The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  “You’re right, Ivy. I need to pull myself together so I can carry on Cubby’s legacy.”

  “That’s right. Now go out there and make Cubby proud.”

  “Thanks, Ivy. I appreciate your call. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help you.”

  We hung up. I felt bad for Tipper. She admired Cubby and was ill equipped to handle the mixed blessings brought on by her death. I, on the other hand, was holding up well.

  17. Tots with Résumés

  Over the next week, I scheduled meetings with my new clients. My first appointment was always after 10:00 A.M., which gave me ample time to work out. I’d become semi-obsessed with exercise. Happily, this new business would be perfect for balancing my own needs, motherhood, and career.

  It was already June, and we had work to do before my clients left for the Hamptons, the Italian Riviera, or wherever the heck they’d be summering. I planned to assess the children as soon as possible to get a preview of how they’d test. Then I’d show the parents and nannies what to do with each child over the summer to improve their scores. If there was time, I’d work on their essays. I was excited about getting started, but anxious, too.

  Dear God, please help me do a brilliant job with my clients, especially since I don’t know what I’m doing. Also, Lord, I want to clarify something that’s been bothering me. I’m not complaining, but when I prayed the other day and asked you to cut me a break, I didn’t mean that someone should die. So from now on I’d appreciate it if no one else has to lay down his or her life to further my career. I think I can do it on my own from now on. Amen.

  The clients turned out to be a surprise. Before meeting them, I thought they would all be rich, neurotic, and demanding. Well, a few were. Others were quite wonderful, people I could imagine becoming friends with. On Monday morning, I donned an old Armani suit, dusted off my Coach briefcase, grabbed the Barneys shopping bag, and met my first client, Wendy Weiner.

  Just as my former analyst used to do, I set up a file for each family in which I would keep detailed notes after every visit. I even made a crib sheet of all the clients and their kids. I was having trouble remembering who belonged to whom. I’m told this is what happens to peri-menopausal women. The indignity!

  Monday, A.M.—Wendy Weiner—6/14/04

  Wendy Weiner (pronounced “weener”) is a divorced mother with the whiniest voice I’ve ever heard emitted by a human being. Not that I’m criticizing. Wendy has one child, Winnie. Any woman who would name her child Winnie Weiner is automatically suspect in my book. Winnie and Wendy live on Central Park West, near 98th. They have a nicely appointed junior four, with the dining room neatly screened off and transformed into Winnie’s bedroom. The windows are old, the floors scuffy parquet, and the walls mint green, thick with forty years of paint. The place needs to be gutted and redone, but my guess is Wendy can’t afford it. Especially after hiring me.

  This will be Wendy’s second try for Winnie. Last year, she applied to thirty-five schools and got into none. Wendy became so obsessed with finding the perfect educational environment that she gave up her law practice and made school-hunting a full-time job. She is enraged that Winnie wasn’t accepted anywhere and blames it on her nursery-school director. Says she’s anti-Semitic. (Note: Winnie went to the same school as Skyler and Kate. Her director is as Jewish as bagels and lox.)

  Winnie is a sweet-natured, exotic-looking child. Tiny with coffee-colored skin, green-brown eyes and waist-length hair; I was immediately drawn to her. She showed off her room, told me which books were her favorites, introduced me to her fish (shades of Kate) and entertained me with a puppet show. Winnie’s ERB scores last year were solid. I’m sure she presented well. The problem had to be the mother. After meeting Winnie, I am determined to help her because Wendy can’t do it alone.

  Monday, P.M.—Johnny and Lilith Radmore-Stein—6/14/04

  The Radmore-Steins used to be the Radmore-Ratfinklesteins, but they changed the name so their son Ransom wouldn’t get teased. They live in a massive co-op at 820 Fifth Avenue, some say the best building in New York City (it’s rumored that you have to be worth a billion to get past the board). Their apartment is Architectural Digest-perfect. No surprise—it was featured on the cover of last April’s issue. When the maid, or housekeeper, or butlerette, or whatever she was, led me through room after magnificent room toward the library where I met the couple, I kicked myself for oohing and aahing like I’d never been in such an opulent apartment (and other than Faith’s, I hadn’t).

  As chairman of one of the largest newspaper conglomerates in the country, Lilith is a well-groomed woman with a horsey face and a gummy smile. Except for the fact that she is never without Mrs. Butterworth, her teacup Yorkshire terrier, Lilith is all business. She reminds me of Anna Wintour, but that’s probably because she never took off her sunglasses. We discussed the process we would follow, talked about schools that interested her (easy—it has to be Stratmore Prep), strategized about the contacts she has on Stratmore’s board who could help, scheduled a meeting to assess Ransom, and did our brainstorming for their essays right then and there. I got some entertaining stories out of Johnny, her polo-player husband, who is laid-back in the way that beneficiaries of large fortunes often are. Lilith had little to add. I suspect that she doesn’t spend much time with her son and that Johnny doesn’t spend much time with her.

  Ransom is un enfant terrible. Marvys, his weekday-afternoon nanny, brought me to his very own three-bedroom apartment (located next door to his parents’), where he lives under caregiver supervision at all times. Marvys explained that this way the main apartment is always clean and Ransom is in spitting distance of his parents. The enormous living room, with its million-dollar views of Central Park, is reminiscent of Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. I expected to detest the little prince, but instead I felt sorry for him. Wearing one of those $500 imported Bon Point short outfits with leather suspenders, Ransom greeted me with two water balloons, thrown like hand grenades from his treehouse on a fake but real-looking oak. Amused by his own hilarity, he laughed so hard that I worried he might give himself a hernia. “W-watch Watch this, watch this,” he said as he stuck his hand in the opposite armpit, flapped his arm, and made real-sounding fart noises. “Wanna hear me d-d-do the alphabet?” he asked. “Sure, why not?” I said. Ransom swallowed a quart of air and proceeded to burp the A-B-C song. “His parents must be very proud,” I remarked to Marvys. Here he is, ladies and gentlemen—rich boy who has everything but his folks’ attention. The most exclusive private schools are filled with dozens of Ransoms, so I know he will be welcomed along with his parents’ money.

  Tuesday, A.M.—Ollie Pou—6/15/04

  Ollie is Jamaican, the single mother of a boy named Irving. She is a maid by profession. Working for the Radmore-Steins, Ollie was delivering a tray to Lilith’s bedroom when she overheard her boss telling Johnny that she had hired Ivy Ames to make sure Ransom got into the best school. Ollie wants Irving to go to the best school, too.

  We met at a coffee shop on Second and 73rd. Ollie made me promise not to tell Lilith that she’d hired me. “Mrs. Ames, she’s as mean as she is cruel. If she knew I’d called you, she’d make me pay.” When I suggested that she might be exaggerating, Ollie told me stories that made my toe-nails curl. She claims that Ransom is as heartless as his mother. He once played a trick on Irving by hiding his pet snake in Irving’s Power Rangers lunch box. When Irving opened the box to eat, he discovered the dead gopher snake in the thermos compartment. Ransom threw such a hissyfit that Lilith made Ollie replace the reptile out of her wages. “Snakes are expensive, Mrs. Ames. It had was to take me three weeks to pay that off.” It had was to take me? That’s gonna be a hard sell on the Upper East Side.

  I assured Ollie that our relationship was confidential, but suggested that she couldn’t possibly afford me. “I had was to use my life savings, Mrs. Ames. If you can help my boy go to a good school now, he’ll get a scholarship to college, and that will change his whole
life.”

  Irving colored on his activity placemat as we spoke. He is a serious boy with light brown skin and curly black hair who wore a blue polyester suit and a clip-on tie to our meeting. Irving wants to be a doctor someday and can name all the bones in the human body. The kid fancies himself an explorer and knows the continents and oceans. He asked me if I wanted to hear them. I said of course. By gum, the kid knows more geography than I do. I’m certain Irving won’t be hard to place, and I can probably help Ollie get financial aid. I agreed to take Ollie on one condition—she has to let me give back her $20,000. As desperate as I am for cash, I can’t take her life savings.

  Tuesday, P.M.—Omar Kutcher—6/15/04

  Omar Kutcher, a single father, is New Jersey-born, mob-connected, and ill-bred. He’s short and stocky with unusually long arms, like Cro-Magnon man’s. His back is so furry that hair emerges from his collar and goes up his neck to his head with nary a pause. I can see that he thinks of himself as Cary Grant, debonair and irresistible. Power must do that to people. By paying someone off or threatening someone’s life (there can be no other explanation), he was approved by the toughest co-op board on Park Avenue. With his wife, may she rest in peace, as decorator, he spent a fortune gussying up his apartment, but the effect is gaudy and tasteless—a veritable Graceland in the sky. He still has a wing to do, but he said that after his wife died in an unfortunate accident, he doesn’t have the heart to finish the job. Omar personally took me on le grand tour, crowing with self-adulation when he revealed his bookcase with the secret door that leads to the panic room. The pride he takes in his home is sweet, almost poignant, to observe. It almost made me forget that the Post calls him “Kutcher the Butcher.”

  Both Maria, four, and Omar Jr., two, have Asian eyes. I assume they got these from their mother. Nothing will do for Maria but Sacred Heart or Marymount—two of the city’s best all-girl Catholic schools. Omar is also willing to consider The Balmoral School, as that’s where Gwyneth went, and Chapin, as that’s where J. Lo went. (Neither is true, but we’ll just let that slide.)

  Maria is pint-sized and spoiled. Anytime her father says no to her (which isn’t often), she turns her back, crosses her arms, screws up her face, and wails like a car alarm (just as her mommy used to do before her untimely death, Omar explained). Omar adores the kid. “Ain’t she a pistol?” he said over and over again. I think I can leverage her diversity, and maybe dangle a large donation (cash!) in front of some development directors. Hopefully she’ll deliver strong ERB scores and her nursery-school report will be stellar. Omar’s reputation as a mob boss, however, which would have been an asset in Staten Island, might be a deal breaker among the Manhattan elite, whose own ethics are of course beyond reproach. As long as Omar doesn’t strong-arm a school into taking Maria (in which case my work will be done), I’m going to earn my $20,000 on this one.

  Wednesday, A.M.—Willow Bliss and Tiny Herrera—6/16/04

  Willow and Tiny are lesbians. Tiny is a two-hundred-pound pink-haired film and television producer who reminds me of Giggles, a troll doll I used to have. Willow is a stunning African ex-model who gave up her career to stay home and care for their wheelchair-bound adopted son. Both of Jack Henry’s parents were killed in the fiery car crash that robbed him of his ability to walk. Willow first saw Jack Henry on “Wednesday’s Child,” a program that features tough-to-place children. No one wanted this toddler, who was black and disabled. Willow called Tiny on the set and told her she had found the child who was meant to be theirs. By Friday, the boy was home.

  I have to hand it to these women. They make sure Jack Henry has the best medical care and provide him with excellent therapists, nutritionists, and psychologists. Willow is his constant companion, offering stimulation and love. By the time he was four and a half, Jack Henry had the vocabulary of a seven-year-old and was already reading Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilet, a second-grade-level book. He’s fascinated by history, plays the flute, and draws beautifully. The boy speaks three languages—English, Spanish, and an African dialect called Twi—and can put together a 150-piece jigsaw puzzle with help. He loves to take rides with his two moms on their custom-made bicycle-built-for-three.

  Tiny and Willow want Jack Henry to have the best education money can buy at a school that will welcome their unusual family and accept their son’s special needs. I told them that Jack Henry’s intelligence, verbal skills, and easygoing disposition, along with the gay-black-disabled combination (the Triple Crown of diversity) would make him a top draft pick among applicants. I predict Jack Henry will have his pick of schools.

  Wednesday, P.M.—Stu and Patsy Needleman—6/16/04

  Stu will be a problem. A slight man with curly orange hair and delicate white skin, Stu must have told me six times that he works for Steven Lord, one of the world’s richest men. From what he says, Stu is Steven’s most trusted protégé, a tycoon-in-waiting. I didn’t let on that my best friend was married to Steven and that their daughter barely got into private school herself.

  Stu thinks he is Steven. He expects me to be available 24/7 and to wear a beeper. He says he’s going to hire another educational consultant to give him a second opinion on everything I advise. And if he doesn’t have at least three top-tier schools from which to choose, he will enlist all of Steven Lord’s resources to ruin me. (My first threat!) Patsy, his mousy blond wife, wears the permanent expression of someone who’s just bitten into a lemon. She says nothing during Stu’s diatribes. How she stays married to this loser, I will never understand.

  After explaining how many hundreds of thousands of dollars he’s invested to stimulate his daughter’s brain, Stu presented Veronica’s curriculum vitae: Madison Play Group, The Brick Church School, swimming lessons at the 92nd Street Y, French at Le Jardin a l’Ouest, music at Diller Quaille, Suzuki method for violin, manners at the Eloise Institute of the Plaza, elocution at Toastmasters for Tots, cooking at the French Kids Culinary Institute, computer at Future World, chess at the Dalton School Chess Academy, singing, dancing, and acting at Babes on Broadway—nothing as pedestrian as Gymboree for this would-be prodigy.

  In her defense, Veronica’s training shows. She was the only child who shook my hand when we were introduced, saying, “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Ames.” (Note: teach all the other children to do that.) Veronica has thick red hair and big green eyes that are sandwiched between a fuzzy unibrow and a generous nose that will someday have to be fixed. She borders on fat, which is a problem. According to Tipper, at the kindergarten level, private schools accept cute kids almost exclusively. Many become geeks later, but all start out as swans. I feel bad for Veronica. What she needs is relief from her overbearing father and a good eyebrow-waxing.

  Friday, A.M.—Greg and Dee Dee Epstein-McCall—6/18/04

  Dee Dee met Greg when both were students at Northwestern. They eloped to Las Vegas because Dee Dee’s family didn’t want her to marry a gentile and Greg’s family didn’t want him to marry a Jew. It was easier that way. Dee Dee’s family sat shiva for her after she married Greg, and they haven’t spoken since. Greg’s mother, distraught over her only son’s “mixed-race” marriage, had a breakdown and was hospitalized for three months in a Connecticut sanitarium (although “officially,” she was wintering at Canyon Ranch). Still, Greg’s family is kind to Dee Dee and always includes the couple in family events. When Moses was born, Dee Dee and Greg decided to raise him as a Jew and Greg says that this disappointed his parents.

  Greg works for his father, Buck McCall, who owns the largest shipping conglomerate in the world. In spite of everything, Buck adores Moses. When Moses demonstrated a talent for dunking a ball into his Fisher-Price basketball hoop, Grampa Buck bought his grandson an NBA team (held in trust, of course). Greg assures me that he can obtain reference letters for Moses from any dignitary or billionaire through Buck’s connections.

  Dee Dee is a stay-at-home mom who cares for Moses and volunteers for B’nai B’rith. She was concerned that I w
ould think they were neurotic New Yorkers for hiring me. I assured her she was not neurotic and that my clients are all nice, normal people who just want help through a difficult process. She asked if anyone would find out they’d hired me. I said our relationship was strictly confidential and no one would know about it. I promised to stay in the background, and explained that my job was to make them look good.

  Dee Dee wants Moses to go to one of the Jewish day schools, and Greg agrees. From what I observed, he always goes along with Dee Dee. Still, I suggested they consider some secular schools with large Jewish communities because only three of the day schools are worth going to. At four and a half, Moses already speaks English and Hebrew. I instructed them to tell the tester that Moses is bilingual when he takes his ERB. Private schools don’t expect bilingual kids to do as well on their verbal sections, and they’ll be impressed that he speaks two languages. Greg thanked me profusely for the tip. He says I’m a godsend (his exact word). He promised to recommend me to all their friends after Moses gets placed. I love this family.

  IVY’S CLIENT CRIB SHEET

  18. Makeover in Manhattan

  Not long after I started working with my clients, Faith insisted that I take a break and come for a massage. As the two of us lay on our respective tables being rubbed, pounded, and hot-stoned, we updated each other on our lives. I confessed my infatuation with Philip while lamenting the fact that even though I was working out, I wasn’t morphing into the pinup girl I once was. Truth be told, I never was a pinup girl. But there was a time when I was rather fetching.