Authors: Kate White
Carter sometimes shared a few details about his personal life, but it was always just surface stuff, chatter meant to charm you into thinking you knew him when that wasn’t the case at all.
“Oh please, Carter,” Ann said. “You’ve never been dumped in your life. I’m sure Jamie simply saw the handwriting on the wall.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops, I have to fly. Good luck, Robin.”
As soon as she edged away through the crowd, reporters and columnists began to push toward me, asking for comments. And then came people with copies of my book for me to sign. The guy in black from the door materialized with a holder stuffed with black Sharpies. I set down my evening bag and went to work. A couple of times, I scanned the crowd for Maddy—this was one of those moments when I could have used her help—but again, no sign of her.
As the last of the autograph seekers moved away, I was suddenly alone. I could tell my face was a little flushed, and my fuck-you shoes had started to pinch. It would be smart, I realized, to freshen up before the toast. I grabbed my purse from the table I’d set it on and made my way down a long back hallway to where I knew a second powder room was located. It turned out to be empty. I slipped inside and closed the door. The party was instantly muffled, like the sounds from a ship that had just sunk beneath the sea.
The room was dim, lit only by pin lights in the ceiling and a row of votive candles on a long glass shelf. I exhaled slowly and took another breath. There was something about the mango scent from the candles that instantly relaxed me.
The party had gone brilliantly so far. At least a dozen bloggers and columnists had asked me for brief quotes about my book. They’d come tonight mainly for a chance to check out Bettina’s legendary apartment, but as long as they plugged the book, I couldn’t care less why they’d showed.
I turned toward the mirror and stared for a moment at my reflection. Though I’d be thirty-eight in early October, I knew I’d probably never looked better. Some of that was due to the haircut. For the launch of the show, the hairstylist I’d hired had suggested what she called a “choppy shag” that came to my chin and flattered my face in a way long hair never had. And though I’d had it styled tonight for the party—and my makeup done—it was easy enough to pull off myself.
At the moment, though, my hair was the only thing getting shagged. To some degree, that was
my
choice. I’d had one brief romance this past winter, when I no longer felt so bruised from my divorce, but once I’d been hired for the show, I’d put every ounce of energy
there.
And that was the way it had to be. This was my chance to retrieve what I’d lost.
Except my marriage, of course. I might have felt gutted when everything unraveled, but there was no way I would ever want it back.
I popped open the latch on my evening bag, reached inside for my lipstick, and reapplied the deep red color. As I dropped the tube back in the bag, I made sure the folded notecard was tucked inside. It had the list of people I intended to thank during my remarks.
As soon as I re-entered the living room, the guy in black from the front door was back by my side, his expression expectant. “Ms. Lane is ready to give the toast now,” he said.
“Great,” I said. I snaked behind him toward the far end of the room, where Bettina was standing with her back to the view. She nodded to me as I reached the fringe of the crowd. Before stepping forward to join her, I pulled the notecard from my purse and set my bag down on a table. Bettina tapped her wineglass several times with her thick gold bracelet. The room went nearly silent, and people turned all their attention toward us.
Her toast was pure Bettina, all gushy and dramatic. She ran through my bio, how I’d segued from being a print journalist and frequent TV guest to a job as a celebrity reporter on the top morning show and eventually to host of my own cable show. Then, she exclaimed, she’d been lucky enough to nab me as a blogger and consultant before I was lured back to TV. She said she was thrilled for my success on cable’s
hottest
program, and declared that my book blew the lid off what women really feel.
I tried not to cringe at the hyperbole and instead did what Ann had advised: I briefly let my ego run wild and lapped it up.
Then it was my turn. I didn’t feel nervous, exactly—it had been years since speaking publicly had scared my pants off—but I felt a quick rush of adrenaline. I was in front of tons of heavy hitters, people who could slice and dice a person behind her back, and I couldn’t help but feel exposed up there. Yet as I glanced around, I saw a sea of receptive faces.
I grinned and thanked everyone for coming. I quickly described the genesis of the book, how there are some parts of themselves that women felt too uncomfortable to share, even to their partners and closest friends. While I spoke, I unfolded the notecard in my hands. “I don’t want to take you away for long from either the incredible view or that fabulous tuna tartare, but there are a few people I
must
thank individually.”
I glanced down at the notecard and almost jerked back in surprise. It wasn’t the right card. Or rather, it
was
—I could see the names I’d jotted down—but someone had scrawled words over them in thick, black Sharpie strokes: “You evil little bitch. You’ll get yours.”
My heart lurched, and for a moment I felt suspended in time. I needed to read the names—I needed to read them
right then
—but I couldn’t make them out beneath the menacing script.
I slowly folded the card, raised my head, and forced a big smile. I would have to wing it, partly from memory, partly from picking out faces in the room. I started by thanking the publishing team and worked my way from there. I faltered once, flustered, and pushed through. As my gaze swept across the room, I realized that the person who’d snuck into my handbag and left the message was standing somewhere in front of me.
When I was done, people applauded exuberantly, but it was hard to enjoy it.
“That was a wonderful toast,” I said to Bettina as the clapping died down and the crowd began breaking up into groups again. She squeezed my arm appreciatively and then was hijacked by a guest. Instinctively, I searched for Ann, then remembered she’d left forty-five minutes ago. I stepped closer to the window, turned my back to the room, and reopened the notecard.
Seeing the message again made me catch my breath. The heavy, ragged strokes nearly pulsed with rage. I tore the card into pieces and stuffed them into an empty cocktail glass on a table nearby.
Who could have done such a loathsome thing? In my job, I expected occasional barbs and left-hand compliments, but not
this
. Did someone have a grudge against me? Whoever it was must have acted when I’d been signing books. My purse had sat on the table unattended for at least twenty minutes. The person clearly had used one of the Sharpie pens from the holder.
I closed my eyes and tried to picture who’d been hovering around me at that point. It was all a bit of a blur. There was one person, though, whom I couldn’t forget, someone who’d been in the immediate vicinity: the TV critic Mina Garvin. Was she pissed because the show’s success had made her eat crow?
I needed to rejoin the mix before people began to wonder why I had my face glued to the window. I took a breath and spun around. And then there was Maddy, right in front of me, dressed in a low-cut black cocktail dress.
“Where have you
been
?” I snapped. I was totally rattled, I realized.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Robin,” Maddy said. She tossed her thick buttery-blond hair out of her eyes. “I was feeling kind of queasy, and I almost didn’t make it. I got here when you were signing books, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Are you okay now?” I asked, sorry for my tone a moment ago.
“Yes, better. I think it’s just my period coming on.”
“Have you had a chance to network a little? There are some amazing people here.”
As I swung my head in emphasis toward the center of the room, I caught two men ogling Maddy’s breasts.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I talked to a few producers from other shows. I figure the more contacts I make, the better it is for next year.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m just so glad it doesn’t have to end,” she said. Maddy was a rising senior at New York University, and I’d managed to extend her internship from the summer into the fall.
“So are you still up for a bite to eat tonight?” I asked. In light of what had just happened, it would be especially good to have company tonight.
But Maddy scrunched her face. “I hate to let you down, especially on a night like tonight,” she said, “but I don’t think I should push it.”
“Understood,” I said. Maybe it was for the best. I had a crazy week ahead, jammed with press for the book, and I needed to be fresh for all of it.
One of the men who’d been eye-stalking Maddy suddenly butted in with a pathetic comment about having met her once before. I backed away and started to weave my way through the crowd.
“Great remarks.”
I turned. It was Carter. “Thanks,” I said. “Why is it that speaking in public is so much trickier than being on TV?”
“I haven’t figured that one out yet. This anchor I worked with when I was reporting in Cleveland—one of those silver-haired, old-timer guys—used to say that having an inch of pancake on his face was like a security blanket, and the minute it was wiped off, he felt totally exposed.”
“Funny,” I said.
“Is everything okay, Robin?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You seem a little forlorn.” He reached out and touched my elbow, and as he did, I felt a weird tingle in my arm. I realized that since our first handshake months ago, neither of us had ever touched the other.
“Something kind of strange happened,” I said. Should I confess? I wondered. I felt the urge to tell
someone
. “When—”
“Robin, can you sign my book before I go?” A former colleague from the website was practically shoving a book between Carter and me.
“Mine, too, please,” another person urged.
Carter smiled obligingly and moved off. For the next half hour, I autographed books and accepted congratulations, trying not to let what had happened mar any more of the party for me. The crowd began to thin out. After signing one last book, I went in search of my enchanting hostess.
“Bettina, tonight was so amazing,” I said.
“It was good for me, too, you know,” she said. She pursed her plummy lips and nodded in satisfaction. “I made a deal I wasn’t even expecting. But you should go now. The guest of honor should never be the last to leave. And
please
let me know how the book does, darling.”
I promised I would, though I was pretty sure that, regardless, Bettina would be checking the Amazon ranking. She had a ferocious need to ferret out all the details, especially the dirty ones, about everyone in her universe.
As someone else pulled Bettina aside to say goodbye, I spotted Maddy again, a few feet away.
“Time to get you home to bed,” I said. Taking her arm, I led her from the apartment to the small vestibule outside. A group was bunched there, waiting for the elevator. One of them was Vicky Cruz, and most of the others, I realized, were part of her entourage. Vicky had probably come only because network brass had been invited, but that was okay. Her presence had added star power, and for that I was grateful.
“Your friend Bettina throws quite the party,” Vicky said as we boarded the elevator. Her tone was challenging, as if she thought I’d scored more than I was entitled to.
“
Doesn’t
she?” I said. “She’s an incredible hostess.”
I’d never been quite so close to Vicky. Though her fifty-year-old face was overly pumped with fillers, it had the perfect contours and features for TV: high cheekbones, eyes set a bit too far apart.
“How’s the book doing, anyway?” she asked.
“The pub date isn’t until Tuesday, so we won’t know until next week.”
“
Secrets
,” she said, and then scrunched up her face. “Do women really
have
any? I thought we couldn’t keep our mouths shut.” She glanced conspiratorially at one of her female underlings, as if the other woman must be wondering the same thing.
“Oh, I think we all keep a few,” I said.
Vicky shrugged. “You’re the
expert
on this one, sweetie. By the way, congratulations to you and Carter on your ratings. How do you plan to take it to the next level? Because that’s, of course, what our beloved president always demands.”
I smiled sweetly. “I could tell you, Vicky,” I said. “But then I’d have to kill you.”
I probably shouldn’t have gone there, but in light of what had happened with the note, I’d no patience for her little jab. She just stared at me, saying nothing. Two female members of her team pinched their lips together, trying not to grin. A few seconds later we reached the ground floor and Vicky strode out first, the entourage scampering behind her.
“Let’s find you a cab,” I said to Maddy as we stepped from the cool lobby into the steamy night. I’d ordered a car for myself, but Maddy lived all the way out in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
“That’s okay, I’ll just hop on the subway.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. I shot my hand up for a cab speeding up the avenue and then opened my purse to fish out thirty bucks for her. Just having my hand in the bag made me think of the notecard, and my stomach knotted at the memory.
“I really appreciate it, Robin,” Maddy said. She slid into the cab and smiled at me through the window. Despite the fact that we were only second cousins, we bore a passing resemblance to each other—oval-shaped face, blue eyes, our lower lip slightly plumper than the top one. I waved as she drove off.
As soon as I was in the Town Car, I collapsed against the backseat. I wondered if I should report the note. After all, there’d been an implied threat with the “you’ll get yours.” But whom would I tell? A party at Bettina’s didn’t exactly fall under the jurisdiction of the network security department. And I certainly didn’t want to raise the issue with Bettina after all her generosity. Maybe the note was simply on a par with Internet trolling. Nasty, a little scary even, but ultimately nothing to be concerned about.