The Ivy Chronicles

by Karen Quinn

  Of course, Faith sprang into immediate action. She insisted on assembling her dream team to fix me. Emergency sessions were scheduled with Ken Gomez, fitness guru; Avi Portal, hairstylist to the stars; and Raquel Morley, makeup artist with her own show on public-access cable. As an early Christmas present (and I mean really early—it was only June), Faith signed me up for six months of the Metro diet. Every day, right at my front door, they would deliver three gourmet meals and two snacks totaling 1,200 calories. If I ate nothing else, exercised religiously, and drank eight glasses of water a day, the pounds would have no choice but to melt away. It wasn’t Radical Reinvention, but Faith guaranteed that if I followed the program, I would be transformed. Everyone should have a best friend like Faith Lord.

  When Ken “Six Pack” Gomez showed up at my door, I must admit I was intimidated. His arms and chest were large and defined, his muscles hard and sculpted. Never have I felt like such a marshmallow.

  “So what do you think?” I asked, after showing Ken my treadmill and weights.

  “Let’s see what you normally do,” he said.

  Walking briskly on the treadmill at 3.4 miles per hour, I could tell that Ken was impressed. “Pretty good, eh?” I asked, huffing and puffing like a gym rat.

  “You’re not even breaking a sweat,” he said. “Let’s see you jog.” He increased the speed to 4.5 miles per hour, and I was forced against my better judgment to run. After five minutes, I was soaked, winded, and pooped. I had to stop. It was embarrassing.

  “Don’t worry. You need to work your way into it, that’s all,” he said.

  What a kind man that Ken Gomez is, I thought. Ken designed a program in which I’d alternate walking and running on both flat and inclined settings. In six weeks this would come easy, he assured me. I would see him again at that point so he could make the workout tougher.

  I showed him how I lifted my three-pound weights. Apparently my form was completely wrong and three pounds was too easy for me. Oh, well. Ken pulled seven- and ten-pound dumbbells out of his gym bag and demonstrated the right technique and movements to add definition to my body. He watched me do sit-ups, which he said were perfect (thank you, Abs of Steel). I promised to follow his program, and he invited me to stop by his gym anytime for more instruction. Apparently, Faith had Ken on retainer.

  Later, Avi and Raquel stopped by to do my hair and makeup.

  “Who did your color?” Avi asked. It was more of an accusation than a question.

  “I did.”

  “You must promise me you’ll never bleach your own hair again,” he said firmly. “The damage will take me hours to repair.”

  “Scout’s honor,” I said. Of course I knew you shouldn’t color your own hair. But at the time, I couldn’t afford a professional and I really wanted to be blond for self-esteem purposes.

  Over the next five hours, my locks were painted with toxic chemicals, wrapped in foil, baked under a lamp, cut, blown, slathered with product, and ironed. As my hair baked, Raquel gave me a makeup lesson. She insisted I could transform myself as radically with makeup as I could with plastic surgery. That felt like a stretch, but I must admit that she made me look pretty darn hot if you ignored all the foil in my hair.

  After the dream team worked their magic, I may not have been hot yet—but I was definitely getting warmer. Anytime I thought about cheating on my diet or skipping a workout, I imagined myself standing naked in front of Philip with my old body. Need I say more?

  19. It’s Not About the Brains

  Helping parents find schools for their children was more rewarding than any job I’d ever had. For the first time, I was contributing to society (though some may argue that it was high society).

  Soon, I was evaluating kids. I created my own version of the ERB test that told me exactly what each child needed to work on over the summer. I, in turn, instructed their parents and caregivers on just what to do. We’d reassess in the fall.

  Ransom’s parents, the Radmore-Steins, asked if I would tutor their son until they left for Cannes in August. Lilith was too preoccupied with her newspapers to give Ransom personal attention, and Johnny just plain didn’t care. I told them that tutoring wasn’t included in my fee. “No problem,” they said. I seriously did not want to tutor the boy, so I quoted them $300 an hour and they immediately said yes. I could have asked for twice that.

  Stu Needleman explained that he was far too busy to work with Veronica. (Patsy, of course, was a complete pinhead—not qualified to teach their daughter anything.) He insisted that I personally prep Veronica by having her memorize the answers to the questions on the test.

  “Stu, that’s not a smart thing to do. She may say something to the tester about having been tutored. If she does, you’re screwed.”

  “I’m willing to take that chance,” Stu answered. “This is one of the few instances where I have control, so I plan to use it.”

  “Stu, your four-year-old daughter would be cheating to get into school. Are you sure you want to put her in that position?”

  “Ivy, I didn’t need to pay you twenty grand for that piece of advice. My competition is going to look for every advantage, and so will I. If you don’t want to help us, I’ll find someone who will,” he said, his face turning purpler and purpler. Could he burst?

  “Let me bring up one last concern, Stu,” I plowed on nervously. “What if you teach her the test and she aces it and—God forbid—gets into a school that’s too hard for her and she fails? Do you want that on your conscience?”

  Stu looked like he wanted to strangle me with those elfin hands of his. “Veronica is smart. She has Needleman genes. She’ll be a superstar like her father,” he answered slowly and loudly as if he were talking to a dim-witted adult, signaling that he’d had quite enough of my lip.

  “Fine, Stu, I’ll teach your daughter the answers to the test, but I’m doing this under protest. My rate is three hundred an hour. And I charge an extra fifty dollars an hour if you want me to tutor her to take the test without acting like she’s been tutored.”

  “Are you on drugs? I won’t pay you a penny over seventy-five. And you’d better get this done in five sessions.”

  We hondled, finally settling on $150 an hour and ten sessions—and I insisted on taking Veronica for a “day of beauty” as a reward for her hard work. Of course, I really wanted to get my hands on the ugly duckling to see if I could make her more visually appealing.

  20. Rarefied Heirs

  By the end of June, I had brainstormed with my clients to elicit as much information about their lives as I could. The fruit of our sessions would become the basis for application essays, answering questions like:• Briefly describe your child (e.g., personality, temperament, distinctive qualities, strengths, talents, enthusiasms).

  • What values are important to you? How do you communicate these values to your child?

  • Write a letter to your child, to be given to him thirteen years from now on graduation. Explain why you chose (school name) for him/her above all other schools.

  I took reams of notes and then asked each family to write a few paragraphs profiling their child and family. This way, I could pick up on each parent’s “voice” in the final, edited draft. Everyone except the Radmore-Steins were game. They didn’t want anything to do with essay-writing and said my voice would do just fine.

  Stu Needleman, anxious to light a fire under me, turned his piece in first. The facts were there, but poetic it wasn’t. These were his first two paragraphs and it deteriorated from there.

  Veronica is a hippy girl with lots of energy. At four, she ran her first 5k and won of course. Now she’s training for the iron-kiddie competition, where she’ll swim, trike, and run against the top toddlers in the world.

  Veronica has empathy. She is worried about where her cat will sleep when it is dead. She felt bad when her maid burned her hand ironing Veronica’s undies. She also enjoys finging and dancing.

  Since his family was the only one that turned its assignme
nt in by deadline, I complimented Stu on the wittiness of his prose and remarked on how little doctoring I’d have to do to it. But between you and me, how did this man ever graduate from college?

  I knocked on Philip’s door. We hadn’t seen each other since our evening was so rudely interrupted by Cadmon. I’d been busy with clients, and Philip seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

  This time, I brought a plate of chocolate-chip cookies. Even though they were made from packaged Toll House cookie dough, they were technically homemade because I baked them myself. For some reason, I felt compelled to bring food to Philip. I suppose it gave me license to show up uninvited.

  He smiled when he saw me standing there. Freshly baked cookies were so superior to liver. I don’t know what I’d been thinking before. What man gets excited about a woman bearing liver? Philip invited me in, and I noticed appreciatively that his writing desk and computer were now located in the front of his apartment. He seemed engrossed.

  “I thought you’d like a break,” I said. “I brought chocolate-chip cookies.”

  “Thanks,” Philip said appreciatively. “Can I pour you some milk?”

  “Absolutely.”

  We scarfed down the cookies and caught up with each other. I told him about my clients and asked what he was working on. He mentioned that he was starting a new novel.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said. “What’s it about?”

  “Sorry, I never talk about a book until I’ve completed the first draft. It’s bad luck.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Actually, I was going to ask you to help me write these application essays that I have to do. And I pay the big bucks.”

  “Oh, that’s why you brought the cookies. You’re trying to butter me up,” he teased.

  “No, not at all. I just thought you might like to earn some extra money. Plus, the truth is, I need help. Writing isn’t my strength.” I showed Philip Stu’s first attempt, and he agreed that it sucked. There was no reason to believe that any of my other clients would do better.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Philip said. “What would your clients say if they knew a published author wrote their essays?”

  “Well, this particular father would think he deserved nothing less. But the rest of the parents would be thrilled, I’m sure. I’ll give you credit, don’t worry.”

  “No, don’t,” Philip implored. “I’d rather people not know that I’m writing essays for private-school applications.”

  “You only need to write six. There’s one client, Ollie—I’ll write hers myself.”

  Philip wanted to charge $50 for each essay. He was giving me a special “neighbor” discount. I insisted semi-adamantly that he take $100 per question, but he refused. What more could I do? I gave him the detailed notes from our brainstorming sessions along with Stu’s sorry first attempt. I also handed over the golden essays Tipper had given me to use as examples. Two days later, I found an envelope under my door with the revised Needleman piece. I won’t bore you with the whole thing, but feast your eyes on how Philip improved Stu’s first few paragraphs.

  Veronica possesses a fervent passion for life. There is a maturity about her that is balanced by a bewitching charm and a delightful sense of humor. She is athletic and enjoys running, swimming, and biking in competitive toddler events.

  Veronica has a unique sensibility. That, along with her loving nature, reveals a heart not always present in a child so young. When her precious cat, Princess, fell out the window, it wasn’t enough to tell her that the kitty had gone to heaven. Veronica was concerned about “Who will brush her? Who’s going to hold her when there’s thunder?” After our housekeeper burned her hand ironing, Veronica begged us to let her press the remaining clothes herself. She was devastated when we drove past a farmer harvesting corn in the Hamptons. She asked that we stop the car so she could throw herself in front of his combine to save the corn from being killed. We are not surprised that our daughter is so big hearted—consideration of all living things is at the core of the Needleman family values.

  Veronica takes many different classes, from language to music to public speaking, but her favorite activities are singing and dancing. Recently, a renowned talent scout tried to sign her, but we felt she was too young to star on Broadway. Veronica loves choreographing her own shows and helping her seamstress sew sparkly costumes for all her performances. Veronica Needleman has accomplished more in her four and a half years on earth than many adults achieve in a lifetime.

  Whoa. What a difference a little editing by a professional makes. After the essays were delivered, my clients couldn’t get over how I’d gotten their prose to sing. They complimented me on my flair for the written word and patted themselves on the back for hiring such a talented adviser. At Philip’s insistence, I didn’t reveal that their ghostwriter had her own ghostwriter.

  PART 3

  Ivy on Her Own

  1. Was It Something I Said?

  Friday evening, I squeezed the girls into Cad’s scratched-up Porsche for their weekend with him. He really ought to get that thing fixed, I thought.

  I ran into Michael as I was returning home. He was locking up the Knishery. “Good Shabbas,” I said.

  “Oh, are you religious?” he asked.

  “No, but I figured you must be, owning a kosher deli and all.”

  Michael smiled. “I’m reformed. Want to grab some dinner? I see you’re on your own.”

  “Sure. Barrio Chino for tapas?” I suggested.

  “I just ate there last week. Steak?”

  That was fine by me. We grabbed a cab to Washington Square and walked over to the Knickerbocker. A neighborhood joint that’s been around forever, the place is a Greenwich Village institution. It’s always packed, especially on weekends, when there’s jazz.

  Michael ordered steak with a side of creamed spinach. I chose the liver and onions. Since this wasn’t a date, breath wasn’t an issue.

  Michael excused himself and went over to say hello to a table of actors. I assumed they were actors because one guy was wearing makeup, but heck, this being the Village, you never know.

  “Sorry. They’re deli customers. They’ve been coming for years.”

  “Actors?”

  “No. The guy in the studded vest owns a tattoo-and-piercing shop on St. Mark’s Place. The man in drag is a psychiatrist. I don’t know the woman sitting to his right, but the guy whose back is toward us is Bruce Wagner.”

  “The writer?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve read his books. I guess you know a lot of interesting people from the Knishery.”

  “I do. Everybody eventually makes the pilgrimage to Kratt’s. The mayor. Hillary Clinton. Oprah Winfrey. Mrs. Goldofsky.”

  “Mrs. Goldofsky comes to the Knishery? Just kidding. Oprah comes?”

  “Couple of Sundays ago.”

  “How could I have missed that? Did she stand in line?”

  “You bet. You know how tolerant my Sunday crowd is of cutters.”

  “Oh yeah. Last Sunday, I tried to sneak in just to snag a few bagels and they almost lynched me. I had to go to Hung-Goldstein’s.”

  “Traitor.”

  “Have you ever thought of opening a second location?”

  “I did. You know the Hotel New York-New York in Vegas? A few years ago the owners wanted me to open a Knishery there. It just seemed like too much trouble, flying back and forth, managing two restaurants.”

  “You could have licensed the name and concept and let them run it.”

  “I could have, but then I wouldn’t control the quality. Plus, I can’t stand the idea of creating a Disneyland version of my restaurant. Kratt’s is the real deal. It looks the same today as it did sixty years ago.”

  I smiled. “You know, I’ve been coming to the Knickerbocker for almost twenty years. It hasn’t changed, either. My soon-to-be-ex-husband used to take me here when we were first dating.”

  “Really? I took my ex-wife here, too. Hope we don
’t run into either of them tonight.”

  “God forbid. When we first started coming, we’d see Harry Connick, Jr. singing and playing piano. He made a hundred bucks a week then—at least that’s what he told us. Cad and I used to talk to him and he always said how famous he was going to be. Of course, we didn’t believe him.”

  “Shows what you know.”

  Michael and I talked easily, enjoying each other’s company along with our steak and liver. Mine was so rich, I knew I’d have to sleep sitting up that night.

  We listened to Tessa Souter, a rising star in the New York City jazz scene. She was accompanied by Victor Lewis on drums, Kenny Barron on piano, and Russell Malone on guitar. When Tessa finished her set, Michael went over to the bar and said something to the owner. Next thing I knew, he was playing the piano and singing “It Had to Be You” with Victor and Russell backing him up. I didn’t know whether to be impressed or mortified. Nobody but me paid attention to the change in entertainment, so I decided to relax and enjoy his talent, which was almost as impressive as my own singing.

  “Where did you learn to play piano like that?” I asked when he sat down again.

  “My mother made me take lessons when I was a kid. I was miserable about it until I got older and realized that girls were attracted to musicians. I wanted to become a professional, but my father died and I had to take over the business until it could be sold. Then I got married and needed a reliable source of income, so I stayed with the deli. You know how real life gets in the way of your dreams sometimes.”

  “Yeah, I hate when that happens. Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

  “I do. I’m a romantic guy. If it weren’t for the wife I chose, I would have loved being married. What about you?”

  “Maybe. But this time I’m marrying a guy with money—or at least serious earning potential.” I can definitely see myself as part of a fabulous Manhattan power couple, I thought.