Laila’s eyes widened as she followed her cousin into the restaurant on the seventh floor: the opulent setting was bordered by windows that opened up on sweeping views of Central Park. She had never seen women who looked so polished and pristine; she was overcome by their shiny hair, their crisp outfits; the glittering jewels of the older women in brocade Chanel jackets, the massive diamond engagement rings on the hands of the younger ones. There was the occasional tourist in the crowd, and they were glaringly obvious—because of their clothes, certainly, but also their faces: hyperaware, full of wonder. Laila realized she must be mindful of what her expressions gave away.
The girls were seated, and ten minutes later, as they were perusing the menu for tea service, Nora’s mother, Petra, arrived. Laila watched her entrance. Petra was almost sixty but was still so striking that even the grandes dames lunching in the corner—otherwise nearly pickled in ennui—stopped to look at her as she made her way to the table. She wore her dark hair long, past her shoulders just as she’d done in her heyday; she was still slim and still dressed to show off her legendary long legs. Her face was, it must be said, a little unnaturally tight, but this could only be seen close-up. Between her undoubtedly good genes, a lifetime of the best self-care, and expert styling, she simply appeared to be the eternal Petra Lawrence, as unchanging as a well-preserved and constantly polished diamond.
“Hello, darlings,” she said, leaning over to kiss first her daughter and then Laila.
“Where’s Dad?” Nora asked.
“Couldn’t make it, my love. Work.” Petra was long an American but had retained some typically Russian tendencies, stoicism in particular. Laila wondered if this conservation of emotion was one of the secrets to her appearance. Her aunt’s graceful aging couldn’t be further from the rapid decline of Laila’s own mother. Of course, Betsy hadn’t been a supermodel to begin with, but she had been gorgeous when she was young. Laila did not remember a version of her mother as a slim woman, but she knew from pictures that had once been the case. She had steadily put on weight after her husband’s death, most of which had concentrated itself in her lower half. One could be under the illusion that she was normal-size if you saw her sitting behind a table, but once she was standing, lumbering heavily across a room, her gait as though she were dragging shackles, the damage was revealed. Her face maintained a certain buried loveliness until the day she died, shimmering like a memory, as though obscured below the surface of a swift-moving river. Laila wondered if the weight had functioned as a protective carapace to ward off the attentions of men—even though she was always vowing to lose it, was always messing around with the idea of some fad diet or another. Laila was grateful her mother had remained single; having to spend her teenage years around various boyfriends and perhaps even a stepfather seemed a fate likely worse than coming of age with only her mother for company. Men had reacted to Laila everywhere she’d gone from the time she was thirteen. Why would a stranger her mother brought home have been different?
“Laila, my dear, are you enjoying your first day in New York?” Petra asked. Laila shifted in her seat, finding it difficult not to stare at her; those green eyes—which both Leo and Liberty had inherited—were mesmerizing.
“It’s like a dream,” she said. “I’m so excited to be here.”
“We’re happy to have you. To have all the family in one place, it’s a blessing.”
Nora had given Laila the rundown on Petra’s background, a story so well-worn it had the cadence of a fairy tale. She’d left her own family at sixteen—she’d married a Mormon missionary who’d visited her appallingly poor town in the Siberian peninsula. She’d lied about her age and come back with him to Salt Lake City, where she was stopped by a local talent agent within weeks of landing. It was not long before she’d left her husband and moved to New York. The missionary remarried and was now a father of ten. Petra talked about him with kindness, for the truth remained that he had solved her horrible bad luck of being born in the wrong place. She had sent money to her parents early in her career, but they had died before she could bring them to the US.
So Petra was an orphan too. That word: so heavy, so loaded. Laila saw that this could work for her; seen in a certain light, it could be exotic. And more important, it meant that she had something in common with her otherworldly aunt, something that could unite them. They’d ordered the champagne tea, an extravagant setup that would take the place of lunch—but which neither Nora nor Petra would do anything more than pick at. Laila, ravenous, had to restrain herself from falling upon the trays of tiny, buttery sandwiches the moment they were placed on the table. She knew that her mother’s figure—which had looked just like hers at her age—lay in wait to emerge and spoil all her chances.
“Mother, I meant to tell you. I got an invitation to the Operation Smile benefit next week,” Nora said excitedly.
“That’s marvelous,” Petra said. “From Lydia?”
“Yes! Well, her assistant, but still! But I sent her an e-mail personally with my RSVP telling her how passionate I am about the cause. Can you imagine these poor babies with the cleft palates? I just try to put myself in that position. I mean, really! Dating is hard enough as it is.”
“Indeed,” Petra said. “Well, I’m sure she appreciates your enthusiasm. By the way, you’re looking lovely, my darling.”
A look of surprise passed over Nora’s face. Laila suspected Petra was not one to offer false compliments, and nor did it seem she doled them out frequently.
“Thank you, Mother. I’ve been working out with Antoine three times a week; I think it’s really helping,” Nora said, a hint of color rising in her cheeks. Helping, Laila thought, as though Nora’s body were a problem to be solved. Antoine, she knew from reading his name in interviews, was Petra’s longtime personal trainer. He had several bestselling books and a series of DVDs.
“Well,” Petra continued on brusquely, “twenty-five is a perfect age. You are as lovely as you will ever be, still young but no puppy fat,” she said, letting her fingers skitter over her own sharp cheekbones. Laila noticed that other diners in the restaurant were surreptitiously sneaking looks at their table. She knew it was because of Petra, but she felt a proximate thrill. A memory passed over her of being included for a brief moment with the popular girls in high school, of the feeling of sitting at their table in the cafeteria. But of course, it had not lasted. Initially, they’d recruited her because she was beautiful, but then when her appeal to the boys became inconvenient, they’d turned on her—which was all too easy to do given her embarrassing mother and their diminished circumstances. Suddenly, she’d become a slut. Girls will always do that, her mother had reminded her. Women are inherently jealous creatures.
“I am taking you to see Oxana.”
“Mother!” Nora’s face had fallen, as though someone had played a nasty trick on her.
“Who is Oxana?” Laila asked.
“A matchmaker,” Nora said.
“Don’t take that tone,” Petra said. “You girls today think you have all the time in the world. But you don’t; all men want a twenty-five-year-old, and that, right now, is what you are. Your options won’t get better from here.”
“Mother, things are different now; it’s not like it was when you were our age,” Nora rolled her eyes like a pouting teenager.
“It is. Everyone pretending it isn’t changes nothing.”
“You never give Liberty a hard time.” Nora’s posture had curled into itself slightly.
“You don’t know what I discuss with your sister,” Petra said curtly. Laila had sensed some tension between Liberty and her mother but did not yet know its source. “I was already married to your father by your age,” Petra continued.
“But that was fate! You didn’t meet Daddy through a matchmaker.”
“But you can’t always leave things to fate. And besides which, I was already looking. The career of a model barely lasts to twenty-five. Just meet with her; what could it hurt? Oxana is the best.”
“You like her because she’s Russian. You all stick together,” Nora said.
“Russians are more sensible about marriage than Americans. None of these delusions that feminism has fixed everything—poof! All better.”
“I didn’t realize that matchmakers still existed,” Laila said gingerly. She was unsure if she was meant to be only a witness to the conversation or a participant, but she was intrigued. Truthfully, she admired Petra’s pragmatism.
“Welcome to New York,” Nora said. “How do you think all those gross old men find their hot young wives?”
Now it was Petra’s turn to roll her eyes. “In a few years, you’re going to want her help, but then it will be too late. Look at your poor aunt Birdie.”
Nora seemed to consider this for a moment and shuddered. “Oh, just wait until you meet her!” she said, glancing at Laila.
Laila looked bewildered. She had no idea who they were talking about.
Nora and Petra turned to look at her. “Oh, you poor thing, you don’t even know about Birdie? She’s our aunt, our dads’ older sister.”
Laila smiled blankly. How many other relatives were there?
“She lives upstate, by our house there. She’s, like . . . completely batshit.”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” Petra said.
“I’m sorry, Mother. Birdie is eccentric. Anyway, she’s definitely single. In, like, a permanent capacity.”
Nora stared into her teacup for a long moment, as though considering a similar fate for herself.
“Okay, Mother, I’ll meet with Oxana.”
“Good, we’ll go when we’ve finished here.” Petra patted her lips delicately with the corner of her napkin.
“You want to go now?”
“I told you, I made an appointment.”
Nora closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though steeling herself.
“Laila, you have your keys?”
Laila nodded, realizing only now that the excursion wouldn’t include her. Not that she necessarily wanted to visit a matchmaker; she just wasn’t sure what she’d do with her afternoon. She’d been in New York barely a day and had not been left to her own devices even for a moment.
She thought first to take herself out for a glass of wine and, perhaps, something to eat. She was still hungry, having been unwilling to scarf down the tea service that her aunt and cousin had barely touched. There were innumerable cafés on the block next to the twins’ building, and on this sunny September Sunday, all were packed. As she walked down the bustling sidewalks, Laila felt the overwhelm of being on a street with so many people, a sensation she was not nearly accustomed to. Looking at the groups of girls her age—sculpted bare shoulders, hair piled on top of their heads in intentionally unruly topknots—she felt a pang of sudden loneliness. She gathered her courage and approached the elegant, rail-thin man at the host stand of a trendy-looking café who looked dressed for boating in his salmon shorts and light-blue Top-Siders.
“Hi there,” she said, stepping forth.
“How many?” he said, not even looking up at her. In the face of his indifference, she lost her nerve. “Um, oh, just . . . two. I’m waiting for my friend.”
“It’ll be at least forty-five minutes, and we can’t seat you until everyone in your party has arrived. Name?”
She gave him Nora’s name and then slunk away back to the penthouse.
Upstairs, Laila was alone in the apartment for the first time. Nora and Leo’s penthouses were separate but connected by a hidden door behind a pivoting bookcase. On Nora’s side it was filled with candy-colored hardcovers: The Shopaholic, The Devil Wears Prada, Bergdorf Blondes (of course). Leo’s side was serious, leather bound, exclusively male: Hemingway, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald. The apartments were mirror images of each other, and they shared a patio that included a Jacuzzi. Laila peeked her head through the connecting door and called Leo’s name; when there was no answer she pushed the bookcase back into place and wandered into Nora’s kitchen, which was decorated to look like it belonged in a French country house: the cabinets were pale blue with filigreed edges, a small chandelier hung over the center island, and fresh flowers were placed in a vase atop the pristine white marble of the countertop. Laila was still a little buzzed from the champagne they’d had at tea—and on an empty stomach. She looked in the fridge, but it was bare, other than several bottles of wine and champagne that were chilling there. After a few more moments of scrounging, Laila unearthed a box of organic granola and unceremoniously crammed a few handfuls in her mouth. Her stomach settled, and she pulled a bottle of champagne from the fridge. She had come upon an open case of Veuve Clicquot in the cabinet during her search for food, so she knew she could easily replace it. She popped the cork—what a satisfying sound it was!—and poured herself a glass. “To my new life!” she said aloud, holding her glass in the air.
To Laila’s pleasant surprise, the packages from Bergdorf’s had been delivered while they’d been at tea. She turned on the built-in stereo that piped music throughout the apartment, and a Taylor Swift song came on. Nora’s taste in music was naturally sweet, girly, adolescent. Swifty. It was not Laila’s style, but she could get on board for a moment. She needed something to shake off her encounter with the restaurant host, which had left a lingering film of mortification. Laila made her way to Nora’s slightly nauseating bedroom. Laila thought the enormous, gilt-edged, pink damask bed must terrify any man who dared enter (if any, in fact, did; Laila wasn’t sure). There was a massive mirror—also gilt-edged—that took up most of one wall. Laila went back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle of champagne, having quickly finished her first glass. She fetched the Bergdorf’s packages and did a little fashion show for herself, trying on her new rag & bone jeans, her Hervé Léger dress. She admired herself in the skintight dress—her perky breasts and taut stomach; not her mother. Not yet. Not ever. Soon she’d gone through the clothes they’d bought her and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled Nora’s new clothes out of the shiny lavender bags. She continued to analyze herself as she drank more champagne and flew through Nora’s new purchases. What lives could be lived in these dresses? What trouble could ever befall someone in these delicate Italian sandals with their slender, flared heels and their soles of buttery suede—it was footwear that seemed to promise one would never have to run after, or away from, anything while wearing them.
Laila thought she could stand to lose a little weight—the women here were like whippets —but she knew she was beautiful. It was really the one thing she could be certain of: her beauty. And until now, she’d been wasting it. Well, there was no real use for it in Michigan, was there? People there considered a reasonably attractive dentist a catch.
When she was finished trying on all the new clothes, she ventured into Nora’s closet, which was nearly the size of the guest bedroom Laila was staying in. It had tall, built-in shelves that showcased an impressive array of shoes and handbags under soft lighting. There were racks and racks of designer dresses, piles of expensive denim, and buttery cashmere sweaters, which Laila ran her fingers over. She had reached Shangri-la, and she intended to stay. Nora wouldn’t be home anytime soon, and she had said that because they were the same size, they could share everything. Laila began plucking dresses from their hangers and trying them on. Nora’s style could be charitably described as eclectic, but in truth, it was more that she had lots of money and a short attention span, which resulted in an enviable but inconsistent wardrobe.
As Laila continued to make her way through the bottle, memories of her recently abandoned life began to swirl up and take hold. She and Nathan had lived in a four-bedroom house on a quiet leafy street in Grosse Pointe. Their furniture had mostly been from Crate & Barrel, and every room but the kitchen had been carpeted. She remembered the monotony of coming home each night after a day of staring into the lurid caverns of other people’s mouths, of inevitably getting some bodily fluids on her clothes, or worse, her skin. Of seeing Nathan going back and forth all day
like a king in his castle among the giggling hygienists and that slutty receptionist he’d hired. Then at home, there he was again, always cracking a beer and watching “the game,” whatever the game was: football in the fall and winter; hockey and basketball in the spring; baseball in the summer; “the game” was a nebulous but unending commitment.
When she’d left Nathan, Laila had lost what few friends she had in Grosse Pointe, as they’d of course sided with him. In their eyes, she was simply screwing over a good man. She was alone and hurtling toward a new future that would have nothing at all to do with her past. She was home.
6
* * *
WELL,” LEO said as Nora stifled a giggle, “darling sister, your closet appears to have exploded and knocked out our cousin in the blast.”
The two of them gazed upon the sleeping figure of Laila, curled up on the pale pink velvet chaise longue, an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot turned on its side on the floor beside her. Dresses were draped on the back of the chair and the center island, shoes taken out of their tiny, well-lit warrens, purses piled askew.
“She looks so sweet,” Nora said, sitting gingerly at her cousin’s feet on the chaise.
“Sweet? She looks like she was trying to rob the place and got drunk on the job,” Leo smirked. He, unlike his sisters, had not cared much whether his cousin moved to New York. But now that he could see the potential for mischief—evidenced by the champagne guzzling and ransacking of his sister’s closet—he was glad she had. Leo’s chief concern in life was not growing bored. And the arrival of this cousin seemed to promise that, for at least a time, he would not.
She Regrets Nothing Page 5