Plan C

by Lois Cahall

  Chapter Eight

  The little Italian restaurant is bustling with CEOs, moguls, mistresses, fashion designers, skinny bitches and newscasters. Some are seated inside and some outside under an awning which gives the place the faux-feel of a Roman trattoria - quaint, traditional, slightly euro-trash. Everybody comes here to be seen and heard.

  My cell rings, and I struggle to find it in my purse, between my wallet and keys. “Hello?”

  “I see you,” says Kitty. “I’m over here, near the window. I’m the one who looks like Kitty Morgan, only older.”

  “Very funny,” I say, stretching my neck to find her. The hostess approaches me with a warm welcome.

  “Hi” I say, flashing my big, white, toothy grin. “I’m meeting my friend. She’s the beautiful one near the window.”

  The hostess chuckles and grabs a menu from the rack. We head “right this way” to Kitty, who’s flagging me down while at the same time scrolling on her Blackberry. I wave with the enthusiasm of a high school teen whose best friend has reserved us a spot in the cafeteria.

  “Hi dah-link!” I say to sound fake on purpose, but instead plant a very real kiss on her lips. No air-kissing for me. “Gosh, I thought we’d be the only two people eating lunch at three o’clock. This place is still packed.”

  “How are you?” she asks. “Better than me, I’m sure. I can’t take these damn hot flashes anymore.” She fans herself with a menu. “I used to sweat over Johnny Depp. Now I just sweat.”

  “Okay, you got me to lunch…”

  “Yeah, sure, at practically dinner hour…” Kitty notices me noticing the full glass of wine at my place setting. “I took it upon myself to order you a nice sauvignon blanc,” she says, still scrolling her Blackberry.

  “Kitty, you know I don’t drink during the day.”

  “Why the hell not?” she says. “Wine improves with age. I improve with wine.”

  “Can you stop Twittering or whatever you’re doing and tell me about this artist, what’s his name…,” I say, placing my hand over her scrolling hand, forcing her to stop.

  “I don’t tweet, and I told you, his name is Helmut and he’s going to be huge!” she snaps, moving from one addiction to another – her wine glass. “Nobody believes me. You’ll see for yourself. I’m throwing his first multimedia show at the gallery Friday night. You’ll be there. Bring Ben.”

  “If he can. He may have the twins. But I’ll come. Right after my interview.”

  “What interview?”

  “Talbots is hiring.”

  “Talbots? The clothing store? What are you, your mother?”

  “No. My mother’s dead. But aren’t we all our mothers?”

  “But Talbots?”

  “Look, Kitty, freelance writing is so inconsistent, and the TV station is cutting back…”

  “Yes, I know, but Talbots?” she insists. “Gucci, okay.” And then thinking twice: “Unless you can get me clothes at cost.”

  “Like you’d wear their clothes – even if they were free.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t wear them now. But I’d store them in the back of a closet. Wear them in twenty years. They’ll be vintage then, like me.”

  “Kitty, I have to take this job. I need a little spending money for these therapy lunches.”

  “Okay, but can’t you just slip on the ice outside of Talbots and then sue the company?”

  “Kitty!”

  Kitty pats my hand. “Honey, how much do you need. Fifty? A hundred bucks? What?”

  I shrug.

  “You know, there used to be only two things in life that annoyed me. Now there are three,” says Kitty. “The first is people who lean on the horn in city traffic. I mean, if the car in front of you could move, he would! He’s not sitting there playing with himself at the wheel just to piss you off!”

  “And two?”

  “Thirty-year-old movie stars that tell us ‘how to stay in shape,’” she says, making quotation marks in the air. For God’s sake, when you’re thirty you don’t need a diet. You can eat anything. Ask Susan Sarandon how she maintains her figure. I don’t want to hear it from Lindsay Lohan.” Kitty goes to gulp at her wine but the glass is empty. She signals the waiter, snapping her fingers like a deranged drunk. “GarCON!!!” He’s making his way toward us, albeit slowly. In the meantime, I discreetly slide my glass of wine in front of her. She starts sipping.

  “Do I dare ask number three…” I say.

  “It used to be guys who wear Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks with colored socks,” says Kitty. “Now it’s ex-wives who suck alimony.”

  “Then I better not tell you how Ben’s ex just got back from summer camp over Labor Day.”

  “Isn’t she a little old for camp?”

  “She was picking up the twins. Rosemary spent $5,000 this summer to send them to camp.”

  “What the hell does a kid get at a $5,000 summer camp?

  “Vodka and a lap dance?”

  “Then I should send my husband, the Brit!”

  “You’re funny,” I say.

  “You know the Brit pays alimony, too.”

  “He does?” I’m stunned. “Wait, your Clive was married?”

  “To some pop tart in the mother country.” She tackles the next glass of wine, which the waiter has barely set on the table. My glass, half full, has become her backup plan. “His ex is some washed-up go-go dancer. A real bumpkin.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, and she collects so much paper she makes trees disappear!”

  “Okay, but we can’t brood,” I say gently. “It is what it is. We have to accept, adjust and tolerate the situation.”

  “What are you, the Dalai Lama’s love child? Why are you always so happy?”

  “Humor is the new sexy.”

  Kitty rolls her eyes and downs her entire glass.

  “Look,” I say, “The law dictates men have to give these ex-wives ‘x’ amount in alimony…”

  “But it doesn’t dictate they have to take it!” says Kitty, a little too loudly. The whole restaurant turns. “Let me tell you something, kiddo. Alimony keeps a woman in a stuck position. It’s basically welfare. The only difference is that one woman takes from the government and one takes from an ex-husband.”

  “It’s the inverse of welfare,” I say. “It’s called hell fare.”

  “Why is it that the system sets it up to extract from the giver, not the taker? I don’t get it,” says Kitty. “Clive worked for a corporation for twenty years, but when it was over they didn’t hand him a paycheck for the next twenty years. Why should you get paid for a job you’re no longer doing?”

  “Well, forget about her,” I say, guzzling my ice water. “All I know is that I don’t want to end up one of those women who stay in a relationship because of money either.” Fear creeps into my voice as I swallow. “You know how many women are in relationships because they can’t afford to get out? Or because they get in over their head? The statistics are staggering…”

  “Oh, please. Ben’s lucky to have you. You do everything for him. Hell, you put fresh cucumber slices in his water pitcher.”

  The waiter interrupts to see if we’re ready to actually order food to go with the third glass of wine. He methodically runs through a list of specials that we aren’t going to eat anyway. Not that Kitty’s listening. She’s on her Blackberry again, scrolling like a mad woman.

  “What was the fish special again?” I ask the waiter.

  He assumes a very solid stance and speaks as though he’s auditioning for “Hamlet.” “Dover sole filleted and doused in a lemon beurre blanc before being sautéed in a delicate array of vegetables ever so lightly charred.”

  Call me crazy, but Dover sole fillet just isn’t for lunch. It should be reserved for a big production like The Last Supper. In New York City lunch is a big deal. Even a burger has to have some signature chef’s name attached so the price tag can be $75. I just want a clam roll with tartar sauce. And a nap. But this ain’t Kansas anymore and it
ain’t Cape Cod, either. Come to think of it, last time Kitty and I stopped for ice cream on our way to Cape Cod they asked her if she wanted “jimmies” and she said, “No, I don’t want Jimmy’s. I want my own damn ice cream!” I had to remind her that “jimmies” is Boston slang for “sprinkles.” They go on the ice cream.

  “Well?” says Kitty staring at me.

  “Just give us a few more minutes to glance,” I beg the waiter. Kitty dismisses him and then studies the walls which are covered with some random artist’s work. “God, I hate this guy. He’s tacky, and so are his paintings.”

  “Kitty,” I say grabbing her attention back. “I don’t mean to rag, but my stepsons are like a royal pain in the ass. You should see what I go through just to bathe them.”

  “Well, maybe they are royalty. Queen Elizabeth boasted that she only bathed once a month, whether she needed to or not.”

  “Oh, gross.”

  “Speaking of step kids, my stepson at Oxford has piercings - five of them - in his genitals!”

  “Only five?”

  “Yes, and he says to me, ‘Want to see ‘em?’ No, I don’t want to see your balls! With or without holes.”

  “Can we just look at the menu?” I ask. “I’ve barely eaten since five a.m.”

  “Yes, but first I just need to ask you something.” Suddenly Kitty sounds serious. I know this because she’s just lowered her Blackberry.

  “Okay…” I say cautiously. “Ask away…”

  “When is the last time you sat on a man’s face?”

  “Is today Tuesday?”

  Kitty shoots me a look that says “get serious.”

  “College,” I reflect, sipping my water. “With my boyfriend. We were at a frat party in a back bedroom.”

  “Hmmm,” says Kitty.

  “Why?”

  “Well, I wanted to know if it’s normal behavior to do that at our age,” says Kitty. “The Brit has been making very sexual suggestions. I mean, I guess I might sit on a man’s face if I were twenty-one years old.”

  “And forty pounds lighter…” I say taking out my notebook. “I think there’s an article here.” I flip over a page in the tablet, click my pen and scribble. “You know what drives all this talk of face sitting, three-ways and anal sex? Porn. It ups the ante.”

  “Well I just hope Clive has a strong face,” she says too loudly, and again people look up. The waiter returns for our orders. Kitty hands him the menu and very matter-of-factly says, “I’ll have the arugula salad with vegetables but without the arugula – I’m allergic. No dressing on the salad.”

  “What arugula?” I say, but she ignores me, continuing. “No beets. I hate beets. Hold the mushrooms. Is there raw onion in that?” He nods. “No, can’t have onion breath with today’s client. And take out those homemade croutons. And a bottle of Pellegrino but a chilled glass. And no ice.”

  “Are you serious?” I say. “You have to eat.”

  “I have a face to sit on.”

  “Why aren’t I getting these offers?” I say to the waiter. “I’ll just have the Cobb salad, please. And a Pepsi with a slice of lime.” He smiles relief at my simplicity, hangs his pen on his order notebook and departs.

  “You’re so easy, Libby,” says Kitty.

  “No, I’m just obedient. It’s my Catholic school upbringing. Step out of line and I’ll be punished for my sins which is exactly how I’ve been feeling lately.”

  “Rosemary has to blame somebody for her failed marriage.”

  “Oh, Kitty, it’s becoming hopeless. I’m so in love with Ben, but he’s like buying the best house on a bad block. You know what I mean? The realtor would say ‘don’t do it!’” I polish off my water as my eyes tear up. “It’s got to be hard for Ben, too,” I say. “I mean here are these two women in his life coming at him from different directions. But here’s the difference. When Ben walks in her door to pick up the kids, she sees two things: a babysitter and a paycheck. When Ben walks in our door I see the man I love, the man I want to see the world with, the man I want to grow old with, the man I want to spoon in bed with every night, rich or poor.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to be poor, all right You’ll be a bag woman on the street by the time you’re seventy, curled up on the pavement outside my apartment like that Frances McDormand character in “Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day.” I’ll toss you money, I promise, so long as you pretend you don’t know me.”

  The busboy drops the bread basket on the table. Rather than face Kitty’s sarcasm, I opt for its warm and steaming comfort. Kitty grabs a piece too, tearing the dough out of the center and dunking the crust into the olive oil bowl.

  “It’s okay to eat bread again,” I say. “By the time we’re fifty-five we shed weight anyway. We’ll be muscle mass, water, lean tissue, bone.”

  “Is that true?”

  I nod. “I did a study on it for a health magazine.”

  “Libby,” says Kitty, shoveling a piece of bread into her mouth, “What the hell ever possessed me to marry the Brit? Will you tell me?”

  “Um, love,” I say.

  “It wasn’t love. I just got tired of the ‘ but’ guys,” she says. “I love you, but I can’t commit. I love you, but I have a gambling problem. I love you, but I’m married. I love you, but I miss my dead wife!”

  “Okay. So then you married the Brit. We all love Clive.”

  “No, he’s all wrong. I want a real man. A man like my father - J. P. Morgan,” she says proudly.

  “Wait! Your father was J P Morgan?” I say, astonished. “I never knew this.”

  “Yes, of course,” she snaps. “Not that J P Morgan. J Pepper Morgan,” says Kitty.

  “Screamin’ J Pepper Morgan?” I laugh. “The has-been rock star?”

  “I beg your pardon. He was huge!”

  “He may have been huge, Kitty, but get serious. The reason nobody can please you is that your idea of a perfect man is somebody who starts his day with a 5 p.m. shot of heroin before going on stage to smash his guitar to smithereens.”

  “He only broke five guitars in ten years,” she defends. Our salads, or lack of them, arrive. Kitty dives right in, still talking. “I settled for Clive. Time was running out. After the billionaire broke my heart and left me with nothing, Clive seemed like the one.”

  “He is the one, Kitty…”

  “Oh, please. There was a time when I had a 65-foot custom-designed Sparkman Stephens cutter rig sloop with Italian design. I had a butler - ‘Jimmy.’ I had a house in Southhampton – nineteen bedrooms, I had a private plane. It was the 80s!” She stabs her lettuce. “Now look at me. I’m married to a guy with a porn addiction!”

  “Oh stop. Clive does not have a porn addiction. All guys cruise the web and look at naked women. Ben probably does, too.”

  “No, honey, Ben just looks at porn. Clive calls up the Playboy bunnies.”

  “Kitty, stop it. You’re just horrible. Every morning when your feet touch the floor God must say, ‘Oh shit, she’s up.’”

  “Go on and make fun, but you just told me five minutes ago that porn is ruining our nation. Up the ass, sit on my face…And by the way, you should see Clive’s Facebook friends. They’re all whores.”

  “I’m one of his Facebook friends.”

  “Okay, not all of them. But can’t you just de-face him?”

  “Is that another porn thing? I want to stay Clive’s friend.”

  “I’m sure his midnight cruising is responsible for the all the spam we get. Messages that say, ‘Your shaft can screw her tiny hole!’”

  “You need a spam filter.”

  “Is that new terminology for a divorce lawyer?”

  “No. And you need to have your head examined.”

  Kitty chugs her wine. “I need a plan B is what I need.”

  “I thought Clive was your plan B?”

  “No, Clive is Plan C. I skipped plan B. I want my plan B back.”

  “No you don’t,” I say. “Plan B is the goody two-shoes plan.” />
  “What goody two-shoes plan?”

  “Well,” I explain, tipping my head and really thinking my answer through. “We all began life with a Plan A. Grew up, got married, bought a house with a white picket fence, got a thirty year mortgage, put our kids through college and saved for the golden years. Then the country went bust. We lost our homes and our retirements. Hell, something like twenty-two percent of Americans have to choose between food and prescription medicine. What kind of life is that? Plan B is only our safety plan – scrambling for cover. But what happens in a world where there is no safety?”

  “Go on…” says Kitty, really listening to me. For once.

  “And now they’re saying we should all start over with smaller dreams? Forget that. We’re not twenty-one, we’re forty-one. We’re running out of time.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Kitty, I’m a good person. I had good intentions,” I say. “I already did the mortgage applications, the kids’ ballet recitals, the 401Ks…”

  “I like your way of thinking. So are you saying that instead of being responsible in these hard times, we should tour the world, drink booze, smoke cigarettes and screw?”

  ‘Exactly. Like Screamin’ J Pepper…”

  “To Daddy!” says Kitty, raising her glass.

  “Hell, you know what?” I say. “That Cosmo Queen, Helen Gurley Brown had it right back in the sixties, ‘Good girls go to heaven, bad girls go everywhere!’ To Helen,” I raise my water glass.

  “And to Helmut!” says Kitty raising the wine glass that used to be my wine glass.

  “Everybody is too scared to explore new options,” I say. “Well, I think this grim economy means we should throw caution to the wind. Look where all our careful planning got us. No, it’s clearly time to risk whatever we’ve got left. Time to live!”