Charming Christmas (8 page)

Lanessa cocked an eyebrow. “I thought it wasn't you?”

I flung out my arms, exasperated. “Hello? Do you really think that show was about me? Nessa, come on. I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Hold on, girls.” Bonnie popped up and moved a metallic sculpture from the coffee table. “Just need to protect the valuables in case you two decide to arm wrestle or something.”

“To be fair, let's not forget that Olivia has suffered a violation of her privacy here,” Kate said evenly. “And a betrayal from someone she really cared about. That's a major transgression.”

Lanessa cocked her head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you need to be nice to me right now,” I said petulantly. “Defend me. Tell me how stupid the show was. Ply me with cheesecake.”

“Actually, I thought the show wasn't too bad,” Bonnie said. “But I'll get right on the cheesecake.”

“We're on your side.” Kate patted my arm. “Even if you don't love Baltimore, we can deal with that. You found a new home in New York, a career you love . . . Don't let Bobby's craziness derail you.” She shot Lanessa a look. “Say something nice to Olivia.”

Lanessa rolled her eyes. “Let's not go all Ricki Lake here. Of course we support you, Livvy girl. But come on, if we can't fun with you, who can?”

I picked up a black and white patterned throw pillow. “I am so glad my mother doesn't have cable.”

“A lot of people don't have it,” Kate said. “I'm sure a lot of people missed that show.”

“We'll know in the morning.” Lanessa kicked off her pumps and tucked her legs under her on the sofa. “A lot of the trades list the overnights on-line.”

Kate and I exchanged a look of surprise. “Nessa, how do you know these things? You work for the dairy lobby, not a TV producer.”

“Are you kidding? I spend half my morning reading on-line magazines.
People, In Style, Variety, Time
. . . not to mention the
Times
and the
Wall Street Journal.
A big part of my job is staying in touch with the social climate.”

“I don't think those papers will even pay attention to
The Nutcracker
,” Bonnie said as she handed Lanessa a plate of cake. “It had its moments, but new shows take a while to build a following. And it's not a reality show. Who's going to care?”

Kate nodded, licking cheesecake from a fork. “It's just a cable access show. How popular could it be?”

8

“T
wenty million viewers.” Lanessa sounded excited, as if she'd discovered a hidden treasure in one of her file cabinets.

“No!” It was as much a protest as a gasp of disbelief and shock at the cold since I'd just opened the front door. “Hold on a sec.” I momentarily moved the phone away from my ear so that I could wrap my scarf around my head. A brutal winter morning, unusually cold for a November in the city without pity.

I was navigating around Mrs. Scholinsky's Christmas figurines when the window behind me creaked open. “Don't forget what I told you last night, Olivia,” she barked at me. She'd seen the show and refused to believe that I was not the ruthless title character. “Show some compassion.”

I raised one gloved hand to her. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. S.”

Lanessa was still going on about ratings and time slots. “Twenty million for the first episode. That's exposure for you. If my bosses could get that kind of free airtime, they'd be in cow heaven.”

“But I don't need exposure, especially not bad press.”

“It's not about you, remember?” Lanessa reminded me. “I doubt that anyone else will make the connection. So you have the same name as a character on a show. No one is going to put that all together.”

No one but Mr. Watch Cap, my bus-stop buddy.

As I moved to the back of the queue for the bus, he turned back to grumble something in my direction. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I thought he said, “Saw you on TV last night.” Or maybe it was “So yon be a sight.” Shakespearean? From the scruff of beard under his watch cap, I thought not.

“Nessa, I gotta go. I'm just getting on the bus, and I'm sensing hostility.”

“Later, honey!” she sang.

I flipped my phone closed and shuffled up with the line. When I lifted my boot to board, the door of the bus slammed shut, nearly snatching my foot in its fold.

“Hey!” I banged on the Plexiglas. “Hold on!”

The door whooshed open, the driver staring down at me with a deadpan expression. “Back off, Olivia. I can't let you board if you're armed with shaving cream.” He glanced back at two passengers sitting near the door, and they shared a hearty chuckle.

“That show is not about me,” I protested, mounting the stairs.

“What's that?” The driver folded his arms. “You telling me you're not Olivia?”

“I am. Just not that Olivia. Not the
Nutcracker
.”

“Uh-huh.” The driver smiled at me in his rearview mirror. “And I'm not really driving a metro bus in the city without pity.”

That brought another round of laughs at my expense, which I tried to ignore as I found a seat in the rear of the bus, a quiet spot to begin plotting my revenge against Bobby Tharp.

Without my morning caffeine my plans were lackluster, consisting of slapping Bobby and the BigTime Channel with a lawsuit or dipping Bobby into the shark tank at the aquarium. Leaning toward shark bait, I stopped into the coffee shop across from Rossman's and asked for my usual—coffee with milk and a toasted bagel.

The man behind the counter hung his head to the side. “'Fraid we can't make you a bagel, hon.”

I squinted at him, not getting it. Was their toaster broken?

He leered at me. “We didn't get 'em FedExed in from New York City.”

Very funny
, I thought, handing over two bills. He took out money for the coffee and slid the cup toward me. “I ain't kiddin'. Don't want to be having any arguments here over fancy bagels and whatnot.”

Grrr!

I considered throwing a tantrum, raising my voice and pounding on the counter, but that would only fulfill Bobby's vision and satisfy expectations of every curious observer in the coffee shop.

Apparently the citizens of Baltimore were not only tuned into BigTime Network last night; they must have gone to bed seething about Olivia's antics and woken up plotting vengeance on the evil diva.

I couldn't stand it. I went to the back of the coffee shop and flipped my phone open to call Bobby, then realized I didn't have his number. Damn! The counter man reluctantly let me borrow a yellow pages, and I paged through the Hotels section until I felt confident I had a hit.

The Harbor Court, a first-class hotel right at the Inner Harbor, a place we had stayed one Valentine's weekend, the most romantic interlude of my life, except for the fact that I'd been stuck with the bill. Part of that whole starving-artist role Bobby used to play. The hotel clerk answered, and I gave his name. “One moment, I'll put you through.”

I closed the phone book, my mouth gaping open as I stared out of the coffee shop, devising new forms of vengeance.

“Hello?” His voice was sleepy, that sexy morning rumble.

“It's me, calling to ask you what the hell you were thinking when you showed that script around at the networks.”

“Who is this?”

“Olivia,” I said through gritted teeth.

“The real one? I mean, not from the show?” He maintained the smooth deejay tone but his panic came through; he was discombobulated. “Olivia Todd?” When I didn't respond, he added, “How did you find me?”

“Oh, please! I just flipped through my copy of
City Smart Baltimore
and found the hotel with the most dollar signs and an on-site racquetball court. How could you stay at the Harbor Court after—” I stopped myself, not wanting to let on how much it hurt, not wanting to obsess on the small fires when the entire forest was in danger of burning. “Do you have any idea of the damage you've done in my life?”

“Hey, Olivia,” the counter clerk called. “I'm going to need my phone book back.”

Phone to my ear, I lugged it back over to him and realized most people in the shop were watching me. A woman with a little kid in a high chair kept handing him tidbits of bagel—the bagel that could have been mine—but she kept her eyes on me the whole time, as if I were her favorite daytime soap opera.

“Where are the cameras?” an elderly woman asked. “Are we being filmed? I've got a hair appointment this afternoon.”

After a vacant silence Bobby went on. “We've been all through this, haven't we? People break up, hon, and—”

“I am not talking about our breakup, Bobby. I am talking about the way you twisted the details of our lives and put them out there for everyone to see. What
were
you thinking?”

“It's called fiction, Liv. Everyone knows the character in the show isn't really you.”

“Oh, really? Well, you should tell that to the driver of my bus. And to my landlady, who pounced on me as I was getting home last night and gave me some advice on treating people with kindness. Oh, and the people in this coffee shop. Would you mind taking a moment to head down to the Double T Coffeeshop? The counter clerk would like to talk bagels, and there's a lady here who wants to be on your show.”

“I got to get my hair done first, hon!”

“Just as soon as she gets her hair done.”

“Liv . . .” He sighed, a long, dramatic whisper of breath. “I don't know what you want from me.”

“An apology would be nice, for starters.” From there, what did I really want? I knew the show was like a snowballing avalanche; not even Bobby was capable of pulling the plug on a successful television show. Twenty million viewers . . . just my luck.

“I'm sorry, Liv. The show wasn't created to hurt you, and you know . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut as he launched into his “I never meant to hurt you” speech. I was so sick of that speech, the monologue that implies that Bobby owns control, that he has all the power, and that I am just a poor, pitiful victim of his choices.

What was wrong with me? I was a proactive girl, not the victim of other people's whims!

Feeling a twinge in my ankle, I shifted from one foot to the other. Just the cold? Should I move my doctor's appointment up? I wasn't scheduled to check in with the orthopedic surgeon until the new year.

I sat back on a vinyl chair. Here I was, a disabled dancer, displaced from my home and now the laughingstock of an entire city, maybe even the country. I was a joke for twenty million viewers.

“So I don't know, really, Liv,” Bobby was saying in that affected tone. “I feel for you, I really do, but you shouldn't be calling me to cry on my shoulder anymore. I mean, I'm married and everything. Happily married.”

“Is that what you think? That I'm crying on your shoulder?” I wanted to cry with frustration.

“Don't get snarky, hon. Word to the wise: figure out what it is you want, and go for it. Isn't that what got you to Radio City? You inspired me, dropping everything and moving up there. And I followed your awesome example. I picked a goal and I went for it and the rest . . . well, the result is twenty million viewers.”

“All because of me? You really do owe me, Bobby.”

“I wish you the best, Liv,” he answered quickly. “Pick that goal. Aim high. Gotta go.”

As the phone clicked in my ear, I tried to visualize what my next goal might be. Full recovery of my ankle. Back with the Rockettes. Living in New York City again.

Somehow, it was a tired, dusty dream.

Staring out at the majestic Rossman's building across the street, I thought of the wish I'd placed in the stocking. A do-over—a chance to go way back and start again. This time I'd do it right, hold on to Bobby . . .

Or would I?

Realizing I had to get to work, I grabbed my coffee cup and headed toward the door.

“When is Bobby coming with the cameras?” the woman asked.

“I wouldn't count on it,” I answered, noticing an elderly man sitting at a table behind the door. As I yanked the glass door open, he turned and I saw his face for the first time.

ZZ.

Oh, great. The small part of my life that hadn't been exploited on television last night was now going to be locker-room scuttlebutt at work.

Disheartened, I dragged myself into the employee entrance of Rossman's and joined the group moving through turnstiles that scanned ID cards. During the past week, more and more employees had been reporting to work to prepare the store for the grand opening. Every day the level of activity heightened exponentially, with designers and buyers and carpenters and electricians scurrying around counters, setting up tables and shelves, filling display cases, and wrapping the entire store in ropes of garland lined with fat Christmas balls, sparkling crystal snowflakes, and wispy white lights. The empty space was quickly filling, and I'd begun to feel proprietary about “our” store. The air was loaded with cheer and everyone shared high hopes that Baltimoreans would turn out in large numbers to try “the Rossman's experience,” as commercials touted.

The employee lounge was well hidden behind a camouflaged door in the back of the men's section, and I quickly changed into my Mrs. Claus costume, smoothed down the fake white fur, and shut my locker.

As I crossed the main sales floor, I noticed a thick, cabbage-flower carpet runner—a new addition today. It cut a swath over the shiny marble, pointing the way to the escalator with a flourish. I let my boots sink into the rug that was still covered with plastic wrap and imagined I was a young heiress—Evelyn Rossman in her heyday—presiding over my kingdom as the escalator wound around the crystal chandelier and emerged into the cool blue light of the snow scene on the second floor.

If the first floor was festive and welcoming, the second floor was a tranquil haven for shoppers. Aah . . . I felt a calm pass over me as I entered the doorway of an “ice” house illuminated with tiny blue and white lights. “A Swedish spa,” Regis called it. “Don't you feel the Nordic calm? It's like visiting one of those ice hotels in the Arctic Circle.” The ice house had various chambers, one that resembled Santa's workshop, where three wrappers dressed like elves received packages from anxious shoppers and covered them with Rossman's complimentary silver foil paper with red ribbons. Shoppers would be able to view “Santa's workshop” through one of the glass walls, then the path led them on to a Christmas shop containing ornaments, stockings, holiday dishware, and elf pajamas.

The Santaland was on the next floor up, a candy-covered gingerbread house with a toy train that children could ride through the Christmas landscape. Every time I passed under the candy-cane arches I felt transported to a faraway time and place, a place apart from my own pressures and stresses. I realized that might change when the children gained admittance to Santaland on Thursday.

Besides, the balance was likely to change today, since a few of my coworkers were bound to be among the twenty million who had come to know and hate Olivia last night. Quietly I took my place in front of Santa's hearth and proceeded with caution in our morning “sharing circle.” By the time the Santa cap made it halfway through the group, I figured I was safe, and then Carlos burst out, “Hey, what was the deal with that Olivia show last night? Dat girl, she looks a lot like you, you know? And she was a dancer in New York.”