I had no trouble imagining Carla Santini’s arrival in New York City. Except for the lack of ticker-tape and cheering crowds, she glided into the metropolis like visiting royalty, watching the teeming multitudes from behind the tinted windows of her father’s Mercedes while she thought about how awful it must be not to be her. The pearl-grey sedan silently slid to a stop behind Madison Square Garden. A uniformed doorman opened a solid-steel door and Carla Santini stepped out into the rainy evening, cool and relaxed, her dress unwrinkled, her make-up flawless, her press pass in her hand. The doorman held an umbrella over her head as he led her inside, lest one small drop should mar her perfection. “Miss Santini,” he cooed. “Please step this way.”
At about the same time that I imagined Carla Santini, all teeth and curls, was being offered refreshment in the Garden’s VIP lounge, Ella and I made our own, less auspicious arrival in New York.
“I’m sure I read somewhere that Stu Wolff’s a very regular, down-to-earth guy,” Ella was saying as we fought our way out of Penn Station. “His dad’s a truck driver or something like that, and he loves baseball and beer. He doesn’t like all the show-business hype. He’s a real man of the people.”
I grabbed her arm and pulled her past a few of “the people” – the ones who didn’t dress as well as Stu Wolff and who were begging for money.
I didn’t want to talk about Stu or what was going to happen any more. We were there, in my favourite place on the planet, about to meet one of the greatest – and sexiest – poets who’d ever lived. I wanted action, not words.
We hurled ourselves through a herd of travellers trying to get into the building, and then ground to an abrupt halt. It was raining a lot harder in New York than it was in New Jersey.
I let out a heartfelt moan. “Oh, no. We’re going to get soaked.”
If the storm kept up, we’d look like bag ladies by the time we got downtown. And Eliza’s gown would be ruined. For the first time I realized what incredible potential for disaster our project had. Mrs Baggoli would kill me if anything happened to the dress. And after she killed me, my mother would probably burn my remains in her kiln.
“It’s karma,” said Ella. She might look like a Pre-Raphaelite model, but she was still her mother’s daughter. “You should never have borrowed the dress.”
By now even I knew that I shouldn’t have borrowed the dress. “Thanks,” I muttered.
Ella linked her arm in mine. “Come on,” she said with her usual cheerfulness. “We’re here now. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
I looked at the unmoving traffic and the steady stream of pedestrians and the blur of lights in the downpour. I heard the horns and the shouts and the sirens weaving through the cauldron of sound. I smelled the pretzels and hot dogs and stale urine of the streets. I breathed deeply. New York City! I was back where I belonged. My fear evaporated. The blood began to surge through my veins with its old passion and excitement. Like an eagle, my heart began to soar.
“You’re right,” I said. “We’re young, we’re beautiful, we’re talented, and we’re in the greatest city in the world.” I’d been so preoccupied with worrying about the dress that I’d taken the wrong exit and we’d come out across the street from the Garden. I turned us around. “We’re going to have an incredible time!” I announced to the general throng. “An absolutely incredible time!”
The light changed. We stepped off the curb together. Ella kept going, but one of my mother’s killer heels wedged itself in a sewer grate. My body went forward, but my foot stayed where it was.
I screamed.
The man behind us cursed as he more or less flew over me.
After he’d picked himself off the street, he helped me up.
“If you’re going to have such an incredible time,” he said, “you’d better try a little harder to live to enjoy it.”
There were about a million kids milling around outside Madison Square Garden, and about half a million cops.
“Geez…” Ella whistled. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place before.”
“Come on.” I held her tightly. The last thing I needed was to lose Ella. “Let’s find someone who’s selling tickets.”
Ella glanced uneasily at the noisy crowd. “You mean there isn’t a stall or something?”
Sometimes I don’t think Ella is merely sheltered. Sometimes I think it’s more like she’s been in solitary confinement for sixteen years.
“No, there isn’t a stall.”
It took us about fifteen minutes to find a guy with two decent tickets. Because we looked like such nice kids, he was willing to give us a bargain price.
“But that’s nearly fifty per cent more than they should cost!” Ella blurted out.
Under my tutelage, she was definitely beginning to get over her shyness.
Our benefactor gave her a crooked smile in which teeth were only a memory. “Honey, this gig was sold out before the tickets were printed. You’re lucky I’m not asking double.”
“But that’s—” began Ella.
I kicked her in the ankle.
“We’ll take them,” I said. It left us with just enough for incidentals, but it didn’t matter. It was going to be worth it. We might not even need a cab in the morning. Stu might take us to the station in his Porsche.
I pulled out my wallet. I opened it. All it contained was a five-dollar bill.
The tickets fluttered out of my reach.
“That’s not enough,” said the ticket seller.
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “We have it.” I pulled my satchel from my shoulder. Just in case someone tried to mug us, Ella and I had put most of our money in an empty film canister in my make-up bag. I mean, even in New York no one’s going to steal your make-up, are they? I stuck my hand in. Or are they?
“What’s wrong?” asked Ella.
“Nothing.” I squatted on the ground with the bag and started pulling things out. My Converse, my socks, my black jeans and black turtleneck…
“Ella,” I wailed. “Ella, it’s not here. My make-up bag’s not here.”
“It must be,” said Ella. She bent down beside me. “When do you remember having it last?”
“In the train. Don’t you remember? I put it behind the—”
I looked at Ella.
Ella looked at me.
“Sink,” finished Ella.
A great actor has to learn to take disappointment and rejection in her stride. There will always be the big flop, the bad review, the cancelled series. A great actor has to be able to pick herself up, dust herself off, and start all over again.
I am going to be a great actor. Not having a ticket wasn’t going to stand in my way.
“This isn’t going to work,” Ella hissed in my ear.
I tightened my grip on her hand as we finally started shuffling towards the entrance.
“Yes, it will,” I hissed back.
It was the old “if you want to hide a tree, put it in a forest” trick. I saw it in a movie. The hero was being chased by the bad guys, and the only chance he had of losing them was to disappear into a packed football stadium. Only he didn’t have a ticket. And, because he’d had to leave the house in a hurry and had forgotten to take his wallet, he didn’t have any money either. So he attached himself to a group of guys from out of town and just strolled right in with them.
The problem was finding a large group of very noisy and active people among whom we could lose ourselves. Most of the kids filing into the concert were in couples. And they had no choice but to be pretty orderly, because there were guards on either side of each doorway, taking the tickets one by one.
“It’s a little tricky,” I admitted, sotto voce, “but I think it’s possible. Just follow my lead.”
Ella started deep breathing. “I’m not going to be able to do this, Lola. I’m terrified.”
“Stage fright,” I assured her. “It’ll pass.”
More or less in front of us was a group of four handing over their tickets on one side, and a group of five on the other. Between us were two couples. It was now or never. I squeezed Ella’s hand.
“Come on,” I ordered. “Do what I do.”
I edged through the couples in front of us and attached myself to the group of four on the left. Smiling, I started talking to the back of the girl nearest me.
“I’m so excited,” I told her, inching forward. “I feel like I’ve been waiting for this forever … what song do you think they’ll start with…?” Inch … inch… “I hope they do ‘Love Loser’, that’s got to be my all-time favourite…” Inch … inch… “I wish they let you bring cameras in here…” Inch … inch… “Wouldn’t you just die for a photograph of Stu on stage?”
Still talking, I stepped into the foyer. My heart was racing, my cheeks were flushed. A hand fell on my shoulder and yanked me backwards, none too gently.
“Just a minute,” said the young man in the Sidartha T-shirt with the radio clipped to his belt. “Let me take another look at your ticket.”
I don’t know where he came from. He must have been lying in wait because he wasn’t one of the guys on the door.
“My ticket?” I smiled as though I had nothing to hide. “Sure.”
I dug my hands into the pockets of my cape, but – to my horror – my ticket wasn’t there.
I smiled again. Nervously. “I must have stuck it in my bag,” I mumbled. I opened my bag and started shoving things around.
The young man didn’t smile back. He just stood there looking both expectant and bored.
“It’s not here.” My voice was surprised, innocent, confused. I looked at the ground in desperation. “I must have dropped it.”
He grabbed hold of my elbow. “Come on,” he said. “No ticket, no concert.”
“But I have a ticket!” I shouted indignantly. “I had it just a second ago. I—”
“No ticket, no concert,” he repeated, dragging me after him.
I dug in my heels as much as you can on a solid floor. “You can’t do this!” In my red satin dress and black velvet cape, I was in one of my Gone with the Wind moods. And, like Scarlett O’Hara, I was not about to be trifled with. I tilted my head back defiantly. “I demand to see your supervisor!”
“You can see him outside,” he said, and yanked me through the throng moving in the opposite direction and back to where I’d started.
“You really want to see the supervisor?” He held on to my elbow. He must have done this before, he wasn’t taking any chances.
But I wasn’t paying any attention to him by then. I was looking the other way, my eyes on Ella, who was standing on the other side of the entrance, staring at me with a look of shock on her face.