The selection captures another facet of the taste of a great American collector famous for the range and depth of his interest in the history of European art.

 

I mean, first of all there’s the fact that my hair is way bigger than anybody else’s here—but Dolly said it looks good curly. Iso should have blown it out. And second of all, well, I think I am the only person here with less than ten grand in my 401K. I might be the only person here who even HAS a 401K—besides Dolly, I mean. I seem to be the only one here without a DATE. I mean, Dolly didn’t exactly mention she was meeting up with Skiboy here. But there he was, waiting for her, right by the red carpet. And can I just say, his shoulders look even BROADER at nighttime.

This exhibition was made possible by

a grant from the Gregory Shearson Foundation.

 

Okay, one more champagne, and I am out of here. Where is that waiter? Where—OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, WHAT ISHE DOING HERE?

AND WHO IS THATWITH HIM? Oh my God, Mitchell Hertzog is here with a date. A DATE! Oh, and look at her. Just look at her. SHE had a blow-out. SHE didn’t take the advice of the style editor for theNew York Journal. She looks great. Well, if by “great” you mean seven feet tall and a hundred pounds. She actually looks like a praying mantis, if you ask me.

Oh God, why did I eat all those leftover cold sesame noodles for dinner?

Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center program

 

Maybe I can slip out before he sees me with my hair like this. If I get behind that pillar

Quintet for Clarinet and Strings in A Major,K. 581. . . . . . . . . . .Mozart

and slither over to the coat-check thingie, I can probably make it. Oh please God let me make it

Sextet for Clarinet, String Quartet and Piano. . . . . . . . . . .Copland

NOOOOOOO! He’s seen me! What do I—

Quintet for Two violins, Viola, Cello, and Piano in F Minor, Op. 34. . . . . . . . . . .Brahms

Journal of Kate Mackenzie

Why is it that every time I see Mitchell Hertzog I manage to make a total and complete ass of myself? If I’m not dribbling along about chicken in garlic sauce, I’m dealing with my lunatic ex-boyfriend or acting like I know something about art and classical music, when clearly, CLEARLY, I do not.

And he looked SO nice, too. I mean, really, really, really nice, in his tuxedo. He looked SKIBOY nice. Seriously, even Skiboy’s shoulders paled in comparison to Mitchell Hertzog’s.

He acted nice, too. He was all, “What are YOU doing here? I would’ve thought a girl like you would have something better to do than hang at a thing like this.”

Like I was too glam for the place, or something. Ha, I wish. I told him I’d just come to keep Dolly company, on account of her having an extra ticket.

He looked around for Dolly, but of course she had gone off with Skiboy. The two of them were behind the cellist with their hands down each other’s pants.

And then, me, idiot girl I am, I can’t leave it at that. Oh, no. I keep foaming away at the mouth:

Me: Oh, yes, well, Dolly and I, we go way back. In fact, right now we’re roomies, can you believe it?

Him: Roomies? Really? How did that happen?

Me: Well, you know, I’m between apartments right now, and Dolly, she has that big penthouse, way up on East Eightieth and East End Avenue and I don’t know, she asked and I jumped. . . .

LAME LAME LAME LAME I’m sure the Praying Mantis is a better conversationalist. At least until she bites his head off after they’re done mating (it’s praying mantises that do this, right?)

Then he went, “Well, it’s probably good you’re in the penthouse. That way your musical friend might find it a little harder to serenade you. Since you don’t seem to find his serenades all that appealing.”

Dale! God! I’d managed to forget all about Dale. I’d managed to forget for a minute there that the last time I saw this man, I was begging the NYPD not to use their nightsticks on my psychotic ex.

“Oh,” I said, trying to sound all—what’s the word?Je ne sais quoi, I guess. I’m sure the Praying Mantis would know. “That. Yes. Thanks so much for your help with that, by the way. Um, Dale and I, we, well, we broke up, and he’s not, um, taking it well.”

And he went, “So I gathered. Listen, if you need anything, any kind of legal help with that, a restraining order, or something—“

Oh my God! He wants to help me get a restraining order! Against Dale! I mean, I probably should. Only I don’t want Dale to go to jail. I just want him to go away.

But still. Like if I ever needed a restraining order, I’d go to HIM! I mean, Hertzog Webber and Doyle charge like five hundred bucks an hour, or something. Maybe even more. I could use up my entire savings account for what this guy charges in three hours.

But I swear to God, there I was, standing there thinking, “If I don’t take him up on his offer, he’ll think maybe I’m not serious about breaking up with Dale, and then he’ll never ask me out.”

Mitchell Hertzog, I mean.

Yeah. That’s what I was thinking. About Mitch Hertzog. While I was standing there talking to him at an opening to which he had CLEARLY BROUGHT A LONG, BLONDE, SLINKY DATE! Who was staring right at me from over by the Ingres (which she did not exactly not resemble, if you get my drift. I wonder if Ingres used praying mantises as models for his subjects)!

God, I am pathetic. Give me a guy in a tux—even a guy who is clearly taken—and all I can seem to think about is sharing the SundayTimes and strolls through Central Park.

So then, just to make things REALLY awkward and lame, I laughed all breezily and went, “Well, you know, ha ha, I’m on a human-resources-department salary, I really doubt I could afford you.”

Then Mitchell said the nicest thing. I mean, seriously, the nicest thing. He said, “I’d be happy to do it at no charge. Why don’t you stop by my office on Monday and we’ll talk about it? Say, lunchtime?”

But then he added, “I know a great place for chicken in garlic sauce.”

I have to admit, for a minute I was so shocked I just stood there staring at him, probably with my mouth hanging open. I was trying to figure out what to do—whirl around and make a beeline for the door, or tell him where to get off—when it was like he realized I wasn’t laughing and he poked my arm and went, “Whoa. Joke. That was a joke. What, they don’t joke in human resources?”

And the thing is, the last thing I want to do is fall for a lawyer. And I seriously don’t want to get a restraining order against Dale—I mean, he isn’t a threat to me—my ego, maybe, but not my body.

But Mitch just smiled so nicely when he said the wordjoke, and he seemed sincerely to want to help me, and, well, hepoked me. Like a friendly poke. How many lawyers give people friendly pokes? I mean, really?

And I will admit that maybe all of that—and the fact that the Praying Mantis was glaring so hard at me—caused me to, I don’t know, lose my head all of a sudden. Because the next thing I knew, I was promising him I would do it, I would have lunch with him on Monday, even though he’s a lawyer and his brother is the most heinous man in the world and he has a seven-feet-tall, hundred-pound girlfriend already and the T.O.D. SPECIFICALLY SAID I WAS NOT TO SEE MITCHELL HERTZOG AGAIN UNLESS SHE WAS PRESENT!

Except that I’m not meeting him about Mrs. Lopez. I’m meeting him about Dale. Which is, you know, totally unwork-related. Well, except for when Dale shows up at my workplace with a bouquet and a new song for me. But whatever.

I just thought that was the sweetest thing—I mean, this very high-powered lawyer, offering to help me with my stupid, boring problem. . . .

Well, I practically started crying right there on the spot. If he had offered me a lease on a studio apartment for nine fifty a month, utilities included, within walking distance of my office, I could not have been more touched.

And then of course, I had to go and ruin the moment by saying, “Well, okay, yeah . . .” and then because he was still standing there and I was still standing there and Miss Praying Mantis in a Dior wraparound evening dress was also still standing there, having seen the whole thing—you know, her date make a date with me, even though it wasn’t really a date, because it was lunch, and work-related—for him, anyway—I couldn’t just leave it, I had to be all, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

And Mitchell looked kind of startled—really, like he’d forgotten she was even there—and went, “Oh, of course. Clarissa, this is Kate Mackenzie. I’m working with her on a breach-of-contract arbitration. Kate, this is Clarissa Doyle.”

And then the Praying Mantis came slinking over and stuck her creepy overlong Ingres-like hand at me and went, “So nice to meet you. You must be with Substantiated Oil, then,” and I went, “Um, no. TheNew York Journal. Mitchell—I mean, Mr. Hertzog—I mean, Mitchell—is helping us with a wrongful termination suit.”

Which of course caused the Praying Mantis to just look at me and go, “Breach of contract, you mean. There is no wrongful termination in the state of New York.” And then she looked at Mitchell from beneath her eyelashes—she must spend a fortune at Sephora because they were super long . . . her eyelashes, I mean—and then there was one of those embarrassing silences, during which I guessed that Mitch must have met Clarissa through work.

And then I put two and two together, and remembered that the name of Mitch’s firm was Hertzog Webber and Doyle, and that Clarissa had to be the Doyle. Ora Doyle, anyway. And then I thought how happy, you know, it would probably make everybody, if she and Mitchell got married, because then they could start a little lawyer empire, like France, or something, and then, I don’t know, the thought of it made me wish I hadn’t drunk so much champagne, because suddenly I got a very bad headache, which I guess Mitch must have noticed, since he went, “Are you all right, Kate?”

I said I was, because, you know, you have to lie about that kind of thing, and then, to deflect the attention off me, I asked him how his family liked Amy, although I almost called her the T.O.D.

“Uh, everyone seems to like her just fine,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just peachy,” I said. I couldn’t believe those words came out of my mouth. But there they were, floating like a bubble over my head, like in a Peanuts cartoon. It was as though even Clarissa was stretching her Praying Mantis neck to look at them.

And of course that only made my headache about ten times worse, and the damn Brahms didn’t help much, either.

Then it was like a nuclear bomb went off inside my head, because who should I see standing not twenty feet away but Stuart Hertzog and the T.O.D.!!!!

I about swallowed my tongue. I mean, if the T.O.D. caught me fraternizing with Mitch, after expressly forbidding me from doing so, I would be demoted to the mailroom quicker than you could say Staff Assistance Program. . . .

I don’t think Mitchell saw them, but he saw my face, and all of a sudden, he went, “Kate, you look done for. Let me get your coat and a cab home. Clarissa can tell Dolly you decided to go on home without her.”

To which Clarissa replied, looking more like a Praying Mantis than ever, “Yes, of course I will.”

And even though I was all, “No, it’s all right,” he got my coat tag from me. I have to say, I didn’t exactly fight him on the whole getting-me-out-of-there, and-fast thing. We managed to slip right by the T.O.D. without her even noticing (she was busy picking at an hors d’oeuvre and I think mentally tabulating how long she’d have to work out on her treadmill before she’d burn off all the calories in it).

Anyway, next thing I know, Mitch and I were standing in the drizzle in front of the Met, and he was flagging down a cab for me.

“It must be the champagne,” I said lamely, because I didn’t want to admit that it was the sight of my boss that had caused me to go green around the gills. Because, you know, after all, my boss is his future sister-in-law, and even if he will eventually find out for himself how heinous she is, I can’t be the one to tell him. “Really, I’m not used to it. And Dolly and I went on a run around the reservoir today, and I’m not used to that, either, and . . . It must have been the champagne.”