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Authors: Margo Candela

BOOK: Underneath It All
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4
Anita and Lei
I
rush past Mrs. Mayor as she stops to take one last look at the complete package in the full-length mirror by her dressing room door.
“Danny, ready in ten to twelve minutes.” I whisper into the phone/walkie-talkie units I’ve outfitted us with. “Stand by with the car. I’ll call Vivian in five.”
I head down to the kitchen where Lei and Anita are waiting with a glass of freshly pressed carrot and parsley juice and Mrs. Mayor’s coat and purse.
“Good morning, Anita, Lei. How long ago was this made?” I hate to ask but I know Mrs. Mayor will. Silently, Anita hands it to me and begins to feed carrots into the commercial-grade juicer. I gulp it down while inspecting the contents of Mrs. Mayor’s handbag.
“The stylist told me to prepare that bag,” Lei says as she smooths a lint brush over Mrs. Mayor’s coat.
It’s a clutch. Six is
so
fired. As this woman is the sixth stylist in as many months, we don’t bother to memorize their names anymore—they are either One, Two and so on and so forth. Mrs. Mayor blames them for all her bad press, bad moods, bad weather ... She complains to me and I give them the heave-ho, along with a generous bonus and a promise of a glowing written recommendation signed by me in Mrs. Mayor’s name. Then it’s on to the next one.
“She can’t take a lizard-skin clutch to a coffee and donut meet-and-greet. Reporters will be all over her ass and then she’ll be all over mine.” I take a peek inside at the label and groan, it’s Dolce & Gabana lizard. Six obviously didn’t get the memo on our (my) plan to make Mrs. Mayor seem more down-to-earth. Like carrying a purse she got on sale at Nordstrom, not one with a six-month waiting list—only bypassed after a fax on official City of San Francisco Mayor letterhead.
I dump out the purse’s contents into mine. All she really needs to carry are lip gloss and a compact of pressed powder. I’m the one who carries around the PDA, phones, sewing kit, cash, credit cards, keys, panty liners and nipple petals to keep the headlight action to a minimum. (Mrs. Mayor’s nipples refuse to be anything but erect and her doctor refuses to inject them with Botox. Something about possibly impairing her future ability to breastfeed. Yeah, like I won’t be the one who ends up doing that for her, too.) And the gum, can’t forget the gum. The one time I did she invoked the holy name of Saint Myra. Since her departure to an ashram in India, Myra has become the measure of all that’s good and holy in the realm of personal assisting.
In cases where I screw up, like forgetting the gum, Mrs. Mayor will say, “Myra would never have let this happen. Myra always made sure I didn’t have to worry about things like this.”
Anita hands me today’s paper so I can quickly page through, looking for anything Mrs. Mayor shouldn’t see before me, like Emilio Cortez’s
San Francisco Times
’s column and his latest jab at Mrs. Mayor. Where he gets his info is beyond me, but I have my suspicions.
Emilio Cortez, Pulitzer Prize–winning reporter and Mr. Mayor’s archenemy. For fun, he likes to write withering Op-Ed pieces on all things Katherine and Kit Baxter—the Barbie and Ken of politics, as he’s dubbed them. He’s also raising some (valid) questions about a few pet bills of the Mayor’s. I don’t know which annoys Mr. Mayor more, the fact that Cortez published a link to some saucy Mrs. Mayor pics or that he exposed a slight problem with nepotism in the Mayor’s administration.
As self-righteous as San Franciscans can be, they love juicy gossip, and their ingrained contempt for anything SoCal has made Cortez the man to read every weekday morning and on Sunday.
And there it is buried in his musings about the state of San Francisco: “First Lady or Washed-Up Soap Star?” I tear the whole thing out.
“She hates that picture. Put it on my desk, Anita. Thanks. I’ll deal with it when we get back.”
Mrs. Mayor likes to read all about herself, especially the bad stuff. So I indulge in a little creative freedom with dossiers I present to her in the specially ordered pale-lavender folders. Pictures are swapped, names are highlighted, and stories that will make her sad are kept to a bare minimum. What makes her most sad, though, is when her name isn’t in the press.
“Your phone,” Anita says curtly. She doesn’t like me much and I’ve learned not to care.
“Which one?” I dig through my bag, a roomy leather hobo I got on sale at Banana Republic. It dwarfs Mrs. Mayor’s silly clutch. I wonder if she’ll notice if I borrow it. “Hello, this is Jacquelyn.”
“Jacqs! I need her ass down here ASAP! Kit is stalling a building full of people waiting for Her Majesty. Reporters are foaming at the mouth!” It’s Vivian Martin, Mr. Mayor’s va va voom, highly competent and newly married press secretary. “She better know what this thing is for. Make her write it down on her hand or whatever it is you do to make her seem lucid. Last thing we need is a repeat of last week.”
“She’s been thoroughly prepped. Not to worry. She was just a little off that day. Cramps, bad ones.”
As long as Mrs. Mayor sticks to the script, she comes off as an intelligent and charming woman. But if someone throws her a curve ball, or she’s dipped into her stash of Xanax, things can get ugly fast, like asking the president of the Korean-American Association if his mother has any sushi secrets she’d like to pass on.
“Prepped or not, where the hell is she?” Vivian doesn’t like Mrs. Mayor much and Mrs. Mayor likes her even less. But when they deal with each other in person you’d think they were long-lost sisters.
“On our way, Vivian. In the car. Traffic. Call you in five.” I don’t like lying to Vivian, but I have no choice. It’s not like I can climb the stairs and physically carry Mrs. Mayor to the car.
“Jacqs, where do you think you’re going?” Natasha plunks down her makeup case on the counter and takes my face into her hands. “She’s taking a pee. We have two minutes, tops.”
“Now that she’s not wearing panties, she’ll save all sorts of time urinating.” I try to stand still as Natasha works her magic on me in overdrive.
“Next time use a straw to drink that stuff. You look like you went down on E.T.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I stop and listen to the sound of $600 shoes on the mahogany staircase. I reach for my cell phone just as Natasha finishes applying my lipstick, walking along with me as I try to get to the foyer without breaking into a run. My life would be lots easier if I could wear Rollerblades. “OK. We’re a go. Danny, we’re a go. Mrs. Mayor is at the foot of the stairs.”
She stands there looking impatient. Anita helps her slip on her coat while Lei stands by with a glass of the funky-colored juice.
“I don’t have time for breakfast.” Mrs. Mayor allows Natasha to give her one final polish. The (fired) stylist pulls out a lint brush and flutters around, picking off imaginary lint until Mrs. Mayor clears her throat. We all automatically take a few steps back. “I’ll just have some gum.”
I hand her a piece with the same hand she put her panties in.
5
Bina
“
G
uess what, Jacqs?” Bina asks, her nut-butter brown skin looking flushed and dewy. We’re sitting at the sporadically open Casa Sanchez Mexican Taqueria near San Francisco General Hospital where she works erratic hours as an intern.
The place is swarming with people flashing their Casa Sanchez (no relation) logo tattoos (a kid in a sombrero riding a giant ear of corn) and claiming their free lunch at the counter. You get a tattoo and as promised they produce a free lunch—for the rest of your life or for as long as you have the tattoo.
During my lean days, right out of college, I actually considered getting one. My plan was to make a difference, a good one, in the world. Instead I took a job at some lame dot-com and after a while began to believe I deserved a raise every three months for enjoying the various perks each subsequent company offered to get me to work there. That I had even considered taking a minimum-wage job as a public television intern was never mentioned by anyone, least of all me.
Sometimes I wonder how my life would have turned out if I’d gotten the tattoo and lived up to my own expectations. But why torture myself with ifs? It’s all water under the bridge and saved interest on student loans I was able to pay off early.
“Hurry! Guess!” There are only a couple of ways to get the glow she has. I know she’s not pregnant, since our periods are weirdly synchronized.
“You won the lotto.” Both of us buy a weekly joint ticket but I know she buys one of her own on the sly ... at least I hope she does, because I do.
“Jacqs! Be serious,” Bina says, ignoring the guy next to her who is buttoning up his shirt after exposing way too much of himself for a medium
hortacha,
side salad and superburrito. “Try and guess!”
“You got crabs again.” Bina and I have always shown our affection for each other by casually hinting at various imaginary afflictions and diseases. STDs are always a favorite and a way for both of us to declare independence from our sex-phobic rearing.
“I’m getting married!” Bina beams, radiates, fairly oozes bride-to-be stupidity.
“To who?” I know the answer but I can’t help myself.
A couple of months ago, Bina went to a friend’s housewarming party I had to skip because Mrs. Mayor needed me to hold her head still, post-Botox. While Bina was commiserating about her stressful job, Sanjay Gupta, hotshot tax attorney, walked in. They talked for about fifteen minutes, and since then it’s been a nonstop Sanjay Gupta lovefest.
“Married,” she says just to hammer it in, making me flinch, “to Sanjay, of course!”
“You’re joking.” She may be lying but her complexion isn’t.
“Look!” she gushes, and I recoil when she shoves her enormous rock under my nose. “See!”
“You. Are. Not,” I sputter, almost collapsing face-first into the guacamole bowl. “You don’t even know this person!”
“I know. A woman knows,” Bina says, patting my hand sympathetically so her ring catches the light and temporarily blinds me. “My parents and Sanjay’s parents have agreed that it is a good match.”
“They’ve what, and when did this happen?” I stare hard into her eyes to see any signs of madness or that this is her idea of a joke. A sick one. How could I have left her unsupervised? I am a bad, bad best friend.
“Agreed that it’s a good match!” she giggles a bit hysterically. Usually Bina is a no-nonsense kind of gal, with her stylish yet conservative inky bobbed hair, skin devoid of almost all makeup except eyeliner, but right now it looks like she’s been dredged in fairy dust. “He asked me last night. OK, he actually asked me a couple of nights ago but there was an issue with the ring.”
“Are you crazy?” I ask with sincerity. She must be crazy. Then I remember what I did for love so who am I to call her crazy. But still. “Fucking crazy, Bina.”
This woman—a doctor and homeowner, who I’ve seen drink many an overgrown frat boy under the table, happily flash a cheering crowd of men at Mardi Gras and swim nude on our last trip to Hawaii—is allowing her parents to essentially arrange her marriage to a man she’s known only a few weeks? If my mother hears about this she’ll pester me until I give in to an arranged marriage myself.
No gracias,
sincerely.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” she asks, her smile still plastered to her face.
“Don’t try to change the subject. What do parents have to do with this, this thing!” I’d never even consider dating a man who had my parents’ seal of approval. And something about Sanjay Gupta just doesn’t sit right with me. He’s too perfect.
“You just don’t understand, Jacqs. Indians are a very traditional people,” says the woman who has watched every season of
Friends,
every
Melrose Place
rerun twice and eaten enough Americanized Mexican food with me to qualify as anything but a traditional Indian girl.
“Traditional? And Mexican-American Catholics aren’t?” Has she learned nothing from me?
“I’m getting married, Jacqs!” Bina’s caramel-colored eyes are shiny with happy tears. If Mrs. Mayor envies my eyelashes, she needs to get a load of Bina’s. They’re so long and thick, they’re pornographic. “Married! Can you believe it!”
“Which part?”
6
George
“
S
orry I’m late. Traffic.” I sit down and stare up at the pleasantly weathered face of George as he helps me with my chair. His face has the kind of sun damage that comes from lounging on the deck of a boat over an extended vacation in the Mediterranean, not from working outdoors like my dad got his premelanoma tan.
Attractive sun damage or no, George is just a friend. (An older, sophisticated, rich and in-the-process-of-separating-from-his-wife type of friend.) We met a month ago in the art history section of a bookstore I wandered into, looking for the latest issue of
Cosmo
while Mrs. Mayor was visiting her spiritual consultant. We’ve only met for lunch and dinner. It’s perfectly innocent and expensively delicious—financially for him and morally for me.
“Never apologize for keeping a man waiting. It ruins the anticipation, Jacquelyn.” He signals for the waiter to pour the wine.
“Then I’m not sorry I’m late.” I cross my legs, tightly. From the waist up I assume my nonchalant pose: head cocked slightly to the side, arms loosely crossed and showing my manicure to its best benefit.
“I’m so glad you could meet me today. I was craving their lobster pot pie,” he says as if lunch at Aqua was a trip to a Fisherman’s Wharf crab stand. “You don’t mind seafood, Jacquelyn? I should have asked before I had my assistant make the reservation.”
“This is fine, I guess.” I’m teasing, but I’m really not. I’m not hungry, already slightly tipsy and I should be stone-cold sober for my appointment after my second lunch of the day. I take a generous sip of wine and then another.
“That’s what I love about you, Jacquelyn. You’re always willing to try new things on the spur of the moment.” George leans forward and his tanned hand reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers give my ear a little tickle and I feel myself blush, which just makes George smile wider.
“So what do I owe the occasion to, besides your craving for lobster pot pie?” I ask, not a little bit flustered.
“You look beautiful, as usual, Jacquelyn,” he says. From under the table he brings up a good-sized box from Neiman Marcus, sets it on the table and with one strong finger pushes it toward me.
“George!” Panic, excitement and embarrassment rise from the very core of my traditional Catholic upbringing (that so far I’ve been able to mostly ignore).
“Don’t say you can’t accept it. It’s bought and paid for and I’ve torn up the receipt. If you don’t want it, we’ll have to give it to the hostess.” He rests his jaw on his palm and grins at me. I could never treat money the way he does, even on a good day. Even on a good day when I was really drunk and felt like shopping.
“George. Really. What will people think?” I’m sure my shrink would think the George thing has its deep roots in the distant relationship I have with my father. I don’t want to know what my parents and Bina would think of me “dating” a gift-giving man who is still legally and spiritually married. I don’t think it’s an issue for anyone but George’s wife, who he doesn’t seem to think much of.
“No more stalling, Jacquelyn. Open it. Just take a look. What could be the harm in that?”
“You ever heard of Pandora’s Box, George?” I open the box and, snug in layers of white tissue, is a chocolate tote bag that puts my Banana Republic bag to shame. I momentarily lose my composure. “Oh, wow!”
“You like?” George asks, looking very pleased with my reaction. He knows I don’t like it, I lust it. “The saleswoman told me it’s crocodile.”
“Crocodile!” Oh, crap, it must have cost at least ... a lot. “George I can’t—”
“It would be very rude for you to not accept it, Jacquelyn. What would your mother say about your manners if she found out you refused a heartfelt gift from a friend?”
“I can think of a few things she’d say,” I say, not looking up, right before she hauled me off by the hair to a convent. I could always donate it. Or I could keep it; no one would ever have to know where it came from. I could store it away in my closet, way back in my closet if, on the odd chance, my parents would ever come visit me from Los Angeles. Unannounced visits are a big thing with Latinos.
“Tell me the truth, do you love it?”
I tuck the bag carefully back into the box, carefully, so as not to crease the tissue paper. If I’m going to hell, at least I’m going in a (crocodile) handbasket. “I don’t hate it.”

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