven Maybach. Have you ever been in a Maybach? Oh, my God, it’s soooo luxurious,” I enthused. “Anyway, the thing about Denis was, for a powerful guy, he was really kind. You saw what a mess I was this morning, right? Well, he said I looked perfect. Why can’t Alessandro say I look perfect when I don’t? Whyyyy? Oh, lord, I’m slurring my words. Do you think I’m having a stroke?”
Nigel laughed. “Don’t be daft. Why don’t you order something to eat?” He topped off my glass and slid over a menu. Gesturing with his chin, he asked, “Is that bloke over there checking me out? Don’t look.”
I looked. “Yep, he is.”
“Aren’t you happy I’m one of those men who is blissfully unaware of how strikingly smashing he is?” Nigel said. “If I weren’t, I’d be insufferable.”
I punched his arm. “Oh, you…”
“So tell me, did you give King your number?”
I gasped. “Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t let him know who I was. Number one, I was a mess. Number two, what if he told Tanya he met one of her employees and she was wearing grocery-bag shoes? She’d kill me.”
“The correct answer to that question was, you didn’t give him your number because you’re engaged,” Nigel said.
“And number three, what you just said.”
My cell phone rang and Alessandro’s name appeared. “Speak of the devil…” I whispered. My stomach sank. He would be so disappointed when I told him I didn’t get the job. “Alessandro, I have some bad news for you—”
“Honey, not now, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he said. His voice sounded strained.
“A pickle?” I said, sitting up straight.
“I’m in jail,” he whimpered.
What? I thought. Not my Alessandro. My Alessandro was a staunch believer in the penal code, or so he had always led me to believe. “You’re in jail? Why? What did you do?”
“Tell me. Tell me,” Nigel urged.
I shushed him.
“Soliciting a minor,” Alessandro said in a low tone.
“Soliciting what from a minor?” I asked. Honestly, I had no idea. Soliciting donations? Soliciting phone calls? Soliciting public comment?
“Soliciting sex,” he groaned.
“Sex?” I said. “That’s impossible.”
“What’s he charged with?” Nigel asked.
“Soliciting sex from a minor,” I whispered.
Nigel’s eyes grew wide. “Male or female?”
“Male or female?”
“Female, of course,” Alessandro said. “Do you think I’m a perv?”
“Ah…ah…ah…how could you?” I was about to hang up on him, but he was screaming into the phone.
“She said she was eighteen!” Alessandro bellowed. “I swear! We were on her roof deck and a guy in the building next door recognized her and called her parents and the police. She turned out to be sixteen, but if you’d seen how she came on to me and the way she was dressed—”
“Jeezus, you’re more than twice her age,” I said. “What were you thinking? We’re getting married next month.”
“It might make the papers,” Alessandro mumbled.
“What? Why? Who is this girl?”
“Not her. Me. I’m on Broadway now,” Alessandro said. “In a Disney show. Fuck! Please call the theater and tell them I’m sick. Then call Suzy Hendrix. She’ll know what to do.”
“Suzy can’t help. She’s an entertainment lawyer,” I said.
“Holly, call her. And don’t worry. We’ll beat the charges.”
“Wait a minute, but did you say ‘we’?”
“Please,” Alessandro begged. “You’re my fiancée. You have to stick with me.”
“You should have thought of that before you stuck it to Lolita on the roof.”
“Please” (whimper, whimper), “call Suzy and then come rescue me. I n-need you.”
“Okay, okay, fine. I’ll call her. We’ll figure this out later.”
“Holly,” Alessandro said. “Be sure to wear something conservative, you know, in case we’re photographed.”
My jaw dropped. “Anything else?”
“Yes, don’t wear red. It bleeds in pictures.”
I snapped the phone shut. My eyes filled and I tried to blink the tears away.
Suddenly, my career worries that had seemed so important a few minutes ago faded. Poof! Gone. Jobs would come and go, but Alessandro was my fiancé. He might not be my Cary Grant, but he was the only leading man I had. Then it hit me. Of course, Alessandro wasn’t my Cary Grant; he was my Hugh Grant.
In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
NOTHING PERSONAL, HUGH GRANT. As a professional in the arts, I appreciate your body of work, and as a woman, I fantasize about your body. But you and I both know that, once upon a time, you did something dishonorable, shabby, and goatish. I have a new appreciation for Elizabeth Hurley and how she must have suffered. Knowing that you’re both doing so well these many years later gives me hope. Of course, you did break up.
It was after midnight when Alessandro and I returned home on the night of his “incident.” Apparently, after one is arrested in Manhattan, interminable waiting is the central theme of the experience.
“We need to talk,” Alessandro said as we closed the front door and collapsed on the couch. Poor Alessandro. Normally so pulled together, tonight he was a mess. His black hair was stringy, his skin pasty, and he smelled like Pine-Sol with a vomit chaser.
“Holly, this will never happen again,” Alessandro said in his most sincere voice, the same one he used as Motel when he tried to convince Tevye to let him marry Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. “It was a terrible mistake on my part. I still want to get married and I hope you feel the same.”
I picked up Kitty and hugged him. He purred as I stroked his head. “Do we have to do this now? I’m so tired.”
“You know, Holly,” Alessandro said, moving toward the kitchen, “I’m worried about you. You’re young to be so lethargic. If you’d take a multivitamin you might have more energy. Wait, I’ll get you one.”
Was he kidding me? I thought as he walked to the kitchen.
