The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  I bolted past her and headed straight for the smell of savory roast chicken and haricots verts. Sitting around the table were Sassy, Drayton, Bea, and three-year-old Max. There were fresh flowers on their Chinese Chippendale table, linen placemats with matching napkins, and crystal glasses—including a Waterford sippy cup for Max. Sassy was ringing a delicate silver bell, signaling that the next course should be served. She was wearing one of those chin girdles they prescribe after a mini neck-lift. Her hair had been recently cut and professionally flat-ironed, her nails were perfectly French-manicured, and she had on a dress from the current Max Mara line. Seeing her all dolled up like that stung. God, I missed my old life. The only consolation was knowing that Sassy was married to a girly-man who painted his nails.

  “Sassy, I have to talk to you,” I said.

  “What an unexpected surprise! How are you, Ivy? You look raaather well and blond hair becomes you, doesn’t it.” The way Drayton said this, you’d think he actually meant it. I considered reciprocating by complimenting his latest field of hair plugs, but I thought better of it.

  “Sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I need to speak with Sassy.”

  “Why don’t you join us?” Drayton suggested as Sassy rose quickly to whisk me off to the next room.

  “Sassy, you’ve invited all the girls in Bea’s class to her birthday party except Skyler. She’s crushed. I’m here to ask you to include her.”

  “Ivy, it’s not that we don’t want to include Skyler, of course we do. But the party’s for children and parents, and Dray and I didn’t think you’d feel comfortable with the crowd we’ve invited.”

  “Of course I’d feel comfortable. I go to school events with these families all the time.”

  “Yes, but we’re also having some ‘special’ children and their parents,” she said making quotation marks with her fingers when she said “special.” “You know, Michael J. Fox’s twins, Connie Chung and Maury Povich’s son, Kelly Ripa’s boy—you’d feel like a fish out of water what with the downturn you’ve suffered. It would be cruel of us to put you in that position.”

  “Look, Sassy, I don’t give a shit about coming to your daughter’s party. But Skyler’s hurt because she’s been excluded. She doesn’t understand why. And I’m certainly not gonna tell her it’s because I caught you fucking her daddy.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I noticed Drayton standing in the doorway. He had heard everything. Oops.

  8. You Gotta Have Friends

  With Drayton lurking in the background, Sassy let loose with a low blow. “Ivy, I know you lost your job and your husband dumped you and you’re being forced to sell your home, but that’s no excuse for making up vicious lies about me and my family. Under the circumstances, it would be better if Bea didn’t play with Skyler, and I would appreciate it if you would leave my house right now.”

  Drayton sidled up to his wife. “I think you owe Sassy an apology,” he added in that snarky patronizing tone he used at the office. “We’ve been nothing but kind to you and your family. Why would you say such an ugly thing to her?”

  Well, let’s see. You stole my job. Sassy fucked my husband, ruined my marriage, and dissed my daughter. That’s what I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I looked at the two of them standing in solidarity and shook my head. This was not going well. I needed to make it right for Skyler.

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, I must be losing it. It’s just that . . . it’s hard for me not to be jealous of you two. You have everything I’ve lost—a good marriage, a beautiful home, a secure job. I’m really, really sorry.”

  Resisting the urge to vomit, I continued. “Would you do me one favor? And I’m only asking you this because I’m so down on my luck. Would you tell Bea that Skyler is invited to her party, but that she can’t come? Would you do that to spare Skyler’s feelings?”

  “Of couuurse, we will,” Drayton said, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Now, you take care of yourself and if there’s anything we can do to help you, anything at all, just ring me at work.” Sassy stood there, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

  “Thanks, Drayton,” I said. “I appreciate your support.” I was burning inside, humiliated that my life had come to this.

  “By the way,” Drayton added casually as we approached the door, “what are you asking for your apartment?”

  I stared at him.

  “We’d be interested in having a look,” he said, oblivious. “We love our place, but you’ve got the better address. So, this may be the perfect time for a change. When would be a good time for us to stop by?”

  “Why don’t you call my agent, Meris Blumstein? She’s with Corcoran,” I told him.

  Once home, I explained to Skyler that she was welcome to go to Bea’s party, but gosh darn it, we would be out of town that weekend. The next day, I got busy making travel plans.

  I needed a career. And I needed one fast.

  Radical Reinvention hadn’t called. My savings were depleted. Cadmon showed no signs of going back to work. I’d been living in denial, allowing myself to believe there would be an eleventh-hour rescue. Lottery. Inheritance. A suitcase full of cash found in the backseat of a taxi. Hey, it could happen.

  With no enthusiasm, I put my résumé together and began that mortifying ritual known as networking. The job-hunting books say to make a list of everyone you know, call them, and don’t hang up until each person gives you three more leads. The problem was, out of ninety people on my list, only five called back. Well, a few phoned after midnight when they knew I’d be asleep. These were my so-called friends, my business associates, people I’d gone to bat for in the past. The five who called back were unemployed themselves, disappointed to learn I couldn’t hire them at Myoki.

  I looked into starting my own business and went to a franchise show at the Javits Center. For $50,000 to $200,000, I could own a Krispy Kreme store. A check-cashing company. A drug-sniffing dog firm. A bail-bonds business. Nothing called out to me.

  As luck would have it, my closest friend, Faith, and I had lunch scheduled. We’d worked together many years ago at Myoki, umbilically united in battle as we struggled to survive the daily rantings of a tyrannical she-boss. Faith knew a lot about handling adversity. Her first husband, Rodney, switched teams three years into their marriage. He finally admitted what I’d always known—he was gay. The guy was sensitive. He had impeccable taste. He wore Lina Wertmüller glasses. He got regular fanny waxes. How could she not have suspected? Faith was devastated when it happened, but she handled herself with grace. They managed to stay friends and share custody of their golden retriever, Henry. I was trying to live up to her example.

  Faith’s story had a happy ending. In the ultimate stroke of good fortune, she found herself stuck in an elevator for two hours with a sixty-three-year-old multi-billionaire who was much kinder than his reputation would have you believe. They had a fairy-tale romance, the wedding to end all weddings, and then adopted two adorable girls from Pennsylvania.

  Now she lived in a twenty-thousand-square-foot penthouse on Fifth Avenue with eight bedrooms and ten bathrooms, a pool, a gym, a meditation room, and a twenty-seat movie theater. She had help—a chief of staff with two assistants, a hairstylist, wardrobe stylist, masseuse, makeup artist, sushi chef, regular chef, trainer, weekday nannies and weekend nannies, all supported by maids and drivers aplenty. I won’t bore you with the jewels Steven lavished on her, or the 32-carat diamond engagement ring. The Bentleys, Mercedeses, Lamborghinis, Hummers, Porsches, jets, and helicopters are hardly worth mentioning. Besides their castle in Scotland and private island in New Zealand, she and Steven owned homes in Southampton, Palm Springs, Palm Beach, and Paris. Since she was my best friend, I tried not to be jealous, but I must admit that at times, I wanted to slap her husband and say, “Couldja just write me a check, for God’s sake?”

  We were there for each other anytime either of us had a problem. This time, Faith’s senior assistant had arranged the lunch, so obviously she had something on her
mind.

  We met at my favorite restaurant, The Lever House, on a wet Tuesday afternoon. You were practically guaranteed to see someone famous there—Bill Clinton, Mike Nichols, Quentin Tarantino. Once we saw Bruce Springsteen! The roomful of jaded New Yorkers turned into flubbering Jell-O and applauded him when he got up to leave. It was kind of embarrassing.

  “Whadja buy at Barneys?” Faith asked as soon as we were seated.

  “Oh, just a trifle,” I said nonchalantly. See, my trick worked! I must admit it’s tough to observe certain truths about yourself, like discovering you’re so insecure you’d do anything to save face. Me, carry a Barneys bag so people would think I could still afford to shop there? Guilty.

  “Have you lost weight?” Faith asked.

  “I have. Thanks for noticing.”

  “Aww, you’re not able to eat with all that’s happened,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s called ‘the divorce diet.’ Plus I’m working out to exercise videos.”

  “Could you use a treadmill?” Faith asked.

  “Why, do you have a spare?”

  “I just replaced my old one. You can have it.” Faith pulled out her BlackBerry and beamed a message to someone on her staff. Knowing her, the treadmill would be delivered that afternoon.

  “Thanks. I figure I’m at a crossroad. If I go one way, I’ll become a frumpy divorcée. If I go the other, I’ll become a chic, desirable woman of a certain age.”

  “Well, you look great,” Faith said. “With that blond hair, I could almost mistake you for Renée Zellweger.”

  Hmm. Did she mean the Renée Zellweger with the Bridget Jones weight or without it?

  Faith changed the subject. “So, how are the girls doing without Cad?”

  “They’re okay. They see him every other weekend. He calls a lot.”

  “What about you? Do you miss him?”

  “That’s the weird thing. I don’t. After he left, I realized we’d become more like business partners.”

  “No sex?” Faith asked.

  “Oh, sure, we did it. On the first Saturday of every month, in the same six positions, in the same order.”

  Faith giggled. “God, I hope that doesn’t happen to us.”

  “Just don’t start calling each other ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ like we did.”

  “Ooh, that’s the kiss of death.”

  “I know! Anyway, the girls and me, we’re managing.”

  “How about work? Anything new?” Faith asked.

  I updated her on my career crisis.

  “Ivy, do not feel bad about this. Did you see the front-page article in this week’s New York magazine—‘Failure: the New Success’ ? Failure’s very hot right now. You’re in.”

  “Greeeaat,” I said.

  “Look, give me your résumé. I’ll pass it on to Steven. He’s got so many companies. There’s got to be a job for you somewhere.”

  I would have preferred that she offer to ask her husband to support me, but barring that, this would help.

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” I said. “Say, what are you having?”

  “Tuna carpaccio. It’s my favorite.”

  “I’ll have vegetable soup.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah, when I go to restaurants now, I nurse a bowl of low-fat soup. I’m practicing safe soup. But you should try the walnut-garlic paste on your bread. It’s to die for.”

  “Enough with the food. Back to business. Tell me, what do you really want to do?” Faith asked.

  “I really want to feel what it’s like to be dependent.”

  “No, really.”

  “Really,” I said. “I should have listened to my mother and married a rich guy. Faith, you were so smart to marry Steven. I know you love him and all, but his wealth gives you such freedom. I swear, I’m gonna raise my daughters to marry well. They can always divorce well if it doesn’t work out. If I ever remarry, it’ll be to someone rich or with serious earning potential. I refuse to find myself in this position again.”

  “Ivy, don’t kid yourself. If you marry a guy with money, he’ll just get a prenup. That’s what Steven did.”

  “No kidding. You have a prenup?”

  “Of course. Steven promised to give me a million dollars for every year we’re married. If we’re married twenty years, I get a hundred million. And I agreed to have sex with him three times a week. I don’t mind, though. He’s not so handsome on the outside, but inside he’s a sweetie. And all that power’s a real turn-on.”

  “Sex three times a week is spelled out in your prenup?”

  “Absolutely. And, I agreed to stay under a hundred and ten pounds. See, Ivy, there’s no easy answer for any of us.”

  “Wait. I’m hung up on the sex-three-times-a-week thing. Does it define what you have to do? I mean, would a blowjob count or does there have to be penetration?”

  “The contract spells everything out in pornographic detail. It’s the bargain I struck to marry such a rich man. But Ivy, forget about me. Let’s talk about you. How will you support your family? You know, I read in a book that if you do what you love, the money will follow. So why don’t you start a business?”

  “I’ve thought of that, but I don’t know what I’d do.”

  “Steven says if you think of something people hate doing and make it easier for them, there’s a business opportunity. That’s why dog-walkers are in such demand. Not that I’m recommending you become one.”

  We were interrupted by George, pronounced the French way, who took our orders. They were out of tuna carpaccio, so Faith chose poussin with foie gras, Brussels sprouts, and wild mushrooms instead.

  “Don’t worry about me, Faith. I’ll figure this out. I’m sure of it.” No, I’m not. I’m not sure of anything anymore.

  “At least you’re optimistic,” Faith said.

  “Speaking of doing something you hate,” I said, “they’re having the annual auction at the girls’ school next week. Everyone’s heard through the nanny grapevine that Cad and I broke up. I don’t want to go alone. Would you be my date, pleeease?”

  “Absolutely,” she promised. “Now, I need your help.”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “I’ve been applying to kindergartens this year for Mae,” Faith said.

  “Oooh, Faith, I’m sorry. That has to be about the worst experience a parent can have in New York. I remember how traumatic it was. Where are you applying?”

  “All the impossible schools. Trinity. Harvard Day. Balmoral. Brearley. Chapin. Dalton. Spence. Nightingale. Hartley. St. Mary’s. Horace Mann. Hewitt. I wanted St. Andrew’s but they wouldn’t send an application. They’d given their quota to Caucasians and would only mail to minorities.”

  “Faith, your husband’s a billionaire. Doesn’t that count as a minority?”

  “I wish,” Faith said. “It’s gotten so much more competitive. Siblings and legacies get priority admission. Last year, Riverton had ten spots for kids who weren’t sibs or legs, and more than six hundred children applied. And they gave five of those spaces to diversity kids.”

  “I read that the year after Caroline Kennedy sent her youngest to All Souls, the school got fifteen hundred applicants for thirteen places,” I added, making matters worse.

  “I know. And these days, schools want genius test scores and we had the worst luck. Mae took her ERB in November and her tester dropped dead of a stroke before she had a chance to record her results. When I took Mae for a retest, she refused to speak. She kept pursing her lips and pretending to zip them. I don’t know what came over her. We’re trying again next week.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I said, truly sympathetic.

  “Then there are the parent interviews,” Faith continued. “Steven travels so much, I’ve had to do them myself. The schools don’t like that. They think the father’s not interested. When we went to Balmoral for Mae’s visit, I laid out a perfectly lovely outfit. She insisted on wearing last year’s Halloween costume instead. I could have d
ied.”

  “What was she for Halloween?”

  “Barney the dinosaur. The other girls were in their party dresses and patent-leather Mary Janes and Mae was dressed as Barney.”

  I started laughing. I couldn’t help it.

  “And there’s more,” Faith added.

  More?

  “You know how they ask you those questions on the application and then give you about two lines to answer them? ‘What are your child’s interests? What are your family’s values?’ Well, I squeezed my answers into the two lines. I found out later that I was supposed to write these moving essay answers. Like college! How was I to know that?”

  “Oooh. I wish you’d asked me. I could’ve told you.”

  “Anyway, what do you say about a kid whose main interest these days is excavating her boogers? Tell me? What do you say?”

  9. If You Have to Ask

  How would one turn a booger obsession into a positive? “Maybe you could have spun it to show a proclivity for science, a future doctor or biologist perhaps,” I suggested.

  Faith gave me the fisheye. “Ivy, I’m going out of my mind. How am I gonna get her into private school?” My friend was more upset than I’d ever seen her. I felt her pain. Getting Mae into kindergarten was out of her control. Everyone in New York knew a Weill, a Bloomberg, or at least one Hilton sister, so connections almost always cancelled each other out. Even having a wealthy father didn’t guarantee a spot. Plenty of city kids came from money and had recognizable last names.

  “Okay, let’s think. Which schools are your favorites?”

  “I guess St. Mary’s or Balmoral. Ivy, can I taste your soup? Maybe I’ll order it next time.”

  “Of course.” I gave her a spoonful. “Do you know anyone on the board of trustees at either of those schools? Ideally a current parent who’s also a big donor?”

  “I don’t, but I’m sure Steven does. He knows everyone.”

  “Well, do your homework. Find a few wealthy and powerful friends who’ll go to bat for you. Ask them to contact the headmaster and the head of development, especially the head of development. Tell them to talk about what a great addition your family would be, how philanthropic you are, and what an extraordinary child Mae is. And you know, she is extraordinary. She’s just not performing when you need her to.”