The Real Liddy James (15 page)

Now, she realized that she was.

She made a quick plan: Bikram yoga (extreme!) at six, then into that place on Crosby Street that could do a facial, a massage, and an eyebrow threading in ninety minutes, detox drink for dinner, two pills, and ten hours' sleep. She sat on a black bench and took out her phone. There was an e-mail from Lloyd Fosco to his five fellow residents in the building, asking for a meeting to discuss the urgent need for roof repairs. She decided to ignore this. Then the phone rang. She checked the screen and to her surprise it was not Curtis but her father, Patrick, calling from the condominium in Orlando she had bought for her parents. She smiled. Although they had never quite got over how Cal came about, it was better late than never for the birthday greetings.

“Hi, Dad.”

“I'm in the bathroom so your mother can't hear. She's always tellin' me I'm not to disturb you when you're so busy, but I can't take it anymore.”

“What?” said Liddy, momentarily disoriented. Then she hoped fervently he was not about to describe anything anatomical he might be examining in the mirror.

“Listen,” he said, his voice echoing off the tiles. “I've got the hot tap turned full clockwise now. Nothing.” And he placed the receiver into his tub, under the nonrunning hot faucet, and shouted into it,
“You need to call the management company today!”

“Yes, Dad,” she said obediently. “How is everything else?”

“The woman next door's gone gaga,” he replied. “She was always away with the fairies, but she's off the bleedin' charts now. She arrived at the door yesterday morning tellin' me I'd messed
with her bush. I told her, Missus, I wouldn't touch your feckin' bush without safety goggles and a plunge in the sheep dip afterward.” He cackled delightedly. “Won't be long now before they cart her off to the looney bin. It's that early-onset Alzheimer's.”

“What a shame,” said Liddy.

“Ah, she's as well off. When I think of all the things in my life I'd like to forget—”

Fortunately for Liddy, Patrick's descent into mournful rumination was halted by the arrival of his brother, Frankie, who had also retired nearby. Frankie had been a plumber, so there were the three obligatory minutes as he hit the pipes with a wrench, Patrick providing a running commentary, before once again instructing Liddy to sort his hot water out.

“Is Mum there?” asked Liddy, but he had hung up. He did not ask Liddy how she was. He did not ask how his grandchildren were. He had forgotten Cal's birthday.
At least early-onset
Alzheimer's would be an excuse
, thought Liddy, but her father suffered only from late-onset selfishness.

She slumped backward and the bars of the bench dug into her back.

Mmm
, she thought.
Fuck the Bikram!

She answered Lloyd's e-mail, saying she was free that evening.

She did not press reply
all.

It turned out that all the books were right to say pregnancy was a real game changer, physically and emotionally. Particularly if you had a lot of time on your hands.

Rose spent her days in solitary confinement, marking dots in her diary as the weeks went by (although Peter suggested she finally read Proust, counting hours had become one of her main occupations), and imagined herself like Edmond Dantès chained in the Château d'If in
The Count of Monte Cristo,
scratching lines on the limestone walls of his prison cell. She was awakened every morning by her own anxiety, something she could not fumble for in the dark and switch off, her only task for the next twelve hours to lie prostrate on her bed trying to contain the unborn
being who was her jailer, frequently drinking glasses of ice water, eating chocolate, or watching violent films to agitate it if she could not feel it punching her from within.

In this unusual and hypersensitive state, it was unsurprising that the dramas of the lives of others had become her obsession.

Four weeks had passed since the unfortunate events at Cal's birthday party, but although anyone else would be lying on the bathroom floor sobbing with the stress of it all, Liddy was not. Within twenty-four hours, she had found three people to replace Lucia: a daily housekeeper, a dog walker, and a temporary nanny, or rather, “manny,” who was a qualified elementary teacher and strapping ex-athlete named Josh. And it was all going to be “fine,” even “fabulous,” Liddy said, as she had spoken to a parenting expert who told her that the boys should have a male around the house. As to what Liddy would tell Cal about his parentage, Rose could only wait and see.

One thing was for sure. Liddy was not an ordinary woman and therefore unlikely to deal with it in an ordinary way. After all, Rose often thought, Liddy could have seduced Peter and pretended Cal was his. She could have had an abortion and pretended nothing had happened. Instead, she had told Peter the truth, held her head up high, and had the baby on her own.
No scarlet letter for her.

Meanwhile, Rose missed Matty so much it ached. She missed breakfast and bedtime and music practice. She missed doing his English homework, literally, writing down abstract nouns on a work sheet in a counterfeit illegible scribble on nights she was too tired to argue. She missed the packs of boys returning to the
house after soccer, sniggering and punching each other, the noise and violence of the sniggering and punching directly reflecting their level of happiness. She missed the routine of her previous life, the order she, Liddy, and Peter had imposed by demarcating their roles within it. And then she missed the life she had imagined she would have if she had ever discovered she was pregnant, an imagined life that had never included the words
geriatric pregnancy
or
hypertension
or
bed rest
.

Matty, however, had settled quickly into the new manny-style regime in Tribeca—
Josh doesn't
believe in more than half an hour's homework a day
,
Josh wants to take me to a comedy club on a weeknight
,
Josh says drinking protein shakes builds muscle and he'll show me how to get a six-pack
—and although Rose tried to take comfort in his apparent peace of mind, a couple of the mothers from the school had dropped by and let slip some alarming information. “His last book report was on the biography of Kurt Cobain,” said one. The other reported that his grades had plummeted and he was buying at least two or three sodas from the vending machine every day. When she tried to mention this to Peter, he dismissed it as gossip, but it preyed on Rose's unoccupied mind.

Rose became at first concerned, then consumed, with the idea that she was sacrificing one child to save the other growing within her.

She checked her watch. Matty had mentioned that Liddy was to be featured in a news item on NY1 that morning, and so Rose switched on the TV. Liddy, positively petite next to the enormous and clearly famous football player walking beside her, was making triumphant progress down the steps outside the courts
downtown, through a posse of clacking cameras and clamoring journalists seeking a comment on yet another victory. Liddy, radiating confidence and poise, cruised toward her car, smiling broadly and ignoring most of the shouted interrogation, apart from a question from a showbiz correspondent about the “blingtastic” gold chain wrapped around her collar.

“Is it real?” the young woman demanded, thrusting the microphone so hard toward Liddy that it almost grazed her nose.

“It certainly is,” Liddy replied, unfazed. “It was a thank-you gift from one of my clients.”

At this, the enormous football player leaned over, booming, “And I'll be buying her another one!”

“I love my job!” trilled Liddy. Then she waved good-bye to the cameras, and with a happy “Thank you, guys!” allowed Vince to guide her into the backseat, crossing her legs with the practiced air of a woman used to entering and exiting limos in front of the national press.

Of course Rose knew that this Liddy James was a
brand—
the Superlawyer! Supermother! Barbara had described—and her success was based on this image of Supercompetence! that allowed her to dispense advice on chat shows, represent celebrity clients, and write best-selling books. Liddy had once confessed to her that as a law student she had taken acting classes for this very purpose; she had learned to hide weaknesses, anything from bad skin to emotional upset or, in the case of women, age. But still, Rose had an irrational dislike of people who said, “I'm fine,” when meaning the opposite (this came from her father, who
viewed politeness as a sign of mental illness and therefore took pride in “plain speaking,” despite the fact that he was regularly asked to leave family events). Intensive therapy in her twenties notwithstanding, trapped in bed, Rose found herself enraged by Liddy's composure.

Liddy was more . . .
Liddy-ish
than ever.

In the late afternoon Rose awoke from a doze to hear Peter bouncing up the stairs two at a time. He kissed her on her nose and announced, far too excitedly she thought, that Liddy had picked Matty up from school and they were heading over, Cal in tow. This had been happening two or three times a week since the birthday party. Liddy would find an excuse to drop by and suddenly would be ordering takeout.

“I decided to cook so I did the shopping on the way home,” he said. “Chicken cacciatore. Your favorite.”

“Don't you have end-term papers to grade?” she replied ungraciously.

“I want to see Matty,” he said, and then, before she could say anything else, added, “It's
Wednesday
. Can I bring you some tea?”

Because Peter had no experience with the sheer monotony of years of cooking for a family (a life measured in meatballs on Monday, chops on Tuesday, pasta with jar sauce on Wednesday), he was enthusiastic about his new domestic role and set about reading recipe books, marinating, and even making homemade mayonnaise. He asked Rose whether to use canned or fresh tomatoes, but, in fact, he had already decided. He went back downstairs to start stewing, leaving Rose to do the same.

Forty minutes later, the front door double banged and she heard the sounds of Liddy's entrance, pursued by her boys. Liddy called out hello to Peter, told Matty to give him the bottle of wine she had brought and, after settling Cal on the sofa to watch cartoons on her laptop, headed up the stairs.

Liddy bustled into the bedroom carrying her briefcase and a large bunch of yellow roses. She put the flowers into a vase and opened the briefcase. Her manner was brusque and efficient. Her brain was all business.

“I saw you on TV this morning,” said Rose, a little wary. Liddy was in exactly the same outfit, although she had replaced the heels with flats. “Did a client really give you that necklace?”

“Yep. Wanna try it?” said Liddy, lifting her hands behind her neck to unclip it. “How are you?” She threw the necklace on the bed between them. It was heavy and it made a dent in the quilt.

“Good,” answered Rose, holding it up against her. “I mean, I'm a bit bored. How's Matty?”

“He seems fine today. Long may it last.”

“I've been researching behavioral modification techniques for teenagers using positive discipline. For example, Liddy, if you catch him on the computer instead of doing his homework he has to do extra chores that evening—”

“He doesn't do any chores, any evening, Rose, and he never has. If I catch him on his computer again when he shouldn't be, I swear I'm going to throw it out the window. If I could accidentally hit his vile friend Enzo with it as well, then I'd have killed two birds with one stone.”

Rose looked at her in horror.

“Metaphorically speaking, of course,” said Liddy. “How's work going?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear Rose, have you started writing your article? I was under the impression it was extremely important for your job.”

Her eyes moved to the large potted plant in the corner, where an encouraging note from Professor Sophia Lesnar still nestled in the cactus-like flower.

Oh, no
, thought Rose,
she's going to discuss MY problems.

“I've been thinking I might give up work after I've had the baby,” she said boldly, but when she saw the expression on Liddy's face, she wished she had tried it out on someone else first.

“What about your students?” asked Liddy.

“They seem to be managing fine without me,” replied Rose sharply.

Liddy, unused to such petulance from Rose, made a little exhalation. Rose mistook her reaction.

“I know you might not approve.”

“No, no,” said Liddy, taking it in her stride. “One size can't fit all. That soft gold looks good on you. Borrow it.” She paused. “Does Peter know?”

Rose stared at her resentfully. Sitting so close to Liddy in her current mood was like watching her performance on the TV again.

“No,” said Rose finally. “I haven't discussed it with him yet.”

“Then it's very good I've prepared this document for you,” said Liddy. She pulled out a slim blue folder with a couple of pages inside it. The cover page read “Couple Cohabitation Agreement.”

“What's this?” asked Rose.

Liddy put on her glasses.

“It's a couple cohabitation agreement,” she said, patiently. “New York State doesn't recognize common-law marriages, as I'm sure you know, so unless you and Peter make an agreement, you have no legal protection.”

“Sorry?”

“Rose, your name isn't on the deed of this house, you don't have a joint bank account, and you're on my health insurance policy, not Peter's.”

“How do you know all this?”

Despite Rose's insistent tone, Liddy ignored the question. She and Peter had always maintained what amounted to a compulsory gag order on the financial aspects of their separation.

“It wasn't my business to interfere up to now, but you have a child to think about.
If
you give up your career, and you and Peter split up, you'll be homeless and incomeless.”

“Hang on a minute, Liddy. It's not that I want to give up my career, it's that I don't know how I can do what I have to do and do everything else.” (Anger always made Rose inarticulate.) “And Peter and I are not going to split up!”

Rose stabbed at the document with her finger and pushed it away.

Liddy was unmoved. “You have no rights.
Nada.
Nothing. If
you were a new client in my office and described your current situation I would not let you out of the door without this agreement.”

“No!”
said Rose. “I am not your client, and it isn't your business.”

Liddy took off her glasses. “Rose, I don't mean to upset you. Please. Listen to me. What about Matty? A stepparent has a tenuous legal relationship with stepchildren in the event of a divorce anyway, but you . . .” She raised her hands upward, palms aloft, and shrugged.

Rose stared at her in disbelief.

“At the moment, your role in Matty's upbringing relies on Peter's
goodwill
. So sign, or get married. It's not like Peter doesn't know all this. He was with me for a long time and believe me
we
discussed it. It's not personal, it's the law.”

“
Liddy!
Of course it's personal. I'm
me.
And Peter is
Peter
. He's your ex-husband! You know him. How could you question his goodwill?”

Liddy paused. “Can you honestly tell me that none of your friends have said this to you?” she said.

Rose folded her arms. “My mother has.” (Rose winced at this memory. The ensuing argument had ended with her mother calling her a doormat.)

“That's because she loves you. Only a person that cares would bring this stuff up. I mean, it's not easy . . . you look as if you want to bite my head off.”