Over the summer, while Zoe was away at camp, Helen had labored over an exhibition proposal, design, and budget that entailed numerous meetings with Sir Basil’s staff. She was told he had approved her proposal, but since he had attended none of the meetings, she wasn’t really sure he was fully briefed on the scope of her concept. Today’s lunch was scheduled to bring him up to date and, more important, to finalize her consultancy contract. Unfortunately, Sir Basil had his own ideas about the lunch, specifically, a two-hour recitation on the subject of who’s who in the international cultural elite, and how they each spent their summer vacations.
Over the blandest food imaginable, Helen was subjected to a detailed description of Lady Millicent Freestone of the Victoria and Albert and her gracious hostessing on Majorca; the archaeological tour of the Cyclades with Nikos Katzaganis of the Athens National Archaeological Archive that was to die for; the early neoclassical statue of Hercules Basil discovered in a shop on Naxos that looked exactly like Baron Beringer of the Munich Kunsthalle Pinakotek-der Architectonia; and the soiree on Sardinia at the home of the Fontinettis that included all the senior curators from the Accademia del Arte della Commune della Citta di Solingnaria.
Thanks to the rubbery chicken and her incessant nodding and smiling, Helen had developed a throbbing pain in her jaw. Would the man ever stop?
“But I must say, the most sublime part of my summer was the two-week cruise down the Nile with George Bartholemew,” he prattled on. At last he had finally dropped a name she knew.
She caught it in midair. “I haven’t seen George for years. Is he still at the museum?” she asked, eager for a chance to speak and release the cramp in her mandibular muscles.
“No, he retired last year. But I see him every month at The Bucolic Campus School board meetings. We’re both trustees there,” he told her matter-of-factly.
“Really,” she responded casually, going out of her way to disguise her excitement. Continuing coolly, she told him about her daughter’s school situation, careful to create the impression that The Bucolic Campus School was far and away their first choice, not letting on that she had not yet actually set eyes on the place. Having no doubt that a social climber of Sir Basil’s caliber was well versed in the art of mutual back-scratching, she asked tentatively, “Would you consider writing a letter of recommendation for us? I mean, if you feel comfortable doing that. A letter from you would be so meaningful.”
It worked; he was flattered. “Of course, my dear, it would be an honor. Let me get all the details,” he said, and taking a tiny Florentine-leather book and expensive fountain pen out of his breast pocket, he wrote down the pertinent data while seeming to be genuinely pleased to extend her this kindness. After all, since Sir Basil was a card-carrying member of the old-boy network, she saw no reason why the old boy shouldn’t network on her behalf.
That out of the way, they both ordered coffee and, for him, a soggy trifle. Helen was aware that they still had not discussed the exhibition, but having already asked him for a favor, she was reluctant to bring it up but then kicked herself for allowing one thing to get in the way of the other. Business was business; social lubrication was social lubrication.
As he signaled the waiter for the check, she reached into her bag and boldly plunked the contract down in front of him.
“Oh, yes, the exhibition. Let’s just sign this and get you started,” he said, and, fountain pen still in hand, signed on the designated line.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she thought, And the best news is, my consulting fee will cover school tuition for at least a year.
It was shaping up to be a productive and lucrative day. Helen spent the next few hours making the rounds of the uptown galleries, consciously avoiding Josh and Donald’s, and selected a few shows to review for the monthly art journals. With about an hour to kill before picking up Zoe, she decided to walk. Along the way she passed the shoe store where she had seen the pumpkin-colored suede pumps last month, and having no trouble convincing herself that she deserved a reward, she went in and bought them. The shoes complemented the orange shawl she grabbed that morning, so she decided to wear them out of the store.
“Cool shoes, Mom. Can I borrow them?” Zoe said as soon as she saw Helen.
“Sure, sweetie,” Helen replied, gratified to be at the receiving end of her daughter’s approval for a change.
Having arrived at Birdie’s before Catherine, Helen dawdled, searching her bag for her reading glasses, using Bertha’s bathroom, and asking Bertha questions to which she already knew the answers.
“Is the SAPS a timed test?”
“Duh,” Zoe said, “If we had unlimited time it wouldn’t be so hard.”
“Do you recommend Zoe take practice tests beforehand?”
“Get with the program, Mom. What do you think I’ve been doing with Birdie for the last two weeks?”
The bell rang, announcing the arrival of Catherine and her dad. Bertha brusquely performed the necessary introductions and then sat down to work with the girls, summarily dismissing the lingering parents.
In the elevator, they shyly smiled, and then, as Phillip formally introduced himself, Helen extended her hand, gave his a light squeeze, and then quickly retracted. For some strange reason, she felt herself blush, and was glad that the elevator light was dim.
“I was going to kill a few hours over coffee and a book. Can I buy you a latte or something?” he offered.
Her plans for the next two hours were up in the air and, if she were being completely honest with herself, did include this fantasy. “Sure, that sounds lovely.”
They found the closest cafe, ordered their coffees, and sat down at a small table in the corner. As she removed her coat (his assistance gave her the first clue that he was one of the dying breed formerly known as gentlemen) and crossed her legs, he remarked, “Nice shoes. Great color.”
She looked down at her recent purchase. “Thank you. I’m told that pumpkin is the new black, but I’m not so sure.” Helen felt extremely self-conscious; she was not accustomed to a heterosexual man noticing, much less admiring, a woman’s shoes.
“When I first met you at Bertha’s, you looked familiar. I think we’ve seen you at a few of the schools we’ve visited. The Safety School and maybe The Fancy Girls’ School?” she inquired, making conversation about the one subject she knew they had in common.
“I guess we’re operating in parallel universes these days,” he laughed. “Now that you mention it, I do remember you from The Safety School. We were in a tour group together with two other families. A few oddballs in that group, weren’t there?”
They laughed about the Homer-bearing boy and his pompous parents, and both agreed they were glad that their daughters showed no interest in the other boy, the poster child for disaffected youth. Then came the inevitable: comparing notes about where they were each applying, and commiserating about the trials and tribulations of the admissions process. It turned out that their daughters were applying to several of the same schools.
“You’ve received an application from The Very Brainy Girls’ School? That’s odd. We’re still on the wait list.” She was concerned.
“I’m sure you’ll get yours any day,” he said nonchalantly, and quickly changed the subject. “I must say, going through this alone has been really difficult. This is a time when single-parenting feels really lonely,” Phillip confided.
Helen was not sure if she should acknowledge that she knew his wife had died, so she merely murmured sympathetically.
“Since Margot died, Catherine and I have managed pretty well. I made some changes in my work so I can be around more, and she has been incredibly strong. But this admissions thing is not easy. It’s exactly the sort of thing Margot was great at. She would have taken complete control of it.”
Just like I have, Helen thought, and again wondered how Michael would possibly cope if she were to die.
“The single parents that I know often say that it’s manageable as long as everything
is going smoothly, but as soon as there’s a bump in the road, they find themselves wishing they had a partner,” she offered.
“That describes my situation pretty well. I find I actually enjoy being alone with Catherine much of the time. There are many days when I feel like Margot’s death has changed my life in surprisingly positive ways, especially in my relationship with Catherine. We never spent this much time together when Margot was alive. But I sometimes worry that we’re too close and emotionally dependent on each other. It might make it difficult for either of us to ever get involved with anyone else. You know, classic Electra kind of stuff. Do you think I should be concerned?” he asked her frankly.
Oh, my God, talk about a loaded question, Helen thought, weighing the possible answers.
Helen thought that Phillip sounded as if he was highly therapized, a trait she found extremely attractive in a man. Unless, of course, he went more than twice a week—that usually connoted deep neurosis. So few of the men she knew were able to talk about feelings, especially feelings about such emotionally complex subjects as father-daughter relationships or a wife’s death. As he continued to reveal his concerns about single-parenting, she found her eyes going back and forth between his hands and his mouth, noting their grace and sensuality.
“Enough about me. Tell me about Zoe. Birdie always raves about her. She says she’s one of her favorite students.”
“She says the same about Catherine. I attribute her compliments to the fact that Zoe is always on time and I pay promptly, with cash,” Helen laughed.
She talked for a few minutes about her daughter, being careful not to say anything that might smack of smugness. The last thing she wanted to do was to make it sound as if Zoe was having an easier time than Catherine because she had a mother. After a rather lengthy description of her daughter, she felt a pang of guilt when she realized she had neglected to mention Michael. Phillip must have sensed the omission, too, and asked about Zoe’s father.
“My husband, Michael, and Zoe are quite close. He’s involved with her to the extent that his career allows, and he makes an effort to spend a good amount of time alone with her,” she explained awkwardly.
What’s wrong with me? she asked herself. I’m making Michael sound like an absentee husband. What can I say to make it clear he isn’t? Or am I trying to make it sound like he is?
To her relief, Phillip didn’t seem to be particularly interested in Michael but seemed to be keen on knowing more about her work. They talked about the state of the art world, artists they liked and disliked, and the business of buying and selling art, about all of which he was current and knowledgeable. She asked him how it was that he knew so much about her field, and he explained that the financial firm that he ran was frequently called upon to advise its clients on art acquisitions. She had read quite a bit about the high-rolling world of art investment, and asked him the name of his firm. He mumbled the name: the Cashin Group.
Of course. That’s the firm that pioneered the concept of collateralizing fine art, she thought, and then asked, “Is Joseph Cashin your father?”
“He was,” he answered modestly. “He died three years ago.”
So it’s Phillip’s firm now, she thought. BIG bucks.
Surprised to see that two hours had almost passed, they finished the last of their lattes and reluctantly wandered back to Bertha’s.
Having collected their daughters, the four of them crammed into the elevator. On the ride down, Catherine suggested that the following week, when Bertha was out of town, they get together to drill each other on vocabulary. Both parents agreed, and Helen wondered how she might engineer the date to include another rendezvous with Phillip. As the four walked down the street, the girls, pitched forward under their thirty-plus-pound backpacks, chatting amicably, the preoccupied adults were silent. Phillip and Helen seemed to have arrived at a tacit understanding that their whereabouts during the past two hours must remain a secret.
Since Helen never made it to the grocery store, the Dragers resorted to doing what a disproportionately large number of New Yorkers do on any given night: ordered takeout Chinese food. Before the food arrived, they opened a bottle of wine and drank to Helen’s success on finalizing her exhibition contract, and toasted Zoe on her can-do attitude and perseverance with the admissions process.
“And to me,” Michael said, raising his glass. “I successfully pitched a show to the network execs today.”
“Congratulations. Which one?” Helen responded enthusiastically.
“La Cuisine de Provence,” he said, exaggerating the French pronunciation.
“Are you serious?”
“They all loved my presentation, especially Xavier.” He smiled knowingly at Helen. “If I may say so, I was pretty great. I pulled out all the stops and, voilà, green light. Next step is to audition a certain chef,” he explained, pleased with the unexpected success.
“Does that mean we get to go to France next year?” asked Zoe excitedly.
“It’s a remote possibility,” Helen replied, and then smiled at Michael. “Emphasis on the word ‘remote.’”
While daintily nibbling watercress sandwiches and sipping Earl Grey’s finest, Pamela and Felicity reminisced about their summer vacation in Provence. Tea at the Palm Court of the Plaza Hotel was one of Pamela’s favorite weekend pastimes, and she was tickled to be in the company of such an enthusiastic guest. As the harpsichordist softly plucked “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago, Felicity hungrily devoured every pastry, scone, sweet, and savory that graced their three-tiered silver caddy.
“Don’t you miss zee scent of lavender in zee morning?” Felicity feigned a nostalgic tone purely for Pamela’s benefit. The fact was, a vacation in France had almost no appeal for Felicity, who had spent her entire youth dreaming of ways to escape her oppressive life in Marseilles.
“Frankly I’m beyond Provence. I’m thinking ahead. Warm sun, blue water, white sand. That’s where I intend to spend my winter holiday. You will be joining me?” Pamela asked in a way that sounded more like an order than an invitation.
“I would love to,” Felicity cooed coquettishly. “But on my salary I could never afford such a—how you say—extravagance.”
“Didn’t I tell you about your Christmas bonus? As associate head you are entitled to a substantial sum. That should cover a deluxe vacation and leave you with enough to buy gifts. So shall I make the reservations on St. Barts for two, moi et toi?” Pamela asked, fingering the tiny gold palm tree on her charm bracelet.
“Oui, oui.” A bonus? She had been in her new job for less than two months.
“By December twentieth your admissions obligations will be out of the way and you can go on holiday with a clear head,” Pamela told her.
“Er, about admissions . . . Sara Nash has not been so very—how-you-say—coop-er-atiff. She give me so little time and never tell me what is going on. I have to figure it all out for myself,” Felicity lamented.
“Don’t worry your petite tête. I guarantee, as soon as admissions are complete . . .” she drew a flat hand across her throat in a slicing motion.
“Does that mean you will fire her?”
“More likely, she will quit. I am in the process of making her job unbearable. Having her report to you must be très humiliating. That was a stroke of genius, if I may say so,” she said callously. “How cheeky of Sara to even entertain the possibility of becoming head of School. Well, she has a surprise coming.”
Felicity smiled and purred, “Whatever you say. You’re zee boss.”
“There’s no question about that,” Pamela said, nibbling a stem of watercress.
In faded jeans and a skimpy powder-blue shirt with “Brooklyn ’54” emblazoned across her chest, and bare flesh exposed across her middle, Zoe emerged from her room on the morning they were scheduled to visit The Progressive School. Not in the mood to play the heavy, Helen swallowed her words, knowing full well that the kids at The Progressive School would be dressed the same way.
Upon their entering the school lobby, a powerful aroma immediately engulfed the Dragers—the herd of teenagers stampeding into the school was redolent of a pungent mix of body odor and cigarette smoke. Anxious to escape, they veered off towards the office, where they were greeted by the director of admissions, Soledad Gibson.
Soledad was a recycled hippie who grew up in a commune in Haight-Ashbury and, when Helen asked her about her curious name, explained that she was named after the eponymous California prison. She informed them that she would show Helen and Michael around the school while Zoe went on her own tour with a girl she introduced as Violet Parsonet. Zoe looked to her parents to see if they approved of her going off alone with Violet, who, with her extensive inventory of pierced body parts, alabaster skin, and waist-length, shoe-polish-black hair, was a dead ringer for Morticia Addams. In black platform-heeled boots, Violet towered over six-foot-two Michael and made Zoe look like the incredible shrinking freshman. Helen nodded and gave Zoe a pat on the back as she followed Violet into the dark recesses of The Progressive School.
“Have you ever thrown a pot?” Soledad cheerfully began their tour.
“Uh, no,” Helen hesitated, not sure what she meant.
“Well, you have a treat in store for you! Let’s go to the clay room.” She led them up a flight of smoke-filled stairs.
“Is smoking allowed in the building?” Michael asked Soledad.
“The student council voted to permit smoking last year. Self-rule is an important component of our philosophy. We find it empowers the students,” Soledad explained.
“It’s illegal,” Helen quietly said to Michael, but Soledad overheard and responded, “Technically not. As an independent institution we’re entitled to set our own policy on such matters.”
Admissions Page 15
