by Kim Izzo
“I’m starving,” Iris announced and grabbed some leftovers out of the fridge. Popping off the lid of the plastic container, she began to eat furiously.
I crossed over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of barbecue sauce.
“At least put some of Ann’s sauce on it,” I said flatly. As sort of a side business Ann made sauces—pasta, barbecue, you name it, all very fancy and gourmet. Cooking was her passion—our grandmother’s, too—and together they had come up with these “secret” recipes.
Confession time: my signature lasagna? All Nana and Ann, no Kate. Although I do help layer the thing in its casserole pan. Iris and I just weren’t cooks; it was the one thing we had in common. Ann was convinced she could make a living selling the sauces, but so far only a few friends had forked over the cash for them. My mother, however, wasn’t a fan.
“No thank you,” Iris said firmly.
I shrugged and put the bottle down. Then I noticed that my grandmother had barely touched her dinner—leftover roast chicken and vegetables that Ann had brought over the night before.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I asked.
“My mouth is still sore,” she answered quietly. Nana was never sick but she’d been experiencing pain in her jaw and having trouble eating for the past month. She had finally agreed to see a doctor and had an appointment today. In all the drama at Haute I had forgotten all about it.
“What did Dr. James say?” I asked, trying not to sound worried.
“He doesn’t know,” she responded wearily. “He’s sending me to an ears, nose, and throat specialist.”
“An ENT? Is it anything to worry about?” I asked, feeling my stomach lurch.
“Only the good die young.” She grinned.
I smiled weakly.
“We’ve got an appointment next Monday,” Iris said.
“I’ll go with you, too,” I said firmly.
Nana stood and took her plate to the dishwasher. As she shuffled along, slightly hunched from her arthritic back, I saw how thin she’d become, too thin. Why hadn’t I noticed how frail she was? And as I watched her move slowly toward the sofa so she could watch Jeopardy!, the fact that I was turning forty hit me again. My grandmother was more than double my age and I found myself wondering if she considered herself happy. Had life turned out like she’d wanted? It had been decades since she was able to realistically imagine leading a different life. I tried to envision what it must be like when you are forced by old age to stop chasing dreams. I supposed contented reflection replaced striving ambition. A pang of doubt that my life would turn out any differently hung in the air and it occurred to me that I may never amount to anything other than an acting beauty editor and I wasn’t even that anymore.
“I’m off,” Iris announced, shaking me from thoughts of doom and gloom. There was only one place that my mother ever went on a weeknight. Bingo.
“Not again?” I said, though I didn’t really care. It was her money. If she wanted to spend it sitting on a folding chair, drinking Sprite and gnawing on Doritos, waiting for someone to yell “N35,” so be it.
“Don’t wait up for me,” she said tartly.
By 10:30 I was ready for bed. I walked down the hallway toward my bedroom and as was the norm, my grandmother was propped up in bed, her eyeglasses still on, her book clutched to her chest, softly snoring. I tiptoed into her room, gently removed her glasses, and tugged the book from her hands. “Good night,” I whispered. She stirred gently but didn’t open her eyes; instead, she rolled over and answered sleepily, “Good night, love.” I switched off her bedside lamp and kissed her on the forehead.
I padded down the hall to my room. When I was little I fantasized that I lived on a great estate. On weekends, Nana would drive us around leafy neighborhoods we could never afford. We’d point out houses we wanted to live in, and I’d daydream about becoming rich enough to one day own one.
Although our house was no great estate, it was home. And even though my room was the smallest, I adored it. The window overlooked our yard. The houses next door and across the street were completely obscured by a tall blue spruce and crabapple tree so I could imagine we were in the countryside. My bed was a mahogany four-poster with a giant feather duvet and the most expensive, high-thread-count sheets I could afford. The whole effect was finished with two antique side tables and a vintage lamp. For the walls I had splurged on Farrow & Ball and the color was called Smoked Trout, which I loved as much for its name as its rich taupe shade. It was supposedly a perfect match to a color found in the library of an English manor house, and was dated to approximately 1813, the same year that Pride and Prejudice was published. Yes, I was that much of an Austen fan. Where Ann and Nana bonded over a hot stove, Nana and I would read Austen together and take turns playing the heroines. I was ten when Nana first read P and P to me. Austen was my comfort food.
So needless to say that when I climbed into bed and my mind raced back to the reality of unemployment, only one thing could rescue me. I picked up Pride and Prejudice.
4.
Assigning Women
So many fine ladies were going to the devil nowadays that way, that there was no answering for anybody.
—Mansfield Park
I’d spent my final days at Haute tidying up loose ends. On Friday I had unceremoniously handed in my security pass. Now here it was, the very next Monday at 9:30 A.M., and I was standing in my former cubicle. I had come to meet with Marianne about freelance assignments and to double-check that I hadn’t left anything behind. It was odd being back so soon, odder still to see how quickly Claire had rearranged the desk. Then Claire was suddenly at my side. “Hiya,” she said and flashed her veneers.
As Claire droned on about how tough it was for her to reorganize her desk and the beauty closet, something caught my eye. Lying on top of a pile of file folders was a blush pink envelope with my name written in gold calligraphy. I knew immediately what it was: an invitation to a beauty event. If I were right, then it would be my last beauty trip for the foreseeable future. But I knew Claire; she lived for beauty junkets and all the free travel, luxury hotels, and expensive meals they entailed. “Did you see how I refiled the press kits?” I asked with mock solemnity and pointed to her desk. If she would just turn around for a few seconds I could grab the envelope without her seeing. Gotcha. I snatched the envelope and attempted to stuff it into my handbag but I wasn’t fast enough.
“What is that?” Claire’s head whipped around like a cobra.
“It’s mine,” I responded firmly and held it up so she could see my name plainly spelled out.
“Is that an invite?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, trying to act as if it didn’t matter in the least. But Claire’s steely eyes bore into me.
“Open it,” she ordered and held out a silver-plated letter opener.
I don’t know why I listened to her. It did have my name on it but, as she would point out, it was really an invite for Haute, not for me. I quickly sliced open the envelope and pried out the heavy card stock invitation. I was right, it was a beauty trip and a really good one: a first-class flight to London for a perfume launch. I savored the moment as long as I could, knowing every second was killing Claire. Never one for subtlety she grabbed it from my hands and read it for herself.
“Ooooh,” she purred. “I fucking love London!”
Clearly she wanted the trip. But so did I.
“It does have my name on it,” I pointed out bluntly.
Claire squinted at me. “It’s my job, Kate.”
No one liked to be put on the spot, least of all a thirty-nine-year-old woman who is eight months pregnant, but that’s what happened next. Claire and I marched over to Marianne’s office and sat down. It would be Marianne’s decision.
“It would be my perfect return to Haute,” Claire said tearfully, as though she were a long-forgotten movie star begging for a comeback role. “It would make returning full-time less daunting, exciting even. You’ll understand, when you have
your baby, you’ll want the same compassion.”
Wench. Pulling out the baby card was cheating.
“I’m almost forty,” I blurted out pathetically. But it was no use. What seemed like hours passed in silence. Then, satisfied she’d put us in our places using only her psychic ability, at last she spoke.
“I think Kate should go,” Marianne said icily. “She’s more up to speed on the perfume and she was invited specifically. This is your first week back, Claire, and you should spend it getting caught up.”
I avoided looking directly at Claire, but I was sure I could feel hot steam spewing from her head.
“Fine,” Claire snapped and stamped her foot. “What time is it?” She looked at her Cartier watch, then stood up as if the building were on fire. “I have to go home to breast-feed,” she announced before storming off.
Once we were alone, Marianne’s features softened.
“What a drama queen,” she said, not unkindly. “Now there’s something else I want to talk to you about. It’s the perfect assignment. It has you written all over it.”
I sat up, intrigued. “Let me call in Jennifer,” she said and picked up her phone.
Moments later Jennifer sat down beside me and I could see in her hands one of Haute’s standard freelance writing contracts.
“It was really Jennifer’s idea so I’ll let her explain,” Marianne said.
Jennifer was practically bouncing in her chair with excitement. “I want you to write a big, juicy feature on how to make a good marriage in today’s social and economic climate,” she breathed. My heart sank; I was the last person who should write about getting married, but she continued excitedly as though she were giving me a fabulous present. “Everyone around here knows you’re the resident Jane Austen expert, so naturally your name came up.”
“Naturally,” I repeated dryly.
Jennifer’s expression turned serious, as though the article could save humanity. “The economy isn’t getting any better; some of my female friends in the financial sector have lost their jobs already,” she said grimly. “But we don’t know how bad the situation will get or how long it will last. Job prospects could slow for years. It made me think that making a good marriage will become far more vital to a girl’s future than it has been for generations. It was the issue in Jane Austen’s time, and women today are back in the same situation she was in. I’m sure of it.”
“So, you think women will start behaving like an Austen character and marry for money because they can’t find a job?” I summarized bluntly, and stole a glance at Marianne. This was starting to sound an awful lot like the chat we had at Avenue with Brandon. She refused to make eye contact.
“Exactly.” Jennifer smiled, clearly pleased that I was so astute.
“Isn’t that a bit mercenary?” I understated, clearly less pleased. “I admit that some women do marry for money, and we have a word for that: gold digger.”
“This is different. With the current job market the choice between a high-powered career or a high-powered husband just got easier,” she explained without irony. “Having it all by doing as little as possible is the new American Dream.”
“What happened to the old American Dream of hard work and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps?” I asked coolly.
“It’s 2008 and we live in Manhattan. Our boots are Italian made and designed in Paris. Besides, who says it’s not hard work landing a billionaire? Didn’t the Dashwoods and Bennets work at it?” Jennifer said in an ominous tone. “You’re almost forty, Kate, and unmarried; has it been easy for you?”
Before I could respond with the thump of my boots and their straps on her behind, Marianne coughed. “It got me thinking about your joke the other night about whether you were too old to find a good husband,” she added.
“I had a hunch,” I said tersely.
“Yes, you can write it in the first person,” Jennifer continued. She stopped talking and stared at me. I shifted in the chair.
“Let me get this straight. I’m to write about finding a rich husband, at forty, as a guide for women, as though nothing’s changed since Pride and Prejudice was published?”
“You’ll make it modern. Women from twenty-five to fifty-five will love it,” Jennifer offered confidently.
“You do know that Jane Austen never married, right?” I pointed out and locked eyes with her.
“Reaaaally?” Jennifer drew the word out slowly, then shrugged her shoulders. “I still think women will like the Austen angle, even if she was more of an armchair expert on marriage.”
“As you pointed out, I’m almost forty,” I said tautly. “Faking like I’m on the hunt for a husband won’t be easy. Won’t these legions of rich men prefer much younger women?”
“Don’t worry, you look great,” Jennifer said reassuringly and placed her hand on my knee in a show of support. “No one would think you were a day over thirty. Seriously. I mean that.” Then she stared for a second longer before adding, “Maybe thirty-two.”
“It’s part of the process,” Marianne explained. “You can answer your own question. Is there such a thing as being too old to marry well? That’s your angle.”
My first reaction was to run screaming. Why would I want to write about being too old for anything, even if it turned out I wasn’t too old? Yet I couldn’t escape the harrowing fact that I was broke and this was a paying gig I couldn’t turn down.
“We’ll pay you two-fifty a word, so about five thousand dollars,” she explained and lifted the contract up for me to see.
“Sounds good,” I choked. “Plus London?”
Marianne nodded. Maybe I could make a living at this freelance business. I left Marianne and Jennifer and smiled as my thoughts returned to my upcoming excursion to London—a much easier task than a marriage guide. But my satisfaction quickly evaporated as I remembered my promise to take my grandmother to the specialist the same week as the press trip. I thought briefly of giving in to Claire, but changed my mind. My grandmother was fine. I didn’t really need to be there; Iris could handle it. I knew Nana would understand my need to go; she always did. Who could turn down a free trip to London and get paid for it?
5.
Perfume and Englishmen
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
—Emma
That’s how I happened to find myself a week later, along with what seemed like hundreds of other beauty editors, crushed inside a tent in a London park to witness the launch of a new fragrance called Intuition, which was described in the press release as having “the most delicate notes of amber, jasmine, and musk” but actually smelled like gin. In a rush of excitement, the spokesmodel, a famous English actress, swanned into the tent wearing a flowing gown of tulle and made her contractual sixty-second speech about the honor of being chosen as the face of Intuition and how it smelled exactly as she wanted to smell.
Like an alcoholic, I thought as I strained to see the actress, but my table was so far from the podium that her famous features were indiscernible. She was just a blond speck on the horizon. And that was all she was to remain, as the next day, which was supposed to be my interview, she had woken up ill, no doubt from inhaling too much Intuition, and canceled. I called the only person I knew in London, my dear friend, Emma.
Emma was an English girl whom I had met one summer during my stint working as a wardrobe assistant. We had bonded over the grueling hours, the crap pay, and the icky advances of the perpetually drunken leading actor. That was years ago but we had remained close friends. She had moved back to London to become a film composer; instead, she’d fallen in love with a man named Clive who worked in the City as a hedge fund manager (whatever that is). He was loaded and had bought them a town house in Notting Hill, which I had yet to see. It was high time for a visit.
A snapshot of Emma: She was thirty-seven, tall like me, pencil thin, and always kept her hair super short in a pixie cut circa Twiggy from the 1960s. She spoke in one of those lovely, lyr
ical English accents that was considered posh, but not mannered like the queen. Did I mention that she liked to drink?
We began our reunion with a glass of white wine at her place, which was airy and bright with high ceilings and white walls, and outlandish white shag rugs over dark hardwood. We sat perched on snow white leather sofas flanked by white accent tables. It must be Clive’s taste; Emma could never be this neat on her own, or by choice. I for one was thankful that the wine was white.
From there we moved on to a succession of pubs and many more glasses of wine before meeting up with Clive at his private club in Soho. We were seated at a table close to the fireplace, which had two large leather club chairs facing it.
“I’m very drunk,” I announced.
“I’m bloody drunk, too,” Emma yelped.
As we descended into a fit of giggles a very pregnant woman glowered at us before taking up residence in one of the club chairs.
“Everywhere I turn there’s a pregnant woman,” I said, exasperated. “Does no one use birth control anymore?”
“She’s jealous that she can’t drink,” Emma offered, then went silent. “I should tell you,” she gulped. “I’m trying to get pregnant.”
“Not you, too!” I said accusingly. Catching myself, I quickly added, “That’s awesome! But should you be drinking?”
“The whole bloody thing terrifies me,” she said seriously. “I reckon getting drunk is the only way to cope.”
I was happy for my friend, but to be honest I was sick of baby talk. The conversation soon went down the familiar road of how long she’d been trying, what she and Clive had done to try, and the usual assortment of tricks, herbs, and science that had brought nothing but worry, tension, and no baby. I listened and gave her tips that I had gleaned from Marianne and every other woman I knew. I was immensely relieved when Clive showed up.
