Page 26 of Remember Me
It was love at first sight.
CHAPTER 18
Skye
Twelve Years Earlier
New York City
Islog out the revolving glass doors of 30 Rock onto the plaza, totally dejected. Adieu NBC.
My sixteenth interview in the city that never sleeps. And apparently doesn’t hire. Just like at all the other networks and news organizations I’ve met with, there’s a job freeze. The damn recession. Everyone tells me my credentials are impeccable... Barnard magna cum laude, followed by two years at the prestigious Columbia School of Journalism, where I graduated first in my class and received many awards. My exposé on date rape was even published in theHuffington Post.
The same lame excuses. And insipid advice. We’ll keep your résumé in the active file. Try some local affiliates. Do some freelance work. Check back with us in a few months.
Adjusting my shoulder bag, I huff out a frustrated breath. I need a job. I want a job. A steady, full-time, meaningful one. I’ll take any entry-level position in any major news department, but in these tough economic times, they don’t exist. Everyone’s scaling back. They’re eliminating existing jobs and not creating new ones.
As I step outside, a blast of the cold December air assaults me like a slap on the face. I tighten the plaid scarf around my neck and then hug myself, thankful I wore my heavy wool coat, a thrift-store find. Shivering nonetheless, I walk aimlessly around the plaza. The electricity in the air does little to lift my spirits.Rockefeller Center is bustling, with rush hour commuters charging out of office buildings, and myriad shoppers carrying colorful Christmas bags despite the economy. I behold the massive Christmas tree that lights up the plaza and sadness sweeps over me. This is the first year I won’t be spending the holidays with my parents, my only family. Six months ago while filming a documentary in Laos, they drove over a live land mine. Instant death. Not one of their Jeep crew survived the horrific explosion. Friends from school have invited me to spend Christmas with them, but I’ve declined all their kind offers. I just want to spend it alone in the city in my small Upper Westside apartment and attend midnight mass, remembering my parents. There’s a church right across from Barnard where I’ve gone to services before.
Picking up my pace, I glance down at the skaters circling the iconic ice rink below. There are skaters of all ages, some newbies with wobbling legs and holding on to the hand railing, and others like the elegant woman in the middle doing intricate jumps and spins, obviously experienced. My parents used to take me skating here when I was a kid whenever we spent Christmas in New York, then for a hot chocolate at the café. Another pang of sadness stabs me. I need to go home. Pour myself a glass of wine. Obliterate the deep funk I’m in. Yup, it sucks to be me.
With my weighty heart sinking to my stomach, I skulk across the touristy plaza, passing the many stylish shops as well as the venerable auction house, Christie’s. I peek inside the latter. There’s a cocktail party going on. In need of some warmth and a drink, I impulsively decide to check it out.
“Can I take your coat?” asks an attendant as soon as I enter.
“Thanks, but I’ll just keep it,” I stammer, not sure how long I will stay.
Tugging off my gloves and stuffing them into my coat pockets, I make my way further inside and soak in both my surroundings and the crowd.
The place is packed with chi-chi people who are sipping champagne and chatting about the contemporary artwork on display. The elite of New York. The women are dressed in chic black cocktail attire and dripping with jewels, the men tan and clad in expensive dark suits. From what I hear and see, you’d never know we’re in the middle of a major recession. Vivaldi’sFour Seasonsplays in the background, adding to the festive mood.
“Darling,” says one rail-thin woman to another. “What do you think of the Rothko?”
“It’s divine. And such a steal.”
“Totally!”
I glance at the auction estimate posted under the abstract painting. $500,000-$1,000,000.
Yikes! That’s a small fortune. I guess not everyone is affected by the recession.
Meandering through the crowd, another conversation captures my attention between a stunning, statuesque blonde and an older, paunchy man in a navy blazer and open-collar white shirt. She’s dressed in a winter-white pencil skirt, cream cashmere pullover, and black alligator stilettos. About my age, she exudes wealth, class, and confidence. A modern-day Grace Kelly, who could easily be a supermodel. Maybe she is.
If she is the epitome of elegance, he is the epitome of sleaze. Sporting slicked back dyed hair, a thick gold chain around his neck, a pinky ring, and shoes that are too shiny. On closer inspection, I recognize him. Sheldon Greenberg, one of Hollywood’s biggest TV producers. I wanted to interview him for the thesis I was writing on the future of women in television, but he basically told me to get lost. What a jerk!
“Yo, Kayla!”
He and the attractive woman exchange kisses, the European way on each cheek.
“Darling, so good to see you,” gushes the woman.
“So, sweetheart,” he drawls in a thick New York accent, his eyes on her chest, “is anything a steal?”
She runs a manicured hand through her glossy hair. “Check out the Warhol. Don’t tell anyone I’ve told you, but there’s no reserve.”
I get the sense the stunning woman works for the auction house. Grrr! She’s got a job!
The sleazebag winks at her. “Thanks for the tip, sweetheart.” He chugs his champagne and stuffs an hors d’oeuvre into his mouth, chewing it noisily. “Your parents here?”