Manhattan
Ellie
The phone next to the bed starts ringing, but I’m nowhere near awake enough to answer it.
This is day four in Manhattan, and I just want to sleep in as long as possible.
While we were on the plane here, I told Nick I wasn’t sure if we should keep staying together while we’re there. I was expecting an incredulous response, something about how we spent a week together back in the hotel room in Mulholland, but he didn’t bat an eye.
Now, staying in what would be a six or seven star room—if the ratings went that high—I’m content to let the most insanely comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on keep doing its work.
I’m nearly back to sleep again when the phone rings a second time.
With a groan, I reach over and pull the receiver off its cradle and put it to my ear, saying, “Yeah?”
“Good morning, Miss Michaels, I trust you’ve slept well,” Bertrand, the on-call butler—yeah, the room comes with an on-call butler—says.
“You sound entirely too chipper, Bertrand,” I say.
“My apologies, Miss,” he says. “You have a call from Mr. Scipio.”
“All right,” I say, rolling onto my back. “Patch him through.”
I love saying that.
“Hey, Ellie,” Nick says. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Sleepy,” I tell him.
“Ah. Listen,” he says, “I know we talked about going out to the island this afternoon, but it looks like I’m going to be in meetings all day.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell him. “Do you know when you’ll be done?”
“I’m not quite sure,” he says. “There’s a lot to work out while I’m here. While I’m at the office, though, I thought you might like to take a closer look at the city. We haven’t had a chance to do much sight-seeing while you’ve been here, so I sent my driver to you. He should already be waiting in the lot for you.”
“He’s already there?” I ask, looking at the clock. It’s almost noon. “Yeah, all right,” I tell him. “Let him know I’m going to be a few minutes, though.”
“I’ll send you his number,” he says. “I’m sorry about today, but I’ll see you tonight, okay? I’ve got to let you go.”
“Okay,” I answer. “I’ll see you then.”
I hang up the phone and sigh. It’s thoughtful of him to have his driver take me around, but I really could have done with a bit more sleep.
Regardless, I drag myself out of bed and stagger to the bathroom to take a quick shower.
Things have been moving fast with Nick. That night in my apartment, he convinced me that I wasn’t just a potential notch on his bedpost, but I’m not naïve. I know this isn’t going to last forever.
What changed my mind was the realization the relationship doesn’t have to last forever to be worthwhile. Eventually, some supermodel or famous actress is going to come along, and he’s going to lose interest in the small-town girl experiment, but until then, there’s no reason we can’t have some fun.
As long as I know what this is going into it, the pain of our relationship’s inevitable end isn’t quite so daunting.
I shower and dry myself, returning to the room to pick out a suitable outfit for my trek through Manhattan. Nick was kind enough to have some clothes brought over for me, but looking at my options, I’m pretty terrified of wearing anything in the closet. It’s all so expensive.
It takes a minute, but I find something reasonably understated: a black, sleeveless top with a mid-length khaki-colored skirt. I get dressed and ready for the day.
I forgot to send the driver a message telling him I’d be a few minutes, so I get the number from Nick’s text and place the call.
“Miss Michaels,” the man answers. “Would you like me to bring the car around?”
“Sure,” I tell him. “Where do I meet you?”
“For your discretion, I’m parked in the sub-basement of the parking structure,” he says. “Just take the elevator all the way down and I’ll be there to pick you up.”
“Sounds great,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
I take one last look in the mirror, making sure my hair and makeup are passable, and I grab my room key before I’m out the door. Getting off the elevator, I find a man in a cliché driver’s uniform standing next to a town car.
“Miss Michaels,” the driver says, opening the back door.
“Hi,” I answer, not knowing what else to say. “What’s your name?”
“Trevor, ma’am,” he answers. “Your party is already waiting in the car.”
“My party?” I ask.
Trevor nods. “Mr. Scipio sent a couple of gentlemen to escort you today,” he says. “Don’t worry, though. They do an excellent job of staying out of the way. You’ll hardly notice them.
I climb into the back of the town car and there, sitting across from me in a rear-facing seat are two refrigerators with suits and sunglasses.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the one on the left says. “I’m Marc. This is Tony. We’ll be your escort today.”
“Marc,” I say, leaning forward to shake the first man’s hand. “Tony, which I assume is short for Anthony?” I say, to the other. “Do they put you together because of your names, or is that just a coincidence?”
“Ma’am?” Anthony responds.
“Nevermind,” I say, waving it off. “Where are we going?”
“Mr. Scipio arranged for you to tour some of the finer establishments in the city,” Marc says. “Of course, we can go wherever you like.”
When the day comes, and Nick and I do part ways, the only problem is I don’t think anyone will believe any of this.
I shrug. “Let’s start with what Nick set up, I guess,” I tell Marc.
He knocks on the partition between the driver and us which then lowers. Marc says, “The lady would like to begin as scheduled.”
“On our way,” Trevor says, and off we go.
Nick and I haven’t had a whole lot of time together since we got here, and to be honest, I’ve been a little fearful of leaving the hotel room. As far as I know, word about Nick and me hasn’t spread outside of Mulholland, but if the people of New York are anything like the people there, I didn’t want to risk it.
The two rectangular men in front of me ease my mind a bit, though.
The mob in front of the store and the smaller crowd in front of my apartment were bad enough, but ever since I got on the plane to come here, I’ve been getting phone calls from relatives I don’t remember having. Everyone’s so sweet, so incredibly civil right until I mention I don’t have any say over where and how Nick spends his money.
That’s when these people who very well may not be related to me start talking about how ungrateful I am and how when I was a kid, they took a splinter out of my hand or took Naomi and me out for ice cream.
Even if that’s true, I’m not sure how any of that entitles these people to a six-or-seven-figure payout.
Naomi, surprisingly, has been pretty laid back about the whole thing. Her explanation is that, if I met a billionaire, it can’t be long until she meets someone even wealthier. If she were anyone else, I wouldn’t take the thought seriously at all. Knowing Naomi’s luck, though, it just may happen.
The traffic is pretty terrifying, but after a while, we come to a stop.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Anthony says, “Tiffany’s.”
“What?” I ask.
“Tiffany’s,” he repeats.
“What?” I ask again as Trevor opens the door.
Anthony gets out of his seat and somehow manages to squeeze his thick self out the door first, and he stands on the sidewalk, looking over the passersby.
“Ma’am,” Trevor says, holding out a hand.
“Tiffany’s?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” Trevor answers.
“I can’t go in there,” I tell him. “Forget what I’m wearing, I don’t think I could afford to have a Cracker Jack ring engraved there, much less, well, anything.”
“It’s all taken care of,” Trevor says, still patiently holding his hand out for me to take.
I look at Marc, then at Anthony. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think they want someone like me in there.”
“Why not?” Trevor asks.
“Yeah, I’m dating a wealthy man,” I start, “but I’m about as low-rent as they come. I wouldn’t even know where to start in a place like this.”
“If it eases your mind, Mr. Scipio has opened accounts at a few of his preferred locations throughout the city,” Trevor tells me. “Anything you want is on him.”
At what point does this become me using Nick?
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Well,” Trevor says, “we’re already here, so you may as well take a look around. If you don’t choose to buy anything, that’s fine.”
It seems Nick has this whole thing planned out, down to the smallest detail. To test that theory, I say, “You know, you speak differently than the other drivers I’ve met.”
Trevor smiles and says, “Mr. Scipio felt you may be more comfortable with someone who chatted more colloquially. Am I doing all right so far, or would you prefer I stop?”
“No, it’s fine,” I tell him. “Just be yourself.”
“Are we going in?” he asks.
I look over at Marc, but he gestures back toward Trevor.
“I guess we are,” I answer and take Trevor’s hand.
Marc follows after I’m out of the car, and Trevor closes the door while Anthony, Marc and I enter the store.
As soon as I’ve crossed the threshold, I freeze. This is it. This is the actual Tiffany & Co flagship store on Fifth Avenue. Marc grabs my arm, pulling me out of the way as someone comes through the door after me.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I say.
“Wherever you like,” Anthony says. “Mr. Scipio wanted us to inform you that he’s referred you to the private room so you can peruse their finest pieces.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say as I start walking toward the first counter. “I’m not buying anything.”
There are a lot more people in here than I thought there would be, but I guess it only makes sense that a company that’s lasted this long in New York must have a regular flow of customers.
I reach the first counter and start looking at the pieces inside. There are some pieces for under a thousand, but not very many. Everything is painstakingly crafted, every cut on every stone made to bring out the best in the piece.
This is overwhelming.
“Can I help you, miss?” an older gentleman behind the counter asks.
“Oh, I’m just browsing—” I start, but Anthony interrupts me.
“You’ve been expecting Miss Michaels,” Anthony says. “She’s the guest of Mr. Scipio.”
“Yes, of course!” the man behind the counter gasps. “Right this way, miss!”
“Hold on,” I say, holding one hand up to the gentleman. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to look at the pieces offered to the general public, first.”
“Yes, of course,” he says. “My name is Clarence. What can I show you today?”
My relationship with Nick is meant to be about having fun, enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime experience while it lasts, but I’m not going to start spending buckets of cash just because I can.
“Do you have any tasteful, understated pendants?” I ask. “I’m not looking for anything too expensive.”
Clarence glances at Anthony, then at Marc, and then back at me. “Yes, of course,” he says, the pitch and volume of his voice having lowered considerably.
He leads me over to the other side of the counter to the necklaces, and my mouth starts watering.
“They’re all so beautiful,” I say. “I don’t even know where to start looking.”
“If I may, Miss,” Clarence says, opening the back of the display case and taking a necklace from inside and then holding it up for my inspection, “this is from our Enchant line. It’s an 18-karat chain of rose gold and platinum, and as you can see, the flower pendant in the middle houses fourteen stones around a larger, fifteenth stone in the middle, all brilliant diamonds.”
“It’s breathtaking,” I answer. “How much is it?”
“Twenty-seven hundred,” Clarence answers.
“Twenty-seven hundred?” I ask.
“Yes, miss,” he says. “If I may say, it would be an excellent piece to compliment your complexion. The rose gold brings out the—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “but do you have anything a little, I don’t know, less expensive?”
I’m not going to pretend like I’m above enjoying some of the finer things dating Nick has to offer, but the necklace costs almost four months’ rent, and this is the first of who-knows-how-many stops today.
“Of course, Miss,” Clarence says. He glances behind me a moment, nods and then sets the box containing the necklace in the center of the middle area.
“You can put it back,” I say. “I love it, but I do think it’s a bit more than I can justify.”
“Of course, Miss,” Clarence says. “We like to set all our pieces there before returning them to the display. It’s to check for quality.”
To check for quality? What does that even mean?
Oh well, I can’t be expected to learn how this world works when I’ve only been in here five minutes.
“Maybe something like this would be more to your liking,” he says.
It’s another gorgeous necklace, but I can see the price. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “That’s still a bit too expensive for me.”
He shows me piece after piece, and not only necklaces and pendants. I spend over an hour walking back and forth, from counter to counter, looking at rings and earrings, bracelets and even a couple brooches; though I don’t know when I’d ever wear a brooch.
I adore everything he shows me, but he doesn’t seem to understand when I tell him the price needs to go down, not up.
Finally, I manage to get through to Clarence well enough that he shows me a tasteful, sterling silver, Elsa Peretti necklace with diamonds for six hundred and fifty. It’s still more than I had in mind, but at least I finally got Clarence under a thousand.
He insists I wear the necklace out of the store, saying, “I’ll be sure to put this all on Mr. Scipio’s account for you. You are all taken care of.”
“Thanks,” I tell him. “I hope I wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Oh, not at all,” Clarence says. “It has been a pleasure.” He glances behind me again and this time, I turn around just in time to see Marc brushing the side of his nose with his index finger. He sees me and tries to pass it off like he was just scratching his nose, but I get the feeling that’s not all he was doing.
I have to say I feel pretty amazing walking out of the store with this beautiful necklace. What’s better is now I can call Naomi and tell her I have a Tiffany pendant, too. She, of course, won hers in a sweepstakes.
We get back to the car, and we’re off again. Over the next few hours, we stop at Bergdorf Goodman, Armani Fifth Avenue, and about half a dozen other places I never thought I’d see from the inside.
I never leave with much, but I’ve racked up almost three thousand in clothes and jewelry so far. Every time I get back in the car, I send Nick a message, telling him what I got and how much it costs. I know he planned this whole thing, but I don’t want to cruise past any limit he may have.
By the time we’re on our way to the final stop of the day, a little boutique where Marc’s sister-in-law works, I’m not sure I can spend any more. We go into the shop, and I buy a couple of shirts and a pair of pants for about two-hundred, but as Marc’s sister-in-law, Betty, is ringing me up, Anthony touches me on the shoulder.
“It looks like a crowd is gathering out front,” he says. “There’s no rear exit, so we’re going to have to walk through them. Don’t worry, though,” he says. “We’ve got you covered.”
I look out the front window of the shop to find the sidewalk packed. It would be bad enough if they were just random strangers, but I can’t help noticing a lot of cameras out there.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get out of here without my picture taken, is there?” I ask.
“You can borrow my jacket if you’d like to cover your face,” Marc says, “but I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Looks too much like a perp walk,” Anthony says.
I start shaking. This isn’t what I wanted. I knew there was a chance my relationship with Nick would get out, but I didn’t expect it to be like this.
“Why’s this only happening now?” I ask.
“Someone must have tipped off the press,” Marc says. “I don’t mean to be rude, Miss, but we should probably get you out of here. People are going to start asking you questions, but either don’t answer at all or just say, ‘no comment,’” he instructs me.
“How do we do this?” I ask.
“Just follow my lead and stay close,” Anthony says.
I walk behind Anthony with Marc close behind me, and I take a breath as the door opens.
Instantly, dozens of voices are shouting questions I can’t begin to make out, and cameras are flashing all around me. Marc puts the flat of his palm between my shoulder blades and keeps me moving forward, though Anthony’s having some trouble cutting through the crowd ahead of me.
It’s only about twenty feet from the door of the shop to the open door of the town car, but it takes more than a minute to make the journey. Once I’m in the car, Marc closes the door behind me.
“He’s not getting in?” I ask.
“He’s protecting our escape,” Anthony answers as Trevor hits the gas.
This is too much. Apart from school photos and driver’s license photos, and the occasional candid by Naomi, I haven’t had a picture taken of me in my life that was in any way public. Even with that, Naomi’s random pictures of me are the most public, and her shots only make it as far as her Facebook page.
It was fun pretending and playing dress-up for a while, but the fantasy’s over. People grabbed at me, trying to get my attention and everyone was shouting, just shouting at me. I’m just a girl from a place nobody’s ever heard of; I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
“It looks like they’re already posting pictures,” Anthony says.
“What?” I ask. “How?”
Anthony shrugs. “It looks like they’re just teasers, so far,” he says, “but don’t be alarmed if you see yourself in a few dailies tomorrow morning and likely a few tabloids over the next week or so. Also, you may want to stay away from the online stories. A lot of those people aren’t concerned with facts as much as they are sensationalism, and you don’t want any part of it. Whatever you do, stay away from the tabloids. Don’t even read the cover,” he says. “Trust me.”
I’d love to answer if only I could speak.
We get back to the hotel and security’s already waiting outside to escort me into the building. I don’t know how the reporters got here so fast, or even if they’re the same ones, but if it weren’t for the additional security, I don’t know if I could have made it through the hotel doors.
By the time I get back up to my room, my head is swimming. I’m so disoriented that I almost don’t notice that every piece I looked at Tiffany’s, every dress, every pair of shoes, every set of earrings, every everything I showed any interest in at all, is in my room, waiting for me.