Cobble Hill

by Cecily von Ziegesar

  He went around the bar and poured a pint of Guinness. “Only on camera, through the Macaw. She’s teasing me,” he added miserably. “She hates surveillance.”

  “Sorry, mate,” Roy said. It must be difficult to be married to an artist.

  “Shy, the girl babysitting Ted right now. She’s his daughter,” Stuart whispered in Mandy’s ear. “The English writer dude, not the freaky one in the suit.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Mandy whispered back. She felt a little left out. Stuart knew all these people, and she knew no one. But that’s what you got for pretending to have MS and hiding in your house with boxes of other people’s food and a whole lot of weed.

  Stuart put his arm around her. “You look so beautiful tonight. No one would know you were sick.”

  I’m not, fuckwad, Mandy thought, feeling suddenly defiant. Maybe this was part of the problem. She was tired of being Stu’s useless, wifey ornament. She was like one of those decorative hedges outside the mansions in the Hamptons. All she ever needed was pruning and watering and she made the mansion look awesome. Except now she had a disease. “I feel totally normal,” she said. As if that were a normal thing to say.

  “Really?” Stu pulled away and eyed her up and down. “That’s great. Maybe something’s working. Maybe it’s going into remission. Maybe we should get you some more tests.”

  “Yeah,” Mandy said. “I think for now I’m just going to drink some wine.”

  * * *

  “You’re both a size extra small,” Trey, the manager of Sublime, chucked a black $850 zip-up hoodie at Liam and a $1,200 baby-blue down parka at Ryan. He was huge, with bleached, gelled hair and a black goatee. “We like them tight, so they don’t puff out when they’re unzipped. Take everything off on top and put those on.” He pointed at Liam. “We’re getting you some other pants and some decent shoes.” He sneered at Liam’s stained gray Urban Outfitters jeans and the too-small, navy-blue Converse sneakers he’d been wearing since the beginning of tenth grade. “Those are fine.” He nodded appreciatively at Ryan’s skinny black Champion sweatpants and red Adidas EQTs.

  “You want me to wear a parka with nothing on underneath?” Ryan asked.

  “You’re getting paid, aren’t you?”

  Trey’s assistant appeared from downstairs with a folded-up pair of orange camouflage pants and a hideous pair of size eleven Nike AF1s in purple and silver patent leather. “Try these,” he said breathlessly, and handed them to Liam.

  “Sweet.” Ryan grinned merrily. “You are going to be one hype beast.”

  Trey pointed at a red-curtained dressing room in the corner. “But hurry. We need to do your tattoos and get you out there.”

  “Wait,” Liam demanded. “Out where?”

  “Didn’t the agency tell you? In this age of protest, we can’t just sell clothes. Your generation likes to speak out. That’s why there’s a broken gun and the words ‘Fuck Guns’ on your sweatshirt. That’s why your jacket says ‘Still Alive’ on the back. Every day is a protest. Your job is to look good while doing it. To be fashionable activists.”

  Liam was probably the least politically active kid at school. He didn’t even recycle for fear he’d do it wrong.

  Ryan was undeterred. “Fuck guns. Yeah, that’s cool.”

  “Gotta go change my pants.” Liam’s voice wavered as he headed into the dressing room.

  * * *

  “So, your husband told me what’s going on. MS sucks. I’m sorry. You look amazing though. Like, better than amazing,” Peaches gushed.

  Mandy had already decided that Peaches was annoying. She clearly had a crush on Stu and possibly the writer dude and probably flirted with all the dads at Ted’s school. It was gross.

  “Can I get a glass of red wine?” she said in response. She’d done her research. Wine was full of antioxidants. If she was going to drink alcohol in public while allegedly sick with MS, wine was the correct choice.

  “Totally,” Peaches said, feeling like she was sixteen and trying to make friends with the coolest girl in high school. “I’ll open you up your own private bottle.”

  * * *

  The agar-agar and formaldehyde would not coalesce. Luckily Elizabeth had stored an entire case of Saran Wrap in the basement. She’d have to make a good seam, one she could tear apart with her fingernails—quickly, at just the right moment—if she ever made it upstairs.

  * * *

  Other people from the neighborhood were trickling into the bar. Peaches thought she recognized a few parent faces, but out of the context of the school she couldn’t be sure. Roy Clarke had taken up the position of bartender, which suited him. She joined him behind the bar, ducking down to look for a bottle of red wine.

  “This would be the perfect thing to do when you’re not writing,” she said. “You can observe people, listen in on their conversations. Watch them misbehave.”

  Roy stood to the side so as not to tread on her. “Tending bar, you mean?” He had never considered this. “I’m hiding, don’t you see? Mingling has never been my thing.”

  Peaches located a dusty case of Malbec and pulled one of the bottles from the box. Now she had to open it—with what, her teeth? She was tempted to tell Roy about Elizabeth’s Birth, but decided he couldn’t be trusted not to spill the beans.

  “What’re we supposed to do about money? People have been handing me twenties at random intervals. I put them in this.” Roy flapped a plastic bag in front of her. “I didn’t give them any change.”

  “Seems reasonable.” Peaches hadn’t discussed such particulars with Elizabeth. The basement was Elizabeth’s priority. The bar itself was a vanity project or an experiment of some sort. It reminded Peaches of the coffeehouse at Oberlin. People wandered in to bake cookies and vegan muffins and make flavored coffee or herbal tea and would wind up doing improv or playing the guitar. Money was not the point. The point was to bring people together and see what happened.

  The bar was getting crowded now. Peaches followed Elizabeth’s instructions and put on music—the Rolling Stones, Duran Duran, Prince, Wham, Beyoncé, and the Go-Go’s—to jumpstart the karaoke mood.

  Neither she nor Roy could locate a corkscrew. There was a drawer full of pink plastic flamingos and a drawer full of tea candles. There was a box full of what looked like brown M&Ms and a box full of mousetraps. And there was a wooden container that had once held a wheel of French Brie but now was full of extra buttons.

  “Tupper?” Roy called to Elizabeth’s useless husband, drinking pint number four of Guinness at the end of the bar.

  Elizabeth had warned Peaches that Tupper was a lightweight and would soon be very drunk. He would drink out of frustration, Elizabeth said. Peaches felt sorry for him. If she were married to Elizabeth she’d drink too much too.

  “Come back here and help us, would you?”

  Tupper stood up and came around the bar. “I installed a Macaw.” He pointed at the large white ceramic bird perched between two bottles of Cîroc vodka. “She’s around here somewhere,” he told them grimly. “She’s just being coy.”

  Roy smiled a sort of fatherly, patronizing smile, as if he didn’t believe what Tupper said was true but didn’t want to discourage him.

  “What exactly does the Macaw do?” Peaches asked.

  “His masterpiece.” Roy patted Tupper’s shoulder. “It hides surveillances devices and wires. He puts a camera in it connected to an app on his phone so he can spy on his wife’s comings and goings. Except she never comes.”

  Tupper sighed. “She mostly goes.”

  Peaches admired his navy-blue silk tie. He clearly didn’t want to be underdressed when Elizabeth finally decided to return. It was sweet.

  “She’s definitely around,” she assured him. “She set all this up. She even cleaned the bathroom.” She wasn’t giving any of Elizabeth’s secrets away. She was just trying to be nice.

  Tupper checked his phone, then tucked it into his back pocket. “No one’s allowed downstairs,” he said firmly.


  Peaches could tell he was very tempted to go down there and kick in the door.

  Roy gave up trying to find a corkscrew. He pointed at the bottle of wine. “Here you go, Mr. Macaw. You’re the inventor. Invent something to open this.”

  Tupper reached into his pocket and pulled out a red Swiss Army knife. He opened the corkscrew attachment, twisted it in, and expertly pulled out the cork. “There.” He unwound the cork and put the knife back in his pocket.

  Tupper was far more capable than he let on, but then again, he was from Maine. Watching him got Roy thinking about the gadgets they’d have up on Mars. Perhaps his urine-sanitizing water fountains wouldn’t serve fresh drinking water exclusively. They could serve all sorts of other beverages as well. Wine would survive just fine on the long journey from Earth to Mars. Grapes might like to grow there. Potatoes meant vodka. If the urine sanitizers malfunctioned, alcohol might be the only safe thing to drink. The scientists would all become mad raving drunks. Chaos would ensue. And then the restocking capsule would arrive with the baddie inside. Roy picked up his glass and finished off his pint. He hadn’t brought his laptop with him.

  Peaches reached for the wine and poured Mandy Marzulli an enormous glass.

  “My husband used to carry a Swiss Army knife in his pocket in college. I think he thought it would attract girls.” She searched the crowd for Mandy and found her, hugged tight to Stuart’s side, talking to a petite, well-groomed blond woman in her fifties wearing an expensive-looking trench coat and carrying a huge Macy’s shopping bag.

  Roy followed her gaze. “That’s my wife, Wendy,” he said. “She came straight from work.”

  Behind them, Peaches spotted Dr. Conway, dressed immaculately in a crisp white shirt and dark denim jeans, doing tequila shots in the back of the bar with a group of young moms she sort of recognized from the school.

  “Whoa,” Peaches breathed. “This is weird. It’s like all the pieces in the jigsaw puzzle of my life are showing up tonight. Roy, come introduce me to Wendy. Tupper, you’re in charge here.”

  “Marvelous,” Tupper moaned, his face sagging.

  * * *

  Down in the basement, Elizabeth oozed and jiggled. Her scummy, Saran Wrapped surface sweated out a fishy gray mucous that caught the light with a waxy sheen. The consistency was perfect.

  Chapter 15

  Wendy had brought an entire double batch of homemade pumpkin apple cider mini donuts made by the Enjoy! magazine staff in the Enjoy! test kitchen. The donuts were caked in powdered sugar and individually wrapped in clear cellophane bags with football helmets printed on them. There were fifty bags. Well, forty-seven now. She and Gabby and Manfred had each eaten one on the taxi ride to Brooklyn. She’d also brought twenty “game-night mini dinners” from Full Plate. They’d been sent to the Enjoy! office to be reviewed. She thought it might be amusing to leave them out on the bar tables and eavesdrop as people ate and discussed them.

  “Shy was so excited to babysit your son,” Wendy told Stuart after she’d introduced herself. She never would have recognized him herself, but Shy had texted her that she was babysitting for Stuart Little from the Blind Mice, with a link to his picture and bio.

  “Shy wears Gucci sneakers,” Mandy said. It was the first thing she’d noticed when Shy came to babysit.

  “I stole them from work,” Wendy whispered mischievously. “They’re not too pretentious, I hope.”

  “I didn’t even notice them,” Stuart said honestly.

  “Is that food?” Mandy pointed at the Macy’s bag.

  Wendy pulled one of the Full Plate boxes out of the bag. “We should try these right now. They’re ‘game-night mini-dinners,’ whatever that means.”

  “Oh! I saw them on the website. They’re not supposed to be available ’til Super Bowl weekend. I can’t believe you got them.” Mandy clapped her hands together. “I love Full Plate.”

  Stuart spotted Nurse Peaches and the author, Roy Clarke, winding their way through the crowd. They seemed very comfortable together, which bothered Stuart for no good reason. What did Nurse Peaches have to do with Roy Clarke?

  Roy was so glad Wendy had come. The move and her big job at Fleurt had nearly swallowed her up.

  “I didn’t bring any forks,” Wendy was saying to the pretty, plump wife of the famous musician fellow. “But ‘game night’ implies finger food, doesn’t it?”

  “Darling, this is Peaches Park, the elementary school nurse and reader extraordinaire I was telling you about… or perhaps meant to tell you about at some point and then forgot?” Roy realized as he was speaking that he had never so much as mentioned his interactions with Peaches to Wendy or anyone else. He blushed and then covered it up by handing Wendy an overly full glass of wine.

  Wendy was a little surprised by and a little jealous of how many people Roy already seemed to know. “What an unusual name.” She shook Peaches’ hand. “I like your dimples. Have you met the gorgeous Mandy Marzulli?”

  Mandy giggled despite herself. Wendy Clarke was funny. Or maybe she was still a little high.

  “Yes, we met earlier. Your wine, madame,” Peaches offered Mandy the full glass with a dramatic flourish.

  “Brilliant,” Roy gushed, because Wendy’s adroit party charm was infectious. He was a bit worried she’d be standoffish. She did that when she was nervous. But she seemed to be in her element.

  “Cheers.” Wendy clinked glasses with Mandy.

  “Mazel tov.” Peaches raised her bottle of Brooklyn Lager and took a sip. Any moment now Elizabeth would burst out of the basement and things would get weird.

  Peaches was very mellow for someone hosting an entire community gathering. Stuart wondered if she’d been sampling Dr. Conway’s merchandise. Stuart certainly had. He’d been eating pot cookies nonstop. And he was still jealously curious about the connection between Peaches and Roy Clarke. Then again, Mandy was probably wondering how he’d become so friendly with Peaches himself. She was a very friendly person.

  “I should text Greg,” Peaches muttered to herself and pulled out her phone. He never went out and this was so low-key. Although he hated crowded rooms full of noisy, talking people. It aggravated his tinnitus.

  Stop by Monte after your music group if you can. Fun times.

  “How’d you two meet?” Stuart asked, slouching casually in her direction.

  Peaches pressed her beer bottle against her flushed cheek. “Who, me and Greg?” she asked. “He’s not here. He’s not into crowds.”

  “No, you and Roy Clarke,” Stuart clarified. Only when he said it did he realize it was a weird question. How did anyone meet anyone, and what business was it of his? Roy Clarke was helping his wife and Mandy pass out containers of food. He was a congenial man, he was famous, and he was around, it seemed like, all the time. Why wouldn’t Peaches have met him?

  Eat pot cookies now my brain’s all sweaty

  Staring at the nurse like she’s Apple Brown Betty!

  Was Stuart Little jealous of Roy Clarke? Peaches wondered in amazement. Oh yes, he was. Even in the throes of Elizabeth’s crazy artist weirdery, Peaches found she could still flirt with him.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “It’s a pretty small neighborhood.”

  * * *

  “Um, what exactly are we protesting again?”

  Liam lay on his back, shirtless, while a woman named The Professor painted a giant “tattoo” on his bare torso.

  “Is the tattoo words or pictures?” he asked, as if it made any difference.

  “Both.” The Professor tucked one paintbrush into her purple-and-gray dreadlock bun and extracted another. “You don’t work out or wax. I worship that. In a model, I mean. Model boys all look the same, all muscular and hairless.”

  “Thanks.” Tears streamed from the corners of Liam’s eyes. She was hurting him, but he didn’t think he could say anything. He turned his head to glance at Ryan, stretched out on his back beside him. The Professor had already painted a tattoo of a bleeding tiger cub all over his entire torso
and the words ENDANGERED SPECIES across his chest. He was waiting for the ink to set, his shoes off, eyes closed. He seemed to be in his element.

  “Hey,” Liam whispered at him.

  Ryan opened his eyes. “Hey,” he said back. “You’re cool,” he added, as if sensing that Liam was uncomfortable. “Remember, we could be doing something really boring right now like playing Fortnite.”

  If only, Liam thought. He lifted his head. His chest was painted with a neon-red target. The word BULLSEYE was written in black glitter paint above it.

  When the ink had set and The Professor had gelled their hair and applied lip gloss, concealer, face powder, eyeliner, and mascara, and they had donned their sneakers and shrugged on their new Sublime apparel over their bare, tattooed chests, the boys were released outdoors. There was a flash of cameras.

  “Models, hello?” Trey clapped his long, thin hands together, as if to signal that he meant business, they were working. Liam elbowed Ryan hard in the upper arm, but Ryan refused to look at him. Ryan looked like a total freaking pro in his baby-blue parka, unzipped to reveal the bleeding, flaming orange-and-black tiger cub on his chest, his cheeks glittering with gold makeup. Liam was pretty sure he didn’t look quite as good.

  “The boys lined up out here think they’re waiting for a drop. Really, they’re props. We’re staging a protest to advertise the merchandise and feed the frenzy on social media, etcetera. You two are the leaders. You rile them up. The photographers take pictures. You look perfect.” He nodded at Liam. “Love the pimples. Now go. Go.”

  Ryan dashed fearlessly into the crowd. Liam had no choice but to follow him.