High Heels in New York (2 page)

The neighborhood was known for its gritty appeal with edgy boutiques, hip bars, art galleries and rent controlled apartments, which made finding vacancies nearly impossible. The realtor who showed her the apartment told her that Marilyn Monroe once lived in the building when it was a single-family house. She rented it right then. In New York, if you didn’t jump on available real estate it’d be gone faster than a Twinkie at a weight watchers meeting.

Catching a glance at herself in the bathroom mirror she froze. She barely recognized the reflection staring back at her; matted hair, sallow skin and circles under her eyes. Everyone warned her that this would happen.  They said she was better off hiring a wedding planner and she did, but she wanted to take care of most of the preparations herself which caused her to lose lots of sleep. Thank goodness that as of yesterday she was officially finished with the long pre-wedding to do list.

The hot water on her skin was relaxing. With her eyes closed she lathered up her entire body and then rinsed off quickly. Wishing she had five more minutes to spare, she grumbled, turned off the water and toweled off.  It’ll work out. Just like it always does, she tells herself over and over. After tidying up the bedroom, she took her daily peek at the wedding gown in the closet. It’s so white and so beautiful that she had to
keep
herself from putting it on.  Since it’s a Vera Wang, it’s a very difficult thing to do. Suddenly, she pictured herself in the first trimester of the pregnancy trying to fit into it. No one in their right mind alters a Vera Wang.

NO ONE!

She wanted to scream like Janet Leigh’s shower scene in Psycho.  Instead, she let out a pathetic groan and took off the gown, trading it for her favorite pink cardigan over a white tank top, a pair of Lucky Brand dark blue skinny jeans, and her favorite tan L.A.M.B heels that she snagged at a sample sale. Once she’s satisfied with her appearance, she heads over to the restaurant.

#

Across town, sitting at a table in the back of the City’s most popular Italian restaurant, Angelina Stevens is recovering from
another all night sex romp. The guy was a twenty-two year old personal trainer she met a week ago while attempting to make it through a cycling class. She may have left the fitness class still unsure why everyone was raving about spending an hour sweating in a room with fifteen strangers, while screaming in agony and staring at unappealing, fat and saggy behinds. But completely understood why thirty something women like herself were ending up sweating all night long in the arms of very young men; they were easier to ride and their behinds were quite nice to look at. Plus, having endless hours of blind blowing sex was a more exciting way to burn calories.

Angelina had just broken things off with Andrew, a guy she unwillingly dated for the last six months. He was a movie producer with only three productions under his director’s belt but Angie knew it was only a matter of time before he made it to the big leagues. Unfortunately, six months was all she could put up with. He was too needy for her. And he tried forcing her to be someone she wasn’t. She promised herself a much needed siesta from men and hadn’t planned on being with anyone quite so soon. But when she saw Carlos at the gym, she knew she just had to have him. Not only was he young, which meant he had a lot of stamina to last more than five minutes, which was how long men her age (and older) would last, but he had the body of
a Greek God. She first spotted him as she walked past the free weights area. He had on a white tank top that clung nicely to his six-pack abs and gray sweat pants that fit snug enough for her to catch a glimpse of his nicely shaped backside. She imagined running her tongue up and down each crevice of his abs and yearned to be naked with him. She could definitely see him training her privately, if only for a few hours.

And that’s exactly how it went down. When Carlos saw her drooling at the sight of him, he walked right up to her and an hour later, he was at her place training Angie into submission.  Both of them just wanted a good time and they both got it. Afterwards, Carlos went on his merry way and Angie planned on using the memory, along with her vibrator, to help her get through the upcoming lonely nights; except, they ended up having sex two more times that week and twice this morning. When he left her upper west side condo, she promised herself that it was the last time. Luckily, she used the excuse of
having to meet up with Melissa
to end the pleasure fest.

After she’d hung up the call with Melissa, Angie tried getting a hold of her manager. He had been ignoring her calls all morning after a heated argument they had the day before. Thirty years in the entertainment industry and she didn’t understand why she still had to audition for bit parts. Granted, she hadn’t worked in a few years but she used to have a great
reputation as a phenomenal actress and she wasn’t going to taint it with an unnecessary audition, especially for a role she didn’t even want.

“What do you mean I didn’t get the part?” Angie asked Charles, her manager. “You said I was perfect for it.”

“I know. I know,” he argued over the phone.  “This is why you need to take these smaller parts.”

“I won’t do it,” Angie screamed, pushing the black Gucci shades further up the bridge of her nose. The last thing she wanted was for someone to recognize her and then over hear the conversation. She knew too well that gossip got around fast in New York. So, you had to wear designer outfits, live in a posh building, never be seen riding the subway and always, be seen in the gym. It was the only way you could lie about getting plastic surgery and get away with it, which was the other reason she was hiding her face. “You find something else for me,” she said, unfolding her napkin and speaking in a much calmer tone, “I don’t care if it’s on a stage on Broadway. That’s why you get fifteen percent. So find me something fast.” She hung up and signaled to the waiter. “I need a glass of whiskey.”

The waiter ran off like the perfect little servant to find her what she desperately needed. She was in total shock that she couldn’t get the one part she wanted in that damn movie. No
matter how long she’d been in the business, she still wasn’t used to just how quickly you became yesterdays’ news. All it took was a tiny wrinkle around the eye and producers were replacing her with younger, prettier actresses that would do anything for a lead role and they did. And she wasn’t about to start sleeping around again just to get the part she wanted in a movie even if that movie would catapult her career back into Hollywood royalty status. She had to find a way to get that part before she lost everything she worked so hard for.

The waiter returned and handed her a glass of whiskey, full to the brim. Before he could even turn around to wait on another t
able, she downed
it and asks for another.  Then she
picked up her cell phone again
and dialed the investment company handling her retirement account.

A cheery young voice answered the phone. “Good afternoon, Finch and Howell, how may I help you?”

“Yes, get me Mr. Henry please.”

“May I ask
who’s
calling?”

“Angelina Stevens.”

“Oh my
gawd
, the Angelina Stevens?”
The girl squealed, “Oh my, I’ll get him right away.” Angie heard a click sound and then classical music ensued. A smile crept up on Angie’s face. At least someone still remembered who she was.

“I’m so sorry, he’s out to lunch. Would you like to leave him a message?”

“That’s alright. I’ll call back.”

“Are you sure? Oh my
gawd
, I have to tell my mother I spoke to you. She just loves your movies. I mean, not that I don’t love them, I’ve just never actually watched them. Well, except the one with that sexy co-star Brian something. He is just so hot!”

“Brian
Sommers
,” Angie said, digging the left heel of her Prada shoe into the top of her right foot, trying to distract herself from the reality that she was a has-been. Of course, little miss sunshine remembered the hot costar. Then again, who wouldn’t? He was hot. Bad in bed, but that was another story.

“Yeah, Brian
Sommers
,” the girl continued.

“Okay well, tell your mother I said thank you. I really must be going now,” Angie hung up the call and looked around for the waiter.  The thought of no one remembering who she was ten years from now made her feel insignificant. But she didn’t want to do go through with something that she really didn’t want to do. No one does a job well done when you’re hand is forced.  Being pressured into doing something you didn’t want to do meant you had to go along with other people’s ideas, other
people’s wants and needs and people telling you what to do. This did not sit well with her. She hated being told what to do.

The waiter returned again with her second glass of whiskey. She gulped it down again like a true southern woman and asked for another.

It had been five years since she had to go cold turkey from drinking hard liquor. After having emergency surgery a year ago for cirrhosis, she swore she’d cut back and she did. Occasionally, during an event or a celebration, she’d have a mixed cocktail, but once a week, when she met up with Melissa, she’d indulge in a glass of whiskey. Usually, she’d sip it slowly, feeling the warmth fill her mouth as she swirled it around with her tongue and then finally after it numbed her tongue, she‘d close her eyes and swallow. To her, drinking whiskey sometimes rivaled sex.

And sex was exactly what she was thinking when she received a text message from Carlos the trainer. I want to ravish you, read the screen on her cell phone. Immediately, her face flushed a bright shade of red. There was no way she was going to have sex with him again, even if he had given her pleasure she had never felt before. Seeing him three times was two times too many. One more would be considered dating and she was not the dating kind. Figuring it was easier to ignore the text message than to reply which would cause him to send another, she put
her cell phone on vibrate and tucked it deep in her Louis Vuitton.

By now she was fidgeting under the table so hard that her knees were bouncing up and down causing her heels to make a loud clicking sound that echoed throughout the restaurant. A young couple seated across from her started to look around. She was sure that they were trying to locate the source of the noise. She quickly placed her hands over her knees and desperately looked at the front entrance for Melissa. She should’ve been here by now, she said under her breath.

The waiter returned with another glass and Angie finally felt at ease. But then, just as the waiter was about to leave, a young, sexy blonde walked into the restaurant wearing a skimpy outfit and holding on to the arm of none other than Marty Steinberg, the CEO of Paradox Pictures.

“Just
bring me the God damn bottle,” s
he told the waiter.

#

On the wretched account that she was super late, Melissa succumbed to taking the subway which she only took during emergencies such as this one. It’s the only way to cut across
town in ten minutes. Cabbing it would make her so late that by the time she’d get to the restaurant it’d be time for dinner.

Entering the Grand Street train station, she tried to remind herself that everything would work out. It had to. Her gut however, told her that she needed a miracle. She purchased her
Metrocard
from the teller and swiped the card at the turnstile, barely making it to the crowded platform in time to catch the train. Unfortunately, it’s crowded inside the subway car as well. Not that it was much of a surprise. Between tourists and locals, the trains are always just as crowded as a can of sardines. And on some occasions, they smelled like it too.

Taking hold of a tiny space on the hand rail above her head, the sound of a wailing baby pierced her ears. It felt as if her ears were bleeding. Looking around for the source, she wanted to catch the parents’ attention and give them the You-better-shut-that-kid-up-now look. Shaking her head, she looked around the crowded train. The facial expressions of the other passengers told her that they were feeling the same way. She made a promise to herself right then and there that if and that’s a big if, she had this baby, it would not cry. Heck, it would not cry or poop. Her baby would just sit there in the crib like a pretty little porcelain doll.

A few minutes later, when the train reached her stop, a group of NYU students bum rushed the doors as they opened.
She exited cautiously, making her way off the uneven platform and up the crowded stairs. When she reached the top, the glare from the super strong sun, bouncing off the skyscrapers caught her off guard and she almost toppled backwards. It was the second heat wave this month and she hated it. The late summer humidity made her clothes cling to her skin like a leech making her very uncomfortable.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the streets were also uber crowded. Every Sunday, from ten a.m. to three in the afternoon, the sidewalks were lined with food vendor carts selling heart attacks on a stick at a bargain rate, artists selling their masterpieces (Which still wouldn’t be worth anything after they were dead.) and street entertainers that couldn’t cut it at the circus. The only thing worth taking a look at was produce vendors because their prices were a steal when you compared it to Whole Foods. It wasn’t that Melissa didn’t like Whole Foods. Who doesn’t love checkout lines that reach the sidewalk? She assumed that was the reason why most grocery stores in Manhattan offered a complimentary delivery service. Not that she could benefit from that either since she rarely cooked.