“If the associate head is cleared of any wrongdoing, which is a big if, it will probably be her,” Lisa answered.
“Felicity?” Helen was stunned. “She has about as much business heading The School as Marcel Marceau has chairing the linguistics department of the Sorbonne.”
“Helen, I’m on the same page as you are on this. But it’s not my decision. The School’s bylaws stipulate that in the event of the head’s sudden departure, the associate will assume the role until a full search is conducted. If for some reason the associate can’t serve, the next logical choice is Sara Nash. But the board is concerned that she has no classroom experience. Plus, she’s up to her ears in applications, and until she’s done with admissions, it will be difficult for her to find the time to do anything else. Another possibility is to hire an outsider as an interim head. But as you can see, there’s no ideal solution. It’s a god-awful mess,” Lisa said wearily. “Trust me, Helen, there have been moments when I’ve been tempted to walk away from the whole thing—pull my kids out of The School and resign from the board.”
“Where would you go? The kids have to go to school.”
“That’s the problem. We’re all stuck.”
“I don’t mean to sound egocentric, but can I ask you a question?”
“Of course. We all have our own concerns. What’s yours?”
“Has the board considered how this change might affect the eighth-grade admissions process? We’re sort of in the thick of it, and January is a crucial month. How will we manage?”
“That hasn’t been discussed. I’ll make sure to bring it up at the next meeting. Let’s see, who are the other board members with eighth-graders?”
“I can only think of two: one who summered in Provence, and John Toppler,” Helen answered.
“I guess neither of them can be relied on to be of much help. They each have their own set of issues, don’t they?”
“I would say so,” Helen replied tersely.
“Anyway, since there are bound to be repercussions to tonight’s board meeting, I thought you should know where things stand,” Lisa said.
“Thanks,” Helen replied, not sure for what. “The good news is, the eighth-graders can stop racking their brains about what kind of charm to get for Pamela’s stupid bracelet,” she joked nervously.
Lisa’s cell phone chimed the first ten notes of “Taps,” and Helen returned to the testing center.
“Guess what? I got an eight o’clock reservation at Booboo tonight. I can’t wait to take my two favorite gals to dinner. See you there,” the upbeat voice mail message from Michael greeted them when they returned home late that afternoon. Helen hadn’t heard him this ebullient in a while and assumed he intended the dinner to be a celebration in honor of Zoe’s completion of the SAPS.
She returned his call. “What a nice idea. But unfortunately, Zoe’s made plans to go over to the Topplers’. Julian has put together some sort of impromptu get-together,” Helen replied regretfully. She had been disappointed when Zoe told her the plan, for she, too, had hoped they would all spend the evening together.
“Then I’ll just change the reservation to two,” he said with no discernible loss of enthusiasm.
“Really? You want to go anyway? We could do a dinner out tomorrow night with Zoe if you want.”
“No. It wasn’t easy to get the reservation. Let’s go tonight. We have a lot to talk about,” he replied cryptically. That tone always made Helen nervous. “Meet me there at eight. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
“Wow, Dad must have used some muscle to get a table there,” Zoe said, aware that Booboo was one of the hottest places in town and normally booked up months in advance. “But Julian’s should be fun.”
“Who’s going to be there?” Helen inquired.
“The usual cast of characters. And . . . a few extras,” she added cagily.
“And who might those be?”
“Catherine Cashin is coming. Julian told me to invite her. Oh, and a few kids from The Public School.”
“A certain Max, perhaps?” Helen teased.
“How’d ya guess?” Zoe smiled.
“Oh, mother’s intuition,” Helen laughed.
Booboo was packed with customers—four deep at the bar and a dozen or more surrounding the front desk—trying every trick in the book to secure a table. Booboo’s rustic Italian fare was the talk of the town, and ever since the New York food critics awarded it three stars, diners were clamoring for a chance to sample the quail tongue ravioli and the pork belly lasagna, two of Booboo’s signature dishes.
“Mr. Drager?” the maitre d’ greeted them. “Your table is ready.”
Emerging from the crowd, Helen enjoyed watching heads turn to see who had made the cut. It didn’t even matter that when they ascertained it was no one famous, they resumed their conversations.
“You look lovely tonight,” Michael said warmly, admiring Helen’s bright-pink Chinese jacket and simple orange silk shift. She had worked hard to get the two red-lacquered chopsticks to hold her hair in a French twist and was glad Michael had noticed.
“Thank you. You look pretty handsome yourself,” she responded. “Who’d you have to sleep with to get us this table?” she joked affectionately.
“You underestimate my importance in the culinary world,” he replied.
“So the screening wasn’t a total disaster?”
“Let’s get some wine and then we can talk about it,” he answered.
With great fanfare the sommelier presented a wine list as thick as the Poughkeepsie phone book.
“Can you recommend a good Barolo?” Michael asked, impatient to tell Helen his news.
“Try the nineteen ninety Villa Settimo. It’s big and fat, has a distinctive fruity bouquet, a flinty undercurrent, and a hint of old leather. I think you’ll find it to your liking,” he stated.
“Fine,” Michael replied, not bothering to check the price.
“I don’t usually go out of my way to drink old leather, but I guess I’ll make an exception tonight,” Helen said after the waiter departed.
The sommelier returned with the selection, and after the interminable ritualized decanting procedure was completed, the Dragers finally each held a goblet of wine.
“Cheers,” Michael toasted.
“To Zoe. She seemed pleased and relieved after the test today. I know I am.”
“When do we get the results?”
“In three days. We paid extra for express service.”
“I’m sure she did just fine.” Michael was sanguine as usual.
“She felt that she did her best. That’s all we can ask of her,” Helen replied, making a concerted effort to finally relax. It seemed pointless to worry about the scores now, especially since there were other things to fill that void, like today’s chapter of The Perils of Pamela, for starters.
“I also want to make a toast to my wife. The creator of the Cooking Network’s new hit show, La Cuisine de Justine!” he announced grandly.
“Not funny,” she said dryly.
“May I tell you about tonight’s specials?” their waiter interrupted. Not waiting for an answer, he launched into a protracted recitation.
“And our last special this evening is the tripe, which, if you like it, is magnificent. It’s prepared in a bone marrow reduction, with assorted Willamette Valley root vegetables, and finished with a veal demi-glace and a dollop of wild dandelion pesto.”
“Aren’t all dandelions wild?” Helen smiled at Michael as she asked the waiter.
“I’ll have to ask the chef,” he replied humorlessly, and strode off.
“So where were we? You were about to tell me what happened at the screening this morning.” Helen had been anxious all day about Michael’s meeting.
“Are you ready for this? The network execs flipped over the tape. They see it as a brand-new genre of program—a comedy cooking show. Xavier has somehow convinced himself it’s sheer genius. He’s been describing it as Julia Ch
ild meets the Three Stooges. He thinks it has huge potential and wants me to develop it as a series.”
“Michael, that’s extraordinary. What a coup! And to think the show began its life as a capricious escapade.”
“You’ve been spending too much time quizzing Zoe on her word lists,” he joked.
“You’ll see. It’ll pay off when she scores a ninety-nine percent on vocabulary,” she retorted. “So what are the next steps on the show?”
“The first step is to begin negotiations with Justine. That could be tricky. I don’t think she thinks of herself as a comedienne. Do you?”
“Definitely not. She strikes me as someone who has zero sense of humor, particularly when it comes to herself.”
“So the question becomes, how to present the concept in a way that will appeal to her.”
“Want my advice?” she offered.
“Of course,” he answered warily.
“The best way to catch flies is with honey. Flatter her. Convince her that she’s on her way to becoming a star and you’ll have her eating out of your hand. She won’t care if the show is a comedy or a tragedy.”
“I honestly think it’s a bit of both,” Michael responded, not wholly convinced this strategy would work.
“Hello, Michael. Reality check. Remember why you’re doing this. You don’t have to go all the way to contract. You just need to string her on until early February. That’s two months from now. Once Zoe is accepted at The Fancy Girls’ School, or at any school, the show can fizzle out, like so many of the proposals that float around the network.”
“Along with my career.” He was becoming agitated. “Helen, I think you’re missing the point here. La Cuisine de Justine has taken on a life of its own. I spent a small fortune producing the pilot, what with all of her ridiculous demands and our overtime costs. The network expects a return on that investment. The fact that they loved the pilot is a huge relief. Now I’ve got to deliver a viable program.”
“Would you like to order now?” The waiter was back and wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He was hoping to turn over the table at least one more time tonight.
“I’m a sucker for innards,” Michael said, and ordered the calf’s liver cannelloni.
“Good choice,” replied the waiter.
“And I’ll have the brains,” Helen ordered.
“Also a good choice,” the waiter replied, and went back to the kitchen.
“Do you think they would ever tell you if it wasn’t a good choice?”
“Definitely not. So I have some news, too.” As Helen told Michael the story of the accounting scandal, he shook his head from right to left and muttered, “Jeesssuuusss” numerous times.
“That’s outrageous. Way beyond anything I would ever have imagined her capable of. So what do you think the board will do about a new head?” he posed the question that had consumed her attention all afternoon. She laid out the three options.
“Felicity! No way! It seems pretty obvious that she’s an accessory to the crime, or certainly guilty by association. Not to mention, totally un-qualified. I’m sure the board will come to that conclusion pretty quickly. What about Sara? Would she do it?” Michael asked.
“I’m not sure. She’s got a lot on her plate as it is.”
“And then the question becomes, do you think she’s capable of doing the job?”
“She’s ten times more capable than Pamela!” Helen replied defensively.
“Helen, she’s your best friend. Do you really think you can be objective about this?” Michael asked gently.
“You’re right. I’m not sure I can be. And between us, I do have one selfish concern. I’m not convinced she can be of much help to us on admissions. She’s a major figure in the kindergarten world, but she’s not wired into the key players in the high school admissions offices. And who knows about the third scenario. An outsider would be a complete wild card. In any case, I think we can pretty much assume we’ll be flying solo on admissions from here on in.”
“It seems to me, we’ve managed pretty well so far with very little help from our pilot, Pamela,” Michael expressed with annoyance.
“But it’s the final stage that’s critical. It’s the time when the heads of school make the secret deals with the admissions directors. It’s when all the wheeling and dealing takes place.”
“Between wheeling with Frampton and dealing with Gargano, I feel like I’ve practically majored in wheeling and dealing this semester,” Michael exclaimed.
“And you deserve extra credit for that,” Helen teased, and kissed him on the cheek.
Finishing up the last of her appointments for the day, Sara logged on to check her e-mail.
Hey,
It’s been a few days since we’ve communicated. Anything new at The School?
Helen
PS. When is the next rehearsal with The Public School? Zoe seems excited about the program.
Sara was dying to ask Helen what she knew about all the ominous-looking gray-suited accountant types who had been wandering in and out of the business office for the past few weeks. They had last been seen carting away boxes of computer records and confidential-looking files, creating a nervous stir among the members of the administrative staff. But she knew it would be indiscreet and unprofessional to mention this.
Helen,
Same old, same old. I’m swamped with applications so I’m mostly confined to the Admissions Office. Except on rehearsal days, which I look forward to fanatically. Next one is this afternoon. Zoe will be practicing her solo then. Why don’t you pop in at the tail end of the rehearsal and hear her sing?
Love, S.
Helen was also desperate to talk to Sara about the unfolding drama at The School, but her e-mail suggested she wasn’t privy to recent developments, and Helen knew that she shouldn’t be the one to tell her. Moreover, she was under strict orders from Lisa Fontaine to maintain absolute secrecy (spousal dispensation went without saying) and would have to wait until after the Holiday Festival to discuss it. But if Sara let on that she knew something, that would free her to break the code of silence, and she found herself hoping that would happen.
Helen closed her e-mail box, turned off the ringer on the phone, and went to work on the article that was due at the magazine by the end of the week. It almost seemed like a luxury to devote her full attention to professional matters and temporarily close the door on those related to school. Her current writing assignment, an article entitled “Sentimental Education: Do Art Schools Produce Successful Artists?” required extensive research as well as critical thought, and she enjoyed the sense of escape that such deep concentration provided.
By the afternoon, satisfied that the piece was finally complete, she logged on to the museum’s database in search of an image to illustrate her article. She had a painting in mind—a sumptuous abstraction by the self-taught Eva Ormolu, called Deception—and was pleased that she was able to locate it easily. Learning that a reproduction of the painting could be obtained from the museum for a small fee, she copied down the pertinent information and, while doing so, noted the provenance of the painting: “Gift from the Collection of Phillip and Margot Cashin.” Of all the thousands of paintings she could have chosen, there was something spooky about this coincidence.
With half an hour to spare before the choral rehearsal, Helen logged on to Google and typed in Margot Cashin. Several entries appeared, and she selected the one listed as “Obituary.” Not surprisingly, it was a sizable piece and included a photograph of the deceased. Helen was ashamed at the tingle of pleasure she experienced on discovering that Margot was not the great beauty she had imagined her to be. Based on some deeply ingrained stereotypes, Helen’s working image of Margot had been that of an Ingrid Bergman type, an educated man’s Nordic trophy wife. As a result, she was thrown by the plainness of the woman’s face—it just didn’t jibe with her preconceived notion of Phillip’s wife. Was it her imagination, or did Margot look slightly deranged? She read the obit
uary with great interest.
Margot Cashin, a well-known figure in the world of Scandinavian philanthropy, died yesterday at her home. The cause of death is not known.
Margot Cashin was born Margot Birkenstock in Stockholm, Sweden. With her parents, Lars and Ingrid Birkenstock, she immigrated to the United States as a young child. Her father was the cultural attaché to the Swedish consulate, and her mother currently runs an agency that places Swedish au pairs with New York families.
Ms. Cashin attended The Fancy Girls’ School in Manhattan and Mount Holyoke College.
Ms. Cashin was a trustee of the Fund for a Kinder, Gentler World, a founding member of 101 Great Danes, a trustee of the Swedish Massage Institute, president of the First Finnish Finishing School, and a member of the board of trustees of The Very Brainy Girls’ School in Manhattan.
She is survived by her husband, Phillip Cashin, and her daughter, Catherine.
Margot Cashin was a trustee of The Very Brainy Girls’ School and attended The Fancy Girls’ School! No wonder Phillip is Mr. Mellow about admissions. Catherine is a legacy at one school and the daughter of a trustee of another! She’s in like Flynn in at least one and probably both. They hardly need to apply, they’re so VIP. Why did they even bother with Bertha Kauffmann? I bet she could have skipped the SAPS altogether and still gotten in. Meanwhile, he’s saying things like “I share your pain.” He never shared my pain! He has no idea what my pain is about. What a shmuck! she fumed. As she stormed out of the apartment, she took great pleasure in slamming the door, free to break their cardinal house rule since no one was home to notice.
As Helen approached The School’s auditorium, she heard a clear, mellifluous voice singing “Greensleeves.”
What child is this? she wondered as she opened the door soundlessly, tiptoed in, and took a seat in the back of the room. The chorus was seated quietly on stage, listening intently while a pubescent Adonis, who Helen hoped was named Max, practiced his solo.
Admissions Page 24
