One
There really was nothing like the Plaza Hotel in New York at Christmas. The Pulitzer Fountain on Fifth Avenue was strung with silver lights, and the valets resembled chocolate soldiers in their red velvet coats and gold caps. But it was the lobby itself—white and gold columns wrapped in satin bows and glass tables scattered with presents—that took Sabrina’s breath away.
She reminded herself she wasn’t a tourist about to go ice-skating in Rockefeller Center or see a show at Radio City Music Hall. She was here to work. But her heels clicked faster on the marble and when she saw the Christmas tree, yards and yards of lights and ornaments reaching to the ceiling, she couldn’t squelch her excitement.
“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Prescott,” she said as she approached the concierge desk.
“We’re happy to have Mr. Prescott back at the Plaza.” The man tapped on his computer. He glanced up at Sabrina. “You must be Miss Post. A butler will show you up to his suite.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Sabrina shifted and wondered what the concierge thought of her outfit. The skirt was a designer knockoff that she’d had since her first postcollege job but the blouse was a recent purchase. The salesgirl had said it could be worn anywhere from the office to a holiday party, but that probably didn’t include the Plaza Hotel, where other guests wore cashmere sweaters and the softest Burberry slacks.
“What’s not necessary elsewhere is standard at the Plaza.” The concierge snapped his fingers and a butler appeared as if by magic.
Sabrina tried to think of something to say to the butler in the elevator but she was too nervous. There were six hundred dollars in her bank account and if she didn’t get this job, she’d be eating beans the whole week between Christmas and New Year’s. Not to mention the rent on her apartment in Queens. Her parents would be happy to send the rent check as a Christmas present. But it had been four years since Sabrina received her journalism degree, and it was time she was financially independent. Then she thought of one of her favorite books, Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, which she had been reading on the subway. There was a reason Dickens wrote about poverty in his books: writers were usually on the verge of being broke.
“Mr. Prescott is in the Vanderbilt Suite,” the butler said when the elevator doors opened. “Would you like me to announce your arrival?”
“No, thank you,” Sabrina commented. If he escorted her any farther he would expect a tip, and he probably wouldn’t accept the laundromat token in her purse.
The hallway was decorated in grays and yellows with thick beige carpeting and gold-framed paintings on the walls.
“Miss Post,” Grayson Prescott said when she rang the doorbell. “Please come in.”
Sabrina had googled him, of course. Grayson Prescott had sold more than a billion dollars’ worth of paintings during his career as a private art dealer and he was credited with sparking Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s interest in the work of Damien Hirst. His clients ranged from Bill Gates to Mary-Kate Olsen and there wasn’t a private collection from the Hamptons to Beverly Hills that Grayson hadn’t been involved with.
“Can I get you something to drink? The orange juice is delicious.” He waved at the minibar and Sabrina thought he looked younger than his eighty years. He had a full head of white hair and his eyes were clear and blue. He was over six feet tall and Sabrina could imagine him in one of those faded newspaper photos of college quarterbacks in the 1950s—all square shoulders and thick chests.
“I’m fine, thank you.” Sabrina shook her head.
“Please, I won’t feel as guilty if you join me.” He poured her a glass. “The prices at the Plaza always make me feel that way. The last time I had the Wagyu beef at the Palm Court, I had such a guilty conscience I wrote a check for the same amount to the Red Cross.”
Sabrina accepted the orange juice and took a small sip.
“You came highly recommended by an old friend, Chester White. I gather you’re his goddaughter.”
“Our families have known each other for years,” Sabrina said with a nod. “I grew up in New Jersey and my parents are both professors.”
“Anyone Chester recommends is good enough for me.” Grayson leaned back in his chair. “I hadn’t heard of ghostwriters before, let alone thought I needed one. When I signed with my publisher, I imagined writing a memoir would be fun. Who doesn’t want to believe his life might be interesting to others? But then Leo’s emails changed from rants about the Giants game with a polite sentence asking how the book was coming to pointed letters saying he needs the first draft by January.”
“I’m sure I can do a good job.” Sabrina was earnest. “I spent the last week researching your career. I was impressed with your early appreciation of Kenneth Noland. You sold one of his pieces to Robert De Niro when the only place they had been displayed was in Noland’s guest bathroom.”
“It was a clever place to hang it. Most dinner party guests are bound to use the powder room and notice it.” Grayson’s eyes twinkled. “I had a client in the south of France who kept a seventy-five-million-dollar Van Gogh above her bathtub. The insurance company didn’t want to allow it, they were afraid it would warp. My client said if she paid that much for a painting, she wanted to hang it where she spent the most time.” He looked at Sabrina thoughtfully. “Leo is expecting a tell-all, but that’s not what I want to write. There will be some of that; I won’t disappoint him. But isn’t a memoir the only chance one has to teach something important?” He leaned forward. “I want to write about my own Christmas miracle.”
“A Christmas miracle?” Sabrina repeated.
“Life is about three things: there’s hard work. You can’t be happy if you aren’t passionate about what you do. But there’s also luck. Luck can make the difference between leading a pleasant existence and having a life where every day is exciting and you can’t wait to get out of bed.”
“And the third thing?” Sabrina asked.
“That’s the part a lot of people get wrong,” he answered and a small cloud passed over his face. “Recognizing the luck when it arrives.”
“It sounds interesting,” Sabrina said doubtfully. She had to fill three hundred pages and it was easier to write about concrete names and places than nebulous ideas. But Grayson was paying her and she had to do what he said.
“It better be,” Grayson chuckled. “Or people at the airport bookstore will pass over the book and buy the autobiography of that fellow who flips houses.” He smiled at Sabrina and his face was almost boyish. “I believe my assistant discussed pay and accommodations. She booked you the Fitzgerald Suite, it’s on the next floor.”
“I don’t need a suite!” Sabrina insisted.
“That’s all that was available. And you can charge any food or drink at the hotel. You will be working over the holiday week and I don’t want to seem like some kind of Scrooge.”
Sabrina pictured eggs benedict and Belgian waffles for breakfast and lunches of French onion soup and the Plaza’s famous burger and had to stop herself from blurting out that she’d work for free.
“That sounds fine,” she said instead. “I brought a suitcase with a few clothes. I left them with the valet.”
Thank God her best friend, Chloe, worked in fashion and regularly trolled the sample sales. Sabrina had begged to borrow Chloe’s Vince sweater and Theory pantsuit.
“Excellent,” he said, beaming. “And I promise we won’t work all the time, if you might be meeting anyone.”
Sabrina tried to remember the last time she’d had a date. It had been in August when a magazine writer had asked her to attend Shakespeare in the Park. Patrick had been as broke as she was, and even after pooling their resources, they could barely afford two hot dogs. He said he’d call after he got his next check but he never did.
“I don’t have anyone to meet.” Sabrina shook her head.
Grayson looked at Sabrina kindly and held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”
For the first time since she’d entered, she allowed herself to glance around. The floors were parquet and there were gold upholstered armchairs and gray velvet sofas. The sideboard was set with blue-and-white china and there was a coffee table with a glass chess set. How could she pass up six nights at the Plaza and a paycheck that would allow her to pay the heating bill and get her hair cut in the same month?
Sabrina shook Grayson’s hand and felt the same anticipation she experienced when she entered the Plaza’s lobby: for a short time, her life could include paper-thin cucumber sandwiches at the Palm Court and holiday cocktails served in tinted glasses and topped with whipped cream.
“We have a deal.”
They worked for an hour and then Grayson apologized that the combination of jet lag and old age was making him tired and he needed to lie down.
Sabrina took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and slipped the key into the door. There was a small salon with one wall of mirrors. An art deco desk stood by the window and stockings hung from a marble fireplace. The bookshelf held leather-bound books and a Christmas tree was decorated with glass ornaments.
In the bedroom, Sabrina discovered a four-poster bed and a bedside table with a Tiffany lamp. The welcome card detailed the 24-karat gold fixtures in the bathroom and the soaking tub that could be filled with a selection of bath salts. White-glove butler service was available twenty-four hours a day, and anything she needed was on the other end of the phone. But it was the bed itself—king-size with a padded headboard and white comforter as soft as fresh snow—that was the most inviting.
When was the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep? She’d spent the last two weeks working twelve-hour days with an aging rock star until he decided he needed spiritual awakening before he could finish his memoir. The next day he’d flown off to Joshua Tree without paying her fee.
She peeled back the bedspread and rested her head on the pillow. She’d close her eyes for a few minutes and then she’d transcribe her notes.
When she woke up, the time on the bedside clock said 12:30 A.M. and for a moment she didn’t remember where she was. She drew back the curtains and was stunned by the beauty of the night skyline. Fifth Avenue was a patchwork of colors far below. The Empire State Building was festooned with shiny green and red Christmas lights, and Central Park shimmered as brightly as an airport runway.
Then she sank back on the bed and realized she was starving. The only thing she had eaten all day was a turkey sandwich that she had fished out of the bottom of her purse when she got off the subway. When she’d taken it out from under her laptop it was completely flat and the mayonnaise had leaked into the plastic bag. She’d taken two bites and tossed it in the garbage.
Grayson had said she could sign for whatever she liked, but she didn’t feel like ordering room service. She changed into the Vince sweater and a pair of slacks and stepped into the hallway. The sleeves were a bit long but Sabrina was glad she’d brought it. At least if anyone saw her, they wouldn’t think she’d snuck into the Plaza for the free hot chocolate.
The Palm Court was dark except for the light of a vacuum cleaner being pushed across the floral rugs. The Champagne Bar had closed at midnight and there were only a few Christmas cookies left on the complimentary display in the lobby. Sabrina took the stairs down to the Rose Club, but the sleek walnut bar was empty. She was about to go back to her room when she noticed a man asleep on the sofa. He wore an expensive-looking gray suit and there was a silver tray and an empty glass on the coffee table.
The man stirred and sat up.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” He rubbed his eyes. He had dark wavy hair and spoke with a British accent.
“Almost one a.m.,” Sabrina said after glancing at her phone.
“That’s six a.m. London time,” the man groaned. “I don’t usually fall asleep in public places, but I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours. I’m surprised someone didn’t wake me before.” He glanced around for a bartender but there was no one there. He grinned at Sabrina. “For all I know, a housekeeper was here to vacuum but didn’t want to disturb me. I’ll have to apologize to the front desk.”
“Did you just arrive?” she asked.
“Last night.” He waved his hand and Sabrina noticed his gold cuff links. “It’s all a bit of a blur. My stomach wanted breakfast but the clock said it was time for dinner.”
“That’s why I came downstairs,” Sabrina said. “I took a nap and woke up starving. But everything is closed.”
He pointed to the tray.
“You’re welcome to share some of mine.”
“I couldn’t do that.” Sabrina shook her head.
The man sat up straighter and ran his hands through his hair.
“Please. This caviar is four hundred dollars an ounce; it would be a shame for it to go to waste. And the lobster rolls are delicious, I can’t imagine where the Plaza gets fresh lobster at Christmas.”
Copyright © 2021 by Anita Hughes
