“Make it four million, mon petit bonbon,” Helen joked.
“But you know, it’s really weird. When I look at myself in the mirror every morning and I see Sara Nash, director of admissions, I have to remind myself that I’m now the head of The School. It doesn’t seem real. I still look the same. If I can’t see the difference, how can I expect anyone else to relate to me in this new role?”
“You need a makeover,” Helen answered.
“You mean like they do on those reality television shows?” Sara was aghast.
“Nothing that extreme. But let’s do a little shopping after lunch on Friday and get you a few new outfits. That way, when everyone returns after the break, they’ll see a new you. When was the last time you bought some new clothes?”
“When I started working at The School.”
“And that was . . . ?”
“A long time ago.”
“My point exactly.”
A profound sense of relief washed over Helen when both Michael and Zoe had safely returned home from their trips abroad. Zoe was exhausted and wanted to go straight to bed, giving Helen an excuse to lie down with her for a few minutes, stroke her hair, and inhale her familiar odor as she drifted into a deep sleep. The experience brought tears to her eyes, and she felt incredibly lucky to have her back safe and sound. She then joined Michael in their bedroom and had reunion sex with an intensity that took both of them by surprise. It was exactly what she needed, and he made it fairly obvious that he was appreciative, too.
Lured by the smell of melting butter, Helen wandered into the kitchen the following morning and found Michael at the stove, making omelets with dried herbs he had brought back from Justine Frampton’s garden. Soon Zoe was also awake, and the Dragers spent the morning sharing anecdotes of their adventures and exchanging the small gifts they had bought for one another. When afternoon arrived, Zoe sheepishly announced that she was going out to meet Max at the corner café, and was relieved when Helen, who had fully anticipated this and wondered why it hadn’t happened sooner, told her she was absolutely free to go.
“Let’s invite Max for dinner one of these days, okay?” Helen suggested.
“I don’t know,” Zoe replied shyly. “That might be really awkward. He might feel, you know, like he’s on a job interview or something.”
“But we really want to get to know him. Why don’t we invite him along with a few of your other friends for dinner? Invite Julian,” Helen proposed. “You can always count on him to be a good buffer. And maybe . . .”
“Maybe Marissa. She’s been much nicer this year, and she helped me a lot on my science project. Plus, she knows Max from the chorus.”
“Okay. That sounds good. How about Friday night? I’ll make a brisket.”
“Yummm,” Michael murmured.
“Okay. I’ll invite everyone. Bye, Mom. Bye, Dad. Love ya both.” Zoe blew kisses as she zipped excitedly out the door.
As the short winter day turned to dusk, Michael proposed opening one of the bottles of wine he had brought back from France.
“Happy New Year.” He raised his glass to Helen and smiled. She had forgotten how cute his dimples were.
“It sounds like your trip went well. Justine was bearable?”
“She’s a superficial and shallow human being, but in spite of that, managed to be a dynamite hostess. And I must confess, the place is lovely. It will be a spectacular place to shoot,” Michael replied.
“Will be? That sounds pretty definitive.”
“Perceptive of you to pick up on that subtle distinction,” Michael praised playfully. “That brings me to the most fascinating revelation of the trip.”
“Do tell.”
“Where does Xavier live?” he asked out of the blue.
“Somewhere in Westchester. Chappaqua, I think,” Helen guessed, having no idea where this was leading.
“Right. And how many children do the Peñas have, and of which gender?”
“Three girls, I believe.”
“Right again. Well, guess what. The Peñas are moving to Manhattan in July and are in the process of applying to private schools for the three girls,” Michael revealed slowly.
“And they’ve applied to The Fancy Girls’ School?” Helen gasped.
“It’s their first choice for all three,” Michael answered, and then grinned broadly.
“Well, la-di-da. So all along Xavier has been playing the same game we have. It explains everything. His enthusiasm for the show. The overexpenditure on the pilot. It even explains this trip!” Helen exclaimed. The knowledge that someone else was as conniving as she had been was exhilarating! It freed her from any sense of responsibility or guilt she might feel when the show was axed in February.
“What a perfect ending to a twisted tale. It’s like an O. Henry story,” she said gaily. “Only the final chapter remains to be written. Will Justine accept Zoe? Will she accept all three Peña girls?”
“If I were a betting man, I would put one hundred dollars on each girl to place. Justine wants this show really badly. I think she sees it as her ticket out of The Fancy Girls’ School.”
“Good. Then the story will have a happy ending. There’s no reason everyone shouldn’t get what they want. You’ve worked damn hard for both Zoe and Justine. I see you’ve even put on a few pounds just for the cause,” Helen teased, affectionately patting his stomach.
“It was a huge sacrifice, let me tell you.”
After a sumptuous lunch at one of the venerable midtown Manhattan French restaurants where quenelle still reigned supreme and waiters would never deign to introduce themselves, Helen and Sara set off on their mission.
“Tell me again why we’re going all the way down to Century Twenty-One instead of Bergdorf’s?” Sara asked as they hustled into a taxi.
“Because for what you would spend at Bergdorf’s on one suit, you can get three that are just as nice there. I just have to warn you, it’s going to be a bit more work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Just stick with me.”
“I’ve got lots of jackets and skirts. Maybe I just need you to come over to my apartment and give me a lesson on how to put things together. Maybe all I need are a few accessories—a scarf or two,” Sara hedged.
“Sara, you know I adore you. But in this blazer with these humongous shoulder pads and this midcalf-length, elastic-waist skirt,” she said, plucking critically at Sara’s clothing, “you look like one of those Westminster dog handlers. All you’re missing is a leash and a shih tzu.”
“Eeeww. Is it that bad?”
“Until I saw you in a bathing suit, I never knew what a fabulous figure you have. I say, if you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she instructed. “God knows I do.”
“And look where that’s gotten you,” Sara joked.
“Not funny,” Helen retorted.
Arriving at Century Twenty-One, they were propelled by the crowd through the revolving doors and immediately confronted with sensory overload: neon lights, screeching shoppers, scrunching packages, screaming price checkers, jabbing elbows, squabbling spouses.
“I can’t take this,” Sara said, turning ashen.
“Just remember to breathe. Let’s go,” Helen instructed, linking her arm through Sara’s and leading her up the escalators to the infamous third floor—the preferred hunting ground for the discerning shopper. It was here that the most sought-after designer clothes could be had for bargain prices, but, as when hunting for anything, one had to know how to identify one’s prey in order to make a killing.
No sooner had they stepped off the escalator than Helen snatched a cashmere jacket off a rack.
“What are you doing? I look hideous in green,” Sara proclaimed loudly.
“Lesson one: don’t hesitate. If you see something that has any potential, grab it. You can always put it back.”
“Then put it back.”
“Be open to new colors. It’s celadon; it’s not actually green. And look at the price!” Helen
coaxed, fishing the ticket out from deep within the sleeves of the jacket. “It’s on its third markdown! It’s gone from sixteen hundred to two hundred ninety-nine!”
“That’s still expensive, isn’t it?” Sara was shocked.
“Sara, it’s Armani!” Helen said, pulling more tags out of the folds to confirm the importance of the garment. With Sara following obediently, she scrambled over to the next rack, where a fitted teal knit sweater hung with a pair of matching slacks.
“I think this color would look great on you,” Helen announced, holding the sweater under Sara’s chin.
Overhearing the obviously informed pronouncement, a woman with Sara’s coloring sidled over and snagged the slacks.
“Excuse me. We were about to take those,” Helen said angrily.
“Got them first,” the woman cackled.
“Like they’ll fit you,” Helen said snidely.
“They weren’t my size anyway. I’m hardly a two, either,” Sara said softly.
After what seemed like hours of hunting and gathering, they joined the line for the dressing room, each weighed down with a bundle of garments.
“This is my worst nightmare,” Sara moaned.
“I promise, you’ll be thanking me every morning when you’re getting dressed. Oh, I just thought of something! What are you going to wear to the auction?”
“I don’t know. Probably that gray cocktail dress I wear every year.”
“You absolutely can’t wear that again. Wait here.” Helen threw her pile on top of the one Sara was already struggling to balance. “I think I saw the perfect dress for you over there.” She pointed across the room.
“No, wait . . . I can’t . . . ,” Sara said to no avail.
As the minutes ticked by, Sara became increasingly anxious, unable to spot Helen anywhere. Just as she was about to assume the first position in line, Helen returned, breathless, arms draped with a tangle of sequined gowns.
“I found a few excellent candidates.”
“Oh, no . . . I can’t possibly try all these on.”
“No whining allowed. Come on,” Helen ordered cheerfully as they cleared the security person stationed at the entrance.
“You didn’t prepare me for this,” a modest Sara whispered upon entering the communal dressing room.
“Relax. Nobody is looking at you.” She was right. The mirrored room was crowded with every size, shape, age, and ethnicity of woman, forcing, zipping, hooking, tying, or buttoning themselves in and out of clothing. There was a constant rustle (and occasional embarrassing tear) of fabric, and whispering between friends, but otherwise the dressing room was relatively quiet. Other than the occasional “If you’re not taking that may I try it?” there was virtually no intershopper communication.
So it was surprising when, just as Sara had redressed after trying on the last of the evening gowns, a fellow shopper approached her and asked, “Aren’t you Sara Nash?”
“Yes,” Sara answered, racking her brain to attach a name to the face.
“Tamara Riley,” the woman said, extending her hand for a shake. “Butterscotch’s mother.”
“Oh, right. Nice to see you,” Sara said dismissively.
“Nice to see you,” Tamara replied, and then, leaning towards Sara, whispered conspiratorially, “I wouldn’t buy that jacket if I were you. It’s looking a little shopworn.”
Sara was speechless, so Helen came to her rescue. “Miss Nash has actually owned this jacket for years.”
Tamara blanched. “Terribly sorry. I thought I was being helpful. I never meant—”
Sara interrupted. “Don’t give it another thought.” She and Helen turned and sped out of the dressing room, each with an assortment of clothes over their arms.
The line for the cash register was half the length of that for the dressing rooms, and within half an hour, weighed down with shopping bags, they were out of the store and in a taxi speeding uptown.
“I can’t believe I spent two thousand, five hundred ninety dollars and eighty-seven cents! That’s probably more than I’ve spent on clothes in my entire life.”
“Look at how much great stuff you got. The evening dress alone would have been close to that if you had paid retail. You looked stunning in everything. I would be thrilled if I were you.”
“I am,” Sara confessed. “I can’t thank you enough for doing this.”
“One last thing to complete your new wardrobe,” Helen said, pulling a small package out from under the bundles. Sara excitedly unwrapped the paisley, silk, and cashmere shawl they had both admired early on in the hunt.
“When did you get this?”
“While you were in line for the dressing room. I hope you like it.”
“It’s gorgeous. I adore it. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Sara said effusively, hugging Helen. “For everything.”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me this fall. And congratulations on your new job! You’re going to be phenomenal. I can tell already.”
Sara was never so happy for a school vacation to end. The building was again filled with life, she was reunited with her colleagues, and her temporary stewardship of The School had officially begun. Fortunately, Brandi was now fully trained to handle the hair-raising daily dramas of the admissions department. And the inestimable Margaret, who knew more about the inner workings of The School than Sara would ever have predicted, worked tirelessly by her side.
On the first day of The School’s reopening, Brandi buzzed Sara. “Benjamin Whyte is on line one,” she announced. “I tried to take a message, but he insisted he had to speak with you.”
She had wondered what the Whytes would do when they learned that Pamela was no longer at The School. “Put him through.” In true Brandi style, she had the Whyte file on Sara’s desk within seconds.
“Happy New Year, Miss Nash!” he said brightly.
“And to you, too. How can I help you?”
“When I asked the receptionist for Mrs. Rothschild, I was informed she was no longer working at The School. That was certainly an unforeseen surprise. In light of that, I thought I should touch base with you on the status of our, ahem, situation.”
“Let’s see . . . hmmm . . . I see from your file you’ve submitted an application. But I see it’s incomplete. There are no KAT results and no interview report. Maybe you should check with the testing service and make sure they resend the report immediately,” she said, knowing that Oscar never took the test, but trying to sound as if she were being accommodating. “And do you have a late interview scheduled with us? I don’t see anything in the file that references that. Maybe we slipped,” she continued in this vein.
“Uh, Ms. Nash,” Benjamin proceeded nervously. “I’m afraid our application is rather . . . unusual,” he said haltingly. “You see, I’m an old friend of Mrs. Rothschild, and she said she would take care of everything for us. I thought it seemed rather cheeky, but she said that we shouldn’t bother ourselves with the—is it the KAT?—for little Oscar. And she conducted the interview herself in our home.”
“I see. Your application is rather unconventional,” Sara said, unconsciously mimicking his accent. “But I assume you have applied in a more, uh, conventional manner to other schools, haven’t you?”
“Er, no, actually. She led us to believe it wasn’t necessary.”
“Well, then, you are in quite a jam, aren’t you? Look, Mr. Whyte, I really don’t understand why Ms. Rothschild stuck her neck out so far for you. It’s quite out of character for her and, on top of that, runs counter to The School’s admissions policy. If you would be so kind as to explain to me why she would have done that, I might be able to help you to submit a ‘conventional’ application to The School. But understand, that doesn’t mean we’ll necessary accept Oscar. It just means we’ll consider your application.”
He cooed obsequiously, “You would do that for us? That would be super, so kind of you. Otherwise I don’t know what we would do.” He paused. “Let’s see. Where to start? Mr
s. Rothschild was very, shall we say, uncomfortable with the fact that I knew her at—how shall I put it?—a time in her life when she had a spot of bother.”
Just say it, thought Sara, who had no time for his mincing. “And what time in her life was that?”
“Oh, blast, this is tricky. I’m not usually one to blow the gaff,” he paused, and then asked, “Are you sitting in front of a computer?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could I possibly e-mail you an article that will explain everything? That way I won’t feel like I was the one who told you.”
“If that makes you feel better, okay,” she answered. Although impatient, she was sufficiently intrigued to put up with his flabby logic. “Meanwhile, while I’m waiting for the e-mail, let me tell you what you need to do. As soon as you hang up the phone, you must call the KAT center and arrange for Oscar to be tested. If you’re very lucky they’ll still have a few slots available in the next week or two. You’ll have to pay a little extra to have the test processed overnight and then have the results faxed to me immediately. You must also call back and arrange with my assistant, Brandi, to bring Oscar in for an interview next week. I will tell her to give you an appointment.”
At that moment her computer told her that she had received an e-mail from [email protected]. He remained on the phone, breathing audibly into the receiver, as she read an article that had apparently appeared twenty years ago in The Journal of the National Association of Public School Educators of Great Britain.
Headmaster Harold M. Rothschild and second form teacher Pamela Wickham were dismissed last week from The Manchester School. The two were discovered in a situation that can only be described as compromising, according to Elizabeth Rothschild, wife of the headmaster. Miss Wickham’s employment was summarily terminated, but Mr. Rothschild was permitted to retain his post. However, on March 30, at the close of the school’s fiscal period, it was discovered that Miss Wickham had absconded with school funds of over £80,000, and Mr. Rothschild was implicated as coconspirator.
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