The following Thursday, Leila texts me and asks if I can meet her for lunch. Normally, a question this laissez-faire would to be met with a “ha, very funny” type of response. But because of Loretta’s extracurricular off-campus excursions, my schedule has been laxer than ever.
Speaking of which, I was finally able to gain a little insight into who Loretta has been meeting with: consumer goods companies, like Unilever and Procter & Gamble. One of the attendees’ assistants let it slip. They called me in a panic yesterday, on my cell phone. I only list that number in my email signature in case of emergencies! Surely, accidentally entering the incorrect address for the Carlyle doesn’t warrant an emergency. “He’s going to be at least fifteen minutes late,” the assistant had cried into the phone in a panic. “I’m so, so sorry. It’s all my fault!”
Why is Loretta suddenly meeting with giant conglomerates? Of that, I am uncertain. Maybe she’s planning on launching a jewelry line with Kohl’s or writing, producing, directing, and starring in a movie about her life.
Actually, that last option is way too real.
Whatever the reason, it keeps her off my back for most of the day, as well as out of Jade’s hair. The less of a chance those two have of crossing paths in the SPP Tower, the better. The entire staff has been collectively holding their breath since the night of Vinyl Sleighs. It’s honestly created an incredibly toxic work environment. Everybody is walking on eggshells, unsure of who to trust and afraid of what might happen next.
I agree to meet Leila at Bar Pitti, an old Italian café in the heart of the West Village that’s known for its infamous people watching. It’s difficult to describe the magic of Bar Pitti—it’s a tiny, crammed restaurant, with the majority of its tables positioned in open-air seating, covered by a single dark-green awning overhead. There’s a line that curves around the block of people waiting for tables, since the current management refuses to take reservations. The menu, which is updated every day with specials handcrafted with fresh-to-order ingredients, is indeed delicious—the pasta is handmade, and the burrata is especially supple. But it’s probably not the best Italian food you’ve ever had in your life and definitely not the best Italian food in New York City. The atmosphere is quaint, the cuisine perfectly average.
So what sets Bar Pitti apart from all other Manhattan establishments? The customers. Sitting at a sidewalk table on any given day, lunch or dinner, is like refreshing your Netflix queue: You never know what will pop up next. One night, I was lucky enough to come across Julianne Moore (a Bar Pitti staple; the owners live for her family), Martin Scorsese, and my dude Joffrey from Game of Thrones, all in one sitting. There’s a dependable mix of low-profile celebrities, actual Italian families that usually span generations, and off-duty models. Leila definitely picked this spot on purpose. She knows I can never say no to a Pitti party.
Strutting through the West Village always fills me with a sense of fated destiny. The sidewalk slopes at a slightly downward angle so you can see the skyscrapers below as you begin to descend into the Atlantic. From above, New York always looks compact and precise, like an orderly recipe for chaos. Many forget Manhattan is an island, but as someone who grew up on the wrong side of the bridge, I never do. I’ve always suspected that those who scrape their way onto the concrete beaches that line the East River and set up camp below Fourteenth Street are always slightly afraid that one day they’ll be kicked off the island and thrown into the water.
But the West Village contains its own mystical alchemy. On this side of the city, the sun always appears to be hitting the cobblestones at just the right angle; every hour is the golden standard. The stoops are lined with ivy, their stairs spiraling as much as their residents. Town houses are painted like resurrected relics from New Amsterdam. If you shut your eyes and open your ears, you might even hear the faint clacking of clogs making their way down Horatio. The closer to the Hudson you traverse, the quieter the world around you appears. Wealthy families dressed alike flock from the neighborhood D’agostino’s back to their pieds-à-terre. In another life, I’d inhabit one of those empty windows, and Leila, the other. We’d pick our friends off the pages of the New York Times and plan our retirement on another planet. Life would be forgiving and saccharine.
Mid-November calls for heavy bundling, so I’m wrapped up in a long, plaid overcoat, thrifted mom jeans (or rather, old-trucker jeans), and Chelsea boots. The shoes are brand new, scoured from the depths of the Outnet, which means each bottom is slick and slippery, like fish scales. I almost fall several times as I power walk over the unpaved streets and scattered cobblestones.
When I make it to that iconic green awning, I’m pleased to find that not only have I missed the lunch rush entirely, but I’ve beat Leila here as well. I step inside and am greeted by the aroma of freshly churned tomato sauce. It’s warm in here, like stepping inside a witch’s furnace. I take a seat at the table closest to the window so I can have the best view of the sidewalk interlopers.
I hear giggling followed by a few very indiscreet camera flashes. I spin around in my seat to find two young girls, dressed in head-to-toe Brandy Melville, Air Force 1s on their feet. Our eyes meet, and the one snapping pictures turns away, embarrassed. The other clears her throat.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but are you Loretta James’s assistant?”
My heart does a quick, Olympic-grade somersault.
“Why do you ask?”
The girls both squeal and clasp hands. “I am so hype, I knew it was you! We both follow Loretta on Instagram. We’re, like, obsessed with her. She’s sooooo amazing. Is working for her just, like, a dream come true?”
I hate this question so, so much. There’s no right way to answer it without a) lying then vomiting. Or b) telling the truth then ending up a Page Six cautionary tale.
I pick option c) the half-truth.
“I’ve learned a lot from working at Vinyl,” I answer diplomatically. “They’re doing really great work.”
The two exchange a side-eyed glance. Clearly, I’m boring them.
“And the beauty closet is sick!” I add.
Satisfied, the girls start squealing again. “Can we get a picture with you?”
I immediately tense up. While Loretta hasn’t technically not given me permission to be here, I somehow highly doubt that she would approve of her assistant traversing to the West Village mid-workday to rendezvous with her sister. This needs to be kept on the DL.
“I was never here.” I wink at the girls. They wink back and refocus on their spaghetti, their minds moving on to their next celebrity spotting.
Wait, was I just the subject of someone else’s people watching? That’s too meta for even me to wrap my head around.
“Sorry I’m late!” Leila sings as she runs into the restaurant and takes her seat across from me. She’s wearing all white wool, save for her New Balance dad sneakers, and looks like a certified angel. She’s quite literally beaming light from her forehead to her crotch. Catching the waiter’s eye, she gestures for him to come over. He purses his lips, amused by her showmanship.
“Two glasses of your cheapest prosecco, sir!” She orders.
“Lei, I can’t drink in the middle of the workday,” I protest.
“Today, you can! We’re celebrating!”
Like clockwork, the waiter—who, now that I think of it, definitely had a small part on Grey’s Anatomy last season—is back with our pseudo-champagne. Leila theatrically starts clinking her glass with her knife. She’s using so much gusto that I’m afraid it might shatter all over the table.
“I’d like to make a toast,” she begins. I giggle. “To my darling sister, who has worked tirelessly over the past few months to support her rotten, good-for-nothing, failure of a sibling. To Whitney Thompson, the first plus-size model to ever grace the runway, hereby making history more inclusive and changing the industry forever. And, finally, to Jag Models, who will hereby ensure this family never goes to bed hungry or without a roof over our heads.”
I stare back at her blankly. She clinks her glass a couple more times, impatient.
“In other words, ya girl got herself a job!”
I start to laugh, which quickly turns to tears. Leila joins me, and we sit there in the heart of the West Village, in broad daylight, holding each other, happily wailing. I take her hand and squeeze it three times. She squeezes back.
“Wait, cheers me, bitch,” she says. “Otherwise, it’s bad luck for both of us!”
After we sync glasses and take big, hearty sips of prosecco, I unload one round of questioning.
“Who? What? Where? Who wore what?”
Leila’s laugh sounds like the chorus of a Rolling Stones song, and all feels right in the world.
“So it’s actually a funny story. You know Willow?”
I roll my eyes. “You mean your girlfriend?”
Leila rolls hers back. She waves me off. “You know I hate labels. Besides, we’re not exclusive. Last week we had the most scrumptious threesome with this Moldavian homme with the most delightful mustache, which he used to—”
“Don’t need to know the details,” I say quickly, cutting her off. “Stay focused on the job.”
“Right, right, right. So, I was picking up Willow—my friend—from a shoot with Jag, and the second I stepped on to the set, I could see it was all wrong. The lighting was harsh, the clothes were ugly and uninventive, the hair felt so nineties, I almost dry-heaved on the spot. I was like, who is in charge here? That’s when I realized they didn’t have anyone on-site, assisting the headshots. That’s when I had an epiphany: I’d be the most perfect shoot director. I pitched myself on the spot then got to work that very same day. Aka, yesterday. And I got the call this morning. The rest is history!”
My brain swells. Leila has always had the most profound sense of self that I’ve ever been lucky enough to stand remotely close to. But creating a job title out of thin air? That’s next-level boss. Both Loretta and Jade could learn a thing or two from the way she carries herself.
“And you know what that means,” she continues. “You can finally quit your job!”
Just like that, the swelling stops.
“I, uh, don’t think I can do that right now,” I say. Leila raises one eyebrow.
“Noora, you can’t be serious. You had a straight-up panic attack a little over a week ago. I was standing right next to you. Your sleep cycle is totally erratic, you’re on edge twenty-four/seven, and you’re never really present. Even when you’re physically with me, you’re never really here, are you?”
“What?” I tune back into the conversation. Secretly, I was scanning for messages from Loretta under the table. Leila follows my gaze then reaches and grabs the phone from my hands.
“What the fuck! I need that. What are you doing?” I ask, annoyed.
“Proving a point. This job is bad for your mental health, Noora. You have zero work-life balance. At the very least, you should consider talking to a therapist. Or maybe even returning Maman and Baba’s calls. Yeah, they told me you’ve been dodging them.”
I stare up at Leila, shocked. This attack seemingly came out of nowhere. What the fuck did I do?
“I can’t leave right now, Lei,” I say again. “You don’t get it. They need me.”
“Who is they, Noora?! Loretta? Jade? Because I’m honestly losing track. Which side are you trying to defend here? Your insecure narcissist of a boss, or the Justin Bieber–looking amateur using you as a fucking mole? Can’t you see that they’ll discard you when you’re done? You wanted to work for Vinyl so you could actually write and Jesus fucking Christ, you’re not even doing that!”
I’m about to jump in and tell her everything. Explain that I’m C. Bates. That I just showed up on New York Mag’s High Brow, Low Brow graph. But I know that would be a mistake, so I refrain. I bite down, hard, on my tongue. It really fucking hurts.
“You don’t get it,” I repeat. “You just don’t get it.”
“Is it Saffron? Or that piece of walking meat? Cal or Kale or whatever?”
“Don’t call him that.”
More silence.
“You’re so fucking fake, dude,” she finally says. “Just admit it: You like the drama. You live for the so-called war or whatever. You enjoy being in the middle of it all, and you’re playing both sides like the Gemini that you are. Say it. Say it.”
I sit there, silently fuming, and stare down at my glass of prosecco. I can see right through it.
“Whatever masochist bullshit is going on here, I don’t want to be part of it.” She practically spits all over the table. “Don’t come crying to me when they burn you at the stake and blame it on global warming.”
With that, she chugs the rest of her prosecco, slams her flute on the table, and walks out the door. I stay put for the next five minutes, stunned, then ask for the check.
“Are you sure you want to leave?” Mr. Grey’s Anatomy asks. “Fran Lebowitz just walked in and asked for her usual table.”
I swivel around in my seat. Sure enough, there she is—sitting in the corner, hiding beneath her signature glasses. Up close, she looks so small.
“No, thanks,” I tell him. “I’ve made enough questionable decisions for one day.”