Seconds later I learn that indeed the salon does have a Twitter feed. I scan the tweets and click on a few, though I don’t find any as fascinating as Mode’s. I’m about to quit when I happen upon a tweet that redirects me to the personal Twitter feed of a twenty-something blonde who works at the salon. When I see what she tweeted last night, I almost choke on my linguine.
There she is standing on a snowy street corner preening. Why is she so self-satisfied, you ask? Because she’s wearing a splendiferous fur coat! And not just any splendiferous fur coat: one that looks an awful lot—and I mean an awful lot—like my mother’s Russian sable.
Loaner fur, the bubbly blonde tweets. I know it’s not PC but it’s fun for a night out! #SaturdayNight #drinks #party
Loaner, my you know what! That blonde scofflaw took my mother’s fur coat out on the town with no permission from anyone!
I rise to my feet. This makes me so mad I’m incapable of remaining seated.
Who knows where that perfidious female took that fur, what she exposed it to? She took it to a party? She blithely risked it being stolen or damaged?
There’s no excuse for that behavior. That girl had absolutely no right! I can’t believe it.
I sit back down and grab my phone. Somewhere in my riled mind I realize there is good news in this. My mother’s fur has not been stolen, per se. Now I know who had it last night and I don’t doubt she’ll return it. Still, I am seething. And since my hands are shaking from anger, it takes me a few minutes to compose and send a private message, especially one that contains no swear words.
My mother owns that fur you tweeted about. I cannot believe you took it from the salon’s closet, wore it out and about, and boasted about it, too! She entrusted that fur to your salon’s care. There is no excuse for what you did. I am very angry. I want the fur back tomorrow morning the second the salon opens. 10 a.m. sharp.
In her reply, the blonde has the gall to protest that she doesn’t work Mondays. I message back that I don’t give a hoot. If she is not at the salon at the appointed hour, I will go straight to the cops. She grudgingly agrees to show up.
I’m so puffed up with righteous indignation that I’m about to message back that I haven’t yet heard an apology when a realization stops me short. My mother’s hands aren’t clean, either. She took off with somebody else’s fur: Bernadette’s. (It was unintentional, but still.) And now we know that despite my mother’s accusations, Bernadette is innocent of all wrongdoing. Yet thanks to my mom, she must be frantic about her own pelt. She has no way of knowing it’s hanging safe and sound in a closet in the Plaza Hotel.
My second private message is rather more humiliating to write.
BTW, tomorrow morning I’ll bring with me the fur that belongs to Bernadette, another one of your salon’s clients. My mother accidentally took it with her yesterday when she left. Have a good night.
Seconds later I receive a reply.
We didn’t know what happened to that. So I guess I’m not the only one who made a mistake …
Even though strictly speaking Blondie did not so much make a mistake as willfully go for a spin with another woman’s fur, I take her point. I hope Blondie can reach Bernadette tonight to provide the woman some relief.
There’s another woman I could relieve, but I’m not sure I want to. I wonder why not, exactly. As I ponder that question, I tidy up the dining table and kitchen. By the time both areas are spotless, I have decided not to call my mother. She’s not expecting any news about her fur till tomorrow anyway. Let her stew. Maybe sheer panic will inspire her to be more forthcoming with Bennie.
I survey the immaculate kitchen, suddenly bone tired. What a day it has been. And now it’s time to depart for the Sofitel. Before I do, I tiptoe upstairs to check on Senior.
I find him sitting on the red-and-white floral sofa in the library, snoozing, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his slippered feet resting on an ottoman. He’s snoring quietly. He looks vulnerable and old. And when he wakes up, this man who so craves attention will find his house empty.
I bet that happens a lot.
I cover the old fart with the sand-colored pashmina I find on the back of the sofa, leave him a note that I’ll call him tomorrow to follow up, and go on my way. Halfway to the Sofitel I get a text from Jason to meet instead at a Greek taverna near the hotel. Have I had dinner yet? He and Kimberly have not.
Great. Now I have to socialize with the wench. I wonder how alluring her get-up du jour has been. Then again, given how much skin I’m flashing—which I’ll have to explain—I’m in no position to criticize.
The mouth-watering aromas that greet me when I walk inside the taverna make me wish I hadn’t already eaten, even though my Italian repast was fabulous. This restaurant is Greek by way of Midtown, snazzy instead of home-style, with high ceilings, beautiful wood beams, and linen-draped tables. You know you’re in a taverna by the potted lemon and fig trees, large standing urns, and Greek-style pottery in every available alcove.
Since Kimberly and Jason beat me here, the maître d’ leads me to their table. En route I think of the many questions I’m dying to ask the little minx—foremost among them: Where is your husband tonight?—but I’m cowed by my exchange with Blondie the Fur Snatcher. Given my mother’s peccadillo, I shouldn’t have been so self-righteous with her. That blunder forces me to consider the possibility that Kimberly has a good reason for not disclosing her marriage to Damian Paganos, if indeed she has not done so. Of course I’m also desperate to know why she neglected to record Dream Angel’s final sequence on the night Lisette died. But on both those issues, for the moment at least, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.
Perhaps because I strategically checked my coat at the door, Jason rises to his feet the second he sees me, admiration shining in his dark eyes. “Wow,” he murmurs after we exchange a kiss. Well aware that Kimberly is eyeing us closely, I give him another smooch for good measure. If I thought it would help me stake my claim to my husband by peeing on his shoes, I just might do it.
“You’re very dressed up tonight,” Kimberly observes.
I take in her styled hair, full makeup, and fluttery wine-colored top featuring a deep V neckline and shoulder cutouts. I also note as I sit down that she’s squeezed into skinny jeans and high-heeled boots. Isn’t it amazing? Again today for some mysterious reason, Kimberly opted against leggings, baggy top, makeup-free face, and tied-back hair.
“I had an event on the Upper East Side,” I tell her before I lean over to squeeze Jason’s leg. “I’ll tell you about it later,” I say to him in a low voice, sending Kimberly another signal. Yes, I will be alone with him later. And you will not.
After we order—just a glass of chardonnay for me, but Corfu shrimp for Kimberly and a variety of seafood over roasted orzo for Jason—I quiz them about the shoot. Two Central Park locations worked out especially well, I’m told: the famous Bethesda Fountain and Belvedere Castle. But Kimberly is sure the shots from her Uncle Jerry’s Long Island home will be—
“—just as good, because nobody will be buying this calendar for the backgrounds, anyway.” She winks at Jason.
I send a hate bomb in her direction. Yes, sweetheart, I know that you know that my husband looks finger-lickin’ good undressed. And I have to think that’s at least partly why you want to spend every waking moment taking photographs of him in that state.
“You should see her uncle’s place,” Jason says. “It’s an amazing spread.”
Well, by now I know that Kimberly’s family has money, or at least Uncle Jerry does. Sadly, that cannot be said of the Przybyszewski or Kilborn clans. “You seem very close to your Uncle Jerry,” I say.
“I don’t know anyone who’s as close to their uncle as I am,” she tells me.
I’ve seen no sign of Uncle Jerry having a partner or children, so that might make Kimberly, and that darn sister of hers who lives in Charlotte, his sole heirs. “Family is so important,” I say. “And not just the family you’re born
into but the family you marry into as well.” What made me say that? I’m not sure. I suspect Miss K is getting on my nerves.
Jason chuckles. “Too bad I didn’t think about that before we got married, babe.”
“Ha ha.” I give him a playful slap on the arm. At least it’s mostly playful. “You and my mother may be like oil and water, Jason, but you’ve always gotten along with Pop.”
“True. And both my parents loved you from the get-go, so we’re three for four. That’s not bad. And after all these years, I know how to handle my mother-in-law.” He tips back his head to swig his beer. “Anyway, just wait till you have one of those, Kimberly. Then you’ll know what we’re talking about.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I must be a small person because I am really enjoying the stricken look on Kimberly’s face. And I didn’t even have to put it there!
She blinks a few times. “Well … actually …”
Jason frowns and leans closer to her. “What?”
She raises those gargantuan blue eyes of hers to his face. “I sort of do have a mother-in-law.”
I restrain myself from butting in, but I’m thinking: You don’t sort of have a mother-in-law, missy. You do have a mother-in-law. And I don’t think Jason could look more astounded if Kimberly had informed him she has relatives from Mars who will be joining us for dessert.
“You have a mother-in-law?” he says. “You’re married?”
She looks into her lap. “Sort of,” she mumbles.
“There’s no sort of being married,” Jason tells her, a statement with which I wholeheartedly agree. “You’re either married or you’re not.”
“Well, then, I guess I’m married. But I won’t be for long.”
“Oh, so you’re getting divorced?” That pops out of my mouth. And indeed that could explain why Kimberly’s husband was seeing Lisette. He was already one foot out the door of his marriage.
“I am getting divorced,” she tells Jason.
It’s interesting that she’s making this conversation between the two of them. It’s as if I’m not even sitting at this table.
Jason gestures to her left hand. “So that’s why you’re not wearing a wedding ring?”
“I took it off months ago. I even gave the engagement ring back.”
I bet I know why, too. Damian probably needed to cash it in.
Jason shakes his head. “I can’t believe that in all this time you never told me this. What’s up with that?”
“I didn’t want you to think about me differently,” she tells him.
Whoa. That’s rather a startling admission.
“Plus,” she goes on, “my marriage fell apart so fast that I was embarrassed.”
She looks at me, as if for support, but I’m going to disappoint her. She should be embarrassed.
“Kim Kardashian’s marriage to Kris Humphries lasted longer than mine,” she adds. “And hers was only seventy-two days.”
It is pretty amazing. That gargantuan wedding Kimberly had, with every conceivable bell and whistle, all for a union that lasted barely a few months. Maybe I’m way off-base, but I’ve often thought there’s a connection between nuptial extravaganzas and short marriages. Whether they’re made for TV, like Kim Kardashian’s, or not.
Though Jason is saying very little, I can tell this has disillusioned him about Kimberly. It does reflect a pretty monumental lapse of judgment on her part. All he can seem to do is shake his head. Then: “Well, I’m just surprised something this big never came out. That’s all.”
“Even on my wedding day I knew I shouldn’t go through with it.” Kimberly’s pink lips tremble and she swipes at her nose. Tears are coming but quick. “I knew it was a mistake, but I did it anyway. I didn’t know how to stop it. I’m sorry,” and she rises from the table to bolt for the ladies’ room.
If Kimberly were my friend, I’d go after her. As it is, she and I have already had one ladies-room run-in too many.
I’m not so heartless that I don’t feel bad for her. And I can well imagine how horrendously difficult it would have been to halt that matrimonial bandwagon the morning of the wedding. The money’s been spent; the guests are on their way; it would be easier just to go through with it and give the marriage a whirl. And who knows? Maybe you’ll surprise yourself and end up happy you did it.
Jason lifts his napkin from his lap and tosses it on the table. “When the server comes back, I’m gonna ask for the check.”
Fortunately, long before this I lost my craving for baklava. I search for something to say and end up mimicking Kimberly’s line. “I’m sorry, Jason.”
“I don’t care that she’s married,” he says. “I care that she didn’t tell me.”
“She was afraid it would make her look bad.”
“What makes her look bad isn’t that she’s married. It’s that she didn’t tell me she’s married. She and I have talked about you a million times.”
I wonder how I fared in those conversations. “Well, clearly your opinion of her matters to her. A lot.”
“Don’t pretend you’re on her side now. You’re enjoying this. Don’t pretend you’re not.” He manages to get a server’s attention and requests the check.
From that point on, I keep mum. Jason is upset and anything I say is likely to make it worse. When so much time passes that I’m thinking I’d better fetch Kimberly, she reappears, looking the worse for wear. Jason waits for her to sit down before he tells her he’s settled the bill.
“I should’ve gotten that,” she says.
“No problem. I’ll expense it. Thanks for a good day’s work today.”
It’s a perfectly nice compliment for Jason to pay Kimberly, but there’s little warmth in it. Staring into her lap, Kimberly nods without enthusiasm. I’m thinking it’ll be a miracle if we end the night without more waterworks.
Yet on the street we manage to part ways with no further drama. Back at the hotel, Jason jumps in the shower and I shed my clothes for the fluffy robe. I guess I am my mother’s daughter after all.
With Jason in the bathroom and the lamps down low, I sit by the window and take in the view. It may be late on Sunday night, but cars are zooming along West 44th Street as fast as they can. I guess nobody around here feels like they have extra time.
I take a deep breath. So. With dawn’s early light I turn 35. Now that I’m 34 it’s not such a big number, but at 17 when I married Jason it seemed impossibly old. How things change.
I wonder, as I always do this time of year, if my birth mother is thinking about me. When I was a child, I was never sure. Ever since I became a mother, I’ve felt pretty darn certain I was on her mind. Thank you, I tell her silently, as I always do on this day. Thank you for the nine months, for the labor, for the choice you made. It had to have been heart-rending. I can’t even imagine. Wondering what propelled her to make it occupied a lot of my young mind, but with time I set the question aside. As I do again as I prepare for bed.
The next morning the sun rises like it always does. I wake to find my husband at my side, propped up on an elbow smiling down at me. He is one handsome devil and that is only the most obvious of his charms.
“Happy birthday, babe,” he murmurs then bends lower to give me a kiss.
I kiss him back. Nice way to kick off the next thirty-five years. “I guess the world didn’t stop spinning.”
“Nope. Kept turning when I hit thirty-five, too.”
“We’re not that old, huh? We’re still pretty young, don’t you think?”
“We’re plenty young enough.”
I’m about to ask for what when I catch the twinkle in his eye. Yup, we’re plenty young enough.
I make it out of bed eventually. Room service arrives to spoil me even more.
“I know it’s not as good as if Rachel made it,” Jason says, fresh from the shower, shaved, and dressed. “But you can eat it in bed if you want.”
“That’s what I’d be doing at home.” I push away the thought that this is the f
irst birthday I’m spending away from my daughter. Instead I lift the lid on my breakfast. “My favorite!” A Belgian waffle with blueberries, syrup, and whipped cream. Not to mention a pot of coffee and a glass of pineapple juice.
“The juice is to make you remember Oahu,” Jason tells me. “And winning your title.”
I give him a kiss. “You’re a pretty great guy, you know that?”
“Sometimes, anyway. Sorry about my bad mood last night.”
“Don’t be.”
He seems about to say something more but stops himself. That’s just as well. I don’t care to discuss Miss Drayson first thing on my birthday.
We don’t eat in bed but set up our meal on the table by the window. Believe it or not, it’s so sunny I’m tempted to wear sunglasses. “This looks like a great day for a photo shoot,” I tell Jason.
“I heard on the news it’s supposed to get into the low sixties. That’s like twenty-five degrees above normal for this time of year.”
I’ll take it. And I bet Kimberly will, too. Or should I call her Mrs. Paganos? Whichever, she and Jason are going to kick off the day’s work at Uncle Jerry’s studio reviewing the gallery of photos from the first two days of shooting.
“So you up for the usual tonight?” Jason asks me.
We have a tradition for my birthday. We started it when we were 17 and have never once missed it. “Absolutely!”
“I’ll make sure Kimberly and I wrap up early,” he says, and gives me a kiss.
You know what? I bet he will.
A little while later, after my second Walk of Shame in as many days, I’m back at the apartment. Trixie and Shanelle, both dressed in skinny jeans and flirty tops, barely let me take off my coat before sitting me down in front of a muffin with a birthday candle in it.
“I love your hair!” I tell Trixie. “That pixie cut looks fab on you.”
She gives her head a shake. “Cynthia did an excellent job.”
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 20