“How are the babies?” I ask, glancing over at the laptop Berni has propped next to her on the couch.
Berni pauses in her knitting to look at the screen and grin. The faces of her two little sleeping angels fill the frame. “I don’t know how people lived without remote video,” she says. “The nanny is with them but I still like to watch every minute. And the babies can watch me, too.”
I look around my living room to see if Berni’s installed a camera so the infants can enjoy a live feed of her knitting. Nope.
“Paste your picture onto the crib?” I ask, thinking I’m making a joke.
“Better. Infant Recognition Video. The babies have a DVD in their nursery that flashes my picture next to the word ‘Mommy.’ ”
Gee, I didn’t know the kids could read yet.
“I used a photo that’s about ten years old and very glamorous,” Berni continues cheerfully. “I want my children to get to know me at my thinnest.”
The good headshot might be a bad idea. If the twins think that thin glamorous woman is “Mommy,” what will they call the nice lady who breast-feeds them every day?
I sit down next to Berni on the couch and take the knitting from her hands, quickly picking up the three stitches she carelessly dropped while her eyes were on the monitor. Berni looks at me in amazement, as if stunned that anyone who’s never been invited to the Oscars knows how to knit.
“I’ve been doing this since I was a kid,” I say, quickly getting back into the rhythm and clacking away.
“You’re good at it,” Berni says, sitting back, happy to watch me work. “You’ll have this finished in no time.”
I’d love some clue about what it is I’m finishing, but it’s a relief to be sitting here mindlessly putting one needle in front of the other. I almost forgot how relaxing this is. Instead of taking a honeymoon in Tahiti, maybe Bradford and I will stay home and knit.
“So are we going to the Hadley Farms’ party this afternoon?” Berni asks. “Priscilla told me it’s a very supportive group.”
“What could they possibly do at a suburban newcomer’s party?” I ask. “Write letters to Martha Stewart? Discuss the pros and cons of Burpee seeds?” I finish a row of knitting, switch hands and begin again. Hmm. I’m not exactly spending the afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum myself.
“Priscilla promised it would be fun,” Berni says. “And I need to get out of my house.”
I think about that one. “You are out of your house,” I say.
“Technicality,” Berni says. “I’m getting a little tired of your four walls, too.”
I guess we could move into the den. Or the library. Or the family room, the study or the media room. Not that I’ve really figured out the differences among them since each one has a couch, bookshelves and a plasma screen TV.
“Then let’s go,” I sigh, putting down the knitting. “At least I’ll get a cookie.”
But a cookie isn’t the first thing that Priscilla, the perfect hostess, offers five minutes after I’ve stepped into the crowd of pink-and-green-clad women who are singlehandedly keeping Lilly Pulitzer in business. There are enough pearl earrings in the room to have depleted the oyster beds of Oyster Bay. And from the welcoming smiles the women generously offer, I’m pretty sure the local pharmacy must be sold out of Crest Whitestrips.
“What can I get you?” asks Priscilla, hurrying over to greet us warmly. “The vodka martinis are at the bar. And the vibrators are on the table.”
That’s an interesting way to break the ice. And apparently it’s working because across the room, the Lilly Pulitzer ladies are giggling and trying the vibrators against their wrists as if they were perfume samples.
“I’m fine with a Diet Coke,” I say nervously, trying to figure out what’s going on.
“Me, too,” says Berni.
“Come on girls, loosen up,” Priscilla says genially. “I can’t wait to show you what we’ve got. Neon vibrators. Underwater vibrators with twelve speeds. And a new one that works by remote control. All here courtesy of the PTA.”
“The PTA is providing vibrators? Progressive school system,” I say. The only thing the Spence PTA provides is brownies for the bake sale.
Priscilla laughs. “Gotcha. Great name, isn’t it? Stands for Playtime Toys for Adults. When we have these parties, we don’t even have to fib to our kids. We just tell them we’re going to a PTA meeting.”
So much for my stereotype of uptight suburban women. I thought I was so cool when I lived in Manhattan, but I couldn’t even get my book group to read William Burroughs’s Naked Lunch. They didn’t want anybody seeing them on the subway holding a book with that title. And forget Henry Miller’s Tropic of Capricorn. They were even more embarrassed that people might think they were into astrology.
“Are we starting soon?” asks a pretty woman coming over to join us. “I’m dying to see the new edible panties. I’m hoping for dulce de leche. My husband’s sick of raspberry.” She adjusts her pink velvet headband and tucks a strand of hair behind her gold earring.
“You’ll love the new crème brûlée,” says Priscilla. “But you’re right, we should start.” She taps a martini glass with a Tiffany butter knife. Amazingly, the genteel tinkle commands everyone’s attention and the women quickly seat themselves around the room. Priscilla strolls over to take her place behind the vibrator table.
“I hope you all had a great summer,” says Priscilla brightly, using the same opening line as the principal at Spence the other morning. “And I hope every one of you has put the lickety-lube vibrating bath loofah from the last PTA meeting to good use.” Definitely a line the principal didn’t use.
Priscilla rubs her hands, getting down to work. “Okay neighbors, let’s start with sharing time,” she says, sounding frighteningly like Mr. Rogers.
One woman stands up from her seat on the chintz sofa. I almost didn’t see her before because her summer sun dress is the same floral print as the upholstery. “Hi, for our new friends I’m Lizzie,” she says, smiling over at Berni and me. “And I’d like to share that the Magic Mood Cream was fabulous.”
That’s nice. I guess we can all learn a thing or two from each other. Maybe when we’re done with this, somebody will tell me the name of a good Hadley Farms dry cleaner.
“If you haven’t tried it,” Lizzie says, looking straight at me, “Magic Mood Cream puts you in the mood for sex. Even if you’re grumpy and you think you’re too tired. Much more efficient than lighting a bunch of candles. For an amazing tingle, all you have to do is apply a quarter of a teaspoon directly to your clitoris.”
Funny, I remember going to parties where “clitoris” wasn’t the first word someone said. Even parties where clitoris never came up at all. And come to think of it, I’ve been in bed with men who as far as I could tell never heard the word “clitoris.” And wouldn’t have a clue about where to find one.
“It worked for me, too,” says the only woman in the room dressed in black. “And I hadn’t been in the mood for about three years.”
The women burst into applause. “Three cheers for Margaret,” one calls out.
“And three orgasms!” cries another.
Margaret blushes and Berni raises her hand. Oh no. I can’t believe she’s actually participating. Maybe she has been in the house too long.
“Right now it’d take more than a quarter of a teaspoon for me to want sex,” she says boldly to the audience of avid advice givers. “I could bathe in the stuff and I wouldn’t be in the mood. How long after babies until you want sex again?”
The women give knowing looks to each other look and exchange giggles.
“About eighteen years,” one offers.
“If you’re lucky,” adds another.
But Priscilla isn’t allowing any negative thoughts to invade her meeting. “You can buy some Wild Whipped Cream right now and your marriage will be better in a week,” she says optimistically.
With the variety of vibrators here, marriage seems like it could go ou
t of style altogether. Why put up with snoring, shared bathrooms, and the marriage penalty tax when you could replace it all with a ten-speed Sweet Satisfaction power tool? For now, though, I’m sticking with Bradford. That model doesn’t look like a very good cuddler.
Like any good Tupperware saleswoman, Priscilla holds up the whipped cream and squirts a bit onto her finger. “Mmmm,” she says, sensuously swirling her tongue over it and batting her eyes. “Deeelicious. Deee-lectable. And definitely worth the twenty-four fifty.”
Okay, maybe yummy. But what could possibly be in her can that’s better than Reddi-wip? Maybe it’s carb-free.
Several more women in the group share their triumphant sex stories and then a few have questions. Priscilla seems briefly stymied when asked whether the cervical tightening cream can also be used for tightening under your eyes.
“You wouldn’t want to waste it,” pipes in the ever-helpful Lizzie. “I’d stick with Preparation H for undereye puffiness. It’s proven.”
“That’s one I’ll add to my shopping list,” Berni whispers to me. “And trust me, I’m not thinking about my eyes.”
Sharing over, Priscilla announces she has a surprise for all of us. “Outside on the deck!” she says buoyantly, pointing us toward the large outside area overlooking her sumptuous gardens. “Grab your favorite color!”
The women head to the flagstone deck without hesitation, and following behind, I realize I’m getting into the spirit. I’m a little disappointed when the only props I see waiting for us are long silk scarves. Even from far away, I can see they’re not Missoni, so I wonder why any of the women in this group would be interested.
“What do we do with these?” I ask, vying with Lizzie for the pale purple one.
“Sexercise!” says Priscilla cheerily, holding her own scarf behind her hips and tightening the ends between her outstretched arms. “Swing those beautiful butts, PTA newcomers! Get that pelvis moving!”
Unembarrassed, the women begin swaying against their brightly colored scarves, following Priscilla’s lead and simulating the moves they’ll use—she hopes—for an erotic night in bed. Nice. Forty women learning how to fake an orgasm. Though most of them probably knew how to do that on their own.
Down on the lawn, I see the gardener glance up at the action on the deck. But apparently women wiggling in demure Lilly Pulitzer shifts is about as exciting as crabgrass. Without so much as a second glance, he goes back to trimming the hedges. Maybe we should offer him some mood cream.
“Close your eyes, ladies,” commands Priscilla. “Swivel those hips and imagine you and your husband having sex.”
“I can’t remember,” says Berni. She stops gyrating completely and drapes the scarf around her shoulders. Behind me, two women also take Priscilla’s directive to heart and stage a little re-enactment of a wild night in bed.
“The Dow dropped fifty-eight points today,” says one, dropping her voice to imitate her husband.
“But thank god the NASDAQ rallied,” says the other, breaking into giggles.
I don’t have to imagine a thing. I just start to remember how good it feels when Bradford’s body is close to mine and we dissolve into each other. No lickety-lube loofah in the world could be more gratifying than that. But when the exercises are over and we all troop in to make our purchases, I plunk down my twenty bucks for the crème brûlée panties. Good deal. I won’t have to make dessert tonight.
Chapter EIGHT
SO THIS IS what it feels like to be famous. Or semi-famous. Or at least making a single appearance on a cable channel. When I walk into the cavernous Chelsea Market, home of the Food Network TV studio, I have my very own entourage. Kirk, Kate and Berni are all with me to lend me moral support—and to help carry the M&Ms.
I don’t know how long they usually keep Emeril waiting, but nobody comes out to greet us for twenty minutes. When someone does come, it’s an AA—assistant’s assistant—a perky pony-tailed blonde in blue jeans who’s barely older than Skylar.
“I’m Kerri, and let’s see, you must be Sara,” she says, glancing past me and making a beeline for Kate, whom she clearly judged Most Likely To Appear on TV. “You’re much prettier than your picture.”
“The picture wasn’t of me,” Kate starts to explain.
“You sent someone else’s picture?” the AA asks, baffled.
“Sara sent the picture, and Sara’s right here,” Kirk says, putting his arm around me and bringing me center stage. “Meet your star. Sara.”
The young girl swings around, and seeing Kirk in front of her, lets out a little squeal. “Oh my god! You’re Dr. Lance Lovett!” she exclaims, looking starry-eyed at Kirk and identifying him, as most fans do, by his TV persona. “I love you! You’re the heart surgeon with a heart!”
Kate, who never watches daytime TV, looks quizzically at Kirk.
“My soap role,” he explains sotto voce to Kate. “I wanted to be the brain surgeon with a brain, but that role was written for a woman.”
I giggle, but quickly cover my mouth so Kerri won’t think we’re making fun of her.
“Let’s get into the studio,” Berni says, glancing at her watch and assuming her natural role as field marshal.
Kirk, Kate and Berni pick up the shopping bags stuffed with my brand new bowls from Williams-Sonoma and my mixing spoons from Gourmet Garage. At first I bought the bowls at Broadway Panhandler and the spoons at Macy’s Cellar, but then I returned everything and started again. The curse of living in New York. So many choices, it’s hard to settle for what you have. You’re sure that somewhere out there is a better spoon, a better gym, a better job, a better house, a better spouse. Or at least a different one. If you live in a place where there’s only one housewares store, does that also keep the divorce rate down?
The bright-eyed Kerri, who’s now had dealings with everyone in the room but me, does what Berni suggests and heads us toward the studio. We push through a set of heavy double doors that say warning: closed set and into the gleaming studio—stocked with enough mixing bowls, measuring cups, gizmos, gadgets, plates, pots, pans and provisions to outfit the Queen Mary 2 on a six-week voyage.
“Why did I have to bring my own stuff?” I ask Kerri.
“Because you’re not on the list,” she says enigmatically.
“But you’ll get on the list,” Berni promises energetically.
“You bet she will,” says Kirk enthusiastically.
“Soon!” Kate chimes in encouragingly.
I have no idea what list anybody’s talking about, but I’m suddenly dying to be on it. And secretly thrilled that I have an energetic, enthusiastic and encouraging entourage.
I move over to the granite counter, and an attractive young man in frameless glasses strides over. He looks about six months older than Kerri. Another assistant’s assistant, or is he an actual assistant? Probably an actual one—or maybe even better—because Berni rushes over and gives him a Hollywood hug.
“Darling, fabulous to see you. Fabulous to be here. Fabulous studio,” she gushes. It’s been a while since I’ve heard her use the f-word three times in a row. Her first full day away from the twins, and she’s sounding like an agent again.
Now Kerri decides to step in and make her introductions. “This is Sara,” she says efficiently to the man in glasses, barely glancing at me. And then, her voice dropping and her eyes batting, she coos, “And this is the famous Dr. Lance Lovett. I watch his soap every afternoon.”
The young man looks pleased to have a real star in the mix and quickly walks over and shakes Kirk’s hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Lance. I’m Ken Chablis, president of the Food Network.”
He is? No wonder I didn’t notice him at Olivia’s party. The guy’s so young that if I had seen him, I probably would have thought he was somebody’s son. And I guess he is. I just didn’t realize we’d end up working for our children so soon.
“You have a great network here,” Kirk says. “Sometimes I stay home just to watch. I loved your ser
ies on choosing melons.”
“Thanks,” Ken says modestly, adjusting his glasses. “I heard from a lot of grateful viewers. We’re planning a sequel.”
“On what?” Kirk asks, trying to imagine what could top cantaloupes.
“Thin-skinned fruits.”
No one in the room says a word about thin-skinned fruits. But the phrase does hang in the air for a moment.
Ken throws a casual arm around Kirk and looks over at Berni.
“I’ve got to hand it to you,” he says to her exuberantly. “This is why you’re my favorite agent. Another brilliant idea. Bringing me a soap star to put on the show with Sara. I smell a real winner.”
Actually it’s the Tobler Bittersweet chocolate melting on the double burner that smells so good. But am I really going to have a costar? Berni takes a moment to realize why Ken Chablis thinks she’s so brilliant. Then she winks at Kirk. She’s clearly surprised that she has two clients hosting, not one, but she’s not letting on.
“You’re right, Ken. Sara and Kirk make a great team. But before we start shooting, you should know Kirk doesn’t come cheap.”
“Sure, no problem. We’ll work out the details later,” Ken says, waving his hand dismissively. “Whatever he costs, he’s worth it. Star power.”
Okay, I’m not a star. But who knew I had this little power? I’m thinking of walking off the set but I’m worried nobody would notice—not even Berni. And the truth is, I’m glad to have Kirk by my side when we start rolling. A few days ago, he tried to give me a few TV tips—explaining that I should just talk to the camera as if it’s a friend. But my idea of a friend is something more animated than a hulking black box with a blinking red light.
Kirk casually strides over to join me behind the studio kitchen counter. He undoes one more button on his pale denim shirt, slicks back his hair and points his index finger at the cameraman, cowboy style. “Shoot anytime, pardner,” he says. “I’m ready.”
Just like that? How could he be ready? I’ve spent four days practicing how to stir batter and say “Now add the egg whites” at the same time. I kept looking into the mirror, repeating “Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate,” and wondering why nobody ever told me before that my mouth makes a funny shape when I say that word. Then there was the problem of what to wear. Yellow pantsuit? Too Hillary Clinton. A red jacket? I’d look like I work for Avis. Black or white? Not on color TV. I settled on blue, but everything this season is pink, so it took hours in Bendel’s, Bloomingdale’s and Bergdorf’s to track down a cerulean blue V-neck top that wasn’t too V. After that came the sleepless nights trying to recreate the recipe so my Chocolate Surprise wouldn’t be a Chocolate Shock. And I still haven’t mastered pouring milk without splashing. This whole TV thing is harder than it looks.
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