“I was hoping you would,” I said in a flirty tone. Sorry, Cosima.
“If you and Cosima are the brains behind my exhibit, why is Sammie Kittenplatt making the presentation?” he whispered. “I watched that girl grow up. She’s not the sharpest stiletto in the shoe box, if you know what I mean.”
I tried to hide my smile. “Don’t worry,” I said, touching his arm. “Our boss, Tanya, has every confidence in Sammie.”
“Ah, diplomatically put,” he said.
We both looked over at Tanya, who had removed the 1904 Gwendolen Maxwell tiara from her head and had placed it on Annie’s. The invisibly set diamonds on the gold acorns reflected fiery points of light throughout the room.
“Well, Holly, it was a pleasure,” Denis said, shaking my hand goodbye.
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it?” I murmured as they walked off toward Nigel.
“Did you try the white truffle tempura?” a gentleman from the Post asked.
“What? Huh?” I said.
“The truffle tempura,” he said. “It’s wonderful.” His skin bore scars from a serious acne condition, but the look suited him.
“Not yet,” I said, glancing at the spread. “My Lord, will you look at that tower of lobster.”
“It’s a fucking temple,” the man said.
A sexually ambiguous person in jeans was piling his/her plate with sushi. “I’m going to take mine home with me,” he/she confessed. “You should do the same.”
I looked over and saw Denis laughing with Nigel and Elaina on the other side of the room. Sammie was walking toward them with her camera crew in tow.
“Excuse me,” he/she said, “are you taking any of this home?”
“What? Oh, yes. I probably will,” I said. “Can I help you put sushi in your bag?”
“How thoughtful,” the androgynous person said. “And would you mind stuffing a few bonbons in my pocket? I’m Sloan Scott from the Times. Normally I cover science, but our fashion reporter was out sick today. She said I should come for the food. That why you’re here?”
“Oh, yes, the food, of course,” I said, taking a bite of a toro maki roll. “Mmmm, delish. Forget the tiaras, maybe you should write about the sushi.”
Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off
YOO-HOO, EVERYONE,” TANYA ANNOUNCED. “If you’ll gather round, I’ll introduce our newest senior curator, Sammie Kittenplatt, who will tell you about a breathtaking exhibit that will soon grace our humble institution.”
The Extra crew situated themselves up front next to Annie, who was watching her father. All the other journalists pushed toward the stage and snapped open their notepads. Sammie stood with Denis King by her side. He was beaming as he gave a little wave to Annie.
Sammie hit a button on her laptop and a larger-than-life photo of the Oriental Circlet tiara designed by Prince Albert and worn by Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother appeared on the big screen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Sammie started, “we are honored to announce the latest exhibit that is soon to open at the Fashion Museum—Denis King presents: Tiaras through Time. Thanks to loans from private collections, royal vaults, museums, and esteemed jewelers from around the world, this breathtaking exhibit will trace the evolution of the tiara from ancient Greece and Rome to the early eighteenth century to the present day, and it will provide an extraordinary look at the scintillating jewels themselves, their powerful owners, and intriguing histories…”
Those were my words that Sammie was speaking. I wondered if I could kill her while she was at the podium and make it look like an accident.
“But before we give you a sneak peek at the majestic tiaras that will soon dazzle and delight, we must first recognize the man whose generosity is making this retrospective possible, the man who has underwritten the show, the man of the hour. Members of the press I give you…” (reverent pause as the theme from Rocky was cued). Sammie hit a key on her laptop and Denis’ picture appeared on the big screen. Henry VIII’s crown had been Photoshopped onto his head. A bold headline hung over the image reading “Denis King—The Biggest Man in Town!” Sammie looked to the sky and held her arms high in a wide “V.” It was dramatic but cheesy. Reporters chuckled, then guffawed that evolved into loud hoots and whistles. I thought they were laughing at Sammie’s goofy pose, but then I saw what was up. The headline had a typo. Instead of “Denis King—The Biggest Man in Town” it said “Penis King—The Biggest Man in Town.”
I gasped and grabbed a press kit, to see if the mistake had found its way into the handouts, and yes, there it was in black and white, right on the first page of the package: “Penis King—The Biggest Man in Town!” Flipping through, I saw that his name had been misspelled only once, on the cover page, but that was little comfort.
Denis stared bug-eyed at the screen. He pointed the typo out to Tanya, who clapped her hand to her mouth. She grabbed Sammie and swung her around (while she was still holding that ridiculous “V”). Sammie scrambled to hit the off switch on the computer, but it was too late. The damage had been done. I could see Annie’s lower lip trembling dangerously from across the room. The pockmark-faced man from the Post was scribbling in his notebook, a cigarette of lobster dangling from his lips. I could already imagine tomorrow’s headline.
Sammie’s face went crimson and she held her hands up to silence the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, please, I’m so sorry. Mr. King, Annie, our deepest apologies. We meant no disrespect. My assistant, Holly, typed this for me and obviously she made an egregious error.” Sammie pointed accusingly at me and all heads swung in my direction.
Oh, this was rich. All respect I ever had for Sammie Kittenplatt just vanished into thin air, not that I ever had any. Hello! I told her I hadn’t proofed the document. Making my way to the front of the room, I could
