by Karen Quinn
“So that eliminates me.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said sympathetically. “I hope you’re not too crushed.”
“I was just joking. But you weren’t, were you?”
“Oops. Sorry, not really, no. The thing is, I married for love the first time and look where it got me. Now I’m a single mom with two kids to support. No safety net. I have to be practical.”
“Ah, I see. Check please.” Michael motioned to the waitress. I think I’d offended him.
“Michael, I’m just being honest with you. It’s not like you wanted to marry me.”
“That’s true. I would not want to marry you.”
“I feel terrible. I’m sorry. It’s been such a nice evening. Please, let’s just forget what I’d said. I’m a good person. Really.”
“I’m sure you are. But the thing is, I’m not comfortable spending time with someone who doesn’t think I’m good enough. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“I think you’re great. You’re just not the person I would marry. That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Do you want to marry a Jewish girl?”
“That would be nice.”
“It’s the same thing. I want to marry a mover and shaker. You know, like the president of a major corporation or a famous actor or writer. Someone who’s fabulously successful.”
“Some people think I’m fabulously successful. My mother always did. Personally, I’m crazy about myself.”
I laughed nervously. “Michael, you’re a wonderful man. But I know myself. The lifestyle I aspire to is expensive. If I marry again, it’s got to be to a man who can support my girls and give me that big New York life. Please don’t take it personally. Can’t we just be good friends?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so, Ivy. But don’t take it personally.”
Man, did I blow it with Michael. I adore the guy. He’s just not husband material for me. Is it a crime to want to marry a man with ambition? Does that make me a monster? I did learn one good lesson. I will never again talk about this with anyone except Faith.
I sent Michael a bouquet of flowers along with a heartfelt note of apology. But from that night on, our relationship changed. Michael was polite, of course. He’s too well-mannered a guy not to be. But the warm and friendly Michael I had come to know was gone. And I had no idea how to win him back.
2. Identity Crisis
The top twelve private schools in the city were known as the Baby Ivys. It was every status-conscious New Yorker’s dream that their child attend one of these schools, since they were a pipeline to the Ivy League colleges. Even more important, having your kid at a Baby Ivy was vital for avoiding humiliation when asked the inevitable question: “So where does your child go to school?” The names of the Baby Ivys could be spoken with pride. The names of second- and third-tier schools were typically muffled by a cough or change of subject. Everyone understood that if your child didn’t attend a first-tier school, you must be a second- or third-tier family.
Before my clients left for vacation, we put together the lists of schools where each would apply. I encouraged everyone to stretch for the Baby Ivys, but I insisted that they also select two safety schools. The exercise was straightforward for everyone except Willow and Tiny, who needed a gay-friendly community with full wheelchair access (which eliminated many of the best schools in the city). Wendy Weiner also struggled with her list. She was persona non grata at the thirty-five schools that had rejected Winnie last year. Before advising Wendy, I called Eleanor Dubinsky, her former nursery-school director, to find out why Wendy had failed so miserably.
“It was two things,” Eleanor explained. “First, she applied to thirty-five schools, and when interviewers asked her where else she was applying, which they always ask, she actually named the other thirty-four schools. They thought she was completely over the top, which of course she was.
“Plus,” Eleanor whispered, “how do I say this delicately? That voice. Who wants to sign up for thirteen years of that excruciating sound?” Personally, I suspected that Eleanor had queered the deal for the Weiners, not wanting to be responsible for passing Wendy on to institutions where she had continuing relationships.
Based on this intelligence, I urged Wendy to move Winnie to a no-name local nursery school so Eleanor Dubinsky couldn’t sabotage Winnie again. I told Wendy to apply using her ex-husband’s name and to let him handle the parent interviews. We could bleach Winnie’s hair, apply her under the name of Winona whatever-her-dad’s-last-name-is, and start with a clean slate.
It was then that Wendy mentioned there was no ex-husband in the picture. Winnie was the product of artificial insemination with an anonymous donor.
“Fine,” I told her. “We’ll get an actor to pretend to be Winnie’s father.” See, there’s no stumping me.
Wendy vehemently objected, not to the subterfuge itself, but to being excluded from taking an active part in it. She reluctantly agreed to the plan after I assured her there wasn’t a chance in hell that any private school would knowingly accept her daughter after last year’s debacle. Winnie’s only hope was to ditch her mother.
3. Southampton Holiday
The summer after I lost my husband, my job, and my home turned out to be the happiest I could remember. Since I’d turned sixteen and was legally employable, I’d been one of those overly responsible girls who never took a break from work for fear of having to justify any unexplainable résumé gaps. Every professional and personal choice I’d made took into account how I would position that decision to some nameless, faceless interviewer considering me for my next job.
The only responsibilities I had over the summer were tutoring Ransom and Veronica and editing Philip’s essays so my clients would be ready to submit their applications in September. Compared to life at Myoki Bank, this didn’t even qualify as work.
Philip became a visible presence in our lives, but not a romantic lead. Grrrrr. I had this mad crush on him, but he wasn’t biting. Still, I was delighted that we were beginning to see each other regularly. Whenever he completed an essay, he would hand-deliver it, joining me for a meal or quiet drink. I looked forward to his visits, and I dressed up and put on makeup every day in case he showed up. By the time he gave me the sixth essay, I was bemoaning his obvious lack of interest. I decided that he must think of me as just a friend or, worse, a mother figure.
For the last two weeks of August, Faith invited the girls and me to Southampton, where she and Steven had a house on Gin Lane. It was one of those twenty-million-dollar estates that you drool over in the Sotheby’s Fine Home and Estate Catalog. Faith (with the help of the best decorators money can buy) had transformed it into a warm and cozy home filled with impressionist paintings, beautiful rugs, colorful fabrics, and elegant clutter. It was child-friendly while remaining a feast for the eyes. Every morning, Faith and I would run on the beach. Later, we’d all swim in the frigid Atlantic Ocean, then dive into her heated pool, and finally take a Jacuzzi. The children spent their days jumping on the trampoline, riding the miniature horses, bowling in the private alley, scaling the climbing wall in Faith’s gymnastics pavilion, or giving Sir Elton a bath. At night, Faith’s chef would barbecue for picnics we’d hold on the beach. Then we’d all bundle up in the outdoor beds to watch the latest movies on their screen under the stars.
Faith encouraged me to invite Philip to join us for a few days over the long weekend. Actually, she relentlessly insisted until I had no choice but to ask him. Amazingly, he said yes. He said yes!
With Philip coming, I asked Faith to recommend someone to give me a bikini wax just in case. She suggested the top pubic stylist on the East Coast, Francesca Gregorio. I’d heard of her, of course, but couldn’t spare $250 to clean up my nether region. “No problem,” Faith said. “She’s making a house call on Tuesday. She’ll do us both. My treat. What do you need?”
“Just a shaping. If I feel kinky, I might go Brazilian.”
“Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.�
�� Faith shook her head sadly. “That’s so yesterday. Francesca’s an artist. She can do anything. You can have a full-frontal defoliation. Or better yet, think about a pubic picture. She’s bringing her colorist. I’m getting a strawberry this time, but she’s done a heart, a cherry, and a bull’s-eye before.”
“She colors and shapes your pubic hair into a strawberry? No offense, Faith, but that’s just weird.”
“It’s adorable. Bikini topiary’s the rage. They did a whole thing about it on the E! Entertainment channel.”
“Guess I missed it. I’ll settle for a cleanup and shaping. If I happen to get lucky with Philip, I’d rather not have a bull’s-eye between my legs. It seems so calculated.”
On the Friday evening Philip arrived, we left the girls with Faith’s weekend nanny and had dinner at Savannah, a charming restaurant near the train station. It was one of those warm, perfect evenings, and we were seated in the back garden. Steven asked how Philip and I met, and to my embarrassment, he outed me for showing up at his door bearing chopped liver.
“Are you crazy, Ivy?” Faith said. “Nobody likes liver. How could you not know that?” She turned to Philip. “Admit it, you thought she was strange, didn’t you?”
“No, I thought she was kind of cute,” he answered, giving me a smile.
He thought I was cute! He likes me. He really likes me. I felt like Sally Field. Play it cool, I cautioned myself.
“But did you enjoy the chopped liver?” Faith pressed.
“No, not really. I think it’s a taste you have to grow up with,” he answered. “Sorry, Ivy,” he said, looking at me for forgiveness.
“Don’t you guys read Gourmet? It’s a known fact that chopped liver is one of the six sexy foods. That plus oysters, figs, caviar, chiles, and chocolate. Hel-loow, it’s an aphrodisiac,” I said.
“Maybe for Jewish people, but trust me, not for anyone else,” Faith said.
“You don’t know what you’re missing.” I said. “Have you ever tasted warm chopped liver right after it’s been chopped? Mmmmm. Just thinking about it makes me hot.”
“I don’t think any food is sexier than food fed to you by a lover,” Philip said.
Faith and I stared at him. After picking my chin up off the floor, I croaked, “That, too.”
After dinner, Steven invited Philip to join him outside for a cigar. Faith and I waited for dessert.
“Philip doesn’t strike me as a smoker,” I remarked to Faith after they left.
“You’re probably right. But show me the man who can say no to a big Cuban cigar. It’s a guy thing. Now you won’t be able to kiss him tonight,” she teased.
“Since I haven’t kissed him yet anyway, I don’t think cigar breath will be a problem.”
“He’s cute,” Faith said seriously. “What I wouldn’t give for one night with a stud like that.”
“Faith, Philip is not a stud. He’s a prodigy, an intellectual giant, a publishing wonder boy. I’ll grant you, he has a nice ass, but that’s purely secondary. And anyway, why would you be interested in Philip? You’re with one of the most accomplished men in the world.”
“I know, and I love him to death. But he’s at least thirty years older than Philip.”
“And he looks great for a guy in his late sixties.”
“Yeah, I know. When I first met Steven, the idea of sleeping with a man older than my dad was just gross. But then he dazzled me with his wealth and power and charm. Now I adore him. But with Steven, it’s what’s inside that’s sexy. Every once in a while, I can’t help it. I fantasize about being with a younger guy. Is that terrible?”
“It’s perfectly normal,” I assured Faith. Like I know about these things. “Did you agree to threesomes in your prenup? Why not invite a gorgeous man to join you?”
“I can’t. The agreement defines ‘threesomes’ as one man and two women. Steven has these lesbian fantasies.”
“Eeeuw.” I covered my ears. “Too much information, too much information, la la la la la.”
As we giggled, I noticed a pint-sized visitor approaching our table. It was Veronica, my little student, who was having dinner with her endearing parents, Stu and Patsy Needleman.
“Hey, little pumpkin,” I said to her. “Meet my friend Faith.”
“Hi, I’m Veronica, it’s very nice to meet you,” she said politely while shaking Faith’s hand. I must, must, must remember to teach all my clients’ children to do that as soon as I get back.
To my chagrin, Stu came over. He was sporting a second-degree sunburn that hurt to look at. Patsy followed her usual two steps behind. I introduced them to Faith. Stu ignored her, while long-suffering Patsy was silent, looking down at her feet.
“I tried to call you yesterday and you weren’t available,” he accused.
“I’m sorry, Stu, but I’ve been here for the last few days.”
“Ms. Ames, I should be able to reach you anytime I have a question.” He pronounced “Ms.” like “Mizzzzzz.” “Steven Lord would have my ass in a sling if I left my job for even a day without letting important clients know how to reach me. That was completely unprofessional,” he chided.
“Okay, Stu, from now on you’ll always know how to find me,” I said as I jotted my cell-phone number on a cocktail napkin. Oops, transposed two numbers. Gosh, I hate when I do that.
“It was urgent that I talk to you,” he continued. “I want a written and oral briefing on the questions Patsy and I can expect to be asked at each of our interviews.”
Like this couldn’t wait until winter, when they would actually go to the interviews? Poor Patsy and Veronica were cowed by his bullying, even though it wasn’t aimed at them. Faith just sat there with her mouth open. I knew what she was thinking.
“Again, my apologies, Stu. From now on, you’ll be able to reach me anytime you want.”
“You disappoint me and you know what I’ll do,” he said, waving his stubby little pointer finger at me. “I’ll use every last resource of Steven Lord to bring you down, missy.”
Did he just call me “missy”? “Oh, Stu, let me introduce you to my friends, Steven Lord and Philip Goodman,” I said, gesturing to our dates, who were now standing behind the Needleman family.
“What’s this about using every last resource I have against Ivy?” Steven’s antennae were up. He didn’t become one of the world’s richest men by being a boob.
“Oh, he’s just joking, Steven,” I said. No point humiliating the asshole. He’s still a client. “You know Stu, don’t you? Your junior lieutenant.”
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Steven said. “What division do you work in?”
Stu’s face was bright red. “Oil and Gas, sir.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Stuey,” Steven said, slapping Stu’s back. “Any friend of Ivy’s is a friend of mine.”
Steven turned to sit down. “Oh, Mr. Lord, sir,” Stu began, “do you think—would it be possible—would you do me the honor—could I have my picture taken with you?”
“Sure, do you have a camera?”
“Patsy, the camera,” Stu barked. The “chop-chop” at the end of the sentence was implied. Patsy instantly retrieved it from her purse. Steven put his arm around Stu and both smiled while Patsy snapped away.
“Thank you, sir,” he said practically prostrating himself at Steven’s feet. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“My pleasure,” Steven said.
As Steven and Philip sat down, dessert was served. This was Stu and Patsy’s cue to skedaddle, which they quickly did, but not before I gave Veronica a big hug and promised her that day of beauty in September.
As they walked away, Stu reviewed the pictures on their digital camera. “Jesus fucking Christ, Patsy,” he said, “you cut Steven Lord’s head off in every shot! Can’t you do anything right?”
Faith started to open her mouth, but I interrupted. “Don’t even start, Faith. I know Stu’s a jerk, but his daughter’s a sweetheart. I’m determined to get her i
nto a wonderful school so she’ll have something good in her life to make up for that overbearing father of hers.”
“But how can you put up with him treating you like that?” she said.
“Not to brag or anything, but I spent fourteen years at Myoki Bank, remember? Graceful acceptance of humiliation was part of my daily Zen practice there.”
“Ivy, you have the patience of a saint,” Steven said. “To Ivy,” he toasted, and everyone joined in.
4. Sex on the Beach
After dinner, Philip and I went to the Driver’s Seat for a nightcap. One of the oldest anti-chic restaurants in town, the place had a wood-paneled bar in the front room, a dining room in the back, and an outside patio that appealed to the few would-be Beautiful People who frequented the joint. We sat in front, where the bronzed bartender hobnobbed with the patrons, mostly locals.
Philip downed a few beers to my one glass of wine. I pressed him about his book, which he seemed reticent to discuss. “Soon,” he promised.
“Is it something I’ll enjoy reading?”
“I hope so,” he answered. “You’ll be in it.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m going to be in your book? I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever put me in a book before.”
“Let’s just say you’re inspiring me to write this story, and without you I never would have attempted it.” He took my hand in his, reached over, and kissed me. It was a small, tender kiss on the lips, but I don’t think I’ve ever received a nicer one. Part of me wanted to savor the moment—make it last like a five-course meal at Chanterelle. The other part wanted to throw Philip down in a booth and have my way with him. Tear off his shirt. Run my fingers through his chest hairs. Squeeze his perfect round orbs (whatever those are), explore every crevice of his body with my teasing, flickering tongue. Pleasure him as no woman ever—
“Do you want to take a walk?” Philip asked.
