“No, you’re not going to buy anything here, Imogen. But you can look. You can buy stuff here when you’re older.”
“But Cassandra’s buying stuff.”
Sylvie turned and there was Cassandra, merrily putting stuff on hold at the register. Sylvie suddenly felt utterly without interest in lingerie. What she wished she could do was go home and bake more cupcakes. She looked down at Imogen, standing there with the whip. Just think. If the lemonade stand took off, she wouldn’t have to babysit little brats like this anymore.
Somebody’s phone started ringing. “Oh, it’s Edward!” Cassandra exclaimed, all aflutter at the thought of him, and stepped outside to take the call. When she returned, she sighed and said, “I’m so disappointed.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, Edward’s coming to town this weekend and of course we’ll be staying at the Harvard Club, but—”
“This weekend? But I need you to work the lemonade stand, Cassandra.”
For ten dollars an hour? Cassandra thought of asking her, knowing full well that Sylvie expected her to do it for free.
“Oh, get Gala to do it. The sight of her is good for foot traffic, right? Just make sure she wears that cheesy American Apparel dress again. I can’t stand those dresses! They’re, like, the death of elegance, if you ask me.”
But nobody did ask you, Sylvie was thinking.
“Gala’s hot!” said Imogen.
“I’m not sure,” said Cassandra, “that I approve of little girls using words like hot. There’s something objectifying about it.”
“But you approve of taking them to lingerie stores?” Sylvie chimed in.
“Well, you’re her babysitter. We didn’t have to come here if you suddenly thought it was so inappropriate.”
“Can’t you get Edward to come another weekend?”
“No, he has some important meeting at the Harvard Club, is the thing. But I’m so upset because, get this! The old rooms are all booked, so we have to stay in one of the modern ones.”
“And the problem is…?”
“The old rooms have four-poster beds, see. The modern ones don’t.”
“So?”
“Well, I just love being tied to a four-poster…”
“Oh, Good Lord.”
“How does that work?” Imogen wanted to know. “How do you tie someone to a bed? Can you teach me how to do it, Cassandra? Can you? There are a bunch of beds at our house. We have five stories.”
“Oh, we just use ties,” said Cassandra, not missing a beat. “Edward’s ties. They’re beautiful. He has very nice clothes. Very classic, you know.”
“Like my daddy’s ties?”
“I guess.” Cassandra now remembered all of a sudden that she was talking to a seven-year-old. “I’m just going to buy these garter belts and then we can get going.”
“What’s a garden belt?”
“Garter belt, Francesca my friend, garter belt.”
“Is it like a garden snake? That would be funny.”
“No, it’s more like—” Sylvie sighed and held her head in her hands. “Come on, Imogen, let’s get out of this place.”
“My whip!” wailed Imogen, refusing to let it go. She was having sparkling visions of using it to boss other little girls around on the playground.
“Oh, my God!”
“What now?”
“Would you look at that lavender baby doll! The sheer one, over there! Hold on a second. I think I just have to have that.”
“You already have—”
“Oh, but Sylvie! Edward just loves me in lavender.”
“I would get it in black instead,” advised Imogen knowledgeably, putting down the whip with great sorrow and reluctance but figuring that her birthday was coming up and she’d ask her parents to buy it for her then. “Black looks hot on blondes, and anyway, if you get it in black it’ll make you look thinner.” She smiled. “Cassie.”
CHAPTER 24
Three days later.
“Well, would you get a load of this?” Sylvie, on the phone to Cassandra.
“What?” Cassandra was packing her orange suitcase, en route to meet Edward at the Harvard Club in midtown. Gently she folded the lavender baby doll, imagining his capable, manly hands peeling the sheer fabric right off of her helpless, prone body.
“I’m outside, I should go back in soon. But get this. And it’s all your fault, too! Megan”—Megan was Quinn and Imogen’s mother—“just had this talk with me in the kitchen, because, get this, she walked in on Imogen tying Quinn to the bedpost the other night. And what do you think she was using to tie him up? Her father’s ties!”
“That’s kind of brilliant, actually.”
“Brilliant? This is your reaction?”
“Well, I’ve never liked the kid. She’s a bitch. But you have to admit. She’s very precocious.”
“Jesus. You can just imagine the conversation I had with Megan. It was hilarious, because you could tell she was horrified but didn’t want to act too, too horrified because then it would look like she’s uptight about sex and no liberal Brooklyn mother wants that. But actually, I don’t think they have that much sex anymore.”
“Who?”
“Megan and Dan. I see them, when they get home. I think they’re too tired.”
“Do you think Clementine’s parents still have sex?”
“Not so much.”
“Do you think any of the parents you babysit for have sex anymore?”
“Well. Being around kids so much has practically killed my libido, and I’m just the nanny. I get to go home. They don’t.”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t know, though. Clementine’s parents have only one kid, so that probably makes it a little easier to find time to have sex. But only a little.”
“Oh! By the way. I just love what they did with that place in Bed-Stuy.”
“Yeah, they bought that when you could get, like, unbelievable deals on some of those amazing old brownstones there. They have great taste, too.”
“Megan and Dan, not so much.”
“No, not so much. You know, this whole tying-people-up thing reminded me. This one time at a Bennington alumni event—”
“Where was this?” Cassandra was anxious to know, feeling pre-emptively jealous in case she had missed out on it on account of still living in Boston at the time, which was distinctly possible.
“The Salmagundi Club. I went with Gala, I remember. We only went because of the open bar. Also, because of the coke.”
“Wait, there was coke there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s entirely possible. People could have been doing it in the bathroom, I guess.”
“Isn’t that always the way?” said Cassandra nostalgically, not that she had ever actually done coke herself, but she had plenty of memories of walking in on people doing it in college and then turning away from them, befuddled.
“Yes, but, I just meant that we went to the event in order to get a coke connection. Gala had the name of some dealer who was supposed to have really good stuff.”
“Okay, but. Why are you telling me all this?”
“Oh right, because while Gala was talking to the dealer, I was talking to his girlfriend, I remember, and! This is what I wanted to tell you, Cassandra. They graduated in the nineties and after college what she did was move out to LA and work as a dominatrix. She made a ton of money doing that, she said. In fact, between that and what with her boyfriend being a drug dealer, they had enough money saved a couple of years after graduation to buy their own house in Laurel Canyon!”
“And the moral of the story is…?”
“Sex sells! That must be the moral of the story, I guess.”
“That’s a very old moral, you know. World’s oldest profession and all that.”
“The point is,” said Sylvie, regaining ground, “the point is, there’s your plan B, Cassandra. Assuming you have a plan A to speak of, which I’m not convinced you do. You don’t even have a job. But that’s anot
her story.”
Because you’re not actually going to marry Edward, Sylvie was thinking. You’re going to fuck it up. Our friends know us better than we ourselves do and are capable of predicting our fates accordingly.
“Me? A dominatrix?”
“No, no, not a dominatrix, that would be ridiculous. I think Gala should become a dominatrix and you should become a, what do you call it, submissive.”
“Gala already has a job.”
“Oh, come on. Would you wish working in a gallery in Dumbo on your worst enemy? It doesn’t pay anything and she’s pretty much just a receptionist and anyway she’s already slept with most of the artists they represent, so she’s getting bored.”
“Sylvie. You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am. I’ve always said you were a natural masochist, Cassandra. And not just sexually either! On all fronts.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You ought to think about it. You ought to think about something. Do you have a plan B?”
“I guess not,” Cassandra admitted.
“Cassandra.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking. If things get really desperate”—not that she believed they ever would—“I could always pawn my great-grandmother’s wedding silver.”
Her grandmother had just passed it down to her with great fanfare, now that there was this most respectable man, Edward, in the picture, and drawing the conclusion, as Cassandra herself did, that their engagement would be announced any day now.
“Wedding silver? Wedding silver? That’s, like, a practically prewar concept.”
“But Sylvie. This stuff is gorgeous. Trust me. It weighs a ton.”
“So what, Cassandra? It’s silver. Silver. Nobody uses that shit anymore.”
“They don’t?”
“Do you? In case you haven’t noticed, we barely have a roll of paper towels in our apartment, let alone silver…Silver! I ask you.”
“But Sylvie! It’s really beautiful.”
“This isn’t Cambridge, Cassandra. This isn’t Brattle Street. You can’t just dawdle along. This is New York City! Also, it’s the twenty-first century and so far, the twenty-first century sucks. Believe me. Everybody needs a plan B!”
“Well. Louis Hawksworth is in town this week and he’s always good for two or three square meals, tops. I always have breakfast with him at that gentleman’s club he stays at in the West Fifties, remember, a full, proper breakfast with this really great crispy bacon they have, and then there’s this fancy dinner he’s taking me to at the American Academy of—”
“Louis Hawksworth? Is he still alive, that guy?” There came a memory of the War and Peace course she’d once taken with him, not that she’d actually read it, and how, instead of talking about the book, he’d gone totally silent for long spells at a time while gazing out the windows of the classroom at the deer grazing in the meadows. Dementia setting in, Sylvie had thought at the time.
“Oh, he’s blind as a bat, but not dead yet. I don’t think. Actually, he gave me this piece of advice I’ve been thinking about. He said, ‘Cassandra, the next time you find yourself in a cab with a man and you want to get out of paying the fare, just ask the driver to stop and get out and then, just before you walk away, lightly tap the palm of your date’s hand to your breast and say good night. You’ll get out of paying the fare and he’ll be dreaming about you all night long.’ He said some chick did that to him in Greenwich Village in the fifties and he’s never gotten over her.”
“In the fifties, Cassandra. That could only ever have worked in the fifties. Nowadays, nowadays the guy would expect you to go Dutch and then afterward he’d feel entitled to a blow job, just because!”
“Oh, by the way, Sylvie. Speaking of Bennington people. Pansy Chapin and I are meeting up for drinks at J.G. Melon tomorrow.”
“You would have to go uptown, for her.” At this point in her life, Sylvie went uptown under no circumstances and into Manhattan under very few.
“Oh, but I just love the Upper East Side. It’s so classical.”
“You would. Edward must be rubbing off on you, I guess. Has he ever even been to Brooklyn, that guy?”
“Edward? Brooklyn? Probably not. Has Pansy, do you think?”
“No!”
The girls laughed and then Cassandra said: “Actually. It doesn’t really matter because I’m not going to do it, but Pansy asked me if I wanted to go in on getting this apartment with her next month. She says she found this amazing place on Seventy-Ninth and Second but can’t afford it without a roommate and it’s too adorable to pass up.”
“Wait, I thought she was engaged to some hedge-fund guy.”
“No, another broken engagement, would you believe it? Poor Pansy.”
“Oh, poor Pansy me! She’ll have another rich boyfriend in, like, two weeks from now.”
“It’s too bad, though.”
“Cassandra! You feel bad for Pansy Chapin?”
“Well, I always did like her. I remember how our junior year, she taught me all about these sex positions that actually work in the shower. Before I talked to Pansy, I could never get the hang of that.”
“Oh, please.”
“What I meant was, no offense, but it’s kind of too bad I’m living with you already. Pansy has great taste. And some amazing mid-century modern furniture from her grandmother. The last time I saw her, she gave me those really great hand-me-down pillows I have on my bed? The olive green satin ones? Remember? I’ve always just loved the way that olive green looks with pink…”
“Pansy Chapin, Pansy Chapin! I’m sick of the name. This is the girl who once told me that the only good reason to go to Bennington is to have something interesting to talk about at cocktail parties on Fifth Avenue later on.”
“So? And what is a good reason to go to Bennington? Damned if I know.”
Shower sex, Sylvie was thinking as she hung up the phone. When Cassandra said that, there had swept over her a memory of how this boy she had been in love with—was it Jasper or Angus or Bertram or Max?—once hoisted her tiny body in his arms and up against the wall of the shower in order to make love to her. The water pressure in Sylvie’s bathroom was weak but the light celestial. Even now, so many years later, she could still recall the lavender-honey softness of that light, not to mention the feel of her silky warm flesh in his arms.
Was this what Cassandra felt with Edward? she wondered. And then, suddenly, it occurred to Sylvie that she couldn’t bear to ask her; that she didn’t even want to know the answer.
It occurred to her that Cassandra was becoming more and more like a stranger to her these days, and that she didn’t even care.
CHAPTER 25
The following weekend, while Cassandra was off at the Harvard Club being tied to a four-poster (one of the old-fashioned rooms had become available to her and Edward at the last moment after all), Sylvie continued to rake in money at the lemonade stand. It was a beautiful, warm Saturday and Fort Greene was full of young couples and parents with children and even Manhattanites, who kept reading in the Styles section that Brooklyn was now paradise on earth and were curious to go and check it out. Sylvie’s lemonade stand was just the kind of charming, scrappy little touch they were hoping to see and they were delighted to give her their business. A couple of them even asked Sylvie if they could buy the gray velveteen tablecloth, but Sylvie, realizing that it had value, was determined to hold on to it.
Gala hadn’t been able to make it to the lemonade stand either, being too hungover. So Sylvie got Hannah, the nanny of that little boy Julius, to help out. Hannah was plain and therefore unlikely to attract foot traffic like Gala or even Cassandra. But she had something that neither of them did: a work ethic. Sylvie made a note to keep using Hannah as long as she could; even better, she had done it for free and Sylvie saw no reason to bring up the subject of paying her before Hannah did.
On Saturday night, with Edward dozing beside her in the four-poster, Cassandra texted Sylvie:
OMG. PRO
FESSOR SOBEL JUST INVITED ME TO HAVE DINNER AT LE BERNARDIN. ACCEPT?
Sylvie to Cassandra:
WHAT THE HELL IS LE BERNARDIN? IS IT EXPENSIVE?
Cassandra to Sylvie:
FAMOUS AND FRENCH. DEFINITELY EXPENSIVE.
Sylvie to Cassandra:
I GUESS YOU CAN LET HIM FUCK YOU IF IT’S REALLY THAT EXPENSIVE.
Sylvie googled Le Bernardin from her BlackBerry and was pleased to discover that it was a famous fish restaurant. Sylvie loved fish and almost never got the chance to eat it because it was so expensive. She’d have to ask Cassandra to remember to bring her a doggie bag.
On Monday night, Cassandra was wheeling her orange suitcase back into the apartment, only to realize that Sylvie was already in there smoking a joint. Oh dear, thought Cassandra, and it occurred to her with a pang of guilt that she wished Sylvie weren’t home tonight. She just wanted to take a shower and unpack and relax. But here was Sylvie, and with a certain zesty sharpness in her eyes that was getting all too familiar. Not even marijuana could soften the edges of her, these days.
“Cassandra! Guess what? I got my first investor! Toby is giving me five thousand dollars!”
“Toby?”
“This kid I know from Cooper Union. He’s a green architect. Maybe you haven’t met him yet. Anyway. I know him only because he used to sleep with Gala, but he has a crush on me now and he’s one of the only people I know who has a real, adult job and any money at all to speak of. I talked to him today and got him all excited about Clementine’s Picnic.”
“What?”
“Clementine’s Picnic. We discussed that being the name of the lemonade stand. That’s what I’m calling it now! My business. After all! Clementine is my good luck charm.”
“Yeah, I just didn’t realize it was so official all of a sudden. Wait. Did you say he was giving you five thousand dollars?”
“Yeah! He’s super into the environment, so I think the whole local foods angle got him. And it helped when I said I’d pose for the calendar, I think.” Sylvie laughed.
“What calendar?” asked Cassandra, thinking to herself: Local foods? Sylvie bought the ingredients for her cupcakes at the Target at Atlantic Center.
Bennington Girls Are Easy Page 12
