Nine Women, One Dress by Jane L. Rosen

for it to go off. I don’t know why I do that. I’m always hopeful that I’ll doze off for a few more minutes’ sleep, but I never do. If a shrink were to enter my head for that half an hour and observe the varied thoughts, memories, and forecasts that collide erratically into one another like balls on a pool table, they would certainly find substantial material for analysis. But today I focused my concern solely on the day ahead.
    Hank called last night with what I thought was a pretty solid idea, and I was stressing because I hadn’t been able to pull it off. Since no one had seen the girl’s face, he thought it best that we hire our own girl, someone who looked like Bloomingdale’s Girl, and substitute her in the new, staged paparazzi shots. More control of the situation, he said. Hank was always looking for more control. He was worried about trusting Bloomingdale’s Girl and was determined to firmly quash the rumors about Jeremy being gay. I was actually kind of proud of the way Jeremy declined to comment on the rumors, and kind of insulted by the way Hank said
gay
with the same intonation that he used for
Nazi sympathizer
or
Republican
. He never bothered to filter himself.
    I called Jeremy to ask about us casting a new girl to be his beard, but he was adamant about sticking with Bloomingdale’s Girl, whose name was apparently Natalie. He went on and on about some guy named Flip Roberts. I stopped listening after I realized his answer wasn’t going to change, and concentrated on a game of Candy Crush Saga. Unsuccessful all around.
    After spending the morning promising the pictures to a choice selection of news outlets, I headed to the photo shoot around noon. We were meeting at Astoria Studios in Queens. A friend at HBO hooked me up. They were shooting a red-carpet scene for a Lana Turner biopic and he said we could use the set during lunch. With the basic red carpet set up and the right Photoshopping, we’d have the perfect pictures and all our problems would be solved. Hank insisted that I pick up Jeremy in a car, but Jeremy wanted no part of that either. He said he was taking the subway to Queens. I don’t know what’s gotten into him; I didn’t think he even knew how to take the subway, let alone to Queens. Images of him being swarmed by fans on the R train had me reaching for my first nibble of Xanax of the day. This whole thing had the potential to turn into a publicist’s nightmare, and I was worried that it would blow up in our faces and ruin us both.
    I met the beard outside the HBO lot. As soon as I saw her I understood what had gotten into Jeremy, or rather who: Natalie from Astoria. A cab pulled up around 1:15, and he emerged, late but in all his glory. He never failed to take my breath away. He had the hair of Ben Affleck, the smile of Robert Redford, the abs of Ryan Gosling, and the walk—the walk of Denzel Washington. I imagined that every gay man worth his weight in Kiehl’s Ultra Facial Cream was filled with hope upon reading that he was one of us. I felt guilty for my part in disappointing them.
    “Why is it that when I’m late it’s like the whole city conspires against me?” he said, flashing that box-office smile. Lateness forgiven.
    “What happened to the subway?” I asked with a quick pat hello.
    “I didn’t have one of those cards.” He turned to Natalie. “Where do you get one of those cards that you used the other day?”
    She laughed and rolled her eyes. “A MetroCard. It’s very exclusive, I can’t tell you.”
    “She likes to tease,” he said, a goofy look on his face. Suddenly he frowned and, biting his bottom lip, asked if Hank was coming.
    “Nope, it’s just us,” I responded, causing him to release his lip and unleash that smile again. I melted. Natalie the beard spotted my reaction and gave me a knowing smirk as we entered the lot.
    She was really quite refreshing. Wide-eyed like a kid in a candy shop. She didn’t pretend for one second to be cool or