“What can we do about it?” Brandi questioned, ever the dutiful assistant.
“Absolutely nothing. I can’t call Tally and tell her it’s a no go. It’s too late for that. But I will call Lydia Waxman and see what she knows about this. Could you get me her number, please?” Sara asked, having calmed herself a bit. Lydia took Sara’s call immediately.
“I take it you’re calling because you’ve seen the December issue of Tally Ho?” Lydia began. “Tally is so thrilled that Montana will be coming to The School that she couldn’t contain herself. I hope it’s not a problem.”
“It is a problem, Lydia. A huge problem,” Sara declared angrily, disgusted by Lydia’s sycophantic willingness to overlook Tally’s egregious behavior solely on the basis of her celebrity status. “What I want to know is how Tally’s acceptance was communicated. I can only assume it came from Pamela. Did you get those two together?” she demanded.
“Well, I guess you could say so. I called Pamela after you rejected Tally’s generous offer to help with The School’s Thanksgiving activities. I felt you were, how shall I put it . . . slightly out of your league, and that it was my duty to my client to make Pamela aware of the offer. During that conversation Pamela gave me the good news on Montana’s acceptance.”
“I consider that a serious breach of our relationship, Lydia. You should know by now that (a) I’ve never been a celebrity chaser, and (b) I find that kind of backroom dealing highly offensive. So you can tell any of your so-called clients that from now on, if they’re interested in applying to The School, they are better off doing so on their own.” And she slammed the phone down.
Brandi waited until Sara had caught her breath and stopped pacing before she announced that Lisa Fontaine was on line two. She knew that Sara had to take this call.
“Sara, the board would like to meet with you on Monday evening. Could you make it at seven?” Lisa proposed curtly.
“Of course,” Sara answered automatically, even though Monday was the night her meditation group met. She hesitated a moment and then continued, “Uh, could I ask what the meeting is about?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you in advance,” Lisa replied guardedly.
Sara’s first assumption was that the meeting was related to the Tally Ho article, and she could well imagine the board blaming her. But, if that were the case, Lisa would most likely have discussed it on the phone, since it hardly warranted the attention of the full board. Then she realized it was more likely related to the recent activity in the business office. She had become friendly with one of the accountants, expecting that he would eventually reveal the purpose of the investigation. But he proved to be tight-lipped, and all she could glean from a few of his remarks was that there was an unexplained deficit on the balance sheet. That was hardly a surprise given Pamela’s profligate attitude towards spending. If Sara were so inclined, she could certainly drop some hints to the accountants about where they might look for missing funds, but decided against doing so on the grounds that her participation in Pamela’s downfall was bad karma.
“You’re not yourself tonight. Is anything wrong?” Helen asked Michael, who had arrived home from work that evening in an odd mood.
“No. Nothing’s wrong.”
“What was your day like?”
“The usual.”
“Michael!” Helen said with annoyance. “You’re acting like Zoe on a bad day. What is it? Negative ratings on Epicurean MD?”
“No, actually, that’s one show that’s doing well.”
She let it go until after dinner, when Zoe was in her room doing homework and they were cleaning up the kitchen.
“Sorry if I seemed distracted,” he began. “I just didn’t want to discuss it in front of Zoe. It’s sort of a good news/bad news situation. The good news is, La Cuisine de Justine is alive and well. Justine is going to France for the winter break and suggested that we join her to scout the locations. The bad news is that ‘we’ has turned into Xavier and me. Suddenly he’s all over the project and wants to be involved in every step.”
“That’s not so bad. I like his wife. The four of us would have a good time.”
“The other part of the bad news is that the wives are not invited. He thinks the two of us should go alone.”
“What! That’s ridiculous. What kind of grinch takes a trip to Provence during the Christmas holidays without their family?”
“Xavier. And I’m stuck going with him.”
“Oh, poor you,” she said angrily. “So while Zoe’s in Cuba and you’re in France, the little wife stays home alone? That really sucks, Michael, and you know it.”
“You’re absolutely right. You have every reason to be angry,” he said in complete agreement, as though that would help to placate her. Instead it infuriated her.
“Easy for you to say! You’ll be feasting on coq au vin and boûche de noël in Cap Ferrat while I’m forcing down overcooked flanken at your parents’ retirement home in Piscataway. I hope you gain ten pounds!”
“Helen, this is a business trip. Presumably we’ll be working.”
“Real hard, I’m sure,” she said bitterly. “How come Justine isn’t spending the winter break in New York finishing up the last of the admissions business? I know Sara’s going to be.”
“Maybe she’s already finished.”
“Well, if that’s the case, all I can say is, if Zoe hasn’t made the cut, Frampton is dead meat.”
“She has to accept Zoe since we’ve given her exactly what she wanted. There is a certain social contract she is obligated to honor.”
“Whose rules are those?” Helen questioned.
“The rules of the favor bank.”
“I’ve got news for you. The favor bank isn’t insured,” she sneered.
“Helen, I think you’re forgetting how we got into this mess in the first place. You can’t blame me for having to go on this trip.”
“Who else am I going to blame, if not you?”
“Blame Xavier or, if it makes you more comfortable, blame Justine.”
“Is there some way I can justify blaming Pamela? I would actually get pleasure out of doing that.”
“Sure, blame Pamela. Good idea. If she were doing her job, we wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation to begin with.”
“Okay. It’s her fault,” she said, and stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry. You’ve been such a great sport about this whole thing. I do love you for that.” She gave him an affectionate hug.
“Look. Don’t feel obligated to see my parents during the holidays. Zoe will be away. Why don’t you go to a spa. That Pilates place you’ve been reading about. Let me treat you to that,” he offered kindly.
“Thank you. That’s sweet. I’ll think about it,” she whispered forgivingly. “Let’s go to bed.”
As they were undressing, he asked, “So what are our weekend plans?”
“Zoe and I have a date to go to the museum tomorrow to see the new photography exhibition. Why don’t you join us?”
“I’ll pass. The Knicks are playing the Bulls.”
“Say no more.”
“And what about the evening? Do we have plans?” he asked.
“Zoe is going to a party at Catherine Cashin’s, and we have a long-standing dinner date at the Doyle-Gillises’.”
“What dinner?”
“I’m sure I told you about it weeks ago. Denise is having us to dinner with the Topplers to do some brainstorming about the auction. She’s hoping to get John to come up with some big-ticket items for the sale. It’ll be interesting to see her in action. You know how tenacious she can be.”
“That I do. She’s been calling me every week about getting the network to put together a day with a chef or a guest appearance on one of our shows. I told her I would see what I can do, but it’s the last thing I need right now,” Michael complained.
“She won’t let you off the hook until you do. You’re better off doing it sooner than later and saving yourself the aggravatio
n of getting a call from her every week. Put Charlotte on it.”
“Good idea,” he replied. “What’s Denise’s husband’s name again?”
“Richard.”
“He’s a passive fellow, isn’t he?”
“He lets her run the show.”
“Do you think people say that about us?”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she teased, and climbed on top of him.
Helen interpreted Zoe’s enthusiasm about their outing to the museum as a sign of maturity. It wasn’t long ago that getting her daughter to agree to a museum visit required bribery, usually in the form of a purchase at the museum shop, where they would spend what felt like hours debating between the hieroglyphic rubber stamp set and the make-your-own-Moroccan-jewelry kit, either of which would ultimately provide about twenty minutes of entertainment before being relegated to the top shelf of the hall closet.
After leisurely meandering through the great hall, they arrived at the exhibition—a blockbuster retrospective of one of the more popular portrait photographers of the twentieth century—where they took their time, pausing in front of each portrait to discuss the subject and the esthetic merits of each composition.
“She looks so sad,” Zoe said thoughtfully in front of a portrait of Marilyn Monroe. “What a hopeless romantic.”
“That’s such an intelligent observation. I would never have thought to describe her that way, but I think you’re right. She was a romantic,” Helen agreed encouragingly.
“I feel like I have a whole new appreciation for photography now, Mom,” Zoe answered.
“Really? Why’s that,” Helen asked.
“Because now that I’m older, I have so much more experience with people. You know, I think I’ve even learned a little about the opposite sex,” Zoe replied earnestly.
Helen was touched. “I assume you’re referring to Max?”
“Uh-huh,” she answered dreamily.
They continued down the row of photographs.
“Doesn’t this look sort of like Daddy?” Zoe said, pointing to a portrait of the young Marlon Brando.
I wish, thought Helen, but realized that it was important to give Zoe positive reinforcement, and if Zoe thought her dad looked like Stanley Kowalski, more power to her. “A little,” she conceded. “I beg of you, just don’t say that portrait of Dame Edith Sitwell reminds you of me.” She pointed to the photograph of the patrician, hawk-billed poetess.
“She sort of does,” Zoe giggled.
Helen moaned.
“Just kidding, Mom. But you have to admit, this guy looks a lot like Max,” Zoe said, pointing to a portrait of Montgomery Clift.
“Hmmm, you may be right. I’ve only met Max once, so I don’t have a strong mental image of him yet. But I hope I will get to spend some time with him soon.”
“Mom. Can I tell you something?”
“Of course. You can tell me anything.”
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“I can’t promise that, but I promise I will listen to your point of view first.”
“Okay. I don’t think I want to go to Cuba, ’cause I don’t want to be away from Max for two weeks.” Zoe spoke quickly and then waited anxiously for her mother’s reaction.
“Zoe, that’s crazy!” Helen responded emphatically. “Think about it this way: if your relationship has any future whatsoever, then what will two weeks apart matter? And if Max cares about you as much as I think he does, then he would never want you to give up such a great opportunity. He’ll be here for you when you get back, and if he’s not, then that proves he wasn’t worthy of you in the first place. Don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” Zoe replied tentatively, not sounding one hundred percent convinced.
“And if you’re looking for more concrete reasons as to why you have to go, I can give you two. One, it’s already paid for and it’s probably too late to get a refund. And two, you need the community service credits in order to graduate from eighth grade,” Helen said didactically, and took a step backwards, almost falling over the stroller that had stealthily crept up behind her.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she regained her balance. The formidable two-seater held a boy and a girl who, to her, looked far too old to be strapped into a stroller. Pushing the behemoth load was Donald Roman. Josh Kirov was standing a few feet away, struggling to get a glimpse of James Dean through the crowds.
“Oh, Donald! These must be your twins!” Helen greeted her colleague.
“Alexi and Anna, say hello to Mrs. Drager,” Donald commanded with the authority of a wet noodle.
Predictably, given the presence of a pacifier in both children’s mouths, she received no reply. The poor twins were additionally constrained by their suffocating and impractical (dry cleaning required) blue (his) and pink (her) snowsuits and an overabundance of color- coordinated hats, scarves, mittens on strings, and embroidered suede snow boots.
The sight of their flushed cheeks and sweaty brows produced a sympathetic hot flash in Helen and an unconscious impulse on Zoe’s part to squat down and help the struggling Alexi to loosen his scarf.
“It looks like someone might be a member of the babysitters’ club,” Josh giggled as he planted two air kisses on the void between Helen’s shoulders and ears. “This must be your daughter. What’s your name?” he asked Zoe so patronizingly that he might as well have ended the sentence with “little girl?”
“Zoe, meet Josh Kirov and Donald Roman. They’re the two dealers who own the Gallery Nouveau Russe on Madison Avenue. I’m sure you’ve been there with me,” Helen made the introduction.
“And how is your client Mr. Cashin?” Josh asked with a nod-nod-wink-wink.
Zoe shot a glance in her mother’s direction.
“I told you, Josh, he’s not my client. And you well know, I’m not in the art advisory business,” Helen responded curtly.
“Well, he certainly seemed interested in your advice.” Donald jumped in and tried to lighten the tone.
“Cash in, cash out,” Josh quipped.
“Ka-ching,” Donald added, imitating the sound of a cash register.
Helen was momentarily flustered and then furious. She was adamantly opposed to discussing Phillip (although curious to know which glass piece he did end up buying) in front of Zoe, who at this point was visibly perturbed. She quickly changed tack and asked them about the only thing that she knew interested them more than gossip.
“How are you two progressing with the admissions process?” she asked with studious concern. As she expected, the floodgates opened.
Jabbering in concert, Donald and Josh took turns plowing their wide load through the museum corridors, unwittingly forcing everyone in their path to jump out of the way.
“We can’t decide if we should hold out for one school that will take both, or send them to different schools.”
“In which case, the question arises, should they each go to a single-sex school?”
“They say girls benefit more from single-sex schools than boys.”
“Only some of the studies support that. I’ve read the opposite point of view as well.”
“Donald likes a more nontraditional approach than I do.”
“No, I don’t!”
“You said you liked The Progressive School.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“You said you felt comfortable there.”
“I was comfortable, but I didn’t think our children would necessarily do well there.”
“So sue me. I stand corrected.”
“The School will probably take one but not both.”
“Well, we hope so, anyway. Have you heard anything from Sara Nash about our chances?”
Fortunately, Helen wasn’t given a chance to answer.
“It’s considered the best place in the city for the elementary years, but then we have to worry about high school the entire time we’re there. That would kill me.”
“We should be so lucky.”
; “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just joshing, Joshie.”
“Oy. Helen, this is what I put up with every day.”
And on and on. Finding the Donald-and-Josh performance hilarious, Zoe had enough social grace to stifle her laughter, while Helen just longed to escape. Finally, they arrived at the museum exit, and as they were saying their goodbyes, Helen, unable to restrain herself, blurted, “If you want some motherly advice, lose the stroller. Your children could use a little freedom.”
The two men looked stunned. It had never occurred to them to venture into the world with their children free to move about. It seemed so risky, so dangerous, so inconvenient.
“Joshie, Helen’s right. Let’s go right now and buy a couple of those leashes they make for children.”
“Hopeless,” thought Helen as Zoe elbowed her in the side.
As soon as they were alone, Zoe had Helen in stitches with a dead-on impersonation of the two high-strung fathers, including a nearly verbatim playback of their dialogue. Suddenly, remembering the part about Phillip, she became solemn.
“What was that about Catherine’s dad?” Zoe asked.
“Sometime last month, Phillip had asked me to go to Donald and Josh’s gallery with him. He wanted my advice on a purchase. That’s all.”
“I didn’t know you did that. Does Daddy?”
“I don’t report to Daddy on everything that I do,” she said sharply, and then immediately regretted sounding so defensive. “I mean, I just made a quick trip over to the gallery with him the day you and I had lunch at the Cashins’. Remember that day? The whole thing was so insignificant that it never even occurred to me to tell Daddy about it. It was nothing.”
“Josh and Donald made it sound like it was more than that.”
“That’s because to them it was. Phillip Cashin is an important collector, so for them it’s a big deal when he comes to their gallery and buys something.”
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