Tanya pursed her lips. Then she laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles.
Oh, boy, I thought.
“Holly, these headlines are humiliating…” Tanya said.
“I know,” I said, wondering if maybe she would show me some compassion.
“…to the museum,” she finished. “I think it would be best if you didn’t appear in public with me today, or possibly forever,” Tanya said. “You understand.”
My stomach sank.
“But who’s going to support you up there?” I didn’t want to say it, but what Tanya knew about vintage couture could fit in a hummingbird’s bladder.
“Well,” Tanya declared conspiratorially, “Sammie will sit by my side. She’s new and needs the visibility. But you will secretly feed us answers through hidden receivers. We’re wearing them now. Can you tell?”
I checked their faces, hands, hair. Nothing. “You got me. Where is it?”
“It’s built into our earrings,” Tanya explained, pointing to the large gold balls clipped to her lobes and the matching pair that Sammie wore. “Martin made them. They’re wireless and surprisingly chic. No one will ever know.”
Tanya was asking me to cheat for her. That took brass ovaries. “But, Tanya,” I said, “that’s dishonest. You can’t do that.”
She turned to me. “Oh, really, Mother Teresa, and why not?”
“Yes, Mother Teresa,” Sammie added. “Why not?”
“It is, uh, wrong,” said spineless Martin.
“And you who leaves early on Fridays,” I accused. “Is the fancy yarmulke for show? Does it mean nothing to you?”
“Tanya said I had to. She’s the boss,” he said. “It’s an ingenious device. I should patent it.”
“No, it belongs to the museum,” Tanya said. “You made it on company time under my direction. Any profit it generates belongs to us.”
Sometimes I think Tanya is psychotic, and I mean that clinically.
“I’ll be able to answer the questions,” Sammie said, smiling eagerly. “I did graduate from Bauder College.”
Tanya gave her an incredulous look. “I’m not willing to stake my museum’s reputation on your delusions of adequacy.” Sammie’s smile disappeared.
“Seriously, Tanya, what if you get caught?” I said. “There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar prize at stake. If you win by fraud, that’s a crime.”
“I will not get caught,” Tanya said. “The plan is foolproof.” She handed me a microphone that Martin had hidden inside a cell phone shell. “Just speak into this and I’ll hear you through my earring.”
It occurred to me that when your boss insists that you cheat or commit a crime, the only way to say “no” is to resign. But I was about to lose my fiancé and his rent-controlled apartment. If I quit my job, I’d have nothing left but Kitty (and he only had three legs).
“It’ll be our little secret,” Sammie declared. “No one will ever know.”
“Martin, if we get caught, you’ll back me up in court, right?”
“Well, I, uh,” Martin stammered, “whatever Tanya says.”
I rolled my eyes. If I was going to be part of a criminal conspiracy, why did it have to be with Martin Goldenblatt? “I guess,” I muttered, “but I’m acting under protest.”
Answer Me, My Love
THAT AFTERNOON, I FOUND myself standing in the back of a white tent at the Bryant Park fashion shows. What’s My Line? would be the warm-up act for last year’s Project Runway wunderkind, who was showing his highly anticipated collection. It was a hot ticket and the room was buzzing with designers, buyers, movie stars, editors, socialites, and various and sundry jet-setters. Paparazzi snapped away at the audience. Billy Bush from Access Hollywood was interviewing Donald and Melania Trump by the tent’s French doors. Camera crews were setting up. Scarlett Johansson sauntered in with an unidentified hottie wearing a kilt. One of the Olsen twigs was gossiping with Heidi Klum, who was seated with Michael Kors. Anna Wintour and her Chanel sunglasses ruled sphinxlike in the front row. I would have enjoyed the whole juicy scene if I weren’t about to soil myself from sheer terror over the dirty deed I was about to do. All my life I’ve been morally against breaking the law, especially when I’m afraid of getting caught.
Nichole Cannon, senior curator of the Costume Institute at the Met, and Candice Broom, another of their top dogs, were both being miked at the dais. Tanya made her way to the stage, stopping frequently to double and triple air kiss potential donors and well-wishers. Sammie followed a few steps behind, waving at the socialites she knew through family connections. Maybe she is the better choice, I thought. She’s so plugged in to the charity circuit. I don’t know any of these people.
Once Tanya and Sammie were settled and miked, I tried out Martin’s nifty invention. “Testing, testing, one, two, three,” I said into the cell phone. “Do you read me?”
Tanya turned and caught my eye, curling the corners of her mouth upward. That would be a yes.
I repositioned myself to the far side of the room, where I could see both my boss and the runway. At this point, I was sweating like a four-hundred-pound woman running for the crosstown bus.
Valentina de la Costa, director of the Fashion Council, welcomed everyone and introduced the players who would be vying for the fifty-thousand-dollar grant.
My real cell phone vibrated. I flipped it open. There was a text message from Alessandro:
H, the wedding is off. Pls return the ring ASAP.
Must sell it to pay lawyer. A
I gasped with disbelief. Alessandro was breaking up with ME? By text message? After he cheated with a minor? Isn’t there a mandatory penis-cooling-off period before making such a drastic decision?
“How come you aren’t up there?” asked Elaina, my coworker and curator of the Audrey Hepburn show. I hadn’t noticed her next to me.
“Huh?” I said, snapping the cell phone shut. A lump was forming in my throat. Alessandro’s leaving me? Shouldn’t I be leaving him? Stop it. I took a deep breath. Think about it later. Pull yourself together. You have laws to break, crimes to commit.
“Why
