“Apparently your credit was approved,” she says snottily, making it very clear she personally would never give authorization to someone carrying a LeSportsac tote. Reluctantly, she hands me a paddle for bidding.
“I need a paddle, too,” Kate tells the woman. “I should be in your computer already.”
Miss High and Mighty types in Kate’s name and breaks into a welcoming smile. “Ah. Dr. Steele, what a pleasure,” she says sycophantically. “Good to have you here again. I’ll seat you and your friend right in the front.” And then, lowering her voice, she adds, “Perhaps after the auction, I could have a word with you about liposuction.”
I roll my eyes. Ever since Kate’s name has become known, everyone wants to give her things, hoping to get a magic makeover in return. This woman apparently believes a good seat at the auction is worth a pound of flesh—surgically removed by Kate.
We walk quickly away, stroll down a long hallway and take our second-row seats. Furtively, I practice raising and lowering my paddle. What if I sneeze, go to wipe my nose and accidentally raise the paddle by mistake? I could end up buying a Julian Schnabel—one of his broken plate paintings. I’ve never liked those. They remind me too much of the summer I was a waitress, which was not a thing of beauty.
Once we’re seated, Kate flips through the catalogue and points out a few affordable prints that I might consider. She checks the lot number for the Red Grooms she wants and dog-ears several other pages.
The auctioneer, a debonair older man in a bow tie, ascends the podium, and the buzzing in the room quickly subsides. In cultured English-accented tones, he welcomes the audience and I immediately feel more at ease. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of that guy who used to host Masterpiece Theatre.
Bidding begins on the first few artworks and prices escalate quickly.
“Just another thousand dollars and we’ll set a new price record for this,” encourages the auctioneer, peddling a Jasper Johns flag. For some reason, that inspires more spirited bidding.
“A new high!” he announces happily, when he finally bangs down his gavel, and the audience breaks into applause. Apparently, the higher the price, the happier rich people are. They brag about paying outrageous sums for private school tuition, East Side co-ops and hunks of chevre at Zabar’s. Personally, I only clap my hands when things are on sale.
The auction continues, and the bidding is fierce. Though when I look around, I realize the big action comes from the nod of a head, the tapping of an index finger, or the polite semi-raising of a paddle. I’m busy trying to decide whether the man at the end of our row rubbing his forehead is making a bid or needs two Advil when there’s a slight stir in the room. Miss High and Mighty herself—or Miss H & M as I’ve laughingly come to think of her—comes in a side door with a couple trailing behind her. She gets them settled in reserved seats and effusively fusses over them. Once she steps away, I try to get a good look at the tony twosome who’ve rated all this attention.
And then I see them.
Stunned, I spin back in my seat and grab Kate’s arm. In my panic, my paddle falls to the floor with a loud thud and going to pick it up, I bang my head on the armrest and let out a small yelp.
“You okay?” Kate whispers.
“No,” I hiss, grabbing for my LeSportsac tote. “We have to leave.”
Kate looks surprised. “The Red Grooms litho is next,” she says. “We can go after that, if you want.”
I want to get out right now. And to get Kate out. Because I can’t bear her noticing the couple who just walked in arm-and-arm, chattering sweetly. The cozy couple who are now seated just four rows away. Owen and his beautiful blonde wife.
Up on the stage, the large colorful Red Grooms comes out and Kate sits up in her seat. She holds her paddle tightly and gives me a little nudge.
“This is it,” she says, excitedly. “Remember, I’m relying on you. Whatever happens, don’t let me go over my budget.”
“Will do,” I say. But as far as I can tell, Kate’s already over budget. She’s invested way too much in Owen.
The auctioneer announces the floor price and the bidding begins. It advances at hundred-dollar increments, and Kate’s paddle moves up and down so quickly it looks like she’s competing in the Ping-Pong Olympics. But it soon becomes clear that an equally determined opponent is vying for the Grooms. As the price escalates so does the auctioneer’s enthusiasm. He seems to relish the battle, and at every bid his head bobs back and forth from Kate to her adversary, who’s sitting a few rows away. Kate keeps her eyes forward, focused on the auctioneer, but I’ve already figured out that the woman bidding against Kate is Owen’s wife. One way or another, the real estate mogul is going to get what he wants for his birthday.
“Getting close to your limit,” I murmur anxiously to Kate. “Probably time to stop.”
“One more bid,” Kate says. But when the bidding keeps creeping up, Kate doesn’t quit. Like a gambler at a Las Vegas slot machine, Kate’s sure she’s going to hit the jackpot on the next round. Her budget be damned, she wants to win.
“You have to stop,” I entreat, as the price keeps climbing. “This is ridiculous.”
“I don’t care,” she says. “I want to do this for Owen. He’s worth everything to me.”
Whatever Owen’s value, the picture seems to be going for a lot more than Kate expected. Her opponent blithely tops every one of Kate’s bids, and it soon becomes apparent that she’s not going to give in. Kate doesn’t get the message until she’s gone three hundred percent over her budget. Then she reluctantly puts down the paddle.
“Going once, going twice, gone!” the auctioneer announces gleefully, banging his gavel against the podium. “Sold to Mrs. Owen Hardy!”
Not used to losing, Kate doesn’t register the name for a moment. But then it hits her and she turns ashen. She looks at me in shock, then half leaps out of her seat, turning around in disbelief.
“Owen?” she blurts out, catching the eye of the man for whom just a moment ago she was willing to break the bank.
The powerful Owen Hardy, known for his negotiating skills with the toughest unions in New York, has only one response when caught between his wife and his lover. He looks embarrassed and offers Kate a little shrug.
Kate sits down, not looking to make a scene. But there’s some murmuring around the audience and a few people crane their necks to try to see the woman who called out Owen’s name.
“Come on, let’s go,” I say, tugging at her sleeve.
“No,” says Kate resolutely. “If someone’s going to leave, it’s not going to be me.”
I sit back. I was secretly hoping the sight of Owen and his wife together might bring Kate to her senses. Make her realize that the marriage isn’t quite as finished as Owen hinted. Instead, Kate’s more determined than ever. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders and flips her hair. The color even returns to her cheeks. “I’m not skulking out of here. We’re going to say hello to them.”
We are? What else are we going to say? That side exit’s looking pretty good to me right now. But as soon as the auction is finished, Kate tucks her arm firmly around mine and heads us toward her married mogul.
“Hello, Owen,” Kate says calmly, smiling at him.
“Oh hello, Kate,” he says. With his girlfriend standing next to his wife, his voice rises an octave higher than I remember.
Kate doesn’t wait to be introduced. She extends her hand to his wife. “Hi, I’m Kate Steele.”
“Tess Hardy,” the elegant blonde replies, shaking Kate’s hand. I’m just hoping the eight-carat rock Tess has on her fourth finger doesn’t pierce Kate’s palm. “So how do you and my husband know each other?”
Intimately, comes to mind. As does, In the biblical sense. Although I seem to remember God had something to say about this subject. He came down against it.
“Kate’s my dermatologist,” Owen says, his usually booming voice now approaching high C.
“Oh, that Kate Steele,” T
ess says, turning to Kate with new admiration. Then she furrows her brow and frowns disapproving at Owen. “You go to a dermatologist? You never told me that.”
So the woman gets upset if her husband doesn’t reveal everything. I can’t wait until Tess finds out that not mentioning doctor visits isn’t Owen’s only sin of omission. Or his only sin.
“I don’t go often,” Owen says defensively, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“What do you do there?” Tess asks him, not letting up.
Good question. I’ve been curious about the same thing myself.
Now Owen and Kate lock eyes. And I notice an amused little smile dancing on Kate’s lips.
“Peel,” Kate says playfully.
Tess hesitates, then comes to her own conclusion.
“Those lunchtime peels are supposed to be wonderful,” she says, stroking Owen’s cheek. “You’ve been glowing lately. Now I know why.”
Yes, the glow does have something to do with Kate. And with peeling. But not in the way Tess imagines.
Just then a young blue-blazered Sotheby assistant taps Tess on the shoulder and asks her to come take care of the paperwork for buying the Grooms.
“Of course,” Tess says. And then turning to Kate, she adds, “You put up quite a fight for that picture. But I had to get it. Owen wanted it for his birthday.”
Tess goes off with the attendant, and as soon as they’re out of sight, Owen takes Kate’s hand. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d be here,” he says.
“Not your fault,” Kate says forgivingly.
Not his fault? As far as I can tell, all of this is his fault. Everything’s his fault. Including acid rain.
“You’re an incredible woman. I really do love you,” he says, happy to be off the hook. He gives her hand a tight squeeze, then lets go in the name of discretion.
“I love you, too,” Kate says.
“I know,” Owen says, grinning. “You must love me. You wanted to buy that lithograph for me, didn’t you?”
“I want to do a lot of things for you,” Kate teases, letting Owen fantasize for himself about what she might have in mind.
Owen gives her a hug, and they rapidly make a date to meet the next afternoon. Kate triumphantly leads me out of Sotheby’s and I’m steaming as we stroll down York Avenue.
“Do you finally get it?” I ask Kate, wondering if the day made any impression on her. “Owen has a wife. And you’ve got a problem.”
But Kate just shrugs. “Only problem I see is what to get him for his birthday now.”
“A card would be too good for him,” I say.
“Don’t be like that,” Kate says. “Owen loves me. He’s just in a tough situation. He hasn’t made his separation official yet, but at this point it’s just semantics. Nobody’s going to get hurt. He and his wife lead separate lives. They’re friends but they haven’t had sex in years. They even belong to different country clubs.”
No sex is one thing, but different country clubs? Maybe the marriage is shakier than I thought. People do move on, as I well know. But not without a lot of heartache.
“Listen, Kate, all I want is what’s best for you. And seeing you as the third wheel doesn’t make me happy.”
“Me either,” Kate admits. “But things can change.” She starts walking faster, and in another block or so, I’m practically running to keep up. By the time we get to her office, Kate’s New York stride—maybe the high heels help—has me sweating. At her office door, Kate stops to throw me a kiss and give me a brave smile. “Don’t worry, Sara. Tess Hardy may have won the painting. But I can still win the man.”
Late that night, I’m waiting for Bradford to get home and distracting myself watching the eleven o’clock news. If they show one more fire in Brooklyn, I’m going back to reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond. But at least I’m not eating Rocky Road. I’ve stepped down to chocolate sorbet. By the end of the week I should be at lemon.
I’m clicking around the remote when Dylan pads into the room, wearing his Harry Potter pajamas and clutching Bunny, the stuffed bear he’s loved since he was a baby. Dylan’s knowledge of the animal kingdom has improved since he was one, but the name stuck. I open my arms wide for Dylan to come over and he jumps onto the bed and cuddles close. I stroke his soft hair and take in that yummy little boy smell of bubble gum, rocks and No Tears shampoo. How long will my sweet boy stay this lovable? Forever, I hope. “What’s the matter, honey, can’t sleep?” I ask him. “Want a story?”
“Okay,” Dylan says.
I reach over to my night table where I keep a collection of Shel Silverstein books for occasions just like this. But when I pull out his favorite, Dylan doesn’t seem interested.
“Is my real daddy really back from Patagonia?” he asks, folding his legs and sitting up next to me. “Is it true you saw him? And I’m going to see him soon?”
Daddy? Patagonia? Where did all this come from? I’m completely caught off guard. Did James call when I wasn’t around? I’ll kill him. But I can’t let on to Dylan that I’m upset. I’m going to stay calm even if I have to go back on Rocky Road.
“Dylan, why are you asking?” I ask in as measured tones as I can muster.
“Skylar told me,” he says happily. “She talks to me now. She knows everything.”
And how does she find everything out? Standing outside the bedroom door when I’m talking to Bradford? Listening on the extension when James calls? Doesn’t matter. Right now, that’s not what’s important.
I launch into part of the speech that I’ve been working on for days.
“Well yes, Dylan, guess what!” I say with forced enthusiasm. In fact, too much enthusiasm. I tone it down a notch. “Your birth father James happens to be in New York. I’ve always told you he loves you but couldn’t be with us. Now he’s here and we can all go to the zoo together. But only if you want.”
“I want, I want, I want!” Dylan says, jumping up and down on the bed. “My real dad. That’s so cool. Are we going back to Patagonia with him?”
“Of course not, honey,” I say. “We live here now, with Bradford.”
“But Skylar says we’re leaving soon and her mom is moving back in,” Dylan says. “And she knows it for absolute sure.”
Now there’s a news flash I hadn’t heard. And I’m hoping Skylar hasn’t really heard it either—from Mimi or Bradford. She probably just made the whole thing up. On the other hand, her information about James being back was dead on. And she got that from someone.
I want to give Dylan a hug, but my heart is pounding so hard, I’m afraid he’ll feel it. So I just rub my fingers over his hand. “We love Skylar, but she’s not right about everything. From now on, only mommy gives you information, okay?”
“Okay. But I’m a little scared.” He snuggles closer to me and I hold him tight.
“I’ll be with you. I’ll always be with you. But if you’re scared, you don’t have to see James.”
“I want to see Daddy,” Dylan says, clutching Bunny bear. “But you said we’re going to the zoo and I’m afraid of lions.”
Nice to have something specific to be afraid of instead of what I’m feeling—an overwhelming sense of dread, and no place to direct it. I could focus it on James, of course. But why do I also have a sense of foreboding about Bradford? Somehow the comment of a snotty almost-fourteen-year-old, repeated by an innocent seven-year-old, has me worried. But that’s ridiculous. Bradford and I love each other.
Dylan falls asleep in my arms and I carry him back to his own bed. I stand gazing at him for a while and tuck Bunny into his arms, so he’ll be there when Dylan wakes up. Back in my own room, I have nothing to hold on to. I crawl into bed and stare blankly at the TV. I’m hoping Bradford gets home before two a.m., because I don’t want to spend another night with Jimmy Kimmel.
I’m so preoccupied worrying about Bradford, Mimi, James, Dylan, Owen, Kate, Skylar and—what the heck, whether Berni’s twins are eating—that the first few days of school pass in a haze.
At least by now I’m used to the routine. The binders outlining school regulations are thick enough to soundproof a room and my class list has so many asterisks on it that it looks like the Big Dipper. Two of my art students are on Prozac, three on Ritalin, and twelve can’t eat peanuts. I know it’s a real problem, but how can so many kids suddenly be allergic? Mothers have started to treat Skippy, once standard lunch box fare, as a national threat. It’s gotten so out of hand that my students aren’t allowed to smell peanuts. Or see peanuts. Or even read anything by Charles Schulz.
The third day of school, I get back to my house late in the afternoon, toss down my tote bag and take out the highly-prized student directory. Having the home phone number of every girl who goes to our exclusive Spence School means instant access to some of New York’s most illustrious parents. (Although the Brearley directory is more prized since it contains Caroline Kennedy’s private number.) Still, Spence regulations insist that the list be used for school business only. Which doesn’t explain why someone spent nine hundred dollars last year buying a copy on eBay.
“How was your day, dear?” calls out a friendly voice.
I laugh and head into the next room where Berni is sitting on the Betsy Ross couch, knitting. The heat wave is over and so is her pregnancy, but my living room has become her Starbucks. Great hangout, and I even have wireless Internet access. Though she’s been pressing me to serve mocha frappuccinos.
“Since when do you knit?” I ask, looking at the silvery-spun yarn that’s zig-zagged across her lap and slowly becoming—well, I don’t know what. Maybe booties. Or a baby blanket. Though they’re not usually trapezoidal.
“Everyone in Hollywood knits,” Berni says, making a few more slightly crooked stitches. “I’ve got to keep a hand in the business.”
Berni leans over her handiwork and clicks her needles.
Mine Are Spectacular! Page 12
