Nine Women, One Dress(6)

ME:?Albert, what took you so long?

ALBERT:?I spoke to Hank. I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses.

ME:?What senses? I stand at no comment.

ALBERT:?No comment means you’re gay.

ME:?So? You’re gay.

ALBERT:?That’s correct, but you’re not. If you were, I would be your biggest cheerleader. But you’re not.

ME:?Did I ever tell you that my brother’s gay?

ALBERT:?The first day I met you.

ME:?Oh, sorry about that. Well, anyway, how would it look to him if I made a big deal of denying that I was gay?

ALBERT:?It would look like you’re not gay.

ME:?I think it would hurt his feelings.

ALBERT:?You’re being ridiculous, Stanley.



He always calls me Stanley when he is very serious about something. He thinks it grounds me. It doesn’t.


ME:?Don’t you appreciate my attempt at solidarity?

ALBERT:?What solidarity? You’re not gay! Go solidate somewhere else and leave your brother and me be.

ME:?I don’t think solidate is a word. Hold on, I’m getting a pink tie.

ALBERT:?A pink tie? Is that a joke? Are you trying to kill me?



I put the phone on the counter and asked the saleswoman, whose name tag read Lillian, for a pink tie. She was an older black woman with beautiful silver hair who looked eerily like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Glass. It was clear that she had already recognized me and had been listening to every word of my conversation. She was slightly giddy, the way some people are when they see a famous person.

I had no idea what kind of fan she was: the kind who would keep her mouth shut, completely containing her excitement; the kind who would say, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I loved you in Bridge and Tunnel” (my last movie, in which I played a one-eyed serial killer, so it’s odd for people to say they loved me in it). Maybe she was the kind who would ask for a selfie with me, which I doubted; there must be some kind of rule in the Bloomingdale’s employee handbook against that. Or maybe she was the kind who mistakes her familiarity with me as one that goes both ways. This is more common than you might think. It’s amazing how many fans will chat you up as if you know them as well as they think they know you.

Albert had not adhered to my request to hold on and was now shouting, a very non-Albert thing to do. He was so loud he might as well have been on speakerphone. The eighties rom-com continued.


ALBERT:?Stanley, buy a masculine tie!



I laughed for the first time in two days. I picked up the phone for a second.


ME:?I’m supposed to buy a pink tie. You and Hank really need to communicate better.

ALBERT:?Please, Stanley, you need to bring a girl. I will bring one for you.

ME:?I don’t mind you picking out my tie, but a girl? Forget it.

LILLIAN:?I know the perfect girl for you.



Bingo. Lillian was the familiar kind. The kind who thinks my public and private personas are one. She thinks from watching me on The Tonight Show and reading about me in People magazine that she knows me well enough to fix me up. Albert heard her as well. He shouted.


ALBERT:?Who’s that?

ME:?The lady who’s selling me the tie.



I looked at her name tag again.


ME:?Lillian.

ALBERT:?Take the girl too, Stanley. Take the girl.

ME:?Albert, this is nuts!

LILLIAN:?What’s nuts? She’s a nice girl. Better than the big-mouthed tramp you were engaged to. I read the papers. Who’s Albert, your agent?

ME:?My publicist. She wasn’t always a big-mouthed tramp.

LILLIAN:?Not my business. Let me talk to him.



This couldn’t get any more ridiculous, so I gave her the phone.


LILLIAN:?Albert, let me bring him up to my friend Ruthie on three. She’s like our resident consigliere. She can fix anything.



It had been a long twenty-four hours and somehow, after the betrayal and all the screaming, turning my life over to the Bloomingdale’s mafiosi seemed like a reasonable course of action. Besides, I trusted them; unlike my publicist and agent, they were only making commission on the tie. Lillian, still talking to Albert on my phone, motioned for me to follow her up two escalator flights to the third floor. There she approached three other salespeople: a woman around her age who seemed to be the fixer, name tag Ruthie; a Latin-looking guy around my age, name tag Tomás; and a younger woman whose back was to me. At least she looked younger; I couldn’t totally tell from behind.

They listened to Lillian intently, the consigliere eyeing me rather obviously, the younger one taking a quick peek over her shoulder, the guy staring openly. Her quick peek in my direction revealed that the younger woman was in fact younger. And she was pretty—unconventionally pretty and kind of sexy. I watched as she turned back to the group and emphatically shook her head: No way. She was refusing a date with a movie star. This just made her seem even sexier. But then Lillian whispered something in her ear. Whatever it was sealed the deal. She turned, walked over to me, and smiled. “I’m Natalie.” (I tried not to dwell on the coincidence.) “Give me ten minutes. I assume a little black dress is appropriate?” I smiled and nodded. She smiled back and was off.

Up close she was quite beautiful. Not model beautiful, thankfully. The kind of beautiful that radiates from her smile. The kind of beautiful I remembered from high school. Back then, before I was famous, I could trust that a smile was a smile with no further agenda. Now when a girl is nice to me, I have to question her motives. I hate being so distrusting, but fame has its downsides. Lillian handed me back the phone and I told Albert I had the date and the tie and that he should tell Hank I would be there soon. I promised to hold her hand, and when the press shouted questions at me I would just sweep by with my pretty date, saying that I was late.