How To Judge A Book By Its Lover

by Jessica Jiji

  But before I could speak, a nasal whine in the background pierced my eardrum. “How’s my big chrome dome?” I could hear Marisa ask, all sweet. I almost gagged. Surely he must hate this nag, I thought, until he said to her with the same cloying tone, “How’s my little kommandant?” To me, he added quickly, “Well I guess I have to go.”

  “Sure,” I replied, and hung up, grateful, for once, for Marisa; she had saved me from my own foolish hope.

  When we finished the fact-checking on my book and Nona said she was ready to start editing in earnest, my anxiety mounted. Luckily, Vanessa had the perfect way to help me relax: Bikram yoga, a special form of the ancient art done in superheated rooms.

  “I’m not exaggerating. The writing is disastrous, the hype is enormous, and the critics are going to feast on me,” I said on the way to the studio as we walked down the street, carrying our rolled-up yoga mats.

  Vanessa frowned. “And who told you this?” she asked.

  “Only a twenty-eight-year veteran of the business who basically said I should quit.” Shooting me a stern look, her brown eyes narrowed. “Laurel, don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself? These are natural obstacles on the road to success. If you are going to crumble before each little one, then you’ll prove your sister right and grow up to be a loser.”

  I desperately wanted to believe her, but it was tough. She continued, “It’s no wonder that you’re receptive to these negative influences, considering who you had as a role model. I met her the other day when I was out at your house, you know. I’m sure Jenna is a lovely person, but, frankly speaking, what a bitch.”

  We both dissolved into laughter, although I think mine was more nervous than mirthful. “But even if I am a success, I’m not sure I’ll be happy spending the rest of my life writing allegorical historical fiction and making an ass of myself on talk shows.”

  “There you go again,” Vanessa chided. “You’ve got to stop that record every time it plays. I want you to break it. Throw it away!”

  We had arrived at the yoga center and entered its quiet front room. “I guess you’re right,” I sighed.

  “Laurel, you are truly one of the most incredible people I’ve ever met—creative, sophisticated, and beautiful. The only thing that’s missing is confidence. I want you to spend the next forty-five minutes while we meditate reaching for your Inner Winner. Okay sweetie?” Her eyes were warm again, as though reflecting a brighter future for me.

  “Okay, I’ll try,” I said. And I did. But the forty-five minutes felt like forty-five hours, and by the end of the relaxation session I still felt like I needed a Valium.

  That night, Jenna’s whole family was there to witness my tantrum. Maybe it was that stupid sweaty yoga, but I just couldn’t stand my mother’s boasting.

  “Uncle Lewis always said you’d be just like Mindy,” she chirped while reviewing the seating charts laid out on the dining room table. “But I said, ‘Jenna’s not the only one who’s going to make something of herself in this family—you watch.’”

  The backhanded compliment smacked me in the face, but I found myself defending Mindy. “Would you quit trashing her, Mom? Just because she’s not your idea of perfection.”

  My mother rolled her eyes and went back to reshuffling the seating cards. “I’m putting Irene Hirsch next to Viv Capelle; that should be amusing to watch, since the last time they saw each other was in court.”

  “Whew, glad I’m on your good side,” Jenna’s husband Robert said.

  “And you’d better stay there,” Mom warned, “or I’ll put Lenny and Nora at your table. You be the referee.”

  She proceeded to run down the agenda. “First, there’ll be cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, then we’ll let everyone get comfortable in their seats. I’ll make a little speech, and of course your Dad will want to say something. Mindy’s planning to sing a little Mariah Carey, and then da da da da—” she imitated a trumpet—“the main event: Our little Laurel reads from her book.”

  I dropped my copy of Celebrity Style. “Back up, Mom. Laurel does what?”

  “Well, of course, dear, you’re going to read from your book—that’s why everyone’s coming! You know they’re not there to see each other.”

  “Mom, it’s a party at Leonard’s, not the Ninety-Second Street Y,” I protested. “Plus, they’ll all be drunk by then.”

  “They will not.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to do a reading,” Jenna put in.

  “What do you mean ‘doesn’t want to?’ Of course she wants to! She’s been crying all these years that she never gets any attention around here, and I’m finally shining the spotlight on her, at a nice cost to your father, I might add.”

  “Oh, Mom,” I groaned.

  “Don’t you ‘Oh, Mom’ me,” she said, removing her reading glasses and pointing them at me. “This is our way of showing how much we care about you, Laurel.”

  “Right,” I spat.

  “Your father just wanted to have a little family gathering in the backyard, and I said, ‘Are you kidding? This is Laurel’s big moment. We’re going to Leonard’s!’ And don’t think we couldn’t have chosen the cash bar. We said no, for our Laurel, open bar. And we ordered the salmon instead of the Chilean sea bass.”

  She’d gone from a woman who never even took the time to show me how to use Tampax to campaigning for Mother of the Century. In my frazzled state, it was just too much to stomach.

  “I know you went through a lot of trouble, but the truth is I’m not even all that comfortable about this whole thing, and you’re wearing my success on your chest like some kind of badge of honor. Meanwhile, the pressure keeps building, and now this is one more event I have to perform at all of a sudden? I wish you’d just cancel the whole damn thing!” I burst into tears and stormed upstairs to my room.

  Just like when I was a kid, my mother had no idea I could still hear her loud and clear through the heating vents and went on and on. “How dare she be so ungrateful? I’ve been killing myself for weeks trying to make this perfect, and she turns into a petulant little child!”

  Then came the surprise. “Don’t blame her,” I heard Jenna say. “Laurel never asked for this party. You’re just using her to show off to all of your friends, and you know it. If you’re such a loving mother, you should give her what she wants: understanding, patience, love—not Chilean sea bass,” she screamed.

  “We ordered the salmon,” my mother shot back, completely missing the point. “Laurel happens to love salmon.”

  “From the way she reacted, I don’t think she’s going to have much of an appetite that night,” Jenna said.

  “You don’t seriously expect me to cancel this?”

  “At least don’t force her to read.”

  “Fine,” my mother said. “I’ll have Uncle Lewis play his accordion instead.”

  A minute later, Jenna appeared in my room. Although I was grateful, I was too upset to thank her.

  “I tried,” she shrugged. I nodded listlessly.

  “Here,” she added, handing me a garment bag. “It’s that pink dress you always liked. At least you’ll look gorgeous at the big event, even if everyone drives you crazy.”

  - 18 -

  The day before the big event, I was almost tempted to wear Jenna’s dress to Vanessa’s birthday tea at the Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel, but sentiment got the better of me. I decided to go with the pink sweater, black skirt, and high-heeled boots she’d helped me pick out from Bergdorf’s. The invitation had been sent by a woman named Felicity Bentencourt and forwarded from my old address to my parents’ house just in time for me to RSVP.

  As I approached the elegant, sunken dining space surrounded by palm trees in the lobby of New York’s grandest hotel, I wondered if I would finally meet the mysterious Mr. Pixley. Vanessa rarely mentioned her husband, but I always had an image of a serious yet adoring forty-something banker type.

  Amid the clatter of fine china and the clank of sterling silver, I was disappointed to
see that the party was made up of only women. It looked like a Vassar reunion, and when the introductions began, I realized it was.

  “You must be Laurel—class of ‘14, right?” I smiled and nodded. The chipper, aging sorority queen went on. “I’m Felicity Bentencourt, ‘02, and this is Chloe, Shira, Andra, Janetta, and Karen, ‘12, ‘14, ‘06, ‘17, and ‘18. Of course, you know the guest of honor.” Before taking a seat, I gave Vanessa a tight hug and handed her the gift-wrapped Oscar de la Renta scarf I’d bought for the occasion. Just then, it occurred to me that I had no idea what year she had graduated or how old she was.

  “Honey, I’m so glad you made it,” she exclaimed, motioning for me to sit next to her. The white-gloved waiter poured me a tea, and I selected a small strawberry tart from the pastry cart. “You know,” Vanessa addressed the group proudly, “Laurel’s too modest to say this, but she has a major book coming out next year. She’s getting a six-figure advance, which is extraordinary for a first-time author. But then, she’s an extraordinary girl.” The proper awed gasps were emitted from the well-groomed but unimaginative-looking women around the table.

  “It’s all because of her,” I said truthfully.

  “We want the story,” Felicity encouraged. Vanessa slapped my arm as if to stop me, but I was grateful for the chance to tell an appreciative audience how much she meant to me.

  “When I met Vanessa, I was a miserable dog-walker trying to make it as an author.”

  “She was single, too. Imagine, a beautiful girl like Laurel unlucky at love! Crazy, right?”

  I ignored that comment, since I was single again, and resumed my testimonial. “I had no nerve at all and zero confidence in my abilities. It had been eight years of trying with no success.”

  “Oh, I know just what you’re talking about. That’s how I was when—” Andra interrupted enthusiastically.

  “Let her finish.” Janetta shushed her. “You’ll go next.”

  Somewhat confused, I continued. “Vanessa never told me how to be a successful person. She never gave me lists of instructions or stupid self-help jargon. No. She was just the most amazing and supportive friend anyone could ever hope for. And believe me, I was fed up with speeches and affirmations. But she pierced through my shell by making me laugh, by letting me cry, and by teaching me that it is possible to have ridiculous amounts of fun and still make all my dreams come true.”

  “Oh, Laurel,” Vanessa said. “Stop.”

  “No, really,” I insisted. “She had me doing things and going places that I thought were impossible. And if it wasn’t for her, there’s just no way I would have gotten my book contract. In fact, I still have my doubts, but she never lets me give in to them.”

  “With all that she’s achieved, Laurel still lacks a little faith in herself.” Vanessa’s warm brown eyes looked around the table knowingly. “We’ve all been there,” she said, prompting a round of nods. To me, she added pointedly, “I’ll never let you give up on that book. It’s your ticket to success and happiness, and you have to see it through.”

  I knew my speech was over, because there was a polite round of soft applause. As promised, everyone then turned to see what Andra had to say. She seemed as eager as I was to rhapsodize on Vanessa’s gifts.

  “I had so much anger inside me before I met Vanessa. I always felt so deprived—my husband never paid attention to me, my kids were brats, and my boss was a monster. My only outlet was the slot machines, and I ran up huge debts playing New York nickels. You would have thought I was a hopeless case, but Vanessa didn’t. Somehow, just being around her made me see myself as she saw me.”

  Vanessa finished the thought: “A strong, capable, beautiful, intelligent woman.”

  “See?” Andra said. “That’s just who she is. Now my husband is totally attentive, a tiger in bed”—everyone giggled—“my kids are on the honor roll, and I don’t hate my boss anymore because it’s me! I opened my own company.” The applause following her speech was so enthusiastic that a few of the subdued diners nearby shot us dirty looks.

  It went on and on like that. Chloe had lost sixty pounds and gained a fiancé, Karen had overcome her fear of flying and got a pilot’s license, and Felicity had become the first woman at Dow Chemical to be named Vice President of Development Statistics.

  I felt like I was in an echo chamber. Janetta summed it up: “I think we can all agree that we’d be nothing like we are today if we hadn’t gone to the annual Vassar Old Girls Network, and that we’re forever grateful that Vanessa became our big sister.”

  I nearly choked on my Linzer torte. Big sister? This was like a 23andMe moment. I had six siblings I’d never even known about.

  I felt so uncomfortable that I stopped at Mandee on the way to Penn Station and bought a complete outfit for under twenty bucks. Somehow, I had to get out of those Bergdorf clothes. The TGI Friday’s bathroom I ducked into was pretty disgusting, but it was worth it to change out of that constricting costume. Had I turned into one of those acolytes? I wondered. A bland, mindless, chipper devotee of the grand Vanessa? Everything I’d said remained true, and I’d always be grateful for the support she gave me, but it felt tainted after seeing how she thrived on all the dependence. I wondered if she had a single friend who was her equal—someone she could cry to instead of comforting. Someone who knew as much about her as she knew about them. Someone who wasn’t in her thrall.

  As the train rumbled out to the Island, I was grateful my parents were at Leonard’s making the final preparations for the party the following night and decided to go straight to bed. Before I did, I removed the tasteful Ralph Lauren sheets and comforter Vanessa had brought me and replaced the old pink cover instead.

  I couldn’t sleep at all, though, even after I’d folded down the picture of Vanessa and I and packed away the jasmine candle. I turned off the light, but her words were still echoing in my head: “I’ll never let you give up on that book. It’s your ticket to success and happiness, and you have to see it through.”

  The air seemed as stifling as a Bikram yoga studio, so I got out of bed and wandered to the living room to distract myself with some television. In between reruns of “I Love Lucy” and a Home Shopping Network sale on power tools, I stumbled across an infomercial for Maury Blaustein’s famous creation.

  Two frail, old ladies were sitting poolside on regular folding lounge chairs. One got up and tried to move hers. “They can fly to the moon, but they can’t come up with a chair that you can turn automatically to follow the sun?” she complained. The camera zoomed in to show that she’d placed the chair far too close to the pool, and as she sat back, both she and the chair toppled into the water.

  Then came the jingle: “Lounge-Around, Lounge-Around, the happiest lounge in this whole town.”

  Next, Blaustein appeared, swinging around in his electronic wonder. “Finally, your dream has been fulfilled. No more scooching across the pool deck in search of a good spot. No more accidental spills and bruises. No more fighting with people blocking your sun. Just a nice, relaxing day at the pool, in the backyard, or even in your living room! Wherever you want to Lounge-Around.”

  I snapped off the television and leaned back on my parents’ sectional couch. Anyone who knew how many thousands of those ridiculous chairs he had sold with that idiotic commercial would think Maury Blaustein was the happiest guy on earth, but as his dog-walker, I knew the truth. The guy had no life. Success had only made him a more comfortable loser. Just like that Nigel Fensington. For a moment I could smell his greasy Reuben sandwich all over again. “Once they set the formula, I was set for life,” he’d said. “You’ll see, kid.”

  The longer I sat there, the more the prospect of success seemed even worse than failure. The mold they were casting for me was about to harden, and if I didn’t get out soon, I’d spend the rest of my life writing drivel like Nixon’s Nanny and then parroting prepared answers on “World News Tonight.”

  Spooked, I went back to my childhood bedroom and crawled under the cover
s, but try as I might, I couldn’t sleep. My head was filled with a ghastly carousel of images: Nona’s owl glasses staring with contempt over my bed, Anderson Gallant swinging a golf club at a pile of money, and Maury Blaustein going round and round and round on his chair, unable to stop or get off.

  I knew I had to pull the plug. This craziness had to end.

  I must have slept well, because it was nine o’clock when I woke up and immediately dialed my publishing house. It was time to go right to the top.

  “Preston Gallant, please. It’s urgent.”

  Naturally, his schedule was packed, but when his secretary heard my name she squeezed me in at five o’clock. It would mean fighting the rush hour commute to Long Island to get home to change for my big, doomed party and then dealing with my mother’s nervous impatience, but I couldn’t turn it down.

  Feeling better than I had in weeks, I decided to make myself useful and visit Mrs. Lilianthaller before the meeting.

  Through the intercom, she warmly welcomed me back. “So nice to hear from you, dear. The pups haven’t been the same since that Holt boy took over Thursday nights.”

  Bogey and Bacall were even more enthusiastic, drowning me in their usual sloppy kisses. I decided to take a long walk through the park on the Hudson River. The scent of the sea wafted up from the harbor as cyclists, skaters, and joggers breezed by. There was a sense of purposeful optimism in the air. September’s rejuvenating energy seemed to animate the city. Or maybe it was just me.

  After I passed Charles Street, I crossed over and doubled back, like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime, toward the Meier building. I told myself I wanted to say hi to Natan or Ricardo, but the truth was, I wanted to relive that magical night with Irwin.

  As I approached the luxury glass tower, I saw Natan holding open the door of an endless, white stretch Hummer. A small entourage emerged from the building, surrounding a tall, stunning strawberry blonde wearing a fuck-me sequined dress. I didn’t have to look twice to know it was Ruxandra del Mar, the hottest actress from New Zealand ever to hit American shores. The scene was straight off a page from Celebrity Style—I had seen this group before in shots of them partying in the Hamptons, at the Vanity Fair Oscars bash, and at all other manner of glamorous events. There was Lars of Lars of Beverly Hills, Missouri Culpeper, Personal Trainer to the Stars, and Dr. Aitpat Suwanpradhes, the most sought-after spiritual advisor on the West Coast.