by Jane Heller
As soon as he was out the door, I hurried over to the flowers and plucked the small white card from among their petals.
“Nancy, darling,” it read. “A fragrant thank-you for last night. Dinner was delicious. You were even more so. Kiss kiss.”
The card was signed, “Jacques.”
So she sleeps with a French guy and interviews movie idols, I thought with naked envy.
I tried to keep my tongue in my mouth as I schlepped the roses into the elevator and pressed the Down button, spilling water on the floor in the process and nearly slipping and falling on my butt. When I reached the lobby, I handed the flowers to the doorman.
“They were for the other Nancy Stern,” I told him. “The one in 24A.”
“I’ll buzz her,” he said, looking sorry for me. “She came in a half hour ago.”
“Oh?” It occurred to me that I should run right up to her place and introduce myself. She and I could have a good laugh over having the same name and living in the same apartment building. I could give her her mail and she could give me mine. We could establish a little friendship based on the combined coincidence-nuisance of it all. Yes. “Was she alone when she came in?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Had a gentleman with her.”
Jacques, I thought. Kiss kiss.
I’d better call first, I decided, not wanting to barge in on the lovebirds. And then I remembered that I couldn’t call first, since the other Nancy Stern had an unlisted phone number.
I’ll stop by one of these days, I thought, taking a final, longing glance at the roses. Instead of going back upstairs, I hurried out of the building and, feeling starved in more ways than one, headed for the Chinese take-out place around the corner.
When I returned to my apartment twenty minutes later, loaded down with little white boxes, I discovered not only that the light on my answering machine was blinking but that I had three messages. As I didn’t have an immense circle of friends and had only been gone a short time, I let the food sit on the kitchen counter while I pressed Play with great curiosity.
“Nancy, babe,” said a male voice I didn’t recognize. “You don’t sound like yourself. Anyhow, it’s your old pal, Bo. I know you sent me one of those change-of-address thingies but I couldn’t find it, so I looked you up in the book. How are ya, sweet pea? Got a night free this week? Love to play in the sheets, feel that buff body. Give me a jingle.”
My my, I snickered. The Nancy Stern in 24A is one busy gal.
“Hello, Nancy. It’s Henry,” came another male voice, this one older, more reserved. “I had my secretary track down your new number from Information. I hope that’s all right, dear.” He paused, cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t forgotten what you said about refusing to see me until Helen agreed to the divorce, but I can’t bear to be cut out of your life. I’m afraid I must see you, must be with you. I’ll tell Helen I have a business meeting out of town and then you and I can spend a couple of days together. Just the two of us. Will you consider it, Nancy? Will you please?”
Jesus, I thought. She’s even got one who begs. (I had never been begged by a man, unless you counted the homeless guy who worked the block between Small Blessings and my chiropractor.)
“Oh. Sorry,” came the third and final message, a female voice that was youthful, girlish, with a lilting southern drawl. “I must have reached the wrong Nancy Stern.”
The wrong Nancy Stern. Ouch!
For some reason, the words really stung. Sure, I was in a bit of a rut, personally and professionally, but it had never occurred to me to think of myself in such a negative light. It had never occurred to me that there might be a right Nancy Stern and a wrong one—or that someone would refer to me as the latter.
Oh, snap out of it, I scolded myself. This whole thing is funny. FUN-NY. Lighten up.
I grabbed a couple of pieces of paper, transcribed the messages from Bo and Henry, and added them to the pile containing the other Nancy Stern’s mail.
And then the phone rang. I forced a smile, gave myself a pep talk, reminded myself that I was the right Nancy Stern and that, while I clearly wasn’t as popular as she was, I, too, had people who cared about me.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Is this Nancy Stern? The Nancy Stern who has lived at 137 East Seventy-first for nearly six years?” said a male voice.
“Yes?” I said hopefully, now that I had confirmed that it wasn’t the other Nancy Stern he wanted. My heart raced as I wondered if one of the countless men to whom my mother had given my number was actually calling.
“Good evening, Nancy,” he said. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m fine,” I said, thinking he was awfully polite—a refreshing change from the insensitive brutes Janice had introduced me to. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m contacting you this evening, Nancy, to let you know that MCI is running a special this month. I realize that you’ve been using AT&T as your long distance carrier ever since you moved to this address, but if I could take a moment to—”
I hung up and made myself a martini. So much for the moo goo gai pan.
Chapter Three
In an effort to draw positive attention to Fischer Levin and show him that somebody cared about him, I decided to give him a more prominent role in our Thanksgiving play. I designated him the pilgrim who sings the Thanksgiving song, “Oh, Turkey Tom,” as opposed to the pilgrim who merely expresses gratitude to the Indians for an ear of corn. He greeted the news with his usual bravado, but I could tell he was thrilled. “I’m a great singer,” he said. “I’ll probably grow up to be in Hanson.”
During rehearsal, Fischer was amazingly focused—for Fischer. Every time he sang the song’s chorus—“Go gobble, gobble, gobble all day”—he waved his chubby hands in the air, then took a little bow. The other kids loved his act, and when I suggested that they give him a big round of applause, they did. For the rest of the day, he was a model student, except for a brief shoving match with Zachary Sinclair involving Legos. I was hopeful that he had turned a corner.
As for me, I did not have a good day. While the children were at gym, I was served with two subpoenas—the first from the attorney representing the mother of Hillary Heilbrun, one of the girls in our class, the second from the attorney representing Hillary’s father. I had heard they were divorcing, but I had no idea they were suing each other for custody of their daughter—or that I would be forced to testify in the case as to which of them was the better parent. Like I needed to be put in that position.
When I got home there was more mail for the other Nancy Stern, plus a couple of phone messages for her. Like I needed to be put in that position.
Tomorrow, I thought, as I climbed into bed that night. Tomorrow I’ll pay my namesake a visit and get things straightened out.
I woke up the next morning with a badly swollen right eye. I don’t mean to gross you out, but it was red and oozing and crusty and, because I’d been a preschool teacher for nine years, I recognized the symptoms instantly.
I called Janice, catching her in the middle of her granola. “It’s the dreaded conjunctivitis,” I said. “I guess I’m the latest casualty.” A quarter of the class had already come down with the condition, which is highly contagious and a fact of life if you spend any time around young children.
“I’m surprised I haven’t gotten it yet,” Janice observed between bites of her cereal.
“There’s still time,” I said. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I won’t be at school today. I’ll call Deebo now, so she can get a substitute, and I’ll talk to you later, after I’ve been to the doctor.”
“Okay, Nance. Feel better.”
“Thanks. I will.”
And I expected to. I went to the doctor, who prescribed drops in the infected eye four times a day and advised me to stay home from school until it stopped dripping. No biggie.
But then I returned to the apartment and who did I run smack into but the other Nancy Stern, whose ri
ght eye was not only not dripping but was clear, almond-shaped, and a breathtaking shade of blue, just like her other eye. She was leaving the building the moment I was entering it, and the doorman took the initiative in making the introduction.
“Lovely to meet you,” she said. She extended her hand to me and then, noticing my eye, withdrew it.
“Same here. It sure is a coincidence about two Nancy Sterns living here.”
“Is it? My impression is that the city is full of us. The name is quite commonplace, I fear.”
I fear? What was up with that affected way of speaking? No wonder her callers were confused when they’d heard my voice on the answering machine.
“Are there really that many of us?” I chuckled, trying unsuccessfully not to feel mousy and drab and sickly standing next to this golden goddess who was swathed in pure white—winter white. Wool slacks, cashmere turtleneck, leather gloves, all the color of snow. I, by contrast, was more like slush in my sloppy gray sweats.
She wasn’t beautiful, I decided, her nose and mouth and cheekbones not the stuff of runway models. It was the package that made her so striking—the legginess, the blond mane, the expertly applied makeup, the little ding her dangling earrings made when she moved her head, the sweet scent that floated up into the air from her body—an aura of gardenia or honeysuckle or some other flower that is not indigenous to the island of Manhattan. And, of course, there were the breasts—twin turbos, ripe melons, hooters, knockers, blue vein swellers. I apologize for sounding like an adolescent boy, but they cried out to be described in such terms because they were so large in proportion to her tall, thin frame and were, therefore, comical. Normally, I would have found them even more comical, but on this day I found them depressing too.
It’s your eye, I told myself as she and I continued to make chitchat. You’re self-conscious about it so you feel inferior.
Or maybe it’s the fact that she looks incredibly put together and you look like a bag lady.
As I half listened to Nancy Stern catalog the other Nancy Sterns she’d run across during the course of her wildly exciting life, I tried to imagine how I did appear to her, how I came across.
As I indicated earlier, I am pretty in an informal, utterly non-threatening way. I have glossy brown hair which I wear parted on the side and medium-length; white teeth with a slight overbite; big brown eyes; a straight nose with freckles across the bridge; and a dimple to the right of my mouth. I have a reasonably nice figure but I don’t work at it. I have a reasonably nice complexion but I don’t work at that either. What I also have is a certain you-can-trust-her way about me, a certain demeanor that suggests I wouldn’t do anything crazy, a certain mien that, if thrust in a tough spot, I would be the sensible, responsible one. If I were casting me in Charlie’s Angels I would give me the Kate Jackson part. If I were casting me in Three’s Company I would give me the Joyce DeWitt part. If I were casting me as an anchorwoman on a network news program I would give me the Katie Couric part. In other words, I am The Brunette Who Keeps Her Head.
Or so I thought at the time, although at the time I didn’t pay much attention to which celebrity was on which show. I didn’t have to.
“I have some mail of yours,” I told the other Nancy Stern. “A few phone messages too.”
“I have a piece of mail for you as well,” she said. “Your Kmart bill.” She paused. “Frankly, I had no idea Kmart had charge accounts, but then I’ve never been to one of their stores. I’m a boutique shopper.”
“So I noticed.”
“Excuse me?”
“I read your American Express bill by mistake. I assumed it was mine. Sorry.”
She nodded her forgiveness. “Mix-ups are inevitable in our situation.”
“Right. When would you like to get together and swap mail?”
“Let me think.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “Why don’t you come up to my apartment this evening for a cocktail? Say, seven o’clock? We could make the exchange then.”
“Seven’s fine.” I was dying to get a look at her penthouse and hear all about Jacques and Bo and Henry, not to mention Kevin Costner.
“We’ll have to hurry a bit though,” she cautioned. “I have an engagement at eight, I fear.”
“There’s nothing to fear but fear itself,” I chortled. “See you at seven.”
I was supposed to be under quarantine, I know, but I couldn’t resist Nancy’s invitation, not possible. So I washed my hands a dozen times before leaving the apartment and wore sunglasses to conceal the offending eye and hoped that, since I wouldn’t be staying long, I wouldn’t be passing along unwanted germs.
Clutching her mail and messages in my hand, I rode up to the twenty-fourth floor and got off the elevator. Her apartment was one of four penthouses in the building, the one facing southwest, the one with the best view.
“Nancy. There you are,” she said, ushering me inside the vast space that was more than quadruple the size of my apartment. “Come in.”
I came in. I had expected to find cartons everywhere, since she had only recently moved in, but there were none.
She must have hired someone to unpack for her, I thought. She must hire people to do lots of things for her, judging by her surroundings.
Plush, that’s what her apartment was, ultra plush, full of expensive furniture upholstered in expensive fabrics. I’m no interior decorator, but I know a money-is-no-object budget when I see one. I took a mental inventory so I could give Janice a full report.
“You’re wondering about the photos,” she said as she brought me a glass of white wine. The crystal goblet weighed more than she did.
“Yes,” I said, although I had only just begun to zero in on the framed photographs adorning the canary-yellow walls.
“After I’ve done a profile of someone, up they go,” she said, nodding at eight-by-ten glossies of, among others, Larry King, Robin Williams, the aforementioned Kevin Costner, Donald Trump, Tara Lipinsky, John Grisham, Julia Roberts, Tina Turner, the Reverend Jesse Jackson. If the frames themselves hadn’t been so ornate, I would have felt like I was in the sort of restaurant where they hang pictures of the celebrities who eat there and name sandwiches after them.
“You really do lead a glamorous life,” I remarked, as I gazed at all the famous faces. “You must love your job.”
“I do. It definitely beats spending day after day with a bunch of kids,” she said. “By the way, what do you do, Nancy?”
“I spend day after day with a bunch of kids,” I said. “I teach nursery school.”
Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she couldn’t believe she’d just committed such a social gaffe. But behind the supposed embarrassment, there was a little smirk. I spotted it. This other Nancy Stern had a mischievous streak, I decided. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, affecting remorse. “I had no idea what type of career you—”
“Forget it.”
“No, please. I only said what I said because I’m not a child person, never have been. Whenever I hear women talk about their biological clock—this obsession with being a mother—I simply don’t relate. I’m too selfish to be tied down to a home and a family, I suppose. My satisfaction comes from flying off at a moment’s notice, traveling the world, expanding my horizons, meeting interesting people. The thought of teaching nursery school! Well, thank goodness there are those of you who consider four-year-olds intellectually stimulating.”
“Speaking of interesting people,” I said, so busy being envious of her that I ignored the fact that she had just insulted me. “I took these messages for you yesterday.” I handed her the notes I’d scribbled down about Bo and Henry and the rest, along with the mail I’d collected. She colored slightly as she sorted through everything, then looked up at me.
“It would appear that, while you and I are virtual strangers, we have intimate knowledge of each other’s activities,” she said.
“Not to worry,” I said. “I have no intention of telling anyone anything. Your personal busin
ess is your own.”
“Oh, I do appreciate that, Nancy. I wouldn’t dream of sharing your personal business with anyone either.”
My personal business, I thought. Like what? That I’m a Kmart charge customer?
Just then, her telephone rang. She reached for the cordless phone resting on the end table and picked it up.
“Hello?” she said expectantly. Unlike me, whose calls were mostly for her, she had every confidence that the person on the line actually wanted to speak to her. “Oh. Hi there. Yes. Right,” she was saying cryptically. I had hoped for a juicier conversation on which to eavesdrop. “No, not at the moment. In a few minutes though.” She glanced over at me and smiled. I had the distinct impression that her caller had hoped to catch her alone. “I will,” she went on, nodding. “No. Don’t leave yet. I’ll ring you back. Bye.”
She hung up the phone and checked the time on her watch, a seriously bejeweled number. “My, how the evening is slipping away from me,” she said. “I hate to be rude, but I must dash off to that engagement I mentioned.”
Is she bored with me already? I wondered. Is she feeling edgy about the conjunctivitis? Or is she in a big rush to get rid of me so she can return that call?
“You said your engagement was at eight and it’s only seven-fifteen,” I pointed out, not wanting our meeting to end. I hadn’t even begun to quiz her on the stars she’d met, the romances she’d had, the marriages she’d wrecked (perhaps Henry and Helen were not the only couple on the outs thanks to her).
“Yes, but the limo is coming for me at seven-thirty and I haven’t finished dressing.” She sure looked dressed to me. Black silk suit, black velvet pumps, a divine diamond necklace. “It’s a dinner party all the way downtown, and the driver felt we might need a full half hour to plow through the traffic.”