21

GETTING OVER IT, PARK AVENUE STYLE

The telephone rang and rang, but Lorraine ignored it. She had to focus. She had to formulate a plan. There was no way in the world she was going to let it all go.

She took a seat at the window nook in her living room and dug into the takeout Chinese with a pair of chopsticks. The spicy chicken was just what she’d been craving—something different, something that could shock her system. She thought a shock might be just the thing to point her in a different direction—the direction that would save her.

After one particularly spicy bite, Lorraine screamed, “Whew!” She tossed her head back as she tried to wave some air onto her burning tongue. That’s just when she caught sight of the billboard of her hands. She hadn’t looked at it in quite some time. It seemed to tell her that the only way this problem would be solved was if she solved it. In fact, it just seemed to be egging her on to get started, reminding her that she held the power, had always held the power, to do anything she wanted.

The next morning was not the sunny start she had hoped to mark her fresh beginning. In fact, the Weather Channel forecasted the rainstorm would continue all through the day, possibly into the next. And it wasn’t the sprinkly stuff, either. The rain poured down so hard, she thought it might bust through her umbrella on the way to work. It did, in fact, blow the thing inside out—more than once.

Pooh-Pooh barked at the twisted mess of nylon and metal when Lorraine stuffed it down into the trash. After that, he decided to cut his run short, pulling them toward home way before normal. He was whining like the raindrops were daggers in his fur. She couldn’t blame him—it was the kind of day you wanted to spend indoors.

But, apparently, she found upon entering her salon, not indoors at Princess of Park Avenue Salon.

“Good news. We had a blow-dry this morning.” Theresa tried to sound cheery, but lost her energy halfway through punching the air, and dropped her hand to the desktop with a smack!

Well, that was something, wasn’t it? Lorraine tried to convince herself one blow-dry might save her multimillion-dollar salon. “Who was it?”

“Oh, some Australian tourist. She’d read about the salon months ago in a travel magazine and wanted to check it out.”

Lorraine didn’t want to think about the fact that her salon wasn’t even an idea months ago, that this client had obviously come in by mistake.

“Oh, and the accountant wants to talk to you.”

“You mean Chrissy?”

“Well, I just wanted to sound a little more sophisticated. You know? This place is so classy, Lorraine. I know it will all work out. It has to. It’s so beautiful. And just look how beautiful you’ve made all of us.”

The thing was, it had been so easy to make them look beautiful. The beauty was already there, inside them—all she’d done was bring it out. It was so obvious to her, so easy to see that in people. It pained her to think she might never have the chance to share that gift. If this all failed, there was no going back to Carlo. She knew now that she couldn’t go back to exactly how things had been. When you’d changed this much you couldn’t change back. She shook the feelings from her head. She’d have plenty of time to feel like crap later—a long empty schedule of time.

As she climbed the sweeping staircase to the second floor, where Chrissy’s office was located, Lorraine felt that her salon was a little piece of Brooklyn, right here in the middle of Manhattan. Everyone inside was like family to her. Everything was the way they liked it. They served her father’s coffee. They offered pastries from the Bay Bakery on Seventy-sixth and Fifth Avenue, where she’d eaten her whole life. But here, now, there was something so regal and beautiful about the way it had all been revived and reinterpreted. They’d all said that to her, but now she really saw it, understood the truth of it.

“Knock, knock,” she said as she rapped at the door.

“C’mon in!” Chrissy yelled back.

When Lorraine found her, she was sitting at the computer, the huge flat screen monitor reflecting light onto her face.

Boy, that must have cost a lot, Lorraine thought.

Chrissy’s fingers were tapping away like mad at the keyboard. Then she stopped, swiveled the screen to face Lorraine. “Listen, Lorraine, I’m not going to sugarcoat this. Even with all the money that Guido put up to get this place going, you still used a great deal of your own savings—as you know.”

This was not sounding good. Not good at all, Lorraine realized, feeling a heavy thump at the middle of her rib cage. She was staring so hard at the screen that the numbers displayed across it went out of focus, becoming merely a fuzzy series of harmless stripes. How could those hurt me? She sat up straight as she could, as if that might brace her for what was to come.

“The business model we created counted on a heavy stream of clients, paying an average of $400 per appointment. And without those—even these two days—we are already in the hole and digging ourselves deeper every second we sit here.”

The words hung between them like a dead body they’d stumbled upon. Neither knew what to say. The music pumping through the salon was an old dance song—one of the girls’ favorites. “Like the crack of the whip I snap attack, front to back in this thing called rap...” Lorraine gave herself over to it. She started bobbing her head to the rhythm, singing.

Eventually Chrissy joined in. “Maniac brainiac winning the game. I’m the lyrical Jesse James, Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh yeah-eah-eah-eah-eah-eah, I’ve got the power.”

Suddenly the Bobbsey Twins were smiling again. Here they were, still the best of friends, going through life together. Lorraine knew all this bad news would feel so much worse if it hadn’t come from Chrissy, and she was grateful for that. Lorraine wasn’t going to let her friend suffer without a paycheck, wasn’t going to upset the job security she’d always held dear. She would come through for her. And she promised Chrissy as much.

“I know you will Lorraine. Believe me, I do.”

But it was going to be hard work. Mallory had obviously paid off others to say they’d been victim to Lorraine’s awful coloring jobs. There were three more testimonies in that morning’s paper. She could only imagine the back-room bargains Mallory proposed: “I’ll get you into the premier of the new Ben Stiller movie.” “Oh, you want that Louis V everyone’s going to wait ten years for?” “How would you like to eat at that new Bouloud spot...now? For free?” Whatever she’d promised had worked. The results were staring right back at her in black ink: The Green-Haired Monster Strikes Again.

Standing a few inches from Theresa behind the reception desk, she tried to think of another publicist who might help her. Lorraine was no fool—she knew, just like no woman should attempt highlights herself, no woman should attempt to battle a publicity coup without the help of a publicist. And this retaliatory campaign had to be bigger than just protecting Lorraine’s image. It had to be so big that nobody would even remember Mallory’s lies. But who would help them if their very own publicist wouldn’t?”

Suddenly an idea popped into her head. “Theresa, I’ll be in my office,” she called over her shoulder as she jumped up the stairs. She was bubbling with the energy of promise. Yes...yes...it just might work. With every fiber of her being, she knew that all of her power, all of her strength, had come from her roots—generations of hard work, strong bonds, values. Just look at this place! It was breathtaking, and so...her! The Oriental rug with the funky bamboo wall, the cool linen curtains by the antique treasure chest, and tons of great peonies! She’d made her own place in the city that the whole world was watching. Now she was going to make sure that serpent of a Princess didn’t steal it away from her for kicks. Nobody was going to use her as a punch line anymore. There wasn’t a person in the world Lorraine would lose herself for.

Lorraine waited for her computer to buzz and blink its way to life. Then she opened her Web browser and typed in the words Publicist +Brooklyn.

Power Publicist Carolyn Jennings wanted to meet Lorraine at Bemelmen’s Bar at the Carlyle Hotel. As she sat and waited, a tiny cocktail glass—the kind common in the 1950s—in her hand, she started to picture just what Carolyn Jennings might look like if she had a place like this on the tip of her tongue. There was a whole list of classic cocktails on the menu, and she’d chosen a sloe gin fizz. It had sounded wonderful.

Lorraine was spinning the base of the glass around, taking in the gold-leafed ceiling and the beautiful, enchanting mural lining the walls, which featured dapper animal characters gathered around fluffy trees and park benches. The landscape had been imagined by the artist Ludwig Bemelmen, who, Lorraine had read online, called the Carlyle his home, as had Jackie Kennedy Onassis. The sips of sloe gin fizz were warming Lorraine’s body, slowing the pace of her heart. She was beginning to think that this place was magical. It sure felt that way in all its delicate detail. The leather under glass tables, with golden rims; the dark, soft lights; the piano tinkling songs that at the moment felt as if they were sending Lorraine into some easier time. She could see why someone would want to come here and never leave. It was that kind of place.

In that sense it reminded her—in spirit, you see—of another place she knew well—her own home, the Bay. The warm, familiar side of Manhattan that Bemelmen’s evoked was her favorite thing about her new home. Once again she saw the parallels between both of her homes. She saw hope and promise in the idea of having such distinct parts of her come together in this magical way. It was truly inspiring.

And that’s when Lorraine saw Carolyn Jennings push through the door, an Hermes scarf pinned at her shoulder, gold knots at her ears. She was dressed in a slim black summer pantsuit that had an easy—not constricted—look on her, and crocodile sandals. She looked right at Lorraine, picked her out as if she were intimately acquainted with her already. Carolyn Jennings thrust her hand out, one chunky cocktail ring sitting next to one tasteful golden wedding band.

“Carolyn Jennings,” she said, a dazzling smile forming at the corners of her mouth. “Don’t be surprised, I recognized you because that’s my job. I’m an expert, darling I knew you’d come to me, too. I’ve been waiting.”

The waiter came by. “Ah, Mr. Jennings,” he said, smiling a knowing smile, like maybe after hours they threw back kamikazes behind the bar.

Lorraine liked this woman. Right away she trusted her. After all, she was from Brooklyn. Plus, she’d done her homework.

“I’ll have a Chardonnay, Henry. This is Lorraine Machuchi, I’m sure you know. She is going to be the most famous hair colorist in all the world. Remember her.” Carolyn waved her Fontainebleau pen around like a magic wand as she spoke.

When Carolyn Jennings blinked, the heavy fringes of her lashes met and parted in a graceful dance—just the way, Lorraine thought, you would picture them doing on someone truly glamorous. Carolyn may have just been the very first person to actually live up to those kinds of expectations.

When Henry walked off to fetch the drink, a tray tucked weightlessly beneath his arm, Carolyn pulled a thick folder from her lemon leather tote. “First off, Lorraine, I want to tell you that I believe in you and everything you stand for. I’ve been watching you, and I believe that you are the poster child for a long-awaited revolution in this city. You are everything that Old Brooklyn stands for, and you’re just the girl to bring it back. Just look at you sitting in here! It’s wild! Something, something big is about to happen. I can just feel it.”

Lorraine wasn’t sure what she meant just yet, but she was immediately drawn in. She wanted to hear everything. She wasn’t sure if she felt that way just because she wanted to believe everything Carolyn was saying, or because despite everything, she maintained a similar hope. Whatever the reason, she was hooked. Carolyn’s teeth caught the light and glimmered; her skin seemed to glow. She must be right...something was about to happen.

“Here’s the one thing. I invented Mallory and her little Princesses. I know it seems out of control right now, and believe me it is—a Frankensteinian sort of mess I’ve created. No one will launch a product without her approval. The other girls you could really just toss, but you’d still have yourself a Beyoncé, if you know what I mean. Besides, Mallory loves to boss them. She’d never give that up. In the meanwhile, you might as well forget about succeeding if you’re not going to invite them. It’s all gotten out of hand. And I know just why. Mallory watches all these little projects around her take off and become grand, and there she has all that power, but what has she done with it? Sell a couple million cocktail napkins? The girl is miserable. I know, it’s ridiculous—everyone wants to be her, and the last thing she wants is to be herself. Seeing you rise up like such a star, claim something for yourself, carve out your own niche—even in the blinding light of her own star—that was too much for Miss Mallory Meen. And so, she set out to destroy you. The rest of the story, I’m sorry to say, you are already familiar with.”

Carolyn’s words shouldn’t have gotten such a reaction from Lorraine. After all, she’d already known most of that. She’d guessed Mallory’s feelings from the beginning. But hearing it so cut and dried, was a lot to take. She’d never treated anyone with such a diminished attitude; Lorraine could never, would never think that someone just didn’t matter. It was nearly unbelievable to her that someone could.

“It all sounds so awful. But it can't be as hopeless as my salon appears right now, Carolyn! It just can’t! We have potential—I know we do. We just can't go the way of the Betamax. There is too much—too many people—riding on this!”

“Lorraine, Lorraine! I swear on the Helmut Lang rack at the Bay Ridge Century 21 that we will fix your problem.”

With a statement like that, Lorraine knew Carolyn was serious.

“Here’s what we need to do. Let’s call the first phase of this project ‘discovery.’”

“Discovery?” Lorraine asked.

“Discovery,” repeated Carolyn, uncapping her pen. “You see, often, the answer to your problem is right in your hands. You just have to take stock of all the resources you have. You know—Six Degrees of Separation.”

Lorraine nodded. It was all so logical. Maybe Lorraine did have the means to fix this mess! At least having a plan made it seem like she was working toward something, moving in the right direction.

Carolyn wrote a list of the types of people Lorraine could consider as resources. Each determined stroke of the pen seemed to bring Lorraine closer to salvation. “These are your contacts,” she said. The list read, Family, Friends, Clients, Celebrities.

“Start with that. I’ll go through my contacts, too; let’s meet up again when you’ve got it all filled out—with telephone numbers and email addresses. It’s a bit of legwork, but really, Lorraine, you’ll see, once you organize it like this, there’s always hope. Always hope. Relationships, people—how you treat them, the impression you make on them—that’s always what matters in the end.”

Lorraine could only hope that Carolyn was right as she watched her, with only the slightest raise of one eyebrow, summon Harold over with their check.

Lorraine reached into her burse, but Carolyn stopped her.

“Please, Lorraine. Allow me. You’re going to be so big, you’ll pay me a great monthly commission. A fabulous monthly commission. I’m not worried.”

They both smiled. Carolyn was still a businesswoman in the cutthroat media industry. But she handled it well, Lorraine could give her that. She just prayed—again—that Carolyn was right.

She’d have to get to work on her Six Degrees of Separation...and quick. But first, there was the little matter of her green-eyed building-mate. The guy whose hair was getting longer and shaggier (and sexier) by the day since he’d started his furniture company full-time. There was something self-fulfillment could do to a look...and collagen’s got nothing on it.

She wanted to be mad. She wanted never to forgive. But somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she wasn’t being fair. After all, she hadn’t even given him a chance to explain. She was mulling over in her head the idea of calling him as she returned home from her meeting with Carolyn, when she saw Matt sitting outside her apartment door with Lena Horne—Pooh-Pooh barking from the other side. Each of them was wearing a sandwich board made from cardboard boxes and garbage ties, printed with the words “I solemnly swear...”

“What? What do you solemnly swear to?” she asked. Lorraine stuck her hands at her hips, but she was softening already. She wasn’t sure if it was a result of Lena Horne’s whining or because things were looking a bit more promising thanks to Carolyn, but suddenly she realized she’d made a mistake in distrusting Matt. The guy was good people—even her father had said so.

“Turn the sign over. I couldn’t fit it all on one side.”

“Hmmph!” She tried to maintain her attitude, her edge, but her smile was giving her away. Lorraine bit her lip and crouched down in front of Matt. Lena Horne licked her elbow like it was a lollipop. Lorraine reached for the cardboard sign and turned it over. “There’s nothing there!” she said. Her nose was two centimeters from Matt’s.

“Yeah, but I got you down here,” he said. “Right?”

“Sure, yeah...you got me here. So what are you gonna do about—” She didn’t get to finish. But that was okay, because Matt was kissing her. And she was enjoying it. Enjoying it so much she nearly forgot she was angry. Lip to lip, she remembered long enough to ask, “What were you doing with Mallory?”

“Lorraine, it kills me that you even thought for a second that I could be interested in her when I’m so in love with you...that I could ever hurt you. You wouldn’t answer my calls, you acted like you weren’t home—I could smell the Chinese food, by the way. You and me, we’re not like that. Okay? I know you’ve been hurt. Bad. But I’ll never do that to you. Never.”

“You’re right. You’re right. It was just...I was just so angry and upset at that rumor Mallory spread about her green hair! I’m so dumb, I can't believe I didn’t realize something was up when she was wearing that scarf on her head!”

Lorraine was curled up in Matt’s lap, his hands stroking her bangs back from her forehead. She nearly forgot they were in the hallway until Pooh-Pooh took up the whining again, and she saw his tongue sweep out from under the door.

Before Matt let her go, he said, “What do you think I was talking to her about?!”

Lorraine felt like a moron. It was clear now that he’d been trying to help her, and she’d acted like a friggin’ idiot! Trust was something she was going to have to work on. She didn’t know quite how to apologize to him.

They both rose, and Lorraine fumbled, “I...well, you know...”

“Shhhh, Lorraine. You don’t have to say anything. I know it will take you some time to trust again. And that’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, that’s what the other side of Lena’s sign is about.”

The couple were inside Lorraine’s apartment now, and she thought it would be impossible to see the other side of Lena Horne’s sign, what with Pooh-Pooh all over her like nobody’s business (seriously, nobody wanted this business). However, in his excitement, Pooh-Pooh pulled the sign from its garbage ties and it flipped across the room. The cardboard smacked into the base of something that hadn’t been in the room when she’d left it earlier. It was a beautiful coffee table, carved from mahogany, intricate rosettes at all the legs and across the surface. It was solid, stable—beautiful.

“That’s a love table, Lorraine. And it’s inspired by you.”

She looked to Matt and smiled. As symbols go the table was quite powerful. Staring into its delicate twists and turns, running her hand over the ins and outs of the carvings, Lorraine nearly forgot about the sign. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Are you gonna turn that sign over or what?” Matt nodded to it as he sat down on the couch right behind her. But when she bent down to flip it, he grabbed the board from her hand, set her on his lap, and kissed her deeply. Matt tossed the sign way back into the kitchen.

“What the—?” Lorraine screwed her face up.

“Marry me, Lorraine. I love you and I want to have lots of babies with you. I want to finally take you on that Miami trip. And then I want us to live on the same block with Chrissy and Don...just like you always dreamed.”

She looked at him, seeing all the parts of her life come together. “But that was a Brooklyn dream.”

“And so is this,” he said, “and so is this.”

____________________________________

DOOR PERSON: “Sorry, you’re not on the list.”

TOMMY: “But we are the most famous couple in Manhattan!”

DOOR PERSON: “But this is Brooklyn.”

MALLORY: “But I’m a Princess!”

DOOR PERSON: “There’s only one princess who matters here.”

TOMMY: “I know! And I love her, so PLEASE let me in!”

MALLORY: “What did you say?”

TOMMY: “You will never be anything compared to her! I already told you that!”

MALLORY: “But you didn’t MEAN it!”

TOMMY: “I DID!”

MALLORY: “You didn’t!”

TOMMY: “I did!”

DOOR PERSON: “Step aside, please. Next!”

MALLORY: “But I didn’t get my free B Girl shirt!”

____________________________________

eBay auction block #22

Description: Transcript of paparazzi audiotape recorded outside grand opening party of Princess of Park Avenue, A Guido Salon, Brooklyn location.

Opening bid: $550

Winning bid: $25,000 by malloryprincess@princess.com

Comments: This NEVER happened. And if it did, Tommy really DIDN’T mean it, and he DID love me. And he always will. Everybody loves me. And I still want my B Girl shirt because everyone knows Brooklyn is hot.