by Kim Izzo
“We love you,” Marianne said softly.
“I love you guys, too,” I said, feeling very loved indeed, but not at all convinced I’d find love in the true sense of the word.
“We got you this,” Brandon said, and handed me an envelope. I opened it, removed the paper inside, and unfolded it. It was a fake flight itinerary made on Brandon’s computer with the destination left blank.
“Oh my God!” I squealed. “Thank you!”
“We thought you could use a ticket somewhere, so you just name the locale and we’ll make it happen,” he said.
“I love it!” I announced with a smile.
“Great, because you needed the ticket to go with part two of your gift,” Brandon stated matter-of-factly.
“And I’m afraid we couldn’t find a tiara in our budget,” Marianne said with a sly smile. “Hope you like this present. It’s meant to be fun.”
Brandon pulled out a dark green leather folder from a large manila envelope that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Happy birthday, kiddo,” he said with a cheeky grin.
On the folder, embossed in gold was the name “Loch Broom Highland Estates.” I opened the folder and inside was a parchment document handwritten in calligraphy with a giant red seal in the bottom-right corner. In large letters it read:
This title Deed is made at Tulloch, in the Braes o’ Loch Broom, on this day of October 2008 between Loch Broom Highland Estates and Lady Katharine Billington Shaw.
“What the …?” I asked and turned to my friends for explanation. They just sat there grinning. The letter read like this:
Dear Lady Katharine:
According to the letter I was the owner of a one-square-foot plot of land on a Scottish estate. I had never been to Scotland. I was stumped. But then I read the rest of the letter and it said it all:
You may also wish to know that by ancient tradition, the ownership of land in Scotland may allow you to style yourself with title Laird (Lord) or Lady. We hope you enjoy your highland estate.
“Oh my God! You bought me a title!” I shouted. If it was true, it was possibly the best gift I’d ever received.
“Yes,” Marianne said excitedly. “Brandon found it. We thought it might help you in your quest to live out the Jane Austen fantasy life if you were a lady. Will make for interesting stuff in the article, too.”
I looked at Brandon. I could tell he wanted to behave modestly but he was beaming at his own cleverness.
“As part of a conservation project to raise money, this park in Scotland sold off one-foot plots, and all Scottish landowners have a title. We figured you deserved to be an aristocrat.”
“You’ll have to call me ‘lady,’ ” I teased.
“Your name screamed out for a title. Now you sound like you should be in the pages of Tatler,” Marianne explained, faking a posh English accent to say my name in full, “Lady Katharine Billington Shaw.”
“I love it,” I said.
I had to hand it to them. They had ensured that my fortieth birthday wasn’t only about grief.
“Would Her Ladyship like another glass of Veuve?” Brandon asked gleefully.
“And cake!” Marianne exclaimed and rose from the table to get dessert.
I was now Lady Katharine Billington Shaw; what else did I need besides a steady diet of cake and champagne?
The light was on in the kitchen when I tiptoed into my house just after eleven. It was Ann. She had stayed up for me and had a small vanilla cupcake on a plate, complete with lit candle.
“I heard the cab pull away,” she explained. “Make a wish.”
“Is Nana asleep?” I asked, feeling horrible that I’d been gone so long.
“Yes, but she wants you to wake her,” she said. “Don’t feel bad. It is your birthday and forty is a big deal.”
“So everyone keeps telling me,” I answered, not liking the reminder.
I closed my eyes and wished for the one thing that was impossible: I wished my grandmother would get better. I blew out the candle and we were in darkness. My sister turned on the dimmer switch so that the kitchen glowed. I shared the cupcake with Ann in silence. Then I crept upstairs and was surprised to see my grandmother awake in bed, waiting for me.
“Hey!” I said happily and sat down beside her.
“Happy birthday to you,” she sang in her once-perfect voice that was rapidly being snuffed out by the tumor. When she finished singing I saw she was crying and as I leaned forward and held her I realized I was crying, too. She held out a birthday card in a mauve envelope.
I opened the card; it was an illustration of a very fashionable brunette who was carrying tons of shopping bags; inside, the printed greeting was a simple “Have a Fabulous Day,” but Nana had written several lines to me in her distinctive handwriting. I tried as hard as I could to decipher her message, but the morphine had muddled with her mind so that she had written birthday with six B’s and so on. Most of the letters and words ran together in one long squiggle. It was illegible. Then there was the “love, Nana” and a row of XOXOXO’s. I stared hard at it, knowing it was the last written words I’d ever receive from her and yet I couldn’t read it.
“Do you like what I wrote?” she asked proudly. “I meant it all.”
“I love it,” I answered softly.
10.
A Matter of Life & Death
There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.
—Emma
Exactly thirty-seven hours and thirty-three minutes after my birthday, Marianne gave birth to a boy, Thomas Andrew. He was a breach and the obstetrician recommended the one thing that Marianne had dreaded above all else—a C-section. It wasn’t just the bikini line scar that got her; it was the thought of being wide awake as she was sliced opened.
“I felt like a Ziploc bag,” she confessed to me after it was over. But of course by the time I got through to her, and little Thomas was in her arms, the horror seemed worth it.
“You have to meet him!” she squealed proudly.
“I will as soon as I can,” I promised. “I’m so happy for you! I bet he’s gorgeous.”
“He is,” she cooed. “Oh, and I want my lasagna as soon as I’m home!”
“You got it.” I laughed.
Three days later, Marianne was home and I realized that I didn’t have any real clue how to make it. Of course I’d watched my grandmother and Ann dozens of times. They even let me layer ingredients. But what those ingredients were was beyond me. Downstairs to the kitchen I went. How hard could it be?
I grabbed what seemed like logical ingredients—ground beef, lasagna noodles, cheese, herbs, and the crowning glory, the pasta sauce. I ran over to the cupboard and snatched a giant jar of tomato sauce off the shelf. Easy.
The two deliciously gooey lasagnas cooling on the kitchen counter proved it. I had to admit I was proud of how they turned out. Maybe Nana and Ann’s cooking expertise had rubbed off on me.
“Come on in,” Frank whispered when I arrived. He took the two casserole dishes from me and I entered as quietly as I could. “Thomas is asleep.”
I tiptoed into the living room and there was Marianne, a bit tired looking but still beautiful and a pinkish baby in her arms swathed in a fluffy gray blanket.
“He’s so handsome!” I said. I was never sure what to say to new moms. New babies always looked kind of funny to me.
“I’d ask if you’d like to hold him but I know better.” Marianne grinned.
I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being antibaby. It’s not that I dislike babies. They simply terrify me. Newborns are so fragile that the thought of holding one and worse, holding one incorrectly, sends me into fits of anxiety. Maybe it was because I never wanted children of my own. I had zero maternal instincts. Even as a teenager I never babysat. Instead, I walked dogs for extra cash.
When I was an adult I made an attempt to be more baby friendly by watching a colleague’s eight-month-old son at a Christmas party. She ha
d left me with the baby to go grab herself a cocktail. While she was out of sight I noticed her son trying to pull himself up onto his feet by grabbing my fingers. He stood there, holding on lightly but steadily. He seemed really good at it. Extremely good. So good, in fact, I was convinced that some magical combination of his balance and my skill at baby-watching was the reason for his success. When his mother returned I was excited to show her his trick.
“He can stand!” I exclaimed.
She looked at me doubtfully. But before she could answer, her son had grabbed onto my fingers and was once again up on his feet. Determined to show off his skills, I decided to pull my fingers away so that he could stand on his own. Only he didn’t. He crashed immediately to the floor and burst into tears.
“He’s too young to stand on his own!” his mother shrieked and picked him up.
No one ever asked me to watch a baby again after that. I was stuck with giving the gift of lasagna.
“I can’t wait to have a bite!” Marianne said as she dove her fork into the dish. It was steaming hot, thanks to their microwave. Frank sat down and they sank their teeth into a gooey mouthful. But then they made a face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, worried I’d poisoned them. “Is the cheese off?”
“It’s not the cheese,” Marianne said gingerly, spitting the food into a napkin. “Did you make this the regular way?”
Trick question. I tried to come up with a reasonable answer, considering I’d never made it regularly or irregularly ever before. “Yes, I think so.”
“It’s the sauce,” Frank offered. “It’s sweet.”
“Sweet? Is that bad?” I asked and went to the kitchen to try for myself.
“And spicy,” he continued. “Kind of sticky.”
I shoved a fork into the lasagna and took a bite. Right away I knew. I love Ann, but if she wanted to make a living cooking she should learn how to label things better.
“It’s barbecue sauce,” I announced grimly. “I grabbed the wrong jar.”
“That’s okay.” Marianne smiled. “I’ve never had barbecue lasagna before. Maybe it will catch on.”
“Yes, like barbecue chicken pizza,” Frank offered helpfully and bravely took another bite, then grimaced. “Or maybe not.”
11.
Chanel Slut
I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness …
—Pride and Prejudice
Exactly seven days and six hours after my birthday my grandmother died. She lay in her own bed, Iris, Ann, and me at her side, and she slipped away.
My grandmother and I had only argued once in our forty years together. I was twenty-two years old and we were on vacation in Los Angeles. When it came to me, my grandmother’s indulgence knew no bounds. Which is how we found ourselves in the Chanel boutique on Rodeo Drive having a little black dress hemmed. Nana had bought it for me as a graduation gift, which was how she justified the cost. The dress was demure. Sophisticated. Grown-up. Its skirt and waist were made of wool crepe that gave way to a pleated chiffon bodice. It was a classic sleeveless sheath, the very picture of tasteful chic.
The only trouble was that the length was below my knees and that just wouldn’t do. I wanted to rock it up a bit.
My grandmother had agreed to a slight adjustment, but how high the hem could go was up for debate.
The seamstress seemed to read my mind and pinned the skirt four inches above my knee. I loved it. Nana despised it.
“That’s too short!” she snapped. Now my grandmother was not a conservative woman; I had plenty of miniskirts that she encouraged me to wear. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she liked to say, beaming with pride at my long legs. So when she objected to the Chanel going micro, I was perplexed, but assumed she’d be won over easily.
“No it’s not,” I said with youthful confidence.
The poor seamstress, unaware of whom she was defying, came to my defense.
“It’s the fashion,” she said sweetly. “She’s young and the dress should be young.”
“You’re both wrong,” Nana said bluntly. “This is a classic dress; it’s not for going to nightclubs. It’s not meant to be sexy in that way. You’ll ruin its lines.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes, hoping to catch the seamstress’s sympathetic glance. But my grandmother caught my eye roll and it made her livid.
“Kate,” Nana spoke through clenched teeth. “This is a ladylike dress. You can’t have everything you wear slit up to there.”
Then she rose from the pink-and-gold–upholstered chair and marched to the dressing room door. I felt the seamstress shrink away in fear and hide behind my skirt.
“I don’t get why you’re so angry,” I said flatly, still refusing to give in.
“Fine,” Nana said icily. “You shorten it as much as you want, but you’ll look like a slut in Chanel.”
She stormed away. I was speechless, but my shock didn’t stop the tears of humiliation from running down my cheeks. I wiped them away before the seamstress could see.
“What do you want to do, miss?” she asked gently.
“Keep it short,” I said defiantly. “Right where we have it pinned.”
We never spoke about the Chanel dress again. It was easy to avoid because I never wore it; every time I slipped it on it never looked quite right. I convinced myself I was too young for it, or that it wasn’t trendy enough, or that it just wasn’t my style. I avoided the obvious: that it was too short. It hung in my closet, its garment bag with the famous logo gathering dust, untouched and unworn for more than a decade, as a symbol of my poor judgment.
It wasn’t until I was thirty-five and Marianne had made editor-in-chief at Haute that the dress found its place in my life. As a sort of congratulatory gesture, the House of Chanel invited Marianne to Paris to see the couture show. We were both ecstatic and spent an entire Saturday looking for the perfect outfit to sit in the front row. But somehow we came up empty-handed.
“What about the purple Marc Jacobs?” I suggested as we shared a cab back to her condo. She had bought the purple cocktail dress for an arts charity ball and had only worn it once and no one in Paris would have seen it. She didn’t respond; instead, she shuffled around on the seat and cleared her throat.
“I was wondering,” she paused. “Would you consider loaning me your Chanel dress?”
I recoiled. I didn’t answer right away, but the uncomfortable silence screamed loud and clear. I didn’t want to loan her the dress, but I didn’t really have a reason to say no. I’d never worn it. Marianne knew that I’d never worn it. Yet I felt very possessive, even jealous at the thought of someone else in my dress. It was as though she’d asked to sleep with my boyfriend. Well, maybe not quite, but close.
“Um,” I hesitated.
“I’ll take good care of it,” she pleaded.
At home, with the dress held up in front of me, I stared at my reflection in a full-length mirror. I was being silly. What difference did it make if Marianne wore the dress before I did? She was my best friend. We always swapped clothing. But the fact that Marianne realized the value of the dress more than I did caught me off guard. I had learned to dismiss it as conservative and fussy. Clearly Marianne didn’t think so. My grandmother didn’t think so. That meant I was wrong.
I stepped into the little black dress. The zipper was in the back and it took me several attempts and acrobatic moves to get it done up. Before I allowed myself even a glance, I slipped on a pair of black velvet open-toe shoes. There wasn’t a dress made that wasn’t improved with a pair of strappy heels. At last I was ready and turned to face the mirror. The cut was perfect and hit every curve of my body at just the right angle. It didn’t pull or gape anywhere. Without a doubt it was an elegant dress. But it still didn’t suit me and that made me very angry. I practically tore the zipper in my haste to get the dress off, nearly falling over in a fit of rage as it became entangled around my heels. Marianne could have the damn thing. I was
breaking up with my Chanel dress for good.
Marianne took the dress to Paris but didn’t wear it. The Chanel people loaned her something from the current collection instead. When she brought it back, neatly folded and still remarkably unworn, I was relieved to touch it again. I had missed it after all. But I didn’t hang it back in its garment bag. Instead, I made an appointment at the Chanel boutique. When I came out of the dressing room the seamstress stood at the ready, pincushion in hand, tape measure around her neck like a boa. I stepped onto the circular platform and dropped my arms to my sides.
“Let the hem down four inches,” I said determinedly.
“I have to see if there’s enough fabric …” she began, but I cut her off. “There is,” I stated with authority. I would not be swayed from my mission by doubt. “I had it taken up years ago. Now I want it restored so I can wear it like it was meant to be worn.”
This time when I stood before the mirror I didn’t avoid looking. The skirt now grazed my knee, giving the dress the sexy silhouette of the pencil skirts that I had started to wear almost as my uniform. I also couldn’t deny that in my mid-thirties I had grown into the dress. It was finally mine.
The first time I wore it my grandmother clapped her hands together and gushed, “You look beautiful!” as if it were the first time she’d ever laid eyes on the dress. There was no “I told you so.” That wasn’t her style.
“I’m finally old enough to do it justice,” I said wryly. “You were right, this is the length it should be. Just at the knee.”
Nana nodded graciously. “It really shows off your figure.”
It quickly became our favorite dress. I wore it only occasionally so that I would never tire of it. It was that special. We never spoke of the Chanel boutique incident. But that was so like my grandmother and me; we could forgive and forget without having to blare it out on a loudspeaker.
On the morning of her funeral I zipped up the Chanel dress as though it were a suit of armor. It wasn’t a large gathering—mostly family and a smattering of neighbors and friends. All day I was terrified I’d faint, even though I’d never fainted before. Yet somehow I got through the service and the kind words from everyone that kept me on the verge of tears. Afterward, everyone came back to our house and we fed them little tea sandwiches and served sidecars. There was much laughter and plenty of “do you remember when?” but eventually the inevitable happened; the mourners went home. Even Ann had moved back to her apartment, and I was left with Iris.
