Have you ever seen anything so wonderful in your whole life?” Jimmy doesn’t say a word, just stands there with his chin about hanging to the floor. “Deuce, you are an absolute genius! Don’t you think so, Jimmy?”
“It’s simply . . . unbelievable!” Jimmy finally says.
“Unbelievable?” says Deuce. “Is that all you can think of?”
“I’m just . . . overwhelmed.”
“‘Overwhelmed,’ he says. Well, isn’t that nice?” Deuce’s face has turned all red. “You never believed in my talent, did you, Britton? Just like the rest of them. I’ll always just be a joke to you, won’t I?”
Before Jimmy can answer, Deuce has stormed off, his big old boots making no sound across the sand.
“What in the world was that? And why did he call you Britton?”
“Artists, darling,” say Jimmy, who looks suddenly nervous. “You know they’re all a little crazy!”
“But he acted like he knew you.”
“Well, we have socialized. I know his twink, after all.” A twink—I recall the Urban Dictionary entry—is an effeminate, young gay man. Not a Teletubby at all!
So why does Jimmy look all shook up?
As of late, everything’s been ruffling my feathers.
This is your night, I remind myself. Don’t go letting anything ruin it!
Then again, as my granddaddy used to say, That’s easier said than did, pumpkin pie.
But, oh, my Lord, how fabulous is this scene!
“This is to die,” says Jimmy as though reading my mind. “But where are the magazines?”
“Delivery will be here in a jiff!”
“Can’t believe I haven’t seen the final version, missy! And with a last-minute reshoot even. You wouldn’t even let your good friend Jimmy see the proofs? Lordy me.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise!”
“You silly girl, keeping secrets from me!”
“Every girl should have a little mystery, don’t you think?”
“Well, I suppose so. And speaking of mystery, when’s that man of yours arriving?”
“Should be anytime,” I say, a chill running through my body. So much for being a good judge of character. I couldn’t have been more wrong about that lying, son-of-a—
Focus on the work, Cordelia, I think. Focus on what matters. Mr. Christian Rixen will be dealt with in good time.
“I can’t wait! And as for this”—Jimmy opens his arms wide—“utter perfection, my dear! And I’m not just talking the set. I mean, I’d part the Red Sea myself for that Alexander Wang. You look simply divine, Miss Cordelia Derby.”
“Why thank you,” I say with a tiny smile.
“And by tomorrow, The Set will be all New York can talk about. They’ll go absolute goo-goo!”
“Hey,” interrupts a rail-thin girl in even smaller swimwear. “Where do you want the bikini babes?”
“Behind there, dear.” Jimmy points to one of the enormous glass façades rising to our right and left, each one at least forty feet high! The Plasticine-sealed constructions rise, the swirly, whirly paint job in the prettiest shades of blue.
Lucky we were able to snag an airport hangar, I think, giving myself kudos for sweet-talking the facility manager. Between these risers is a long strip of sand, where umbrellas and tiki lamps and tables are being arranged.
“What are they?” the girl asks.
“Just wait until they turn on the water pumps,” he says. “Then you’ll see for yourself.”
“Gotcha.” She jogs away. Next to us, two of the Teamsters watch her pass, chins to floor. She’s a sight for sore eyes, with her enormous chest and gold lamé string bikini. Everything must be larger-than-life, that’s what I wanted. Even the people!
“Excuse me! Boys!” says Jimmy, snapping at the Teamsters. “Those umbrellas won’t put themselves up!”
They exchange a look, shoving stakes in the sand with renewed force.
There’s a sudden screech. “Oh my!” I say, covering my ears.
“Just the soundman adjusting the levels,” says Jimmy. “Don’t worry your pretty little ears! Just want to make sure we can hear once those pumps get going!”
“Oh, I’m calm as a cucumber.”
For a moment, we stand there, watching everyone scurry about. Stocking glasses under thatched huts, pushing carts of supplies, and generally buzzing around like busy little bees. Even the littlest conversations seem bigger than life, magnified by the enormous dome hundreds of feet over our head.
“And you need not worry about planes, you hear?” says Jimmy, following my gaze upward. “They haven’t had them here for years!”
“You’re the one who seems nervous.”
“I know! And you’re just fine and dandy, aren’t you? It’s weird.”
That’s what happens, I think, when you hit the bottom. When you’re so cried out the well has pretty much dried on up.
Something strange comes over you. The most peculiar sense of calm.
Nothing can touch me now, I think, watching the wonder that I helped create. And not ever again.
And that part of me that’s gone? Well, I sure as heck can’t get it back. So I’ll just have to take something that matters away from him.
In the end, I made an executive decision, just like a good editor does.
I’d take his dreams.
Tonight will be a success of biblical proportions, I’m sure of that. At least, for me.
“Where is my dressing room!” shrieks a voice. “And what’s with all the sand?” I turn, and there is M.C., a sheepish smile on his face. And next to him? Five little Oriental girls—whoopsy, Asian-Americans!—whispering to each other and giggling.
But they aren’t the cuckoo part.
Crazy as a loon. I know the second I see her.
“You must be Desy,” I say, extending my hand. “Sure is a pleasure to make your aquaintance!”