Sad Desk Salad (25 page)

I don’t want to admit that Molly’s right, but what she’s saying does sound reasonable.

Alex182 (8:33:31):
OK, what’s this “really important tidbit” that’s so special?

Prettyinpink86 (8:34:24):
The
People
that hits newsstands next week is going to have an exclusive interview with Becky West. They have her holed up in the Pierre Hotel so that no one else can talk to her—except for a very, very select group.

Alex182 (8:35:53):
Who??

Prettyinpink86: (8:36:50):
The group of MTV executives who are talking to her about the reality show they’re planning about the West family.

Alex182 (8:37:24):
Like a klassier version of the Kardashians?

Prettyinpink86 (8:37:52):
Exactly.

Whoa.
I just sit there for a few seconds, trying to collect myself. Here I’ve been driving myself crazy with guilt the past few days—and it turns out that crafty Ms. West is turning life’s lemons into lemonade. Or I guess more accurately, turning life’s coke binges into cold, hard cash.

Now I need to focus, because time is running out. Even though the
Post
’s website looks like it was made by a third grader in computer class, they might put the Becky West information up early if they think it’s a big enough scoop. The
People
magazine issue won’t be out until next week, and by then the
Post
narrative will be the one that sticks in the collective readers’ minds: that Becky West was driven into hiding/was kidnapped/tried to off herself because of the humiliation of having that video published. And that it’s all my fault.

First things first, I have to make things right with Molly. I’ve been mentally categorizing her as some devious, Tracy Flickian monster, when she’s exactly what she appears to be: a hardworking Ohio-bred girl. She really just does want to help Chick Habit, and it seems like she’s doing a sight more than I am.

Alex182 (8:39:21):
Molly, I am so, so sorry.

Prettyinpink86 (8:40:34):
It’s OK.

Alex182 (8:41:52):
I’ve been suspicious of you since you started working here, and it’s not fair. You’ve only ever been helpful to me. This week has just made me completely crazy.

Prettyinpink86 (8:42:12):
You have been pretty frosty, I guess. But it’s OK. I accept your apology.

Alex182 (8:43:30):
Thank you.

Prettyinpink86 (8:44:21):
You know what you have to do now, right?

Alex182 (8:45:15):
Continue to freak the fuck out?

Prettyinpink86 (8:46:45):
No, silly! You need to go up to the Pierre Hotel and find some way into Becky West’s room so that you can get her to spill about the reality show!

Alex182 (8:47:33):
How would I do that?

Prettyinpink86 (8:48:11):
You’re going to have to figure that one out for yourself. Just make sure to have a digital recorder in your pocket!!!

Huh. Turns out under those emoticons and perkiness lies the quick-beating, ruthless heart of a fearless investigative reporter. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to me to go to the Pierre myself. I guess all these months of reporting exclusively from my couch have trained me to forget about exploring the wider world.

Alex182 (8:50:18):
You’re kind of amazing, do you know that?

Prettyinpink86 (8:51:37):
Aw shucks. Are you going to really do it? Go up there and get the scoop?

Alex182 (8:52:22):
I don’t think I have any other choice.

I shuck off the muumuu, which hits the floor with a soft scratch. I find a bra, then rummage through my closet for a vertically striped cotton sundress with huge side pockets. I haven’t worn it since last summer and when I throw it on over my head it’s looser over my torso than I remember it being. It’s the losing-your-goddamn-mind diet: Combine high anxiety, life implosion, and a potent cocktail of booze and sedatives and you will drop weight like a high school wrestler! No cauliflower ear required.

I believe my seldom-used digital recorder is in the old wooden desk in our living room, but all I see when I rummage around is used batteries and instruction guides for appliances we don’t even own anymore. Finally I decide to just upend every drawer onto our grimy sisal rug. After dumping the third and final drawer, I see the dull silver of the recorder peeking out from under an iPhone charger and a take-out menu from a Chinese place that once gave me food poisoning. I grab it and press the record button. Miraculously, it turns on.

I shove the recorder in my pocket and head into the bedroom to look at myself in the full-length mirror. There is no obvious bulge in my pocket that screams “You’re being bugged!” so I slide on my sandals and find my canvas bag. I check back at the computer one more time to get directions to the Pierre. Shit, I didn’t realize how far uptown it is. But with midday traffic, it’s probably just as convenient to take the subway.

I step out into the sunlight without bothering to put sunglasses on. Instead I let the warmth spread over my face as I walk a single block to the F train. The station is empty except for three Caribbean nannies gossiping next to tricked-out strollers holding their sleeping charges.

Thankfully, the subway arrives almost immediately, but I know it’s going to be a long thirty-five-minute ride until I arrive at the Pierre. As we get on the subway, I let the nannies have the last two available seats while I hang on to a vertical pole and try to devise a game plan.

Molly sounded so confident over IM that I didn’t really think through all the possible roadblocks. First there’s the front desk. I’m sure they aren’t just giving her room number out to any old person, so what do I tell them to get inside? What if Becky’s under an assumed name? How do I figure out what it is?

An accordionist with a beret enters the car at Twenty-third Street. I turn my back on him as I continue to fret. If I succeed in getting up to Becky’s room, what if she isn’t there? Do I chloroform a housekeeper, steal her uniform and master key, and wait in the bathroom like they do in the movies? Probably not: There’s a reason they never show the repercussions of thriller movies, or else nine-tenths of every Angelina Jolie action film would take place in a holding cell.

The accordionist is playing “Tears of a Clown” right behind me. I try to lean away from him, but he slithers around so now he’s directly in front of me. He seems to have singled me out as his mark. Under the beret, he’s got mime makeup on, with a garish smile painted on his chalk-white face. I try to shoot him a death glare, but he’s not taking the hint. We’re in the middle of a staring match when I hear the conductor announce my stop. Damn it! My longstanding mime hatred has confounded me again! I haven’t adequately planned for my Becky confrontation because I was too busy trying to get that accordion-playing knob out of my face.

At Fifty-seventh Street I hop out of the subway. The station is muggy, and insta-sweat appears in the crooks of my knees and elbows. I run up the stairs to Sixth Avenue and head north by northeast, ’til I reach the grand façade of the Pierre, take a deep breath, and close my eyes.

I pluck each thought about Becky West out of my brain like a childhood game of “he loves me, he loves me not.” I am sorry I’ve subjected Becky to this sort of intense national scrutiny; I am not sorry I tried to succeed at my job; I am sorry I let Moira pressure me into doing something I wasn’t comfortable with; I am not sorry I tried to make my mom proud of me, even though it seems my efforts there were ultimately misguided; I am sorry I read Peter’s report when I wasn’t supposed to; I am not sure if I’m sorry we had that air-clearing fight. Maybe we needed that.

I look into the gleaming glass panes next to the revolving door and lick my palms to smooth down any flyaways. I look, well, not great, but at least not insane. I stride into the Pierre with purpose, because I remember reading that the best way to fit in when you’re too low-rent for your situation is to act like you belong; that’s why they call rich people eccentric instead of crazy. So what if my hair hasn’t been washed properly in a week and I’m wearing a dress that I bought from the Delia’s catalogue even though I’m twelve years older than their average customer? If I own it, the front-desk ladies will buy it.

Two women are standing behind the concierge desk, their backs impossibly straight. They are wearing identical gray business suits and starched white blouses with small gold studs. One woman’s name tag says “Christie,” the other’s “Astrid.” Both are cool, Hitchcockian blondes. Christie seems more approachable—I can see that her tasteful beige manicure is ever-so-slightly chipped—so I go up to her.

“Can I help you?” she asks, smiling with robotic precision. She must smile like this at strangers at least a hundred times a day.

“Yes, I’m looking for a Rebecca West,” I say confidently. I search her face for any signs that she recognizes the name, but there’s not even a flicker in her eyes. She looks down at a computer screen and begins typing quickly.

“I’m not seeing anyone by that name staying here today.”

“Hmm, that’s strange,” I say, stalling for time. “Perhaps she’s registered under her mother’s name? Darleen West?”

Christie’s imperfect manicure clacks along the keyboard. “No, I’m sorry, that name isn’t appearing, either.”

“How about her sisters? Raina or Renata or Rachel West?”

Christie starts typing again, but her eyes keep darting back to me. I can tell she’s starting to get suspicious. “Sorry, no.”

I have a few more aliases in mind, but I’m afraid Christie is going to get spooked and call security. I decide to retreat. “I must have the wrong hotel. I’m a long way from Omaha!”

Christie nods silently. I hope that one bit of misinformation covers my tracks; if Christie happens to report me to the Wests, maybe they will just think I’m a relative or friend from back home trying to show some support.

I see a plush, golden-threaded couch in the corner of the hotel lobby just out of Christie’s and Astrid’s sight line and sink down into its welcoming cushions while I try to figure out what to do next. I can’t very well knock on every one of the hundreds of doors in the building, or ride endlessly in the elevator in the hopes that Becky West decides to leave her room and hit the gym. Maybe this is the end of the road for me. The truth about Becky will come out eventually—it always does. In the meantime, I’ll just have to take my lumps and the lesson learned. I learned it the hard way, with my ass literally hanging out there, but at least I know that Becky is safe.

I’m tearing up a little as I slump back across the black-and-white checkered Pierre lobby when out of the corner of my eye I see a familiar blow-out—light brown at the roots, getting progressively lighter toward the tips. I crouch behind a chair that’s near the elevators and see the profile of one Shira Allen walking toward me.

Once Shira’s passed by I duck out from behind the chair and follow her over to the elevators. She presses the up button, and I try to stand far enough away from her that she doesn’t realize that I’m there. Her nose is in her iPhone the entire time, though, so I could probably be playing “Louie Louie” on a bagpipe without attracting her attention.

I get on the elevator after she does and watch her press the button for the seventh floor. I push the button for the eighth floor, just to cover my tracks. I hear her say something quietly, and I catch my breath. But then she jabs at her phone again and I realize she was cursing because she just lost another game of Angry Birds.

As the doors are about to close, I watch Shira take a left. I can’t just follow behind her—my tread is too heavy to tiptoe successfully. So I take the elevator to the eighth floor and make a left, just like Shira did. I find the stairwell nearest to the elevator and sprint down it, skidding to a stop just as I reach the seventh floor. I open the door to the hallway a tiny, quiet crack, just in time to see Shira lift her head up in front of a door to my immediate right. I close the door just as quietly, but I can still hear Shira’s knock on the door and a feeble voice replying, “Who is it?”

“It’s Shira. I’m just here to take a few more notes before this issue goes to press.”

“Okay,” says the little voice, and the door opens slightly, and Shira slips in.

Maybe I am like a really dirty, out-of-shape Jolie character, because I spot an unattended housekeeping cart in the hallway and grab the skeleton key that’s hanging off the side, attached to a Smurf key chain. I don’t want to have to break into Becky’s room—that does seem like crossing a line that I have managed thus far to avoid—but it’s a pretty good backup plan.

I stand in the doorway to the stairwell and wait to hear Shira’s flats on the thick hotel carpet. After what seems like an hour—though it’s probably five minutes, tops—I hear the door open again.

“Thanks for coming,” says the little voice, not without enthusiasm.