Mercury in Retrograde (16 page)

“I live over here,” said a familiar voice.

Lipstick turned around and saw him. He was hotter than she'd even remembered. And wet. He looked like he'd just had a shower. His hair was messily towel-dried and he was wearing a bathrobe and smelled like Ivory soap—or what Lipstick assumed Ivory would smell like if she'd ever used it—with a hint of turpentine. Lipstick, trying not to be too nosy, attempted to get a glimpse of his apartment behind him, but all she could see was a sink and an easel.

Zach seemed to know exactly what she was doing and smiled.

“Mr. Boravsky, I can take it from here, thanks,” he said, as Mr. Boravsky pulled his sagging yellowed underpants up, gave Lipstick another once-over, and slammed the door.

Leaning against the doorframe and looking right at Lipstick, Zach said, “How can I help, princess?”

“You know that…man?”

“Mr. Boravsky? Sure, he's been here forever. I think he only pays like three hundred dollars in rent. He's a little nuts, but a fixture—and I gotta respect that. Besides, he takes in packages for me if I'm not home.”

“That makes sense,” Lipstick said, shrugging.

“So, to what do I owe this visit?”

“Oh, that,” Lipstick said, turning red and scratching her head.
Stop that,
she told herself,
it's bad physical etiquette
. “I just, um, wanted to say thank you for helping me when I moved in the other month. I feel really bad that I didn't do this earlier.”

“Why don't you do it properly by buying me a beer?”

“Okay, sure. When?”

“Now's fine.”

“Wow, you move fast.” Now? She didn't have any makeup on or anything.

“Do you have somewhere else to be other than standing outside my door? I already heard you tromp up the stairs from your night out.”

“No, no. It's fine. A beer it is.” Tromp? That made her sound like a moose. She should work on that.

“Good. Gimme a minute, then,” Zach said, shutting the door on Lipstick. He emerged five minutes later dressed in a pair of jeans, an old KISS T-shirt, and Converse sneakers. “Let's go.”

They ended up at The Room, a watering hole two doors down from their building. The Room was the perfect place for two reasons: First, it was dimly lit—which pleased the makeup-free Lipstick, whose motto in life was “It's all about timing and lighting.” Second, it served only wine and beer. “That way we can't get too crazy,” Zach smiled.

“Huh? Crazy?” Lipstick said. “I'm not that kind of girl. I mean, I wish I was, but I'm not!”

“Relax, princess, it was just a joke,” Zach said.

“Stop calling me princess,” Lipstick said, chewing the inside of her cheek. “The name is Lena.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you or sound patronizing,” Zach said. “You just look like a princess. Now what'll you have?”

“A cabernet, please,” Lipstick said, blushing again.

After Zach got her wine and himself a bottle of Heineken, they sat in the front booth that looked out onto Sullivan Street.

“So, where are you from?” Lipstick asked, trying to start a conversation.

“Lexington—horse country,” Zach said, taking a swig from his beer. “I've been here almost ten years, mostly as an artist, but I've been known to wait a few tables to pay the bills.”

“Do you ride?” Lipstick inquired, sipping her wine. “I've been riding since I was five. My mother made me. I've never really liked it all that much.”

“I used to—my family bred thoroughbreds,” Zach said. “But if you don't like it, you shouldn't do it. Although you strike me as a woman who does a lot of things you don't want to do.”

“Not so much anymore,” Lipstick said defiantly, looking down at her gloved hands.

“All right!” Zach said, clinking her wineglass with his bottle. “Now that I support.”

“So, what'd you do before moving to New York?” Lipstick asked.

“Well, I left home when I was seventeen, went to the Savannah College of Art and Design, and then traveled for a few years to India, Mali, and Cambodia—which was a little scary as the Khmer Rouge was still active so I had to be careful.”

“Oh.” Lipstick sighed. “That sounds so exciting. I've only ever been to the usual places.”

“The usual?” Zach asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, Saint Barths, Saint-Tropez, Paris, Milan, Rome, and sometimes Mother would mix it up a bit over New Year's and make us go to Cabo. But then it became too commercial and annoying for her. So we stopped. I did spend a summer in Andalusia during college. That was fun.”

“Andalusia is supposed to be beautiful,” Zach said.

“It was,” Lipstick agreed. “It was nice to get out of New York too. That summer and right now are the only times I've ever really been away from my mom and dad.”

“Do they live in town?”

“Yeah, but we're not talking right now,” Lipstick said, drinking her wine. “They really jerked me around.”

“How long are you going to not communicate with them?” Zach asked.

“I don't know,” Lipstick said. “My friends keep asking me that too. I'm just really busy and mad.”

“Well I can see you're busy, but I don't know what you're so mad about,” Zach said, taking a swig of his beer. “And I'm not gonna pry, but I will say, don't let it go on too long. No matter what, they're still your family and they love you. Even if you think they have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

“How would you know?” Lipstick snapped, momentarily irritated.

“I didn't talk to my family for a long time.” Zach shrugged. “Dad was real pissed when I told him I wasn't going into the family horse-breeding business and wanted to be an artist instead. They cut me off and wouldn't speak to me for years.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Lipstick said quietly. “What brought you back together?”

“I had my first big show at the Milk Gallery in Chelsea six years ago and sent them an invite,” Zach said. “I didn't think they'd come, but they did. And it was…great. Just really great. Even better than the show.” He was quiet for a moment and then said, “Listen, the point is, being angry is a waste of energy and time. You can have a relationship with anyone—you just have to be strong enough to set your boundaries.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Lipstick said. “I don't know if I am yet, though.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Zach said, winking at her. “I think you could be.”

“Well, I moved all the way to Soho to get away from them.”

“Buckaroo Banzai, princess,” Zach said, smiling.

“What's that mean?” Lipstick asked, confused.

“Wherever you go, there you are.”

 

After polishing off their drinks an hour later, Lipstick and Zach left The Room on their way home. But just as they were about to enter their apartment building, out of the corner of her eye, Lipstick saw something odd. Four cars away she spotted what she first thought was a brown rat on top of a white Mazda. Squinting her eyes for a better look and walking toward the car, the “rat” turned out to be the woman in a brown bobbed wig with what looked like a camera aimed right at Lipstick and Zach. When the woman saw Lipstick advance toward her, she scurried off.

“Hey!” Lipstick yelled as the woman ran down Sullivan and rounded the corner onto Houston. “Get back here! Who are you?”

“What is going on?” Zach, grabbing her arm, asked.

Shaken, Lipstick said, “I don't know. It's so weird. You're
going to think I'm crazy….”

“I already do.” Zach laughed, holding the front door open for her.

“Okay, well, for the past few weeks that woman has just been showing up everywhere. Like she's stalking me.”

“Do you know her?”

“I don't think so. I don't know—everytime I try to talk to her she runs away.”

“Why would someone try to follow you? I mean, who are you? Mafia? CIA?”

“I'm not that interesting, believe me,” Lipstick said as they climbed the stairs. “It's probably nothing. Maybe my parents. They tend to be overly dramatic, especially in times of noncommunication.”

“All right, now I have to know—why don't your parents know where you are?” Zach asked, rounding the stairs and coming to a stop in front of his door.

“It's a long story, but believe me, a very boring one. I'm kind of on the run from the Upper East Side.”

“Ha. Who isn't?”

“I moved here after I got cut off and am trying to make do. But it's really tiring. I can't let anyone know about my current situation, and so I'm up all night sewing dresses and making up lies about why no one can offer me a ride home or why they can't have a dinner party in my apartment.”

“You still seem to care a lot about what those people think,” Zach said. “It's your life and you're living it, as far as I can tell. And it's far better to earn your way in the world than to just have it handed to you. I admire that.”

“Thanks,” Lipstick said, leaning against Zach's door.

“We should do this again sometime. It was fun,” Zach said, leaning in toward Lipstick, which made her very nervous.

“Yeah, totally cool, man…” Lipstick said, trying to be
downtown artsy—whatever that was.

Laughing, Zach said, “Okay, princess, let's talk later.” He opened his door and stepped into his apartment. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” And, disappointed, a kiss-less Lipstick went home.

 

“Zach is so cute!” Lipstick gushed into her phone to Penelope. “I can't believe you haven't noticed him before—you've lived there for, like, years!”

“Yeah,” Penelope said, “but I always kept weird hours at the
Telegraph
and was always so busy I just used my apartment to sleep. I only really noticed Dana because of Karl. I either tripped on him or he'd try to bite my leg.”

Lipstick logged on to Socialstatus.com while they were talking. Then she saw it. There, on the top of the page, was a grainy photo of her and Zach from the night before entering their building with the headline: “Lena Lippencrass Sluts It Up in Soho.”

“Oh God,” Lipstick whispered. “Oh my God. Penelope, are you near a computer?”

“Sure, what's up? You okay?”

“Check out Socialstatus.com,” Lipstick hissed. “Oh, Jesus.”

Two seconds later Penelope groaned, “Wow. You were right. You are being followed. Creepy. Who the fuck would do that?”

As the two were discussing the photo, Christina Mecklenberg, the sausage heiress and Jack's assistant/enforcer, walked by in her latest S&M-inspired Gaultier outfit and rapped her knuckles on Lipstick's desk.

“Jack wants to see you in his office. Now,” Christina said, raising her eyebrows at Lipstick on the phone. “Unless, of course, your current conversation is more important.” And with that, she walked off.

“No, No,” Lipstick called to Christina's rigid back, “I'll be right in!”

“Darn, I have to go,” she whispered into the phone. “Jack wants to see me. Hopefully he hasn't seen this Socialstatus thing.”

But the second Lipstick walked into Jack's gleaming office, she knew he had.

Seated behind his Biedermeier desk, in a dark gray pinstriped suit, a pink shirt, and a cravat, Jack motioned for Lipstick to take her place on the down-filled linen sofa. Whenever someone was in trouble, he sat them there. It was incredibly plush, and there was no way an employee could sit down on it and not sink all the way in, making him or her look like a six-year-old awaiting punishment. The only way to avoid being swallowed by the couch was to perch on the very edge, holding most of your weight in your thighs, which is what Lipstick (a seasoned veteran of the couch talks) did.

There was an uncomfortable silence as Jack stared at Lipstick through his black-framed Elvis Costello glasses (
Y,
May 2008 issue), for a full three minutes before he began.

“A post on that”—Jack paused to wrinkle his nose—“
website
has been brought to my attention. They're calling you a slut. A lowlife.”

“I can explai—”

“We can't have that,” Jack (who ironically once held an orgy on David Geffen's yacht off the coast of Cannes that was captured in
¡Hola!
magazine) retorted. “
Y
women are above reproach—socially, morally, and financially. Is there something you need to tell me?”

“No, of course not,” Lipstick said. “I was visiting a friend of mine in the building and that man let me in. That's all.”

“Fine. Just make sure this doesn't come back to bite me or the magazine in the ass or you will be sorry. Now, let's discuss these other photos,” Jack said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a sheaf of photographs, before he spread them out over his desk. They were shots of Lipstick at Portia's, at the Alzheimer gala, at
the Red March ball, and several other events—all dressed in her own designs.

“Yes?” Lipstick asked, starting to glisten. Again.

“You seem to be not only the muse but the sole customer for this mysterious designer.”

“She likes to keep to herself,” Lipstick said.

“The clothes are…”

“Yes?”

“Vivid. Very well made. A little sophomoric, perhaps, but I suppose that can't be helped when dealing with a new designer.”

“I'll tell her, thank you. She'll be pleased,” Lipstick said, her heart racing.

“I'd like to tell her myself.”

“Oh, of course. Well, she will be at the Met Gala,” Lipstick said.

“What is this mysterious woman's name? What is the name of the clothing line?”

“Dauphin.”

“Witty. What is her name?”

“I'll let her tell you,” Lipstick said.

“Is this some sort of PR stunt?” Jack said, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. “Because if it is, I am not amused. And I will really not be amused if I see her in the pages of
Vogue
or
W
before
Y.
”