The Best Laid Plans

by Lynn Schnurnberger

  “Girls, please, as far as Daddy and I are concerned no one’s ever going to be good enough for either of you,” I say, giving them each a kiss on the cheek or in Paige’s case—because she swivels her head away from my motherly affection—a kiss on the air near her head. As I walk toward the elevator, music is blaring so loudly from Peter’s beloved Bose sound system that I can hear it all the way down the hall. It’s not the Rolling Stones or the Jonas Brothers, but it’s not that drippy Elton John dirge, either. Still, I can’t say it’s much cheerier.

  “Yesterday,” the usually chipper Paul McCartney drones, “all my troubles seemed so far away …”

  I don’t have to guess who picked out the song.

  DESPITE THE MIDTOWN traffic I manage to get to the Veronica Agency’s office building in less than twenty minutes. Navigating what should be the last sixty seconds of my trip, however, proves more daunting.

  “It’s those people on the fourth floor. Their workmen have been holding up the elevator for hours,” the super apologizes, telling me it’ll be faster to take the stairs. We’re only three floors up, but the hallways are filled with construction dust and when I arrive at the agency, the din of jackhammers, drilling, and the whiny annoying sounds of screw guns whirring echo throughout the office.

  “At least it’s not ‘Candle in the Wind,’ ” I say, pointing toward the ceiling. I pour a cup of coffee and snag one of the Dunkin’ Donuts that Lucy has generously brought in to celebrate our opening. I can’t help remembering that Sienna quit her job over that very donut company—and Lucy’s buying these today of all days, seems like a good omen. We never would have started our business if Sienna hadn’t gotten so riled up over product placement and I’m more than happy now to give the company a plug. “Here’s to the Veronica Agency and Dunkin’ Donuts,” I say, passing around the sugary treats.

  “To the Veronica Agency and Dunkin’ Donuts,” our little group sings back in unison, although most of them take a pass on the carbs.

  “I’m not having anything at all,” says Georgy, the rangy blonde who was searching for cellulite-eating pantyhose. “I’m starving myself to get into this hot little black number for tonight.”

  “Not too hot, right?” I ask, reminding our employees that we want them to look glamorous, not cheap. “Like Carla Bruni after she married the president of France—not before, when she was dating Mick Jagger.”

  “That’s right. A man who’s paying this kind of money for a date wants a woman who looks sophisticated outside the bedroom and sexy inside it,” says Bill, pulling up a chair and telling everyone to do the same. “We’ve tried to think of everything, but let’s go through some of the rules again. Why don’t we consider this a dry run?”

  Lucy, as always, is the first to crack a joke. “A dry run? That’s not the kind of thing you want to have happen to a gang of forty-year-old hookers.” Bill shoots her a reprimanding look. “I mean courtesans,” Lucy says, using our insisted-upon description. “You don’t want any courtesans having a dry run.”

  “I stand corrected,” Bill chuckles. “So, let’s do a run-through, okay? You’ll meet your dates for dinner, and then a client may invite you back to his apartment or to one of the three hotels around the city in which we’ve discreetly booked rooms.”

  “And don’t forget to call us. Archie and I want to hear from you,” I pipe in, proud at myself for having remembered Bill’s alias. “Let us know when the date is over so we can know how it went and how much to charge. And if you need our help anytime during the evening, you can reach us here at the office or on Archie’s cellphone.”

  “I know some of you have done this before and for others, it’s your first time,” Bill continues. “But there’s nothing to be nervous about and if you decide you don’t want the evening to go any further, it’s your call. If there’s something a man wants to do and you don’t want to …”

  “… like using pop-it beads?” Georgy asks.

  “Like using pop-it beads—” I chuckle “—or anything. If you feel a client is pressuring you, tell him ‘Anna won’t let me do that.’ And if that doesn’t work, say you’re sorry this isn’t working out between you and that you’ll check with Anna to see if the agency can find someone who’d be more to their liking.

  “Our clients will be charging your services to their credit cards so you don’t have to worry about asking them for money or carrying around large amounts of cash. You’ll get a weekly check, based on the number of times you see a client and the services you perform. Blow jobs are a thousand dollars extra.”

  “And swallowing?” asks Lucy.

  “An additional thousand.”

  “And about four hundred fifty calories.” Georgy giggles.

  “Bring condoms,” I say.

  “And your vibrators, and Rocket Balm cream, and your edible panties,” says Lucy.

  “And we expect you to be good dining companions,” I remind them. “I hope everybody has boned up on current events.”

  “Boned up?” Georgy giggles again.

  “Ooh ladies, this is worse than a sixth grade sex-ed class.” I laugh.

  “I think it’s fourth grade sex-ed now,” says Patricia, the former money manager. “And by the way, no man, no matter how young he is, wants to think about erectile dysfunction. Which is why when we’re talking about current events I want to suggest that nobody bring up the fact that Mexico’s answer to a flagging economy is to give away free Viagra.”

  “At least the out-of-work Mexicans won’t have flagging you-know-whats,” Lucy wisecracks. “Mucho better than the American stimulus package. And while we’re talking about packages, don’t let your date eat artichokes.”

  “Right,” I agree. “They’re messy and hard to pull apart, you don’t want a guy to be embarrassed about his eating habits.”

  Lucy laughs and puts her arm around me. “Anna, honey, I was thinking about our eating habits. Artichokes are smelly and funny-tasting, you know, after they’ve been through a guy’s digestive system.…”

  “I think she means when you’re giving them a blow job,” Georgy says helpfully. “You know, the taste of the—”

  “Well, yes, of course, I just took it for granted that everyone knew that,” I say, as the girls just giggle.

  “And remember,” says Patricia. “A man likes to hear that his penis is big.”

  “What does a woman like to hear?” asks Bill.

  “That her hips are small!” Lucy laughs.

  On their way out, Bill hands each of the women an assignment sheet with their client’s name, where and what time they’ll be meeting, and a few pertinent facts.

  “My guy likes baseball,” says Rochelle, our divorced sports fan, happily. “Yankees or Mets?”

  Bill presses a few keys on his Palm Pilot. “The Sox; Gary’s from Boston. Is that a problem?”

  “No, I’ll be diplomatic,” Rochelle says, referring to the long-standing feud between our hometown team and Boston’s. “I can’t let politics get in the way of work.”

  “Good,” says Bill. “Any other questions?”

  “Yes,” says Georgy. “Who’s Salman Rushdie and how am I supposed to dress for a Literacy Partners benefit at the Mandarin Oriental?”

  “Oops,” says Bill, taking the slip out of Georgy’s hand and exchanging it with Patricia’s. “I gave you each other’s assignments. Patricia, you’re going to the Literacy Partners benefit where they’re honoring Salman Rushdie, with my buddy Matt. And Georgy, you’re going to the Hudson Cafeteria tonight with Gabe.”

  “A cafeteria?” Georgy asks, sounding disappointed.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing like the Automat. It’s a very hip, happening place. And it’s conveniently located in a hotel.”

  After everyone’s sure they’ve got their dates straight, the women start to leave and I stop them one last time. I can’t believe we’re really, truly, finally opening for business. I’m so nervous that the butterflies in my stomach are the size of beach balls. And I can’t
stop playing mother hen to my forty-something chicks.

  “Don’t forget—” I begin, welling up with emotion. But before I can finish my sentence, the women of the Veronica Agency finish it for me.

  “We want to hear from you!” They all laugh. Then with hugs and waves they head out to prepare for the evening.

  Twelve

  Restaurant War

  I COULD GO HOME too, but I don’t want to. I spend several minutes alphabetizing the four sheets of paper on my desk and go over to the refrigerator, which thanks to a few clicks on the computer at the FreshDirect grocery delivery site is now amply stocked. I rearrange containers of soy, organic, and whole milk Greek yogurt in their descending order of fat content.

  Bill slings his briefcase onto his shoulder and leans over my desk. “You know this can wait, don’t you? Relax, everything’s going to be fine. The gals won’t be calling in for at least a few hours and I have to get back to my law office to take care of a couple of things.”

  “You go along. I’m still jazzed up from the meeting. I’m just not ready to go back yet.”

  “Naomi won’t be living in your guest room forever,” Bill promises.

  “I know. It’s just such a relief to be out of the house. For years, when Peter and I had a fight or one of the girls was sick, I was in absolute awe of the tunnel vision that allowed him to forget about everything and bury himself in his work. During the meeting today I was like that, too, totally focused. I didn’t have to think about not thinking about my mother, I just didn’t think about her. Of course,” I admit, “now that I’m thinking about not thinking about her, I’m back to thinking about her.”

  Bill laughs and wishes me luck.

  “Thanks. And when you see Sienna tonight, don’t forget to compliment her on her small hips.”

  “Will do. Who knew running an escort service was going to be so educational?”

  I call home and Molly tells me that Peter’s gone out, Paige has left for her date and that she’s holed up with Naomi, all by herself.

  “It’s okay, Mom, Naomi’s on ‘MyFace.’ ”

  “You mean Facebook?”

  “Yes, but she’s got it all mixed with MySpace. Isn’t that cute?”

  “Adorable. Your grandmother’s just adorable. I wonder what she’s doing on there? Anyway, you sure you don’t mind babysitting a little longer?”

  “Nah, no problem, I know you’re busy. Besides, I want to find out what Naomi’s up to.”

  I go back to riffling through some papers but the constant din of the renovation work going on above us is starting to get on my nerves. I leave a message about the racket on the super’s voicemail, but then I decide to go up and talk to the workmen myself. Maybe a polite in-person appeal will get the crew to hammer a little more softly.

  I head to the stairwell, but the masonry particles billowing down from the landing makes the ascent seem more like a journey through the Mojave than a quick trip upstairs, not to mention that I can barely see two steps in front of me. Then, somewhere about halfway between the third and fourth floors, I hear a sound that’s a lot more menacing than a plaster-dust sandstorm.

  “I don’t care what we have to pay in overtime, you have to have this warehouse job and our offices in the building around the corner finished by Friday. My wife will absolutely kill me if I don’t move my work out of our apartment by next week.”

  Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit shit! There might be other husbands in the city whose wives will kill them if they don’t get their businesses out of the middle of their living rooms, but how many can charm the pants off the workmen with Peter’s calibrated tone of obsequious authority? Still, even if the landlord was offering an amazing deal on the rent, what are the chances in hell that BUBB and the Veronica Agency would end up renting space in the same building? I can barely make out the forms of two figures at the top of the staircase. I turn before they can see me to race back to the third floor. Then just as I reach for the doorknob, I stumble. “Damn, my heel broke!” I squeal.

  “Need any help down there?” Peter calls.

  I try to control my breathing, which all of a sudden is alarmingly fast. “No, thanks,” I squeak, trying to disguise my voice. “Everything’s okay.” Then, as quickly as possible given my shoe situation, I hop back to the office and slam the door.

  Inside, Sienna’s hunched over her laptop, chuckling. When she sees me, she quickly snaps the cover shut, as if she has something to hide.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” I say, collapsing into a chair and telling her that Peter’s in the building. “Peter, who has no idea that I’m working, let alone what I’m doing, is here, directly above us. What are we going to do?”

  “Wow, are you sure?” Sienna sounds more interested than alarmed by the coincidence.

  “Of course I’m sure. After twenty years I know what my husband sounds like. And I know what he sounds like when he’s really mad. As in, ‘Tru, we’re in the same office building and you’re running an escort agency?’ This is my worst nightmare!”

  “No it’s not. Worst nightmare, let’s see, Naomi decides to never move out of your house. Or better, Paige tattoos Brandon’s initials across her belly button—in thick, big, black letters,” Sienna says swirling an imaginary B in the air.

  I’m trying my best to have a Zen moment, but I may have to make it a Xanax one. I look over at Sienna, who’s totally calm. “Why are you so relaxed?” I complain.

  “Because you’re going to have to tell Peter about the business sometime and it might as well be now. Listen, I know when we started I said that you could keep this whole thing a secret, but I think that was bad advice. He’s your husband, you need to tell him. Think how upset he’ll be if he finds out before you tell him.”

  “Paige and Molly have already figured it out—the part where you and I are working together, anyway. I told them we’d opened a temp agency.”

  “Good, that’s what you’ll tell Peter, too. Although I really think you should tell him the truth. Peter’s not a prude, he’s a businessman. I think he’ll be impressed that we’re addressing an untapped market.”

  “You mean, undressing an untapped market.” I open the door and peek into the hallway, then before anyone—such as Peter—can see me trying to see if he’s there, I slam it shut. “I’ll tell him soon, really, I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

  “Unless you run into him first in the building.”

  “There is that,” I say, realizing that the construction noise seems to have finally stopped. I glance at my watch. “It’s after six. The workmen must have finally left for the night. I’ll just give Peter a call.”

  I pull out my now and forever fully charged cellphone. Peter answers on the first ring.

  “Hi, honey,” he says. “Sorry, I’m a little winded, I just walked down a flight of stairs. Hold on a sec, I’m leaving an apology for the people in the office below ours. The super told me the noise from our renovation is driving them crazy.”

  I look up, and sure enough, a folded sheet of white paper is being slipped under the door. The door, which my husband is standing on the other side of, less that five feet away.

  “Peter’s there, right outside,” I whisper. I wave my arms frantically and mouth the words no talking. The last thing in the world I want is for Peter to hear a noise in here and decide to meet the new neighbors.

  “I, er, what?” I ask Peter, trying and failing to make conversation with my husband, who has no idea that it’s his nearness that has me tongue-tied.

  “What are you doing? Right now? Can you meet me for dinner?” Peter asks impetuously. “We haven’t been out to a restaurant in months and I feel like celebrating. In fact, why don’t you meet me first and I’ll show you the warehouse and take you over to see the new office?”

  “Dinner, I’d love to, let’s go to dinner. But why don’t we wait until the offices are completely finished, that way it’ll be a total surprise,” I improvise, trying to think of a reason—any reason—t
o get out of going upstairs.

  “Okay,” says my unsuspecting husband. “We’ll save the tour for next week. I’ll leave now. Meet me in half an hour at the Hudson Cafeteria?”

  “Great,” I say distractedly, eager to get off the phone and for Peter to leave. I hear the shuffle of feet in the hallway and let out a sigh of relief.

  “Close one,” I say, telling Sienna to call me the minute she hears a word from any of our gals about how their dates are going.

  “Sure thing,” she says, snapping her computer open and burying herself in whatever it was she was doing before I got here. “Have fun with your husband. Where are you guys going?”

  “Hudson Cafeteria,” I say, stepping out into the hallway and peeking around the corner to make sure the coast is really clear. “I’ve never been there but I hear it’s terrific. Someone or other was talking to me about it just the other day.”

  WHEN I ARRIVE at the restaurant, Peter’s already waiting. I look around at the brick walls, soaring eighteen-foot cathedral ceiling, Gothic chairs, and stained-glass windows.

  “Like it?” Peter asks, patting the space next to him on a wooden bench at a long communal dining table. “Their website describes this place as ‘an Ivy League dining room,’ but I picked it because I thought the decor would appeal to the medieval scholar in you.”

  “The clean stained-glass windows look just right here,” I say, leaning in to give Peter a kiss. Just half an hour ago my husband was making my heart beat faster out of sheer terror that I might run into him. Now sitting next to him makes it skip a beat. Amazing that after all these years his big blue eyes and crooked smile can still make me melt—when I bother to look into his eyes and he bothers to smile, that is. It’s been a long time since we’ve enjoyed a relaxed moment together, but tonight could be the night. At least I hope so.