“Was that the saddest excuse for a meal you’ve ever been served?” he asked.
“They’re not generous people. That goes for everything they do. Denise is withholding and controlling, and he’s just a cold fish. I’m afraid Marissa is turning out to be the same.”
“Where are they applying to high school for her? I couldn’t bear to bring it up tonight.”
“Marissa is a really strong student, so they’re counting on her getting into one of the competitive public high schools. I’m sure she will. That’s where Mark is, and Matthew will undoubtedly do the same.”
“And they’re okay with that? I mean, they certainly can afford private school, can’t they?”
“I’m sure the decision wasn’t made lightly. I would guess Denise conducted an exhaustive analysis and weighed every pro and con, probably factoring in the impact the decision would have on college admissions. And knowing her, I’m sure it will prove to be the right choice.”
“Remind me again why we’re not applying to those public schools,” he asked innocently.
She sighed. “Because we determined—correctly, I might add—that Zoe needs a more supportive environment. She’s not an independent worker and requires supervision. She would get lost in one of those huge schools,” she explained patiently, even though she thought they had settled this months ago.
But she, too, had paused when she first learned of the Doyle-Gilleses’ choice to go the public school route. Denise was such a perfectionist and stickler for detail that her decision at least warranted understanding. The bottom line was that her kids were the highly motivated, outspoken type that thrived in a large, competitive arena. Zoe was not like that at all. She required the security blanket of a smaller community, and Helen had come to realize that she did, too. For the past ten years, The School had provided them with a grounding, a luxury that would be hard for all of them to give up. The cost of that was exorbitant, but once they had accepted the bite of the tuition (not to mention the Capital Campaign, annual auction, scholarship fund, and on and on) and adjusted their lifestyle accordingly, it became just another line item in their carefully monitored family budget.
After walking a few blocks, they ducked into a neighborhood restaurant, found a seat at the bar, and ordered two glasses of wine and something to eat.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you since this afternoon, how are things progressing with Vince? You seem to be thick as thieves these days,” Helen asked.
“What can I say? We’ve become sports buddies.”
“You have plenty of those already. I think getting so close to Gargano could be a mistake. I’m beginning to worry it could work against us.”
“Why is that?” Michael was concerned.
“If Vince has strong principles, he may feel like he can’t accept Zoe on the grounds that it might be perceived as favoritism. I think you should cool it with him for a while.”
“Then he would be hurt. He would feel like I dumped him.”
“It’s beginning to sound like a lose-lose. We’re damned if you’re friends and damned if you’re not.”
“I don’t know, Helen. To be honest, I’m sick and tired of the whole admissions mess,” he confessed.
“You’re sick of it?” she jeered. “I’ve been living and breathing admissions for the last three months. I’ve had it up to here,” she said, with her hand leveled to her forehead.
“Well, I have, too,” he reminded her.
“Icchh, enough. Let’s have another glass of wine,” she said with resignation.
At a few minutes before eleven they hailed a taxi and Helen gave the driver the Cashins’ address. As they pulled up in front of the house, Michael said, “Pretty swanky. Who are these people?”
“Catherine is the girl that Zoe met at Bertha’s.”
“And the parents?”
“Tell you later,” Helen answered as she hopped out of the cab. “Wait here. I’ll just run in and get her.” A few minutes later she returned with an irate teenager in tow.
“You didn’t have to come at eleven o’clock sharp, did you? I was the first person to leave!” Zoe was furious.
“Whoa. Calm down. How was the party?” Michael tried to put his arm around her, but she knocked it away.
“Great.”
“Was Max there?” Helen ventured.
“Why do you think I’m pissed about leaving early?”
“It’s not early. It’s exactly the time we agreed on.”
“Why do you always have to be so exact, Mom? You’re like a drill sergeant. Other people’s parents are always late. I wish you were like that.”
“You’re making it sound like I’m Denise Doyle-Gillis. I’m not that compulsive, am I?”
“Sometimes.”
“Would you prefer if I were a permissive parent and let you slum around with no curfew whatsoever? Michael, help me out on this, will you?”
“Let’s drop it; it’s late. We’re all tired.”
They rode the rest of the way home in silence. As soon as they walked into the apartment, Zoe went straight to her room and immediately made a phone call. Helen fell asleep hearing the faint murmur of Zoe’s voice intermingled with her memory of Phillip, hand on her waist, whispering, “Call me,” as the music and hullabaloo of the party blared in the background.
No sooner had The School opened on Monday morning than pandemonium broke out in the admissions office. Sara arrived to find Brandi already at her desk, working the phones, with the early edition of The Standard New York Tabloid spread out in front of her.
“Have you seen this?” Brandi asked excitedly the moment Sara crossed the threshold.
“Seen what?”
“Get settled first. You’ll want to be sitting when you read this.” As Sara settled in, Brandi ceremoniously placed the journal on her desk, open to page six—the place to turn for the latest installment of high-society gossip. Sara couldn’t miss the bold headline on the right side of the spread: DOES THE SCHOOL NOW OFFER EARLY ADMISSIONS?
As everyone in the New York school world knows, the official notification date for admissions is February 12. So how is it possible that, in the December issue of Tally Ho magazine, Tally Easton reported that her son, Montana, has been accepted into The School’s coveted Kindergarten class for next year? Has The School instituted a radical new early-admissions policy? Or has Tally Easton been given preferential treatment? If so, why? Is it her celebrity status alone, or did something else pass between the media queen and The School?
“Holy shit,” Sara moaned.
“Sara, Katie Couric is on line one,” Brandi interrupted with apprehensive excitement.
“Tell her that I have no comment,” Sara instructed abruptly. By the time Brandi dispensed with Katie, there were three other reporters on hold, all demanding to speak with the director of admissions. Sara listened to Brandi repeating, “Ms. Nash has no comment,” several times before sequestering herself in her office. She needed some time to think but apparently wasn’t going to get it. Within minutes Brandi was knocking on the door to tell her Lisa Fontaine insisted on speaking with her immediately.
“Where did The Tabloid get this story?” Lisa demanded.
“I believe that their source was Tally Ho. In her column in the December issue, Tally blathered about how thankful she is for receiving the greatest Christmas gift of all time—a place at The School for her son. I think everyone here knows Tally had applied, but as far as I know, no admissions decisions have been made. I normally don’t even begin to review the applications until January.”
“Then can we assume Pamela made this decision independently of your office, and delivered the news to Tally on her own accord?” Lisa continued the cross-examination.
“It seems so,” Sara replied. “That is, according to Tally’s Kindergarten placement consultant, Lydia Waxman. I called her as soon as I read the article.”
“This is the final straw!” Lisa exploded, and then switched to a more officious tone. “Sara, why wasn’t I noti
fied about this article sooner?”
“Uh, I only learned about it on Friday and didn’t think it warranted the board’s attention over the weekend. You were first on my list to call this morning,” Sara replied, thinking on her feet.
“We need a damage control expert on this right away. I’ll call my ex-husband. He’s been involved with enough corporate scandals to know who’s best for this sort of PR debacle.”
“Let me know what you want me to do. Until you tell me otherwise, I’ll continue to make myself unavailable to the press, which, by the way, is hounding us,” Sara said respectfully.
“When reporters smell a good story, they’re like vultures. Thank God the winter break starts on Friday. That will put an end to this madness. We just have to get through this week.” Lisa sounded exhausted. “You haven’t forgotten that you’re meeting with the board tonight, right?”
“Of course. Seven p.m.,” Sara replied.
The day continued, with Brandi rebuffing reporters, and Sara behind closed doors. Since the possibility of getting any work done that morning was out of the question, she spread one of the napping mats she had borrowed from the creative movement instructor on the floor and did a series of yoga exercises.
“This came for you,” Brandi said, handing Sara a hand-addressed envelope when she emerged from her office an hour later. The envelope contained an engraved card from Mr. and Mrs. Robert Swanson, inviting Sara to join them for a Christmas Eve performance of The Nutcracker followed by a midnight buffet supper at their apartment in Carnegie Hill, the sliver of the Upper East Side named for those who occupied mansions there at the turn of the nineteenth century, and which was now populated by those who aspired to do the same. Scrawled in peacock-blue ink at the bottom of the card was a note that read, “Ms. Nash. Did you know Miranda is the youngest member of the troupe! She would love for you to come see her dance! Hope you can join us. Gloria.”
“Icchh. Please write her a brief note thanking her for the invitation but telling her that I couldn’t possibly accept. Oh, and wish her a happy holiday.”
“Anything about how you’re looking forward to seeing her in the New Year?” Brandi asked.
“Oh, you’re wicked,” Sara laughed.
“And what’s this?” Sara asked as she slipped a gold satin ribbon off a shiny red box. Nestled in a bed of gold tissue paper were a large tin of sevruga caviar, an exquisite little mother-of-pearl spoon, and a tiny envelope containing a handwritten note:
To Sara Nash:
In Russia, no celebration is complete without caviar.
We look forward to celebrating many good times with you throughout the coming years.
The Romanovs,
Donald, Josh, Anastasia and Alexi
“Brandi, take a look at this note.”
“It sounds like we have another case of presumed early admissions, doesn’t it?” Brandi replied.
“I can’t possibly imagine why. This family has had no contact with Pamela . . . that I know of. They’re friends of Helen Drager’s, but that should hardly have led them to conclude that they’re a slam dunk. And I’ve given them no encouragement whatsoever.”
“Maybe they’re just believers in the power of positive thinking.”
“It’s really too bad they felt compelled to send a gift. They were actually starting to grow on me. Plus, they’re the only gaybee boomers that applied this year. And the Russian angle is kind of intriguing.”
“So I should return the gift with a ‘thank you for the generous thought, but I don’t accept payola’ note?” Brandi suggested.
“Exactly,” said Sara. “God, you’re good.”
Helen’s morning was shaping up in much the same way, except that instead of the press, she was barraged with phone calls from school parents demanding to know if the Tabloid article was correct in asserting that The School had instituted a new early-decision policy.
When the phone rang for the fourteenth time that morning, Helen answered with an uncharacteristically discourteous “Yeah?”
“Mrs. Drager?” a meek voice questioned.
“Yes.”
“This is Eva Hopkins from the admissions office at The Very Brainy Girls’ School.”
“Oh, hel-lo.” Helen instantaneously shifted into a deferential mode.
“I’m calling to ask if you are still interested in applying for grade nine for Zoe.”
Has Michael Jackson had plastic surgery? Helen thought. “Yes. Most definitely,” she said enthusiastically.
“Oh, good. Then I’m pleased to let you know that we’re now in a position to offer you an application. Shall I put one in the mail for you?”
“If you could, that would be great.”
“And if you could get the head-of-school recommendation, test scores, and school report to us right away that would be helpful. While I have you on the phone, can we set up a tour and interview date for sometime in early January?”
Pleased to have received this news, Helen updated her spreadsheet.
SCHOOL PHONE # DIRECTOR OF ADMISSIONS STATUS
The Fancy Girls’ School 674-9876 Justine Frampton Michael going to France Dec. 22
The Progressive School 563-9827 Soledad Gibson Sent thank you (no thank you) note
The Bucolic Campus School 475-8392 Vince Gargano Michael wasting time with V.G. Could be fatal.
The Safety School 498-5937 Shirley Livingston Sent thank you note
The Very Brainy Girls’ School 938-8475 Eva Hopkins Sending application. Dec. 5 Interview Jan. 8. Hallelujah!
The Downtown School 483-8473 Taisha Anguilla Gave up
The call from The Very Brainy Girls’ School led her to thoughts of Phillip Cashin, and she decided to break down and call him. Since she had asked him to be her spy at the party on Saturday night, the least she could do was respond to his whispered request to call. She reached a member of his domestic staff, who told her that Mr. Cashin was at work, and for some odd reason, that surprised her. She had never pictured him passing the day in the ho-hum context of an office; in her fantasy he floated above and apart from the daily grind of life. The voice on the other end of the line offered to put Helen through, and she accepted.
“Helen! How nice to hear from you. I’ve thought about you many times since last Saturday. You looked lovely that night,” he began warmly. “But you absolutely could not have chosen a better time to call. I’m lounging here with my feet on my desk, staring in amazement at the most gorgeous Gauguin I’ve seen in years. I wish it were mine, but it belongs to a client who has asked me to evaluate it for him. I wonder if I could ask you to pop over and take a look at it. I would love to get your opinion. Can I lure you over for lunch?”
“I normally charge a lot more for my professional opinion than lunch. And anyway, I’m not free today,” she replied defiantly. She was slightly insulted by his presumption that she had nothing better to do than “pop” over to his office in the middle of the day.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That was selfish of me. I meant no offense. I just thought I had come up with a clever ruse to get to see you today. But seriously, this picture is spectacular.”
“I’m sure it is. But I was actually calling about the Saturday night shindig. When I ran in to pick Zoe up, you made it sound like you had something to report.”
“I wanted to tell you that you were right—Zoe is head over heels for Max. And vice versa.”
“I already knew that. What I wanted to know was whether or not they behaved themselves.”
“In my opinion?”
“Who else’s opinion would I be asking for?”
“It’s a very subjective question.”
“Put it this way: if it were your daughter who was with Max on Saturday night, would you have approved of their behavior?”
“No.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“That I’m a rabidly jealous, overprotective father and a lonely old man.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
�
�You’re right. I was teasing. Zoe and Max were adorable together. They held hands, slow-danced, and fed each other popcorn. Period. I even confirmed this with Catherine just because I knew I owed you a detailed report. Satisfied?”
“Yes. Thank you,” she said gratefully, and breathed a sigh of relief.
“What do you have planned for the holidays?” he asked.
“Zoe is going to Cuba with Huts for Humans, that is, if she can tear herself away from Max for two weeks; Michael is going to France on business; and I’m going away for a week, and then I’ll be home, writing an essay for an exhibition catalogue. And you?”
“Catherine is going with her grandmother to Sweden. My relationship with my mother-in-law is rather . . . strained at the moment, so I figure I’ll be staying here.”
“Oh.” There was a long, pregnant silence.
“Can I take a rain check on lunch?” She stuck her neck out.
“Nothing would please me more. Call me when you know your schedule,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
Meaning, when hubbie is across the Atlantic, Zoe is south of the border, and Catherine is with her loathsome granny, we might actually . . . what? she wondered.
It was after nine by the time Michael returned home from work. Zoe was in her room studying for midterms, and Helen was at the dining room table with a half-eaten piece of lasagna and a pile of papers.
“Dinner’s in the oven,” she said as he leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“I’m exhausted,” he moaned. “I was on the phone for hours today with Justine plotting out the itinerary for the trip.”
“How that woman gets any work done at her real job is beyond me.”
“Believe it or not, we actually discussed admissions today,” he mentioned.
“Really?” she looked up, expressing more interest in Justine than she had shown in weeks. “In what context?”
“She had recently spoken to Pamela, who apparently told her that The Fancy Girls’ School was not our first choice. She wanted to know where we stood on that.”
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