I can at least say hi.
The older gentleman with Jeremy turns with his napkin pressed against his face, a flash of irritation disappearing so quickly that I must have imagined it. I reach down for my coat zipper and do it up a bit. There are full dinner plates in front of them, and I’m horrified that I’m interrupting a meal, hanging over them in this awful way. I helplessly gather my jacket around me, so I don’t disturb the couple next to them, who are now watching me as well.
“You can slide in with Jeremy,” says the man, calling someone over. “Let’s get that coat checked.” He eyes my enormous bomber. I do as I’m told, reluctantly baring my arms.
I’m basically naked, gritting my teeth so as not to shiver. I feel eyes on me and then realize it has nothing to do with my scant clothes and everything to do with this incredibly famous actor who even my parents would recognize.
“Hey, you,” says Jeremy, pressing his warm cheek to my cold one. I don’t know where to put my hands, pressed up against him like this, and when he slings his arm over the back of the banquette and around my neck, I don’t protest. Sandalwood cologne wafts over me and fills the sides of my mouth in warning saliva.
The actor watches us, never breaking eye contact or even blinking. He smiles, seeming on the verge of speech, but a calculation is taking place. I am being appraised. His eyes are a watery cerulean but beady. Set against puckered lips and florid, chubby cheeks, with his glinting cuff links and enormous watch, it dawns on me that I’m talking to a royal class of piglet.
Anybody really can be made to look like anyone.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, gesturing to his plate, and when I nod, he nods as well. “I didn’t know we’d be having company. I’d have insisted on another table.”
“I’m sorry,” I falter. “I thought I was meeting y’all for drinks.” I glance at Jeremy, who refuses my eye. I get it. Every man for himself. This is an entirely new stratosphere of ambition for him. An establishment that outpaces all the cool downtown art kids.
The actor saws into his fish. “Well, then, let’s get you a drink.” He chews and raises his brows at Jeremy, who springs into action and orders.
I’m gratified at seeing Jeremy like this. So utterly dominated.
“Thank you.” I direct it to him, not Jeremy. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting your dinner.”
He glances at me just once. He’s done discussing it.
I clear my throat.
“You know, this place used to be crawling with celebrities back in the eighties,” he tells me. I have to lean in to hear him. I hold the neckline of my dress against my clavicle with my cold palm. “Marty, Bobby, Keith Haring, Grace Jones. John Belushi used to march straight into the kitchen, into the walk-ins, and make whatever he wanted. Tribeca was obviously different back then. So much cocaine.”
Jeremy laughs at the cocaine reference. A quick snort that makes the actor stop chewing and shoot a questioning look. As if to ask what’s the matter with him.
I’m surprised that Jeremy isn’t bothering to show him up. I wonder who this man is to him.
At no point does the man introduce himself or ask my name.
“I gather you’re from the South,” he says. I’m astounded.
“Texas,” I report dutifully.
He nods as if there’s a correct answer. “You said y’all earlier. What do you do for”—he conducts the air briefly with his knife and fork as if looking for a word—“work?” he finishes.
“I’m in school.” Our drinks arrive in low glasses. “For fashion.”
“But surely you can see that by how fashionably she’s attired,” says Jeremy. My face burns. I uncross my legs. Under the table, I finger the hem of my short dress. The actor smiles politely.
He raises his glass, so I raise mine and take a big sip. I could take it down in four healthy gulps and run out.
“How do you like your old-fashioned?” he asks with a crooked smile teasing at his lips. It’s famous, this particular smile of his. It crinkles his eyes, as if he’s finding humor in something just outside of your perception.
The cocktail burns a course down my throat and ends in a treacly cherry flavor. I nod appreciatively, licking my lips, turning my face away from him as I do.
“You know they invented the cosmo here?”
I take another sip. He tilts his chin up encouragingly while I drink, as if helping me along, and when I dab my mouth with a napkin, I’m rewarded with another curving of his lips. It’s the patronizing smile particular to super-celebrities doing Japanese instant-coffee commercials. The low-rent kind that come in cans.
I can’t help but stare at the hairs on his wrist, which curl over the metal strap of his huge, incredibly expensive timepiece.
“I don’t understand fashion, which I’m sure you can guess.” The actor’s eyes twinkle. It’s as if Jeremy isn’t at the table. “I’ve been wearing the same Brioni suits for the past thirty years. Maybe the occasional Loro Piana sweater. My daughter’s in school for the very same thing. She says I dress like a senator she’d never vote for.”
“At least it’s not Brooks Brothers.” I smile down at my hands.
“What’s your name?” he finally asks. I glance up. It’s as if there’s a floodlight pouring out of his eyes and into mine. I’m filled with warmth.
“Jayne.”
“With a y,” interjects Jeremy, and I hear the insult in it.
“Like Jayne Mansfield,” says the actor, ignoring him. “It’s a beautiful name.”
The actor gets me another drink, and I thank him, unaware that I’d finished the first. My gratitude knows no bounds. I can’t believe this important man, a man everyone in the restaurant leaves alone out of reverence, is paying such close attention to me. I’m jealous of his daughter.
“You seem like a resourceful young woman, Jayne,” he begins. “I have a question for you. My oldest, the one in design school, says unpaid internships are unethical. I can’t keep up with all of this”—he shakes his head—“PC business or this new sensitivity. I get it: Don’t take your Johnson out and start whacking off in front of the ladies—pardon the vulgarity—but why wouldn’t she take a position with a dear friend who can help her out? It’s who you know, not what you know, don’t you think?”
I’m grateful to be asked. “It’s about leveling the playing field,” I tell him carefully. “If the position is unpaid, it means that only people who can afford to work for free can qualify for it. It’s unethical because…”
I feel Jeremy tense beside me.
The actor wipes his mouth, sets the napkin on his plate. It seems to signal something, but I’m unsure of what.
“Believe me,” he says, smiling indulgently, crinkling his eyes, but not with any sense of levity. In fact, the sudden hardness in his look stops me short. “This isn’t an internship anyone else would qualify for,” he insists. “With or without money. If she can afford to work for free, why shouldn’t she? I can see it being unethical if she took a paying job from someone who really needs the ten bucks an hour or whatever it is.”