by Karen Quinn
6. Andy’s Open House
You probably think I’m crazy. Drayton was dead. But I swear on my daughters’ lives it was him. Ridiculous. I checked to see if I was awake. Could this be a very realistic dream? No, I was definitely awake. I must be hallucinating. I looked at Philip, who was sleeping soundly by my side, then back at Drayton. He smiled at me. Yeow. O dear God, I hope Drayton hadn’t been watching us have sex earlier. Nah. Get your mind out of the gutter. I reached over and shook Philip.
“Philip, wake up. I had a nightmare. Will you hold me, please?”
Philip smiled and wrapped his arms protectively around me. I looked up and Drayton was gone. After a half hour, when I felt certain Drayton’s ghost wouldn’t return, I said goodnight to Philip and snuck quietly back into my room. Between Philip and Drayton, I’d had enough excitement for one night. I needed to sleep.
It rained Sunday morning, then cleared up in a heartbeat, as though God flipped the weather switch. As saddened as I was about the Myoki tragedy, I pulled myself together to go to brunch at the old Andy Warhol estate in Montauk. The Lords got invited to all the best parties.
The real estate firm of Allan M. Schneider hosted the event. The Warhol property, which could be had for a mere fifty million dollars, boasted a seven-bedroom main house, two guesthouses, a staff house, a caretaker house, stables, and a pool. It was on 122 acres of undeveloped land with 600 feet of oceanfront—unheard of in the overdeveloped Hamptons. Liza Minnelli, Elizabeth Taylor, Jackie Kennedy Onassis, and Mick Jagger were just a few of the famous houseguests who had visited in years past. Virtually anyone who could write a personal check for fifty mil was invited—industrialists, media moguls, movie stars, rappers, pop singers, heirs and heiresses. We were told to get there early, as parking would be a problem. The property could only accommodate seven jet helicopters.
We said our goodbyes to the girls, who were engrossed in a papier-mâché project with Victoria, their weekend nanny and former Spence kindergarten teacher. Faith stole all her nannies from the best private schools.
“Look, Mommy, I’m making a bird,” Skyler said.
“And I’m making a SpongeBob,” Kate said, showing me her square creation.
Mae was making an erect penis. Then she explained that it was a fish. I guess we know what was on my mind. Lia was meticulously constructing a blob.
“You guys are doing a wonderful job, aren’t they, Faith?” I said.
“I pronounce them gifted,” she agreed.
Brunch was catered by Loaves and Fishes, home of the $70-per-pound lobster salad. The place was buzzing with the top 1 percent of the top 1 percent of the wealthiest humans on the planet, along with a few hangers-on such as myself. There was a respectable showing of business honchos like Henry Kravis and Ron Perelman with their gorgeous second or third wives. Ira Rennert was a no-show. He owned a hundred-thousand-square-foot, hundred-million-dollar compound in Sagaponak with twenty-nine bedrooms, thirty-five bathrooms, and parking for more than a hundred. Compared to Ira’s, Andy’s was just a starter escape.
The grounds were swarming with celebs. Inside, my heart was atwitter. Outside, I maintained a Buddha-like composure, blasé and underwhelmed. That’s what New Yorkers do around famous people. Christy Brinkley. Jerry Seinfeld. Yeah. Cool. Whatev. Billy Joel. Paul Simon. Do I know you? P. Diddy. Alec Baldwin. Yawn. Matthew Broderick, Sarah Jessica. Check please. Philip and I people-watched, since neither of us knew anyone in person, only by reputation. Frankly, I was a little miffed that not one star made an effort to get to know us. With no one to talk to, we decided to explore the property on our own. Personally, I preferred Faith’s estate, which was thirty million dollars cheaper, but hey, that’s just me.
We scoped out the master suite in the caretaker’s house. “Check out this closet,” Philip said.
I peeked in. It was just an ordinary man’s walk-in about half filled with clothes. Nothing special. “You haven’t seen a closet until you’ve seen Faith’s,” I told him.
“No really, come inside,” he said.
“What?”
Philip pulled me toward him and kissed me roughly. He shut the door and began to undress me.
“Why, you bad boy,” I said as we got naked. I couldn’t believe how exciting my life was becoming. Cad and I never indulged in the pleasures of the flesh beyond the safety of our marital bed. But look at me now! Steamy hot sex in Andy Warhol’s estate’s caretaker’s closet. I reached down and held Philip’s engorged penis in my hand, then knelt to take it in my mouth. That’s when we heard voices in the bedroom. Instinctively, we dove behind the curtain of hanging clothes. A man with a southern accent was giving a tour. I prayed, Please don’t open the door. Please don’t open the door. He opened the door.
“Here’s the closet. It’s like any other closet you might see anywhere. Except this closet has two naked people in the corner hiding behind the clothes.” Everyone laughed. He shut the door and the tour moved on. With all the security at this party, it was a miracle that yet again we had escaped arrest.
When the coast was clear, I quickly got dressed. “I’ve never been caught naked in my life and now look at me, twice in one weekend. What are the odds?” I growled.
“They’re pretty high when you fuck in public places,” Philip said.
“Well, call me a prude, but from now on, let’s only have sex in private. If Faith and Steven found out we’d been caught again, they’d never invite me back. An open invitation to the Hamptons is something you don’t screw around with, Philip,” I barked.
“Okay, calm down. Why don’t we go eat?” Philip said.
“Good idea,” I agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”
We joined the line for the buffet, which was next to the pool. Children were splashing and screaming. The adults were eating at tables dressed by Versace to promote their new couture houseware line. A reggae band was playing Bob Marley songs, making for a Caribbean party-like atmosphere. It was more like a poolside buffet at the Jamaican Ritz Carlton than an open house.
“Try the lobster salad,” I told Philip. “I hear it’s amazing.”
“Hey, I know you.”
I looked up. Pimple Boy was filling his plate with greasy foods he had no business eating.
“You’re the two we saw on the beach the other night. Mom, Dad, there they are! The people I told you about. The naked grown-ups.” Thank you, Pimple Boy, for broadcasting that little factoid to the entire brunch line. Perhaps you’d like to borrow the band’s microphone and tell everyone around the pool.
“You must be mixing us up with someone else,” Philip said quietly.
“No, it was you,” Pimple Boy accused. He pulled out his cell phone, punched a few buttons, and as quick as you can say “Clem Kadiddle-hopper,” there we were, naked on the beach. It was the first time I’d ever seen a nude picture of myself. Who-o-oah! Thanks to my workouts, I looked pretty darn good. I wondered if there was any way I could get a print. “See!” The kid held the photo up for everyone’s viewing pleasure. “See! See! See! Told ya!” he said.
Philip reached over and snatched the phone out of his hand. Then he hurled it into the swimming pool, thereby destroying the only good naked picture of me that would probably ever be taken.
“Hey, whadja do that for?” Pimple Boy whined. “Mo-om!”
“That was an expensive phone,” his mother huffed. “I hope you’re planning to pay for it.”
“Hey, you show naked pictures of strangers standing next to you in line, you deserve what you get,” Philip said.
The week after Labor Day was complicated. I was ecstatic over my budding relationship with Philip. At the same time, my heart was aching over the alligator tragedy. It took way too long to fall asleep, and when I did, my dreams were violent and disturbing. I always awakened with a vague feeling that something dreadful had happened. Then I’d remember. I couldn’t stop thinking about getting fired. If not for that, I would have been on that sinking ship during Myoki’s ridiculous off-sit
e.
Having been given a second chance at life, I resolved to get it right this time. Never again would I stay in a stale relationship, have fake friendly conversations with people I hated, or work at a job I detested. I vowed to ignore everyone else’s expectations, listen to my heart, and do whatever interested me from now on. I would no longer bother with shallow concerns like how fat I looked, how deep my frown line had become, or how pathetic it was to buy knock-off designer purses. So what. Who cares? Not me. I’m deeper than that now. Regretting the time I’d wasted on plastic values, I pledged to focus on what mattered—being an accomplished mother, working out for my heart and not my figure, eating fresh vegetables and not frozen, living every moment mindfully, and dedicating myself to important causes like peace and world hunger.
I swore that from then on, my life’s litmus test would be “What would Mother Teresa do?” A few weeks later, I changed that to “What would Ivana Trump do?” It sounds strange, but it made sense. Ivana’s a beautiful, tough woman who is first and foremost a good mother. She came from nothing and married a billionaire. Later, she confronted his lover, just like I did Cad’s. Then she had head-to-toe plastic surgery and became even more beautiful. Mother Teresa may be a saint, but Ivana’s a god.
7. Extreme Makeover
On Friday, I took Veronica for her day of beauty at the Kiddie Cuts Salon and Spa to reward her for learning the answers to the admissions test, which I had taught her against my better judgment. Patsy joined us and was more relaxed and talkative than I’d ever seen her. After lightly perming Veronica’s hair, one of their most renowned stylists gave her a chin-length bob that flattered her face. Later that day, celebrity eyebrow sculptor Pablo DiSorrento spent an unprecedented two hours on her unibrow, charging us double. With that and a simple mustache waxing, you could finally see her little face, which was surprisingly angelic. Even with her chubbiness, Veronica was ready to compete for a spot at any private school. After buying a slimming black linen interview suit with matching patent leather shoes and lacy party socks at Saks, Veronica announced that the perfect end to the day would be a stop at McDonald’s for a Big Mac and Serendipity for a frrrozen hot chocolate.
“Patsy, does Veronica eat at McDonald’s very often?” I asked as we nursed our frrrozen hot chocolates.
“Well, she gets at least one meal there a day, sometimes two,” Patsy answered. “Either McDonald’s or Wendy’s. We alternate.”
“How about dessert? Does she go to Serendipity every day?”
“I know what you’re getting at, Ivy. Veronica’s a bit heavy, right?”
“Yeah, she is. I don’t think it’s healthy for her to be at this weight.”
“It doesn’t help that she dips her food in Coke,” Patsy lamented.
“What?”
“She dips everything in Coke before she eats it—eggs, cherries, crackers, McDonald’s french fries, whatever.”
“Could you substitute Diet Coke?” I suggested.
“I’ll try. You don’t think the artificial sugar’s bad for her?”
“It’s not good. What about vegetable juice? Could you substitute that for Coke?”
“No, don’t think so. Veronica prides herself on the fact that nothing green has ever passed her lips.”
“Hmmm. Does she exercise much?”
“She competes in those iron-kiddie races, but she never trains for them. Other than dance, all the classes she takes are pretty cerebral.”
Cerebral? Pinheads don’t use words like “cerebral.” What was Stu talking about? Patsy was plenty smart.
“Oops,” Veronica said, as she spilled her drink all over the table. A waitress instantly appeared, cleaning up the mess. “Don’t worry,” she whispered to Veronica, “I’ll get you another.”
“Patsy, I think you need to get Veronica on some kind of low-key diet-and-exercise program. In kindergarten, children probably won’t make fun of her, but as she gets older, they will. I was chubby, and my classmates gave me a hard time about it. God forbid Veronica gets teased at school.”
“You’re right. I’ve always felt guilty that she’s so big. I’m a terrible cook, so I take the easy way out, which is fast food. I’m such a bad mother, so incompetent,” she lamented. I figured that was Stu talking.
“No, you’re not. Look, I’ll help you put a program together for Veronica. I’ll stop by on Monday and we’ll come up with some meal plans, find a few quick recipes, and make a shopping list. We can check out the Big Apple Parent for some athletic programs Veronica can join.” I would never have imagined that this new career of mine would involve days of beauty, clothes shopping, nutrition, exercise, and psychological counseling. I marveled at my dedication and wondered if the Wall Street Journal might like to do a profile on me. Mental note: get a publicity still and media kit as soon as possible.
Surviving Private Kindergarten Admissions was coming up next week. I figured I’d have twenty-five to thirty parents. In fact, thirty people enrolled and I turned another thirty away. If it went well, I’d definitely schedule another one. The weekend would be spent preparing for the class. Speaking in public always made me a nervous wreck.
8. Ivy the Brave
My luck, New York City braced itself for a hurricane on the day of my workshop. Earlier in the week, we’d been watching the weather reports, not taking seriously the possibility that Hurricane Hannah would venture this far north. The last time the city had been hit with such a storm was September 27, 1990, when Hurricane Bob struck. I remember because that was the day I got married. People tried to tell me it was the best possible luck to have a hurricane on your wedding day, but I knew better. The electricity had gone out just after Oscar Beauman, stylist to the socialites, washed my hair. Without power and light, there could be no blow-dry on the most important hair day of my life. Half the guests didn’t show. The rabbi married us by candlelight, which actually turned out okay. There was no band, no dancing, no dinner, and a melted cake. To this day, I wonder if our wedding debacle was God’s way of telling us he objected to the union.
Even though Hurricane Hannah was headed our way, weather reports indicated that the storm would blow out of the city well in advance of my workshop. It didn’t. By the time I decided to cancel, most of New York had lost power, cell phones weren’t working, and it was impossible to reach anyone. We were told to stay indoors and tape big X’s on our windows with masking tape. That seemed dumb. Would masking tape really protect a window in 100-mile-per-hour winds? But Archie came over and did it for me, just in case. That’s just one of the benefits of living downstairs from the Naked Carpenter.
“Do you think anyone’ll come to my workshop?” I asked Philip.
“No, of course not.”
“You’re probably right, but I want to put up a sign saying it’s cancelled.”
“Are you crazy?” Philip asked. “They’re predicting gale-force winds. All kinds of debris’ll be blowing around. It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to put a sign up. I’m sure no one’ll show, but if they do, I want them to think I’m professional.” I remembered Stu’s rude accusation in Southampton two weeks ago.
“All right,” Philip said. “I’ll go with you. I can’t believe anyone in his right mind would be outside tonight, but if it’s important to you, let’s do it.”
Archie came down to watch the girls, but Skyler was having none of it.
“Mommy, don’t go. There’s a hurricane. You’re supposed to stay inside.”
“Honey, I’m just going to put a sign up to let my clients know there’s no workshop. I’ll be back soon.”
“What about me and Kate? What about Sir Elton?” she whined.
“Archie’ll keep you safe. I’ll be back as fast as I can.”
“I hate your stupid clients,” Skyler said.
I walked over to my daughter and gave her a hug. “Skyler, I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have to. We need my clients to pay the bills. They’re depending on me to take care of them.”
“So are me and Kate,” she said sadly.
“Oh Lord, maybe I shouldn’t leave,” I muttered.
Skyler sighed. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll survive. God forbid I should hurt your career.”
Where did she learn that? I wondered. Oh yes, from me.
Archie called to Skyler to come to the other room. He and Kate were dancing to the music of his battery-powered radio. She ran off.
I agonized over leaving the children, but I felt had no choice. The moment Philip and I stepped outside, my umbrella turned inside out, broke apart, and flew away. I struggled to breathe in the torrential rain and raging wind.
“This is nuts,” Philip yelled. “Let’s go back.”
“No, I need to get a sign up. You go back, I’ll be okay,” I screamed. My backpack was soaked, as was everything inside it, including the paper I’d brought for the sign. But I was determined. Philip didn’t leave my side. His willingness to risk life and limb was a testament to his deep and abiding commitment to me, I decided.
“The subway’s closed,” he shouted when we finally reached the train. A deck chair from someone’s balcony blew by and almost clobbered me.
“Holy shit,” I shouted. This was beginning to feel like an exceptionally stupid idea on my part. We continued to push our way uptown, hugging the sides of buildings for stability. A police van drove alongside us and stopped.
“What are you doing outside?” the cop yelled. “It’s dangerous, take cover.”
“I’m trying to get to my mother on Eighty-seventh and Lex, officer,” I screamed. “She’s old and afraid to be alone.”
