MY DAYS WERE an organized, well-oiled machine—with chaos lurking just beneath the surface. I zoomed here and here, and there and there. I timed everything. In my new world there was no wiggle room, no time for a delay, a backup in traffic, a meeting that ran over, or surprises. The real world had another plan. It worked on its own time, and inevitably a crisis would strike like a bolt of lightning.
This day began normally enough for mid-July. Searing heat by seven-thirty, too hot to run. A walk to the bagel shop and Starbucks and back home. A shower, then walk Spencer up the hill to his day camp. He was particularly talkative that morning. He was still chattering when I kissed him good-bye and left him at camp. I was in no rush. I would take my time walking down the hill to Nathans. My plan, though begrudgingly, was to give the day to Nathans, to be there, to roll up my sleeves and learn some actual restaurant skills. The morning may have been hot, but it was also quiet and peaceful. It was too good to last. Sometime after nine my cell rang. Wendy Walker was on the line. “Versace’s been shot! Murdered! In Miami.”
My jaw dropped.
“Get on it, Carol,” she said. “We need it for the show tonight.”
The fashion elite were still my beat, and this would be my story. As awful as it sounds, I needed a big breaking story like this to prove my value to the show. Journalism thrives on the misfortunes of others. As I walked I began making calls to the design houses of Valentino, Chanel, and Donna Karan, to reps for models such as Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford, and to New York PR people such as Susan Magrino and Paul Wilmot. A bee stung me on the toe, making me hop in pain, but still I juggled the phone. I got to Nathans, made my “good mornings” all around, and jumped on the phone at my desk in the basement, my toe still burning.
Wendy called again. “Carol, I think I’m just going to have them work on the show from here. I can’t have you there and my not being able to control what you’re doing. This is just too big. I have too much pressure on me. Tom [Johnson, the head of CNN] was just on the phone with me and I have to deliver. I just can’t take the chance.” She paused for a breath. “I hope you’ll understand. You’d feel the same way about Nathans. You have too much to do there. You can’t possibly give this the time it needs.”
I said, “Wendy, I understand and I’ll do what you want but I wish you would just give me a try. I can do it. I’m working on nothing else. I’m here. That’s what matters at this end. Besides, this isn’t any different from any of the other shows I’ve worked on from out of the office.”
“Carol, this is a big breaking story,” she said.
“I know. I know. But just give me a chance. Let’s see if I can do it. If it gets over my head I’ll be the first one to pull out. Why don’t we wait till lunchtime to see where I am? I’ve already put out a lot of calls. I’ve been doing nothing else.” She gave me until noon. I hung up, desperate, but also resenting that I was stuck at Nathans, where I least wanted to be, rather than at CNN with my colleagues, doing the job I loved. The business I owned felt like a cancer eating away at my career and there was nothing I could do to fight it. All I could do was try to juggle both.
The calls I’d put out there were rolling back in. Sometimes I was fielding so many calls that all three lines into Nathans were on hold and I was on my cell. Deliverymen came into the office, waiting for me to sign off on crates of fresh fish, cases of beer, and slabs of beef while I haggled over Naomi Campbell and Cindy Crawford.
“I know Naomi can’t stop crying, but that will be okay for us,” I pleaded into the phone while one of the delivery guys waited for his check. He gave me a strange look. An architect was standing at my desk, waiting to survey the upstairs. Doug was waiting for me to look over the newly reworked menu. I was juggling calls and taking notes. “Okay. Maybe Naomi can stop crying long enough to do a ten-minute interview with Larry? That’s all we need. No? You don’t think so? Okay. If she changes her mind, we want her.”
Sylvester Stallone, Demi Moore, and Madonna said no. More pleading with Wendy. She extended my deadline. A wine salesman showed up with some of his top wines for me to try. I’d forgotten I’d made a lunch appointment with him.
Wendy was getting more nervous because the big designers—Calvin Klein, Valentino, Donna Karan, Isaac Mizrahi, as well as a half dozen big stars—looked like they were no-gos. I was sitting with the wine salesman at a table in the bar. He’d brought a vintage Oregon pinot noir and two rare rosé champagnes. Some of the summer college-student staff gathered around while he showed them how to uncork a bottle of champagne properly. When he got to the part about the importance of keeping a thumb on the cork so the cork won’t fly out, saying “that happens about one in a thousand times,” the cork shot out with a loud bang. It caromed from the ceiling to the floor to the bar and every man sitting there ducked. I laughed out loud. The salesman did, too.
Wendy called. I pleaded for time. “I’m waiting for a big call. I think I’ll have it soon.”
“Okay, Carol,” Wendy said, “but that’s it.” I knew this time it really was “it.”
A waitress approached the table. A call from Paris was holding for me. It was the Chanel rep, with whom I had a good relationship. Karl Lagerfeld would do the show via satellite. Jackpot! I called Wendy, who was ecstatic. “That’s huge, Carol!” she said. “Wow! You did it.”
I beamed. I needed this booking to prove my worth, to stay in the game. I returned to the table and said to the salesman, “Well, I get to keep my job for another day.” He had no idea what I was talking about.
IN THE MIDDLE of all this, Miriam Fisher called. She needed me to pull more numbers together and went through a list of issues that were coming up in the week ahead, such as the final tally of my total debt and a meeting she had scheduled with Deborah Martin at the IRS. “Deborah’s very relaxed, so far,” she said. I chose to interpret that as a good sign.
A friend had suggested I stash away some money for Spencer and me—just in case. He suggested offshore accounts. I ran this idea by Miriam. She put the kibosh on that. “In light of your debt and the circumstances,” she said, in her most serious, lawyerly voice, “the government would charge you with fraud.”
So much for that dumb idea. “Okay, Miriam,” I said, “I’ll get the numbers for you.”