I stride past a bistro where a few jeans-and-suede-clad M&Ms are lingering after long lunches and the collegiate grouping of luxury shops that are each recognizable by a single name—Giorgio, Donna, Oscar, and Hermès—though these days, the stores are appreciably less crowded and I notice too that the line for the hotdog vendor on the corner of Sixty-fourth Street is unusually long. Once the business gets going, I’ll be back, I think, stopping to see what’s new at Missoni, and as I catch my reflection in the window, I reach for my cellphone. I’ve been telling myself that my dark roots are hip, like Sarah Jessica Parker’s in the third season of Sex and the City. But my stripey mane reminds me more of a raccoon with a bad dye job than the spunky star. I’m just speed-dialing Angela Cosmai to see if the city’s most fabulous colorist can possibly squeeze me in, when I spot Molly walking toward me. And she’s not alone.
My older, wiser, studious daughter, the daughter I count on to be reasonable, reliable, and uncomplicated, is walking down the street, holding hands with a young man—a young man with chiseled good looks framed by spiky blond hair, wearing khakis and a navy blue blazer and looking as if he just stepped out of an episode of Gossip Girl. Molly’s ditched her owlish black glasses and pulled out her elastic band to let her dark locks cascade over her shoulders. As Molly tilts her head toward the teenage Adonis, a goofy smile spreads over her face. What is it about the first, ethereal stages of romance that could turn even Condoleezza Rice into a grinning idiot? I call out a cheery “Hello!”
Molly looks furtively at me, shakes her head almost imperceptivity, and continues walking.
“Who was that?” I hear the young man ask as they brush past me and I recognize the emblem on the boy’s blazer, identifying him as a student at Molly’s school.
“Don’t know, just some woman,” says Molly, looking over her shoulder, raising her palm in a signal that tells me not to say another word. I watch as the boy takes Molly’s backpack and loops his muscular arm through hers. Molly laughs and buries her head in his shoulder. “Thanks for the cheeseburger,” I hear her say as they slip around the corner. “I’m having the most fun ever, Brandon.”
LATER THAT NIGHT Paige is in her bedroom working on a history term paper when I hear Molly’s key turn in the door. I’ve been waiting for her to get home all evening, and she comes into the kitchen full of excitement and excuses.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I know it was dumb not to say hi, I was just so embarrassed to, you know, introduce my date to my mother,” she says, grinning as she slides her backpack off her shoulder—the very same backpack that just a few hours ago had been held by the golden-haired Brandon. The very same Brandon—I now know from checking the school directory the minute I got home—whom her sister has a crush on.
I don’t know if Molly knows that Paige likes this boy or if Paige knows that Molly had a date with him, and I have to figure out a way to make each of them aware of what’s going on without hurting their feelings or turning it into an Olympic-sized competition. Not so easy when you’re dealing with twins who’ve been scrutinized and sized-up against each other since the day they were born.
We’ve always told the girls, “Celebrate your uniqueness!” But how could you not make comparisons? When Paige started walking at ten months, it was nearly impossible not to push Molly to try to follow in her footsteps. Molly was only a year old when she started speaking in full sentences, which made us worry about why Paige was still babbling. And while Molly has the budding-but-undeveloped poise and beauty of Anne Hathaway in the opening scenes of The Princess Diaries or The Devil Wears Prada, Paige was born as sleek and confident as a blond version of the actress in act two.
Molly’s always been shier and more hesitant in social situations, more likely to watch from the sidelines than her outgoing twin. So despite my resolve to be as neutral as Switzerland, I’m secretly rooting for her. As long as this Brandon Marsh isn’t playing my two girls against each other.
“A date, huh?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible, rinsing off some plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.
“Mom, you never do this right,” Molly says affectionately, coming over to make sure that the bowls and salad plates are on the top of the machine and that the larger plates are properly spaced and facing each other on the bottom.
“So this boy …”
“Oh Mom, we had so much fun! We went for chocolate shakes and cheeseburgers at Jackson Hole and when the bill came I offered to split it but he said, ‘Here, let me get that,’ so I did, even though I said, ‘Okay, but next time I’ll pay,’ and then we walked through the park and he carried my backpack and I know I should have introduced you. I’m sorry, it was just so weird to run into you and I wanted to seem cool, though next time I promise I’ll say hello. And oh yeah—” she laughs as she interrupts sorting through the silverware look up and flash a radiant smile “—his name is Brandon Marsh.”
“That’s sounds great, honey, hmm, Brandon Marsh,” I repeat carefully, as if I’m trying to place a vaguely familiar name. “Isn’t that the boy who’s in Paige’s science class?”
A small shadow crosses Molly’s face and she turns her back toward me to plunge a group of forks into the wire dishwasher basket, tines down. Some might argue that placed in that direction the forks could nest, running the risk of their not coming out clean, but in our family, we’re more concerned about nobody getting stabbed to death when they’re unloaded.
“So what if Brandon is in Paige’s science class?” Molly asks. “For once a boy likes me!”
“A boy likes you, what boy like you?” asks Paige, sauntering into the kitchen with one earplug dangling out of her iPod, obviously having heard only the last part of Molly’s declaration.
Molly and I lock eyes.
“Brandon Marsh likes me and we went on a date today and had cheeseburgers,” Molly says with a brazenness I haven’t heard in her voice before. Whether from inexperience or exuberance or a desperate attempt to mark dibs on this Marsh man, she puts Paige, who needs no provocation, on the offensive.
“Big deal,” Paige says, toying with the twist top on a package of English muffins. She opens the cellophane wrapping, fingers all of the muffins in the package so that no one else will want to eat them, and then reties the bag and puts it back in the bread basket. “So Brandon bought you a cheeseburger. Woo, woo, headline, let’s call the New York Times. Brandon buys sodas and French fries and salads and anything else they want for girls seven days a week. He’s a serial snack dater,” she says dismissively. “But Brandon and I have something deeper and more meaningful. He studies with me. We have an intellectual connection.”
At the thought of Brandon and Paige entering the Intel science contest—or even leaning on each other to get a C-plus—Molly lets out a whoop.
“I see,” she says, barely able to suppress a giggle. I would have thought Molly would shrink from competing with her sister, not to mention the news—news to me anyway—that this Brandon is a player. But far from it, she’s holding her ground. “You’re just jealous that a boy likes me and not you,” she says, pitching the last knife into the dishwasher with just a little too much verve.
“Jealous? Of you? I don’t think so. By the way, if you’re interested I heard about a new dandruff shampoo,” Paige says, walking by her twin and brushing some imaginary flakes off Molly’s sweater.
Molly swats away her sister’s hand and makes a show of sniffing. “And I heard about a new deodorant.”
“Girls, stop it, I won’t have you two fighting over some ridiculous boy.”
“He’s not ridiculous,” Molly snaps.
“And we’re not fighting. Fighting would mean that there’s a match of wills, a worthy opponent. You two think I’m the family idiot, but I pay more attention in my classes than you give me credit for. No, Molly and I aren’t fighting,” Paige says airily, plugging her iPod back into her ears as she makes an exit. “When it comes to who’ll be Brandon’s girlfriend there’s no contest.”
Nine
Afternoon Delight
A LOT CAN HAPPEN in a week, especially when you’re dealing with feuding daughters, a husband who’s working with a sexy neighbor, and two business partners who make the Energizer Bunny look like he’s on Quaaludes. Not to mention that in preparation for the Miss Subways reunion, my mother had sweet-talked Dr. Barasch into taking bodybuilding classes with her.
“I want to be ripped,” Naomi had explained at dinner the night before, describing the demanding weight-lifting regimen she’d signed up for, which would tax a person half her age. And then turning toward her seventy-two-year-old lover, my mother cooed, “Don’t you want to be ripped, Gordon?”
Molly broke into a spasm of giggles, spewing a mouthful of water onto the damask tablecloth. “Dr. Barasch in a Speedo?”
“With oil-slicked skin?” Paige laughed under her breath. Then she straightened her back and fixed her stare on Molly. “It’s not over,” she said darkly.
“Not by a long shot,” Molly answered, as the twins settled back into the stony silence that had descended like a storm cloud ever since they declared war over Brandon.
Ever since that fight my usually Chatty Cathys (who would absolutely kill me if they heard me call them that) have barely grunted at each other, except to record their progress in their battle for Brandon, the teenage heartthrob. They seem to have nabbed him for an equal number of lunches—two each—but being his lab partner gives Paige a tactical advantage. The green chalkboard in the kitchen has been turned into a scoreboard, tallying FACE TIME WITH BM. So far Paige’s exuberant “15!”—which she decorated with a circle of hearts and arrows—trumps Molly’s “9.” Not only have the twins been silent, but my motherly advice is falling on deaf ears. Neither wants to hear that no boy is more important than your sister—especially a boy who is toying with at least two girls. Who knows how many others this Clearasil-using Casanova has on the hook?
As for Peter, Naomi’s exercise regimen intrigued him. Of course these days he seems to be open to all kinds of new experiences.
Ever since my husband started working with the glamorous Tiffany Glass he’s been paying a lot more attention to his appearance—trading in his conservative pinstripes and knotted silk ties for open-necked shirts and slacks cut to flatter a muscular pair of thighs. Thoughtfully, oh so thoughtfully, whipped up by Tiffany’s personal tailor.
Peter says he’s dressing more fashionably because he’s in the beauty business now and clients expect to see him showing a little more pizzazz. A more mistrustful wife might argue that he’s showing all the classic signs of a married man who’s infatuated with someone other than his wife—a new wardrobe, an interest in shaping up, and a genial demeanor that borders on the unseemly. Last night Peter actually seemed to be enjoying Naomi’s company, which can only mean that his endorphin level is off the charts. But after my flash of insecurity the other day about him leaving, I made a decision—a very grown-up decision, I might add—not to let my imagination run wild. Tiffany isn’t a threat unless I let her be. And I plan to keep telling myself that and telling myself that and telling myself that until I genuinely believe it.
Still, for a man who used to feel naked in anything but a three-piece suit, last night Peter sounded suspiciously ready to start stripping down and slathering on the bronzer.
“Bodybuilding … sounds like something I might like to try,” Peter said, eschewing the chicken marsala on his plate to dig into a butterless serving of broccoli. “Did you know that before Arnold Schwarzenegger was the governor of California or The Terminator he was crowned Mr. Universe?” he asked the twins.
“The whatenator?” asked Paige, who was talking again, at least to us.
“The Terminator,” Peter said with an exaggerated sigh. “Can somebody tell me why we send you girls to that expensive private school?”
“What do you think about the bodybuilding classes, Tru?” my mother asked in an attempt to bring the focus of the conversation back to her.
“I guess that tightening your abs is more reasonable than tightening your pelvis. But it seems like an awful lot of effort to go through to get ready for a gathering of ex–beauty queens. Whatever makes you happy, Mom,” I said, and as the words left my mouth, I realized they sounded condescending.
“Happy? It’s not a matter of happy,” Naomi snapped. “It’s a matter of pride.” And then, as I reached for a second helping of mashed potatoes she added, “I guess you wouldn’t understand.”
But Naomi’s wrong. I do understand. I’m feeling very proud these days, although never in a million years would I tell my mother why.
Once we decided to go ahead with our plans to open the Veronica Agency, things moved quickly. The one (and probably only) good thing about the stock market crash is that it made it easy to find an office space at a rock-bottom rent—even if our requirements were unusual. Most new businesses are looking for a flashy building with a doorman, but given the nature of our work (and its illegality), we wanted an anonymous building with no one stationed in the lobby who might track the comings and goings of our employees or clients. As promised, Bill picked up the tab for all our initial expenses; if his projections are right, the agency should be able to pay him back in less than two months. We brought in desks from home and scored a Ligne Roset couch for half price at a showroom sale, and Sienna loaned us a deep burgundy and black Barnett Newman lithograph and a bust of Mozart to give the outer office a sophisticated air. The espresso machine was a splurge, but a good cup of coffee can be crucial to office morale. Even if for now “the office” is just the three of us.
Next we divvied up the workload. Bill will be vetting clients and overseeing the budget. I’m in charge of anything that has to do with our employees. And since everyone recognizes Sienna from TV—and we need to keep our identities anonymous—my famous friend will handle the company’s paperwork and make bank deposits. It took Verizon an extra two days from when they promised for us to get our phone and computer lines, but even that seems like a minor miracle in New York, a city known for its speedy pace except, ironically, when it comes to installing the Internet. Then at the end of last week, we took the step that’s going to turn our fantasy business into a reality, placing a discreet ad in the back of the Village Voice:
The Veronica Agency seeks attractive, articulate,
well-educated women over 40 for part-time work.
Knowledge of sports and finance helpful
but not a necessity.
We’ve already had more than a hundred responses.
I settle into the ergonomically correct chair that my two partners insisted we spring for. When I’d objected to the price, Bill had argued that the right chair keeps your neck muscles from getting all tense. And when Sienna added that it was a boon to your posture—that we’d look leaner in these chairs than if we were hunched over in some run-of-the-mill seat—I was sold. I’m just about to start calling job applicants, when I realize that I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to give away too much on the phone, but I don’t want a bunch of gals who are expecting to work in the library of a nunnery to show up for interviews, either.
Bill combs his fingers through his hair, which is no longer plagued by unruly tufts. I don’t know if, as some people say, love can help ward off the common cold, but it certainly seems to have tamed Bill’s cowlick.
“Tell them we’re looking for escorts,” Bill says, standing over Sienna and giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Charming, lovely, well-dressed women who would enjoy going out on the town with an attractive man.”
FRANKLY, GIVEN THE job description, I’m surprised that half the female members of eHarmony didn’t show up. Three days after we started screening applicants and having them email in their pictures, our office is crammed with possible candidates.
I look around the room. The thirty-five folding chairs we borrowed from the superintendant won’t be enough, I think, as I see all shapes and sorts of women—tall women, short women, women with button noses a
nd women with prominent cheekbones—scrambling for a place to sit. They pop Altoids, pull out pots of gloss and bullets of berry red lipsticks to freshen their color, and try to figure out what to do with their coats—some fold them onto their laps and others sling them over the backs of chairs. A redhead in the first row slips her arms out of a faux-rabbit jacket, crumples it up, and shoves the furry ball under her seat. As it nudges the woman behind her, the second woman lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.
“It’s a rat, it’s a rat!” she screams, running from the room.
“Works every time,” the redhead mutters, and as her prospective employer, I try to decide if her cunning is a pro or a con.
Bill summons the meeting to order and turns the floor over to me. Sienna’s working from home today and to be on the safe side, we’re even using aliases. Because we’re the Veronica Agency, Bill and Sienna have dubbed themselves Archie and Veronica, after the comic books. They’ve suggested that I could be Betty, the steadfast, less glamorous friend. But after years of being stuck with Truman, I’m picking my own name, thank you very much.
I stride to the front of the room. “Good afternoon, ladies, thank you for coming,” I say in the same poised voice I’ve used dozens of times to chair charity-event committees. “Let me introduce myself: I’m Anna Bovary.”
I admit it was an unusual choice. But can I help it if my two favorite heroines just happen to be Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary?
A lanky woman with an alligator purse in the front row puts her hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle. But the literary reference seems to have eluded the rest of my audience, who pepper me with questions about what the job pays, how many women we’ll be hiring. And oh yes, what exactly it is they’ll be doing.
The Best Laid Plans Page 10
