sooner he rids his taxi of you, the sooner he’s onto his next…er, quarry?
I rearrange my dress, pulling it down to cover my knees as I slide out the to avoid the Britney Spears crotch shot. I ask myself ‘why do we take taxis in NYC? Because we have to?’ Well, sure, but there are other advantages. It’s the one place you can talk on your cell phone at the top of your lungs. After all, that’s what the driver’s doing. It’s a great place for discreet calls to your mistress, your drug dealer, your plastic surgeon. Besides, it’s the only down time some of us have, the only place in the whole bustling metropolis where we can stop and smell – well, usually the driver.
Chapter Eight
The little Italian restaurant is bustling with CEOs, moguls, mistresses, fashion designers, skinny bitches and newscasters. Some are seated inside and some outside under an awning which gives the place the faux-feel of a Roman trattoria - quaint, traditional, slightly euro-trash. Everybody comes here to be seen and heard.
My cell rings, and I struggle to find it in my purse, between my wallet and keys. “Hello?”
“I see you,” says Kitty. “I’m over here, near the window. I’m the one who looks like Kitty Morgan, only older.”
“Very funny,” I say, stretching my neck to find her. The hostess approaches me with a warm welcome.
“Hi” I say, flashing my big, white, toothy grin. “I’m meeting my friend. She’s the beautiful one near the window.”
The hostess chuckles and grabs a menu from the rack. We head “right this way” to Kitty, who’s flagging me down while at the same time scrolling on her Blackberry. I wave with the enthusiasm of a high school teen whose best friend has reserved us a spot in the cafeteria.
“Hi dah-link!” I say to sound fake on purpose, but instead plant a very real kiss on her lips. No air-kissing for me. “Gosh, I thought we’d be the only two people eating lunch at three o’clock. This place is still packed.”
“How are you?” she asks. “Better than me, I’m sure. I can’t take these damn hot flashes anymore.” She fans herself with a menu. “I used to sweat over Johnny Depp. Now I just sweat.”
“Okay, you got me to lunch…”
“Yeah, sure, at practically dinner hour…” Kitty notices me noticing the full glass of wine at my place setting. “I took it upon myself to order you a nice sauvignon blanc,” she says, still scrolling her Blackberry.
“Kitty, you know I don’t drink during the day.”
“Why the hell not?” she says. “Wine improves with age. I improve with wine.”
“Can you stop Twittering or whatever you’re doing and tell me about this artist, what’s his name…,” I say, placing my hand over her scrolling hand, forcing her to stop.
“I don’t tweet, and I told you, his name is Helmut and he’s going to be
huge!
” she snaps, moving from one addiction to another – her wine glass. “Nobody believes me. You’ll see for yourself. I’m throwing his first multimedia show at the gallery Friday night. You’ll be there. Bring Ben.”
“If he can. He may have the twins. But I’ll come. Right after my interview.”
“What interview?”
“Talbots is hiring.”
“Talbots? The clothing store? What are you, your mother?”
“No. My mother’s dead. But aren’t we
all
our mothers?”
“But Talbots?”
“Look, Kitty, freelance writing is so inconsistent, and the TV station is cutting back…”
“Yes, I know, but Talbots?” she insists. “Gucci, okay.” And then thinking twice: “Unless you can get me clothes at cost.”
“Like you’d
wear
their clothes – even if they were free.”
“Well, I wouldn’t wear them
now
. But I’d store them in the back of a closet. Wear them in twenty years. They’ll be vintage then, like me.”
“Kitty, I have to take this job. I need a little spending money for these therapy lunches.”
“Okay, but can’t you just slip on the ice
outside
of Talbots and then sue the
I rearrange my dress, pulling it down to cover my knees as I slide out the to avoid the Britney Spears crotch shot. I ask myself ‘why do we take taxis in NYC? Because we have to?’ Well, sure, but there are other advantages. It’s the one place you can talk on your cell phone at the top of your lungs. After all, that’s what the driver’s doing. It’s a great place for discreet calls to your mistress, your drug dealer, your plastic surgeon. Besides, it’s the only down time some of us have, the only place in the whole bustling metropolis where we can stop and smell – well, usually the driver.
Chapter Eight
The little Italian restaurant is bustling with CEOs, moguls, mistresses, fashion designers, skinny bitches and newscasters. Some are seated inside and some outside under an awning which gives the place the faux-feel of a Roman trattoria - quaint, traditional, slightly euro-trash. Everybody comes here to be seen and heard.
My cell rings, and I struggle to find it in my purse, between my wallet and keys. “Hello?”
“I see you,” says Kitty. “I’m over here, near the window. I’m the one who looks like Kitty Morgan, only older.”
“Very funny,” I say, stretching my neck to find her. The hostess approaches me with a warm welcome.
“Hi” I say, flashing my big, white, toothy grin. “I’m meeting my friend. She’s the beautiful one near the window.”
The hostess chuckles and grabs a menu from the rack. We head “right this way” to Kitty, who’s flagging me down while at the same time scrolling on her Blackberry. I wave with the enthusiasm of a high school teen whose best friend has reserved us a spot in the cafeteria.
“Hi dah-link!” I say to sound fake on purpose, but instead plant a very real kiss on her lips. No air-kissing for me. “Gosh, I thought we’d be the only two people eating lunch at three o’clock. This place is still packed.”
“How are you?” she asks. “Better than me, I’m sure. I can’t take these damn hot flashes anymore.” She fans herself with a menu. “I used to sweat over Johnny Depp. Now I just sweat.”
“Okay, you got me to lunch…”
“Yeah, sure, at practically dinner hour…” Kitty notices me noticing the full glass of wine at my place setting. “I took it upon myself to order you a nice sauvignon blanc,” she says, still scrolling her Blackberry.
“Kitty, you know I don’t drink during the day.”
“Why the hell not?” she says. “Wine improves with age. I improve with wine.”
“Can you stop Twittering or whatever you’re doing and tell me about this artist, what’s his name…,” I say, placing my hand over her scrolling hand, forcing her to stop.
“I don’t tweet, and I told you, his name is Helmut and he’s going to be
huge!
” she snaps, moving from one addiction to another – her wine glass. “Nobody believes me. You’ll see for yourself. I’m throwing his first multimedia show at the gallery Friday night. You’ll be there. Bring Ben.”
“If he can. He may have the twins. But I’ll come. Right after my interview.”
“What interview?”
“Talbots is hiring.”
“Talbots? The clothing store? What are you, your mother?”
“No. My mother’s dead. But aren’t we
all
our mothers?”
“But Talbots?”
“Look, Kitty, freelance writing is so inconsistent, and the TV station is cutting back…”
“Yes, I know, but Talbots?” she insists. “Gucci, okay.” And then thinking twice: “Unless you can get me clothes at cost.”
“Like you’d
wear
their clothes – even if they were free.”
“Well, I wouldn’t wear them
now
. But I’d store them in the back of a closet. Wear them in twenty years. They’ll be vintage then, like me.”
“Kitty, I have to take this job. I need a little spending money for these therapy lunches.”
“Okay, but can’t you just slip on the ice
outside
of Talbots and then sue the
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