Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  We go up to the 20th-somethingth floor for dinner. It’s one of those 360-degree-view restaurants where murmurs and jazz seem to be the only appropriate noises. I excuse myself to go to the ladies room while Frank orders cocktails. I fix myself up and practise what I’ll say when Ken asks me, ‘How do you like Singapore so far?’

  It’s tricky. I want to sound like a good soldier, like he’s not doing us any favours: ‘We don’t think about our own happiness, Sir! We go where we are needed most, Sir!’ I can’t say, for example, ‘I want to live abroad and be an expat forever. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!’ and bend down and kiss his ring. That wouldn’t be good. First, he’d hear the ‘I want’ and get all suspicious.

  Suddenly, the door opens and Jill comes in. Girlfriend or not, I can’t rehearse this with her. I’ll have to hope the words come out just fine back at the table. Jill spritzes and points the bottle at me. ‘Sure, thanks,’ I say and close my eyes for the spray.

  ‘Fran, you look terrific. I love your hair.’

  ‘Thanks. I love that top necklace.’ She fingers it like a pet.

  ‘How’s it been, living in Singapore?’ she asks.

  What? Not now. We don’t have this conversation now, in the ladies room, where Ken, the boss, isn’t. I pretend to be distracted by the instructions on the automatic hand dryer. I open the door for her and tell her I love the fifth bracelet on her right hand.

  Frank and Ken are heavily engaged in a discussion and haven’t touched their drinks. Frank is nodding and Ken is gesticulating. I plunk down noisily so they know to wind down on the shop talk.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jill. Did you ask me something back there?’ I say, settling in.

  ‘I don’t recall. Let me think.’ She opens her menu. ‘Oh, this is a big menu. Ken, isn’t this a big menu?’

  Ken is tapping around the table looking for his big menu.

  ‘That’s right, you asked me something about Singapore … Ah, yes, you asked me how it’s been, living in Singapore,’ I say.

  ‘We did have an early lunch. Ken, do you think you’ll get a starter?’

  ‘Sure. Sure. Where’s my menu at?’ Ken looks puzzled.

  ‘I’m going to get a starter,’ I say. ‘I always do in Singapore.’

  Ken finds his big menu and starts talking to Frank again. I hear ‘any day now’ and ‘light up the sky …’

  Frank nods and finishes half his beer. Jill turns to me. ‘What sort of starter are you getting, Fran? I hear the yabbies are wonderful.’

  ‘Probably something Asian for me. I love Asian food. I think I’m a little Asian on my mother’s side.’ No sounds except for the mellow notes from the fusion jazz band.

  I take a sip of water. Brainwave! ‘Ken! Jill! All this talk and I haven’t even asked. How are you?’ I practically scream.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Ken says. He picks up a roll and hands Jill the basket. ‘You?’

  I’ll take it … okay … okay … what to say … what to say? Hurry before Jill starts talking about fucking dessert.

  ‘It’s been wonderful so far.’ I smile hugely. ‘Though, of course, it’s very difficult sometimes.’ I frown morosely.

  ‘Sure. Sure.’ He opens the big menu.

  ‘I mean, being so far from family,’ I say meaningfully to the menu.

  ‘Sure. Sure. Far from family, not good, not good.’ He puts his glasses on and picks the menu up again.

  Oh, shit, I’m losing him. Gave him the wrong message. ‘Yeah, but now that they’re all dying, it’s a lot easier!’

  I start and finish my drink in one strong gulp and motion the waiter over for a double. Frank’s face is red and he’s straightening the silverware. Ken turns a page of the big menu. Jill says, ‘Oh, look, Ken, I don’t have that sheet. What’s that?’ He yanks it off and hands it to her.

  ‘Today’s specials? Now I have to start all over again.’

  After completing the task of ordering, Jill turns into a delightful flibbertigibbet, pouring out all her news about kids, grandkids, boats, vacation homes. Ken chimes in, animated, proudly embroidering missing details, like the exact size of the boats. The table is happy. I find myself travelling to their inner circle. They even ask if Frank and I would like to come over for Easter dinner.

  Ken orders champagne. He raises his glass. I drain my double. Raise my glass and smile at Frank with pride and adoration. At long last, Frank’s hard work will be exalted. He deserves this; we deserve this. A toast, some recognition.

  ‘To Hitforhits.com!’ Ken declares.

  Oh, man, would it be so hard to say thanks to Frank? A simple ‘Good job, Frank!’ It’s like cheering the jockey and never the horse.

  ‘What’s Hitforhits? Some dot.com pirates? Did you bust them, Frank?’ I’m going to see him get some acknowledgement.

  Frank turns to Ken. ‘Ah, Ken, I haven’t seen Fran all day. She doesn’t know any of this.’

  And, forgetting to be pissed off for a minute, I chirrup, ‘Oh, yeah, omigod. You’ll never believe who I ran with.’ I look wide-eyed at everyone. ‘Nicole Kidman’s dad!’

  Jill and I squeal and clink glasses.

  ‘Wow … her dad …’ she says.

  ‘Oh, yeah, and he was charming …’

  Ken interrupts, ‘Of course, of course, no one knew but tomorrow it’s official, in all the trade papers.’ I look at Frank. This is getting good again. Frank’s hands are beside his plate. His head is slightly bowed and he is looking at the stem of his champagne flute. He’s so understated, it’s sexy. He’s a modest man and avoids the spotlight. How like him to keep this to himself. I can see the headline, my maven-on-the-move:

  Frank Rittman named President of Overseas Operations. After agreeing to his big bonus, company penthouse … travel all over the world … ‘We’ll need him to do a lot in Australia,’ said the only other person more important than Mr Rittman …

  ‘So? More?’ I ask.

  Ken says, ‘Sure, sure. New company I started, Hitforhits.com. Need Frank to run the International. Have to move fast on these things. Big investors. Gonna make millions! Millions! Need you back in New York, home by Easter. Have it at our house. It’s good, family, friends. Frank, you get someone else to wind down the Singapore office soon as possible. This is gonna make millions.’ He raises his glass.

  I look from Ken to Jill. No, no, no, no, no. I heard this wrong. I have to make him turn it around the right way. Home? New York? They’re not serious. This can’t be happening. I stand up. I need to get some air. They think I’m standing to toast them back. Ken directs his glass to me.

  ‘Nooooo!’ I shout, slamming my drink down. ‘Frank can do anything from Singapore! I do everything from there! International can be from there! He can use the computer. He can do it all on the computer! On your internet! We can’t go now. You said three years. We’re not finished. We’re not finished!’ And, heaving great sobs, I run to the ladies room.

  After the cigarette and cold water, I don’t know how I can come back. I’ve behaved like a teenager, embarrassed my husband and of course myself, and didn’t for a moment think about Ken’s great joy for his new million-dollar concept. All I know is that it’s fucking winter, dead and grey, in New York City and I’m not going. I’m not going back. I can’t go back. So help me God, all at once, the clock struck midnight and everything turned to pumpkins and mice and uncomfortable clothing, to working my fingers to the bone: ‘Do the contracts!’, ‘Do the laundry!’, ‘Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.’ Going around in circles, and still they holler, keep a-busy, that’s what’s there for me. Singapore was never real, a chimera, all of it – the friends, the fun, the tennis, the tan, the strappy clothes and sensuous evenings, the Ironman training. A wave of the wand, gone, nothing. What will become of me?

  ‘Fran, can I come in?’ It’s Frank.

  I open the door and turn away from him, leaning on the sink. I don’t hate him. I could never hate him. He didn’t know that I actually thought those glass slippers were mine to keep.

&nbs
p; ‘Frank?’ I ask after we stare at the floor for a while, after he tells me he really didn’t know this was happening so soon, that we’ll have to talk about it later. ‘How do we get back to the table?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says.

  ‘Why don’t we say I’m pregnant?’

  ‘Why don’t we just apologise?’

  After what Ken did? Never!

  I assure Ken and Jill that I was just like this before I had Sadie. I down the wine and smoke 15 cigarettes for dinner. After dinner, saved by Ken’s undaunted enthusiasm, we say good night. They are staying at the ANA, in our old room.

  We’re staying in St Leonards, at the motor lodge. The sheets are sticky and thin. I climb in with a family-sized chocolate bar.

  Frank sits on the side of the bed. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I have to take the promotion.’ He smiles, imitating Ken, ‘It’ll make millions! Millions!’

  ‘Frank, we’re not get-rich-quick people. It’s not going to happen.’ I feel nothing but the chocolate melting on my tongue.

  ‘I can’t turn the job down. And you don’t know anything about the deal Ken’s striking. This is exciting for me. I don’t want to turn down a big promotion to stay in Fortune Gardens. Singapore – all of Asia – is in a huge recession. Did you know that, Fran? Have you heard? It’s been a nightmare for me. It’s been like looking for a needle in a haystack and when I find it, someone grabs it and sticks me and tells me to mind my own business. No one wants a fat American telling them what they can and can’t do.’

  ‘You’re not fat. Anyway, how would I know? You don’t tell me,’ I say.

  ‘I try, honey, but it’s hard sometimes. I don’t always know how to start and you aren’t around a lot. You’ll be fine. I’m sorry we have to leave early but you’ll be fine.’ He takes my chocolate and puts it back in the mini-bar. I wasn’t finished.

  ‘I wonder if there’s still an office for me.’

  ‘Fran, just quit that job already.’

  ‘I make a lot of money, Frank. And no one quits their job when they come back. Everyone I know in New York works. It’s what you do because it’s too cold to play outside.’

  ‘Fine, but stop figuring it all out tonight. Everything’s going to be okay. Maybe it’ll even be great.’

  ‘Mommy, how come I’m still in my pyjamas?’

  I am clipping something from the paper. I leave it on top of Frank’s briefcase.

  ‘Mommy …’

  ‘Shhh, I’m busy. In a minute.’ Oh, here’s another. Snip, snip.

  Sadie turns the volume up to high. ‘Turn it down, Sadie. It’s rattling the walls.’

  Why did I wait so long to do this? They’re everywhere. The newspaper looks like a doily now. Frank has a short stack of small printed squares on his briefcase.

  He comes down the stairs and stops. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘Just fyi, that’s all, nothing …’

  ‘Wanted,’ Frank reads, ‘account executive for securities. Fran, I’m a copyright lawyer.’ He picks up another one. ‘Drivers needed.’

  ‘You love driving,’ I say. ‘Look at the benefits!’

  ‘Talent search for software analyst. Fran, what do I know about this? I’m a copyright lawyer.’

  ‘It may be analysing the legal parts of software, Frank. You could give them a call instead of –’

  ‘Experienced drummer. Fran, I play the bass.’

  ‘You are so inflexible!’

  ‘Mommy, how come I’m still in my pyjamas?’

  I am holding a bowl of cereal and don’t know if I was heading to the table or the sink. I’m wearing a housedress. The kids are watching television and I am holding a bowl of cereal. Susie is leaving tomorrow. She and Francis are getting married, in France. I’m happy for good old Button Lip. Frank comes downstairs.

  ‘Tennis tonight?’

  I drop the bowl in the sink and wheel around. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you like it?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘All right, Fran. Whatever. See you, kids.’

  I am in a housedress when the doorbell rings. I am not holding a bowl of cereal. It’s Priscilla.

  ‘Are you ever bloody going to take off that bloody housedress?’

  ‘I feel like the living dead. Like nothing matters any more. What’s the point of having this conversation? Why not just say that a month ago we had our last conversation?’

  ‘Shut up, Frannie. Get dressed. I want to see you down at the pool tonight at six sharp.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just be there.’

  At six, I go to the pool. Frank has insisted on joining me. He says he’s sorry about getting irritated with me. He’s got to try harder to understand. He’s whistling Goodbye Yellow Brick Road – not the song, the album. As we go down the steps, I see lanterns and tables set up on the lawn. A small crowd has gathered and when they see me, they cheer. The men are dressed in skirts or bike shorts and heels. It’s a dress-up-like-Fran surprise party.

  I come back to life.

  ‘Mommy, why am I still in my pyjamas?’

  ‘Because, sweetheart, Mommy has blepharitis. Okay?’

  For two weeks, we have found reasons to make people go out and stay up late with us. We had a dancing party and a Safra party, a beach party, a cocktail party and a party in the function room where we gave stuff away – books, liquor, kids’ toys – like a rite of passage. Frank loved every minute of it. If I heard him say dot.com one more time, I would kill.

  And then Frank hired his Singapore replacement and unless this guy dies suddenly, there is nothing more to do.

  I put my housedress back on and sit on the balcony. Frank goes from room to room with a clipboard in his hand, noting what is to be shipped, what is to be mailed, what is to come on the plane. He asks me questions from time to time. ‘Do you want to take the chopsticks?’ he asks. ‘What about the spices?’ he asks. ‘What about all this?’ he asks, pointing to a stack of cartons: Biospliven, Super-Biospliven, Dr Soon-better mix, vitamin B and chromium.

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘Pearl! How are you?’

  ‘I am fine. Too bad you leave. I thought it was three years. Never mind, lah. I get it wrong sometimes, eh? How much you want for that?’ Pearl points to the cartons.

  ‘Why?’

  She hands me a card: ‘Pearl’s Vitamin and Flower Shop, Expat Services, Babysitting in rear of store.’

  ‘Biospliven good, lah!’

  ‘Please take it. My gift. How wonderful, your own shop.’

  After she hauls out the fourth box, she stands in the doorway. I go to hug her. She gives me a quick pat. ‘Seventy dollars for you today,’ she says.

  ‘No no, you can have it all. I’m glad to give you a start.’

  ‘I charge for removal.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I hand her the money and she smiles.

  She laughs nervously and hands me a shopping bag. ‘For you and the kids, to remember me.’ Inside are bracelets with all our names in Chinese.

  ‘Thank you, but we’ll never forget you, gifts or no gifts.’ I step forward and give her a long hug until it is returned. ‘Good luck,’ I call as Pearl walks away.

  The movers are here. It is our last day. I am in my housedress. Priscilla and Samantha, Valerie and Tess have come over with a few gifts and cards and favourite recipes. I hand them a stack of menus from all the parties I had, complete with how-to’s and anecdotes.

  ‘How’s the packing going, mate?’ Priscilla asks.

  ‘I haven’t done it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, get off your stupid arse and get moving. Don’t give me any crap.’

  We laugh. She’s raised three big, wild boys all in their 20s. This is her being soft and gentle. I go upstairs and sit on the bed. She grabs suitcases and starts organising. The girls all join in. I answer questions but mostly I watch them, their hands, holding and packing my things.

  ‘Time to go, Fran.’ Frank ushers me out of the apartment. The kids are wild and clamorous
because they’re up late and going on a trip and life is different, exciting, promising. It’s 10.30 at night. We get out of the elevator and a crowd is waiting for us, a last goodbye. There’s crying and picture-taking. All the kids have been kept up late for this one final ceremony.

  We get into the taxi and wave goodbye.

  We live (lived) so near the airport.

  There’s no traffic.

  Frank gets the kids out of the car and has them stand with the luggage carts near the airport entrance. Frank and the cab driver hoist out suitcase after suitcase. We have 15. The kids want to ride on the cart. Frank is perspiring from all of this effort. He pays the driver. He reaches his hand in to help me out. I stare at it. The kids have climbed up the suitcases and the tower is about to tumble. Frank rushes over to them. He turns to me and yells out, over car engines, planes, announcements, ‘Come on, Fran, please.’

  I sit, breathing heavily. The driver, after depositing the final suitcase, returns to the car.

  Frank shouts over, ‘Why are you making this so hard, Fran?’

  The finality hurts so badly. I’m no longer numb. I can’t control my sobbing. I would give anything, anything, to have it all back. I swear, I’ll do it right this time. Let me stay.

  ‘Jesus, Fran, please, you knew it wasn’t going to last forever.’

  I cry harder still. That’s exactly right. ‘IF I HAD KNOWN THAT … I WOULD HAVE APPRECIATED IT MORE!’ I scream, louder than I have ever screamed before, back at him, at the world. My throat is raw and I’m shaking. I hear my words over and over again, they are ricocheting off the walls of the taxi. Things end. You don’t expect them to. People drop dead, cars crash, fires wreck villages … The driver looks in at me, ‘Miss, Miss, please.’ He wants me to leave. I get out and stand in the centre lane.

  I look at my frightened children across the road. Sadie’s pants are above her ankles. She’s buttoned herself wrong and her socks droop. Her flat bear is swinging on the ground. Huxley wears Toby’s old sweater; he’s made wide, uneven cuffs. I don’t even know the name of the stuffed rabbit he holds. Frank’s face is full of anguish, saturated with sweat and tears. He is struggling to help us all. He wishes to God that he didn’t have to fail me.