Nine Women, One Dress Read Online Free

she had to fill herself with…well, we all know what she filled herself with.
    The reason my agent was just screaming at me is that I was refusing to take a shill to the premiere and refusing to make a statement. I don’t think my sexual orientation or anyone’s sexual orientation is news unless they want it to be.
    I told my agent that I’m not interested in talking to the press.
    His response: “I’m glad that talking doesn’t interest you, because if you don’t talk now, pretty soon no one will want you to talk at all. At least not onscreen opposite a leading lady for the ten mil you got for your last film!” He stopped screaming for a split second and said, relatively calmly, “Did you wear the pink tie I sent over?”
    I laughed. “So we’re embracing the gay angle now? You want me to wear a pink tie?”
    “No!” he yelled. “I mean yes. Yes, it’s October first, breast cancer awareness month—I told you this, the whole cast is wearing them.” I had totally forgotten. He continued, “Are you looking to give the press more evidence that you don’t like breasts? You are to walk into that premiere with a woman on your arm and a pink tie around your neck or so help me god you will never work in this town or the other town again!” He hung up.
    I looked out the window at the street sign—63rd and Lexington, just a few blocks away from hundreds of ties. I alerted the driver. “Sir, I need to stop at Bloomingdale’s to pick up a pink tie.”
    I entered the store at around six-thirty, with only half an hour to go until the premiere. My plan was, I would walk down the red carpet at the last minute, alone, and avoid an inquisition from reporters. As I reached the tie counter my phone rang again. This time it was my publicist, Albert. He comes across much tougher on the phone than in person. Face-to-face he’s a bit of a mush.
    Our conversation unfolded like the setup for a meet-cute in an eighties romantic comedy script.
    ME:  Albert, what took you so long?
    ALBERT:  I spoke to Hank. I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses.
    ME:  What senses? I stand at no comment.
    ALBERT:  No comment means you’re gay.
    ME:  So?
You’re
gay.
    ALBERT:  That’s correct, but you’re not. If you were, I would be your biggest cheerleader. But you’re not.
    ME:  Did I ever tell you that my brother’s gay?
    ALBERT:  The first day I met you.
    ME:  Oh, sorry about that. Well, anyway, how would it look to him if I made a big deal of denying that I was gay?
    ALBERT:  It would look like you’re not gay.
    ME:  I think it would hurt his feelings.
    ALBERT:  You’re being ridiculous, Stanley.
    He always calls me Stanley when he is very serious about something. He thinks it grounds me. It doesn’t.
    ME:  Don’t you appreciate my attempt at solidarity?
    ALBERT:  What solidarity? You’re not gay! Go solidate somewhere else and leave your brother and me be.
    ME:  I don’t think
solidate
is a word. Hold on, I’m getting a pink tie.
    ALBERT:  A pink tie? Is that a joke? Are you trying to kill me?
    I put the phone on the counter and asked the saleswoman, whose name tag read
Lillian
, for a pink tie. She was an older black woman with beautiful silver hair who looked eerily like my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Glass. It was clear that she had already recognized me and had been listening to every word of my conversation. She was slightly giddy, the way some people are when they see a famous person.
    I had no idea what kind of fan she was: the kind who would keep her mouth shut, completely containing her excitement; the kind who would say, “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I loved you in
Bridge and Tunnel
” (my last movie, in which I played a one-eyed serial killer, so it’s odd for people to say they loved me in it). Maybe she was the kind who would ask for a selfie with me, which I doubted; there must be some kind of rule in the Bloomingdale’s employee handbook against that. Or