Wife in the Fast Lane

by Karen Quinn

  LOVE,

  RENATA RUIZ HAYES

  Mimi’s Power-Girl Salon

  Christy rang the doorbell of Mimi Kimble’s limestone town house. While she waited, she noticed two secret-service agents trying to look inconspicuous even though their curly-wired earpieces and cheap suits were a dead giveaway. She wondered who at the salon needed secret-service protection.

  A waiter answered the door, and Christy waited for her sable to be taken and hung on a coatrack stuffed with minks, beaver, fox, and other assorted animal skins. Only the woman standing ahead of Christy wore cloth. She turned. It was Hillary Clinton, which explained both the secret-service protection and the modest wrap. They smiled at each other.

  “Hi, I’m Christy Hayes.”

  “Hillary Clinton.”

  “Of course I know who you are,” Christy said, trying to keep the reverence out of her tone.

  “And I know who you are,” Hillary said.

  Christy was stunned. Hillary Clinton knew who she was? This was exciting. She followed the senator upstairs to the parlor floor, where the women were feasting on a lunch of salad, filet mignon, and lobster tails—emphasis on the salad. Christy found her place card and grabbed a white wine.

  The room was full of women she recognized. Just as Jerome promised, there was the holy trinity of newswomen—Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer, and Meredith Viera—and their patron saint, Barbara Walters. Peppered about the room were other professional luminaries whom Christy had heard of but never met. A gaggle of grasshopper-thin socialites were present—from Maude Astor to Denise Zwerble and everyone in between. Christy was amazed at how beautifully these women put themselves together. Even the plainest guest managed to look stunning. Their clothes and handbags were couture or vintage au courant, their hair and makeup society-page-ready. A photographer was snapping pictures of everyone. What am I doing here? Christy wondered. I could be one of them, a lady who lunches. Then she shivered. This looked harder than working, and, certainly, more pointless.

  Christy’s thoughts were interrupted by Mimi, a raven-haired wisp of a hostess, who was ringing a delicate silver bell. “Ladies, ladies, if I can have everyone’s attention.” She put her arm around a woman wearing a bright yellow-and-orange African khanga.

  Mimi then spoke in an urgently dramatic voice, the same one she used for her show on cable TV. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Ya’a Boushra, a young woman from Dodoma, Tanzania, who has come all the way to New York to talk to us about the barbaric practice of female circumcision in African countries. It is so vital that women around the world understand this travesty so we can use our power to unite and stop this brutality from continuing.”

  “Hear, hear!” a lady in Versace said. “Stop the violence.” Other women nodded their heads and raised their crystal champagne flutes in solidarity.

  Christy reached for a glass of Dom Pérignon, which a waiter in black tails was offering. As she watched the women who were watching Ya’a with expectant faces, she wondered if a person could find happiness through physical perfection and social triumph.

  “Thank you, ladies,” Ya’a said. “Thank you, Mrs. Mimi, for bringing me to your great country so that I can share my story. As you may have heard, it is common in Africa to give girls as young as eight and as old as eighteen clitoridectomies. When I was twelve, four older women came to my home. They took me against my will into the desert, to a special tent, where I was stripped naked and tied up. With no anesthesia, the oldest of the women used a sharp knife and cut off my clitoris.”

  There was a collective gasp from the audience. No one could stomach the hand-decorated petit fours Mimi was serving for dessert.

  Ya’a continued to tell her story. “I was given no pain medicine, nothing to stop infection. For four days, I was left in that tent. I tell my story today so that you, my American sisters, will be aware of the abuse we suffer in Africa. It is my greatest hope that you will tell the world of this injustice and help me make it right.”

  Mimi walked up to Ya’a and hugged her tightly, her eyes moist with emotion.

  Livia Schorr waved her hand, which really wasn’t necessary. It was hard to miss her in that chartreuse suit.

  “Yes, Livia,” Mimi said.

  “This is so terrible. I applaud you for coming forward and sharing your pain. Tell me, what can we do to support your cause?”

  “You can talk about the practice wherever you can. The more women who know about this, who protest this practice, the better chance we have of someday ending it,” Ya’a said. “Also, perhaps when Mrs. Senator Clinton becomes president, she will be able to mobilize a global campaign against such violence.”

  Hillary smiled modestly.

  “Would you be interested in speaking at the Junior League tea next week? I could arrange it,” Livia offered.

  Seeing Livia step up so selflessly, Christy realized there was more to being a socialite than playing dress-up. These women spend thousands of hours on benefit committees planning events that raise millions for charity. The joy of giving back must be the ingredient that brings meaning to lives of these privileged women, she thought. Yes, that’s it. The lure of this life must be the prospect of sisters working together toward common goals. I could get into that…

  Mimi turned red and spoke up for Ya’a, who looked like she was about to agree to Livia’s Junior League gig. “I’m sorry, but Ya’a’s tied up next week. Maybe you can find your own East African speaker. Or look for someone from the Middle East. I’ve heard female circumcision is a problem there, too. Anyone else? No? Well, thank you, ladies. Let’s have another round of applause for Ya’a Boushra, our brave victim,” Mimi said.

  Everyone applauded enthusiastically. Several women went over to Ya’a to talk with her personally. Eventually, people began milling about and forming little cliques. A petite redhead in pinstripes and pearls touched Christy’s shoulder. “Don’t you love these salons? It’s such an honor to be able to help others in this way.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Christy said. She couldn’t figure out how they were actually helping.

  “You know, you look so familiar to me,” the redhead said. “Do I know you? You’re somebody, aren’t you?”

  I used to be, Christy thought. She smiled at the woman. “I heard everyone had to be special to get invited to Mimi’s salon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She walked toward the kitchen, intent to introduce herself to any one of the holy trinity of newswomen. Jerome had made her promise to do that. She headed for Diane Sawyer, then stopped short. Who’s kidding whom? She was a fish out of bottled water here. Glancing at her watch, she realized she would have just enough time to pick up Renata. With that, she dashed down the stairs, relieved that no one had brought up her recent ordeal.

  She stood in the coat line behind a blonde in her fifties. The woman turned around when she heard Christy’s voice, looking a bit embarrassed. It was Anne Gregory, New York City’s number-one civic volunteer.

  Christy raised her chin and smiled.

  “Why, Christy, how good it is to see you, dear. It’s so smart and courageous of you to come out after all that nasty press.”

  “Well, it’s just press, Anne.” Christy hated that attention was being drawn to her humiliation. Anne didn’t seem to mind.

  “Well, dear, I’m afraid in this city it goes a bit deeper than that. I was going to call you this week. I’m sorry to say that the committee decided they couldn’t have you as the honored speaker at the Up with Girls lunch next month. You know, the whole sex thing just doesn’t send the right message to our young women.” She waited expectantly for Christy to see the reasonableness of her position.

  Christy felt as if she had been sucker punched. This chance to reach out to eight hundred teenagers from all over the country had been proof to her that she still mattered in this city, CEO or not. She wanted to shake this woman by the shoulders and ask her how it felt to be a heartless, social-climbing hypocrite. But she simply said, “No problem, Anne,” and tu
rned to leave, hungry for the sight of Renata’s face.

  Meet the Press

  The house was immaculate. Yok Wah was gone after having prepared a meal of lemongrass soup, salad, and poached salmon that Christy would pretend to have made herself. Christy had told her to leave the tomatoes so she could slice them in front of the reporter. The sauce for the fish was made except for the olive oil, which Christy was planning to add when the reporter was watching. The rest of the staff had also departed. Renata was in her room, awaiting her cue. Michael would be home in an hour or so. All was ready for the arrival of Dina Gladwell, Lifestyle reporter for the Times. Jerome had worked his magic, and a five-column spread with color photos would appear on Sunday.

  “This is huge,” Jerome said. “I’ve earned my fee on this one.”

  “You are amazing, Jerome. Nobody but you could have made this happen for me,” Christy said. She had already learned that it only took a few compliments thrown Jerome’s way to warm his ego.

  “Don’t blow it,” he said. “Keep your guard up at all times. Nothing gets by Dina. She was a front-page reporter until her second kid was born. Then she moved to Lifestyle.”

  “Don’t worry. I can do this,” Christy said.

  “Just make her like you, that’s half the battle,” Jerome advised. “What are you wearing?”

  “My brown Valentino pants with a Dior leopard-print chiffon shirt. Miu Miu moccasins.”

  “Put on heels—something sexy,” he advised.

  “Don’t you think it would be more realistic if I looked comfy, like she just happened to catch me on a normal day?”

  “This isn’t about what’s real, dear. It’s about repackaging you from a tough corporate warrior to a glamorous housewife who finally got her priorities straight. The article will describe how you look and what you’re wearing. Put on spiky shoes right now. That’s an order.”

  As she waited for Dina, Christy wondered, could she do this? She knew how to handle a business interview, but this would be personal.

  The doorbell rang. Christy ran to answer it. It was the first time she’d answered her own door in months. I should start doing more chores around the house, she thought. When did I turn into a person who needs ten people to help her put on her pants in the morning?

  “Hello-ow!” Christy said, greeting her visitors. “So nice to finally meet you in person. I’ve been reading your byline for years. Let me take your coat.” Christy tried to remember where the maid usually hung the coats. That’s it, she vowed, I’m cutting my staff in half. She laid Dina’s coat over a chair in the living room.

  “You have a lovely home,” Dina said graciously. She was trailed by a hunky photographer, who was introduced as Wolf. He was already shooting pictures of the place.

  “Would you like the grand tour?” Christy asked. Of course she would. No one passes on a chance to see a semi-celebrity’s Manhattan apartment. Christy explained that they were planning a complete renovation.

  Dina made herself at home at their glass dining room table. Yok Wah had done a beautiful job with the place settings. After Christy brought the tray of soup, salad, and salmon to the table, she went back for the tomatoes and a cutting board. Then she carefully sliced them into wedges, mixing them into the already dressed salad.

  “So,” Dina said, “do you mind if we go ahead and start?”

  “No, not at all. Fire away,” Christy said, serving the greens and fish on two small plates, pouring sauce over the salmon.

  Dina set a tape recorder on the table and hit the record button. “What made you decide to leave Baby G?”

  “I’d been there for almost fifteen years. And to tell you the truth, I’d had my fill of all that responsibility. Then last year, I married Michael. A few months ago, we took in Renata after her grandmother died. I realized that I just couldn’t do everything well. More than anything, I wanted to be a good wife to Michael and a mother to Renata. I came face-to-face with the rule of two and had to choose.”

  “The rule of two?”

  “Yes. Love, career, children: pick two. A very smart person taught me that,” Christy said.

  “Ahh, how true that is,” Dina said, nodding wisely. “After I had children, I kept working fourteen-hour days. That’s when my marriage fell apart.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Christy said sympathetically, pleased that she and Dina were starting to bond. Biting into the salmon, Christy’s cheeks puckered. The sauce was sour. Damn, she thought, I forgot to add the oil.

  Dina took a bite of her fish and chewed it slowly. Christy took another bite, smiled at her, and pretended it tasted just fine. Wolf took pictures of the two women as they chatted and chewed.

  “But most women aren’t lucky enough to make the choice you made,” Dina said. “Let’s face it. You lead a privileged life.”

  “I do now, Dina. But I didn’t always. I grew up in a midwestern family, and my mom didn’t work. My dad was a high school coach. We weren’t rich. Our house was small, and we never took vacations. The whole family sacrificed so Mom could be home for me.” Christy decided to skip the part about her mom dying when she was ten.

  “Your salmon is delicious, by the way,” Dina said. “Can I have the recipe? Maybe I could put it in the article.”

  Is she making fun of me? Christy wondered. “I wish I could share it, but it’s from an old family recipe. Top secret, you understand,” Christy said, since she had no idea how to make the sauce, and, even if she did, she wouldn’t know whether to give the recipe with or without the oil. She immediately vowed to take a cooking class.

  “Of course. Here’s what I wonder, Christy. You used to be such an extraordinary person. Now you’re an ordinary wife and mother. Don’t you miss the limelight?”

  How would I know? Christy thought. I left work a month ago and here I am doing an interview with the Times. “Oh God, no. I consciously chose this path. I’m putting the same energy into being Michael’s wife and Renata’s mother that I put into being an Olympic runner. We have a beautiful life together.”

  “So you advocate traditional roles for women?”

  “I believe it’s a choice as valid as working. At the end of the day, there’s no right way to go,” Christy said. “When I was an Olympian, high school athletes constantly told me how they wanted my life. They didn’t see the hours of training behind the glory—how much I’d given up to be a champion. I ate, slept, and ran. That was it. Later, when I was a CEO, young women would come up to me and say they wanted to be me. Again, all they saw was the glamour. They didn’t know that my whole life was about working. No relationships. No fun. Then I married Michael. Now powerful, independent women in their thirties and forties tell me they want to be me. Once again, they don’t see the effort I put into keeping our marriage alive and exciting. But you know what? I’ve never been happier. When I was an Olympian or a businesswoman, I jetted around the world, had lunch with business leaders, and knew all the world’s top athletes. I don’t do that anymore. But I don’t miss it. I’ve had that life. I get more pleasure out of washing my husband’s dirty laundry than having lunch at the White House.” Did I really say that? Christy thought.

  “Lunch at the White House can be so stressful,” Dina said.

  “Don’t I know it,” Christy agreed. She was glad Dina didn’t ask more about washing Michael’s laundry, since she didn’t even know how to use the fancy European washing machine they’d just bought. She decided then and there that she needed to learn.

  “You know, the reason I couldn’t give up my work was because I get such a charge out of touching millions of people. You were able to do that at Baby G. Is it enough for you to make a difference in the lives of only two people?” Dina asked.

  This was the burning question that Christy had been asking herself. “Working as hard as a CEO has to work, I could never have sustained a warm and loving marriage. I couldn’t have put my stamp on Renata as she grew up. Anyone can run a company. I’m the only one who could do those things.”

&n
bsp; “You make me want to quit my job and stay home,” Dina said.

  “Would you like to meet my daughter?” Christy asked.

  “Absolutely!”

  “I’ll be right back.” Christy walked down the hall to Renata’s room and opened the door. The child stood in front of her vanity mirror making odd facial expressions. “What are you doing?” Christy asked.

  “I’m practicing my bedroom face,” she said. “Mrs. De Mille’s been giving me lessons. Look at this.” Renata lowered her eyelids and made her lips all pouty. She looked pretty darn sexy, and Christy realized that she would have her hands full in a few years.

  She laughed because she didn’t know how else to react. “Come on, gorgeous. I need you in the living room. The reporter’s here. But don’t mention your bedroom face.”

  “Remind me again why we have to pretend to be a normal family?” Renata asked.

  Christy’s face reddened. “C’mon Renata, work with me here.”

  Renata grabbed a math workbook and a Rubik’s Cube and followed Christy out. As soon as they were in Dina’s range, the child spoke. “Mommy, can you help me solve this Pubic Cube?”

  Mommy! Renata had never called Christy “mommy” before. Did she mean it? Christy wondered. Dina met Renata. Michael strolled in at the right moment. He introduced himself to Dina and proceeded to charm her. Christy sat down with Renata and tried unsuccessfully to help her solve the cube. Wolf snapped pictures of the moment.

  “Can we have some family shots?” Wolf asked.

  “Oh, sure,” Michael said.

  Michael, Christy, and Renata posed in front of the fireplace like a Norman Rockwell family.