Mercury in Retrograde (18 page)

“Sit still,” said Penelope, gripping a Can-O-Hair.

She and Dana were in the living room area of Dana's loft, and Dana was sitting on an expandable folding chair, which the two had rescued from the street, that was placed on a plastic tarp, covering Dana's floors and protecting her white furniture. Karl was hiding under the couch, growling at any movement. Penelope, in a sweatsuit with her frazzled tresses piled on top of her head, was wearing a face mask and plastic gloves to avoid touching or inhaling Can-O-Hair.

“Okay, but be careful,” Dana said, holding up her hair and exposing her ever-growing bald spot. “My apartment is white. All the furniture is white. This could cause some serious damage. That stuff probably doesn't come out so easily.”

“Please, trust me. After four months of spraying this crap on Trace's head, I'm a pro,” Penelope said before pressing the can and letting it rip.

Whooosh! The dark brown viscous material erupted out of the can like Montezuma's Silly String, fusing to Dana's scalp.

“Argh!” Dana said, jumping out of her seat, “It's freezing.”

“Chill out,” Penelope said. She grabbed a beautician's sponge
she'd swiped from Trace's drawer. “Now here's where the artistry comes in.”

It was the night of the Met Gala and three weeks since Dana had last promised Lipstick she'd show up as her date, bald spot or not. And in those three weeks, the patch had grown from the size of a silver dollar to the approximate size of a baseball card. The growth was roughly proportional to Dana's increase in stress-induced anxiety.

Two weeks ago she'd gone home to Cleveland for an ill-fated Passover service where her mother—who'd run into Noah's mother again in the supermarket—had informed Dana, “She's having a girl. That could have been your baby, you know. I'll never be a grandmother at this rate. You aren't even dating, are you?”

It had gone downhill from there. The Lubovitch side of the family had flown in from Miami and ignored Dana, refusing to acknowledge anyone who'd gone through a divorce. Her father, always the strong, silent type, was even stronger and more silent than usual thanks to a prostate infection. Dana, not wanting details, spent much of the time hiding in the bathroom from her mother, who desperately tried to share them.

Thankfully her weight had stabilized, but only because she was under a lot of pressure. After the meeting with Mr. Kornberg, her usual workload had been boosted up to an almost inhuman one-hundred-hour workweek, forcing her into her office on Saturdays and Sundays. Due to time constraints, she'd stopped going to Weight Watchers meetings altogether, and skipped out of work only to sleep and to host the twice-weekly yoga group.

As a result, her alopecia was threatening to take over the back of her head.

“I can't believe I agreed to go to this damn thing with Lipstick,” Dana said as Penelope continued honing her skill with the spray-on hair and sponge. “How come you can't go?” she asked Penelope.

“I already told you,” Penelope said, patting down more faux hair on Dana's scalp before removing her face mask. “It's sweeps week for cable stations. And Marge got it in her crazy head to do something called the ‘Call Girl Coffee Klatch.' She's had me calling prostitutes all week.”

That Monday, during the morning assignment meeting, Marge had come up with her “most brilliant sweeps idea ever,” she said. “We'll get a bunch of hookers to give us sex tips. We'll call it ‘inside the seedy underbelly of the sex industry'!” By the end of the meeting, Marge's idea had been toned down to the “Call Girl Coffee Klatch.”

After the meeting, Penelope and Thomas sat in the back of the newsroom and began phoning all of the escort services in the back of
New York
magazine and the
Village Voice.
But trying to get girls to agree to go on camera and talk about their profession wasn't easy.

“You want me to do what?” said one woman from Discreet Indiscretions when Penelope asked her to “come on air and just talk about your job. You know, the highlights—the good, the bad, the STDs. Kind of like an informational interview.” The woman responded, “And have the cops on my ass? Get the fuck outta here.”

A woman from Eastern Massage was more concise. “You no good. You bad!” she said before hanging up on Penelope.

Finally, Penelope had an idea. As Thomas kept plugging away at the ads in the back of the
Village Voice,
she called her old pal Olga from her
Telegraph
days.

“Olga?” Penelope asked when a woman with no discernible
Russian accent answered the phone.

“Yes, this is Olga Kain speaking.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Penelope said. “I'm looking for an Olga Khrushcheksvy.”

“Who may I ask is calling, please?”

“Penelope Mercury. I used to know her when I worked at the Telegraph.”

“Penelope, dahling!” the voice said—now in the Russian accent Penelope knew and loved. “It's me, Olga. I am now vorking on my own. I finally got rid of Stanislas, but he still calls. So I have to disguise my voice vhen I answer the phone. I am my own secretary now.”

“Oh, good to hear,” Penelope said. “Does that mean you are still, um, working…?”

“Yes, of course. Better than ever now. Such demands for beautiful Russian vomen these days. Thanks to God I fit the bill!”

“Well, I'm now working at New York Access, that local cable channel—and I need some prostitutes to come on and talk about their profession.”

“Anything for you, dah-ling, but remember. I prefer the term ‘escort.' So does your IRS!”

 

“So, I have to film that tonight,” Penelope said to Dana.

“Why tonight? Why didn't you shoot it today?” Dana asked.

“Eh, Marge was so excited that she started doing promos for it and some people complained about it possibly airing in the afterschool time slot—who knew we had afterschool viewers? So we had to move the Klatch to the ‘adult swim hours.' It's taping tonight at nine. So, after a full day of work and being tortured by Trace Feelyhands, Kandace Karllsen,
and
Laura Lopez, I get to go back for more.”

 

And it was torture. Ever since the
Y
article appeared, the claws had come out.

At first Kandace had been supportive of Penelope's odd segments if only because she was grateful Marge hadn't made her do it.

“I (hands swooshing inward toward her heaving chest that was shoved inside a blue strapless dress two sizes too small) am so proud of you (swoosh toward Penelope),” Kandace gushed to Penelope after her “promotion.” On days that Kandace was feeling generous, she would introduce Penelope to everyone as “my protégé.”

“I (swoosh in) was asked to do the segments but told Marge (swoosh out)
you
were the gal for the job! Besides, my dance card is so full I am afraid it would cause a
riot
of jealousy.”

But lately Kandace's largesse was diminishing.

Thanks to the
Y
item, Penelope—or rather, her segments—had been reviewed by the
New York Post
(“Atrociously appalling—you won't believe what they make this poor girl do”—Linda Stasi) and the
Daily News
(“An addictive train wreck. Like
Cosmo
on crack”—Micah Stark), further raising Kandace's ire.

“What is wrong with you?” Kandace hissed that morning after sending Penelope on a coffee run (which Penelope was still obliged to do), “I am a
senior
anchor here. I used to work at CNN. And when I ask for a venti mocha skim latte I want a frickin'
venti
mocha skim latte—not a
grande
mocha skim latte!”

“I'm sorry,” Penelope said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “I forgot—you usually like
grandes,
remember? You said anything larger gives you gas?”

“I said venti—I want venti! It's not rocket scientry!”

“Rocket scientry?” Penelope asked.

“Yes! Rocket scientry! Are you deaf?” Kandace screeched.

“No, but I think you mean ‘rocket science.' ‘Scientry' isn't
a word.”

“Riiiight,” Kandace said, eying Penelope suspiciously.

“No, really, it's not.”

“Irregardlessy,” Kandace said, her hands swishing outward.

Penelope stifled a giggle as Kandace stomped away.

While Kandace was openly hostile, Laura seemed to view Penelope—or, rather, Penelope's unwanted press—as a challenge.

Later that same day Penelope was having a smoke break on the fire escape with David when Laura waltzed outside and announced in a hushed stage whisper, “If you hear anything about me and Jimmy Smits on a boat in Sag Harbor, you know nothing! I'll tell you all later, but for now, it's best you're in the dark. But if Richard Johnson from Page Six or George Rush from Rush & Molloy call, say ‘no comment' and hang up!” At that last directive, Laura, stuffed into a bright-red sundress that matched her sunburned chest, turned on her heel and stalked off.

Two hours later, after Penelope finished taping a segment on “Bling Bling Baby Baskets—All the Latest Rage,” Laura slunk over to her and, again in a hushed stage whisper, her eyes darting around, said, “Did anyone call about…you know…”

“Not that I am aware of,” Penelope said, “but—”

“Shhh!” Laura said. She put her finger to her lips and scanned the room for eavesdroppers. “It's for the best! Now remember. If they do call—and they will—about me and one Jimmy Smits. You. Know. Nothing!”

After Laura slunk away, David walked over and whispered to Penelope, “Your press is killing her. I just caught her dialing Richard Johnson in Marge's office. She's apparently been ringing him, George Rush, and every other gossip columnist in town all morning.”

Laura, deciding to take press matters into her own hands, had sneaked into Marge's office several times during one of
Marge's many patrols around the newsroom—which almost always coincided with David's cigarette or bathroom breaks. Disguising her voice, she had rung up the city's gossip columnists and left them messages. “I kan't tell you who theees ees,” she whispered into the phone, “but you vould like to know New York Access entertainment voman, thees beeyoutiful Laura Lo-PEZ, she vas spotted on a boat in Sag Harbor with the hot hot hot Latino acter JEEMMY SMITS!”

On her last dash into the office David had followed her and, afterward, as she was tiptoeing down the hall, yelled at her, “JEEMY! JEEMY! I luv yoooouuuu!”

 

“Kandace and Laura are seriously driving me nuts, and Trace grabbed my ass twice last week. I don't know how much more I can handle,” Penelope told Dana, giving Dana's scalp one last pat with the sponge. “There. All done. Keep holding your hair up though; it has to dry properly.”

“Why don't you sue that creep for sexual harassment?” Dana asked indignantly. “That's illegal behavior, and you don't have to put up with it.”

“It's not that easy,” Penelope said. “It's kind of what he does. And I can't be unemployed again.
And
if I sue, I'll have to leave and then it will be publicized and no one will ever hire me again.
And
it's not like I'll get a million-dollar payout. Hell, I don't even think they'd have a million, if that's what I was awarded.”

“Do you want me to call your boss and have a chat with her as your lawyer?” Dana asked.

“No, I'm okay. I'll handle it, Mom,” Penelope said. “Thanks, though.”

There was a knock at the door, and Lipstick's voice from outside came floating through: “Helloooo, Dana? Darling? I've got the dresses…”

Karl emerged from under the sofa and hit the ground run
ning, a snarling, barking, frothing mess.

“Your dog is bazonkers,” Penelope said as Dana struggled to get up. “Sit. That stuff needs to dry some more. I'll get it.”

Penelope opened the door to greet Lipstick, who was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and carrying two explosions of feathers—one black, one green.

“Whoa!” Penelope said, taking a step back. “What the hell is going on? You look like you got into a pillow fight with a peacock and lost.”

“The Met, that's what,” Lipstick puffed, out of breath from climbing the flight of stairs with the heavy feathery creations.

Penelope took off her rubber gloves and tossed them on the plastic tarp. “Let me help you with one of those birds,” she said, grabbing the bigger dress. Lipstick and Penelope walked to the sofa, with Karl snapping at their heels the entire way, and laid the dresses down.

“Okay,” Lipstick said, taking a deep breath and pulling a few stray feathers from her hair. “I had to work for three weeks straight, but here we go…” She lifted up the first dress. It was a black strapless dress with a ruched bust and a floor-length silk-organza feathered skirt.

“This one is yours, Dana,” Lipstick said to Penelope and Dana. “The green one's mine. Well, what do you think? Do you guys like them? Hate them? Please tell me something…anything!”

“It's…” Dana gulped. “It's…”

“Yes?” Lipstick asked, twirling her hair and chewing on a nail.

“Beautiful. I've never seen anything like it.”

“They're amazing,” Penelope agreed.

“Oh, thank God.” Lipstick heaved a sigh of relief and placed the dress back on the sofa. “I was so worried you wouldn't like it.” Turning to Dana, she asked, “How's the hair coming?”