by Karen Quinn
“Then try the Dolce and Gabbana suit,” Ava suggested.
“Now this I like,” Christy said, unzipping the skirt, a fitted, retro-looking tweed with a row of leopard silk ruffles peeking out from the hem.
“I have the perfect brooch you can wear with that,” Katherine said. “It’s a Cartier piece from the fifties, a sculptured ivory rose with diamonds. My mother gave it to me before she died.”
“You’d lend that to me?”
“Of course I would. You’re my best friend. This is a huge occasion. I can’t believe you’re getting a Matrix.”
“What exactly is a Matrix Award?” Ava asked. “I know they’re prestigious. I just don’t know why.”
“They’re for women who make outstanding achievements in communications,” Christy said, examining the back of her suit in a three-way mirror. “We’re getting one for sponsoring Columbia scholarships for girls going into sports journalism. It’s the community service award,” Christy said.
“Did you tell them we’re both involved in that?” Katherine asked.
“Of course. But they could only take one person, so they went with the CEO. Sorry.” She gave Katherine a sympathetic smile. She really did wish she could share this.
“That’s okay. I’m happy for you. My day’ll come. You’re in good company this year. Did you see who else was getting an award? Diane Sawyer, Bernadette Peters, Galit Portal.”
“I have to try to bond with Galit. Maybe she’ll write more flattering articles about me if we’re honorees together. What do you think?” Christy asked, modeling her suit. “Very hip, right?”
“It looks sexy but serious at the same time. I love it. Let’s get a man’s opinion,” Katherine said, dragging Christy out of the dressing room to find Skip Heller. He had followed them into the dressing room, but Christy shooed him away. Maybe it was that he wore Nikes, maybe it was that he was pushy, maybe it was that he was a reporter, but something about him made Christy very uncomfortable. She was elated that this was his last week. Skip Heller was living up to his name—he was like the houseguest from hell.
Much Ado About Nuts
So you see, gentlemen, even though the industry is in an overall downturn, eighteen-to twenty-five-year-old women are buying six percent more this year than last. Our market is eighty-three-percent women, and of that, more than half are in the eighteen-to twenty-five segment. It’s our biggest audience. That’s why our profits are going up while most retailers are losing ground,” Christy explained.
Christy was having lunch at the Four Seasons with Jeremy Moran, Dan Patterson, and Calvin Wolff, three of Wall Street’s most influential retail analysts. Of course, Skip “Pretend I’m Not Here” Heller was there as well, the fly on the wall.
“What can I bring you?” the waiter asked.
“We’ve been so busy talking, we haven’t looked at our menus,” Christy said. “You’ll have to give us a few minutes.”
“No rush.”
“Could you bring me a glass of red wine? Whatever’s your best wine by the glass,” Skip whispered to the waiter.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Why do you think you’re so attractive to that segment?” Jeremy asked. He was with Goldman Sachs and hadn’t been high on Christy’s stock since they went public. She intended to turn him around today.
“With a lot of foresight and lucky breaks, we’ve managed to keep the buzz going for the brand. It started with Sasha, you know, when she first got so big. She was always being photographed wearing our street-inspired sneakers. After she died, they took on a kind of mystical significance. Since then, we’ve had excellent results placing our clothes on some of the most admired women in movies and on TV, and of course, athletes. The brand is considered hip, which is tough to achieve in athletic wear. Excuse me.” Christy’s cell phone was vibrating. In the past she would have turned it off for a business lunch, but now that she had Renata, she had to be reachable. Colby demanded it.
Damn, she thought when the school’s number popped up. “Hello,” she stage-whispered.
“Mrs. Drummond, this is Mrs. Smart, Renata’s teacher.” Christy thought it was weird that Renata’s teacher had that name. She wondered if the woman had changed it when she went into the profession or if she went into the profession because she had the perfect name.
“Yes.”
“This morning you sent a peanut butter sandwich for Renata?”
“Did we? Is there a problem?”
“Mrs. Drummond, Colby is a nut-free school. Do you realize how deadly it would be if Renata touched an allergic girl after eating the sandwich? Or worse, what if she’d traded lunches with an allergic child?”
Christy needed to find a private place. She looked at her lunch guests and mouthed “just a minute.” Slipping out to the restroom, she sat on the closed toilet in one of the well-appointed stalls.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smart. Is someone allergic in the class?”
“No.”
“Is someone allergic in the school?”
“Not this year.”
“So why is this a problem?”
“I told you: we’re a nut-free school. It’s our policy never to take chances. Have you ever seen an allergic child go into anaphylactic shock after ingesting even a crumb of a nut?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Their throat swells up until they can’t breathe, their skin turns blue. It’s a horrific way to die. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”
“No, of course not. What can I do?”
“Can you bring a replacement lunch?”
“I can’t right this second—”
“Shall I call Mr. Drummond?”
“NO. I’ll send our nanny immediately,” she whispered, as if she was doing something she’d rather not publicize, like trying to score drugs or Wayne Newton tickets.
“Mrs. Drummond, do you think it’s appropriate to send a nanny instead of a parent? I realize you’re new to motherhood…”
“Okay, fine. I’ll figure something else out,” Christy said, ending the call.
On her way back to the table, she talked to Eric, the maître d’. He understood. Quickly, the kitchen prepared a bagged lunch of chicken salad and a fresh piece of strawberry shortcake, all for a mere $36. It was whisked out to Steven with coded instructions he would understand. After all, he wasn’t a nanny. Problem solved.
“Guys, I’m sorry. Emergency, you understand,” she said, hoping they would assume it was work-related. Then she realized an emergency would send the wrong signal about the business. “Personal. Personal emergency.”
The guys all nodded like they understood, but Christy knew they didn’t. They had buffers between them and personal crises during working hours. She picked up where they had left off. “We save money on marketing since almost all of our promotion is done by billboards or celebrities wearing our products. Both cost less than TV.”
She could do this.
Déjà Vu on Fifth Avenue
So, Steven walked into the class with the chicken salad and strawberry shortcake, and do you know what Mrs. Smart said to him?”
“I have no idea,” Michael said.
“She said, ‘Sir, Colby is a strawberry-free school. Do you know how deadly a strawberry could be to a child who’s allergic?’ Can you believe it?”
“I can’t. Hon, would you pass me some of that fish?”
“Sure.” Christy passed the trout almondine. “Potatoes?”
“No, thanks, but I will have some wine.”
Christy poured him another glass. “So, anyway, guess what he did?”
“What?”
“He went to the Food Emporium and bought Renata a plain piece of vanilla cake without nuts or strawberries from their bakery.”
“Fascinating,” Michael said, suppressing a yawn over a conversation that was feeling oddly familiar.
“Am I boring you?” Christy asked.
“No, not at all. I’m a little tired. Tell me, what kind
of frosting was on the cake from Food Emporium?”
“Just the regular vanilla kind they make with powdered sugar and shortening. Steven said it looked like something a kid would like.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael said, half listening.
“And Mrs. Smart went ballistic over the fact that a driver was sent instead of a parent.”
“Why would she even care who delivered the food?”
“I think she’s made it her personal mission to teach me how to be a good mother. But I wasn’t going to blow my chance to get our stock price up. Anyway, she bawled Steven out right in the classroom. He said all the kids were cracking up. Don’t teachers understand that mothers have more important things to do than to bring replacement lunches to school?” Christy said.
“Beegee, I think at that school, the mothers don’t have more important things to do,” Michael said, appearing surprised by his wife’s naïveté. “Anything for dessert?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I have a wonderful piece of strawberry shortcake from the Four Seasons. You’re not allergic, are you?”
Michael wheezed, grabbed his throat, and pretended he couldn’t breathe. “No, not strawberries, but were those nuts on the trout? I’m allergic to nuts.” He fell to the floor, took a few last breaths, and then pretended to die with his tongue hanging out.
“Cut it out. You’re making fun of me now. You’re gonna regret it.” She jumped on his chest and tickled him until he yelled “UNCLE!”
Christy rang the bell, signaling to Yok Wah that she should clear the table. This was a tradition the cook insisted on even though Christy and Michael found it pretentious. Once Christy had tried to carry a few dishes into the kitchen herself, but Yok Wah practically tackled her with her whole four-foot-ten-inch, eighty-three-pound bulk, swearing in Chinese. After that, they both learned their place.
“So, tell me, what else is going on with the rest of your life? There still is a rest of your life, isn’t there?”
“Well, I’m gonna meet with Brownie on Thursday so she can brief me on the graduation.”
“Did you hear that Hicham El-Guerrouj won the fifteen hundred and the five thousand meters at the New Balance meet this weekend?” Michael’s voice sounded almost angry.
Christy looked at him, wondering where this was coming from.
Renatus Interruptus
Look, Chapman, it’s bad enough that you didn’t uncover the loans they failed to book, but to pay them off by borrowing against mortgaged assets, that’s so fucked up…” Michael said, his face red, his hair a mess.
“Mr. Drummond, Mr. Drummond, I need you,” a little voice said.
Michael put Andy on hold and turned to Renata, who was, once again, jumping up and down in the library doorway trying to get his attention. “Renata, you’re really not supposed to be in this part of the house, remember? We talked about this.”
“I know, but I need your help,” she said.
“I’m on a very important call. I can’t help you right now. Find Nectar.” He went back to the phone.
Renata stood firm in the doorway, boring her eyes into Michael’s face like a laser beam, willing him to look at her. The child was furious, but trying not to show it. Hadn’t she and Michael formed an unbreakable bond when he saved Mr. Koodles? He was acting like that night never happened.
“Thanks to your sloppy due diligence, we completely overpaid. And repaying their debt by pledging assets we don’t own, what the hell were you thinking? I gotta tell you, Andy…” Michael cupped his hand over the receiver. “Renata, can’t you see I’m on a call?”
“Yes, but Christy and Nectar are out and I need to get on AOL for my science report on weather patterns, but I don’t have an AOL account and if I don’t turn this in tomorrow…”
Michael gestured to the computer that was set up on the library table. “Just use my account. It’s [email protected]. The password’s ‘Christy.’” Michael went back to his call, looking irritated by the interruption.
Renata, who was proficient on the computer, got right on AOL and began looking up current and upcoming weather in cities across the country. As she worked, she’d steal glances at Michael, who was so absorbed in his conversation that she may as well have been invisible. Renata wondered if Michael would ever like her. She wasn’t so bad. Grandma used to say she was “trrrrific.” Why couldn’t Michael see her “trrrificness?” Why? Because he wasn’t looking, that’s why. Renata frowned. Then she coughed. Then she knocked a stapler onto the floor. “Sorry,” she said to Michael, who was oblivious to the noise. Finally, Renata completed her assignment and left the room. Michael didn’t look up.
A Confederacy of Caregivers
On the morning Christy was to receive her Matrix Award, she held a seven A.M. breakfast for Renata’s team of caregivers in the library. It was important to stay current on the child’s progress. The following individuals were present: Nectar Freedom, nanny; Dr. Ruth Perlmutter, psychiatrist; Eve Hamilton, assistant; Junior Fritz, Renata’s new driver; Yok Wah Lim, family cook; Cynthia Rodriguez, maid; Leo Morgenstern, tutor. Renata Ruiz lay silently in the closet with her ear pressed against a glass pressed against the bottom of the door. Eve led the meeting, since she was responsible for overseeing the girl’s care. She stood up to make an announcement. “Would anyone like some more coffee before we start?”
Dr. Perlmutter scribbled something in her diary. Putting her pen down, she said, “I’d like a cup. But I can get it myself.”
“Oh, would you pour me one?” Cynthia asked.
“My pleasure.”
Eve called the meeting to order. “Let’s go around the table. Each of you can give an update on how you think Renata is doing vis-à-vis your area of responsibility. Leo, how’s the tutoring?”
“Well, as you know, we’re trying to catch her up academically with her new classmates, and I’m happy to say that she’s made great progress. We’re working mostly on math because that’s where she’s behind. Right now, we’re reviewing long division.”
“Eve, what did her teacher say at the parent conference?” Christy asked.
“She’s doing well, considering she’s only had a public school education. I’ve written a full report on the meeting. It’s on your desk. There was one problem, though.”
“What?”
“Next time, either you or Michael must attend. Mrs. Smart said she wouldn’t do any more parent-teacher conferences without a parent present.”
“Even though I sent written permission?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’re adamant about having an actual parent there.”
“Hmmm. I guess I can understand that,” Christy mused. She had hoped to spend all her Renata-designated time doing things with the child herself. But she could see that more would be required. That’s okay, she thought. I’ll just sleep less.
“Cynthia, do you have an update?” Eve asked.
“I’ve been cleaning her room and bathroom. At first, she left everything perfect, the way Maria taught her. I told her if she kept that up, I’d be out of a job. Now, I’m making her bed and picking up her clothes. She’s leaving the sink dirty for me, too.”
“That’s wonderful,” Eve said.
“Wait,” Christy said, “shouldn’t we expect her to clean up after herself? She doesn’t have to iron her uniforms or vacuum, but making her bed and picking up clothes—she should do that herself.”
“If you insist,” Cynthia said, stiffening. “But most girls who live in this neighborhood have help for that sort of thing.”
“That may be true, but I’m not comfortable with it, and I know Maria wouldn’t be. Eve, would you let Renata know that we expect her to take on those chores?”
“Of course. It’s perfectly ridiculous for children not to help around the house,” Eve snipped. “Dr. Perlmutter? Your update?”
“Well, as you know, anything Renata tells me is confidential. I just want to say that, in general, she’s adjusting to the many changes in her life as on
e would expect. She’s grieving the loss of her grandmother, of course. I think it would be therapeutic to let her visit the cemetery. She hasn’t been there since the funeral.”
“Good idea,” Christy said. “Junior, would you drive her there after school today?” Sorry, Maria, she thought. I’ll make sure she visits you regularly.
“My pleasure, Mrs. Drummond,” Junior said.
“Also, she seems to have forged a relationship with Mrs. De Mille, the ninety-five-year-old woman who lives below you. My sense is that she sees her as some kind of replacement grandmother figure.”
“Transference,” Junior observed. “It’s to be expected.”
“Yes, well…it’s a bit more complicated than a layman can understand,” Dr. Perlmutter said.
“Excuse me. Mr. Fritz studied psychology at the Learning Annex,” Eve said, in defense of Junior.
Dr. Perlmutter continued as if Eve hadn’t spoken. “I’m not sure it’s healthy for Renata to pursue a relationship with such an old woman. I think we may want to limit her time with Mrs. De Mille and increase her sessions with me so we can explore the transference more fully. Did I mention that my fees are going up?”
“What are they going up to?” Eve asked.
“We can discuss the specifics privately,” the doctor said.
“Give me a ballpark,” Eve pressed. “While Christy’s here.”
“Three-fifty an hour.”
“Three-fifty, from two-forty? That’s steep,” Eve said.
“Well, I haven’t raised my rates in years,” Dr. Perlmutter said. “You’ve been paying artificially low prices.”
“Low? I don’t know, Doctor—at those prices, maybe we should work with someone else,” Christy said. She wanted to do right by Renata, but she hated being taken advantage of.
“I’ll give her therapy for two-forty an hour. Heck, I’ll do it for one-forty,” Junior said.