immaculate eyebrow.
“His cell phone isn’t working,” I say coolly. “I’ll call his office.” I dial international directories, get a New York number for Danny Kovitz Enterprises, and dial. It’s nine thirty A.M. in New York, which means there’s not much chance of Danny being up, unless he’s had an all-nighter. But I can leave a message.
A male voice answers. “Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Oh, hi there!” I say. “It’s Becky Brandon here, née Bloomwood. I’d like to speak to Danny Kovitz.”
“Please hold the line,” the voice says politely. Some kind of rap blasts my eardrum for a few moments, then a bright female voice comes on the line.
“Welcome to the Danny Kovitz fan club! For full membership information, please press one—”
Oh, for God’s sake. I switch off and dial the main number again, avoiding Jasmine’s gaze.
“Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Hi, I’m an old, very close friend of Danny’s,” I say briskly. “Please put me through to his personal assistant.”
The rap booms in my ear again, then a woman is saying, “Danny Kovitz’s private office, Carol speaking. How may I help?”
“Hi, Carol!” I say in my most friendly manner. “I’m an old friend of Danny’s and I’ve been trying to contact him through his cell number but it doesn’t work. Could you possibly put me through to him? Or leave a message?”
“Your name?” says Carol, sounding skeptical.
“Becky Brandon. Née Bloomwood.”
“And will he know what this is in regard to?”
“Yes! We’re friends!”
“Well, I’ll pass your message to Mr. Kovitz….”
Suddenly I hear a familiar voice, faintly in the background, saying, “I
need
a Diet Coke, OK?”
That’s Danny!
“He’s there, isn’t he?” I exclaim. “I just heard him! Could you quickly put me through? Honestly, I just want a very quick—”
“Mr. Kovitz is…in a meeting,” says Carol. “I’ll be sure to pass your message on, Ms. Broom. Thanks for your call.” The line goes dead.
I switch off the phone, seething. She’s not going to pass anything on, is she? She didn’t even take my number!
“So,” says Jasmine, who’s been watching all along. “Close friends, are you?”
“We
are
,” I say furiously.
OK. Think. There has to be a way to get through to him. There
has
to be….
Wait a minute.
I scrabble for the phone again and dial international directories. “Hi,” I say to the operator. “The name is Kovitz, the address is Apple Bay House, on Fairview Road, if you could put me straight through….”
A few moments later a voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Kovitz,” I say in my most charming manner, “it’s Becky here. Becky Bloomwood? Do you remember me?”
I always liked Danny’s mum. We have a good old chat, and she asks all about the baby and I ask all about her award-winning gardens in Connecticut, and the conversation ends with her expressing sympathetic indignation at the way I was treated by Danny’s staff, especially after I was the one who first introduced his work to Barneys (I reminded her about that, just casually), and promising to get Danny to call me.
And literally about two minutes after we’ve finished talking, my cell phone rings.
“Hi, Becky! Mom says you called?”
“
Danny
!” I can’t help shooting a triumphant glance at Jasmine. “Oh my God, it’s been ages. How are you?”
“I’m great! Except my mom just gave me a total
rocket
. Jesus!” Danny sounds a bit shaken. “She was like, ‘Don’t you stop appreciating your friends, young man.’ And I’m like, ‘What are you talking about? ’And she’s like—”
“Your assistants wouldn’t put me through,” I explain. “They thought I was a fan. Or a stalker or something.”
“I do get stalkers.” Danny sounds quite proud of himself. “I have two at the moment, both named Joshua. Isn’t that wild?”
“Wow!” I can’t help feeling impressed, even though I know I
“His cell phone isn’t working,” I say coolly. “I’ll call his office.” I dial international directories, get a New York number for Danny Kovitz Enterprises, and dial. It’s nine thirty A.M. in New York, which means there’s not much chance of Danny being up, unless he’s had an all-nighter. But I can leave a message.
A male voice answers. “Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Oh, hi there!” I say. “It’s Becky Brandon here, née Bloomwood. I’d like to speak to Danny Kovitz.”
“Please hold the line,” the voice says politely. Some kind of rap blasts my eardrum for a few moments, then a bright female voice comes on the line.
“Welcome to the Danny Kovitz fan club! For full membership information, please press one—”
Oh, for God’s sake. I switch off and dial the main number again, avoiding Jasmine’s gaze.
“Danny Kovitz Enterprises. May I help?”
“Hi, I’m an old, very close friend of Danny’s,” I say briskly. “Please put me through to his personal assistant.”
The rap booms in my ear again, then a woman is saying, “Danny Kovitz’s private office, Carol speaking. How may I help?”
“Hi, Carol!” I say in my most friendly manner. “I’m an old friend of Danny’s and I’ve been trying to contact him through his cell number but it doesn’t work. Could you possibly put me through to him? Or leave a message?”
“Your name?” says Carol, sounding skeptical.
“Becky Brandon. Née Bloomwood.”
“And will he know what this is in regard to?”
“Yes! We’re friends!”
“Well, I’ll pass your message to Mr. Kovitz….”
Suddenly I hear a familiar voice, faintly in the background, saying, “I
need
a Diet Coke, OK?”
That’s Danny!
“He’s there, isn’t he?” I exclaim. “I just heard him! Could you quickly put me through? Honestly, I just want a very quick—”
“Mr. Kovitz is…in a meeting,” says Carol. “I’ll be sure to pass your message on, Ms. Broom. Thanks for your call.” The line goes dead.
I switch off the phone, seething. She’s not going to pass anything on, is she? She didn’t even take my number!
“So,” says Jasmine, who’s been watching all along. “Close friends, are you?”
“We
are
,” I say furiously.
OK. Think. There has to be a way to get through to him. There
has
to be….
Wait a minute.
I scrabble for the phone again and dial international directories. “Hi,” I say to the operator. “The name is Kovitz, the address is Apple Bay House, on Fairview Road, if you could put me straight through….”
A few moments later a voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Kovitz,” I say in my most charming manner, “it’s Becky here. Becky Bloomwood? Do you remember me?”
I always liked Danny’s mum. We have a good old chat, and she asks all about the baby and I ask all about her award-winning gardens in Connecticut, and the conversation ends with her expressing sympathetic indignation at the way I was treated by Danny’s staff, especially after I was the one who first introduced his work to Barneys (I reminded her about that, just casually), and promising to get Danny to call me.
And literally about two minutes after we’ve finished talking, my cell phone rings.
“Hi, Becky! Mom says you called?”
“
Danny
!” I can’t help shooting a triumphant glance at Jasmine. “Oh my God, it’s been ages. How are you?”
“I’m great! Except my mom just gave me a total
rocket
. Jesus!” Danny sounds a bit shaken. “She was like, ‘Don’t you stop appreciating your friends, young man.’ And I’m like, ‘What are you talking about? ’And she’s like—”
“Your assistants wouldn’t put me through,” I explain. “They thought I was a fan. Or a stalker or something.”
“I do get stalkers.” Danny sounds quite proud of himself. “I have two at the moment, both named Joshua. Isn’t that wild?”
“Wow!” I can’t help feeling impressed, even though I know I
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