When Nicolo and I arrive at Rory’s, her apartment is packed. Hunter, Grayson, and Grayson’s flavor of the month are playing with a big-screen TV that Hunter must have hauled over; Josh, Carlos, and Stormy, Rory’s sister, and Stormy’s latest boyfriend are in the kitchen getting the hors d’oeuvres ready; and Courtney and Christina, two of my friends from college, are sitting on the couch.
I introduce Nicolo to everyone he hasn’t met, and he’s relatively civil, which means he shakes the hands of the TV group, nods stiffly at the kitchen group, and kisses the hands of Court and Tina. By the time Rory comes back from the store, where Hunter told me she ran to fetch more ice, Nicolo’s sitting between my college friends, ensconced in conversation.
“Allie! You’re here.” Rory hugs me, which isn’t typical for her, but it’s sweet.
“Thanks for doing all this,” I say, indicating the streamers and balloons and party hats that no one except Hunter and Rory are wearing.
“It was fun.” She glances at Nicolo, still flirting with my friends, and I roll my eyes, then follow her into the kitchen.
“Want a wheatgrass smoothie?” Stormy asks, holding out a glass filled with bright green liquid.
“Um, I already grazed today. Got any wine?”
“Sure.” Rory pulls out two bottles. “White or red?”
“White.”
She reaches for a glass and pours the wine.
“Sweetie, are you as excited about the show as I am?” Josh asks. “Carlos did some strong mojo before we came.”
“That’s right. I got a chicken—”
“Okay!” I say before Rory or her animal rights sister catch on to Carlos’s anti-SPCA practices. “Let’s go.”
Everyone settles in front of the TV—Hunter’s big screen. I give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then rinse and repeat with Grayson. “Thanks for hauling that over. You’re very sweet.”
I do wish they’d asked me before going to so much effort, though. I’m not so sure I want to see me and the box o’vibrators on the big screen.
Tina moves over, and I settle next to Nicolo on the couch. Josh sits directly in front of the TV, his eyes riveted on the Charmin commercial. Someone is ready for Kamikaze Make-over! and his close-up.
The show starts and a slick piece of eye candy stands in a studio and explains the concept of the show.
“Who’s that?” I ask Nicolo. “I never saw him.”
The screen flashes to a shot of the Japanese team in an office, talking and examining various fabrics. They look really industrious, like serious, skilled decorators.
The host introduces them, accompanied by a headshot of each, then flashes to a scene of the challengers.
“That’s us! That’s us!” Josh yells. “We’re the challengers!”
But the rest of the room is silent. Where the Japanese team looked busy and successful, we look like a bunch of losers. Watanabe chose footage from the first house, when Josh and I collapsed on the floor. We look like we’re lying around with nothing to do. Even Miranda, relaxing in the chair, her eyes half-closed, looks like a bum.
Nicolo laughs. “You keep telling me you are so tired. Look at you. Very lazy.”
I don’t particularly want to look at me. The khaki capris and white T-shirt I’m wearing on-screen are wrinkled, splattered with dirt and grime; my hair is tangled, stuck on top of my head and secured with two pencils; and the angle of the shot is not as flattering to my hips as I would have liked.
“That was at the end of the day,” I tell no one and everyone. “We didn’t know they were still filming.” I bite my thumbnail, chipping my Shootout at the O.K. Coral OPI polish. I’m more than concerned now about Watanabe and his cronies’ selective editing.
The shot goes back to the slick host, and he intros the first segment, leaving off with shots of the houses and a cliff-hanger with footage of me arguing with the gang member. As soon as the ad for Sherwin-Williams comes on, everyone starts talking. Josh whines that he looks horrible on-screen, that his skin was ashy and he looked so fat—more so than the extra ten pounds the camera adds can account for.
“Carlos, why didn’t you tell me I was fat? I’m a cow—no, a hippopotamus.” He runs into the bathroom, and Carlos follows.
“No, honey. Jou look good.”
The show starts again, and we get a look at the house the Japanese team had to redecorate. It starts out looking as bad as ours, so at least that’s fair. The camera shows them scraping away old wallpaper and wrestling the vibrator into a tasteful-looking objet d’art. The host refers to the vibrators as personal massagers, but we all know what they really are.
“You had to decorate the house with vibrators?” Gray chokes back a laugh. “You are so going to get it. Mom and Dad are going to freak.”
“Maybe they’ll believe the personal massagers thing.” Unfortunately, I remember one incident all too clearly and if the film crew has decided to show that footage, which they probably have as they seem determined to make us look like idiots, there won’t be much question what the vibrators are used for.
“Are we back on yet?” Josh calls from the bathroom.
“Next commercial,” Rory answers. “Come out and watch. I’ll pour you another glass of wine.”
“Half a glass. I have to watch my figure, since I’m such a blimp.”
There’s another commercial break and Josh, dabbing his eyes with Kleenex, reemerges. “Oh, God. It’s coming back on.”
Kamikaze Makeover! flashes on the screen, accompanied by the sound of Japanese drums, and our host intros our house. There it is, and there’s the three of us in the conference room at the office. “Look, Josh,” I say. “It’s not that bad. We come across really serious there.”
“The American team did have a few distractions to contend with,” the host announces. Flash to a close-up of Lila.
She says, “We’d better get on that or we’ll be late and end up having to cut corners like we did at Harpo Studios.” Flash to a shot of me, looking very guilty.
In Rory’s living room, I shake my head. “Wait. We weren’t even talking about the show there…”
I trail off as footage of Nicolo and I going into a restaurant together last week begins. I glance at Nicolo, but he looks unconcerned. The host starts talking about me, about the romance that bloomed on the set between Nicolo and me kissing in the office one day. When I thought there weren’t any cameras around. I’m so mortified to see myself like this. I want to ask Nicolo if he knew about the cameras, but before I can, there’s another shot of me at Mrs. Jackson’s house. I’m talking to Josh and holding the box o’vibrators.
On-screen Miranda says, “I thought you liked a challenge.”
“This isn’t a challenge,” I say, holding a purple vibrator aloft. The scene then shifts to a few hours later. Josh and I are kneeling next to a table, trying to figure out how to fashion a vibrator into a lamp stand. We pull one out, and I accidentally turn it on. But instead of just vibrating, this one swivels and dips. The screen then flashes back to the earlier scene.
Josh says, “I think we’re screwed,” and I say, “Well, we’ve got the right equipment.” Flash back to the gyrating vibrator.
I put my head in my hands. I’m not so much embarrassed as dreading the fallout. Right on cue, my cell phone rings. I glance at the display, then at Gray. “It’s Mom and Dad.”
“Don’t answer,” he says. The ringing stops and the phone goes to voice mail. A minute later, Grayson’s phone rings. “Shit.” He answers, “Hello? Oh, hi, Dad. No, I don’t know where—”
I stand. “Just give me the phone. I better get this over with.” I start walking toward the door. “Hi, Daddy. You were watching? It wasn’t my choice. You heard what I said…I know but…Mrs. Chippenhall called?…I know, but I signed the…Daddy, I’m sure no one we know saw—okay, sorry.”
Everyone is watching me, pretending not to listen. I give a little wave and step into Rory’s hallway. My dad continues to yell, and nothing I say calms him down. Finally, I hear the door behind me open.
“Daddy, why don’t we talk about this tomorrow when you’re not so upset, okay?”
He says something else.
“Okay, love you, too. Bye.”
I turn to see Nicolo. “Your father is upset?”
“Do you blame him? It’s not every day he gets to see his little girl on national television playing with sex toys. Did you know they were going to make us look so stupid?”
He shrugs. “It was not hard to do.”
“You really are a bastard, aren’t you? Why would you do that to me? And what about those scenes with us? Did you know they were filming?”
“You did not?”
“You know I didn’t! What am I to you? A publicity tool?”
He shrugs again.
“You fucking used me.”
“Again, you make it so easy.”
“Get out of my sight.”
He opens Rory’s door, presumably to get his jacket and keys, and go. I follow him indoors, my insides roiling with anger.
“You know what, Nicolo, I used to think I was a snob, but you take the cake. I should have thrown you off a boat when you showed up in Lake Geneva.”
He turns and glares at me, hand still on Rory’s door handle.
“What?” I say. “Do you think I’m going to break down in tears and beg you to take me back? You’re the one who should be begging me.”
“Stop shouting at me. You act like a peasant.”
“Oh, you think this is shouting?” Actually, I had been talking rather loudly, i.e., shouting. “I’ll give you shouting.”
“You are not worth this. You with your peasant friends—fags and freaks all of them. I cannot wait to leave this country.”
“And I promise you that we can’t wait to see you go,” I hiss.
Nicolo whirls and glares at me, face red with anger. “You bitch.” He steps forward and Gray and Hunter rise simultaneously. Nicolo eyes them, then me. “You will pay.” He stomps out and slams the door. As the echo vibrates through the room, I put on a wobbly smile. “Well, that’s that,” and then I burst into tears.
On Monday I arrive at the office five minutes before nine and am ready to go home again by nine-thirty. Several clients call to tell me they no longer require my services, and the front page of the Lifestyle section has a picture of me and Josh holding the gyrating vibrator. The headline reads, “DECORATORS GET THRUST OF NEW SHOW.” I want to cry, I want to hide under my covers, I want to kick Nicolo’s ass.
And then my mother calls to yell at me. You’d think that at a time like this, my mother would be supportive, but she doesn’t care about how I feel, only how all of this looks. Everything is going wrong. My life has become a bad episode of a reality TV show, and I can’t shut the TV off.
The only bright spot in my day is when Rory calls to ask how I’m holding up. She offers to cut out of work early so we can have an extended happy hour. But even a mojito and Rory’s sympathetic ear don’t ease the impending sense of doom. Two mojitos and several baskets of tortilla chips (yes, that’s dinner) later, I’m painting my toenails with the TV on for noise. The world news coverage is over, and I hear the anchorwoman say, “In local news, a possible lawsuit against the prestigious Interiors by M.”
I scramble for the remote and hike the volume to max. I’ve smeared OPI’s A-Rose at Dawn…Broke by Noon polish, but I don’t care.
“Sources report that Dai Hoshi, a major Japanese media conglomerate that produces, in part, the television show Kamikaze Makeover! will sue the Chicago-area interior design firm. Kamikaze Makeover! premiered on KCHI Saturday evening and features competition between three top Japanese interior decorators and three American designers from Interiors by M. Ramosu Kobayashi, CEO and founder of Dai Hoshi, alleges that an employee at Interiors by M violated several stipulations of the contract between the two firms. More on this as the story develops.
“In sports, the Houston Rockets mascot is in court—”
I throw the remote and the TV flashes off. Shit. It’s got to be me who’s violated the contract. How would Josh or Miranda have violated it? I don’t know how I could have, either, but I know it’s me. I know.
I grab my laptop case, open it, and dig through the files I’ve stashed there. No contract. I must have left it at the office. I don’t remember filing it, so maybe it’s still on my desk. Unless I had Natalie file it for me…
The phone rings, and I snatch it up, hoping it’s Josh or Rory.
“Hello?”
“Miss Holloway? This is Marti Kristynik from USA Today. Can I ask you a few questions about your involvement in the show Kamikaze Makeover! and your relationship with producer Nicolo Parma?”
“No.” I hang up, and then my cell phone rings. The display reads “Evelyn Shephard.”
“Hello?”
“Allison Holloway, this is Evelyn Shephard from the Houston Chronicle. I’d like your comment on—”
The Houston Chronicle? People from Houston are calling me? Oh, my God. The phone rings again, and I unplug it and turn my cell off, too. Booboo Kitty is stretched out on my bed, and I decide she has the right idea and climb under the covers. I lie there, Booboo curled around my head and hogging (catting?) most of the pillow, until five A.M., and then I get up, get dressed, and drive to work.
When I arrive I’m surprised to see the light in Miranda’s office. I tap on her door quietly and push it open. She looks as haggard as me in her velour tracksuit, hair in a clip at the back of her head, and no makeup. She’s sitting at her desk staring at a pile of papers and doesn’t see me at first.
“Miranda?”
She glances up. “Good, you’re here. I thought you might call in.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t see the news?” She beckons me forward, and I take a seat in the chair opposite her desk. Five years ago I sat in this same spot, in this same office, although it wasn’t decorated the same, spouting off about my experience and credentials while Miranda flipped through my portfolio and résumé.
I wanted this job so badly. I’d spent almost four years working my way up the ladder at Enger and Associates, a large design firm that’s respected in the industry, but I wanted to work for the best. In Chicago, Interiors by M was and is the best.
“I saw it, and I guess everyone else, too, because people were calling me all night. I have nineteen messages on my voice mail at home, and I haven’t even checked my e-mail or my voice mail here. What’s going on?”
Miranda lifts a thick, legal-size document and passes it over. It’s a copy of my contract, exactly the reason I came in this morning. I start reading and Miranda says, impatiently, “Page seven, section twelve.”
I flip to page seven and scan the legalese. I have to read it twice before I understand, and when I do, I feel like I’m going to throw up. I glance at Miranda.
“You didn’t know?” she asks.
“No. I didn’t read it that carefully.”
She sighs. “Me either.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, then I say, “But surely Nicolo would have known. Why did he—”
Miranda scowls. “Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t. My question is how a copy of the contract got leaked to the media.”
“Our relationship hasn’t been a secret. Dai Hoshi had the contracts and once they filed suit the media—”
“They haven’t filed yet.”
I frown. “But the news said—”
“I got a call from one of the lawyers at Dai Hoshi. They’re willing to negotiate.”
“What do they want?” I press a fist into my belly, forcing the nausea down.
“They want your employment at Interiors by M terminated, effective immediately.”
“What?”
“Allison, I have no choice but to let you go. If I don’t, they’ll run us into the ground.”
I start to speak, but she waves a hand.
“Allison, we are in the wrong. You violated the contract—there is to be no fraternization between contestants and the employees of Dai Hoshi or Carpathian Enterprises—that’s Parma’s company, if you didn’t know.”
“But maybe if I talk to Nicolo, he’ll speak to Ramosu Kobayashi, and they’ll drop it.”
Miranda gives me a patronizing smile. “Are you on good terms with Parma at present?”
The reality of the situation hits me, and I almost double over from the slash of pain in my belly. “No, not really. Are you sure he knows?”
“He knows. Dai Hoshi didn’t decide to sue a little firm like us for a minor breach of conduct for the hell of it. They’d spend more money on lawyers than they’d win in court.”
I nod. She’s right, of course. She’s completely right. And can it be a coincidence that it’s all come out only twenty-four hours after I told Nicolo off?
“They’ve offered to settle if I fire you,” Miranda says. “This isn’t about Interiors by M, Allison. You messed up, and he’s using it against you.”
The office is quiet, just the rush of the air conditioning and the hum of Miranda’s computer. Finally she says, “Why don’t you clear your things out now before the reporters get here. Keep a low profile. I’m sure your parents would like it if you kept this as quiet as possible.”
I nod and rise. I’m in a daze and don’t see Miranda come around the desk. She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Allison, you’re a gifted designer. Take a few months off, let all this die down, then look for another job. If not in Chicago, maybe New York or Washington. It’s a big world out there.”
I swallow my tears and say, “Thanks, Miranda. Tell Lila and Natalie I said good-bye, and I’ll miss them.”
“I will.”
I close her office door behind me for the last time and stare at my own office. Pale gray light filters through the blinds on the outer windows, transforming the desk and furniture into phantoms haunting the dark office.
I stare at it—at what was my office—and my stomach heaves violently.
Okay, so maybe shopping isn’t the best thing to do under these circumstances, but how else am I to keep occupied all day Friday? I don’t feel like talking to anyone, even if my phone would stop ringing. I’d like to bury my head under the covers, but I did that the last couple of days. There’s nothing to watch on TV, nothing good to read, and I’m not hungry. I thought I might work on organizing my desk area and making it more feng shui, but I didn’t have any purple cloth for the wealth corner. No wealth corner was a crisis I didn’t want to consider, so I rushed out to purchase beaucoup purple cloth (more cloth = more money, right?). Somehow I ended up at Neiman Marcus.
I stroll through the departments, touching silk scarves, velvet tops, chiffon dresses. I buy a pair of Manolo Blahniks that I probably can’t afford anymore, slip them on, and listen to the way they tap when I walk. At four in the afternoon, I drive to Rory’s office. I’ve never been inside, but I know where she works. The receptionist for the Yates and Youngman accounting firm asks if I have an appointment with Ms. Egglehoff and when I say no, she tells me Ms. Egglehoff can’t see me today.
“Look”—I glance at the gold plate on her desk—“Meredith. I’m her sister, and it’s a family emergency, okay? Please call her and say I’m here.”
Meredith’s eyes narrow. “You’re her sister, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Her sister was in here a few months ago, and you look nothing like her.”
I close my eyes and press my hands on Meredith’s desk. My OPI Don’t Socra-tease Me! polish stands out against the tense white of my fingers.
“Okay, I’m not Rory’s sister, but I need to talk to her. I called her on my cell, and I got her voice mail. Why don’t you just tell me which one is her office, and I’ll wait for her?”
“Ms. Egglehoff is in a meeting, so you will have to come back another time.”
The phone rings.
“One minute.”
I frown, pace, and glance down the hallway behind Meredith’s desk. It’s absolutely silent in here. No one’s chatting, no one’s got the radio on. It’s so quiet I hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I glance around the lobby. Horrible decorating. How can anyone get any work done in a place like this? The lights alone make my head ache.
A typical accountant-looking guy steps out of an office and starts walking down the hall toward the reception area. His pants are too high, his hair looks uncombed, he’s wearing glasses and a pocket protector, and his arms are laden with files. One almost slips, and he tries to catch it, losing all of the files in the process. They spill on the carpet—burnished orange, cheap, stained—the papers fanning out against the wall.
He bends down to retrieve them, and I notice he’s wearing a Tasmanian Devil tie. Where have I seen that before? I don’t know anyone who’d wear—
Tedious Tom. Rory’s ex-boyfriend.
“Tom!”
The receptionist glances at me at the same time Tom’s head pops up. He squints at me.
“Excuse me,” I tell the receptionist and start down the hall.
“Wait! You can’t—”
“Tom, hey! I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” I bend down and gather some of the errant files together, making sure to bend over enough that Tom gets a good look at my cleavage without having to try too hard.
“Um, do I know—”
“Tom. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me.”
He straightens and I follow, handing him the files. He shifts from foot to foot, obviously not knowing what to do. God, how did Rory put up with this? I hear Meredith calling out behind me, so I link my arm through his and say, “I’m Allison Holloway. Rory’s friend.”
He stiffens. “Oh.”
“Miss! Miss! You can’t just barge on through!”
Okay, time to wrap this up. “Tom, would you be a sweetie and take me back to Rory’s office? I need to see her, and I think she forgot to let that lion back there know I was coming.” I look into his eyes, blink coyly once or twice—I hope my eyeliner isn’t smeared. “Can you help?”
“Okay.”
The receptionist finally reaches us. “Miss!”
Tom turns to her. “It’s okay, Meredith. Allison’s a friend of mine. I’ll take her back.”
“But Mr. Thompson, are you sure?”
He nods. Twenty minutes later, I’ve gone through all the books on Rory’s shelf, finished off her stash of M&Ms and her can of Diet Coke, played with her computer—but everything that looked interesting is password-protected—and finally decided to balance my checkbook. Hey, there’s a first time for everything. And after being surrounded by calculators and adding machines for almost a half-hour, I feel like I should do something mathematical.
I remember feeling this way in school a lot, too. Like if I was just around beakers and Bunsen burners, somehow chemistry would seep into my brain. I learned early on that atmosphere is everything. If I was surrounded by scientific, professional-type things, I felt scientific and professional. Hmm. Problem is, it didn’t work then, and it’s not working for me now.
I’ve added up about three columns in my checkbook register, but then I pressed a wrong button on the calculator, and now every time I try to add any numbers arcs and lines pop up on-screen. I open Rory’s top drawer. Doesn’t she have a normal calculator?
“Hey!” Rory rushes in. “Tom told me you were here. What’s wrong?”
I frown. “I can’t figure out how to work this stupid calculator. I just want to add up my checkbook, but it keeps asking for the X value.”
Rory reaches over, hits a key, and turns the calculator back toward me. “Here.”
The screen looks normal again. It’s even showing my last total. “Thanks.” I lean back in her leather chair. “Nice chair, but your office could use some help. You don’t have any artwork, no knickknacks, not even a fake plant. And this arrangement is all wrong. The desk would be better near that wall.”
“You came here to redecorate my office?”
“No. I came to give you this.” I pull the Kate Spade clutch from the shopping bag and hold it out to her. “This is totally your style, and it will go perfectly with that black dress you wore to the reunion.”
She takes it, her expression bewildered, then shocked. “Creator! This costs a hundred and forty dollars!”
“It’s a Kate Spade.”
“I don’t care if it’s the plans to the Death Star, that’s too much. Where am I going to take this? I never get dressed up.”
“So, tell Hunter to take you out. I saw this cute dress by Jones New York, and I know you’d love it. I would have bought it for you, but I wasn’t sure which size. We can go back and—”
“Stop.” She plops in the chair across from me. “What’s going on? Is it the Kamikaze Makeover! show still?”
I shake my head. “Worse.”
“What?”
“Miranda fired me.”
Rory’s eyes pop open. “What? You are kidding me. How the Dark Side could she fire you?”
“She said, ‘Allison, I have no choice but to let you go,’ so I went.”
“But what does that mean, no choice? Because of the vibrator thing?” She lowers her voice on the word vibrator because the door’s still open.
“No. I violated my contract. There was a provision against any of the contestants fraternizing with the bosses. I broke that by going out with Nicolo.”
“But why didn’t Nicolo say something? Why did you go out with him if you knew it would be in violation of the contract?”
I glower at her, and she sits back. “You never read the contract.”
I look down.
“Okay, I’m not going to be a nerf-herder and say I’ve told you three thousand seven hundred and twenty times to always read paperwork, but maybe if you call Nicolo—”
I shake my head. “He’s the one who did this.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah, and isn’t it convenient that they’ll drop the whole thing if I’m terminated?”
“That Mynok! We can’t let him get away with this.”
“Slow down, Rebel crusader. He’s a prince. We won’t win.”
“But we can’t let the Dark Side win.”
“Rory, I don’t want this in the news. I’ll get another job, but in the meantime, I don’t want to embarrass my parents more than I already have. Okay?”
“Okay. But I want to do something to help. What can I do?”
“I know you probably have plans with Hunter.”
She waves my concern away. “He’ll understand.”
“Okay, then, can I stay with you this weekend?” I say with a weak smile. “My phone won’t stop ringing, and when I stopped home to drop off my stuff from work, there were a couple of reporters hanging around. It was bad before, but now…”
Rory stands. “Of course you can stay with me. I need to shut down my computer and get some files to work on, and we’re out of here.”
“You won’t get in trouble?” I scoot out of her way.
“No. Mr. Yates is at a conference this week. Everyone’s been cutting out early.” She starts stuffing files into her bag. “This is going to be fun—a slumber party! Should we order pizza? You need pizza and ice cream after all this. I couldn’t stand being the center of attention. I’d have a panic attack if a bunch of reporters were waiting outside my door.”
“Yeah. Rory, I kind of need you to do one more thing for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Brave the reporters in front of my house, go in, and feed Booboo Kitty.”
Her face crumples, then she takes a fortifying breath. “Okay, this is like in Return of the Jedi when Han, Luke, and Leia needed to disable the shield generator on the Endor moon so the Rebel fleet could blow up the Death Star. They went in the back way. Of course, there was an ambush, but that’s only because Darth Vader sensed—”
“Rory! What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, Allie. The Force is with me.”
I sigh. Sometimes I’m not altogether sure whether Rory is living on this planet or a galaxy far, far away.