Live From New York, It's Lena Sharpe

“Maybe we should move,” I mouthed to Jake. And for once, Miranda appeared to be on my side.

But before Jake could answer, the crowd rushed forward toward the stage, surrounding us as the band started in on their own variation of melodic melancholy. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t have to make chitchat with Miranda.

I sipped my Guinness (ordering “my drink” in this place would be akin to donning a hot-pink boa) and settled in.

I had to admit the band was pretty good, and one of them, the bass player, caught my eye. I watched him bend over his instrument, his shaggy hair obscuring his (undoubtedly soulful) eyes. And like any perfectly sane person, I imagined how our life together would be.

Let’s see—after going on the road for a few club tours and collecting a slew of zany stories as two young free spirits, “Ben” (a sensitive yet masculine name, I think) and I would settle down in a brightly painted Brooklyn apartment filled with funky art and mementos from our touring adventures. Our adorable toddler named…Coda, or something similarly eccentric, would be along soon enough. The house would be teeming with pets and plants, signifying our thriving fertility and life-breeding spirit. I’d attend PTA meetings wearing the latest frock from my collection of cutting-edge hand knits that I sold at my hip Williamsburg boutique (which was frequented by all the major fashion editors and constantly featured in the pages of underground European fashion magazines). At night, we’d laugh and talk as a family to the strains of Ben’s latest composition for the film score he was working on. Coda would, of course, grow up to be a critically acclaimed filmmaker of socially and artistically progressive films, never failing to credit his parents for their loving and “creatively liberating upbringing” while giving interviews or delivering Academy Award acceptance speeches. It was so clear to me now.

And then, my beloved fantasy mate pushed his shaggy locks away from his eyes and…James?

I swiveled around so fast, I nearly spilled my beer. Jake looked at my fearful “Oh my God!” expression and instantly put the pieces together.

James the bartender, the one that Jake had promised me wouldn’t be here tonight. He was a former quasi-flame whom I had abruptly and, I’m ashamed to say, not too gently let fall by the wayside when Nick and his lusty lips had hit the scene. I wanted to die.

I looked around at the swelling crowd. I was trapped. I kept my head turned toward Jake and prayed for the set to be over so I could make my frantic exit. Finally the last irritatingly soulful song was played.

Jake leaned over, sensing my panic. Miranda stiffened. Jesus woman, this isn’t about you! I thought to myself. I wanted to throttle her little neck.

“Am I to assume that your evening is over?” he smiled. My panic impulses always amused him.

“Um, yes,” I said sharply.

At that moment, I felt the brief stillness that you feel when a private exchange suddenly becomes public.

“Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while.” Jake had slipped into his low bass voice and Miranda ran her fingers through her hair. Clearly a heterosexual male was present. I turned to face the inevitable.

“James!” I tried—and failed—to sound surprised to see him.

“Hey, Lena, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know…” I said. Um no, he doesn’t know, you moron, I thought to myself. You conveniently disappeared from his life nine months ago.

“Hope you enjoyed the show, glad you came by.” Of course, I’m sure what he really wanted to say was, Glad you came tonight when I look totally hot and you’re bloated with Guinness and playing third wheel to the Jake and Miranda show.

“Oh, I did. You sounded great.” Such conversational skills, no doubt he was thinking, How did I let this one slip by?

“Well, we’re going to leave you two alone.” Jake winked at me and guided Miranda over to the bar.

“I’m exhausted. Mind if I sit down then?” James asked.

“Oh, of course, please…sit.”

So there we were, James and I.

“I didn’t know you joined a band,” I said, simply to distract my brain from concentrating on ways to kill Jake. “You were really good.”

“Oh, thanks.” He seemed genuinely flattered. No discernible bitterness—what was going on here?

“So, no more bartending, huh?”

“Oh no, had to grow up sooner or later and get a real job.”

“Really? What’re you doing?”

He looked around the room cautiously and whispered, “Investment banking.”

We laughed conspiratorially.

“Can’t say that word too loudly in this place.” I smiled.

What the hell had I been thinking? I dropped sweet sincere James for Nick the Dick? I could feel my heart racing. It was fate—it must be. Nick was clearly the “temp,” a harmless distraction until I was ready for James, otherwise known as “The One.” Suddenly the chaos of my life made perfect, divine, joyous sense. We chatted some more—such a subtle, sophisticated sense of humor he had! And those sparkling brown eyes!

We would live in SoHo, no scratch that—the West Village, far west, near the Hudson. In a charming little town house with red shutters, a spiral staircase, and a beautiful garden in the back where I would grow herbs and James would barbecue. We’d take our time decorating the place together. There would be weekend trips to Vermont for antiquing, dinners at Tartine around the corner, summers at our beach house in Bellport (still fabulous, but not so “sceney”). After all, we were low-key, with an elegant understated sense of style. Definitely not one of those plastic Upper East Side couples dripping designer labels and angling for a Patrick McMullen shot in Hamptons magazine. No, James and I would be—

“Lena?” James was talking to me. For God’s sake, I thought to myself, pay attention to the conversation or he’s going to think you’re totally spacey!

“Yes?” I said brightly.

“I want to introduce you to Madeleine.”

Madeleine? My perfect Village town house had just been invaded by a willowy redhead with a Fendi bag. Home wrecker.

“Great to meet you, Lena.” She slipped her hand around James’s shoulder, and smiled at me warmly. Well, of course she was happy—she was dating my husband!

“Hey, I love your skirt,” Madeleine said, as if she actually meant it. The sincerity of these two was really beginning to annoy me.

“Madeleine’s a fashion designer. She just opened a shop on Crosby Street.” Was he actually beaming with pride? It was beginning to make sense to me now—James had found “The One,” a discovery that had left him so giddy that he had enough leftover glee to happily embrace any former flames with nothing but goodwill.

“Yeah,” Madeleine said. “You should stop by sometime.”

“Oh definitely,” I said between gritted teeth. This needed to end—now. I found myself getting out of my chair and, I’m sure, overexplaining how I really would love to chat more, but had to get home and…stick my head in the oven.

I elbowed my way through the crowd, searching for the sweet relief of an exit.

Once outside, I hailed a cab and headed home, mentally licking my wounds. Another night, another chance lost, I continued to pity myself. The city had won its hand.

The next morning, I had a ten-o’clock “progress meeting” with Nadine about the Sienna Skye segment. When I got to the conference room, however, I was surprised to find her already seated, chatting away with Chase Bolton.

Chase, or “Cheese,” Bolton as he was more widely known, was a self-styled media mogul in waiting, a runt Rupert Murdoch if you will, who was biding his time answering phones for a VP until he had snagged his rightful corner office. Cheese had been my intern the previous summer, but after just one week of memorizing my Rolodex and vigilantly working his smarmy way up the ass of half the higher-ups, he had been whisked off to become an assistant in the executive suite.

“Hello, Lena,” Nadine said, clearly disappointed that I had interrupted their conversation. Cheese gave me a cocky half smile and eyebrow-raise—a look that I’m sure he had rehearsed repeatedly in his bathroom mirror.

“Okay, so back to work,” Nadine said, but of course offered no explanation as to why Chase was present. She looked at me briefly and then at Cheese, letting her gaze linger. He gave her his best half smile, but with a wink this time.

Oh…my…God. Were they flirting? The very idea made me sick to my stomach. Was Nadine attracted to sleazy Cheese? Sure, Nadine and I had our issues, but as a human being, as a woman, I wanted to grab her by her Claire’s Boutique earrings and shake some sense into her—he’s practically twelve years old! His feet barely graze the floor when he sits down! He wears his sweaters tucked in with pleated pants! He listens to Tony Robbins tapes! Don’t do this!

“So,” Nadine chirped in her blissful delusion. “The Skye segment is coming along pretty well….” I relaxed a little, sensing that at least this wasn’t going to be one of her hour-long bitch sessions.

“And there’s been a really interesting development.” She paused dramatically. Nadine loved to pause dramatically.

“Sienna has agreed to let us film her—” another pause, and then in one breath “—while she shops for her People’s Choice Awards dress.” Nadine leaned back as if the weight of her announcement had left her exhausted. Cheese slammed his hand on his knee, in the most masculine form of giddy approval that he could muster.

I spoke up just to pierce their shared bubble of joy. “Great, so I’ll start rewriting the lead and I’ll notify the crew for the shoot.”

Nadine turned to me with her silly grin still pasted on her face. “Oh, Lena actually there’s been a slight change in the lineup.” She loved to use sports talk. She thought it made her sassy.

I knew it. She was going to pawn off sleazy Cheese on me to help with the segment, so she could indulge her latent schoolgirl hang-ups. I started to formulate my diplomatic yet inarguable defense as to why this could never ever happen. And then…

“I’m putting Chase in the producer spot for the second half of the Skye segment.” She shared a look with Cheese. I think the word “nausea” would have best summed up my feelings at this point.

“Nadine,” I tried, in vain, to sound composed. “I’ve spent the last two months on this story and I really think it’s best if I see it through.” I was appalled at my sudden inability to argue and humiliated by the dawning realization that I was now groveling for permission to continue work on a Sienna Skye profile. This had to be some kind of professional nadir.

“Lena, it’s part of my job to match my staff to their strengths and…” She glanced at the ceiling searching for just the right inflated language to explicate her lofty sense of professional mandate. She continued, “While you can be quite the worker bee, you’re more of a serious Sally and this segment needs someone with the right…” Eyes to ceiling, searching, searching…

“Je ne sais pas!” Cheese exclaimed, now perched on the edge of his seat.

“Yes!” Nadine exhaled with a postcoitalesque finality.

“Quoi,” I seethed.

“What?” Nadine asked, distracted. Her eyes were still locked on her little lover.

“Quoi! It’s Je ne sais QUOI!”

The two of them looked at me blankly. And then back at each other.

At this point, I could distill only two coherent thoughts: Can a regular Bic pen puncture skin? And should I get these two a cigarette?

“Why don’t you two switch research now, so we can get the ball rolling.” Any further discussion was clearly over as far as she was concerned.

Chase handed me a hardcover book and a manila folder.

I was still confused. “What do you mean switch research?”

“You’re going to be working on the project that Chase was doing.” She looked down at her notes. “Colin Bates.”

Now, I’d been to every agonizing editorial meeting under Nadine’s regime and not once had I heard mention of such a thing.

“I don’t understand. Who’s Colin Bates?”

“Well, he is a…” Nadine stalled.

“Writer,” Chase pronounced triumphantly.

“Yes!” Nadine nodded. “He is a writer.”

“I haven’t even heard of this segment. When is it supposed to run?”

Nadine drummed her fingers on the table like she always did when she was dreaming up her next fib. She clasped her hands together decidedly. “Well, that hasn’t been determined yet. It’s really sort of a favor to one of the board members, I think. He’s the author’s uncle or some sort of thing.” Which was another way of saying, it was a back-end segment that would be chopped to pieces and used to fill up the hour when the lead stories (like the Sienna Skye story!) left a few minutes of dead air.

“But don’t worry, Chase has been working on this for some time. I’m sure it’s practically finished, anyway.” Nadine blushed. Chase beamed. I scowled.

chapter 3

Many New Yorkers viewed brunch as a shrewd social maneuver. They saw it as a neutral date to be offered in lieu of a more time-consuming commitment. It served as an agreeable meeting ground for sort-of friends, old acquaintances, out-of-towners, or new alliances—essentially, anyone who didn’t quite clear the “let’s go out Saturday night” bar.

For my friend Tess and me, however, Sunday brunch was now a tradition—a breach of its standing would be a first-degree offense to our friendship. Of course, we talked on the phone nearly every day, but nothing could replace our once-a-week heart-to-heart over scrambled eggs and strong coffee at Café Colonial.

I walked past the swirling line that had already begun to snake around the corner of Elizabeth Street and winked at Alberto (whose undying affection for Tess had won us a specially reserved table) as he stacked coffee cups behind the bar. Others may value their stock tips, their summer shares, or their courtside Knicks tickets, but I had come to cherish our table at Café Colonial to an unhealthy degree. I could not count how many perplexing guy issues, frustrating work fiascoes, and general I-feel-like-my-life-is-overwhelming-mehow-do-I-get-out-of-this-funk conversations I’d had at this very table. I suppose it’s probably sacrilege to ascribe the wondrous catharsis of a religious experience to a vinyl seat and a plate of pancakes, but there you go—how else is an agnostic/lapsed protestant supposed to find enlightenment?

Tess was already seated. She looked immaculate as usual—her pale blond hair was gathered in a neat, low ponytail and her sea-green eyes gazed out the window. Tess always reminds me of a beautiful cat: serene, impeccably groomed and a little mysterious. She is the type of girl who uses words like “handsome” to describe men, can wear a string of pearls without a trace of irony, and hasn’t owned a TV since she left home for boarding school. She has no problem sitting through the endless card games and executive dinners at the Metropolitan club with her current companion, Stanley. In fact, she has no problem with the name Stanley. Don’t get me wrong, Tess is not a prude, far from it. She could sling one-liners and swill cocktails with the best of them. She just approaches her life from a different perspective than most (myself included). Sometimes, I can’t help but think she understands me and my life so well because she is on a different plane altogether.

Tess is a two-kiss greeter. She has dated so many Europeans it has become second nature. I am strictly a one-cheek girl, but I leaned down and indulged her all the same. I slid into my spot next to the window and felt my body relax instantly.

“Sweetie, you look exhausted. I’m getting you a drink.” Such endearments would normally annoy me—hon, honey, sweetheart—coming from anyone except my mother or my amore, but as with all things Tess—normal rules simply didn’t apply.

She held up one delicate hand and I could almost hear Alberto snap to attention. Two bellinis appeared instantaneously.

“So, what matters of business do we need to cover this morning, my dear?” Tess was only half kidding. I knew she took these sessions as seriously as I did.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parker had appeared at our table, seemingly out of nowhere. “Had to get one last fight in with Brad while I was trying to get a cab,” she said, struggling with her coat.

Tess gave me a look that, if expressed in words, would have said something like Oh, I see that Parker has joined us for another cycle. I responded in kind.

It had been at least three months since either Tess or I had heard from Parker (aside from the occasional group e-mail updating us on our bridesmaids’ responsibilities—yes, she was marrying Brad) and much longer since she had made it to Sunday brunch. Of course, this kind of separation was not all that unusual after a certain age, when couples seemed to drift off into their own private biospheres. It’s something a single girl must learn to accept in the way that she must accept painful blind dates, anxious mothers, and the sole responsibility of killing bugs and constructing bookshelves.

“Brad, I will talk about you if I damn well please…fuck you, too!”

Tess and I shared a confused look and then Tess remembered. “I always forget you wear that phone headset wherever you go. Good thing I didn’t start laying into that no-good Brad like I usually do,” Tess said mischievously. We could hear the muffled strains of an irate Brad through the earpiece. Parker smiled as she turned off her phone and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen.

I’d known Parker since college, but it seemed like she had been at least three different people since then. When we first met, she was deep in the throes of her party-girl persona— I think the first conversation we had took place as we both got sick in side-by-side stalls in a beer-soaked frat-house bathroom. Soon after, she gave up her hard-living ways and began her passionate quest to single-handedly launch the second women’s lib movement. She grew out her hair, threw out her makeup, and even tried to adopt unisex pronouns in her speech. Then she met Brad.

Despite the transient nature of our friendship, she was the most direct link to my past life. She witnessed firsthand the Greg saga, in its glory and its tortured defeat. In fact, Parker, Brad, Greg and I had spent the better part of our undergraduate career in tandem. This shared history would perhaps be a source of comfort had it not meant that I would soon have to see Greg again at Parker and Brad’s upcoming nuptials. Anyway, now she’s a publicist and the professional world seems to suit her. She has a closet full of Gucci suits, wears dark-rimmed glasses without a prescription, and has cut her dark hair into a sleek pageboy. Even better, she can easily work herself up into a genuine tizzy over anything from the newest line of lip glosses to the latest PalmPilot upgrade.

“Well, I think we better start with you, Parker. What’s going on?” Tess said, observing the damage.

Now, knowing Tess, this suggestion was very much intentional. Parker, when present, always went first. Why, you might be wondering, would the least reliable friend be allowed to go first? Very simple. Both Tess and I (and very likely even Parker) knew that she would quickly launch into a twenty-to-thirty minute monologue on the actual and tangential issues relating to her current crisis. She would insist vehemently (and completely unconvincingly) that this time she would cancel the wedding.

Meanwhile, Tess and I would simply nod or smile or frown, when appropriate, while we finished our breakfasts (French toast with lingonberry sauce for Tess; eggs Florentine with fruit salad for me). By the time she was finished, Parker would very likely have come to her own conclusions about her quandary or at least have exhausted herself by turning it inside out. Tess and I, now fully satiated, would have had enough time to properly caffeinate ourselves for our own respective rants.

I was polishing off my second bellini when I knew this was going to be a very specific type of Sunday affair. Every now and then, our brunch would extend well beyond the “meal” and turn into a messy, drunken, no-holds-barred, daylong event of relentless self-examination. And today was one of those days. It surely wouldn’t be over until one of us had cried, argued, or made a spontaneous phone call to an angry ex or an unsuspecting crush.

I knew this because, against my better intentions, I could hear myself unraveling the tightest knots of minutiae about my failed relationship with Nick to the rapt attention of Parker, Tess and Wanda the cashier, who had joined the table after her shift was over.

“Honey,” Tess said solemnly. She moved my head with her hands so that, had I not lost all ability to focus, I would be looking her in the eyes meaningfully. “You’ve got to stop romanticizing these boys.”

“You’re right,” I said. And she was. It might seem strange to take such advice from someone who had gauzy scarves draped over every light fixture in her apartment, but I had to admit where men (or boys as she stubbornly insisted on calling them) were concerned, Tess had figured some things out. She understood my problem. Hell, even Wanda understood my problem at this point.

“Sweetheart, here in New York he’s an artist with a sexy accent,” Tess continued. “I’ll bet you back home in Liver-pool, he’s just a short bloke with a coloring-book fixation.”

“Wait.” Parker put down her drink sharply and pulled herself back from the table dramatically. Tess and I looked at her expectantly.

“He’s…short?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “You’re getting this upset over a short guy?”

“I’m with Parker,” Wanda said, picking at Parker’s cold French fries. “Case closed.”

With that, glasses raised, we all burst into the gleeful laughter of four drunk girls, gaily skewering the male species for sport.

Oh, to bottle those moments of alcohol-induced clarity before they hit the wall of sober confusion. Why couldn’t those moments last longer than the hangover?

I didn’t make it back to my apartment until dusk. Not entirely drunk, though certainly not sober, I was getting that slightly apprehensive, sinking-stomach feeling I always got as Sunday night descended. Plus, having spent the majority of the day avoiding necessary errands, household chores and, of course, work, this anxiety was laced with a heavy dose of slothfulness.

Determined to at least portray the idea of productivity, I turned on This American Life, straightened up my disheveled living room and set up my computer. Whether I actually did work was less important than the comforting idea that I could, if necessary. I poured a tall glass of water and set about the not-too-painful task of answering e-mail. And then, this one caught my eye.

Hello Lena,

Chase Bolton gave me your name as the new contact person for my segment. Could you possibly let me know what’s going on with it? It’s been dragging on for some time now and I’m leaving town in a few days.

Thanks,

Colin Bates

I felt an inexplicable rage begin to well up inside me: Who does he think he is—writing me like this, pressuring me to get going on “his” segment? I found myself typing furiously.

Mr. Bates,

While I appreciate your predicament, I must also demand your patience. I was only recently handed this assignment and cannot be held responsible for the actions, or lack thereof, of my predecessor, Chase Bolton. I also do hope you’re aware that this segment will be quite short and has no determined airdate.

Regards,

Lena Sharpe

With a haughty sniff, I sent it off. Who did he think he was? He was just some no-name writer telling me how to do my job. I looked down at the screen—a new message was blinking—it was from Colin Bates. Suddenly I began to feel painfully sober. I read nervously.

Hey Lena,

Not a problem. Just let me know when you can. And please, call me Colin.

—cb

What? I was beyond confused. Why was he playing this humble act?