“Yeah, Diane was super, a great gal,” Gary says, steepling his fingertips together. “But I was thinking, it might be nice for this stallion to take a tumble with a younger filly, if you get my drift. Got any of those in your stable?”
“Stallion? That idiot thinks he’s a stallion? Jackass is more like it,” Sienna hisses.
Bill looks sternly around the table at his nerdy Masters of the Universe. “All I’ve been hearing for twenty minutes is how great these women are. That, gentlemen, is because they’re Thoroughbreds.”
“I’m with you, man,” says Matt, raising his coffee mug.
“Yeah, those twenty-something girls are too insecure and needy. The Veronicas are cultured and confident,” agrees Lucy’s date, Mike. Then he laughs. “Besides, at their age, they’re grateful.”
“Grateful? Did that toady little worm actually use the word ‘grateful’? He’s the one who should be grateful. He can’t even get someone to sleep with him unless he pays for it,” Sienna fumes, as she takes out her anger on the keys of her laptop.
The guys on the other side of the two-way mirror have no idea that they’re being observed with the intensity of Jane Goodall studying her chimpanzees. Like their primate ancestors, I notice that they become more aggressive after feeding—as the meeting winds down they crack a few lewd jokes, slap one another on the back, and poke each other in the ribs. Bill asks the men to fill out questionnaires, and as they leave he takes their requests for future dates. Several minutes later, carrying his suit jacket over his arm and humming, Bill bounds out of the luxurious conference room into our cramped, overlit space.
“I think that went really well,” Bill says, leaning in to kiss Sienna who moves her cheek away.
“You do?”
“Yes, look here,” he says, spreading out a fistful of questionnaires, which he’s already tabulated. “Customer satisfaction is over ninety percent. All of the men have signed up for at least three more dates each and at least half of them said they had friends who’d like to become clients, too. And except for that imbecile Gary, no one else wanted to try somebody new—everybody is happy with their match. We’re a success!” Bill exclaims, gathering his arms around our shoulders and ignoring Sienna’s signals that she doesn’t necessarily share his elation.
Sienna shoots Bill a stony look and breaks free from his embrace. “I think we have to start being a little more selective about our clientele,” she says icily. “Tell that Gary if he doesn’t appreciate our services we’d prefer he take his business elsewhere. And that Mike. And that asshole J.D. you set Tru up on a date with.”
“J.T. And could everybody stop saying that I went out on a date?”
“Don’t be unreasonable, Sienna. This is business. Do you think the dry cleaner loves everyone whose pants they press?” Bill says.
“The dry cleaner doesn’t have to get in bed with his customers, our women do.”
“Sienna …”
“Bill!” Sienna mocks, in a tone that tells me she’s asking for trouble. How can my best friend be so levelheaded about my problems and so quick to fly off the handle when it comes to her own? Sure, I wasn’t happy about Gary’s reaction either, but ten men in the room issued total raves.
Sienna turns her attention back to her computer and vigorously types a few more sentences. Then circling her hand in the air with the baroque flourish of Yo Yo Ma leading a symphony orchestra, she aims her pointer finger at the keyboard and jabs the “send” button.
“HOW ARE THINGS at the office?” Paige, who of course thinks I’m running a temp agency, asks as she tumbles onto the living room couch. I bite into an apple, producing a crunchy argh sound that pretty well describes my mood.
“Fine,” I say, sitting down next to her, although I’m rattled by Sienna’s outburst this afternoon. Things have been going so smoothly between Bill and Sienna—too smoothly, based on her past romantic experiences—that I can’t help worrying that she’s making a mountain out of a molehill to put their relationship to some kind of unpassable test. Not to mention the stress she’s putting on our business. Still, Molly isn’t speaking to me and Peter’s off in Hawaii, so I’m in no position to cast stones.
Anxiously I glance at the end table where the answering machine sits. Now that there are cellphones the once essential house phone is about as outdated as a bar of soap in a world of alpha hydroxy. Yet despite that and the fact that no lights are blinking, which already gives me my answer, I can’t help asking as casually as I can manage, “Did Daddy call?”
“No, isn’t he out of town? He tiptoed into our room before it was even light out the other morning to say that he and Tiffany were going to Hawaii so she could give women at these fancy hotels makeovers and they could sell a ton of BUBB stuff. Lucky Daddy. I wouldn’t mind lying around on some beach.”
“Well, it’s not a vacation,” I say archly. At least I hope not. I’m sure Peter’s working round the clock with a whole boatload of people, trying to sell Tiffany’s cream. Tiffany’s probably up to her perfectly turned ankles in mascara and moisturizer; they couldn’t possibly have a minute alone.
“Mom,” Paige says, fluttering her hand in front of my face, trying to snap me back to attention. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Just wondering if Daddy remembered to bring a sweater,” I say distractedly. “It can get cold at night, even in Hawaii.” At least I hope he’s cold at night in his big, lonely bed without me cuddled next to him. I tuck my feet onto the couch and reach over to rub my toes. Paige wraps my apple core in a napkin and pitches it onto the makeshift crate coffee table. Then she brushes my hand aside and starts massaging my tired soles.
“Um, that feels wonderful,” I say, closing my eyes and surrendering to her relaxing ministrations. Then the lightbulb goes off. “Okay, what do you want?”
“Mom, that is so, like, jaded. Just because I do something nice why does it have to mean that I want something?”
“Sorry, honey, you’re right.” I settle back into the pillowy cushions as Paige kneads her fingers across my toes with the perfect amount of pressure. After a few moments she clears her throat.
“So, Mom, I know that you caught Molly making out with Brandon.…”
“And you’re okay with that?” I ask, startled.
“Well, more okay than you are. At least I didn’t go all ballistic or anything when she told me.”
“That’s very mature of you,” I say. Call me “mature” and I bristle, but for teenagers, it’s a point of pride. Still, what I really mean is: What the heck is going on? If her twin sister was making out with a boy she was dating even the queen of England would show more emotion. “I thought you liked Brandon. Why exactly are you taking this so well?”
“Oh, you know, lots of other fish in the sea and all that,” Paige says evasively, and before I have a chance to dig any deeper, Molly walks into the room. Despite my attempts to talk to her before she left for school this morning, Molly barely issued a grunt. But now, she lowers her eyes and sits down next to me.
“I know that I shouldn’t have been kissing Brandon in the den. I know I shouldn’t even have been seeing him,” she says, looking up at Paige, who’s seated on the other side of me. Paige stretches her arm across the back of the sofa to reach out for Molly, and I catch them smiling. Then each of them slips a hand into my lap. “I’m sorry, Mom,” says Molly, with what sounds like genuine contrition.
“Me too,” says Paige. “Neither of us ever should have been dating Brandon, should we, Molly?”
“No, we shouldn’t.”
“And we agreed, neither one of us is going to date him now, right?” she prompts.
“That’s right,” says Molly solemnly.
I’m glad, I’m grateful, I’m caught off guard by their united front. What mother wouldn’t want to believe that her daughters were throwing over that double-dealing dickhead of a Don Juan and finally getting along? Still, I wasn’t born yesterday.
“You’re sure?” I ask, swiveling my head b
ack and forth between them. “I know you two must be up to something.”
Paige laughs. “Okay, Mol, it’s time to come clean. Mom, yes, we do want something. We know that Molly’s grounded, but tomorrow is Heather’s birthday party. Please, can Molly come? I know we’d have so much fun.”
“We’ll be home by midnight,” Molly pleads, and although she doesn’t have to say it, I know what she’s thinking. This is the first time since they were in grade school that Paige has invited her to come along with her friends.
“Heather’s parents are going to be at the party? You’ll be home by midnight? No more fights over Brandon?” I say, making sure we’re all on the same page.
Paige leans in for a hug. “Promise. We won’t even ask for new outfits. C’mon, Molly, let’s go look in the closet. I’ll let you borrow that purple Free People T-shirt that you like so much.”
A mother whose shit detector was in proper working order might not buy the happy-as-two-peas-in-a-pod sister act, but I’m so ready and willing to believe that peace has been restored to the household that I put any qualms on hold. Maybe the girls really are maturing. I know I feel like I’ve aged a decade in the last couple of days.
Seventeen
Assault and Flattery
EARLY THE NEXT EVENING my apartment looks like the backstage of a tent at Bryant Park during Fashion Week. The girls are getting dressed for Heather’s party, I’m trying to pack for Hawaii, and Naomi’s looking for something to wear to the Miss Subways reunion. Clothes are strewn everywhere. I navigate around a fuchsia organza blouse and a one-shouldered black-and-white ball gown that are lying on the living room floor, but when I sink down on the couch I accidentally crush a pair of chartreuse chiffon harem pants.
“I’m not so sure anyone would actually want to wear these,” I say, fingering the billowy fabric. “But they feel good.”
Naomi’s standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway closet, the one that’s slimming. She tugs at the bust-line of a sparkly red Bob Mackie dress that looks like it just came off of a sixty-day tour with Dolly Parton. “I know, this looks ridiculous,” she says, pulling a black cashmere cardigan on over the getup. “But the reunion’s next week and I still haven’t got a thing to wear!”
“Don’t worry, Grandma, we’ll help you tomorrow,” Molly says as she and Paige come over to kiss us goodnight. They look adorable in miniskirts and patterned tights—but then again, they’d look adorable in gunnysacks.
“Laurie’s mother is driving you home, right?” I say, making them each open their shiny metallic purses to check for cellphones and emergency cab fare.
“Yes, Mom, everything’s good,” Paige says, swinging her bag’s silvery chain. “Although it is a little disturbing to see our mother parading around the apartment in a hot pink bikini.”
“It’s not hot pink, it’s carnation. And it’s not a bikini, it’s a two-piece suit,” I say, pulling the waistband of the bottom up toward my belly button. “And if I do say so myself, it doesn’t look half bad.”
“It looks good, Mom. Seriously,” Molly says, giving me a little kiss as she heads out to the party.
“Have fun,” I say. And as the girls slam the door I add under my breath, “But not too much fun.”
“It does look good sweetheart, although you could wear something a little sexier,” Naomi says, as she heads to the back of the apartment. “Maybe the dress of my dreams is waiting for me in your bedroom closet. Mind if I take a look?”
I walk over to the mirror and study my reflection. I remember the absolute horror of shopping for swimwear in my twenties. Either the underwire in the built-in bras poked into my breasts, or worse, the suit had no support at all. And then there was the inevitable moment when I pinched the flesh at my waist and invoked the Menses Defense—sure that I was either getting my period, having my period, or getting over my period. Now, at an age when you’d think I’d be even more critical of my body, I’m actually more content. If I don’t exactly grin at the way I look in the suit, I don’t grimace either.
I pick up the rotting apple core that Paige forgot to throw away last night and my shoes and head for the bedroom to check on Naomi when, naturally, the phone rings. As I grab for the receiver and see Peter’s cellphone on the caller ID my favorite nude-colored suede sling-backs fall to the floor and the apple core spins out of the napkin and messily lands on top of them.
“Damn, my shoes, hi, hi,” I say, cradling the phone to my ear, holding it—and Peter—as close as I can.
“Tr … oooooh …” I hear through the staticky connection.
“Peter, sweetheart, is that really you?”
“Ha … ha …” he says, which I’m guessing means “Hawaii,” and not that this whole separation is one big joke. And then, just like that, the line clicks dead.
I’m still standing in the middle of the room fondling the phone when Naomi comes in carrying an armload of magazines.
“Was that Peter?” She smiles, bending down to pick up my apple-splattered shoes. Then she goes into the kitchen and comes back with a paper towel to absorb the stain—a far cry from the Naomi I knew who was so self-absorbed that just a few months ago she spilled coffee on the living room carpet and didn’t even notice.
“Thanks,” I say, finally letting go of the phone and putting the receiver back in the cradle. I look down at my bathing suit and laugh. “He called. That must be good, right? Now if only I could figure out what else I’m going to pack.”
“Already done,” Naomi says, leading me toward the bedroom and showing me my suitcase, which is sitting by the foot of the bed. She hands me the magazines. “I figure a novel, you’ll be so busy with Peter, you wouldn’t have time to finish. These are to read on the plane.”
“Mom, thank you, you’ve thought of everything,” I say, impressed that Naomi’s even tied a gold ribbon around the bag’s handle so I’ll be able to pick my luggage out from the sea of identical black canvas suitcases on the baggage carousel. The twenty pairs of shoes I insist on taking along never fit into a carry-on.
“There is one more thing,” Naomi begins, when the phone rings again.
I listen to the voice at the other end and grab for my coat. “Tell me later. The twins are at the police station. We have to get down there right away.”
“POLICE STATION” AND “the twins” are words I never ever in my life expected to hear together in the same sentence. Not to mention “fight,” “they started it,” or “the victim wants to press charges.”
“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it? I mean, it’s better than their being in the hospital?”
“At least they’re not hurt,” my mother agrees, although we’re both grasping at straws. I look at Naomi and see that she’s still wearing the sparkly red Bob Mackie dress. Worse, I realize I have nothing on underneath my coat except my bathing suit—in my race to rescue the Paige and Molly, I was in too much of a hurry to get dressed. I wrap my arms around my chest, protectively. If only the fashion police were my biggest worry.
A few minutes later Naomi and I arrive at the local precinct. Like synchronized swimmers storing up oxygen for an important meet, we each take a deep breath. Then we step into the city-block-sized station to find out how much trouble the girls have gotten themselves into.
My eyes dart around the room trying to find them. The precinct’s walls are made out of cinder block painted a grimy gray-green, the fluorescent lighting is enough to make anyone look like a perp, and a large bold-faced clock ticks away precious minutes. Officers in blue uniforms and cuffed suspects wearing everything from ripped T-shirts to Brioni sports jackets file past us, but still no Paige or Molly—where the heck can they be?
Naomi points toward a metal desk where a police officer is sitting in front of an old-fashioned typewriter—the same model IBM Selectric that I used in college to write my papers on Botticelli. There’s a pushpin corkboard on the wall next to him but instead of being decorated with pictures of loved ones, it’s crowded with mug
shots of New York’s most wanted criminals.
“Damn!” the officer exclaims as he balls up one set of carbon-paper documents after another and throws them onto the floor in a pile next to his scuffed shoes. “Can you believe the department just spent almost a million dollars on these crappy machines? The NYPD can read license plates from the air but it can’t figure out a more modern way to fill out duplicate forms.” He takes a swig of coffee from a limp paper cup. “What can I do for you folks? Assault, robbery, arson?”
Which would be the lesser of the evils? I want to blurt. But I know this isn’t Deal or No Deal. I don’t get to pick.
“My grandchildren, Molly and Paige Newman,” Naomi says. “We’re trying to find them.”
“Missing pers—oh, you mean the Twin Hitters?” the officer says, recognizing their names. He points toward the corridor and tells us to take the first left.
Paige is sitting on a wooden bench with her arms crossed defiantly. On the other end of the bench I spy Molly, wearing the—ironic, given the situation—Free People T-shirt that her sister had promised to lend her for Heather’s party. The party I gave the girls permission to go to. The party I’m guessing was the site of the melee. Slumped down in between the twins is Brandon Marsh, who’s holding an ice bag against the left side of his face.
Naomi goes over to Molly and I wrap my arm around Paige.
“Are you okay?” I ask, stroking Paige’s hair.
“Oh yeah, Mom, never been better. It’s Brandon who’s suffering,” Paige says blithely.
A moment ago I was filled with maternal concern. Now that I see the girls are all right, I let them have it. I release Paige’s shoulder and stand up so that I’m glowering over her.
The Best Laid Plans Page 19