THE WHOLE PACKAGE—“CAN’T YOU PEOPLE TAKE A JOKE?” THE headline of the newspaper article perfectly quoted Cheryl as she screamed at the picketers. The photo next to it was of Doris, desperately trying to climb off the naked statue.
Doris put her head in her hands. She had driven to the newsstand in her reindeer long johns, just to be the first one to get the verdict. Now she wished she hadn’t.
The article had been written by a man who, according to the grainy black-and-white photo by his column, was bald and wore thick glasses. His words seemed to take great pleasure in their disastrous opening night:On his way down to Georgia, the devil stopped in Schaumburg to grab a bite to eat at a pornographic little restaurant focused entirely on the male package. The lewd decorations, graphic dance numbers, and relentless objectification of men are a striking antithesis to the upscale cuisine served by executive chef Greg Wilson. Had the Millstines known their former legacy would house a production worthy of X-rated films, they may have applauded the fact that on the opening night, The Whole Disaster almost burned to the ground . . .
Doris burst into Jackie’s room, sobbing and waving the pages around like they were an obituary. “There’s a strip club a mile down the road,” she wailed. “Why is he picking on us?”
Jackie pushed back her satin sleep mask, sat up on her elbow, and thumbed through the paper at a lightning pace.
“It’s on the third page . . .” Doris sniffled, just as Jackie held up a finger and cleared her throat and read: “Cancer. Your winning smile is your golden ticket. Flash it often at a mysterious stranger.”
Doris stared in confusion, hands to her heart. “Well, Doris,” Jackie mused, tossing the paper to the ground, pulling her sleep mask back on and curling into a fetal position. “You better get out there and find a mysterious stranger. Or I’ll tell you this much—we’re fucked.”
IN SPITE OF the bad review, everyone still reported to work at four o’clock. The waiters were gelled and handsome; Jackie, Cheryl, and Doris dressed in black.
“Keep your heads up, people,” Cheryl instructed, nodding with approval at her comely staff. “If they would have run the pictures of you guys, women would be beating down the doors. That said, anyone who read that article and still shows up tonight is looking for a good time, so that’s exactly what we’ll give them!”
“If anyone complains about the food,” Greg spoke from the kitchen door, holding a large kitchen knife. “Send ’em to me.”
As the waiters dispersed to polish silverware, Jackie, Cheryl, and Doris linked arms and huddled. A shadow crossed Cheryl’s face and she eyed her best friends, thinking over what she now knew; the secret she wasn’t ready to confront. She smiled tightly and shook her head. “Here’s to a great night.”
Anthony was watching from the host stand. He nodded, as though to say “My sentiments exactly.”
At four thirty, the staff manned their stations. By five o’clock, they began polishing wineglasses and the trays of silverware. By six o’clock, all but one of them had settled onto the stage or into the plush chairs, waiting for anyone to arrive.
Jackie, Doris, and Cheryl remained huddled at the front door, peering out like party planners waiting for the first guest. Finally, Doris screeched, “Someone’s coming!” and a battalion of male bodies clambered to their feet.
A middle-aged couple, well-dressed, was walking up the steps toward The Whole Package. They stopped suddenly, noticing the sign. Confused, the man considered his options, then guided his wife away, arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“Millstines,” Jackie moaned. “They were looking for Millstines.”
The disappointment in the room was tangible. Cheryl cocked her head and indicated the bar. The three friends walked over and took a seat.
Anthony remained diligently at his post. At eight o’clock, he clapped his hands and shrieked, “There’s a party!” and everyone once again leaped up.
A group of five women threw open the doors, hooting and hollering. They were dressed in tight jeans and low-cut, sparkling tops. The scent of cigarettes and alcohol followed them in, along with the smell of drugstore perfume. The men went on full performance. Jackie, Cheryl, and Doris immediately plastered smiles on their faces.
“They remind me of Katherine Rigney,” Doris said.
“Keep smiling,” Cheryl whispered. Out of the side of her mouth, she said, “They’re money in the bank.”
Jackie rushed forward, gushing, “Welcome, ladies.”
Once the party was seated, it seemed as though the curse had been broken. Here and there, small groups of women trickled in, looking around the restaurant with titillated confusion. The dancers blasted raunchy routines every fifteen minutes, the food was complimented, and overall, the night seemed like a success . . . if twenty-four guests could keep a restaurant in business. By ten thirty, everyone had cleared out. Only the women who’d started the trend were still hanging around. One of their friends was over by the ladies’ restroom, making out with one of the dancers.
“I would fire him for that,” Cheryl considered, “but it’s not like he’s going to have his job for long anyway.”
“Come on, Malinda,” her friends called. The group was finally staggering to their feet, faces sour with alcohol. “We’re going to the strip club.” The waiters laughed, applauding the women. “Come with us,” the women clamored.
Cheryl shrugged at her waiters. “Go if you want to,” she said. “It’s not like there’s anything going on here.”
Christoph, Travis, and Brian threw off their aprons with a whoop and sashayed out the front door, hanging on to the women. Maybe one of them would wake up in Vegas, married. That would be fine; and one less person to keep on the payroll.
“This is ridiculous,” Cheryl said. She flopped back down at the bar and sipped at the last drops from her soda glass. “There’s no point in staying open until eleven. It’s a waste of resources. Anthony, will you close up?”
Anthony considered the situation, then turned the sign to Closed. He started powering down the computers. Gabe moved in to help.
“Let’s just get out of here,” Doris mumbled, laying her face on the bar. “I’m ready to go home.”
Jackie was silent, staring into space. If she were still a smoker, she’d be puffing away.
“What are we going to do?” Doris fretted, on the way out to their cars. She was watching the ground carefully, furry boots stepping over the ice glistening in the parking lot.
“Get someone to plow or salt this,” Cheryl said, deliberately avoiding the question. “It’s a total liability.” She stopped walking for a moment and listened. All down the street, she could hear shouts and music from the other bars and restaurants. From the back alley, there was the sound of busboys dumping bins of wine bottles into the recycling bins.
“How can anybody slip and fall if they don’t come to our restaurant?” Jackie wondered.
“Don’t worry, things will get better,” Cheryl promised. She looked up at the sky and inhaled the crisp evening air. “Everything will be fine in the morning.”
“Because . . . ?” Jackie pulled her mink tightly around her, waiting for Doris to unlock the car.
“Because I did something to help us,” Cheryl said, pulling out her keys. “I wrote a letter to the editor in rebuttal of the article that came out. I sent it in today; it’ll be in tomorrow’s issue.”
Doris paused at the door of her car, chewing her lip. She looked like an Eskimo in her big furry hat with her big rosy cheeks. “Wait. You did what? We do those types of things together.”
Cheryl let out a deep sigh, dropping her purse on the hood of her BMW like she was getting ready to roll up her sleeves for a fight. “Please don’t tell me this is a problem. It’s just good PR.”
Jackie fingered the edge of her white cashmere scarf, watching the exchange and shivering.
“Well, we’re all supposed to be partners,” Doris mumbled. “So, shouldn’t you have asked us before doing something li
ke that? What does it say?”
“Nothing bad,” Cheryl said, stomping her feet and rubbing her hands together. “If we’re going to chat about this let’s go back inside.”
“Just tell us what it said,” Jackie requested. “I’m ready to go home.”
“Are you?” Cheryl planted her hands on her hips and glared at Jackie, who looked at her in surprise. “I just said that it’s a little ridiculous that we can be picketed for having half-dressed men in our restaurant when there’s an actual strip club down the road. Nobody bothers them.”
“True,” Jackie mused. “Is that all?”
Cheryl looked down at her boots. They were a bit scuffed, even in the dark of the parking lot. She didn’t want to tell her friends this next part. It was only going to cause problems.
“What else did it say?” Doris pleaded.
Cheryl’s eyes flashed. “I said that it’s bullshit that this town is so willing to hold a double standard. If anyone has a problem with us, they shouldn’t bother showing up because they’re not invited.”
Doris let out a breath. “Oh no.”
“Did you sign it from all of us or just you?” Jackie demanded.
“We’re a team, right?” Cheryl said, grabbing her purse from the car. “It’s from all of us.”
“Cheryl, you need to contact the paper and get that out of there.” Doris pulled the furry hat off her head, steam seeming to rise from the now messy brown hair. “That’s not going to solve anything. If we write something, we write it together.”
“Exactly.” Jackie nodded. Her ears were starting to tingle in the icy wind. “We have an equal partnership in this. Remember? We had that conversation a long time ago and we’ve had to have it several times again with you, Cheryl. This isn’t anything new. We’re equal investors, so we work as a team. You can’t speak for us.”
Cheryl considered Jackie for a long moment. Once again, she thought of the secret she knew. After a moment, she said evenly, “Women will understand. They will read my letter and realize it’s not fair. That review Mark Peterson wrote was bullshit. They will understand his opinion was biased and turn out to support us, I absolutely guarantee it.”
Cheryl did have a history with Mark Peterson, the jerk with the dark-framed glasses. Ages ago, his paper had tried to snake one of TurnKey’s clients out of ad space, after Cheryl had already paid for it. Someone had done the layout incorrectly and didn’t have enough room for everything. They tried to convince TurnKey to accept a partial ad instead of the full they’d paid for. Cheryl refused. In the end, Mark’s column got bumped from that issue. Irrationally, he had blamed the slight on Cheryl. He’d had it in for her ever since.
Due to this, Mark had not been invited to the opening. He had gotten the information about it from another source, even though his column was written as though he saw it firsthand. Cheryl was clear to address that in the letter. She also addressed the issues of equality she had mentioned to the girls and there was no way she was retracting any of that now. If her critique of Mark meant a spotlight would also shine a light on sexism, Cheryl was grateful for the chance.
After all those years at TurnKey, shouting out her own sexist remarks to avoid being a target, Cheryl had never complained about what she had been subjected to. After all, women were subjected to double standards everywhere. Be sexy—but not too sexy. Use your brains—but let the man think he’s smarter. Don’t make fun of a beer belly—but you better order a salad. It irritated Cheryl that everyone around her claimed to be so progressive, outraged that on the other side of the world, women were treated like property, not allowed to show flesh, not allowed to drive cars, even forbidden to think. She had to wonder . . . was that attitude really so far from home?
“I stand by what I wrote,” she said.
“You don’t have the right to speak for us,” Jackie said, slamming her hand against the car. “This could destroy us, even more than we’re already destroyed.”
“I’m not retracting anything,” Cheryl insisted, face heated. “We need to stand up for ourselves. We’re women—let’s roar.”
“Oh, Cheryl.” Jackie laughed imperiously, leaning against the car. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve stopped wearing a bra or shaving your legs? That you’re not going to wear makeup or play helpless when you get a flat tire?”
“I have Triple Fucking A—” Cheryl tried to say but Jackie cut her off, taking a step forward.
“When you got engaged to Sean, you wore that ring on your left finger. When you got married, you changed your last name. When you were at TurnKey, you sucked it up and dealt with all of the nonsense, just like every woman has for years. So don’t you dare tell me now’s the time to stand up for equal rights,” Jackie practically shouted, “when my money and Doris’s is at stake. Now is the time to figure out how to continue to play the game as we always have. It’s time to make our financial investment pay off.”
“Uh . . . Whose financial investment?” Cheryl asked. She did not want to talk about this but if Jackie was going to force the issue, she would.
“What?” Jackie said, taking a tiny step away from the car.
“I think you know what I’m trying to say.”
The night before, Cheryl had barely gotten a wink of sleep. She was dealing with thoughts of a little pink stick, a failed business, and Andy’s unwanted presents (and presence). After a few hours of tossing and turning, Cheryl found herself up at the crack of dawn. She wanted to swing by George’s office to discuss their options. If George had expected her, he probably would have thought to cover the incriminating papers perched in full view on his desk.
Instead, pleased to see anyone from Jackie’s world, George bustled to the kitchen to get them some coffee. When Cheryl hopped up to grab a Werther’s from his desk, she stopped and stared at a financial agreement drafted between him and Jackie. It lay nestled between the desk clock and the Waterford crystal candy dish.
At first, Cheryl hadn’t thought anything of it. George was Jackie’s lawyer; why wouldn’t he carry contracts with her? But after a moment, her brain fully processed what she had seen. “The monies transferred to Jacqueline Windsor, on behalf of George Edwards, in the amount of $250,000 for the purpose of . . .” Cheryl peered closer at the page. There it was in black and white—Princess Jackie wasn’t fiscally responsible for their project at all.
“I don’t understand,” Doris implored, through chattering teeth. “What are you two fighting about?”
Cheryl was silent for a moment, waiting on Jackie to speak. She did look uncharacteristically vulnerable—soft curls blowing in the wind, blue eyes scared—but Cheryl refused to feel sorry for her. After sacrificing everything for their project—her life savings, a second mortgage, her professional reputation—she wasn’t about to feel pity. Jackie never had to worry about a damn thing.
Putting her hands on her hips, Cheryl said, “Doris, I think it’s time for you to know that—”
“Cheryl, don’t!” Jackie’s voice was desperate.
“I’m sorry,” Cheryl said, shaking her head. “But I am the only one standing here that’s actually funding our restaurant out of my money. So, why do the two of you think you have the right to call all the shots? Not to mention the fact that you two don’t know shit about the corporate world.”
“That’s not fair,” Doris argued. “Besides, it might not be my money but I had to fight Doug to be a part of this, especially when Mandy told him what was going on. What difference does it make if it’s Doug’s money or Jackie’s husband’s money . . .”
“Not Robert’s money,” Cheryl said, back straight as a rod. “It’s George’s.”
Doris turned to Jackie, confused. “What?”
Fidgeting, Jackie tugged at the black beads that hung like a flapper chain around her neck. She shook her head, unable to speak.
“I have been a friend to you for over twenty-five years and I have never met anyone I’ve felt further away from,” Cheryl told Jackie. “You are so manipulative. It�
��s such bullshit because we’re supposed to be your best friends. I would have done anything for you.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” Jackie said softly.
“You’ve always hurt me,” Cheryl said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Doris’s face fall, realizing Cheryl intended to take it all the way. “You thought we didn’t know about your father. And I get it, I’m sure what was going on when we were younger wasn’t easy for you to deal with. But to call us your best friends and try to keep something like that from us? Of course we knew! Everyone knew. He was stumbling in and out of every bar in town. But here was the thing that amazed me even more—no one called you on your bullshit because everyone at that school loved you enough to help you lie. And you took it all for granted. You didn’t even go to the high school reunion.”
Doris pulled out her keys and clicked the locks on the door. “Come on, Jackie, we’re leaving.” Scrambling to open the Lexus, Doris slid in and turned on the ignition, as though the force of her action could stop this fight from happening.
Jackie’s breathing was controlled but shallow. Ignoring Doris, she lifted her chin. “Is there more?”
“Of course there is,” Cheryl said, pale face growing blotchy. “You got everything you ever wanted. Everything’s been handed to you on a silver platter. You haven’t had to fight for any of it; you just had to shake your pretty blond hair around like a magic wand and—poof!—done. You want to be homecoming queen? Sure. You want to be an artist? Okay. You want to travel the world? And on and on and on. Everyone thinks you’re so fabulous.” Cheryl shook her head sadly. “But the truth is, you’re just some girl who stole a rich man from his wife. When he was dead—and don’t think people didn’t joke that you killed him—you trotted off to Paris, dumping us and living out your fairy-tale life on his money. And when the money ran out, you came home to people who loved and trusted you so you could use them, too.”
Doris laid on the horn. “Jackie, just get in.”
“I’ve been working my ass off since I was eighteen,” Cheryl said, as Jackie made a move for the door. “I put in eighty-hour weeks and I didn’t do that because I wanted to, Jackie. I did it because I had to. I don’t have a gift. But you don’t even give a shit about your talent. The reason you probably haven’t lifted a brush in years is because no one’s willing to lift it for you.”
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