by Jane Porter
Thank goodness I’m focused and prepared, or Marta’s cynical smile would completely undo me. But I am prepared. I’ve put together binders with pertinent info for the new room parents, and I swiftly cover the auction goals and the room moms’ responsibilities.
“Our fund-raiser is significant,” I continue, “and the children’s class projects are one of our biggest ticket items, too. Parents actively bid on them, which leads to bidding wars, resulting in even more money for the school.”
I take a breath and glance around, checking to see if there are questions. There are none, so I press on. “If you aren’t familiar with our annual auction, we do the traditional ‘turn the auction into a party’ event, with great food and drink—with emphasis on drink as alcohol—playing a huge part in creating the right environment for active bidding—”
“How do you put an emphasis on alcohol?”
It’s Marta who has interrupted me, and I sit a moment, loathing her for having to make yet one more meeting confrontational. “I’m not sure I understand your question.”
She smiles with excessive politeness. “It’s a school event, and yet you’re pushing alcohol?”
I take in her mocking expression and smile back, every bit as polite. “We’re not pushing alcohol, we serve it, offering free cocktails when the guests first arrive during the silent auction hour and then switching to a cash bar once dinner begins.” My gaze meets hers and holds. “We want multiple bids on items, and if alcohol helps ‘juice’ the competitive nature of our moms and dads, more power to the bartender.”
I pause, stare at her, challenging her. If she wants to have another go at me, now is her chance. But she doesn’t say anything. I smile faintly. Taylor Young, five points. Marta Zinsser, none.
With the Monday committee meeting behind me, I’ve now got to get serious about finishing the book before tomorrow night’s book club meeting. But instead of reading The Glass Castle, I curl up in the chaise in my bedroom to pore over W magazine.
If I could, I’d be like one of the gorgeous golden girls featured in W. A New York or London It girl, one of those with long sleek hair and endless legs who wear fitted slacks and slim jeans paired with Manolo Blahniks or Jimmy Choos. I want the effortless grace of Tory Burch, Brooke de Ocampo, Cosima Pavoncelli. I want effortless grace. I want control.
I have no control.
Disgusted with myself, I drop W and reach for the newest issue of O, the Oprah Magazine. I always feel guilty for reading W, Town & Country, and Vanity Fair. I never feel guilty reading Oprah, though. Oprah’s good for me. Oprah’s determined to save women. Not from men, but from ourselves.
But after I’ve spent ten minutes leafing through O, my conscience gets to me again.
I’m supposed to be finishing the book. I have to read the book. Dammit.
One day later I’m still in my room, struggling to finish the novel and prepare for hosting the group.
Who would have ever thought that book club would be stressful? When I joined two years ago, I’d imagined interesting conversations among relaxed friends. Instead, book club freaks me out. It’s not enough to read the book. I’ve got to get online and research what all the critics are saying, including positive and negative consumer reviews. I need not just the Amazon reviews, but those from the Seattle Times, the Los Angeles Times, and the San Francisco Chronicle.
I don’t even like most of the books we pick. They’re dark and sometimes so damn boring that I can barely plow my way through the paragraphs.
Every now and then, I just wish we could read something fun. A Jennifer Weiner novel. Jane Green.
Nancy Drew.
I pick up the book with its murky vintage photograph cover. It’s the newest big hit. It’s being read by everyone, and of course there is terrible suffering and loss. A book club book wouldn’t be a book club pick if it wasn’t achingly poignant or heartrendingly bittersweet.
I toss the book back down and head to my closet, feeling crabby all the way to my bones. I’m just so damn tired of trying so hard. So damn tired of trying to keep it all together—not just me, but Nathan and the girls, too.
Nathan’s home early, and he’s promised to take the girls out so we can have the house to ourselves for the book group tonight.
“What’s wrong, honey?” he asks, catching sight of me standing motionless in our walk-in closet.
“I don’t know what to wear.” I’m wearing just a bra and thong as I face the rows and rows of clothes. “Nothing I ever wear is right, either.”
“Taylor, you’re always impeccably put together.”
“And it’s so much work. I’m sick of it.”
“Don’t let your book club do this to you. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Monica says I never read the book.”
“Do you read the book?”
“Yes! Maybe once in the entire last year I didn’t finish it, but I still participated. I still did the research. I tried.”
“So don’t let her upset you. Monica’s in competition with you. She has been ever since you first met.”
He’s right, but it’s small comfort when Monica will be holding court in my living room in less than an hour.
I reach for Roberto Cavalli animal-print jeans and his silky black fitted blouse. With the right shoes and my hair drawn back into a smooth ponytail low on my nape, I hope I’ll strike the appropriate note for discussing yet another tortured, dysfunctional American family where dad drinks too much and mom takes to bed and no one protects the children.
“God, Taylor, you always look so amazing,” Suze exclaims as I greet her at the door sixty-some minutes later.
I kiss cheek-cheek with Suze and then Jen, who have arrived together. They’re Medina moms, not that that’s such a big deal, but last year when we had the whole kindergarten fiasco, quite a few of the Points moms weren’t talking to the Lakes moms. Fortunately, everyone’s moved on to other things, and the kindergartners in question survived and are now happily well-adjusted first graders.
Nathan and the girls haven’t left yet, so Nathan’s uncorking wine and pouring drinks. After Jen and Suze, Ellen arrives. Ellen is an Atlanta transplant who lived in New York before the South and brings her East Coast edge with her.
After Ellen, it’s Patti, Raine, and then Monica close behind. Kate and Lucy also show up at the same time, and I wonder if they’ve driven here together. Lucy looks as though she’s been crying, and Kate keeps her close at her side. Two more women arrive—prospective members?—and they’re talking animatedly as they drop their purses and books on chairs and then head for the appetizers and wine.
I’m in charge of the main course, Jen has appetizers, Patti dessert, and Kate has wine.
The appetizers are a tad ethnic for my taste. I was raised on the best of the 1950 cookbook—hot crab dip, artichoke-and-spinach dip, chilled shrimp and cocktail sauce—but Jen has brought Thai spring rolls and other vegetarian dishes.
“What are we drinking?” one of the women asks, dipping a spring roll in sauce.
“Pinot Gris, Columbia Valley, Château Ste. Michelle,” Kate answers, flashing the bottle’s label. “Bill and I have really been into this wine this summer. This and rosé—”
“Rosé?” Monica repeats, scandalized.
“It’s making a comeback,” Kate answers calmly, filling another glass. “Rosé is really hot right now.”
“I can’t see Bill drinking rosé,” Monica protests.
“You’re thinking of those Gallo jugs you used to buy in your twenties. But rosé’s gone upscale. It’s a perfect wine for the summer.”
“I like Muscat for summer entertaining,” adds Raine, reaching for one of the tomato slices. “Or a late harvest Riesling.”
“Gewürztraminer if you’re serving Indian food,” Monica answers, jumping right back into the middle of the discussion. Monica can’t stand being less than an authority on everything.
God, I wish I liked her better.
“Suze, wine?” Kate asks
, lifting the bottle.
“No. Can’t.” Tall, blond, gorgeous Suze grimaces. “I’m in the middle of a detox cleansing. Just water and green tea for the next forty-eight hours.”
“You’re kidding.” Ellen stares at Suze agog. “Just water and green tea?”
“There are some natural herbal supplements, too. And then on the last day you get a series of colonic treatments. Positively life changing.”
“What is it supposed to do?” Lucy asks uneasily.
“Recharges your metabolism and makes your skin look and feel fantastic. Afterwards I just glow.”
Monica nods. “I’ve read about them quite a bit but didn’t know anyone who actually did them.”
“Oh yes, there are quite a few of us in the area who do the detox and colonic cleansings. But it’s not something you talk about at parties, if you know what I mean.”
I do. I’m disgusted. As much as I wrestle with my weight and body image, I can’t imagine having anyone squirt anything up my backside.
“Why don’t we move into the living room?” I suggest, ready for a change of subject.
Unfortunately, the self-improvement topic follows us to the couches and chairs, but Monica finally wrestles the book into the conversation and for the next hour holds court on agonizingly boring literary comparisons and useless literary theories.
Finally, the book has been discussed as much as it can be by women who have consumed numerous glasses of wine.
Now it’s the tricky part of book club: scheduling the next month’s meeting. Once upon a time we had a fixed schedule, but that proved impossible with the crazy demands on us.
“How about the first Thursday of October?” I suggest, my BlackBerry calendar open.
“Uh, Boy Scout pack meeting,” Jen answers, looking up from her BlackBerry. “What about Wednesday, the day before?”
“There’s a Little Door parent education class,” Monica answers, her pen poised above her appointment book.
A wrinkle forms between Kate’s brows. “You still attend parent education classes?”
“The school brings in top-notch speakers and specialists to discuss hot topics,” Monica answers, nose lifting slightly with her ever-present superiority. She has two kids, and they attend different schools. “We’re discussing bullying.”
“God, that topic’s been done to death,” Jen mutters.
Either Monica doesn’t hear her or she chooses not to respond. Jen attended Harvard and is one of the only moms Monica defers to.
I hear the garage door open. Nathan’s home. We definitely need to get the next meeting scheduled before the girls come in. “How about Tuesday of that week or Thursday the following week?”
“Thursday the following week would work for me,” Raine says.
“Me too,” Patti agrees.
“It’s a busy day for me, but I think I could do it, too,” Suze answers.
“Look at your day!” Monica squeals, catching a glimpse of Suze’s calendar. “Hair, hair, facial, wax, wax, pedicure, manicure, massage? You’re kidding, right?”
Suze’s lips curve wryly. “It is a long day, but Jefferson loves it, especially the after-the-wax results.”
“How much do you wax?” Raine asks curiously.
Suze’s slim, straight shoulders lift and fall, her long hair a perfect streak of pale gold. “All of it. Jefferson likes me bare and baby smooth.”
“And how often do you get it done?”
“Every four to six weeks.”
Raine points to Suze’s crown. “What about that hair?”
“Every four weeks on the dot.”
“Pedicure and manicure?”
“Every two weeks.” Suze, seeing the wide eyes, laughs. “I wouldn’t do it, or be able to afford it, if it didn’t mean so much to Jefferson. He loves me to be groomed.”
“Groomed, yes,” Ellen answers with a faint frown, “but that’s . . . that’s . . . some serious time at the salon and spa.”
Suze glances around. “But don’t you all get your hair colored and blown out every three or four weeks?”
Most of us murmur agreement.
“And nails? Come on, I know we all get regular pedicures. I’ve seen your toes all summer!”
Patti sighs. “I’d do more massages if I could. Facials do nothing for me, but massages . . . Ah. Heaven.”
“God, I’d pay for a happy ending, too,” Ellen whispers with a wicked quirk of her lips. “I don’t know if it’s being in my mid-thirties, but I’m revved up all the time. Unfortunately, Mark’s not interested. I suppose having just me in his bed for the past eighteen years has dulled his appetite considerably.”
“It’s the stress of the job,” Jen says with a shake of her head even as she puts her hand on Ellen’s forearm. “Anthony is so tense all the time. The only time he wants sex is when we’re on vacation.”
Heads nod. “Vacations make sex new,” Kate agrees.
“Hotel rooms make it new.” Suze giggles. “This summer when we were at the house in Canon Beach—” She breaks off abruptly, her gaze fixed to Lucy’s face.
We all turn and look at Lucy. Her lips are slightly parted. Her expression is stricken. She looks as though she’s being skinned alive.
Swiftly I go over the conversation. What could have upset her? And then I realize: sex, husbands, and hotel rooms.
Just then my attention’s caught by Nathan’s shadow in the hall. He’s directing the girls up the stairs to their rooms.
“We’ll meet Thursday, then,” Ellen says quickly. “Jen, it’s your turn to host, right? And Raine, your book pick. Have you selected a title, or will you let us know by e-mail?”
“I’m still trying to decide,” Raine says, clicking her pen. “I’ll send out an e-mail and let you know sometime this weekend.”
“Great!” Patti answers with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. She closes her minicalendar and slides it back into her purse. “I look forward to the next meeting, and now I better get home. I promised Don I’d help tuck the kids into bed.”
Everyone’s on her feet, quickly gathering purses and books before giving hugs and kisses, and then in one big group they’re out the door and heading for their cars.
As the front door closes, Nathan comes back down the stairs. “How did it go?” he asks.
My shoulders lift. “Good. I guess.” I glance toward the door and picture Lucy’s silent agony. “I think Lucy’s having a hard time, though. I should call her. Make sure she’s all right.”
“You should.”
I’m about to turn away when I suddenly remember the Welcome Coffee and my conversation with Amelia. “I met someone last week, Nathan, at the Welcome Coffee. She said her husband works with you. Christopher. He’s apparently a vice president at McKee, too.”
Nathan’s expression is blank. “What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know. They moved from L.A. I guess they’ve been up here a while, but until recently they lived on the Plateau.”
Nathan shrugs, heads up the stairs. “Don’t know, hon.”
“Well, find out. If the girls are going to be in the same class next year, it might be good to get to know them better. Have them over for dinner or drinks.”
He mumbles assent, and I follow him up the stairs, turning out the lights as I go.
I tuck in each of the girls and then wash my face, doing the nightly skin repair routine before climbing into bed. Nathan’s not reading tonight. His light is already out. I turn out my light and curl up next to him, but he’s asleep and doesn’t respond.
Lying there in the dark, I see Lucy’s face. No matter how hard I try, I can’t make it go away. I see her eyes, the open lips like a silent scream, and I shiver.
How horrible to be so alone, so naked.
Chapter Five
It’s Tuesday morning one week later, and tonight’s Back-to-School Night. I’m giving one of the welcoming speeches, which means I’ve woken up feeling as though I’ve already drunk ten cups of coffee even
though I’m still lying in bed.
Things are good, I tell myself. I’m doing good. No need to stress. I just need to relax.
I wish I knew why I have such a hard time relaxing. It’s almost as if I’m afraid something bad will happen if I’m not constantly in control.
Voices waft from downstairs. From what I can hear, Nathan’s in the kitchen trying to get the girls to eat their breakfast. He’s usually patient with them, but unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be one of those days, and Tori—or is it Brooke?—begins to wail.
Grimacing, I pull on the nearest thing I can find—my Juicy tracksuit—as I think about my day. I’m supposed to meet Patti at noon to discuss the auction and the auction chair meeting scheduled for next week. I’d normally have yard duty, but I traded with another mom so I could meet with Patti. The morning’s more or less free, and I consider taking an exercise class. I need some exercise.
In the walk-in closet, I glance at myself in the full-length mirror. In my tracksuit I look fine, but the soft fabric can hide the truth, so I pull up the jacket and pull down the bottoms, exposing my stomach, hips, and boobs. I do this almost every day. Sometimes what I see is okay, sometimes I can see only ugliness, can see only where my waist might be thick and how I’m slightly round across my stomach where I know it should be flat.
Now I touch my stomach, try to suck it in even more, looking for definition, turning to the side to check my width.
The most fashionable women, the truly stylish women, are all thin. Every month when my new issue of Town & Country comes, I leaf through “Parties” to see if I know anyone. And to see if I look better than anyone.
I don’t like that I do this. But I’m so afraid that if I don’t keep on top of the situation, of me, I won’t matter.
Usually all the couples in “Parties” are well-known, society staples and celebrity faces, and nearly every woman looks like a greyhound that’s just come from a spa. Their skin is taut and glowing, and they’re all racehorse thin. But every now and then one woman looks a little bigger, sturdier, than the rest of the stick figures in their couture gowns, and I breathe a little sigh of relief—I’m not that fat!—even as I feel a prick of pity that she’s not as skinny. Privately, I don’t understand this preoccupation with weight and figures. I never even think twice about the men in the “Parties” pictures. It’s a nonissue if a man is stout in his tux, or narrow through the shoulder, or thinning at the scalp. Men don’t have to be model perfect. Men just have to be men.
