City Chicks

Chapter 6

Six

I was in my car waiting outside the studio when Evan walked out, hailed a passing taxi, and headed toward the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. This time I was prepared. Keeping my Beetle innocuously two cars behind the yellow cab, I settled into the chase.

Alright, it wasn’t exactly a chase through the rush hour traffic, but I felt a bit like a spy.

When we emerged in Manhattan, the taxi headed up the West Side Highway, and I assumed they heading for Evan’s East Village apartment. Looked like this was another stalking failure. First, he’s going to meet his mom. Now, he was heading home.

But when the cab flew past the Christopher Street exit, even changed to a far lane, and sped beyond Evan’s neighborhood, I rejoiced. I cheerfully followed them to the 42nd Street Times Square exit and the theater district.

The cab pulled up in front of Carmello’s, a theater district institution since the birth of Broadway. While Evan paid the cabbie, I ducked down in case he looked my way. Peering over the dashboard, I watched him nod to the doorman and slip through the open door.

A parking garage on the other side of the street brightly announced vacancies, so I pulled in and handed my keys to the attendant. Before he drove away, I rummaged through my miniscule trunk and came up with a pink leaf print silk scarf my mother gave me for graduation and a pair of Jackie-O-worthy shades.

As my car zoomed off, I tied the scarf over my wavy blonde hair a la Grace Kelly and slipped the shades over my eyes.

When I approached the entrance, the doorman greeted me.

“Good evening, Madame. Welcome to Carmello’s.”

He ushered me in with surprising enthusiasm.

“Ah,” the maître d’ exclaimed in Italian-accented joy as I approached his podium, “welcome, welcome. A table for ...?”

“One,” I answered, distracted by a search of the dining patrons.

The maître d’ followed my gaze, offering, “You would like a specific table?”

My eyes alighted on Evan’s heavily gelled brown hair at a table in a far corner. “Yes.” I pointed to a booth near his table. “That one please.”

“Of course, of course.”

The maître d’ clapped and two servers appeared at his side. He instructed one to fetch chilled mineral water and the other to bring a fresh bread basket. I trailed behind as he led the way to the booth, discreetly asking other patrons to nudge their chairs in as we passed.

I slipped into the closest bench, affording myself a direct view of Evan’s back. And the woman seated across the table from him.

A date! I could taste victory already.

“Do you require anything else?”

Dragging my attention from my quarry, I eyed the maitre d’ suspiciously. He hovered over me, leaning in with an eager-to-please look on his face. What had I done to warrant such personal attention? Especially when attention was the last thing I wanted at the moment.

“Um, no, thank you,” I declined graciously.

Still confused as the man bowed and hurried back to the entrance, I was grateful for the stellar service when a tall glass of sparkling water and a mouthwatering basket of bread appeared on my table almost immediately.

The servers nodded and stepped quietly away.

Shrugging off the odd behavior, I strained to hear the conversation between Evan and his date.

“What do you think I should do?” he asked.

The woman, mousy brown bobbed hair tucked behind her ears, looked like a bookworm. Or a librarian. With a soft voice to match—I couldn’t hear a word she said.

Evan, however, came in loud and clear.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “It would ruin my career.”

The librarian shook her head, then proceeded to explain at length why she apparently disagreed.

“You really think so?” Evan reached out and clasped her hand. “That’s why I love you, baby.”

Aha!

Caught straight-handed with his hand in the hetero jar!

What would I do next? Now that victory was mine I had to decide how to proceed. Confront him right now and watch his face fall when he realized his gig was over? Snap a picture with my phone and post it all over the studio?

I was in the middle of thinking up an even more torturous possibility when a waiter arrived to take my order. Distracted, I pointed to the first thing I saw—which turned out to be a Prix Fixe four-course meal.

Dinner: $75. Parking: $10. Victory: Priceless.

When I looked back up, the librarian had pulled out a briefcase and was setting several folders on the table between them. Hmmm, what kind of date brought work to the dinner table?

Since I was in for the long haul—four courses worth—I decided not to leap to any victorious conclusions. I captured a quick pic on my phone—one with the librarian smiling like a woman in love and Evan leaning suggestively towards her—and sat back to enjoy the meal. And the show.

Strangely enough, they spent most of dinner pouring over the librarian’s folders.

Not exactly date-like behavior.

By the time my dessert—triple layer chocolate cherry torte—arrived, I was highly suspicious of their activities. Maybe I wasn’t watching a date.

The maître d’ appeared as the busboy cleared my dessert plate. I took the opportunity to ask, “Excuse me, but do you know the woman at that table?”

Following the direction of my subtle gesture, he turned back with a brilliant grin. “Ms. Portia Harker? But of course. She is a frequent customer.”

“Oh,” I answered vaguely. Was I supposed to know the name?

He took pity on my ignorance. “She is a literary agent. Many celebrities use her to contract ghostwriters.” Then, leaning down meaningfully, he whispered, “Would you like me to get her card for you?”

Um, ah, well. “No. Thank you.”

With another polite bow, he excused himself.

At the same time, Evan and his companion pushed back from the table and rose to leave. They walked by my booth without a second glance, and I released my breath.

I turned to watch them leave. At the door, Evan held up Ms. Portia Harker’s coat as she shrugged into it. Ah ha! Quickly digging through my purse for my phone, I turned back to snap another incriminating shot, only to see the trysting couple shaking hands.

That was awfully formal.

Then it hit me like a ton of red bricks: Agent. Evan was a rising celeb and she was his agent.

Lord, I felt like a fool. Again.

I sank back into the plush comfort of the booth, eyes closed and ready to wallow in my own foolish assumptions.

“Pardon me?”

I looked up to find a rumpled-looking old man holding out a piece of paper.

“Yes?”

“Woulda you asigna theese?”

What was he talking about? I could barely understand him through the heavily Italian-accented English. Clearly not a native speaker.

My confusion must have shown, because he repeated his request, slowly enunciating, “Would. You. Sign. Theese?”

“Oh,” I replied, no less confused but at least comprehending. I looked down at the piece of paper and saw a clever drawing of Hollywood superstar Alexandria Crane.

The entire restaurant heard my gasp.

Looking around nervously, I noted that the entire staff and patronage was watching me—some tables were whispering about me, about my supposed identity.

Well, what did I expect coming to Carmello’s, a shrine for New York stars? Especially dressed incognito. It was a tradition. Make it big, come here for dinner, and one of the resident artists would immortalize you. If you wanted to lay claim to being a genuine celebrity, you got your star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and your face on the wall at Carmello’s.

The red walls were covered in framed caricatures of celebrities, past and present, everyone from the Old Blue Eyes to Brangelina.

But, apparently, not Alexandria.

Glancing again at the sketch, I realized my mistake. Still sporting the starlet scarf and the celeb shades, I could easily be mistaken for a woman trying to avoid paparazzi and gawking fans. My disguise had worked all too well.

“Please?” the old man repeated.

Alright, I could react in one of three ways:

1. Tell the man he’d made a mistake, pay my bill, and slip away with my tail between my legs—with the scornful glares of the staff and patrons no doubt following me out the door.

2. Berate the staff for mistaking me for her—no offense to Ms. Crane, but she had a few years on me and it was not exactly flattering to be mistaken for a woman nearly twenty years my senior, no matter how beautiful she was.

3. Shamefully sign Alexandria’s name, pay my bill, and slip away with my head held high until I reached the safety of my car, where I could beat myself senseless on my steering wheel until the bliss of unconsciousness took me.

Looking into the beaming face of the artist—the joyful pride of his creation lighting him from within—and I knew the answer. I smiled in return and said, “Of course.”

With a quick flourish, I scrawled an illegible rendition of Alexandria’s name and added, “Thank you for making me feel like a star.”

At least that was honest.

Desperate to escape the scene of my dishonor, I dug a $100 bill out of my wallet and laid it on the table. When the maitre d’ refused, assuring me the meal was on the house, I folded the bill and pushed it into the artist’s hand.

His face exploded with gratitude. I fled before he could thank me.

“Ms. Crane,” a female voice called as I breezed past the doorman.

I turned to find Evan’s agent waiting in lurk. She stepped forward, pulling a business card from the pocket of her black coat, and handed it to me.

“I’m Portia Harker, with Talent Corps. If you ever think of changing representation, please think of me.”

Nodding, I pushed my sunglasses up my nose, turned, and ran to the garage.

If the attendants looked at me strangely while I waited, I didn’t notice. All I could think of was getting home, slipping into my silk pajamas, and crawling into bed.

But as I sped away, I heard them say, “Hey, wasn’t that—”

I floored the gas.

Actress Alexandria Crane Dines at New York Institution

“Funny,” Chris mused after tossing the paper—open to the society page blurb—onto my desk, “I’ve always thought you looked a little like her.”

Next to the blurb about how she had generously tipped the staff artist and graciously thanked the serving staff was a photo of Alexandria—me—fleeing the restaurant. Chris pointed at the photo and raised his eyebrows.

The headline might as well have read, Alexandria Crane Impersonator Institutionalized.

“Lord help me,” I groaned.

Chris dropped into a chair. “Wanna talk about it?”

I eyed him suspiciously. “No.”

How had he known it was me? Not even the gossip columnists, who lived by their knowledge of celebs and their secrets, had realized the error. After all, the only part of me visible was the lower half of my face. Hardly anything distinguishing.

“It was the mouth,” he answered my unasked question. “Your lips curve more fully, like a cupid’s bow.”

“Oh.” What could I say to that?

“Not to mention Alexandria is supposedly filming in Istanbul this week.” He winked. “Kind of a long commute for Italian food. Rome would be closer.”

Why me? Why did my every attempt turn into a disaster? Being mistaken for Alexandria was only the latest. Last time I’d wound up mugged. In my senior year of college, the one time I ventured out into the club scene with Fiona, we wound up at Center Stage the night of the legendary ATF raid.

Leaving my comfort zone seemed to have bad results.

Why, then, did I keep trying?

“It was all a big misunderstanding,” I explained.

Chris laughed. “Your secret is my secret.”

He smiled that warm, open smile that made my heart melt. Of all the men on the planet, why did my heart finally go all soft and gooey over a guy I could never have? My psychology must be off the charts. At least with married men or men with repressed sexuality there was a kernel of hope. A teeny-tiny seed. Getting palpitations over a man openly batting for the other team was an exercise in frustration.

And I was not about to wind up old, frustrated, and with a dozen cats for company. Furry things were not my friends.

Slapping my palms on the desk, I stood. “Ready to get to work?”

Chris frowned quizzically, maybe wondering what had set me off, before agreeing, “Whenever you are, boss.”

“Good, because we have a pilot to shoot.”