Admissions

by Nancy Lieberman

  Pretending it was the furthest thing from her mind, Helen accepted the invitation to sit in the tall chair while Rena applied a light layer of powder, a whisk of blush, a swipe of mascara, and a dash of eye shadow.

  “So, let’s see. I used nude cream powder, hint of blush, cobalt sky eye shadow, Aubergine mascara. Look how great your eyes look.” She held up a mirror, and Helen nodded in approval. “And Sienna Swinger on the lips. That comes to two eighty-eight forty-two, with tax. Will that be cash or credit card?” Rena was busy stacking all the costly little boxes into a neat pile on the counter.

  “I’ll just take the lipstick. How much is that?” Helen replied.

  “Twenty-two fifty,” Rena replied acridly as the San Andreas fault appeared on her brow.

  “I’ll pay in cash,” said Helen as she counted out the exact change and scooted out the door. She hated to cheat Rena out of a commission but rationalized her meager purchase on the grounds that she often did work on spec, too.

  She arrived at the designated street, an elegant block lined with the kind of graceful limestone maisonettes that normally house consulates, institutes, or the heavily shaded offices of esthetic plastic surgeons. Arriving at number 17, she was surprised to find only one doorbell, mounted on a shiny brass plaque, engraved in cursive: “Cashin.”

  Wow. Single-family dwelling, she mused as she pressed the buzzer. The immense door automatically swung open.

  Anticipating a stiff greeting from someone named Jeeves, she was surprised; framed in the massive entryway was the ruggedly handsome Phillip, who, in brown corduroy pants and plaid flannel shirt, looked more Marlboro Man—nonsmoking, of course—than money manager. But the backdrop of the enormous foyer, with its checkerboard floor of black and white marble, sweeping Sleeping Beauty staircase, and refined grouping of French eighteenth-century Boulle settee and end tables, betrayed his true identity.

  Holy shit! Is that a Monet? Helen wondered as she caught a glimpse of a lily pond over Phillip’s right shoulder.

  “The girls are just finishing up. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” he cordially suggested.

  Helen glanced at her watch. “Sure, sounds lovely.” She tried to act nonchalant as she followed him up the million-dollar staircase to the sitting room on the second floor, home to several more significant paintings and exquisite pieces of important furniture. This was, without question, the most spectacular New York residence she had ever set foot in, and she had been in some doozies.

  “The girls seem to have had a productive afternoon without our Birdie,” Phillip said lightly as he poured them each a glass of very old Bordeaux.

  “Don’t tell Bertha that; she’ll charge us!” Helen replied as he handed her the gossamer-fine crystal. “Cheers.” She raised her glass and looked straight at her host.

  “Cheers,” Phillip replied, holding her eye for a few seconds longer than the moment prescribed. She looked away.

  “Wonderful painting.” She wandered over to the sublime still life above the Louis XIV curly maple bombé. A Cezanne! She restrained herself and managed to act as though an encounter with a major impressionist painting in a private home were a common occurrence.

  “Eighteen ninety-four. I’ve always thought it was his best year,” she stated quietly but with the authority of a true connoisseur. Phillip nodded, clearly impressed. “Have these paintings been in your family for generations, or are you the collector?” she asked, fully aware of the multiple subtexts buried in this question: aristocracy or nouveau riche? Self-made or inherited wealth?

  “My mother was the collector. She spent a lot of time in France while my father was still alive, mostly as a way to escape their marriage. She bought art to compensate for the pain he caused her by having serial affairs. I was their only child, so I inherited the paintings.”

  As Helen was speculating whether Phillip had also inherited his father’s zipper problem, he asked, “Have you finished all of your interviews?”

  “We had the last one last week. At The Bucolic Campus School. That is, unless we get an application from The Very Brainy Girls’ School. Ours still hasn’t come,” she replied matter-of-factly. She continued to be perturbed by this but, still considering him more a competitor than an ally in the admissions arena, didn’t share her frustration.

  “Odd,” he murmured, and changed the subject. “The girls asked me if they could get together over the weekend. Would you consider going to a few galleries with me while they hang out here? I would love to take advantage of your expertise and look at a few shows with you.”

  She was completely taken aback by the date-ish sound of his proposal, but fortunately, at that moment Catherine and Zoe came racing down the stairs, the floppy dog following behind. Zoe exuberantly threw an arm around Helen, nearly knocking the wineglass out of her hand, while Catherine demurely snuggled up to her father. Despite the fact that she came within millimeters of spilling a 1945 Mouton Rothschild (no relation) on an eighteenth-century Savonnerie carpet, Helen was thankful for the girls’ intrusion, as it freed her from having to respond to Phillip’s invitation. It may have been a casual suggestion on his part, but from her married perspective, it was a perplexing offer.

  She smiled and thanked him for the glass of wine while the girls engaged in a melodramatic farewell.

  On the walk home Zoe talked nonstop about the perfect Cashins and their flawless domestic arrangement.

  Helen cleared her throat before asking, “I may be off base here, Zoe, but the fact that Catherine’s mother died recently . . . doesn’t that put a little damper on things?”

  “If anything, the opposite,” Zoe replied, knowing it was hurtful the minute she said it.

  Helen was hurt and told her so.

  “Just kidding, Mom. God, you’re sensitive.”

  You’re right, she thought, I am. “How did the studying go without Bertha?” Helen returned to a safer subject.

  “We got a lot done. Catherine’s really smart. Smarter than I am.”

  “You’re very smart, too. Do you and Catherine discuss the schools you’re applying to?”

  “What do you think? Of course.”

  “Where do you think she wants to go?”

  “She seems pretty set on The Very Brainy Girls’ School. She kind of acts like it’s a done deal.”

  “Hmmm,” was all Helen said. She decided there was nothing to be gained from informing Zoe that the Cashin fortune would undoubtedly secure Catherine a place at whatever school she chose.

  “I can’t wait to tell Dad about their kitchen. Remember when we got the tour of the kitchen at Alain Ducasse? Well, triple that. And they have every gizmo and gadget you can think of.”

  “And staff, too?” Helen asked.

  “Only two. Of course, besides Inga, the au pair.”

  “Of course.”

  “And their dog! Don’t you think Stella is the cutest?”

  “She is cute. What kind of dog is she?”

  “A goldendoodle.”

  “A what?”

  “A cross between a golden retriever and a poodle,” Zoe explained.

  “Talk about gilding the lily. What’s wrong with just a plain old poodle?” Helen joked.

  The phone was ringing as Helen unlocked the door to their apartment. She threw down her bag and grabbed it on the fourth ring.

  “Vince Gargano at The Bucolic Campus School,” the voice at the other end announced brusquely.

  Helen gulped and then gushed, “Hell-o! How are you?”

  “Fifteen is a trick question,” the voice at the other end barked. “Right?” he demanded.

  “I guess,” she stammered.

  “Whad’ya mean, ya guess? You wrote the letter?” he replied gruffly, and then chuckled.

  She laughed nervously, finally remembering what this was about. “I’m sorry I don’t know the answer. Michael added the question.”

  “Of course he did. Tell him the Knicks retired number fifteen for Monroe in March, nineteen eighty-six, and then retire
d the number again in March ’ninety-two for someone else, okay? And ask him who and have him give me a call,” Vinnie demanded, and hung up.

  Helen was shaking as she quickly tried to get the question down on paper before it slipped her mind. A call from the head of admissions of their first-choice school had to be good news on some level. At least they had made a connection, even though it was a tenuous one and had nothing to do with their child. She called Michael and, not finding him in his office, left a message, with details about Vince’s call.

  Zoe was in her room, getting started on the hours of homework she claimed to have, as Helen was sorting through the mail. She tossed all the junk, stacked a few magazines on the hall table, put bills in a pile, and then, curiously, opened the anomalous hand-addressed envelope—a personal letter these days was such a rarity. In it was a copy of the letter of recommendation that Sir Basil had written to The Bucolic Campus School, allegedly on their behalf.

  Dear Mr. Gargano,

  As a member of the Board of Trustees, I am writing to recommend a highly qualified applicant to The Bucolic Campus School. I must begin by saying that although I do not personally know the student, Zoe Drager, her mother is a close colleague and friend for whom I have the utmost respect.

  I first met Helen Drager eighteen years ago when she was a researcher for the Hilden-Bonfiliac Collection where I was, at that time, chief curator. Helen was referred to me by my dear friend, Reginald Sinsabaugh, the then Professor Emeritus of the École des Artes Decoritivs in Reims, who was working with me on an exhibition of Sevres porcelain. Helen had previously studied with the late, great German Expressionist scholar, Ursula Heinengröder at the University of Berlin . . .

  “Urrggg . . . ,” Helen growled. “Why did I spend half an hour describing Zoe and all her attributes? This man is incorrigible. And useless!”

  That night Helen read Michael Sir Basil’s letter, the conclusion of which read:

  Helen is highly intelligent, full of wisdom and common sense and of the highest moral character. Some of these traits must have found their way to her daughter. I am sure that you will give every possible consideration to offering a place to Zoe, if there is one available for her.

  “At least it ends well,” Michael, the optimist, responded.

  “If your cousin Vinnie is willing to wade through the dunghill to get there. By the way, did you talk to him today?”

  “Online. After I got your message, I e-mailed him. He IM’d me and we had a good ten minutes of quality cyber-bonding.”

  “Excellent. What did you talk about? Zoe, I hope.”

  “Actually, Zoe never came up. We were talking about how many Knicks players have had the same last name as U.S. presidents.”

  “Michael!” Helen was exasperated.

  “What? Not counting the four Confederate Davises, he got six of eight—all he missed was Tom Hoover and Greg Fillmore.”

  “So where do things stand with us now?”

  “He’s supposed to get back to me with how many points Bill Bradley’s scored in his college career.”

  “That’s Bill Bradley the former presidential candidate, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Where did he go to college?”

  “Princeton.”

  “Well, there’s the in. There must be a way to use Princeton as a way to lead the discussion to Zoe.” She wasn’t sure how, but that was Michael’s problem. “Otherwise, there’s not much point in continuing to play this game.”

  “Okay, okay.” He was starting to feel put-upon, now juggling two admissions directors. “Don’t forget, I’m also working Frampton. The audition is coming up soon. Do you think we should have Zoe there? That way Justine can get to know her better.”

  “No way! Keep Zoe as far away from that as possible,” Helen said adamantly. The audition was beginning to resemble a Camembert cheese. When the idea was fresh, it was just barely palatable; as time went on, it was becoming hard to stomach. She was almost ashamed to admit that it was her idea in the first place.

  “Okay, okay,” he agreed.

  “But I get a sneak preview of the audition tape,” Helen added lightly.

  “Who knows? She may be brilliant.”

  “Ten to one she’s not.”

  After a late dinner, both Michael and Zoe retired early, leaving Helen alone on the living room couch with a thick novel and a cup of tea. All evening she had looked forward to having some time to herself to think about Phillip.

  As she drifted into a dreamlike state, she felt a vaguely familiar tingle, a sensation she had not felt in years. Her book fell to the floor as her recollection of the afternoon encounter assumed a cinematic quality. She replayed the scene over and over, searching for meaning in every gesture, in every word. This is feeling like a PG-13 movie, she thought abashedly. I guess I’m safe as long as it doesn’t become an R.

  In the twenty monogamous years that she and Michael had been together, Helen had rarely entertained thoughts of being with another man, except for the usual movie-star fantasy, like the George Clooney phase she went through after seeing Ocean’s Eleven. Occasionally she met a man she found intriguing, but he invariably turned out to be either married or gay or both. Phillip was the first attractive man she had met in years who was neither. Not only was he available, he was also emotionally accessible and, to top it off, intelligent, sophisticated, cultured, and sexy as all hell. And the fact that he had one of the most extraordinary private art collections she had seen in years didn’t hurt either.

  What should I do about this weekend? she asked herself. Since I’m sure he has no interest in an involvement with a married woman, and I have no intention of this going any further, is there any harm in spending a few hours with him on Saturday?

  “Helen, are you coming to bed?” Michael sweetly called out from their bedroom.

  “In a minute. I just have a few more pages till the end of the chapter.”

  Gathering her files, Sara slowly and deeply inhaled and exhaled, attempting to relax before heading upstairs for the monthly “state of admissions” meeting, a tradition that was established years ago by Pamela and that today, for the first time, would include Felicity.

  Deeply immersed in one of their little colloquies, Felicity and Pamela hardly acknowledged Sara’s arrival until she rustled her papers and cleared her throat. They finally looked up as she seated herself, making an effort to sit up straighter than usual.

  Skipping all pleasantries, Pamela demanded, “How many applications have we received to date?”

  Sara assumed that Felicity’s preoccupation with her split ends was an indication that she had no interest in the numbers, so she shifted the angle of her chair to face Pamela and addressed her report directly to her.

  “As of yesterday we have received six hundred and two applications. We currently have forty-eight openings in Kindergarten, so my thinking is that we should accept sixty, assuming we can count on our usual eighty percent yield. About four hundred of the applications are from reasonable families with well-qualified children. That number is so large, it will make the selection process incredibly difficult. But the bigger dilemma is what to do about the unprecedented number of sibling applications we’ve received this year. There are thirty-seven. I don’t see how we can accept all of them, but it’s very tricky to decide which to reject.”

  “Who are some of the families applying with siblings?” Pamela asked. This was information she should have known.

  “Newman.”

  “Accept.”

  “Fontaine.”

  “Accept.”

  “Moore.”

  “Reject. One Moore is more than enough.”

  “Nicholas is graduating this year. We’ll only have one Moore if we accept Nina.”

  “Absolutely not. I couldn’t take nine more years of Neal Moore’s whining.”

  “He is a kveck,” Sara concurred.

  Pamela scrunched her nose. “Do you mean kvetch?”

  “Right,” Sara
stood corrected.

  “Please don’t speak a language you are not proficient in. I get enough of that from this Kermit.” She pointed her thumb at Felicity.

  You should talk, Madame Pompadour, Sara thought.

  “So our current policy regarding sibling acceptance is what?” Sara asked, wanting some clarification.

  “Case by case. Make sure you run each one by me. By the way, I will have final approval on all acceptances, not Felicity.”

  “So, Felicity, your role in admissions is . . . ?” Sara inquired delicately. She found it offensive that Pamela talked about Felicity as if she weren’t in the room.

  “Negligible,” Pamela finished the sentence. “She’s still learning. And by the way, I will need at least three slots to fill at my own discretion. Preferably five.”

  That was a big number. Sara took a deep breath and then exhaled with a force that was packed with exasperation. Felicity stopped fiddling with her hair just long enough to shoot Pamela a what’s-her-problem? look.

  “And then there’s the question of what to do about Tally Easton,” Sara broached the ever delicate celebrity issue.

  “What’s the question? We accept Wyoming,” Pamela responded definitively.

  “It’s Montana,” Sara corrected, and realized it was a mistake to have brought it up. She decided it would be best to postpone making the Easton decision for as long as possible.

  “Pamela. While I’ve got you. I got a call from the music director of The Public School. She has invited our choral group to partner with her choral group for a holiday performance.”

  “The Public School? Our chorus performing with a public school’s? Why would you even consider that?” Pamela acted as though Sara’s proposal were as absurd as if she had suggested that The School hire a white supremacist to chair its diversity committee.

  “Because they have one of the best music programs in the city, and an award-winning choral group. She’s proposed that over the next month we combine our two groups, have a few rehearsals, and perform together during the holidays. I think it’s an excellent opportunity for us,” Sara soldiered on.