“Yeah . . .”
“And he’s not really very good at talking.”
“Right.”
“But he does try.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Last weekend he took me to Ralph Lauren and bought me a Polo shirt.”
“What color?”
“Purple. With a green horse.”
I’d packed away a Polo of Leah’s that was magenta with a yellow horse. “That’s nice.”
“In a way, it doesn’t seem fair. He buys me lots of stuff, but not you. I mean, you’re his daughter just as much as I am.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not the things I miss so much. He’s just so emotionally distant. He’s always been like that with me. Always has to maintain a distance.”
“Yeah, well”—she was spreading some clotted cream on her scone—“he’s like that. You know. With everyone. To some extent.” She put the knife down. “I guess.” And took a bite.
“But he’s like that more with me. And Coco.”
I knew I should keep my mouth shut. She didn’t need to hear this.
“Well, god,” Emma said, chewing with her mouth open, “he couldn’t risk having Coco in his life. Just imagine.”
“Why not? She’s in my life.”
“Yeah, but, you know.”
“No. I don’t know. Tell me.” I took a sip of hot tea.
“You know . . .” Emma leaned forward, whispered with relish. “Coco is like . . . you know . . . basically a whore!”
I put another scone on my plate, but I knew I wasn’t going to be able to eat it. “How can you call her that?”
“I’m not saying she was a whore really. But you know . . . come on . . .” She turned red, realizing she’d said something wrong. “You know what I mean.”
The strolling violinist came by right then and started playing “The Sound of Music” in our ears. I was tempted to tell Emma that her “high and mighty” father was not above sleeping around, lying, and cheating. The harpist, who looked like a sixty-year-old virgin, was plucking at those strings like there was no tomorrow. Why did harpists always come off like old maids? Even for people like me who were offended by the concept of old maids. “You shouldn’t judge someone when you don’t know the whole story,” I said, silently apologizing to the harpist.
“I’m not judging her.”
“No?”
“No! I mean, she was a stripper, right? So everyone knows what strippers do.”
“Yeah, they dance around in G-strings. Which are almost exactly like the thongs you bought today.”
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna dance around in public . . . Look. This is stupid. Why are you getting so weird?”
I wanted to do a smear job on our father so badly. Tell her all about his slimy little affairs. “I’m just saying that life is complicated and we don’t always understand why people do what they do.”
Emma glared. “You’re just jealous, that’s all. And you always were.”
We both sat back in our chairs, back from the table, back from the food. It took some self-control not to suggest that perhaps she was jealous of me. I had the “fun” mom. The “cool” mom. The mom who was alive. She was stuck with the Sheriff. So what if Coco had been a “whore.” At least she could show her feelings. Even if she said the wrong things to me, at least she said things to me!
“Look,” I said, “let’s just forget about it. I don’t want to fight.”
Emma stared down into her lap.
The waiter came by and asked if I needed more tea. “No, thanks. Just the check.” He bowed, and returned promptly with the bill. Each of our “teas” had been $29.90. I’d known the price going into it, but right then it sure seemed like a major rip-off.
I took Emma home in a cab. The meter ticked away. We were silent. Do cabdrivers notice when people don’t speak? Probably all their customers ran together in a big blur. As we pulled up to the front of her brownstone, I considered saying something to smooth things over. After all, she was a teenager. Best not to take any insensitive comments or waves of emotion too seriously. She got out without a word and slammed the door shut before I figured out what to say. It made me feel lousy. After all, she was the one who’d insulted my mother and then accused me of being jealous. All I’d said was her father wasn’t perfect. Big deal. I didn’t deserve the cold shoulder for that.
Maybe I should keep my distance. I was a fool for thinking I could get close to her and the Sheriff. They were the enemy, weren’t they? Always looking down on us. Coco had always known that and tried to warn me.
The cabdriver asked me, “Where to?”
I told him to take me to Lexington and Sixtieth Street. I went inside Bloomingdale’s, took the escalator back up to the lingerie section, and went straight to the rack with the ice blue teddy and pulled out a medium. Then, as I was passing the display of thongs, I grabbed a Hello Kitty in a large. Fiona was on top of me immediately.
“So you couldn’t stop thinking about it,” she said, giving me an (ugh) wink.
“Do you take a check?”
“With the proper ID”
I followed her to the cash register. This was shaping up to be a very expensive day.
chapter twenty-eight
“ r estaurant management.” Kingsley stood up at the front of the demo kitchen and looked us all over. “How many of you really know what that means? For example. Who can tell me exactly what a manager does?”
At Chantal, they bossed people around, hired and fired the waiters, and made sure there was toilet paper.
“Order the food,” Tara said, “and plan the menus.”
“And how,” he asked, “do they decide what to order? What to plan?’
Silence.
“Restaurants,” he said, “are not in the business of serving food just to make a room full of strangers happy every night. This is not charity. And it’s not vanity either, though for some it starts out that way, and if it does, you won’t last a year. This is a business. You have to make a profit. You have to, at the very least, break even! So. Whether you end up owning your own restaurant or just working in one, it’s vital that you understand how it all works.”
He launched into a speech about weekly numbers and cost of sales and gross sales and deducting fixed costs and gave us a formula for how to cover overhead to make a profit. I stared at the way his nice broad shoulders emerged up out of his slim hips and wondered for the zillionth time why he was honoring us with his presence, how his own restaurant was doing, and was he really planning on opening a new one in New York City.
“The manager makes a budget every week,” he continued. “He bases it on how many meals he thinks he’ll serve that week. Then he takes the average check into account. And that will let the chef know how much money he can spend. Now. When does that become a problem?”
Tara raised her hand. “When the chef spends too much. Because the chef wants to look good. So he’ll order all these expensive ingredients to impress everyone, so you could have a totally packed restaurant but lose money because the food costs are so high.”
“My point exactly.”
She smirked.
“That is why,” he said, “it can be a problem if the chef is the owner. How do you stop yourself from spending too much? Especially if you want to make a name for yourself?”
Did he have that problem? Was Zin failing?
“It’s a very unstable business. Unexpected problems are going to happen. The refrigerator breaks down. There’s a snowstorm on a Saturday night. Everyone cancels. The bartender is drinking up your wine and the waiters are stealing your silverware. Truthfully? Owning a restaurant is one big pain in the neck.”
I raised my hand. Kingsley nodded at me. “So do you think it’s smarter, from a chef’s point of view, not to own your own place? Because of all the headaches involved?”
“Certainly, while you’re just getting started, work in different places. Absorb what you can and move on.”
He smiled at me. My heart
pitter-patted. I smiled back.
“Oh,” he said, still looking at me. “One other thing I wanted to mention.” It felt like he was talking only to me. “Private parties.” Was he referring to our dinner party? No, that was our secret. “Hiring your restaurant out for private parties is the key to financial stability.” Of course that’s what he meant. I nodded. He broke eye contact. “Many people don’t realize that. But it’s ideal. The customer gives you a deposit. You know exactly how many people you’re going to cook for. Nothing is left to chance. So they’re very important for the manager to actively pursue. Remember that. Private parties.”
After Kingsley dismissed us, I walked with Ralph to the lobby. Did Ralph notice how Kingsley’s eyes had lingered on me? Or had I just been imagining that? Tara and Tom were ahead of us. They had their arms around each other.
“Looks like they’re having their own private party,” Ralph said.
“Not so private, if you ask me.”
Ralph and I held back as Tom and Tara parted ways at the doors to the locker room. Then I followed her in.
“I’m helping plan a private party for next week,” Tara was telling Priscilla. “It’s hosted by the Association of Women Chefs.”
“That’s cool,” Priscilla said. “Can I come? Maybe I can schmooze around and get some job leads.”
“Sure. It should be fun. Those women chefs know how to party.” And then she added, “I hope Tom stays over with me tonight after work, so he doesn’t have to go all the way back to Astoria.”
“Poor guy,” Priscilla said, “going to school all day, working all night and then having to take the subway home.”
“But I’m happy to provide a bed for him.” She slammed her locker shut. “Hey, you feel like hitting Victoria’s Secret? I’m sorely in need of bras.”
As I pulled on my jeans, I thought of the teddy. It was in my bottom drawer, hidden under a stack of old bathing suits I hated. One night, when Coco was over at Jack’s, I could invite Tom over for dinner. We could have some pasta and wine. Just as friends. Watch TV. As friends. After sitting all close and snuggly next to each other on the couch, as friends, I’d demurely retreat to my bedroom, and reappear in the teddy looking absolutely ravishing. Before we knew it, we’d be more than just friends . . .
I had one foot up on the bench, and was balancing on my other foot as I tied my Pumas. As Tara passed behind me, she bumped into my rear end and almost knocked me over.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. And then, as if she was trying to be friendly, “You know, I have to say. You have a very impressive collection of sneakers.”
“Thanks,” I said, wary.
“So did I,” she said, as she walked out the door, “when I was ten.”
I finished tying my shoe and slumped down on the bench. Yes. The shoes. The importance of shoes could not be denied. It was time to do something about the shoes.
chapter twenty-nine
“ w hat exactly are you looking for?” Ralph asked, as we strolled around the maze of footwear on display at Shoe Biz. I couldn’t help but go to the sneakers. There was a really cute pair of purple-and-black Kangaroos with a little baby-sized change purse Velcroed to the lip.
“Don’t even think about it!” Ralph commanded, pulling me away.
“But they’re adorable.”
“You must focus.” He steered me to some lethal-looking, almost vertical high heels. “Dangerous for anyone who doesn’t know how to dance en pointe,” I said, giving the French my best Jean Paul flourish.
“It takes practice. Wear them at home first. Build up the ankle muscles, the calves. It’s not like you could walk into a gym and suddenly do a hundred bench presses.”
“I think I could do that more easily than get down the street in those.”
“Bad attitude, missy. Come on. You want Mr. Carpenter to realize you’re a female, right?” He picked up a slightly less scary-looking pair. “Try these on.”
“You know what? This is incredibly stupid.”
“You’re right. And you know what else? People are stupid. Your problem is that you think you’re better than people. But I’ve got news for you, honey. You’re one of us.”
“Okay, you pick a pair. Surprise me. I wear a size ten, and no cracks about Bigfoot.”
I sat down by the wall and let Ralph consult with the shoe guy.
“He’s bringing you a selection.”
“Thanks.”
He handed me two Peds. “Put these on.”
I tried. I did. But when I got one end of the Ped around my toes, it would pop off the heel, and when I got it to hook on my heel, it would pop off my toes. “Were these designed by an angry midget? Why can’t they make them just a little bit larger?”
“Can’t you stretch it? Jesus, why is everything so hard for you?”
The shoe guy put a stack of boxes on the floor. Ralph opened the first box. The Ped was gripping the perimeter of my foot like Wile E. Coyote on the edge of a cliff. “Basic black heels.”
“Hurry, before the Ped pops off.”
I crammed my foot in as quickly as I could, but wouldn’t you know it, the Ped slipped off as soon as I had it on. Now there were lumpy folds of nylon under my arch. “My feet are just too big,” I muttered, as I leaned over, blood going to my head, cheeks flushed. I hooked the Ped back over my heel again and jammed my foot in. Felt the hard leather imprison my foot. Poor little scrunched toes pleading for mercy. Was I really going to relent? Join the enemy? Give in to the insanity? My foot was unrecognizable. The top of it was almost bursting out, and the toe cleavage only seemed to broadcast that I was an animal, a Homo sapien, related to apes and monkeys—not some svelte babe. “Ralph. You know the bathing suit competition in the Miss America pageant?”
“Put on the other one.”
I crammed it in. “They wear high heels with the bathing suits. Who does that? You go to the beach, you wear flip-flops.”
“You want Miss America to wear flip-flops?”
Like a bride in an arranged marriage about to be deflowered, I made one more futile protest. “I don’t want to be an object!”
“Ginger. Darling. You are an object. Whether you wear the shoes or not.”
“I am?”
“People are objects. We just are. We take up space. We appear in photographs. We fit inside coffins. There’s no way to avoid it. You are an object.”
“I am a subject.”
“Yes, you are—a wacko subject. But you are also an object. You are both. Get it? Both. It’s weird, I know. Perhaps an object should not be able to conceive of her own objectness. That’s why it’s so weird being a human. But we can, so stop fighting it and try to enjoy it a little. Now would you please stand up and model them for me?”
Enjoy it. Yes. He was right. If you’re going to wear something that causes you physical pain, you might as well enjoy it for all it’s worth.
I forced myself to slowly rise. Felt all the weight go to the balls of my feet. Gripped the bottom of the shoe with my toes. Felt my pelvis stiffen and my lower back arch and my breasts thrust out as I made myself erect or risk falling on my face.
Hmmm. I did like the way my body seemed to become very long. Tall. Towering, in fact. My feet—they seemed very far away. All the way down there, all the way at the other end. Could there be some power in surrendering to this? I leaned on my right foot, jutted out my hip, and crossed my arms. The words Here I am, don’t fuck with me came to mind. Where did that come from?
“You okay?” Ralph asked.
“As long as I don’t move.”
“Try walking.”
“Okay. I’m going to casually stroll to that mirror over there.” I took a few steps. My calves were clenched, my knees were locked, and I really felt like at any moment one of my ankles would buckle and twist and I’d be on crutches for two months.
“You look like you’re wading through cement.”
“Okay, this is harder than learning how to ice skate backwards.”
�
�Come back,” he said, “try this pair. The heel is a little lower.”
I got back to the chair and slid them off with relief. Except now I was intrigued. There had been something . . . interesting . . . about that. He opened the next box. It was a pair of red heels. They had an open toe and a bow on top. Cute—in a way I didn’t usually associate with myself. Maybe they would go with the red dress. It was hard to tell if the colors would match or clash. Since the Ped popped off as soon as I took the black pumps off, I decided to skip it and slipped my bare foot in. Again, the leather encased my foot.
I rose. Because of the open toe, they weren’t quite as painful. And at least the heel was only three inches as opposed to five. I pulled up my jeans and saw there was indeed something attractive about what it did to the shape of my calves. How it flexed my foot and extended it. Didn’t my foot tense up like this when I was having sex? No wonder men liked this. The whole posture it forced you into—it was like parading around in a sex position while you walked!
I strolled to the mirror. Couldn’t help but feel like I was presenting my body to the world. Here I am! Up here on my pedestal! Glorious me . . . most definitely not one of the guys.
Before handing over the cash, I made sure I could return them in case they didn’t go with the dress, or in case I decided to return the dress, or in case my normal state of mind returned to me. They said I had thirty days. I figured that was enough.
chapter thirty
“ s tripping is a slow form of torture.” Coco was doing a special workshop for a support group of divorcees. “That’s right, ladies. I’m going to teach you how to torment that very special man in your life!” The women laughed. After all, many of them were here to figure out how to attract men even though they now hated men. “It’s all about revealing yourself, but in a very controlling way, okay? You’re the one who decides what he sees, when he sees it, and for how long he sees it.”
Hmmm. Maybe I’d been performing the longest striptease in history. Well, it was time to throw in the thong, so to speak. I was gonna get over my inhibitions and practice what my mother preached.
The Art of Undressing Page 19