I sighed. “Like my heart.”
“Don’t be daft,” Nigel said. “Your heart is mightier than you think. You’ll get through this and there will be something better waiting for you, I promise.”
“Thanks,” I said weakly. “I hope you’re right.”
After Nigel inspected each costume, Elaina and I would carefully pack it into boxes that were placed in special wardrobe trunks that would be shipped to Rome shortly. Tanya never came looking for me. I later found out that she had been so stressed by the events of yesterday afternoon that three of those hard boulder zits erupted on her face. She had to be rushed to the dermatologist to have them professionally popped.
Don’t Get Around Much Anymore
POPS’ HAIR HAD ARRANGED itself in seven different directions, his eyes were bloodshot, and his fly was open when I got home from work that evening, home being Muttropolis. He smelled like an ashtray. It was obvious he’d been drinking or crying, maybe both. He stood hunched over by the indoor doggie playground on the second floor where Irving the humping poodle was doing what he did best with Bartholomew the submissive bulldog.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, grabbing his hand. “It’s not Kitty? Did you find Kitty? Is he…?”
“No.” He shook his bowed head. “It’s not Kitty. He’s still out there somewhere.”
I sighed with disappointment. “Did you panhandle today? Was your money stolen?”
“No.”
“Oh, my God. You’re sick? You’re dying?” I cried. Oh, please, not that.
“No,” Pops said, tossing an envelope toward me.
Inside was a handwritten note, something you don’t see too often these days. “Can I read it?”
Pops shrugged. I took that as a yes.
Hey, Pops,
It finally happened. I’m selling the Jazz Factory. I was offered six mill for the real estate—too much bread to refuse. They’re turning it into a bank. Can you believe it? And they say jazz doesn’t pay. Our last show is next Monday. A bunch of cats are coming to play. After that, I’m retiring to Paris. See you Sunday. Invite friends and family. It’ll be our final encore.
Bongo
The Jazz Factory was Pops’ only regular job. Having that gig made him feel like he was a pianist in a big band at one of Manhattan’s oldest jazz haunts. Losing it had to be a terrible blow.
“Oh, Pops,” I said, “I’m so sorry. Maybe there’s another regular act you can find. What about Arturo O’Farrell? Doesn’t his band play at Birdland on Sunday nights?”
Pops shook his head. “Arturo’s a pianist. There’s no place for me. Face it, Holly, your old man’s washed up. I’m a loser.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I implored. “You’re just going through the wringer so your happy ending will be that much sweeter. At least we’re not eating out of trash cans anymore. That’s something.” After we moved to Queens, Pops would troll the garbage cans of the city’s finest restaurants after his cab shift ended. Bouley was his favorite. Their dishwashers eventually got to know him so they wrapped leftovers in foil and put them out for Pops every night. Once he found a retainer inside a piece of pie and returned it but refused the reward.
“We ate damn well back then,” Pops said. “In those days, I could put food on our table, gourmet food.”
It was crummy that our lives had come to this. Somehow, someway, I would turn it around. “Look, things have been tough for us both. But they’ll get better. I promise.” I just wished I knew how.
I Still Get Jealous
SAMMIE AND TANYA WERE becoming like Eng and Chang, the famous Siamese twins. You never saw one without the other. Maybe they’re lesbian lovers, I thought. That would explain why Tanya gave her such preferential treatment. That and the seven-figure donations her parents gave. I called them the Satan twins behind their backs—SAmmie and TANya—get it?
“Is the presentation ready?” Tanya said.
Sammie was peeking over Tanya’s shoulder. A man with a camera was filming our encounter, while another guy stuck a microphone boom in my face. “What’s going on?”
“Just act natural,” Tanya said. “These guys are filming Sammie for a segment on Extra about top socialites. Her publicist set it up.”
I turned to Sammie. “You have a publicist?”
“Duh-uh,” she said in a guttural tone.
I hoped they got that on tape, Sammie saying “duh-uh” from the bottom of her throat. It was extremely un-top-socialite-like.
“Are you finished with the presentation?” Tanya said.
“Sure, I was just about to proof it,” I said. “Do you want to do a run-through?”
“No,” Tanya answered. “E-mail it to Sammie, would you? I’m letting her do the honors.”
My heart sank. I was counting on making that presentation to show Tanya how impressive I could be. “But this is my show with Cosima. She said I could speak to the press.”
“And I’m Cosima’s boss and I’m telling you that Sammie will do it. After the negative publicity over What’s My Line? this press conference has to be perfect.”
“But I wrote it. Don’t you think it has a better chance to be perfect if I present it?”
“No, I don’t. Sammie’s new and needs the visibility. Plus, this way we’ll get the press conference on Extra. And the girl reeks of good breeding. Who better to represent the museum?”
Obviously not me, I thought.
“Can you hurry?” Sammie added. “I need time to practice.”
“Here,” I groused, getting up from my desk and offering her my chair. “It needs spell-check and then you can print it. Finish it yourself.”
THAT AFTERNOON, I SLIPPED into Corny’s banquet hall, where the press had gathered to hear about the new exhibit we were launching at the end of September. The room was teeming with reporters from every important fashion publication, along with the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Newsweek, Forbes, the Financial Times—you name it, they were there. It helped that our press conferences were known
