Chapter 7
“She’ll be there at 2:00,” Marta said, wrapping up her fifth call before 9:00 A.M. “Thank you!” She hung up the phone with a definitive click.
I didn’t have the faintest idea who Marta had been speaking to or where she’d promised I’d be. She had taken over, turning our office into Mission Control, and I’d sunk into a terrified haze. After hanging up the phone, she disappeared into the bull pen outside our private closet and then reappeared a minute later rolling a piece of equipment on a cart. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it were a NASA-style countdown clock. T minus twenty-five hours. And counting.
Instead, it was a rather ancient-looking television and VCR.
Marta folded her hands across her chest and turned to where I sat, cowering, in my chair. “Listen. Since we can’t get a media expert in here to help us, we’re going to have to wing it. I’m just going to tell you everything I know about the program, and then we’re going to watch an episode.”
“Okay,” I said helplessly.
“The Scene airs from ten to eleven in the morning, in several segments. The first part is just a discussion among the five cohosts.”
“About what?” I asked. I’d never seen the show.
“About . . . whatever,” she said, as if it were obvious. “About politics. About Beyoncé. About whatever is, you know, out there. But they do it in a personal way. They sympathize with the victim. They tell their own stories. It’s very confessional. Then, in the next segment, they do the stars, on the sofa.”
“Stars?”
“There are one or two interviews of famous people. Like an actress with a new movie coming out or someone who’s getting married. Whoever’s hot. Then finally they have either a musical guest or someone who shows them a new product or a recipe. That’s where you come in.”
“Because I’m a product? Or a recipe? Will they have me cook on the show?” That didn’t sound so bad.
“Yes, but only for pretend,” Marta said.
“Pretend?” I thought of Wylie stirring up pancakes on his wooden play stove.
“See, we’ll have the ingredients for a batch of muffets. You’ll stir them together, and then the hosts will taste the finished product.”
“Okay. So we have to bring those ingredients.” I wrote that down in my notebook. “What else?”
“Well . . .” Marta hesitated. “They always give the studio audience a gift from each segment of the show,” she said.
“A gift?”
“The guest’s latest book or a copy of their CD. Since you don’t have a book . . .”
“And I haven’t cut a CD lately.” I shivered with discomfort.
Marta ignored my sarcasm. “I told them we’d give away muffets to every audience member.”
“How many . . .”
“Two hundred and fifty,” Marta said, before I could finish.
“Two hundred and fifty!” I yelped. “Where are we going to get that many extra packages of muffets by tomorrow? Zia Maria is probably booked tonight.”
“Calm down, Julia, because I have a plan. First of all, we’re going to make up a package of two muffets for each person, not twelve.”
“But still . . .”
“And,” she continued, one long finger in the air to shut me up, “the reason we do our cooking at La Cucina is because . . .”
“Because it’s illegal to make the product at home.”
“It would be illegal to sell it from a home kitchen. The muffets for the show are to give away, not to sell,” Marta said carefully. “We can make them anywhere we want.”
I blinked at her. “Oh.”
“So I’m going to make them at home tonight,” Marta said decisively. “And this afternoon I’m going to work on the packaging, since we don’t have anything the right size. And I want to do something a little more promotional . . .”
“But what about freezer space?” I asked. I hadn’t seen Marta’s freezer, but I doubted it would hold five hundred muffets.
“I don’t have to freeze them. They’ll taste even better fresh.”
“Oh.” Of course they would. “But still, Marta, I can make them today in my own kitchen.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re getting your hair cut and colored at two o’clock. At Frédéric Fekkai. Then after that I need you to go and get a manicure and a pedicure.”
I was really out of my element now. “Did you say ‘colored’?” Tree huggers like me try to avoid harsh chemicals.
“Sí, señora. We can’t have those gray hairs glinting on high-def.”
I put a self-conscious hand to the top of my head. Last time I’d checked, there were only a few gray hairs there. Let’s not get crazy.
“And right before your haircut, we’re going shopping.”
You’d think, after the hair color, I would have seen that coming. “Oh,” I said stupidly again. “Where?”
“Barneys,” was her answer. “Or Bergdorf. You can choose.”
“Thanks,” I said, with a hint of indignation, though it had been years since I’d bought any garment that could not withstand jam-smearing and machine washing.
“So, moving on.” Marta crossed a couple of things off her list. “Let’s talk more about the show and about your segment. To really make it on The Scene, you have to be confessional,” she said with an air of authority.
“But . . .” It was hard enough to picture myself cooking for a bunch of chirpy millionaire talk-show hosts. It was nearly impossible to imagine dishing dirt with them. “How? I’m not a soap opera star with a secret boyfriend. We’re tasting muffets here.”
She shrugged. “They sit around and dish. That’s the show. So you’ve got to give them something to dish about. That’s what we should work on now.”
I took a deep, Lamaze-worthy breath. Then I capped the paper cup of coffee I’d been drinking and tossed it into the garbage can. The combination of caffeine and swelling terror was proving to be a bad one. “I don’t know about ‘confessional,’” I told Marta. “But I know I can romanticize the story. I’ll tell them about how I started the business almost accidentally because I wanted the very best for my little boys, but also to save the world.”
Marta chewed her gum thoughtfully. “You do that role well. But I’m telling you they really want to hear about how your husband left you for his secretary and how you’ve sold a kidney to finance the business. And how the titans at the big grocery chain stores want you to sleep with them before they’ll stock your product, but you won’t do it—”
“But none of that is true!” I cried. “Although I’d keep an open mind about that last part.”
Marta rolled her eyes. Apparently I wasn’t very credible as a slut. “Look, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Marta pulled a videotape out of her purse and stuck it into the VCR, which was part of the rental suite’s communal hardware. “My neighbor had this, and it’s only a week old.”
Snowy static on the screen became an ad for allergy medication. And then, to bouncy theme music, a group of five shiny talk-show hostesses sashayed out from behind a red curtain and onto a warmly lit stage. To whoops of appreciation and massive applause from the studio audience, they took seats at a half-moon-shaped maple dining table.
Marta pointed at the skinniest, blondest hostess. “That’s Lizzie Hefflespeck, our savior.” The young woman had layers of silk for hair. She was blonde and as slim as an haricot vert, not at all the mommy figure I had pictured. She wore a stylish little wrap dress, size zero. Ten perfect fuchsia fingernails clutched her coffee mug.
In fact, all five hostesses clutched matching mugs, in perfectly manicured hands. It was probably as an attempt to make the whole production feel like a casual sit-down among friends. But I was not even a little bit fooled.
“My dear friend Gwyneth has a new film,” Lizzie cooed on screen.
Marta muted the show. “Background information,” she said. “Lizzie’s mar
ried to an Olympic athlete who was her personal trainer. He’s the Ken to her Barbie. Their little daughter is a year old, and it’s like Lizzie’s the first person to ever have a child, you know what I’m saying? When she was trying to get pregnant, they interviewed Lizzie’s fertility specialist. I’m surprised she didn’t have the in vitro on camera. When she was preggo, they interviewed her OBGYN. These days, she’s obsessed with the health and nutrition of her miracle child. That’s why you’re getting your big break.”
Lucky me.
“Moving on,” Marta said, pointing at the next host in the coffee klatch. “That’s Wanda. She’s the new smart-assed one who spars with everyone. You want to stay on her good side. Then there’s Charity, who used to be a serious journalist, but then she won a season on Survivor and her career really took off.”
“Marta?” I gasped. “How is it you know all about this show? And these people? We’re here at work every day when this show is on.”
Marta fixed her gaze on me. The look was affectionate but also hinted at how much my failings amused her. “Because I read.”
Chapter 8
It is true what they say about television lights—they are surprisingly hot. I feel like I’m melting, and I haven’t stepped onto the actual stage yet. Everything is happening too fast. I can’t see into the studio audience, where I’d hoped to spot Marta. Then I hear my name called, and I feel short of breath. I plaster a smile onto my face and I start to move forward.
Too late, I realize that I’m still wearing flip-flops, not the stiletto heels that Marta made me buy.
Hopefully the cameraman will be kind.
Then I’m somehow standing right next to Lizzie Hefflespeck, and she’s poking me in the arm. Repeatedly. I’m being poked in the arm on national television.
“Mama?”
The poking doesn’t stop.
“Mama! Your radio is on. And Wylie wants to get out of his crib.”
With a gasp, I sat up in bed and whirled to face the clock. It was a quarter to seven, so my alarm had only just begun broadcasting the morning news. I was sweaty. But Jasper stood calmly next to the bed, already dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt. He stopped poking my arm.
“Mama, up now!” Wylie hollered from the other room.
“Thank you, Jasper,” I gasped.
Next to me, Luke rolled over. “Arfnargh,” he said.
“Dada!” Wylie hollered from the crib. He had ears like a bat but apparently only one volume setting. “Where Mama go?”
“Coming, Wylie!” I croaked, hoping my heart would soon return to a more normal rate. I heaved my legs over the side of the bed. “Luke, sweetie, please get up. I’ve got to get ready for my . . .” The panic of my dream was still fresh, and I almost couldn’t finish the sentence. “Interview.”
He opened his eyes and smiled at me. “Ah! Your fifteen minutes of fame!”
“I’m told it will be more like four minutes,” I corrected him. “Can you feed the kids?”
“Certainly, oh famous one.” Luke slipped his legs over the other side of the bed and reached down to pull his pajama pants off the floor. My husband likes to sleep in the nude, which the children find odd.
“Daddy, I see your butt,” Jasper said, predictably.
“Oatmeal!” Luke said, ignoring him. “It is time to make Daddy Bear’s steel cut oatmeal for my two little cubs. Argh!”
“Pirates say argh,” Jasper argued, following Luke out of the bedroom. “Bears only roar.”
“Want it Mama!” Wylie howled when the two of them walked into the boys’ room to fetch him from the crib.
“Wylie,” I heard Luke tell him, “Goldilocks has to go straighten up her three-hundred-dollar hairdo. But if you come with me, I’ll let you stir the oatmeal.”
The breakfast worked. I heard only one minor argument, over who had more raisins in his bowl, but blissfully I was left alone to shower. Marta had confirmed that hair styling and makeup would be done for me before my appearance. That left plenty of time for me to dress carefully in the cerulean blue V-neck sweater whose purchase Marta had supervised. I’d wanted to go with a simple navy blue sweater, and she’d lobbied for a plunging wrap dress. We compromised on the V-neck, which fit well and wasn’t too revealing. But I wished the color were a few shades less brilliant.
I emerged from the bathroom. It was almost eight o’clock, when Luke and Jasper would leave together for school and work. Luke bent over to retrieve a folded paper that had been slipped under our door. I saw him skim the contents then slip it into his pocket.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He looked over at me guiltily. “It’s nothing. Just a note from the building.”
“Let me see,” I said, stretching out a hand.
“Later,” he said dismissively.
“Luke! What the hell?” I asked.
He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to me. “It’s nothing. Really. I didn’t want you to get all worried about it before your big appearance.”
Dear shareholders in apartment 514:
Even though the regulations for use of the basement community room are posted clearly on the wall, board members have observed your children’s caregiver repeatedly violating the rules against eating and drinking.
If you are unable to bring your family into compliance, the co-op board will have no alternative but to ban the occupants of your unit from using the community room. Subsequent violations could ultimately result in the revocation of your proprietary lease.
Sincerely,
Rothman Property
Management
“That bi—” I bit down on my lip. My nervousness probably had plenty to do with it, but tears pricked my eyes. The letter seemed to suggest that we could be kicked out of a co-op apartment that we own because of a bunch of seedless grapes. “I can’t believe . . . ,” I sputtered.
Luke gave me a sympathetic smile. “That’s what they do,” he said, shrugging on his suit jacket. “Last year the Randolphs told me they got a similar letter about umbrellas left to dry in the hallway. Management companies don’t bother to ask nicely.”
I swallowed hard, I couldn’t help it. I was so insulted and embarrassed. “Have a good day at work,” I managed.
“Cheer up, sweetie. And break a leg. Nice sweater, by the way. Jasper, let’s go!” Luke opened the apartment door.
Jasper came tearing out of the boys’ bedroom with his Spider-Man backpack. “Bye, Mommy.”
I dove forward to plant a kiss on his head as he ran out the door.
I took the deepest breath I could manage after the door closed on Luke and Jasper. As I tried to think deep, cleansing thoughts, I fought the urge to confront Bonnie.
I carried the ugly letter into the kitchen and laid it on the counter where Bonnie would come across it whenever she was ready. I added a note at the bottom. “Bonnie, this is what we’re up against! They’re terrible, aren’t they? But I’ll have to live with them long after you’ve become a European recording star. Please make sure Jasper and Wylie eat their snacks at our dining room table.”
I turned my back on the letter, but my heart would not stop racing. There were a few minutes left before I had to go, and I needed to calm down. So I went into the living room and knelt down on the rug, careful not to stretch out my skirt. Wylie was busy with his choo-choo bridge. I just wanted to be close to him. Both little round arms held a train engine, and they jockeyed for clearance. “Not your turn! Boom!” He was deep in the game, but I rubbed his back anyway. I swept my hand over his head. His hair still had the soft texture of a baby’s.
While I felt that the faces on Wylie’s train engines were more than a little bit creepy, he loved them. I sat still on the rug, my new stockings mindfully out of reach of the rolling stock, listening to his monologue. I had no personal recollection of that freedom—of spinning out crazy ideas without any thought to whether others were listening or found them worthy. How magical to be two—and how very different an experience from dolli
ng yourself up for national TV and caring for all the world what others thought of you.
I took a deep, excitement-filled breath. Today would be a good day for Julia’s Child. On the good days, it was a bit easier to leave Wylie with the au pair. When things went poorly, none of it seemed worth the sacrifice of those hours with him. But Wylie was the same Wylie whether business was poor or flourishing.
Before I knew it, it was eight forty-five, and the hour for primping and philosophizing was at an end. I told Wylie it was time to wake Bonnie.
“Otay!” he cried, jumping up and running for her little room off the kitchen. Waking Bonnie was a task he thoroughly enjoyed. When she first arrived from Glasgow, three months ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing the children to disturb her. But by now I’d learned that it was the only way to drag her out of bed.
The TV studio was sending a car for me, which was probably already waiting downstairs. I rose carefully from the rug, checked for lint, and headed for the front hall. I took the teetery heels I’d bought the day before out of their box and slid them on. I checked my look in the mirror by the door. I forced my shoulders back and stood up straight. I could do it. I could pull it off.
I looked in the mirror and sucked in my stomach. Here stands the world-famous television personality, sucking in her stomach before the show.
“Mama?” Wylie padded back out to me. “Bonnie no home,” he said simply.
“What, sweetie? Where’s Bonnie?”
“I not know,” he said.
“She’s . . . not in her room?” As I said the words, I began to steer the stilts I wore on my feet toward the kitchen and Bonnie’s door. Wylie had left it open. Bonnie’s bed was made, and the schedule for Jasper’s after-school soccer practice was on the comforter, right where I’d left it yesterday afternoon.
Bonnie was not home. She had gone to Brooklyn yesterday evening, as was her custom, and apparently had never returned.
I turned on my heel and grabbed the cordless phone off the kitchen counter. I dialed Bonnie’s cell phone.
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