“Yes, that was where we met. But she was Ms. Wickham then. It was before she married Mr. Rothschild.”
For a moment Sara was silent. Pamela’s marriage was news to her. Careful not to reveal her surprise, she continued, “Oh, right. Mr. Rothschild is . . .”
“Was the headmaster there, that is, until they were both asked to resign. That’s an extremely shorthand version of a very complicated story. I certainly don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“Not at all,” she said, thinking she would like nothing better than to be “bored” with the details. “Were you and Pamela friendly when you were both in Manchester?”
“Not really. She’s at least ten years older than I, so we didn’t run in the same circles. And her little, uh, escapade with the headmaster would have made socializing a bit tricky. I did my best to steer clear of the whole kit and caboodle. Running into Pamela last spring was a stroke of luck. Otherwise, I’m not sure how we would have coped with finding a school for Oscar. New York is trying under the best of circumstances. And now, as a forty-year-old father, I find it exhausting.”
Bingo! That made Pamela at least fifty! If Sara could have kept this bloke talking, she might have learned Pamela’s entire life story. But unfortunately, they were interrupted by a loud bang and a splatter.
“So sorry, got to ring off. The little kipper’s gone and knocked over a crock of clotted cream.”
Meanwhile, Helen was in the middle of the tour from hell—crawling through the bowels of The School with Silvia’s obsessive-compulsive father, inspecting internal ductwork to determine whether the dust particle level exceeded DEP standards. Somehow he had convinced her that certain dust could have a negative impact on the growth hormones and brain cells of all children, not only his own allergic-to-practically-everything daughter. Helen was sufficiently spooked to get down on all fours and collect scrapings from the ventilation system for him to send out for testing, while his slightly saner wife waited upstairs. As they finished the ductwork, he pulled out a pocketknife and pried a few chips of paint from the stairwell walls in order to conduct a lead count. At this point, she realized this guy was a paranoid maniac and that, by crawling around with him, she was voluntarily acting as his enabler. Disgusted and disheveled, she called upstairs and got Brandi to come down and relieve her.
“Tell Sara I caught Legionnaires’ disease and I’m suing The School,” she said between coughs. She brushed the dust and debris off her clothes and marched upstairs to see if Pamela had returned. She had, and quite unexpectedly, Helen was granted an audience.
“I don’t have much time. Bring me up to date on your progress,” Pamela ordered as she distractedly shuffled papers around her desk, charm bracelet jangling with every movement.
“We had a tour and interview at The Safety School,” Helen began slowly, and was immediately interrupted.
“She will probably not be accepted there because she is overqualified. Next.”
Careful to conceal her dismay over Pamela’s snappish verdict, Helen continued, “We have our tour and interview at The Progressive School next week.”
“You will hate it. It’s not for Zoe,” Pamela said definitely.
“We go to The Bucolic Campus School the first week in November. I hear very good things about it. What do you think?”
“It is an excellent school. Zoe’s test scores will have to improve enormously for her to be even considered. It’s a stretch. Next.”
“We’re wait-listed for applications at both The Very Brainy Girls’ School and The Downtown School.”
“It is unlikely that you will clear either of those wait lists,” Pamela asserted, still seeming to be more interested in something she was looking for on her desk than what Helen had to say.
According to Pamela, they had, for all intents and purposes, rejected or been rejected by five of their six schools, and it was only October.
Am I going to end up like Diane Spilcher? Brain-dead at Starbucks in the Paramus Mall? Helen panicked. She felt ill and wondered whether she actually might have contracted Legionnaires’ disease.
“And what did you think of The Fancy Girls’ School? That is, by the way, the only place Zoe belongs,” Pamela declared with absolute authority.
“I told you we liked it very much. But will she get in?” Helen asked with trepidation, praying for a yes.
“It all depends.”
“On what?” Helen asked cautiously.
“Justine’s École de la Cuisine de Provence. Did you ask her about her cooking school or did she bring it up?”
“Michael was talking about his work and, out of the blue, she suggested that he use the school as a location for a show about Provençal cuisine. Don’t you think that was a little presumptuous on her part?” Helen suggested.
“No,” Pamela said bluntly. “Not at all. That is, if you are serious about Zoe going to The Fancy Girls’ School.”
“I thought that was the implication. I just needed a reality check,” Helen said, struggling to stay composed.
“I’m not sure you fully understand what she has in mind. She is not only interested in Michael producing a show at her school; she also expects to star in the show. She is highly telegenic. You may not remember this, but when she was young, Justine had a recurring role on Romper Room. That led to her academic career. But her true love is la cuisine. You will be amazed by what she can do with a lamb shank.”
Helen was taken aback. “This is crazy! You can’t imagine the torture Michael goes through when he’s casting a new show. Everyone and their mother gets involved in the decision: the network executives, the sponsors, the directors, producers, casting agents—and then they do focus groups to gauge the viewers’ reactions. Justine Frampton isn’t going to waltz in and get a starring role on the Cooking Network just because Michael recommends her. That would be an impossible promise to keep. Besides, we don’t even know if the network will be interested in the show in the first place!”
“Then clearly, getting them interested should be Michael’s first priority.”
Helen couldn’t believe she was having this conversation, and she knew that Michael would go ballistic when he heard about it.
“So let me get this straight. Justine told you, point-blank, that if Michael produces a show on Provençal cooking starring Justine Frampton, then Zoe will be accepted at The Fancy Girls’ School?” She was incredulous.
“Mon ami. She is a bit subtler than that. She has informed me that she can only accept one student from The School this year. April Winter was to be that one. Since meeting you and Michael, her position has changed. Now she is saying that, under the right, shall I say, circumstances, the spot could go to Zoe.”
“Do you think we would stoop that low?”
“The Fancy Girls’ School is the best choice for Zoe, bar none. How low you will stoop is up to you. But keep in mind, admissions-wise, it may be your best shot,” Pamela concluded, and stood up to dismiss her.
Helen was speechless and left Pamela’s office without a goodbye. As she passed Margaret’s desk, she grabbed her cell phone out of her bag and called Michael at his office.
“We have to talk. Now!” she shouted, while Margaret sat looking alarmed. Is Mrs. Drager old enough to be menopausal? she wondered.
“Shhhhh,” Michael whispered as he gave Helen a light peck on the cheek. “This is the most delicate part of the procedure; the artichoke heart transplant.”
Michael was on the sound stage at the Cooking Network shooting a segment for the season premiere of The Epicurean MD. They watched silently as the surgeon/chef performed an operation on the thorny-leafed vegetable and then stitched up the outer layer of the turducken. The process complete, Michael led Helen into his office.
“So what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until tonight?” he asked impatiently.
Barely able to breathe, Helen recounted her entire conversation with Pamela, as close to verbatim as she possibly could.
“Helen, thi
s is extortion. People go to jail for things like this. I can’t believe she really means it.”
“I know it’s crazy. But it’s not like it was MY idea!”
“Of course it wasn’t. I’m just having a hard time imagining Justine Frampton being that unethical, not to mention ludicrous. I can’t believe a woman in her position would do this.”
Helen was exasperated. “You are so naïve. Over the years I have learned to never underestimate Pamela in the sleaze department. And as far as I’m concerned, Justine is sleaze by association.”
“Then there’s only one thing to do: withdraw our application. Right?” Michael said uncertainly.
Helen hesitated. “I’m not so sure. Why can’t we play their game? You could call Justine next week and tell her the network is interested in a new show about Provence. You set up an audition for Justine in late November and have a few meetings with her to look at location photographs, discuss recipes, and drool over her cassoulet. A few weeks later, you tell her that the film test was superb and everyone is gung ho. Throughout December and January you say you’re working to tie up a few loose ends and are expecting the final go-ahead any day. The most important part is to drag out the final decision until after the admissions notification date, February twelfth. By then Zoe will have been accepted, and the show gets the guillotine.”
“It sounds like an episode of I Love Lucy,” Michael laughed.
“I guess there’s a reason I always liked that show.”
“You are kidding, aren’t you?” He stopped short and stared at Helen.
“Michael, it’s a wild idea, but just think—it would give us a sense of empowerment. I’m sick of feeling so helpless with this admissions thing. I’d like to be proactive for a change.”
Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Is this my rational, competent wife talking? Helen, first of all, I would have to get approval from Xavier to even do the audition,” he began.
“Xavier always gets excited about your ideas. This one should be no different.”
She was right about that. “Okay. So we do the audition. There’s no way it will be anything but ridiculous. Even she will see that.”
“I doubt that she’s that self-aware. She’ll think she’s brilliant whatever happens in the audition.”
Michael had to admit she was probably right again.
“Please tell me you’re not really serious about this, are you?” he begged one last time.
“Dead serious. That is, if you’re willing to do everything in your power to get your daughter into The Fancy Girls’ School. I know I am.”
“And you accuse Zoe of being a guilt-tripper?” he countered.
Sara’s Saturday began with a meditation class and would end with a shiatsu massage, so having to put in a few hours at the office didn’t seem too onerous. She knew that she would have been better off doing some rigorous exercise and scheduling a haircut (not with Rafael), but had opted for the path of less resistance. Helen’s repeated suggestions that she try Pilates was her way of hinting to Sara that her posture could use some work, and just the other day, Tally Easton had sent her a note offering her trainer for a few private sessions. Still, self-improvement would have to wait until after the admissions season.
The sheer enormousness of this year’s applicant pool presented a particularly burdensome set of problems. Between the internal forces within The School, the external influence peddlers, and the applicants themselves, Sara was already suffering from the stress of being pushed, pulled, harangued, and cajoled. This was nothing new; she went through it every year and had more or less learned how to cope. But this year was going to be particularly grueling. The number of applicants was greater, the stakes higher, and the parental frenzy more frantic than ever. And the absence of a legitimate supervisor did not help matters, either. She worried about what would happen in January when selection time arrived. Felicity clearly lacked the sensitivity and sound judgment that was required to get the job done fairly and effectively. She certainly couldn’t be counted on to be of any help. Should Sara assume that Pamela planned to play the wizard of Oz and mastermind the admissions process from behind the curtain?
That was too demoralizing even to contemplate. For the time being, she was better off focusing on more tangible problems, like what to do about the application for Alexander Trousdale, the LD, ADHD, HIV-positive son of the type A, hepatitis B, vitamin D- deficient trustee married to the CPA with TMJ and chronic PMS. With no solution in sight, she turned her attention to writing the last of the brief synopses of the applicants she had interviewed that week:
“Marina Rodriguez: Mother Puerto Rican, Father Nicaraguan. Physically aggressive (biter), verbally aggressive (screamer). Academically aggressive? (check KAT report). Overweight. English is second language. Parents self-employed. Own a taquitos truck. Cater school parties?”
Closing the file, she was startled to hear footsteps, but then hearing a familiar jingle-jangle, knew immediately who had arrived.
Pamela stuck her head in Sara’s office. “What are you doing in today?” implying that it was unusual for Sara to work on the weekend, when in fact it was a Saturday appearance by Pamela that was a rarity. Always amused by the sight of Pamela in head-to-toe equestrian gear, Sara wondered if she was coming from or going to the stable—or wherever it was she went in that getup.
She responded politely, “Catching up on admissions business. And you?”
“Ditto. This year’s eighth-grade students are going to be a nightmare to place. There are very few spots, and they’re a bunch of losers and duds. Much to do. Ta ta.” She waved and sashayed out, her breeches adhering to her buttocks in a most unflattering manner.
Sara shut down her computer, gathered her belongings, and locked her door. As she was leaving the building, she spotted a family of three, furtively approaching The School from the opposite direction. It was the milquetoasty Benjamin, his wife, Clarissa the milkmaid, and their peaches-and-cream-complected, probably lactose-intolerant son, Oscar.
So, the Whytes finally get their tour, conducted in their native language no less, she mused, glad to have somewhere to be that afternoon other than The School.
Politely squeezing past one another as they competed for the bathroom sink and mirror, all three members of the Drager household were bustling about. It was one of the rare mornings when, with all of them due somewhere at the same early hour, their living space felt especially cramped. But they chalked it up to one of the many sacrifices they made to live in New York City. Just as they were about to walk out the door, the phone rang.
“Is this Mom?” Bertha Kauffmann demanded brusquely. For some inexplicable reason Bertha always addressed Helen as Mom, even though she was nearly old enough to be Helen’s mother.
“Yes, Bertha.” Helen immediately knew it was she, since the only other person who called her Mom was beside her, tying her bootlaces.
“I have to be out of town next week for a conference, so I won’t be able to see Zoe. Since the test dates are looming, I wanted to propose that for this time only, I double up the students and see two at a time for two hours. I thought I could work with Zoe and Catherine Cashin today from four to six, if that’s okay with you. I spoke to Dad and he said it would be fine. The girls need help in the same areas, so it should work well.”
Helen said yes and hung up.
As Zoe was leaving, she told her about the plan, got her approval, and then added, “And I’ll pick you up at school to take you over there.”
“Mom, please. I’m fourteen years old! I’m perfectly capable of going to my tutor without an escort!”
“I need to pay Bertha, and I don’t want you carrying that much cash around. Besides, I have a few errands to do in her neighborhood.”
“You mean Birdie. She wants us to call her Birdie,” Zoe corrected her.
“All right, then. I will pick you up after school and take you to Birdie’s,” she said, emphasizing the “B.”
“Oh, all right,” Zoe
muttered, “see you later,” and rushed out without kissing her mother goodbye.
Before she walked out the door, Helen paused in front of the hall mirror to assess her ensemble. With the enticing possibility of seeing Phillip Cashin later in the day, she double-checked to make sure that her outfit was right. Deciding she could use a little more color, she tied an orange silk shawl around the shoulders of her black suit jacket, threw some extra lipstick and a few hair ornaments into her bag, and headed out. Her plans for the day included several hours of museum research, a very important lunch with a curator, and, time permitting, a few gallery visits before fetching Zoe.
It was a splendid autumn day, the kind that reminded Helen why she loved New York. The temperature was a perfect sixty-five degrees, the air was clear, the mood in the streets was gracious, and everyone she encountered throughout the day seemed to share her optimism—even the normally cantankerous museum librarian, with whom she managed to exchange a few pleasantries.
At noon she punctually arrived for her lunch meeting with Sir Basil Balfour III at his establishment of choice, The Pretensa Club. Sir Basil’s grandfather was one of the founding members of the club, which, until recently, barred women from setting foot on the premises and, even more recently, amended its regulations to permit women to dine in trousers.
The club could not have been fustier. The wood-paneled rooms were gloomy, every window heavily shrouded with drab damask drapes that dated from the 1940s and had never been aired, let alone cleaned. The upholstered furniture smelled musty and was stained in so many spots that last year the club had to spend its entire refurbishment budget on antimacassars, just to conceal the damage inflicted by decades of accumulated hair oils. Helen noticed that the only paintings in the entire club were portraits of Balfours and other crusty former Pretensa members that, from their high perches above stair landings and fireplaces, stared down disapprovingly.
The lunch date had been scheduled months ago, Sir Basil being one of the busiest curators in town, at least to hear him tell, which he did ad nauseam. It was hard to believe that this was the first available date he had in four months, but she was grateful that he had agreed to see her. After all, as Helen had said when his assistant was searching for an opening, “He has to eat, doesn’t he?”
Admissions Page 14
