The Year of Living Famously (3 page)

T
he phone rang on a Wednesday morning.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Declan said. “It's me.”

“Where are you?” I wasn't expecting to hear from him until the end of the day.

“I'm at the airport. I just got in and wanted to let you know. I'll call you when I'm unpacked.”

“Okay,” I said warily.

Why was
I
the first one he was calling? Didn't he have other friends to contact? People from the production company? But at the same time, my ego preened that it was me he couldn't wait to see.

Four hours later he called again. “Christ,” he said, “I only brought two duffels with me, but there's still no room for it all. The landlord is mad, and my roommate is an eejit.”

“You have a roommate?”

“Didn't I tell you?”

“No.” Despite the fact that he'd warned me about how small his part in the movie was and the equally tiny size of
his place, I'd envisioned a lovely, clean modern apartment, where I might spend a chunk of my summer. I'd been swayed by the fact that he was “shooting a movie.” It sounded so official, so important, so…magical.

“I want to see you,” he said in a low, undeniably sexy voice. He probably said it like that because his “eejit” roommate was near, but he snared me with those words, that voice.

I told him I'd meet him at a diner near 95th and Madison. I tripped around my apartment, changing my outfit three times, and finally settled on the first one, a flouncy, black A-line skirt I'd designed back in school and a light lavender sweater with a pair of black-and-white-checkered sandals. I applied lipstick and gloss, then wiped it off. What if he kissed me right away? I put my hair up in a ponytail, then dragged it out and fluffed my hair with my hands. I looked at my watch. The diner was only blocks from my place, but I had waited too long to leave. What if he was already there? What if he left because I was late?

That thought shot me out of the apartment. I hurried down the street as fast as my sandals would allow. Without the blind effortlessness of a phone conversation, without the unhurried ease of e-mail, I wasn't sure how we'd get along. I dreaded seeing him again as much as I craved it. The end of dreams and assumptions is never pretty, and I feared that end.

It was a beautiful April day, the sky an aqua blue. Carnegie Hill is the neighborhood where Emmie had always lived, and therefore, the area where I grew up. Upper upper East Side, wonderfully close to the park, brick walk-ups, charming cafés.

After college, I lived in the Village. In retrospect, I see that I was trying to distance myself from Emmie, not for any scandalous reasons like child prostitution or wire hangers, but rather a need to establish myself in my own little world.
But what I quickly realized was that I missed Carnegie Hill. I missed being close to Emmie. I missed the sense of space the park lent the neighborhood. My sporadic income from the occasional sale of my clothing lines, freelance-de-sign gigs and temp jobs wouldn't normally support a decent apartment here, but I had the very modest trust fund from my parents, which I used only for rent. I arranged for the bank to cut a check directly to my landlord every month, so I couldn't screw it up, and I'd lived here ever since.

As I turned the corner onto Madison, I saw him. He was standing outside the diner, looking both ways, back and forth. He had on dark jeans, black leather shoes and a short-sleeve, untucked gray shirt. I thought he looked adorable, although fairly panicked, with his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching. This somehow calmed me.

His perplexed face broke into a smile when he saw me. “I thought maybe I had the wrong one,” he said as I neared. “There are a million diners on this street.”

“Sorry,” I said.

I'd reached him by then, and we both seemed unsure of what to do. Kiss? Shake hands? Throw ourselves on the sidewalk and have at it?

Declan solved the problem. In a moment that was years long, but entirely too short, he put his arms around my waist and pulled me to him. I squeezed my eyes shut and hugged him back, letting him lift me off the sidewalk. His hair was wet at the back—he must have just taken a shower—and he smelled like shampoo and minty shaving cream. I hoped he would never put me down.

But he did. We stared at each other, both a little taken aback, I think.

“How are you?” I said, apropos of absolutely nothing.

“Shaggered. But happy to see you.”

“Me, too.”

“You look gorgeous.” He glanced at my outfit. “I love women in skirts.”

I smiled like the shy girl in a fifties movie who has just met the football star.

“What now?” Declan said.

Our e-mails had been so suggestive, our phone calls so flirty, and the hug so intense, that sitting in a diner making benign talk seemed so very wrong. I wanted to bring him back to my apartment and into my bed, but that seemed a tad quick. So I took him to meet Emmie.

 

Everyone adores Emmie, especially men. If she'd been younger, I might not have loved her as much because she would have constantly stolen my dates.

Declan and I walked down Madison. When a crowd of high-school students poured out of a shop, nearly charging into us, he put his hand on the small of my back and drew me close. A few steps later, he slipped his hand in mine. I stopped breathing for a moment. I placed my sandaled feet one after another, and acted as if nothing were new, as if this was all very commonplace. But I couldn't stop smiling. I felt the grin spread across my face and stay there. I squeezed his warm hand a little more. When I glanced at him, he was grinning, too.

“All right, so you've mentioned Emmie before,” Declan said. “Is she your best pal?”

“Well, sort of.”

I hadn't given him many details about Emmie or my family situation—it seemed too grave a story to drop on someone too quickly—but now I explained that Emmie had raised me after my parents died in a train wreck going from Manhattan to Philadelphia.

Both of my parents were writers, my father an author of historical memoirs, usually on presidents or war heroes, my
mother a fiction writer of short stories and young-adult stuff. On that day, when I was eight years old, my mother had a reading at the main library in Philadelphia for her new story collection. She and my father always tried to accompany each other to author events. They were the most supportive couple, Emmie said. The Philadelphia trip was also intended to be their twelfth-anniversary celebration. They'd been married ten years, but they always celebrated the day they met, rather than the day they tied the knot.

They'd reserved seats in the first-class section. I imagine they went immediately to the dining car and ordered champagne, toasting each other as the concrete landscape gave way to the green hills of eastern Pennsylvania.

A half hour before reaching Philadelphia, the train encountered a semi stalled on the tracks.
Encountered.
Probably too tame a word, because the train slammed into it, killing the truck driver instantly, and crushing the first six train cars, including the dining car, like flattened beer cans.

“Jesus fecking Christ,” Declan said. He squeezed my hand tighter. “I'm so sorry. Is it still tough for you?”

“No. I wish I could say it was, but it was a long time ago. It gets harder to remember them all the time.”

I told Declan that Emmie was my godmother, as well as the literary agent for both my parents. I'm sure Emmie never thought that anything would happen to them. I mean, who ever truly envisions a married couple will die together? Emmie was single by choice. It must have been a great shock to her when she had to take delivery of a tiny eight-year-old too smart for her own good.

I didn't tell Declan right then, but I found out years after my parents died that there was a custody battle for me. A few, actually. My mother's sister, Donna, who lived in my mother's hometown of Plano, Texas, lobbied the courts with her husband to take me into their home with their four
boys. My father's parents made a plea, too. They lived in New Jersey. But my parents' wills had stipulated that Emmie be my guardian, and Emmie spent about a year's salary making sure she got to keep me. As I said, I never knew this at the time, but I wish I had. It would have been nice to know, in that weird, confusing time after my parents died, that I was wanted so desperately.

My father's parents died within a few years of his death, so it's a good thing I didn't live with them. I've visited my aunt Donna and her family a number of times. She is an unnaturally thin woman who grinds her teeth whenever her husband, a bearish man who owns a chain of gas stations, speaks in his loud drawl. Her sons seem to scare her. I can see now that she probably didn't want me for the sake of taking care of her sister's child, for my well-being. I think she just wanted a friend, some kind of buffer in that house full of testosterone.

Whenever I visit Aunt Donna, I take her old Ford Escort (her husband drives a Mercedes) and drive around her town, wondering what I would be like if I had been raised by her. Would I still be a designer? Would I be living in Manhattan? Or would I be working in the home office of my uncle Larry's gas stations? Would I still be creative and sarcastic and melancholy at times, or would I have adopted a nonstop sunny, albeit fake, personality to offset Aunt Donna?

Anyway, by the end of my explanation about Emmie, Declan and I had reached her building, a place called Hortense Court on East 92
^nd
, right by the park. Through the glass pane of the front door, you could see the lobby. The marble was chipping, and the paint on the ceiling peeled in thin strips, giving nothing away about what the apartments inside were really like.

“She's like your mum, then?” Declan said. He had one
foot on the stoop, but it seemed as if the other might be ready to run.

I almost laughed at his wary face. I could see him thinking that he'd only just got here and already he was forced to meet my de facto parent.

“Not exactly,” I said. “She fed and clothed me. She got me into school and signed me up for ballet classes. You know what I mean?”

“I understand food,” Declan said, “but not the ballet.”

“Well, she's not really the mothering type, and believe me, she's someone you should meet. She is the grande dame of New York.”

“I thought that was you.”

“I'm the second one.”

“Ah,” Declan said. “So I might fall for Emmie.”

I stood above him on the stoop so that I was a little taller than he. “I'll fight her for you.”

His eyes widened in mock delight. “It's what I've always dreamed of,” he said.

“C'mon.” I used my key and opened the lobby door.

He still didn't move. “A little kiss for strength?”

I looked him up and down. “Why do I get the feeling you'll want a grope next for good luck?”

“That'll work.”

“I better just hold your hand for now,” I said coyly. I took his hand and pulled him inside.

 

“Emmie, it's me!” I yelled as I stepped into her place.

“Kyra, sweetie!” I heard her call from the bedroom. “I'll be there in a minute.” I hadn't phoned Emmie to let her know we were coming, but I knew it wouldn't matter. She was used to people stopping by all the time. She thrived on it.

“Come in,” I said to Declan.

He took a step in, glancing around the place.

Emmie has owned her apartment since the sixties. Sometime before I came along, she bought the apartment next to hers, knocked out the center wall and created a large, eclectic space where nothing matched, but everything had its place. One half of her living room, her original living room before she bought the other side, was lined with dark wood bookshelves from floor to ceiling. But even with all those shelves, books were stacked everywhere—under end tables, at the sides of the maroon velvet couches, on the wide round coffee table. This was Emmie's side of the apartment. Her bedroom and kitchen lay behind the living-room wall.

On the other side of the living room, the books continued their dominance, but there the decor was more functional. Groupings of chairs and coffee tables took up most of the space, and the kitchen had been decked out with restaurant appliances for entertaining purposes. This side was where Emmie had her “salons,” as she called them, the gatherings of the crème de la crème of the New York publishing world. Famous authors, editors and fellow agents from work—they all came here to talk books, to gossip.

When I moved in as a child, Emmie gave me the tiny bedroom on the salon side of the apartment. That room was my own, papered with clippings from
Vogue
and my own childish sketches, but the rest of the place was decidedly Emmie's. I knew how quickly people could be wrenched from your life, and I didn't want to lose Emmie, too. So I learned fast to tiptoe around the Dresden figures on the end table and to always make sure there was scotch in the crystal decanters, ice in the silver bucket. There was no official bedtime at Emmie's. If one of her salons was in full swing, I could slip through the apartment and stay up as late as I wanted. I liked it better when there was no one there with us, but that wasn't often.