It’s the first day of filming, and I take deep breaths in the elevator to calm myself. When I get off on the seventeenth floor, the camera crew will be there, ready to film my every moment. I smooth my navy Carolina Herrera wrap dress. I thought about wearing something flashier—my wool Schiaparelli military brisk suit—but then I decided I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.
When the elevator door opens, I consider going back down. I hadn’t expected things to look quite so crazy. There are three guys toting huge black cameras and followed by guys holding furry gray mops on the end of sticks. The staff is trying to look busy, and at the same time, talking really loudly to be heard by the furry mics. Miranda is in her office. It looks like she’s posing for publicity photos, and Josh is standing next to Natalie’s desk while a woman holds up what looks like a little tape recorder and points to it. Josh is the one who prevents my escape.
“Sweetie, you’re here! Finally!”
Finally? It’s quarter to nine. I’m early.
At Josh’s words half a dozen people turn to look at me. A moment later, they descend, and I’m wired and propelled into my office for my own publicity photos and an interview. You know how on The Real World the cast gets pulled aside to explain their personal take on something? Or on Queer Eye how the friends and family of the straight guy make comments throughout? That’s what this footage is for.
They hook me up to a wireless body lav mic, and since I don’t have a pocket or waistband, a woman attaches the transmitter to the back of my bra. I look like a hunchback, and I have to lean forward when I sit. While they’re hooking all of this up a guy who reminds me of Ron Howard reviews the rules for me.
“Okay, Allison, just want to remind you that everything you do or see today and in the weeks ahead falls under the confidentiality agreement. Don’t talk to your friends, your family, and especially not to the media about anything. You got that?”
“Sure,” I say. Like anyone’s going to care about a show pitting interior designers against one another.
I’ve been sitting and talking for what feels like hours when I spot Nicolo through my office window. He’s standing in the middle of the office talking with Miranda, and I wonder how long he’s been here. One of the producers has a book of questions—I swear, it’s like two hundred pages—and they just go on and on. The lights are hot, my back is starting to hurt from leaning forward, and Natalie’s been giving me frantic looks for the past forty-five minutes. My phone hasn’t rung once, which means she’s holding my calls. I’ve gotten no work done this morning, and it’s past eleven.
The Reality TV Addict’s Guide to What’s Real says that producers often try to wear you down, so they can get footage of you all harried and bitchy. I’m resolved to stay as cool as Antarctica. And yet still friendly and approachable.
Nicolo looks up, sees me, and smiles. His blue eyes crinkle when he does that, and it looks really sexy. Miranda gives me an annoyed frown. What’s up with that? She’s married. I think.
“So would you call interior design a hobby then, Allison?”
“Huh?” I look back at the Ron Howard producer interviewing me. “Oh, um. No. It’s my job, not a hobby.”
He waves a hand. “But you don’t need the money. Your parents are quite well off.”
“I don’t want to talk about my family,” I say. Then, at his raised eyebrows, I add, “My parents are rich, but it’s not my money. In any case, I like interior design. I’d do it even if I didn’t have to.” I just wouldn’t work for Miranda. Speak of the devil, Miranda catches my eye, taps her watch.
“Is that all?” I say. “I really have to do some work.”
The producers try to throw a few more questions at me, but I swivel toward my computer and pretend to ignore them. I always thought it would be fun to have people asking me all sorts of questions about myself but believe it or not, after half an hour I was sort of sick of me.
I glance over my shoulder, and the film crew is still there, still filming. “Just go about your usual routine,” the Ron Howard producer says. “We want some footage of you working.”
Okay. I turn back to my computer and try to look busy. Normally, the first thing I do is play a game of solitaire, then read my hotmail, then play another game, then read my horoscope. Obviously, that’s out. I decide to check my work e-mail, and when I open it, the camera guys zoom in. The first thing I see is a message from Miranda with the subject line all in caps: STOP TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF AND GET TO WORK.
I scramble to close the screen before the camera gets a shot of that. Okay, I’ll check my voice mail. As I pick up the phone, the producer says, “Can you put it on speaker, so we can hear, too?”
I’m not thrilled with the idea, but I guess it’s part of the show. I press the button for my voice mail, and a computerized voice says, “You have sixteen new messages.”
“Shit,” I mutter. Then I glance at the camera. “I mean, super.” I smile—or at least try to.
“First message. Nine twenty-one A.M.,” the computerized voice says.
“Ms. Holloway, this is Edith M. Bilker-Morgan. You were to call me at nine sharp to discuss my choice of side table for the study. I do not like the photo of the yellowish white one you sent. You called it”—there’s the sound of paper rusting—“distressed. I am most distressed. Please call me back. If it’s not too inconvenient.”
“Ouch,” the cameraman says, and I keep on smiling.
“Second message. Nine twenty-seven A.M.”
“Ms. Holloway, this is Sherrie from Dr. Orion’s office. I’m calling to confirm your appointment for a pelvic exam and Pap—”
“Next message!” I say, hitting the forward button.
“Nine forty-two A.M.”
“Hi, darlin’. It’s Daddy. I know it’s still a week away, but are you coming to the lake for Memorial Day? You know how your mother gets when—”
“You know what?” I hit the button to disconnect. “Maybe I’ll check messages later.”
The intercom beeps, and I almost jump. “Allison?” Miranda’s tone is short and sharp.
I clear my throat and smile at the camera again. “Yes, Miranda?”
“Quit playing around and get out here. Mr. Watanabe has arrived, and we need you in the meeting.”
“Thanks, Miranda. I—” But I hear a click, and she’s gone.
“Excuse me.” I head for the conference room, and the camera crew follows. On the way, I pass Nicolo. He’s leaning against the desk of a petite blonde junior designer we hired about a month ago and flirting with her. Note to self: Fire Britney. Or is she Katie?
I give him a smile, and his eyes follow me. I glance back, but the camera crew is still following, and wouldn’t they just love to get a shot of me flirting with Nicolo?
About halfway through the meeting with Watanabe and the rest of the Japanese contingent, which Nicolo never does bother to join, I motion to Miranda to speak privately. We won’t miss anything anyway as the meeting is being conducted in Japanese and Yamamoto is translating about a tenth of it.
In fact, for the past twenty minutes, Josh and I have been playing tic-tac-toe. Miranda meets me just outside the door, and I cover my mic with my hand. I don’t know if that will mute my voice or not, but I can’t get it off by myself.
“Miranda,” I say as soon as she closes the door. “Do I have to be in on this meeting? I need to get the details and schedules together for the Wernberg project. We were supposed to have a team meeting on that at one.”
Miranda glances at the conference room, keeping her mic covered, too. “That’s not going to happen today, Allison. We’ll do it Monday.”
“That’s a big contract, and I still haven’t seen the budget. I’ve got Josh’s numbers on the lighting and some preliminary numbers for the furnishings, but I haven’t talked to Lila or Dylan about the flooring or the interior finishes. And who’s checking on the codes?”
“I need you in there, Allison. Give what you have to Dylan and tell him to be ready to present a complete budget Monday.”
I frown. “Dylan’s only been here a year.”
“And it’s time he proved himself. Your budgets are always off anyway.”
I gape. “One multiplication mistake and—”
“It was a five-thousand-dollar multiplication mistake. Now go talk to Dylan, then get your butt back in there.” Miranda goes back to the conference room, and I head across the room to Dylan’s workspace. He’s got his Luxo lamp over his drawing board, and he’s erasing something from canary-colored tracing paper.
I cover my mic. “Dylan?”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up.
“Miranda and I need a favor.”
Now he looks up. He’s got brown eyes and long dark lashes. Very cute, except that he’s about twenty-two and engaged.
“We need you to get the budget together for the Wernberg project. I’ll have Natalie give you everything I have so far, but it’s not much. We’ll need the numbers by Monday.”
He swallows. “Okay. You know, I haven’t really done a budget before.”
Damn Miranda. This is so unfair. Normally I would help the guy out, but I have to get back to the stupid meeting. “Just do your best. I’m sorry. I’d help, but—”
Dylan glances at the conference room. “TV calls. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Dylan.”
“Anything I can help with?”
I turn to see Nicolo standing behind me. He’s wearing a charcoal suit with a red power tie and his eyes are sapphire blue. “Thanks, but I think we’ve got it under control.” The way I say it, I almost believe it myself.
“I am looking forward to our date tonight.”
I glance around. No camera crews watching. “Me, too. But it’s a professional outing.” I tap his tie with my finger-nail, painted OPI’s Wanted…Red or Alive, then run my finger down the length of the crimson silk. Nicolo smiles.
“Until tonight.” And he walks away. I grind my teeth. I’m not liking the constraints this TV thing is placing on me. I have no time to work, no time to flirt…I wonder if this is how Carson feels on Queer Eye? Well, if Carson can do it, so can I. We all have to make sacrifices.
“Okay, sweetie, I’m here now.” Josh kisses my cheek. “It’s all good.” Josh steps into my apartment dressed in black leather. A short attractive guy peeks around Josh.
“Jello. I’m Carlos from Cuba.” Carlos is dressed in sandals, slim Guess jeans, leather belt, and a wife beater with an open button-down shirt over it. His clothes are pressed and the pants hug his ass, but his look is intense, and the five o’clock shadow belies the usual baby face I’m used to on gay Latino guys.
“Allison from Chicago.”
“Ooh, jou look gorgeous.” He waves a hand, indicating I should spin for him. I do, stepping back so he can see the complete effect. The dress is black with a fitted bodice that extends all the way down my hips. Then it fans into a full skirt. My arms and shoulders are bare except for two silk straps that snake behind my neck and cross over my bare back.
“Vintage?” Josh asks.
“Hmm-mm. The thirties. Ever heard of Jeanne Lanvin? This is from her mermaid line.” I motion Josh and Carlos to follow me upstairs and into the kitchen. I have a great kitchen. It’s got white marble countertops, white walls, pewter drawer pulls, and a stainless steel fridge. It stays white because I never cook.
Josh and Carlos sit on bar stools, while I lean against the counter.
“So, what am I here for?” Josh asks. “You look scrumptious.”
“Are you sure? I could wear the Paquin or the Schiaparelli.” I raise my hand to my lips, then quickly lower it before I gnaw off my OPI Russian to a Party nail polish.
“No, no,” Carlos chimes in. “Jou look perfect. But jou no look like jou want to go, does she, papi?”
Josh shakes his head. “What’s the story, sweetie?
“Bad night last night. I had another run-in with the toad.”
“That’s the Davester,” Josh whispers to Carlos.
“Nicolo showed up and Dave was there and—”
Josh gasps and clutches Carlos’s hand. “You had a three-some!” he hisses.
“No, I”—but suddenly I’m thinking about Dave on one side and Nicolo on the other, and I wonder what it would take to make that happen—“you know, I’ve never understood how threesomes work. Is it everybody with everybody? Because—yuck. Anyway, last night Dave was at Rory’s after the game, and we started arguing. I said some stuff, and I swear I don’t know where it came from.” I put my hands over my eyes, careful not to touch my face and my makeup. “The next thing I know, we’re in Rory’s bedroom making out, and I’m telling him how mad I am because—you know.” I don’t want to say the part about how Dave rejected me in front of Carlos.
“You were kissing him?” Josh looks horrified.
“I know I keep saying I hate his guts, and I do. But when I get around him…”
“You can’t resist.” Josh nods. “No need to explain. I have the same problem with Justin Timberlake.”
“You know Justin Timberlake?”
“No, sweetie. I hate Justin Timberlake, but whenever I see or hear Justin Timberlake, I can’t resist him. You should see my closet. I have piles of magazines with Justin Timber-lake pictures. I’m like a celebrity stalker or something.”
“Jou scare me,” Carlos says to Josh, shaking his head. “And jou”—he points to me—“jou got it bad. Jou got to forget about the toad.”
“Exactly,” Josh adds, “you’ve got the princetopolis on the line now. He needs your full attention.”
“I help jou,” Carlos offers. “Jou have any chickens around?”
“No.” I don’t even want to know why he’s asking, but I’m suddenly glad Booboo Kitty is sleeping under my bed.
“Too bad,” Carlos says. “But when I get home I make a potion for jou and give it to papi.” He gestures to Josh. “That strong magic. Jou take that, jou forget the toad. Also, jou go get laid. That works, too.”
Well, I don’t know if I’m going to get laid, but if Nicolo sees me in this dress and doesn’t try to get me into bed, I’ll seriously question what team he’s playing on.
Nicolo calls a few minutes later to say he’s on his way, and I’ve just pushed Josh and Carlos out the door when the bell rings again.
I glide back down the stairs, open the door, and raise my brows. “Nicolo. You look better than tiramisu.” Way better. Maybe I should suggest we stay in? I reach out and finger the tux’s material. “Armani?”
“Good evening.” Nicolo smiles and takes my hand, opening it and kissing the palm.
“Come in,” I say. “I just need to grab my bag.”
But he doesn’t release my hand. “You are exquisite. The gown is vintage, yes?”
I give him a nod of approval. I love guys who know fashion. I love vintage, and my collection can’t be fully appreciated if a man doesn’t know a little about fashion. But not too much. “Know the designer?” I ask and hold my breath.
“Valentino?”
“No.” I relax. “Lanvin. Her mermaid line.”
“I have not heard of her.” Nicolo follows me inside. “But I like her very much.” He takes my hand and pulls me to him. “I like the way she looks on you.” He leans down and kisses me, his hand skating up my bare back, leaving a trail of warm tingles. He’s handsome, knows fashion, and leaves me trembling. Any second the alarm clock is going to go off, and I’ll wake up and realize this is just a dream. A delicious dream, but a dream.
When the kiss ends, he murmurs in my ear, “I like your hair up.” His hand spreads out over my bare back, warm and solid. “But it looks better down.”
I frown.
He nods expectantly. What, am I supposed to take it down now? I didn’t spend twenty minutes pinning it up to take it down now. It’s sweet that he likes my hair, but not that sweet.
You know, I’ve always thought my green eyes were my best feature, especially if I wear green or blue, but most men like my hair. I’m thirty-two, so I probably should have cut it by now, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it.
If I were a princess, I probably wouldn’t be able to change it without a royal decree.
“Ready to go?” I say breezily, starting up the stairs. He follows, pausing in the living room while I grab my clutch from the kitchen table.
I switch off the kitchen light and say, “Bye, kitty!” to the empty room.
“You have a roommate?” Nicolo asks when I walk back into the living room.
“Cat. White like everything else.”
Nicolo is studying my living room, his dazzling blue eyes taking in every detail. This would drive Rory crazy. She can’t stand being scrutinized because she’s so afraid she’ll be found wanting. Every time I come over she tells me she’s sorry her apartment is so dirty, when it’s obvious she just vacuumed.
I love for people to see my house. If it’s a little dusty, that doesn’t faze me. But the cleaning service was here yesterday, so the house is polished and sparkly.
“White is a risky choice,” Nicolo says after a long silence.
“I don’t mind risk.”
“No? Better and better,” he says, eyes skimming over me as though I were the room now. “But so much white.” He gestures to the room. “You had to exercise care in choosing the tones.”
“I stuck mostly with ivory. I reupholstered the couch and chair in a heavy ivory tapestry and then used the remainder to make the window valances. The material for the curtains was harder to find. It looks sheer and lets a lot of light in, but you can’t see through them from the outside.”
Nicolo nods. “Yes, you need light to make such a pristine room work. And the cherry”—he motions to the armoire where I hide the TV and DVD player—“the white brings out the rich tones in the wood.”
I smile. “I love cherry, and nothing looks better with cherry than ivory. It’s a classic.”
“I see you are a classic woman. Vintage dress, elegant decor, timeless beauty.” He smiles and my pulse jumps at the warmth in his eyes.
“That’s just the icing on the cake.” I haven’t had this much fun flirting in a long, long time. Especially when I really shouldn’t be. Maybe because I shouldn’t be.
He takes my arm and we walk downstairs toward the door. “Then I shall have to lick the icing away as quickly as possible. I want to taste the cake.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
A little while later, we pull up to the Four Seasons on East Delaware Place, and I smile with anticipation. The Four Seasons is elegant, understated, and European in style.
“Good evening, Mr. Parma. Ms. Holloway,” the doorman says as Nicolo and I walk into the lobby with its Italian marble, crystal chandeliers, and curving, intricately carved wooden stairway.
“Hello, Jordan. Good to see you again.”
I wink at Nicolo. A week in Chicago and the doorman already knows him. I gaze at the chandeliers before moving forward. I love chandeliers, especially at night when the lights twinkle like a million diamond-cut stars. One of these days I’m going to have a house expansive enough for a chandelier. I glance at Nicolo to see if he’s thinking about houses with chandeliers.
The hotel manager spots us and hurries over. “Mr. Parma. You are here for the Bourbon-Parma affair?”
Nicolo inclines his head. “Yes, Jean, merci.”
Bourbon-Parma affair? Just how much royalty is in Chicago at the moment?
“Right this way.” He shows us to a private elevator and instructs the porter to take us to the pool level. I arch a brow at Nicolo, but he gives nothing away.
As we step off the elevator, I hear the strains of music and the clink of silver and china. I can’t remember seeing this floor of the Four Seasons before, so it’s a pleasant surprise when we enter. Classic in style, the room is dominated by the rectangular pool. Surrounding the glass-blue water are Roman columns and, above them, a mammoth domed glass ceiling. A wide expanse of windows along one side showcases a view of downtown Chicago. Tables with delicacies are scattered about the room, and a few unobtrusive waiters are dispensing champagne and wine.
I take a glass from a passing waiter, and Nicolo does likewise. “Nice,” I say. “I thought you were staying at the Drake.”
He nods. “I am. Sixte and his wife, Valencia, are here at the Four Seasons.”
“Allison, dear! How good to see you.” I turn to see Jellie Abernathy sliding toward me. We were friends in high school, but I’ve recently bowed out of bridesmaid duty at her upcoming wedding, so her warm welcome is a bit surprising. Jellie air-kisses both my cheeks, missing by a mile, then stands back and smiles at Nicolo.
“Jellie, this is Nicolo Parma. Nicolo, Angelica Abernathy. We went to school together.”
Nicolo kisses her hand. “Enchanted.”
“Oh, Allison, I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever. You’ve met my fiancé, Marshall, right?” She indicates a short, handsome man standing behind her. We exchange more greetings and small talk until we’re joined by another couple and it starts all over again.
Now I remember why I rarely go to these things anymore. I’m bored in less than an hour. No one actually says anything of any consequence. I love talking about fashion. I can hold my own in discussions of finance and politics. I can even manage a few noteworthy comments on art and theater. But the inevitable start of the name-dropping exhausts my patience. I smoothly extricate myself from the group and make a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to real estate moguls, government bigwigs, and old friends.
I’m talking crown moldings with the mayor’s wife when one of the waiters approaches and hands me a note.
“Excuse me,” I say and step away. The note’s from Nicolo, asking me to meet him and his cousin in the presidential suite.
On the way back to the elevator bank, I glance at the pool and imagine the reaction were I to jump in. Of course, I’d peel off my dress first. One does not jump in a pool wearing a Lanvin. I wonder if peeling the dress off or jumping in the water would make more of a splash.
I take the elevator to the forty-sixth floor and step into luxury. The Four Seasons spares no expense on their best rooms. I knock on the door and a servant in a tux admits me into a small marble foyer dominated by a live flower arrangement on a gilt table. He opens a door on my left, and I enter a small hallway with more flowers and muted light. To my right is a powder room done in pink marble and ahead is the living room.
The decor up here is also European—dark handcrafted wood, tasteful upholstery, plush carpeting. The view from the huge windows is a panorama of Lake Michigan, framed by heavy royal-blue drapes with gold fringe. Nicolo turns from one of the windows, the indigo of the sky and azure of the lake in stark contrast behind him. “Allison, come in. Meet my cousin Sixte.”
I step into the living room, and smile at the assembled party. There’s a mahogany dining table to the left with eight plush chairs. The ivory pillar candles have almost burned down. Directly before me are several club chairs and two couches in delicate ivory and blue chintz.
Nicolo indicates a man reclining on one couch. This must be Sixte, though he looks almost nothing like Nicolo. He’s older, dark with an orangey tan, and he’s got a pencil-thin mustache. Beside him is a waif-thin woman in a peach A-line dress from Narciso Rodriguez’s spring line. Four or five other men, all lounging carelessly, cigarettes drooping from their mouths or fingers, look up as I enter. “This is Allison Holloway,” Nicolo says. “She is the best interior designer in Chicago.”
I smile and approach Sixte. “A pleasure to meet you. Nicolo’s told me so much about you.”
He glances at Nicolo, then back at me, but doesn’t rise or even sit up. I’m expecting an air kiss—a handshake at least—so I’m a little taken aback by the cool welcome.
“Please sit down, Allison,” his wife says with no trace of a European accent. “We were just discussing Philippe de Villiers’ presentation of Les Sables d’Olonne. Three women are racing this year. Do you sail?”
I take a moment to shift gears. Les Sables d’Olonne. Non-stop yacht race around the world. “I used to. My parents have a house on Lake Geneva.”
Sixte and his wife frown. “Switzerland?” Nicolo asks.
I shake my head. “Wisconsin.”
I get several blank looks, but before I can explain how upper-crust Lake Geneva is—how it’s the “Newport of the West”—the topic moves to car racing.
This is interesting. I’ve never been the unfashionable one before. I know almost nothing about car racing, so I sit on the edge of a cushy chair and listen until everyone’s discussing plans for Fashion Week in New York.
“I loathe New York,” Sixte says, drawing another cigarette from his gold case. “I loathe fashion.”
“We must make an appearance, no matter how tedious,” his wife, Valencia, says.
“All those clothes and girl after girl, all flat-chested,” another man who I think Nicolo called Maxmillian whines.
The group is silent for a moment as everyone but me drags on their European cigarettes.
“Oh, Allison,” Valencia says after a moment. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Thanks.”
“Red or white?”
“Red.” I glance back at Nicolo, resting on the arm of the chair, leaning casually across the back. He gives me a bored look. Being royalty isn’t quite as fun as I’d fantasized. I’m missing The Amazing Race for this?
A shriek sounds from across the room where Valencia is standing at the dining table. “What’s wrong?” Sixte asks.
“We’re out of the Dom. de la Romanee.”
Sixte actually sits up at this. “Call down and order more.”
Nicolo rises. “I will do it.”
Valencia shakes her head. “The hotel won’t have it. We’re in Chicago. The best they’ll have is a 2000 Château Mouton Rothschild.”
“We could try for the 1986 Rothschild,” Maxmillian suggests.
“Oh, what’s the use?” Valencia flops down on the couch beside Sixte.
“I could drink white,” I say, but no one acknowledges me.
“This is all so tedious,” Sixte says.
I agree.
When we arrive back at my house, Nicolo doesn’t try to wrangle an invitation to come inside. He sighs and kisses my cheek. All that ennui can really tire a guy out.