Eric was waiting on his building steps when she arrived. He had changed his clothes with astonishing speed, and was now dressed in a light blue dress shirt. He was still wearing shorts, and he wore sunglasses to keep out the late summer evening glare. The effect was ridiculously actor-modely, enough to make Scarlett’s heart make an alarming
glurg
in her chest.
He had never looked so good.
No one
had ever looked that good. There was no way that he was actually waiting for her, Scarlett Martin. He was clearly waiting for a trio of models to spirit him off into a montage for a vodka commercial.
“Hey,” he said warmly. “You came! This is probably going to sound ridiculous to you, but I want to go up to the top of the Empire State Building. I don’t want to go by myself.”
Scarlett had been up the Empire State Building before with her third-grade class, but again, this was one of those places you just didn’t go if you were native.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you by asking you in public,” he said, as if reading her mind.
There are probably places in the world where being asked to go on a walk implies that you are going off to do something private and intimate. Maybe it means that in most places. But not in New York. The advantage of walking in New York is that there’s lots to see and do—but even on the most private ramble you’re bound to trip over at least three Chihuahuas, walk behind people who spit a lot, and maybe set off a car alarm.
Still, Eric had a way of making Scarlett feel like she was the only person on the sidewalk he noticed. He had at least a half-dozen stories about shows he had done in high school—tragically missed cues, actors disappearing before they were supposed to be on stage, malfunctioning lights, collapsing set pieces. It was all very entertaining, but it was difficult for Scarlett to get any meaning from it all.
One thing Scarlett had either not noticed or forgotten—once you actually make it through the lobby of the Empire State Building, you end up in a vicious trap of endlessly weaving lines, multiple escalators that don’t seem to go anywhere but across, and hordes of people. Finally, though, they were loaded into the elevator that shoots right to the top, and Eric reached over and took her hand. He kept hold of it as they escaped from the people trying to sell them photos and the crush in the gift shop that led to the observation platform. It really was adorable how excited he was.
It was just getting dark, and the sky over the city was apricot-colored. They worked their way forward to a spot near the edge. (Not that you could ever get near the edge, really.) Eric wanted to see the view in each direction, including the one that faced the Hopewell. It wasn’t even remotely visible, but they could see
the park and the avenues. They were looking at it, whether they could see it or not.
“This building is based on a building in Winston-Salem,” he said. “True story. The Reynolds Building. The people who built that were hired to make this, and they were in a hurry and pulled out a set of the early plans. So, this is the early, rejected version of something near my hometown.”
The embarrassment on his face was real. He laughed at himself and wrapped his hands around the protective bars that keep people from jumping or falling to their deaths.
“I only know that because my seventh-grade history teacher told us the story ten times,” he said. “Swear to God. I think she was trying to convince us that Winston-Salem was as important as New York.”
“Sure,” Scarlett said. “That’s what they all say.”
He turned her around to face him.
“There was another really stupid thing I wanted,” he said. “Are you going to laugh if I ask? Because if you are, I am marching right back down those ten million stairs and going home.”
“I won’t,” Scarlett said, keeping a very straight face.
“You get the scariest look when you lie like that,” he said.
“I’m not lying. What do you want? Did you want to do a pencil rubbing of the plaque in the lobby? Get a snow globe?”
“It’s both scary and sexy,” he said.
Now he’d done it. He’d called her sexy, and not in the joking way that she and Dakota and Tabitha called each other sexy twenty times a day, or in the way that Spencer told her she looked very sexy when she got a comb ensnarled in her curls and she had to keep it there all day until Lola got home and could weave it out. He just
dropped it right in there, like a quietly ticking bomb mixed into a clock display.
“What I wanted,” he said, pulling away the curl that had fully impaled itself in her eye, “was to kiss someone once I got to the top.”
He didn’t wait for her inevitably stupid reply. He took her chin in his hands and kissed her—fully, unabashedly, right in the middle of the tourists and for all of New York to see, if they could see on top of huge buildings. And not a quick kiss, either—it went on and on, with at least five pauses for breath, and then, when it looked like it might be over, just started up all over again. He kissed her so long that she had to hold him for support.
The tourists didn’t care. They just milled around like this was just something else they expected to see. Scarlett even got a flash in the corner of her eye as someone took their picture. As it was finally winding down, they switched the lights on overhead, and the spire that towered above them turned a luminescent purple.
“That,” Eric said, looking up at the light, “was pretty much how I imagined it would be.”
Scarlett found it a little hard to stand as they went back through the gift shop, to the series of elevators and escalators to take them back down. The whole “weak in the knees” thing, which she always thought was just some idiotic expression back from the golden age of idiotic expressions, was real. Her knees really were weak. Why, she had no idea. Kissing shouldn’t produce any particular leg strain, at least once it’s over, but there it was. They were all spaghettilike.
Eric had his arm wrapped around her as they rode the elevator back down, as if proudly announcing their coupledom to the world. It was this, combined with the general body weakness, and the
g-force of being dropped so many hundreds of feet in a matter of seconds that caused Scarlett to do what she did next. As they emerged on the mezzanine, Eric stepping back to allow her to go first down the escalator, she said, “Are we…you know…dating?”
“We haven’t had a proper date yet,” he said, good-naturedly. “Where I come from, nothing is official until you’ve had dinner together in the mall and made out for at least two hours in a car. What do you do without malls and cars?”
Scarlett gave this the expected smile, but wasn’t feeling very amused. This conversation was ridiculous. She had never actually imagined how you did this—she thought it just happened. A mutual wave of understanding passed over both your heads, covering you both completely in the warm waters of relationship status.
But no. Like most things in life, it required an unexpectedly awkward moment of bureaucracy.
“I just mean…”
She tried to lift her voice and say that last bit in a joking way—but not
too
joking, as if her entire being didn’t
exactly
depend on the answer.
“I know what you mean,” he said. “I didn’t think people in New York had these conversations.”
He was still smiling, but he had taken out his keys and was bouncing them nervously in his palm.
“We don’t,” she lied, poorly. “I was just kidding.”
“Oh, right,” he drawled.
Scarlett had no idea what that meant. He was playing with his sunglasses now, polishing them on his shirt. The ease had disappeared.
She had messed this up very, very badly. If her friends had been here, Scarlett thought ruefully, this would never have happened. Dakota would have come to the stupid Empire State Building, leapt out of the shadows, and tackled Scarlett before she would have let her ask that question. This is why her friends shouldn’t have been allowed to
go anywhere.
She got
stupid
when they were gone.
There was only one thing to do—get out of the burning plane. Put on the parachute. Jump. Salvage what she could. Make it seem like she didn’t care too much.
“Oh my God,” she said. “I completely forgot. I have to go home and…fix up a room. There’s a guest coming. I’d better get back.”
Again, this wasn’t smooth, but he accepted it graciously and gave her a little kiss before she escaped. It was a good kiss, but it didn’t have that same incapacitating energy as the one before.
In the Empire Suite the next morning, the silver walls were covered in taped up notes and Mrs. Amberson was in downward dog.
“Media!” she exclaimed. She pushed herself up to stand and folded her hands prayerfully in front of her chest. “We’re less than a week away from opening. Can you believe that this company had no publicity plan? Don’t answer that. Anyway, we’re about to change that. Do you see this?”
She waved her hand at the notes.
“I’ve spent the last few days reestablishing every contact I have. These are the names of agents, casting directors, reviewers, producers…and do you know what we’re going to do?”
Scarlett shook her head and went over and got out the organic cleaning products. She wasn’t in the mood for any more fill-in-the-blanks conversations.
“We are going to have a special preview. Very special. Catered.”
Scarlett nodded and sprayed the dressing table with ylang-ylang.
“What?” she said. “What is that
face
, O’Hara?”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You most certainly do. Look at this wonderful work! Do you realize what this means for the show?”
“It’s great,” Scarlett said.
Unable to rouse any enthusiasm, Mrs. Amberson went back into her position.
“I won’t be coming to the theater today,” she said. “This is much more important. But I need you to be there. It’s the first dress run. Be my eyes. And for God’s sake,
smile.
You’re representing me! You have to emit positive energy!”
To her credit, Mrs. Amberson had provided fantastic costumes—and there was something fascinating about what happened to the actors once they put them on and did their makeup. Everyone really seemed to change.
Mrs. Amberson’s concept was a twenties silent movie, so they all had at least a dusting of white with dark lining around the eyes and coloring on the lips. The female cast members were in sequined dresses, and the guys were outfitted with elegant suits. The silver trim she had sewed onto Hamlet’s looked strangely appropriate against all of the other outfits. Spencer and Eric had been directed to apply heavier coats of white makeup, with more lining around their features. They also wore suits, but ill-fitting ones, several sizes too large with the hems on the pants raised up high. This was partly for comic effect, and party for safety when they rode.
Scarlett stood out in her simple summer skirt and T-shirt. Her face felt bare. (Thankfully, in the heat. Also, actors seemed to sweat more than other people—what was that about?) She plastered on the requested smile as well, until Ophelia asked her if she’d hurt her jaw.
There were a lot of hiccups in the run. People forgot lines all over the place (including Eric, three times). The ramp going up to the stage shifted when Spencer was riding up it, and he just barely caught himself when the wheel jammed and he was sent pitching forward. Gertrude went into a panicked meltdown for ten minutes when she couldn’t get one of her scenes right. Hamlet bent the tip of his sword when it struck the wall.
It was Paulette’s job to deal with most of these things, but Scarlett dutifully wrote them down for Mrs. Amberson, only leaving out the problems with the ramp (it wasn’t Spencer’s fault, and Paulette was all over fixing it) and Eric’s flubbed lines. The group seemed exhausted by the end of the day, gratefully accepting Scarlett’s help with their clothes and props. Many of the outfits were pretty foul by the day’s end, and Scarlett started to fear for what things would be like when they’d been wearing them for a few days.
Scarlett had been avoiding approaching Spencer directly, but as he sat by himself, removing his makeup with some tissues, she saw a good chance to get a natural conversation going.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “The thing with the ramp…”
“I’m fine. I didn’t even fall.”
“I know, but…”
But nothing. He hadn’t actually fallen.
“The offer for dinner still stands,” she said.
“What?” he asked, rubbing hard at the white coating on his forehead.
“No plans?”
“No,” she said. “Come on.”
“Can’t. We’re all going to Leroy’s apartment tonight. It’s a cast-bonding thing. Can you tell Mom and Dad I’ll be home late?”
As soon as he said this, Scarlett became aware of the fact that everyone was zipping up their bags and congregating as if about to depart collectively. How she had missed this all day—not been aware of the event—was a little disturbing. Sure, she wasn’t
exactly
part of the cast, but she
practically
was. She had helped dress them. She had taken their skanky clothes when they were done.
“Sure,” she said. There was an audible droop in her voice that he had to have noticed. Either he was still angry, or he was feeling guilty, but he packed up and left even though he hadn’t completely removed his makeup.
This wasn’t okay. It really couldn’t go on. Scarlett followed right on his heels, all the way outside, where he had stopped to talk to Claudius.
“We need to talk,” she said, catching him by the arm. He put up no resistance and let her drag him a few doorways over, to a quiet spot in front of a nail salon.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked. “When do we get normal again?”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I don’t get it. You like Eric. He’s your friend.”
“I work with him,” Spencer clarified.
“He’s not your friend?”
“I’m just clarifying. I have to get along with Eric no matter what in order to do my job.”
“That’s why he just thought it would be better if we didn’t…”