by Karen Quinn
“Of course you can,” Michael said. “Everyone can. That’s the beautiful thing about America.”
“All right, I’m in. Now hurry up and finish your coq au vin. Let’s take a walk along the Seine. I love this city.”
Mr. Second Chance
Christy sat in one of the giltwood armchairs across from Jerome Fudderman’s ornate antique desk in his palatial Fifty-seventh Street office. Surrounded by his French chandeliers, nineteenth-century Russian carpets, and satin wall coverings, she felt like a lowly commoner awaiting an audience with her king. Most of the wall space was covered with elaborately framed oil paintings, each with its own light. Pictures of Jerome standing with his infamous clients covered the entire south wall. There he stood with some of the greatest public failures of all time—the wall of the fallen. Many had successfully rebranded themselves; others had not.
“Helloo, helloo, I’m Jerome Fudderman. You must be Christy Hayes.” Jerome stormed into the room like a tornado, his note-taking assistant at his heels. A tall, bald, barrel-chested man with heavy jowls and pudgy hands, Jerome seemed like your average grandfather, only with a Savile Row suit and handmade tassel loafers.
Mr. Second Chance wasted no time. “So, Christy Hayes, the latest of the mighty to be chewed up and spit out. Tell Uncle Jerry everything. Why I should bother to save that lovely ass of yours.”
Christy hesitated. She wasn’t sure her ass was worth saving. She had no idea what she wanted. Hiding sounded good.
Jerome interrupted her thoughts. “Just start from the beginning. Tell me your story, dear.”
Christy sat up straight. “Well, I became a runner when I was twelve.”
“No, not that beginning. I have your history here. Tell me about the last year, year and a half. You’ve fallen hard, and I need to know what happened.”
“Oh, sure. About a year and a half ago, I met the man of my dreams, Michael Drummond. You’ve probably heard of him.”
“Everyone knows Michael Drummond, dear.”
“Right. Well, we met, fell in love, and were married not long after. Our life was perfect. Perfect! I continued to run Baby G while he managed his companies. We were like two kids in a candy store, and the world was the candy store. We did whatever we wanted, with just one rule: we always did it together. It took us so long to find each other, we didn’t want to be apart if we could help it.”
“So, you ignored your company while you were busy playing nookie with your new husband, heh-heh-heh?” Jerome had one of those annoying perverted laughs.
“No. I was an excellent CEO. Very attentive. Our sales were up eight percent last year. Our stock was down, but that was because my partner, who wanted my job, was busy planting negative stories in the press about me. Anyway, several months ago, my housekeeper died. She was the grandmother of an eleven-year-old girl, who I, um, kind of inherited. I’ve filed for adoption. In six months, it’ll be final, and Renata will be my daughter.”
“So you ignored your business while you were busy playing mommy to your new little girl, heh-heh-heh?”
“You could say that, yes. While I was getting her settled, Katherine Kilborn, my COO, was secretly trying to steal my job. Ultimately, I lost the battle for CEO. They offered me the chairmanship, but I said no. I couldn’t work with Katherine anymore.”
“What reason did they give to the press as to why you left?”
“They said I wanted to spend more time with my family. But there was speculation that I didn’t leave of my own accord. There were some mean-spirited stories.”
“Yes, well, the media always has a collective orgasm when successful executives go down hard, especially women.” Jerome stood up and walked over to his refrigerator. It was hidden inside a cabinet that blended perfectly with his bookcase. “Soda, dear?”
“Sure, anything.” Christy wondered how she was doing. Jerome wasn’t giving any hints as to whether he deemed her worthy of his services.
“I take it you walked away with a big cash settlement?”
“No, that’s the terrible part. My options were underwater when I walked out. After working so hard for so long, I left empty-handed.”
“Oh dear,” Jerome said. “Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, didn’t she?”
Christy sighed. “That’s an understatement.”
“So tell me, what needs to happen for your story to have a happy ending?” Jerome asked. His assistant handed her a glass of Pepsi.
Christy took a sip, stood, and walked to the window. An empty Food Emporium bag was dancing through the air as the wind blew it about sixty stories above the Manhattan sidewalks. That’s exactly how I feel, Christy thought. “I don’t have my footing anymore, Jerome. I just need a safe place to land, where I can create a new life that’s worth living. But I’m not sure a spin doctor like you can help me do that. Nothing personal. I appreciate your seeing me.”
“My dear,” Jerome said, “don’t you understand that for certain echelons in New York society, the unspun life isn’t worth living?”
“You think that applies to me?” Christy asked, walking back to her chair.
“You have been in the public eye your whole adult life,” Jerome said.
“I suppose I don’t want to completely disappear,” Christy said. “So how could you help me reinvent myself? I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“Tell you what,” Jerome said. “Take a few moments and study my before-and-after book. It shows what my clients were known for before their downfall, what blew up in their life, and how we reframed them.”
Jerome handed Christy a thick leather binder. She placed it on her lap and began to peruse. Each page contained a photo of the client along with a brief sketch of their before and after personas.
Juliana Elena de Marichalar y de Borbón. Before: Thrice divorced, laughingstock heir to the Spanish Crown. After: writer, spokesperson for Chrysler, host of reality TV show.
Funkmaster Four-Four. Before: Rapper/Producer accused of masterminding the drive-by shooting of MC Two-Bit. After acquittal: Rapper/Producer, clothing designer.
Lizzie Kayan. Before: Publicly reviled mistress of the Speaker of the House. After: Handbag proprietor, memoirist.
Lolhanna Wentworth. Before: “It” girl, radical arsonist. After prison term: Author, socialite, motivational speaker.
Brooklyn Goldstein. Before: Rock star, heroin addict. After: Swimsuit designer, antidrug activist.
Alfred Silverglad. Before: Scion of Silverglad Enterprises, accused of rape. After acquittal: Congressional candidate. After election loss: Pundit on Meet the Press.
Baroness Claudia Von Frick. Before: Madam. After prison term: Author, manners and etiquette expert.
Christy looked up from the book. Jerome was talking on the phone to someone named Brittany. Or Britney? Could it be? She waited for him to end his call. “So this is supposed to give me ideas on how to reinvent myself.”
“Exactly,” Jerome said.
“I could design purses or swimwear, run for Congress, write a book, become a socialite, or host a reality TV show.”
“The possibilities are endless.”
“You know what I really want to do?” Christy said thoughtfully. “This may sound crazy, but I want to be as accomplished a wife and mother as I was an athlete.”
“And you want to write a book about that? Appear on Scottie Childs Live and Robert Beck telling working women everywhere what it’s like to go from being an important businesswoman to an anonymous wife and mother?”
“I do like the idea of being a voice for working women who choose to put family first. Although it wasn’t really my choice,” Christy said.
“Details, details. With my help, everyone will believe you left of your own accord. Yes, I like this. We’ll start with a profile in the Times, maybe Newsweek. I’ll get you a book deal. If things break as I plan, you can have your own reality show. Kind of like The Simple Life. Only your show will be about how a woman who has known only the world of business bumbles about as an
inept wife and mother. We’ll film you botching your family’s Thanksgiving dinner, greeting your husband wearing Saran Wrap after he’s had a hard day, putting your foot in your mouth when you volunteer at your kid’s school. It’ll be hil-air-ious, heh-heh-heh.”
“I don’t want a reality show, Jerome.”
“Honey, everyone wants a reality show these days.”
“I don’t. Will you take me on anyway?” Christy asked.
“Yes, I believe I will, dear. My fee is fifteen thousand a month and I require a six-month retainer.”
“Thanks. I really am grateful to be working with you.” Christy felt a weight lift off her shoulders. With Jerome’s help, she would turn this disaster around.
“By the way, now that you aren’t employed, you need to be seen at the right places. I’m going to make sure you’re put on the guest list for Mimi Kimble’s power-girl salons.”
“What are those?”
“She invites only the most fabulous women in the city to lunch at her house. Usually there’s a speaker who talks about an important issue of the day. That’s followed by meaningful conversation among the guests. It’s like an old-fashioned salon. The most important women in media will be there. Get to know them. You’ll need their support when we go public with the new you.”
“Sounds exciting. Thanks.” The idea of being included with such a respected group of women was enticing.
“One more thing. Can you put on about ten, fifteen pounds?”
“No way. Why would you ask me to do that?”
“The public is more sympathetic to plump girls. That’s why it was easy to generate good feelings about Lizzie Kayan, but that goddamn bag of bones Claudia Von Frick was near impossible.”
“I have no sympathy for Baronness Von Frick,” Christy declared.
“See what I mean?” Jerome said, shaking his head sadly. “See what I mean?”
Begging Brownie’s Pardon
Christy sat in the hard wooden chair outside Brownie’s office at Colby. It had been forty minutes since the parent-volunteer secretary announced her. She wondered if she should knock again just to see how much longer it would be but decided against it. If Brownie knew she was in a hurry, she would keep her waiting longer.
It was Michael’s idea that Christy make amends with Brownie. She still had to report to her for the fifth-grade-graduation extravaganza. Brownie was the Mother of All Mommies at Colby, and it behooved Christy to get along with her. After an hour, the parent-volunteer secretary summoned her inside.
Christy had met a lot of important people in her life. No one had ever kept her waiting this long. Following her second Olympic victory, she and the other medalists got to meet the president. Even he didn’t keep them waiting. But she refused to let her frustration show. “Hello, Brownie,” she said, extending her hand.
Brownie didn’t take it. Instead she sat down and said, “So, tell me how I can help you.”
Christy made herself at home in the visitor’s chair. She cleared her throat. “Brownie, I came here today to make sure you and I are square. I know we’ve had a few rough patches, but our girls go to the same school, and our goals are the same for the PTA. Can we make peace?”
“That depends. Is that Wall Street Week article true? Did you sleep with my husband?”
Christy took a deep breath, not sure how to respond. “I thought you two had separated. I had relations with Fran…once. It was a terrible mistake. I’m sorry, Brownie.”
“Hmmph,” she snorted. “He said the article was a crock. Now I don’t know whom to believe.”
Dammit, Christy thought. I should have known the bastard would lie. “I pose no threat to you, Brownie. I’m happily married to Michael. And I wish you’d reconsider letting Renata play with Stephanie. She misses her so much.”
“I will not have that strumpet in my home.”
Strumpet? How dare you call my daughter a strumpet? Christy wanted to leap over the desk and choke the haughty cow until her turtlelike face turned blue and her bug eyes popped out of their sockets. But she sat on her hands and took deep, cleansing breaths instead. She thought of all the annoying people she had tolerated to build her business. She could do this. “We need to work together on the graduation,” Christy said. “Can you at least agree to give me your support on that for the good of the school?”
“Yes, for the good of the school. But don’t get any crazy ideas. You and I will never be friends.”
Christy wanted to dance the hokey-pokey on that news flash. But she continued to sit on her hands and took more deep, cleansing breaths.
“Are you available two weeks from Wednesday?” Brownie asked, consulting her calendar.
“I could be.”
“Fine. I’d like to hold a luncheon at my home in your honor since you’re chairing the graduation. We’ll invite the fifteen make-it-or-break-it fifth-grade Colby mothers. If you have their support, the event will be a success. Without it, you’re doomed.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what to say.” Christy was struggling hard to keep a straight face.
“Just show up and I’ll take care of the rest. Oh, wait. There’s one thing you could do.”
“Anything.”
“You can be responsible for the flowers. We’ll have two large oval tables. The colors in the room are blue and yellow. I’d recommend blue hydrangeas mixed with white peonies, with a spray of yellow delphinium. Do you think you can you manage that?”
“Yes, Brownie, I think I can order a couple of flower arrangements.” Give me a break, Christy thought. In all her years in business, she didn’t think she had met anyone as annoying as this Duchess of Do-Goodism.
“Fine. But don’t get any ideas about our becoming friends. It’s not going to happen. I could probably get past your having carnal relations with my husband. But I’ll never forgive you for getting it splashed in the press.”
“Brownie, if I’d known Fran was still with you, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day. I’d do anything if you’d forgive me.”
Brownie was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, she turned her thin lips upward into a sort of snarl smile. “There is one thing.”
“There is?”
“Your husband is big in the media world, right?”
“Yes.”
“Does he know Scottie Childs?”
“I think so, why?”
“I want to be invited to dinner with Scottie. I want to meet her.”
Christy just about lost her lunch. Scottie Childs was famous beyond fame, one of the richest women in the world, a daytime-TV idol and media mogul who had risen from poverty to the stratosphere of power and success. Dinner with Brownie? Sure. No problem. “Well, you know, she lives in L.A. It may be hard to get her to New York for a dinner.”
“I know for a fact that Scottie has a standing monthly appointment to have her eyebrows groomed by Gabrielle at John Barrett’s. You asked me what you could do to help me move past your quote-unquote mistake. I told you. That’s it,” Brownie said.
“Well, I’ll ask Michael. Just out of curiosity, why do you want to meet her?”
“It’s a charity thing. I’m chairwoman of an organization that provides psychological counseling for children with self-esteem issues.”
Christy stood and curled her lips into a nervous smile. “Well, hmmm…I know Scottie cares about children. I’ll see if Michael can arrange something.”
Michael laughed so hard at Brownie’s request that Christy was worried he might not come through for her.
“Ha-ha, crazy, huh?” Christy laughed.
Michael started howling all over again. He was holding his stomach. Tears were streaming down his face.
“It’s not that funny,” Christy said.
That got Michael started again.
“She is too much, too much,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“But you’ll do it, right?”
“Beegee, if I make Scottie listen to a pitch from Brownie, I’ll lose all credibility with
her. Don’t ask me to do that.”
“Pleeeeeease. I’ll beg if you want,” she said seductively.
“Oh, God. I’ll see what I can do, but only because I know it’s important to you. Why, I’ll never understand.”
“You’re such a good husband. Here, let me massage you,” Christy said.
Michael lay back down on the bed and Christy started rubbing his feet. How she loved those feet.
“Mmm, don’t stop,” Michael said.
“Do you think I should take a sensual-massage class?” Christy said.
“I’d love it. Between that and your tantric sex lessons, I’ll be one happy puppy.” He grinned with satisfaction.
“Done. I’ll look for a program tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, are you still going to L.A.?”
“Yeah. We’re trying to interest Disney in a partnership with Anipix. They’re no Pixar, but they’re close. And some of their technology is superior.”
“Ooh, does that mean I can get access to their equipment?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, laughing.
“Maybe I can use it for the school,” she added thoughtfully. “They’re starting a film program.”
“Ugh, stop. You are turning into such a Mommy.”
“Oh God, you’re right. Sorry. Here, kiss me, baby. I’ll show you who’s not a Mommy.”
DEAR DIARY,
MICHAEL’S IN L.A. SO CHRISTY WANTED TO TAKE ME TO SOME BORING MOTHER-DAUGHTER FASHION SHOW BUT I TALKED HER INTO STAYING HOME AND WATCHING TV. SHE SAID NO AT FIRST BECAUSE OF HOW MIND NUMMING TV IS, BUT THEN SHE AGREED TO TRY IT. NECTAR MADE US BISCUTS DRIPPING WITH SORGUM MOLASSES. HER MOM USED TO MAKE IT FOR HER AND HER SISTER (MAY SHE REST IN PEACE) AND WE ATE THE WHOLE PAN, PLUS WE EACH HAD A TUB OF BEN AND JERRY’S. I HAD CHERRY GARCIA AND CHRISTY HAD CHUBBY HUBBY. WE DECIDED TO WATCH TV AND PIG OUT EVERY NIGHT UNTIL MICHAEL COMES HOME. YAY! AN EXCELLENT PLAN! I FINALLY TOLD CHRISTY HOW THE GIRLS AT SCHOOL ARE SO MEAN TO ME. SHE SAID THE KIDS TORTURED HER WHEN SHE WAS MY AGE. WHAT SHE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IS THAT PRIVATE SCHOOL GIRLS OF TODAY ARE CRUELER THAN OLDEN DAY KIDS OF YESTERYEAR. NECTAR TOOK ME TO GRANDMA’S GRAVE TODAY. IT MAKES ME CRY TO VISIT, BUT I WILL NEVER ABANDON GRANDMA. DID I MENTION THAT NECTAR’S ABANDONING ME AT THE END OF THE MONTH? FIRST GRANDMA, THEN NECTAR! WHY, NECTAR, WHY?