by Karen Quinn
Christy let out a wail and dissolved into tears, weeping like a mother at the grave of her child. Steven pulled the car over and stopped. He stepped out to give her privacy as she gave in to the grief. She cried until there was nothing left.
Finally, Steven opened the door and offered Christy a bottle of water, a package of M&M’s, and a decongestant he had just purchased at a nearby deli. She thanked him, then pulled a mirror out of her purse and started to repair the damage. Christy looked nothing like the dressed-to-kill corporate warrior who’d left the house that morning. She was red-nosed and disheveled, with black mascara circles under her eyes. Steven handed her the box of wet wipes that he kept in the glove compartment, and Christy took the makeup off her face. She chugged the bottle of Evian.
“Do you want me to take you home now?” Steven asked.
Christy shook her head. “I can’t go home now. What time is it?”
Steven checked his watch. “Two forty-five.”
Christy wasn’t sure what to do. Where do people go in the middle of the afternoon when they don’t have jobs? Shopping. Yes, that has to be it. Christy never had time to shop. “Take me to Prada,” she declared. She saw Steven raise his eyebrows in the rearview mirror as they took off in that direction.
She stared out the window as the car headed back uptown. Soon, they were driving on Park Avenue in the seventies. Women were pushing babies in strollers. In very few cases did their ethnicity match. Stay-at-home nonmoms in running clothes were jogging over to Central Park. Nipped-and-tucked matrons were dressed in luncheon couture for their afternoon of shopping. Dog walkers pulled seven purebred dogs apiece—worth a small fortune. Outside each building, doormen stood guard over their domains, buttressed in their authority by official-looking uniforms, supervising the hip-hop ensemble of delivery boys who handed off food, prescriptions, bags of designer clothes, flowers, bundles of firewood, pets returning from their day spas.
On every corner, children in private-school uniforms were being chaperoned home. Little boys with khaki pants and navy blue blazers. Young girls with light-blue pleated skirts, starched white shirts, and navy sweaters. One girl was showing a drawing to her mother, who bent down with enthusiasm and interest. “On second thought, Steven, take me to Colby. I’ll surprise Renata,” she said.
Mommy Mogul
Christy smiled for the first time that day. This was good. She had never once had the time to pick up her girl. Quickly, she dialed Nectar and told her not to come. She would be meeting Renata.
“Mmm-mmm-mmm, why, that’s wonderful, Christy. I’m so proud of you. Now that’s what I call ‘good mothering.’” Christy collapsed back in the seat as Steven drove to school.
When the car stopped in front of the Colby School, Christy opened the door and stared at the scene before her. She wasn’t sure what came after getting out of the car. Disoriented but trying not to show it, she assessed her surroundings.
It was three o’clock. A small group of brown-skinned nannies in white uniforms gathered to await their charges. The young French and Swedish au pairs, whose like journeyed to New York every year to improve their English and see the world, stood in another group awaiting the children in their care. By far the biggest crowd was the size-two stay-at-home Mommies (size zero if they were European), ready to greet their daughters as they emerged from the mansion they called school. The Mommies all wore different versions of the same outfit—expensive khaki pants, Chanel ballet slippers, French striped T-shirts, white cardigans, and modest pearls. Christy realized instantly that her outfit was outside the dress code.
The uniformed darlings flooded out the front door, anxious to get to their after-school ballet, tennis, piano, and horse-riding lessons. The Mommies hugged their daughters and asked about the day. Girls gave the Mommies handmade pictures or spelling tests marked “excellent.” The Mommies told the girls how proud they were and turned toward home, where nannies waited behind co-op doors, ready to give their young charges a healthy snack before lessons.
Christy stood in the neutral zone equidistant between the Mommies and the nannies, waiting for Renata to emerge. Out of nowhere, an exquisite blonde wearing a tweed orange-and-cream-check Escada suit with periwinkle python-print boots came running up to Christy. She was as striking as a runway model. “Am I too late? Are they out?” She spoke with an English accent.
Christy smiled, delighted that someone was talking to her. “A few are. But my daughter hasn’t…uhm.”
“Whew. I thought I was late.” She pointed to her jaw. “Root canal.”
“Ouch,” Christy said. “I’m Christy Hayes.”
“Andrea Hyatt. Happy to meet you,” she gushed. “You look terribly familiar to me. Do I know you? Are you one of my kind?”
Christy figured she had seen her picture on billboards, but she didn’t want to talk about that. “Your kind? What do you mean?”
“A working girl,” Andrea whispered.
Christy looked down at her power suit. “Yes, I do. I mean I was. No more. It’s a long story. I guess you work, too.”
“Used to until I married Heinz Wendt. Not anymore.”
“The financier?”
“Yes. He insisted I quit. Wanted my full attention like a good trophy wife,” she laughed. “But I’m a working girl at heart.”
“So how come you don’t dress like them?” Christy motioned with her head toward the Mommies.
“Normally I do. I have a special wardrobe just for pickup. But I had breakfast with old friends at J. P. Morgan before the dentist. You can’t go to Wall Street wearing the Mummy outfit.”
“I guess I’ll have to buy some of those,” Christy said.
“You must. Otherwise, people will talk. They’ll say you look like a Dalton mum.”
“And that’s bad?” Christy asked.
“Not bad if your child goes to Dalton. But if you’re a Colby mum, it’s social suicide. Tell you what.” Andrea dug around in her purse and pulled out a diamond-encrusted compact. She handed Christy an engraved personal card with her contact information. “Call me. I’ll take you shopping for everything you’ll need to fit in. We’ll have fun.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a terrible day. Your kindness means so—” Christy unexpectedly burst into tears.
Andrea put her arm around Christy and led her away from the crowd. “Whatever you do, love, don’t ever let them see you cry. They’ll start gossiping about what you’re upset about and next thing you know, everyone’ll be saying you’re sleeping with another mum’s husband.”
Christy looked behind her and noticed Brownie standing across the courtyard with one of her girls. Remembering that Wall Street Week had today accused her of sleeping with Colby’s number-one Mummy’s husband, she pulled herself together. “You’re right.”
The front door opened and a river of identically navy-clad little girls spilled out, at least a hundred of them. They talked on cell phones, gossiped in tight cliques, and hit each other with their book bags. Christy scanned the sea of bobbing heads in search of the one that belonged to her.
“Christy Hayes. Do my eyes deceive me?” Renata cautiously approached. She looked stunned. “Did Nectar die?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to pick you up.”
“But why?”
“Do I need a reason to pick up my little girl?”
“No,” Renata ventured. “Wait. Is that a trick question?”
“I see my daughter,” Andrea said. She put her thumb to her ear and her pinkie to her lips and mouthed the words “call me” as she ran to catch her little girl, who was cart-wheeling across the courtyard.
“So, how was school today?” Christy asked.
“Fine,” Renata said.
“Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you learn anything interesting?”
“No,” Renata said as she climbed into the backseat. “Let me clue you in, Christy. Ask me something like ‘what was the most unexpected thing you learned today’ so I
can’t give you a yes or no answer. That’s what the other mothers do.”
“Ah, okay. What was the most unexpected thing you learned today?”
“Dunno,” Renata said.
Christy couldn’t help but laugh and was pretending to strangle the kid when Andrea ran up to the car and knocked on the window. “Christy, there’s something you need to know.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to have your driver bring you to school, have him park around the corner. I don’t care, but everyone else thinks it’s gauche to have a chauffeur.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, no, really. Trust me. It’s kind of a rule.”
“Don’t most of these families have drivers?”
“Of course. But they’re discreet about it. When you go around the corner, you’ll see all their limos and town cars lined up. But never in front. Never.”
“Wow. Thanks for warning me. Can I ask why?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Andrea said. “It’s one of the many mysteries of Colby. Ta-ta, darling.”
DEAR DIARY,
DON’T FAINT BUT CHRISTY STOPPED WORKING. SHE’S STAYING HOME TO BE MY MOTHER FULL TIME. SAY IT’S NOT SO!!! NOW SHE WALKS ME TO SCHOOL AND PICKS ME UP. SHE WEARS THAT SAME WEERD OUTFIT ALL THE OTHER MOMS WEAR. SHE SIGNED UP FOR A BUNCH OF CLASSES LIKE BODY SCULPTURE AND TANTRIC SEXTACY (DON’T EVEN ASK). SHE WANTS TO JOIN THE MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOOK CLUB AT COLBY. I DIDN’T HAVE THE HEART TO TELL HER THAT THE GIRLS WOULD NEVER WANT ME IN THEIR CLUB. NOT THAT I CARE ONE BIT. BUT BACK TO CHRISTY, SHE’S NUTS I TELL YOU. SHE FIRED JAKE AND STARTED TRAINING ME FOR THE PRESIDENTIAL FITNESS TEST. LIKE I NEED THAT KIND OF PRESSURE. I THINK SHE’S HAVING A MID-LIFE CRISIS. IT WAS BETTER WHEN SHE IGNORED ME AND I COULD HANG OUT WITH THE PEOPLE WHO WORK HERE INSTEAD OF THE FAMILY THAT LIVES HERE. NECTAR’S GOING TO STAY WITH ME WHEN CHRISTY AND MICHAEL GO TO PARIS THIS WEEKEND. FINALLY!!! A BREAK FROM THE MADNESS.
YOURS TRULY,
RENATA E. RUIZ
PART 2
Uptown Wife
We’ll Always Have Paris
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]
Last week was a good session. I don’t think I have ever interviewed someone who is so direct. It saves a lot of time. It was nice skiing, too. I saw your Master of the Universe instincts let loose on the double diamonds. Usually they lie under the cover of your regular-guy thing, which is very disarming, by the way. You will have to tell me more about how you got back on those steep slopes after your accident. But maybe we should take a break for a few weeks. I have enough material to work on. I can see you have your hands full with Christy’s situation. Michael, I have an idea. Why not call Jerome Fudderman and ask him to help? He has successfully repackaged a lot of powerful people after they crashed and burned. Let’s face it. At this point, her status affects you. Galit
To: [email protected]
Fr: [email protected]
Don’t agree with your premise. But I do like your suggestion. The skiing was great. I couldn’t live without it, so I had to get my nerve back. It was that simple. Michael
Michael had arranged for a candlelit dinner to be served on the terrace of their suite overlooking the Tuileries at the Hôtel de Crillon. A violinist stood in the candlelight playing soft classical music.
“I love escargot,” Christy said. “The first time I tried it was on a dare at an Olympic dinner. Here, taste,” she said, stabbing a succulent morsel and feeding it to her husband.
“Mmm,” he said, “chewy yet delicious. Just for that, I have a surprise for you.”
“What?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’m taking you on an eight-hour shopping spree. You can buy anything you want, anything at all, for eight hours. We’ll start at Avenue Montaigne and see where that leads us.”
“Oooh, sounds fun. I need to get a simple Mikimoto pearl necklace to go with my new Colby Mommy wardrobe.”
“Does it have to be Mikimoto?” Michael asked. “Who would even know?”
“Honey, nothing gets past the Mommy Mafia,” Christy said.
“Sounds awful. Like a uniform,” Michael said, indignant that he should be bankrolling her new neutered look. He had in mind spike-heeled boots, Versace dresses, sexy lingerie.
“It is, kind of. But I want to fit in, you know? I’m watching the Colby moms to learn the best practices for raising a daughter in Manhattan.” Christy reached behind her chair for her jacket, then slipped it on. The night air had gotten chilly.
“Honey, I’m not sure best practices applies to raising kids,” Michael said.
“Au contraire, monsieur. I’ve already learned a lot. Did you know that Colby moms give their nannies lists of permissible nonstructured outings they can take with their kids? You know, places like the Frick, the Metropolitan Museum, the Planetarium. I’m going to do that with Nectar.”
“Sounds like a good way to bore the kid to death. And I thought Nectar was leaving.”
“No, well, maybe. I’m hoping to convince her to stay.”
“How are you doing that?”
“First, I’m trying to charm her. If that doesn’t work, I’ll beg. Money doesn’t move her, but she cares about Renata. And she’s worried about my mothering capabilities, although every day I learn more. For instance, Andrea told me that every Colby mom gets her portrait done in oil. And portraits of her kids, too. They all use the same artist. What do you think? Should I do it?”
“Sure, if you’re naked,” Michael said, smiling.
“Michael. You’re such an animal. That reminds me, now that I’m not working, I’m gonna be your full-time sex slave.”
“Did you learn that from the Colby moms?”
“Oh, God, no. Andrea thinks that only women who look like they never have sex—except for procreating, of course—can ever be fully accepted into the Colby power elite.”
“Did you know that the only Barnes and Noble store where sex books don’t sell is on the Upper East Side of Manhattan?” Michael said. “That’s a fact.”
“Really? Well, I’m a downtown girl at heart,” Christy purred.
Michael came over and gave his wife a slow, sexy kiss.
“Delicious garlic,” Christy said.
“You’re not leaving that piece, are you?” Michael asked.
“Open wide,” Christy said, and fed him the last snail.
Michael got serious. “Christy, I know how upset you are about losing the company. But selfishly, I’m happy to have you to myself for the first time.”
“I know. It’s just sad, that’s all. I worked so hard to build that company, and to walk away with nothing…”
“Think of it this way. If you hadn’t started Baby G, you wouldn’t have been at Davos. If you hadn’t been at Davos, we wouldn’t have found each other. You didn’t walk away empty-handed.”
“That’s true. I got first prize. It’s just…I’m worried that you won’t find me as interesting now that I’m not the big-time player I used to be.”
“Beegee, you’ve done the warrior thing. You’ve made a name for yourself in athletics. You’ve kicked ass in the world of men. For the first time in your life, relax. Let me take care of you. We can travel, run, climb mountains, enjoy each other.”
“You’re right. It’ll be great. You’re sure you’re not disappointed that I’m not the powerhouse you married? All that nasty press about my downfall doesn’t embarrass you?”
“Look. Fireworks by the Eiffel Tower,” Michael said. The couple stood up and walked to the balcony. Michael put his arm around Christy’s shoulders.
“Beautiful,” Christy said.
“Just like you. My beautiful wife who has not let me down or embarrassed me in any way. The truth is, I’m jumping for joy. I want to take care of you. I want you to lean on me. I adore you, ma chérie.”
“Me, too,” Christy said, kissing Michael softly.
Michael looked up and spoke to the waiter who had arrived with the second course. “Servez-no
us, garçon, s’il vous plait.” They sat down again and the waiter refilled their wineglasses.
“To our new life together,” Michael toasted.
“To our new life.” They clinked their glasses and took a sip.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. You’ve got a meeting with Jerome Fudderman on Wednesday, if you want it,” Michael said.
“No way! That’s like having an appointment with the Wizard of Oz.”
“Yup.”
“He agreed to represent me?” Christy asked.
“Not yet. First, you have to convince him you’re worth representing. But you can do it.”
“Wow.” Christy couldn’t believe that she had an appointment with the spin doctor to the stars. “But if I’m going to stay home and be your sex slave, how would I use him?”
“Think of Jerome as a very special shrink who can guide you toward your next chapter,” Michael said. “His specialty is helping public failures overcome their bad press and move forward with new lives. Isn’t that what you need?”
“I guess,” Christy said, trying to ignore the fact that her husband had called her a failure without even noticing it. “Have you spoken to anyone who’s worked with him?”
“Only George Wells. He told me that if they give you a meeting with Fudderman himself, you’re halfway there. He’s going to ask you to tell him your life story. Don’t hold back. He has to know everything. He’ll decide if you’re worth saving.”
“Okay. I’m flattered that he’d agree to see me.”
“You’re as powerful as any of his other clients were before they self-destructed. I’m not surprised at all that he’d see you.”
Christy flinched as he said “self-destructed.” Somehow she had hoped that Michael hadn’t seen it that way. At least he thought she was powerful.
“So you really think I can turn the damage around?”