“I . . .” . . . didn’t know what to say. Was he just asking me along so he could get Coco there? Or was he asking her along so I wouldn’t feel like it was “a date.” Would I have wanted to have dinner alone with Robert Kingsley?
“Nigel Sitwell is in town,” he went on, “and I thought I’d have a little get-together. Try some new recipes on him. . . .”
“Nigel Sitwell?” Ralph asked. “The Nigel Sitwell?”
Nigel Sitwell was royalty in the cooking world. Somewhere in his seventies, fat, British, effeminate, he had the reputation for being the know-it-all of know-it-alls.
“You can come too, Ralph,” Kingsley said. He turned to me. “I think Nigel would love Coco. And I’m developing some ideas for a new menu, and would love to have some guinea pigs, so . . .”
“Sure,” I said. Ralph was nodding his head vehemently. “We’d love to come.”
“Great. I’ll get back to you about a date. Nigel wasn’t sure about his schedule. And if you could keep quiet about this . . . I don’t want anyone to feel snubbed.”
Kingsley headed to the kitchen. I turned to Ralph. “Do you think he’s lusting after Coco?”
“Your ‘sister’?”
“She likes to pass herself off that way. Just play along, okay?”
“How can you let her do these things to you?”
“She’s not doing it to me. She’s insecure about her age.”
“Honey, you cut her way too much slack. You should definitely out her that night at the dinner table.”
“No way. Sometimes I worry about her, ya know. She’s been so dependent on her looks for so long. What happens when they go? If it makes her feel better . . .”
“But how does it make you feel?”
“I can handle it. Look, I don’t have to invite her. I can just say she won’t come.”
“But you will invite her, won’t you.”
“I’m with Kingsley. I bet it will be easier to deal with Nigel Sitwell with Coco in the room.”
Jean Paul emerged from the kitchen and posted the list. Immediately, like actors competing for the lead, we all flocked around to see. No one wanted to get stuck with a “supporting role” like fruit salad or butter cookies.
Priscilla was assigned an endive with bacon and goat cheese appetizer. Tom got roast beef au jus. Ralph was down for apple tartlets. I looked for my name, and saw that he’d assigned me choux swans.
My first reaction was disappointment. I hated choux swans. True, they were a crowd-pleaser. But they were prissy. Traditional. Outdated. Lots of steps to make a pastry that ended up looking like a cream puff waterfowl.
Then I heard Tara complaining. “Biscotti? He wants me to make biscotti? They’re so dull! Who cares about biscotti?”
No one. It was true. But the swans would be a good showcase for my skills.
I rode down the elevator with Ralph feeling a bit, dare I say, cheerful. As soon as we were out on the street—and away from any potential eavesdroppers—I asked his opinion. “Do you think he thinks the swans are beyond my ability so he’s setting me up to fail in front of everyone?”
“Ginger, darling. I can believe he might enjoy watching you fail. But in front of the investors? That would be self-destructive.”
“So . . .” We stopped at a red light. I turned to him. “Do you think he’s actually showing some faith in me?”
“It’s hard to believe. But yes.”
The light turned green, and we crossed.
chapter twenty-six
w hen I heard Coco come home, I was in the kitchen drinking some hot chocolate and eating peanut butter out of the jar.
“So I went to get my mammogram today. The follow-up, because the first one wasn’t good enough, remember?”
My first thought was they found something. “And?”
She got some Muenster and a hunk of duck pâté from the fridge. “Everything’s fine.”
“Oh. Thank god.” I took a sip of hot chocolate. It was made from powder and hot water, but I’d added a bit of half-and-half, and it wasn’t bad. “Have you ever considered taking those things out? I mean really, Mom. You don’t need ’em anymore.”
“Have you seen pictures of women who had their implants removed?” She put some cheese in her mouth. “Their breasts look like cow dung.”
“Cow dung?”
“Cow dung that’s been stepped in. I am really getting sick of this diet.”
“You want some wine?” Wine was one acceptable indulgence she allowed herself on Atkins.
“Desperately.”
I retrieved an opened bottle of Cabernet from the fridge. While there (ulterior motive) I took out a jar of grape jelly. I love eating peanut butter and jelly straight, no bread. I’d been resisting the jelly, though, because it made me want more peanut butter, which then made me want more jelly, a vicious cycle.
“I know you’re just looking out for me but really, Ginger, you worry too much.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I poured her wine.
“So Jack and I are making plans. We’re thinking of going to Vegas and doing the marriage thing there. But I wanted to make sure that’s okay with you. I mean, I’m guessing you won’t mind missing the actual ceremony. We’ll have a party here when we get back.”
“That’s fine. So are you excited?” I tried to keep the doubt out of my voice.
“I’m a little freaked out, to tell you the truth.”
“It’s a big commitment.” I dipped my spoon into the jelly jar, and savored a half spoonful of the purple corn syrup, pectin, and what had to be a trace amount of actual fruit.
“Yep.” She took a gulp of wine.
I chased down the jelly with some peanut butter. “You must be pretty fond of the guy.”
“I know you find that hard to believe. But we do have a good time together.”
“And the financial security will be nice too.”
“He’s not making me sign a prenup, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“That’s nice.” A little more jelly.
She laughed. “It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
I put down my spoon. “I actually have some good news of my own.”
“Do tell! You know I love good news.”
I told her all about the banquet and the choux swans.
“You see,” she said, “I knew he’d learn to appreciate you.”
Then I told her about Robert Kingsley. “He invited us to his place for dinner. And guess who’s going to be there. Nigel Sitwell!”
“He wrote that famous book, didn’t he?”
“The Art of American Cookery. He’s like a hundred years old and really cantankerous and really rich and really gay.”
“This is so exciting! You know what? You and I are going to Sephora. We’ll have someone do your makeup. Stock up on everything you need. Then get your eyebrows waxed. A facial . . .”
“Why?”
“Obviously Robert Kingsley has a thing for you.”
“Mom, he’s my teacher! You’re the one he’s after.”
“I am otherwise engaged. Come on! The guy is attractive, successful . . . you gotta exploit the situation, girl! We’ll make an appointment with Christopher. Let him give you a trim, highlights, and a conditioning treatment, because your hair”—she lifted a few locks, then dropped them—“is so dry. And, by the way, you need new bras. Your boobs are sagging.”
“Mom . . .”
“What?”
“I’m not being auctioned off like a slave.”
“You’ve just got to use your equipment! Would you stop trying to fight biology?”
I took a sip of hot chocolate. It was tempting. But if I got all done up like that, I’d be buying into the same crap that made men like my father cheat.
Plus, what if it worked? How frightening was that? Could I deal with a handsome, successful man like Robert Kingsley desiring me? “Anyway, you’re getting carried away. Robert Kingsley is way out of my league.”
Coco looked at me. “What’s the matter? Does he remind you of your father or something?”
“No!” Where’d she get that idea? That was ridiculous. Kingsley was nothing like my father. “Kingsley is nice. And Kingsley is much more interested in me than Ben ever was. I mean, in a professional way, of course.”
Coco belly-laughed. “You’re funny. I’m gonna take a shower.”
I was about to tell her about Leah’s diary. But it was so likely she’d say something that would upset me. Kingsley like my father? No way. I took one more half spoonful of peanut butter, and kept my mouth busy with that.
chapter twenty-seven
t he lingerie section on the fourth floor of Bloomingdale’s had too big a selection. But Emma was like a kid in a candy store. I followed her as she waltzed past the carousels of racks displaying one designer brand after another. “Ooh, look at these! They’re so beautiful. And these! Aren’t they cute? Is this too expensive? Can I get one of these?” She held up thongs with three slot machine cherries and JACKPOT! on the crotch.
I said, as neutrally as possible, “Funny.” I was clinging to her concept of me as someone cool and not uptight.
“Please?”
“Let’s look around some more.”
“Which is your favorite?” she asked.
“Maybe the Hello Kitty.” It was sort of cute, with a picture of Kitty on the miniscule crotch and rainbow elastic on the waist and the leg holes. “But you’re too young for these.” At least I could try to dissuade her by playing the age card.
“Too young for Hello Kitty? I’m too old! Anyway, all my friends have ’em, so what’s the big deal?”
A saleswoman approached. “May I help you?” She was in her seventies with a low V-neck that showed off her cleavage and a very short pixie cut dyed blond.
“Just browsing.”
“May I interest you in today’s special?” She held up a bra. “A gorgeous lace demi with support wires that won’t dig into your rib cage.”
I wanted to say, So you admit those wires dig into your rib cage? “No, thank you.” But then I couldn’t resist asking, as I held up a thong that said NO DICE! with two dice on the crotch, “Do girls her age wear these things?”
“They love ’em. Aren’t they cute?” She pulled a few more thongs off the rack. “Isn’t this funny?” There was a picture of an astronaut, and the words INVADE MY SPACE. “So playful.”
Playful. Yet screwed up. “Thanks for your help.”
“My name is Fiona if you need anything else.”
I steered Emma towards the regular bikini underwear and a display of boy-cut briefs. At least they were adorned with icons like Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog. “These look good.”
“I want thongs!” Emma said.
“Why don’t we check out the bras?”
“I want padded,” Emma said.
“Why?”
“Why do you think?” She looked at me with distrust. My cool image was fogging up.
“You don’t have to pretend to have more than you’ve got. It’s absurd. You are what you are. And you aren’t exactly flat.” She had as much going on top as I did.
“But I want to look as good as possible! And I need at least one pretty one for a strapless dress I’m wearing to my friend’s bat mitzvah. Oh, look at this.” She pulled out a black lace Wonderbra.
“Can I just ask why, at your age, you need such fancy underwear? Who’s gonna see it?”
“No one. It’s just so I feel good while I’m wearing it, duh.”
Duh. Or . . . was thirteen-year-old Emma already playing around with boys? This young, innocent thing who’d shoved menstrual-stained underwear under her bed? Come to think of it, those underpants had all been much more conservative than the ones she was ogling now. “Did Leah let you buy sexy stuff like this?”
“No, but she was so much stricter than all my friends’ moms, I swear to god. She just didn’t get it. But you’re not like her. I mean, my god, you grew up with Coco!”
“Why don’t you pick out an assortment and see what feels comfortable.”
“Look at this!” she said, beelining it towards the teddies. “Isn’t this funny?” It was totally sheer pink and then had two pink hearts—one to cover each nipple. Another larger heart was on the crotch of the matching thong. Who said romance was dead?
“Cute,” I said.
She fingered an ice blue sheer number that tied between the breasts and then draped open to expose the belly and had matching bikini underpants. “This one is so beautiful. Do they have a medium?” She started to look through.
I was about to express horror that she would seriously consider wearing a teddy. The thing was completely see-through, except for an extra layer of lace around the bosom area. But she pulled one out and draped it in front of me. “You should really try this on.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s perfect for your coloring. And so pretty!”
I wondered how Emma could envision me in something so feminine and delicate when she’d only ever seen me in jeans and T-shirts. She just seemed to assume I was capable of this too.
Maybe I was.
Maybe this was an opportunity. Just to see myself in it. No one else would have to. It would be in the name of research.
“It would drive your boyfriend crazy,” she said. “What’s his name? Ian?”
“Ian and I broke up.”
“Oh. Sorry. Then you need it for the next guy.”
Tom? Worse yet, Kingsley? Oh, man. Could I parade around in front of him like a sex kitten? Would he find this cheesy? I certainly hoped so. But. This stuff was hardwired into men’s brains to bring about erections. It had nothing to do with common sense. One thing was for sure. No one would look at me in this and think I was one of the guys. I took it from her.
“Yay,” she said.
We searched out the entrance to the dressing room. The attendant paused from her Sisyphean task—putting a huge pile of bras back on their hangers—and led us to some curtained booths right next to each other. Fiona must’ve had her eye on us, because she swanned in just as I was about to close my curtain. “Let me know if you need any other sizes, ladies.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck,” I said to Emma across the way.
“Have fun,” Emma said back.
I took off my sneakers and my baseball cap, then my jeans and underwear, and stepped into the bikini bottoms. Then I pulled off my T-shirt, undid my bra, and slipped my arms through the thin straps. I adjusted the bow so it landed between my breasts, and took a good look in the mirror.
It was obscene. My god. Even though the bra part had an extra layer of lace, you could totally see my breasts. I felt like I was spilling out. Flooding the dressing room. Flesh everywhere.
This went beyond the red dress. This was downright . . . hot.
I undid my ponytail and fluffed up my hair. Leaned on my right leg, letting my hip jut out. Put my hands on my hips. Lifted my ribs so my breasts pointed up and out. Oh, yeah, I was a sexy babe. Dangerous curves. Legs not bad. Pink, young flesh. I raised my eyebrows. Come ’ere . . . Kingsley. I mean, Robert. Bob. Hi there, Bob. Surprised? Well, don’t be. It’s been there all the time . . . waiting for you to notice . . .
“How’s it going?” Emma asked from the next booth.
I panicked, and tugged the curtain, which was already closed, over some more. “Forget it!”
“Wrong size?”
It fit perfectly. “Too expensive. Fifty-eight dollars.”
“We’ll put it on my dad’s credit card!”
Her dad. Like he wasn’t my dad? Well, I’d never had a credit card with his name on it—that was for sure. I slid the underwear off and stepped back into my own pair. “Have you found anything?”
“I guess.”
“Good!”
“Ginger? Can I please, please, please get a couple thongs? Just a couple?”
I pressed my lips together, zipped up my jeans
, and censored the urge to ask her if wearing a thong wasn’t like voluntarily walking around with a piece of gristle stuck between your two front teeth. “I guess.”
“Thank you!”
Once I got all my clothes back on, it sure felt reassuring. As if the world had been tilted too far over, and now it was back where it had always been. Though the same old view did seem a little tired.
We took the escalator down. I was dying for a cup of coffee and something sweet. The restaurants in the store were usually crowded, and I felt the need to get some air. “Are you into getting a snack somewhere? Something sweet?”
“Sure! Where should we go?”
It was four o’clock. Teatime. I loved afternoon tea. There weren’t all that many places in the city that served it, with the whole watercress-sandwich-and-scone routine, but we did happen to be within walking distance of one of the best. “Have you ever had tea at the Plaza?”
“I don’t like tea.”
“You can have hot chocolate.”
“I like that.”
Tea at the Plaza was usually reserved for special occasions like birthdays or whatever. Coco and I had gone there about five times total in my life. But today did seem like a special occasion. Emma’s first thong with a padlock on the crotch. And my first time in a teddy.
“Do you like scones?”
“Do I breathe air?”
“And baby sandwiches?”
“Can we go? Please?”
The Palm Court was right off the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. It had the feel of an enclosed garden, with its four potted palms in giant marble urns, cane-backed chairs, and the magnificently tall arched faux windows. There was a spectacular display of beautiful (though conventional) desserts on a round table in the center of the room. A woman in an evening gown played the harp, and an elderly man in a tuxedo with bow tie strolled around playing the violin. The subject of my father came up right after the surly waiter delivered our scones and clotted cream.
“So how,” I asked with extreme caution, “has it been? Living, you know, with just Dad?” I was not fishing for dirt. I wanted to give her a chance to vent.
“Oh, you know. He’s so busy all the time.”
The Art of Undressing Page 18