Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian (4 page)

They laughed, and Regina pushed the spaghetti around on her plate. Tired of being on the wrong end of Carly and Derek's pointed humor, she finally spoke up. “What do you suggest I do?”

Carly put her hand on her arm. “Have fun with it. Do you know how to do that, Regina?”

CHAPTER 8

In the morning she found a pile of novels on her desk, all recently published, all well reviewed. Two of them she had already read. On the top of the stack was a blue Post-it note:
I enjoyed our conversation about fiction yesterday, though it ended too abruptly. I'd like to continue it over dinner tonight. I'll pick you up in front of the library at six.

She looked around quickly, as if she had been caught doing something wrong. She shoved the note in her handbag.

“What's going on, Finch? Do they pay you in free books?” asked Alex.

“No,” said Regina, moving the books to the side. “I'm doing some reading for the fiction panel.”

“Oh, one more thing. Some dude dropped this off for you.” Alex handed her a large coffee table book with a barely dressed brunette on the cover. She had short bangs, and her style reminded Regina of the woman in the burlesque show. The title of the book was
Bettie Page: A Photographic History.
The name sounded familiar to her.

She turned to the back. It wasn't a library book.

“Wait—what is this?” Regina asked.

Alex shrugged. “I thought maybe you were taking the initiative to do a little research.”

And then she remembered Alex's telling her she had a “Bettie Page haircut.” She flipped through the pages. All the photographs were black and white. All were of the striking brunette in various stages of undress, some too bizarre and sexual to look at without her blushing. A photo in the middle of the book was marked with a small white envelope. The photo was a black-and-white shot of Bettie Page sitting on the back of a very ordinary-looking couch. Her hair hung past her shoulders in gentle dark waves, and her arms were covered with elbow-length black gloves. She wore a black bustier, thigh-high fishnet stockings with garters, and black heels that had to be four inches high.

Regina opened the envelope to find a small white card, the type that was usually delivered with flowers. In the same tight, neat handwriting as the Post-it note on the novels, it read:
Your homework
.

She shoved the card back in the envelope, looking around to make sure no one was watching her.

And that's when she realized the dinner date with Sebastian Barnes was not an invitation. It was an order.

CHAPTER 9

At six o'clock, Regina walked down the South Stairs to the entrance hall of the library, and then outside into the warm summer evening.

She didn't actually expect Sebastian Barnes to be there. After a full day of work, she had come to realize that the Bettie Page book and the notes were a goof, a joke—punishment for her having busted him on the fourth floor.

Still, her pulse raced a bit as she walked down the wide marble stairs to Fifth Avenue. She self-consciously smoothed her peasant skirt, then fanned herself with the paperback she was carrying.

“Where's the Bettie Page book?”

Startled, Regina whirled around to find Sebastian standing behind her. He was jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a dark suit with a deep purple tie. His eyes, dark against his faintly golden skin, were focused on her with such intensity, it made her lose her breath. And again, she marveled at the perfection of his face, the dramatic angles and fine features that were somehow beautiful but also deeply masculine.

“What?”

“The coffee table book I gave you. I can't imagine it fits into that beat-up little knapsack you carry,” he said, looking at her Old Navy shoulder bag with disdain.

“I have everything I need in this bag, thank you very much.”

“I hope that includes the book.”

She adjusted the bag on her shoulder, and admitted, “No—it doesn't.”

“Go get it,” he said.

“Excuse me?” The nerve of this guy!

“You're looking at me like I'm saying something outrageous. Didn't my note say ‘homework'? That means, ‘Take the book home.' Right?”

“Yeah . . . except I don't know why
you
should be giving me homework.”

He smiled, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “I guess I'd like to be your teacher.” And then his face grew serious, his eyes still unnervingly focused on her. “You'd be amazed at what you might learn.”

She swallowed hard.

“Come on . . . humor me,” he said.

With a sigh, Regina decided to play along. For now.

She headed back up the stairs.

“And make it snappy,” he called after her. She turned around and gave him a dirty look; he laughed—a hearty, loud laugh that made it impossible for her not to smile.

Okay, so he was charming.
But this is insane,
she told herself. Why was she letting this guy boss her around? She didn't know if it was curiosity about what he was up to, or her tendency to want to please people, or, most pathetic of all, her embarrassing attraction to him.

Regardless, she hurried into the library and made her way quickly to her desk. She retrieved the book and clutched it to her chest with one arm, surprised by the weight of it. And then she had a disturbing thought: What if she went back outside and he was gone?

She didn't know why this should make her so nervous. So what if he left? She would write the whole thing off as just a crazy New York moment.

But walking back outside, she spotted him immediately. Waiting for her.

She again took in his impeccable appearance, from his perfectly tailored suit to his scuff-free shoes. In contrast, she felt self-conscious in her loose skirt and the plain short-sleeved blouse she'd had since her freshman year of college.

“I can carry that for you,” he said. She handed him the book.

“After you,” he said, gesturing toward Fifth Avenue. She walked gingerly down the stairs, and he followed slightly behind her.

A gleaming black Mercedes waited for them at the corner of Forty-first Street. Sebastian opened the back door for her.

“Where are we going?” she asked, hesitating.

“Dinner. Didn't you get my note?”

She slowly slid into the backseat, and Sebastian followed her.

A driver wearing a suit was behind the wheel. He pulled away from the curb, clearly already aware of their destination.

“I got the other books,” Regina said. “The novels.”

Sebastian nodded. “Maybe you'll uncover the next Tom Perrotta.”

She glanced at him warily. “Are you mocking me?”

“No,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “Why would I be mocking you? Someone is going to discover the next great writer. Why couldn't it be you?”

“I don't know,” she said, still not convinced he was being serious.

The car headed uptown, slowed by traffic.

“Let me ask you something,” Sebastian said. “Why did you move to New York?”

“To work at the library,” she said with conviction.

“Is that the only reason?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, suddenly second-guessing her response. “I mean, isn't that enough?”

“I don't know,” he said. There was a challenge in his dark eyes. “Is it?”

She felt put on the spot, and reflexively turned it back on him. “Well, what did you move here to do?”

“I didn't move here. I grew up here. But if I hadn't, I
would
have moved here, for sure. And most people I know who didn't grow up here don't so much move here as
run
here—to make their mark.”

“Or maybe they're running away from something,” she said, thinking about her mother. She immediately regretted the comment, but mercifully he didn't press her on it.

“So you never thought about becoming an actress or a model or something?”

She crossed her arms, certain now that he was mocking her. “No,” she said coolly.

“Interesting,” he said. “Most women with your looks would have. I can't believe how unaware of your beauty you are.”

She felt herself blush. It's not that she had never been complimented before; people told her she had pretty eyes, or nice hair. She had been called “cute,” and she had never worried about her complexion or her weight like a lot of her friends. But she was of just average height, her nose was too wide, and her upper lip was too thin ever to command the seductive beauty of a Scarlett Johansson or Kim Kardashian or Angelina Jolie. Certainly, she had never felt as if she was the object of true desire, and maybe this was partly her fault for feeling somehow unworthy of it.

The traffic eased up, and Park Avenue passed by in a blur. When they reached a block in the mid-Fifties, the driver turned back toward Fifth. He pulled up in front of a building she recognized—the fifty-two-story Four Seasons Hotel, designed by I. M. Pei. She knew many of the I. M. Pei buildings. He was one of her father's favorite architects.

A doorman from the hotel opened the car door. Sebastian exited first, then held out his hand to help her. She was hesitant to give him her hand, but even in her instinctive reluctance, she couldn't have anticipated how his touch would send a tremor through her like an electric current.

He led her into the pale limestone lobby, Art Deco–inspired, with ceilings that had to be over thirty feet high.

“I'll wait for you here,” he said, handing her a key card. “This is for Room 2020.”

She looked at the card but didn't take it. “I don't understand.”

“You didn't think you could go to dinner wearing that, did you?” he asked. She felt blood rush to her face, and she didn't know if she was more embarrassed or offended.

“If I can't wear this to the restaurant, then maybe we should go someplace else.”

He looked at her, his eyes serious and posing what she was beginning to recognize as their usual challenge. “Really? I thought someone with your intellectual curiosity might like to see another side to life.”

She thought of the feeling that had plagued her for as long as she could remember: fear. Fear of what would happen if she didn't do the right thing, if she didn't play it safe, if she didn't excel. And then, conversely, the fear of things passing her by—of always being on the outside looking in.

She took the key card.

CHAPTER 10

The twentieth floor was silent. She crept down the carpeted hallway, certain that someone would stop her to ask what she was doing there. No one did.

She found Room 2020 and stuck her card in the slot, half expecting it not to open. But she pressed the brass door handle, and it moved easily under her palm.

Inside, Regina found herself surrounded by tones of beige and rose, blond wood and pale marble. The decor was conservative but modern. She had expected it to be more opulent, given the lobby, but she was surprisingly comfortable with the quiet tastefulness of the decor. The south-facing windows offered a stunning view of the city, from the highest point she'd ever been.

“Regina?”

A woman appeared out of nowhere, causing Regina nearly to jump out of her skin.

“You scared me!” she gasped when she could breathe again.

“I'm sorry—didn't mean to startle you,” said the woman in her clipped British accent. She wore white jeans and a turquoise tunic. Her copper-colored hair was pulled back in a loose knot, and she was accessorized with chic platinum jewelry. “I'm Jess. Sebastian asked for me to be here in case you needed any help.”

“Do you . . . work for him?”

“I've worked
with
him,” Jess said. “I'm a stylist and makeup artist. But I'm just here as a favor. He thought you might need me.”

Regina nodded, as if this all made perfect sense.

“Your evening clothes are in the bedroom,” said Jess, pointing to her right. “Just call if you need anything. And wear
everything
Sebastian left in there for you. He was really adamant about that. Sebastian is very detail-oriented, as you probably know.”

No, she didn't know. But she was beginning to get an idea.

Regina followed Jess's directions to the bedroom. Two shopping bags and a garment bag were on the king-size bed. The garment bag had the words
MIU MIU
on it. One of the shopping bags was pink with a black bow and read
AGENT PROVOCATEUR
. The other was orange, from Prada. She knew the name Prada, but not the other two.

Going for the familiar, she reached for the Prada bag first. Inside, she found three shoe boxes. She opened the first to find black, closed-toe high heels that were almost conservative enough to be something she would have picked out for herself. But the heel itself was four inches high, and metal. It looked more like a spoke or a nail than the heel of a shoe.

“This isn't a shoe, it's a torture device,” she said, pushing it aside. She opened the second box and found the same shoe in a half size larger. The third box held the same.

The first shoes she had pulled out were her exact size. This irritated her more than it surprised her.

Regina turned to the garment bag, holding it by the velvet-covered hanger with one hand while unzipping it with the other, wondering what Jess was doing in the other room and whether or not she was annoyed that Sebastian had asked her to babysit. Ugh, it was so embarrassing.

She pulled the garment bag off the hanger to reveal a simple black dress. It was sleeveless but had a high neckline and fell just above her knee. It looked like something Audrey Hepburn would wear. Anything that reminded her of Hepburn—Audrey or Katharine—was fine by her. This was a positive development after the shoes that could double as weaponry.

Next, the pink bag. She had to dig through bunches of pink tissue paper to find flat bundles wrapped in black paper. Carefully, she unwrapped the top bundle to find a delicate black-lace bra. It was beautiful, but a far cry from the plain cotton Gap bras she had been wearing her entire life. With its intricate lacing and system of tiny, elaborate hooks, the garment seemed entirely impractical to her. She set it aside and unwrapped the next item. She pulled more black lace loose from the tissue paper, but this garment was unidentifiable to her. It was shaped like an upside-down bra and had four straps with hooks dangling from it. The thing was so off-putting, she shoved it back in the bag.

Next, she found black thigh-high stockings so sheer and silky, they were like gossamer wings.

There was a knock at the bedroom door.

“Is everything okay in there?” asked Jess. Regina remembered that Sebastian was waiting for her in the lobby. She had better get moving.

“Fine, thanks,” Regina called.

“Remember to wear
everything
.”

Regina looked at the array of items on the bed. The spidery lace thing filled her with anxiety. She thought,
I can just leave
.

She could just walk right out the door—tell the English redhead that, sorry, her help wouldn't be needed. She could drop the key card at the front desk. And she could tell Sebastian thanks but no thanks: she wasn't interested in playing Eliza Doolittle to his Henry Higgins. And then she could go home, to her little bedroom and . . . what? Wonder what they might have talked about over dinner? Imagine what it might have felt like to dress as someone out of the pages of
Vogue
? And then, six months or a year or two years from now, she could sit alone in that same room and remember the time when the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen had told her she was beautiful.

Why did you move to New York?

Regina pulled the black-lace mystery garment out of the bag and walked to the bedroom door, peeking out gingerly. “Jess, I hate to bother you. . . .”

“It's what I'm here for,” Jess said, with good humor.

“I don't know what this is.” Regina dangled the black lace as if it were a potentially rabid animal.

“That's a garter. They can be tricky. Let me help you. No offense, but you're sort of taking forever.”

Jess probably had more important things to do than to dress a grown woman as if she was a helpless preschooler. No wonder she wanted to move things along.

“Okay, thanks,” Regina said, stepping aside so Jess could join her in the bedroom.

Jess put her hands on her hips and surveyed the things on the bed.

“Gorgeous dress. And perfect for you. He has such a good eye.”

“But the shoes,” Regina said, eyeing the Prada like they were the enemy. “I won't be able to walk in those things. I'll just wear my own.”

Jess glanced at Regina's footwear and shook her head slowly. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

Regina nodded. “Okay, then I guess I'll just walk extremely slowly.”

Jess was visibly relieved. “Good idea. Now put on the bra and panties and then I'll help you with the garter and stockings.”

Regina waited for Jess to leave the room, but she showed no signs of giving her any privacy.

“I'm not really used to changing in front of other people,” Regina said bashfully.

“Regina,” said Jess, “I'm a stylist. I've seen some of the most famous women in the world undress. And Sebastian is waiting for you in the lobby. I'd keep things moving if I were you.”

Regina felt silly. The woman was just trying to help, and there she was making a fuss about her being in the room.

Trying not to feel self-conscious, she shrugged off her jacket. Jess took it from her and folded it. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and unzipped her skirt, handing both to Jess. She was suddenly aware of the chill in the air, her skin breaking into goose bumps. She felt her nipples harden in her bra. She didn't want to take it off, but the black lace was waiting for her.

Regina reached her arms behind her back to unhook her bra, but her fingers fumbled with the clasp she had done and undone a thousand times.

“Let me help you,” Jess said, and before Regina could protest, the woman's strange fingertips brushed between her shoulder blades and undid the bra.

Regina allowed the plain cotton bra to fall to the floor and covered her breasts by crossing her arms in front of her chest. Jess straightened the black-lace bra and slipped the straps over Regina's shoulders, then fastened it behind her back.

“I don't understand how he got the right size,” Regina said, feeling immediately that it was the best-fitting bra she'd ever worn.

“He has a good eye,” Jess repeated, her own green eyes twinkling. And something about the tone of her voice made Regina wonder if the charismatic woman knew Sebastian in ways other than professionally. “Now these,” Jess said, handing her the panties.

Regina took hers off and pulled them on as quickly as possible, looking up only once to make sure Jess wasn't watching her.

She was.

“The garter,” Jess said, holding out the baffling item.

Regina took it and dangled it from two fingers.

“I have no idea. . . .”

Jess took the garter and stood in front of her. She fastened it around Regina's waist, then pulled it down so that it rested on her hips. The straps dangled around her thighs like tentacles.

“Put on the stockings, and I'll fasten them for you.”

Regina sat on the bed, too focused on the task at hand to be self-conscious any longer, and gently pulled on the stockings, easing them up slowly to her thighs. When both were on, she stood, and Jess got down on her knees and fastened the four straps to the stockings, one in front and one in back on each thigh.

“Unbelievable,” Jess said, almost under her breath. Then, “Why don't you look in the mirror?”

“No, that's okay,” Regina demurred—though she was secretly curious.

Jess held out the black dress for Regina to step into.

“Turn around.” Jess zipped it.

“Finally—done,” Regina said.

“Almost.” Jess put the heels side by side in front of her, and Regina gingerly stepped into them. She felt like a bizarro-world Cinderella.

She looked in the mirror and didn't recognize anything she saw from the neck down.

“May I recommend one more thing?” Jess asked.

“Um, sure,” said Regina. Jess handed her a lipstick. The casing was black and had an almost rubbery finish; it was decorated with white letters that read NARS. Regina pulled off the top to reveal a fresh tube of deep, matte crimson.

“Did he leave this for me, too?” Regina asked. Jess did not answer her, but waited for her to apply it. It had been a long time since Regina had worn lipstick—since her senior prom. She'd gone with Robert Wellers, her coeditor on the newspaper's op-ed page. Later, at the after-party at Samantha Sinclair's shore house, she'd waited for Robert to kiss her on the dark, moonlit beach. Instead, he'd told her that he was gay.

Regina's hand shook, and it took her a minute to steady herself enough to apply the rich color to her lips. Once she did, she was amazed at how the red on her lips made her blue eyes stand out.

Smiling, she stepped back from the mirror and handed the lipstick to Jess.

“Keep it,” said Jess. “You look hot. Now go. Sebastian is not a patient man.”

•

Regina walked through the Four Seasons' lobby, teetering on the heels. For the first time in her life, she was aware of people staring at her when she walked past them. At first, she thought it was because she was walking like a gazelle taking her first steps out of the womb. But then she caught the expression on a businessman's face, and she saw something she'd never seen reflected at her before: desire.

Disoriented by the attention of strangers, the unfamiliar lobby, and the completely alien clothing, Regina almost bumped right into Sebastian.

“Oh, I almost didn't see you,” she said, stopping short.

His eyes swept over her from head to toe. She realized that he knew what she was wearing underneath the dress, and she felt a wave of embarrassment. She waited for him to comment on her outfit, but he said nothing, just appraised her with an intense and unwavering gaze.

He reached for the Old Navy bag she was still carrying and slid it off her shoulder.

“This is hideous, you know.”

“Well, that's a matter of opinion. And it does its job.”

Now that she was bag-free, he looked at her again and, appearing satisfied, offered her his arm. She looked up at him, and then linked her arm through his, as if she were being escorted into a debutante cotillion. She expected to head into the hotel restaurant, but instead he led her back outside.

“We aren't eating here?”

“No,” he said. “My favorite restaurant here closed earlier this year—L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon,” he said, smiling at her. “But no worries—this city has no shortage of great restaurants.”

He held the door open for her and she climbed back into the Mercedes, gingerly this time, to accommodate her heels and the dress.

The Mercedes whisked them up Park Avenue. Just as she was settling in, the car stopped at Sixty-fifth Street.

The driver walked around to open the door for her, and she stepped out in front of a beautiful neoclassic building. Above the front door in wide lettering read
DANIEL
.

Inside, Regina found herself surrounded by eighteen-foot coffered ceilings, balustrades, arches, and carved pilasters. The classic architecture was balanced by modern furnishings and treatments in rich, neutral colors—walnuts and creams offset by the red dining room chairs. The space was bathed in warm light emanating from chandeliers and wall sconces, and she knew her mother would be impressed by the paintings. Every inch screamed elegance, and Regina was thankful that she had humored Sebastian's request that she change her clothes.

The maître d' greeted Sebastian effusively.

“The Bellecour Room, Mr. Barnes,” said the maître d'. Sebastian gestured for her to follow, and she trailed the maître d' through the dining room. Again, she felt eyes on her, and it was all she could do to focus on not tripping in her shoes. She felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman,
all glammed up in the red dress, on Richard Gere's arm.

She felt a sort of nervous energy in her gut, a giddy happiness.

The maître d' opened the door to a private room that could have seated a hundred people but was set with only one table. He held Regina's chair out for her, and she sat stiffly while Sebastian took his place across from her.