On the reverse of the card, a schedule of events was listed, beginning with a breakfast at eight a.m. local time on the twenty-second, continuing through a six-hour televised portion
(All revenues to go Zemblan Famine Relief!)
and ending with “frolics” from six p.m. to late on the twenty-fourth. Most of the events were subtitled DRESS OPTIONAL.
But, most thrilling and confusing of all was the slip of paper that had been enclosed with the invitation. This was written in pencil. It said simply, PLEASE SEE ME, BABYLONA’S OFFICE, 1 P.M. TODAY—MICHAEL TYLER.
It couldn’t be anything bad, Zaza told herself. If it was bad they wouldn’t have invited her to the party. Unless they had invited everyone to the party, including people who were being fired in disgrace. But another part of her mind was convinced it was about the six-hour televised portion. What if they wanted her to participate? Would Jared mind? Would she mind? What about all the starving Zemblan children? Zaza had always felt a kinship with anyone or -thing whose name started with Z.
Worst of all: It was already twelve fifteen and she was still half-dressed in Jared’s dressing room, trying to recover from the closest scrape they’d had yet with actual
sexual intercourse.
(In the two weeks of their relationship,
sexual intercourse
had begun to seem like a fabulous beast, seldom seen in the wild, that she was stalking through the jungles of Jared’s scruples. She no longer dared to even think the word “fucking,” because it sent her into a tailspin of yearning and frustration. Sometimes being loved was a little bit of a liability, she was discovering.) She realized she was getting hot thinking about fucking again—fucking anyone at all, under any circumstances. Well, it wasn’t entirely
not
Jared’s fault, even if she respected his reasons. And they weren’t sworn to fidelity, though sleeping with someone else
before
sleeping with Jared seemed a little much. But this was work! And respecting his reasons didn’t mean she agreed with them, or was happy about them, or cared at all, or could live through the next twenty-four hours without . . . Well, they were almost there.
In their first week of dating, Jared had kept the brakes on with such determination that it was almost insulting. They could only meet every other day, and then they had to be in a public place. There was a good-night kiss—period. Granted, the good-night kiss sometimes lasted for an hour. But it was still a kiss, on a sidewalk, with people passing by them, staring curiously.
The second week began to get out of control. First Jared let her come to pick him up at his dressing room, meaning that they were sometimes two hours late for their dinner reservation. They were meeting every day; by the end of the week they were meeting all day and all night. She would stagger home at two a.m. with a button missing from her blouse and her hair in a wonderful disarray, with carpet lint all over the back of her dress. Then she would lie in bed, having utterly forgotten how to sleep, and rerun the day in her mind, embellishing it with all the
sexual intercourse
that should have happened.
This morning was the first morning they’d woken up together. They had ended the evening at his apartment, which was a surprisingly modest one-bedroom in the East Village, with a bathtub in the living room and a radiator that clicked and hissed all night as if muttering to itself. At one o’clock, Zaza was lying in his arms, naked to the waist, in a trance of helpless love-and-someday-
sexual-intercourse.
For hours she had been tracking the course of erections against her thigh: on, off, on, off. When she began to feel the slight movements that meant he was disengaging from her, preparation for making her leave (well, not exactly making her, but she could hardly insist on staying), she felt a wave of self-pity mingled with utter physical exhaustion. She pictured her own bed and the ceiling over it, which she would be staring at again for weary hours. A second later, she was fast asleep.
She woke up well-rested and found him beside her, still in his clothes, holding her hand in his sleep. Zaza had possibly never felt quite so pleased with herself as at that moment. Falling asleep—it was so simple! And when she kissed him, he woke slowly and began to kiss her back, slipping from sleep back into almost-lovemaking without any transition. They’d had breakfast together and come to the studio together, holding hands. She was entering a new world where everything was exactly as she wanted it, down to the bathtub in the living room where she could watch Jared taking a shower every morning after the first
sexual intercourse
of the day.
Now this. Zaza got dressed incredibly slowly, having trouble making her mind focus on the simple tasks of buttoning, putting on shoes, combing her hair. She knew who Michael was—Michael Tyler, Babylona’s assistant and lifelong crony, a former minor-league baseball player who had been swept up into her entourage when Babylona was just starting out. He was famous for never having been her lover, which was such a feat of willpower, given Babylona’s character, that fifteen years after his appearance on the scene, people still had long conversations about his motives. More remarkable, possibly, was his ability to continue in the post of right-hand man for all those years. There had been a few defections and dramatic returns, which all occasioned storms of gossip. When he started an affair with Babylona’s friend Friselle Belesci, everyone was shocked. When he appeared at a film premiere with a beautiful radiologist, rumors of his impending marriage swept through the porn world. By simply having a normal number of relationships in a normal way, he had gained a reputation for being inaccessible and mysterious.
Jared had said about Michael that he was not only smart, but he was one of those rare people who made decisions based on intelligent thought. Since Jared was obviously thinking of his own decision to take it slow with Zaza, she had conceived an immediate dislike of Michael. Making decisions based on intelligent thought was clearly pernicious.
Now she checked herself in the mirror, amazed as always by the uninspiring reflection there. How could Jared have chosen her? She was still the same skinny nothing, even in the fluffy pink Marc Jacobs dress Jared had bought for her this week. Her red hair made her look even paler than she was; her blue eyes seemed almost colorless in this light. She remembered how, when she was a child, she’d always been afraid that she was turning into an albino. When she finally discovered that it was something people were born with, she’d been both relieved and disappointed. At least if she were turning into an albino, someday she would have been blond.
It was twelve forty-five. Somehow it had taken half an hour to put on a dress and comb her hair. She set off down the corridor to Babylona’s office with mingled trepidation and excitement. It had been a whole two weeks since she’d had an actual job at XTV. Was this going to be a new assignment, or, as her paranoid imagination kept insisting, a complaint about the fact that she was on the premises almost every day, when she didn’t have a job right now—and never would again?
Despite what was now weeks of experience with XTV hiring policies, she wasn’t prepared for just how good-looking Michael Tyler was. He was an African-American man in his late thirties who could have just as easily been twenty-five. He had the kind of chiseled features and glowing skin that Zaza had always assumed were a trick of fashion photography—some combination of makeup and lighting that made people look unfathomably gorgeous. Even Jared looked like a human being in person. Jared was human handsome, not this-person-is-from-another-planet handsome. Michael was breathtakingly handsome. Even being in the same room with him, it was hard to believe he was real.
But what was most amazing was that he was Leonard Falwell. He was the man who’d invited her to work at XTV, who’d accosted her in a bar three weeks and a lifetime ago.
Michael was sitting at Babylona’s desk, eating edamame out of a plastic container while talking on the phone. He was wearing an un-tucked white business shirt, rumpled at the bottom where it had recently been tucked. There were papers scattered everywhere, and he had the air of someone who was being driven insane by other people’s incompetence. At first she didn’t understand what he was saying into the phone. Then she realized that she
really
didn’t understand it; he was speaking in French. Even in a foreign language, she could glean that he was telling someone what they had done wrong and how stupid they were for doing it. At the end, he slammed the phone down with a gesture of perfect physical confidence. She would have sworn that he’d calculated exactly the impact the receiver made as it crashed down. That gesture flowed naturally into his rising from his chair and extending a hand to her. “Zaza,” he said with a smile full of perfect white teeth, “so glad to see you again.”
“Oh. Hi. Nice to see you, too,” she said, and found herself sitting awkwardly in the chair he indicated. He sat again and regarded her, resting his chin on one fist. Even the fist was handsome. Life was astoundingly unfair.
He said, “I’m sorry for the phony name. If I could explain it, rest assured that you wouldn’t be offended by the explanation. But you’re looking great. You look so much . . .” He stopped himself and shook his head.
“I know I look better on film,” Zaza said apologetically. “You don’t have to be polite. I mean, I’m totally aware I’m kind of weedy-looking.”
Michael smiled, and again Zaza was distracted by the perfect teeth. Even in New York’s world of orthodontic perfection, these were unusual. They went beyond fake-looking into CGI-like. He said, “Not at all. You’re very pretty. You may not believe me, but perhaps you’ll feel more confident when I tell you that Ms. Parris wants you to take Valerie LeBlanc’s place as anchor of
Pleasure News
, starting in October.”
Zaza sat, her mind going in circles. This was the moment when she should be thanking him for another bit part. Or else apologetically promising to keep clear of the studio. This was too much for her to take in.
He went on. “Of course, this isn’t going to be made public yet, and I’d appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself for now.
No one
knows about this offer apart from Ms. Parris, me, and now you. I’m sure you can understand why discretion on your part is crucial.”
She managed to say, “Oh, no! Valerie doesn’t know?”
“It’s a management decision,” he said smoothly. “When it’s appropriate for her to know, she’ll know.”
Zaza sat in a stew of doubt and excitement. Or course, it wasn’t porn proper, and she’d just begun to believe she had a special talent for sex scenes. (Jared had said she did, though he might be being nice.) Presenting
Pleasure News
was completely different from actually playing in sex scenes. It was just like being an anchorperson on any news show, really. Of course, she would be naked, and she could hardly see why anyone would want to see her naked. Naked while being ravaged by two guys, maybe, but just naked?
Meanwhile, Michael was explaining to her the duties involved in being the anchorperson on
Pleasure News.
She would have a production team, and a new person would be hired to take over some of the writing of the items, so that she would only have to do the news reading at first. Later she could branch out into sourcing her own stories and writing them up. She would have to become an expert on the sex industry, and he would advise her to start doing some research now; she would begin receiving a salary for the position in a month’s time. In August, someone from the production team would partner with her. . . .
It all began to blur in her head into a litany of impossibilities. At last, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, it sounds . . . great. But why me? There must be a lot of other people who would know more than me. Like, everyone here.”
He smiled at her enigmatically. “Sometimes Babylona takes a special interest in someone. There’s no point second-guessing her decisions. So far, she’s always been right.”
“Oh, but you think she’s gone crazy this time, I’ll bet,” Zaza said. “Wow. I don’t have any idea about reporting, but that’s barely scratching the surface of the things I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to be negative, but . . .”
“Well, why don’t you take a week to think about it? And we can talk about it at the birthday celebration. You are coming?”
“Oh yes. Yes, I guess I am. I mean, if you say I should.”
He smiled again, this time with an unmistakable affection in his eyes. “You should.”
“Okay.”
He rose from his seat then, and she got up automatically, nervously. He put out his hand and she put her hand out, expecting him to shake it, but he just held it, smiling at her. For a terrible, wonderful moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. If he did, should she push him away? He was gorgeous; she was dying for
sexual intercourse.
And he was her boss. She had never liked saying no to men, anyway, because it would hurt their feelings, and plus, she wanted to fuck them.
But Michael just stood holding her hand and looking at her. She felt her cheeks burning. Of course he didn’t intend to fuck her. It was a business meeting. She was getting a little too frustrated; Jared absolutely had to give in soon.
Then he said, in an offhand tone, “I don’t suppose your aunt ever mentions me.”
Zaza flinched. “My aunt? Why would she—Do you know my aunt?”
“A little.” He let go of her hand. “I suppose she wouldn’t mention me. Never mind.”
“But how do you know my aunt? I mean, she doesn’t even know I’m working here. Does she? How—”
At that moment, his phone rang, and he turned to it swiftly, waving good-bye to Zaza over his shoulder. As he began to shout at another person, this time in English, Zaza faltered and finally turned to leave.
Nothing made any sense. The entire encounter had been like a stupid dream, the kind that was so jumbled it wasn’t worth remembering. Part of her wanted to treat it that way—just forget it had ever happened and go on with her life. Dealing with Jared was confusing enough already.