Dorcet Hotel, New York City, Room 1107
Tessa told me that the dinner tonight with the production company would allow all the participants to meet one another, and then we’d go off to be measured for costumes. I was going to wear my maxi skirt, but decided I’d better trot out the fancy green dress instead.
“Good idea,” Julia approved, her voice tinny and distant since I had her on speakerphone while I hurriedly got dressed. “Not that the skirt isn’t cute, but you might as well have your first impression be one of elegance and charm.”
“I am anything but either of those two, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“You’re welcome. Now go forth and conquer Mr. Right.”
I rolled my eyes. “Tessa said there were some handsome Italians, too.”
“Oooh. I’ll look at the Web site and see if they have their pictures. Just don’t drop a wall down, OK, lovey?”
“A wall?”
“The kind you erect to keep men out of your life.”
“I don’t do any such thing,” I protested.
“You may not know it, but you do. I understand—I really do—but now that you’ve finally made your break from your father, don’t slip into old defense mechanisms. You’re free—let down your hair and enjoy yourself.”
“I’m not as free as you think,” I muttered, and told her about Boris.
“I’d like to say I’m surprised, but honestly, given your father’s behavior, I’m not. Are you sure you ditched him?”
“I hope so. I made it pretty clear I’d have him removed from the area if he tried to follow me.”
“Good for you. Whoops—Sanjay just got here. Have a great time, and text me later, OK?”
“Will do. Laters!”
I’m not a shy person, but I was a bit hesitant about entering the hotel ballroom that had been reserved for the production company. A dozen or so round tables were set up, as were a big whiteboard and a screen for a laptop projector. People bustled about, laughing, chatting, and generally making the sort of happy sounds that indicated a successful party.
“Name?”
I jumped a little when I entered the room and a young man with a clipboard popped up.
“Oh. Hi. Um, Paulina Rosta—uh—” I stopped and remembered that, except with immigration officials, I was supposed to use my mother’s maiden name.
“Paulina Rosta?” The man frowned at his paper and flipped through a couple of sheets.
“No, it’s Paulina Lewes. Sorry.”
“Ah. Yes, you’re here. You’re at table six.” He nodded into the room. “The meet and greet will go on for another twenty minutes; then Roger will welcome you.”
“Gotcha.” I entered the room, my head up, my stomach knotted with nerves, and my palms sweaty. “Steady,”I told myself. “Nellie wouldn’t have blanched at the idea of a bunch of strangers in a room.”
“I totally agree,” a voice said behind me. “Although I don’t know this Nellie person. Is she famous?”
I spun around to see a blond woman in her mid-twenties pouting at her phone, clearly taking pictures of herself. “Hi. Um. Nellie is Nellie Bly. She was an intrepid woman reporter in the 1880s.”
“Oh.” The girl rolled her eyes and took another selfie. “Why do you care what she thinks? She’s got to be, like, almost dead now.”
“She is dead. She died in 1922.”
“So thrilling.” The girl stopped admiring herself in her phone’s camera and looked around the room. “Oh god, they’re here. They’re sure to want to drool all over my tits.”
I blinked at both her comment and the way she hoisted up her substantial bosomage, generously displayed in a skintight spandex dress. “Uh...”
