Vanity Fare (5 page)

Lissa raised her fist in a menacing gesture. “Okay, okay, I get it,” I said, “gets me in the mood.” I gave her an exaggerated wink. “I feel like I’m a housewife speaking in code. Why can’t they just ask you what kind of music makes you want to have sex?”

Lissa rolled her eyes. “Just fill it in, already.”

“Stevie Wonder, Soundgarden, Teddy Pendergrass, disco divas, and Fela.”

“Four out of five of those make you sound like you’re definitely not Irish. The Soundgarden thing is just bizarre.”

I shrugged. “Well, honestly, could you see me wanting to date someone who liked listening to earnest white guys with guitars? Or worse yet, earnest white girls with guitars? And breathy harmonies? My admirers are just going to have to understand I like soul music,” I finished in a lofty tone.

“And Soundgarden.”

“Not to mention Gilbert and Sullivan, which is totally out of left field. I know. But it’s me. Okay, what’s next. Books. Cool, I can do this. ‘Name five books that touched your life.’ Touched your life? What kind of yoga-practicing touchy-feely garbage is that?”

Lissa squinted her blue eyes at me. Even squinted, they were bigger than the ones in those doe-eyed children paintings. “One more word and you get no babysitting from me.”

“Okay. Let’s see. That’s too hard—there are too many out there to name.”

“So list the first five that come to mind.”

I typed. “Edith Wharton’s
House of Mirth,
Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice,
Neal Stephenson’s
The Diamond Age,
Dashiell Hammett’s
The Maltese Falcon,
and Raymond Chandler’s
The Big Sleep
.”

Lissa looked impressed.

“I bet you thought I was going to say
Love’s Scoundrel
and
Love’s Scoundrel Returned
.”

Her expression faltered. “No, I was just thinking how amazing it is that I’ve actually heard of any of those books. You’ve read a lot more than me.” Her voice was unquestionably mournful. I felt uncomfortable.

“Well, let’s face it,
Love’s Scoundrel
doesn’t stand up to repeated readings.” Her expression eased, and she read the next section of the profile out loud.

“Write a brief description of yourself and what kind of person you’re looking for.”

“Oh, this will be fun. If I don’t burst into flames from the embarrassment of it all. Go away, Lissa, this is uncomfortable enough without you watching.”

She smirked and grabbed a glossy fashion mag from her bag. I watched as she settled down on the couch, wrapping the throw around her thighs. Even that gesture was elegant. She stuck her tongue out at me, then flipped open the magazine, staring at it in exaggerated concentration. I turned back to the computer.

Forty-year-old mom with a love of caffeine, her son, and black clothing (not necessarily in that order) seeks a man with the ability to laugh at himself, enjoy a good pun, and not be afraid to dance in public. I like Gilbert & Sullivan operettas, Jorge Luis Borges, caramel, Christmas socks, and sensible shoes. I’m not nearly as obnoxious as I seem in print, and the only thing that is a must is that you like children, or rather, a child. Specifically mine.

There. I took a breath and hit
SUBMIT
.

Congratulations, your personal profile has been added to our database!

the computer screen said in a cheery green script. Lissa put the magazine down and walked over to me. “There, it wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked. I looked up at her and shook my head. “No, it wasn’t so bad. It’s just so . . . single adult of me, and that’s hard.”

Lissa sat back down in the chair next to me and patted my shoulder. “Ah, honey, it is hard.
This
is hard. All of it. And you’re doing great.”

I was? Oh, right. I
was
.

“Thanks. You’ve been great through all this, sorry I’ve been acting like such a pill.”

“What else could I expect from such an old bat?” Lissa said with a grin.

I punched her in the arm.

“Um, Molly?” Lissa had lost her sassy tone.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think—that is, I was wondering—could you recommend some books for me to read? Tony mentioned some, and it sounded like he assumed I’d read them, and I don’t want to sound dumb. Fashion majors don’t usually read the classics,” she finished with a self-deprecating laugh.

Tony was Lissa’s new boyfriend, a slick Manhattan type who always had an expression like he had one up on you. I was not fond of Tony. “You’re not dumb, Lissa.” I checked my watch. “Aidan!” I called. “Time to get ready for bed!”

He scrambled up from the floor and blinked like I had just woken him up. “But the movie—”

“You’ve seen the movie a zillion times, it’s late, and you need your sleep.” He shuffled down the hall, his tired little body movements belying his drifting “I’m not tired” wail. “Anyway,” I said, turning back to Lissa, “you’re not dumb,” I repeated.

She wrinkled her pert little nose. “I’m not stupid, but I’ve never thought of myself as sharp or anything, not like you. So can you lend me something?”

“Sure.” I thought about it for a second, the idea of teaching her taking root in my head. “You could be my first student! Hey, have you ever read
Ethan Frome
?” She shook her head. I wondered just what they had taught her in that girls prep school she went to. Besides being well groomed, beautiful, and perfect.

“Boy, do you have a treat in store. I mean, if you like relationships that are doomed to failure.” I stopped and smacked myself in the forehead. “No, wait, that’s me.”

She laughed as I walked over to the bookcase and un-earthed the “Wharton” section, which was filed right between Evelyn Waugh and Phyllis A. Whitney. I handed it to her. “It’s really good. And it’s one of her shortest ones, besides the novellas.”

She tucked it into her brightly colored tote bag along with her magazine. “Thanks, Molly. Tony will be impressed.”

It made me mad to hear the pathos in her voice. I’d been there, I wanted to tell her, it’s not worth it. Don’t try to change yourself for a man, it never works. They won’t change themselves for you, either.

“Don’t forget to tell me about any interesting replies to your ad,” Lissa said as she headed to the door, her blue eyes gleaming in anticipation.

“I brushed my teeth, Mommy,” Aidan said in a sleepy voice. He’d already climbed into bed.

“Be right there,” I replied.

As I closed the door behind her, I grabbed
The House of Mirth
for some light bedtime reading and walked to his bedroom.

I needed to write some more lists:

• Books everyone should read
  
• Books everyone has read, but won’t admit
  
• Books everyone says they’ve read, but no one really has (see: Ayn Rand)
  
• Why friends are better than men (see: do not let them down)
  
• Why men are sometimes better than friends (see: sex)
  

And the last one, How Molly will get a job, support her child, and enjoy the rest of her life without her no-good, cheating husband. Nonfiction, natch.

The Bun Also Rises

There’s nothing so wonderful as an item that delivers what it has promised. In this case, it’s fresh, fresh, freshly risen bread, so fresh it practically deserves to be slapped. Its buttery-rich crust encases a delicately moist center, swirled with Spanish chocolate.

5

“
PLEASED TO MEET YOU, MOLLY
.” the woman clasping my hand looked anything but pleased. Her grip was so tight as to be almost painful, and one of her rings was cutting into my hand.

“Likewise.” I pulled my hand away and tried to surreptitiously return the flow of blood to my fingers.

It was midday Thursday, and I was in John’s office for the second time that week.

Natalie and I stood in John’s conference room, which was decorated in various tones of chocolate brown. The massive conference table was sort of a butterscotch color, and I wondered briefly why I was thinking so much about food—unless I had suddenly morphed into Willy Wonka or something. And then I remembered: stress = desire for sugar. And boy, was I stressed.

Natalie was at least a full head taller than me, but even lying at 130 pounds, I bet I outweighed her by twenty pounds. She had that New York City thinness usually caused by being fabulous, successful, and overbusy, probably caused by her fabulous success. Her auburn hair was cut in an artful shag, the kind of haircut that never looks as good in person as it does in the magazines.

On her, it looked great.

She looked down her nose at me and lifted one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “So you’re John’s college friend?”

If she’d said “so you’re John’s talentless hanger-on, and I’ll be enduring your sorry ass through this entire project,” she couldn’t have been more clear.

I tried to gaze in her eyes. I managed to look her in the nostril. “Yes. I’ve had previous copy experience, working for John, and for an Internet company back in the 1990s, you know, back when the Internet was going to save the world.”

“Hm,” she sniffed, clearly not amused by my lame attempt at wit, “well, there’s nothing for it but to get to work.” She stalked over to the conference table and plopped an enormous notebook down on it. The sound echoed through the room, and I jumped a little.

“Sit down,” she said impatiently, “let’s talk. Here, you take notes.” She slid a pen across the table to where she’d pointed for me to sit, and I did. She pushed the notebook toward me, too, then settled herself into her chair.

Like me, she was wearing all black, the New York color of choice. Unlike me, she looked as if she’d bought her clothes within the last five years. Her jacket was unbuttoned to reveal a slim sweater, the kind that Barneys sold for well over my monthly therapy bill.

She fluttered her hands on the table, and I saw the ring that had speared me earlier: gold, with an enormous green stone glittering at its center. Green like Simon’s eyes.

I exhaled, remembering how encouraging he’d been. Or, maybe not encouraging, but not actively dissuading, as this woman was.

“Well. What is first?” I queried, trying to keep my voice pitched low.

Her lip curled. I had to wonder just what John had gotten himself into, and more importantly, why?

“The bakery is near the New York Public Library, and Simon wants to associate the two so that the bakery is a destination point, just as the library is.”

Oh, is that all?

“Okay. Should I write that down?”

She rolled her eyes. I was pleased to see a couple of wrinkles lurking underneath, along with some dark circles. “Write down whatever you think will get the job done.”

I wrote
Destination Point
.

“How’s it going?” John’s head popped into the doorway.

“Fine. Molly and I are just starting to brainstorm. I think we’ll work well together, thanks for bringing her in, John.” Her tone was completely devoid of derision.

My mouth almost dropped open, but I caught it in time. If this was how she behaved when she approved of the person, imagine how she’d be if she didn’t like them. I gave an involuntary shudder.

“Good, great,” John said, bobbing his head up and down. What was it about this woman that made him so spineless? I’d never seen this side of him before.

“So—” Natalie let her word dangle there until John spoke again.

“Great, so I’ll just leave you two to it. Natalie, the bankers’ meeting has been rescheduled for four thirty.” She nodded. “Say hi before you leave, Molly, okay?” He withdrew his head and shut the door.

“Where were we? Oh, yes, a destination point.” She paused, then looked into the distance and spoke. “Books and Bread.” She offered it as though I should be grateful for her brilliance.

I nodded, and bit my tongue. Maybe later I would pat my head and rub my tummy, too. “Books and Bread,” I repeated. “Alliteration works.”

“Always,” she said, giving me a condescending smile. “I considered Socrates and Scones, but then I thought how many people wouldn’t know who Socrates was. Books and Bread is far more mainstream.”

If by
mainstream,
she meant
stupid,
her tone would make sense. But I wasn’t going to say anything; after all, I thought
both
names were stupid.

“Um,” I ventured, “do we know if bread is one of Simon’s primary products?” I’d gotten the phrase from that book John had given me. I knew she’d like the alliteration. “I think we should get a list of the bakery items and see what pops out at us. Not popovers, ha-ha,” I finished with a weak laugh. She gave me a blank stare. She really did
not
think I was funny.

“Certainly. I’ll give Simon a call later this afternoon, he should be able to supply whatever I need.” Now her voice held the contented just-fed tone of a satisfied kitten. Ah, so Simon was supplying her with something. Something he didn’t pull out of an oven.

No wonder John was panicked.

“Meanwhile,” she continued, “what else do you think is striking about the bakery? Something we can leverage for maximum memorability?”

This woman was
so
into alliteration. I should keep that in mind as I worked with her. “Likely its library location?” She looked pleased. I felt like I could do this. “Its primary pastry production?” Her smile faltered. Perhaps I was overdoing it. “And, of course, the delicious desserts.” She beamed. I had her.

“Excellent!” she said. If I just kept up the Awesome Alliteration, maybe this wouldn’t be a debacle after all. “I like how you’re thinking, Molly.”

If she knew what was in my head, she wouldn’t be saying that.

“Anyway,” she said, flinging her wrist out so she could check her watch, “I’ve got another meeting now.” Well, that wasn’t very long, was it? Hardly worth my trip in. Not that I could say that to her. “How about we meet on Monday, say four?” She picked up a pen and held it poised over an appointment book she’d pulled out from somewhere.

“I can’t at four. I pick my son up after school. The latest I can meet is one.”

Her lip curled, and she gave me a surveying glance. So much for liking my thinking. “Ah, a mother, I see. One it is, then.” She scribbled something down and stood, shoving her chair firmly behind her.

I rose also, wondering if the meeting had gone well or terribly, terribly badly.

“Nice to meet you, Molly,” she said, giving me one of those little finger wiggles celebrities did on TV.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I echoed. The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the chocolate conference room. I sat down, unconsciously putting the notebook back to rights.

Why couldn’t I be a confident woman? I needed to remind myself of Dr. Lowell’s constant refrain: You are strong, capable, smart, and you can do this.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,
I thought as I gathered up my belongings and headed toward the door. Damn that little engine. John lurked just outside—waiting for Natalie to go?

“So. Natalie,” he pronounced as he gestured toward his office. “What did you think of her?” He sat down in his Big Corporate Guy chair and rested his hands on his chest.

I lowered myself into my chair and crossed my ankles. “She seems . . . quite capable,” I said in as noncommittal a tone as I could manage. His eyes narrowed.

“Capable, yes. Trustworthy, no.”

“For goodness’ sake, John,” I blurted out, “what’s the deal with her? Why did you bring her in if you don’t trust her?”

He spread his hands wide. “She’s got clients I could never get. Sometimes you’ve got to take chances.”

Take chances like not settle for something—or someone—who is just okay. Take chances like believing in yourself. Take chances like doing something that seems difficult in order to keep your family together.

Take a chance, Molly.

“Why did she join you?” I asked.

He frowned. “Fair question. She left her other firm rather quickly, and wanted to join another company with a fully operational support staff, but not one that was too big.” He let his words hang for a moment. “She also brought us Simon.” Oh, that explained a lot. “She’s a hell of a smart woman, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I agreed. She
was
smart, even if I’d also append snotty, condescending, and far-too-skinny to that description. I stuffed the notebook into my purse. “We’re meeting again on Monday; meanwhile she’s going to get the bakery menu so we can start fleshing out the concept. I’ve been reading those books you gave me, just to bone up on the fancy marketing lingo. Natalie seemed to like it when I used it.”

He stood up. “Great, I’m really glad to have you on board with this thing, Molly, I think it’ll work out great. Have you thought about what you’re going to do, now that—?”

Now that Hugh’s left? Oh no, not more than once a minute or so. Twice a minute when Aidan’s hungry.

“Yes, I’m thinking about doing some substitute teaching, maybe see about getting my teaching certificate.” I smiled brightly, as if it were just a pleasant idea to keep me busy.

“Sounds great. Okay, well, I’ll see you Monday. Give me a call if you have any questions about those materials. Oh, and Molly?”

“Mm?” I said, pushing my arms through the sleeves of my coat.

“I gave Simon your phone number. He asked for it so he could review some stuff with you.”

A sharp sizzle went up my spine. Simon asked for my number. Somehow I didn’t think Natalie would be too happy if she knew about that.

“Oh. Sure, no problem. See you Monday.”

I headed out the door, my heart lifted slightly by the possibility of Simon calling. Not that it could outweigh the very distinct probability that Aidan and I would be living in a cardboard box by the summer, but at least it was something to look forward to.

And—I chuckled to myself—at least I could still be hopeful about something. It was a start.

“Molly.”

My spine sizzled even more when I heard his voice on the other end of the phone. It was Friday, Aidan was safely off at school, and I was in the kitchen contemplating just what I could make out of a bag of navy beans, some elderly mozzarella cheese, and a yam.

I’d have welcomed the interruption even if it weren’t the Gorgeous British Guy.

“Yes?” I plunked the yam down on the counter and lifted my cup of coffee instead.

“It’s Simon.” He said it as if there were no chance I would have forgotten him. Damn, he was right.

“Hello, Simon. How are you?”

“Been better, actually. Look, I know it’s short notice, but can you meet me in the city today? Now, or as soon as possible?”

I put my coffee down. “Uh.” I looked up at the clock on the microwave: 10:23. “Yeah, sure. I can be there in forty-five minutes.” I looked down at my jeans and old T-shirt. “An hour. Where do you want to meet?”

“The Noho Star. It’s at the corner of Lafayette and—”

“I know where it is. See you then.”

I clicked the phone off, then picked my cup up and drained all the coffee remaining inside. I’d need all the help I could get.

I marched into my bedroom, ruthlessly kicking aside last night’s pajamas, which were lying on the floor. My closet door was halfway open, and I flung the door wider so I could survey its contents.

What could I wear that would indicate I was professional, smart, capable, confident and, yeah, totally foxy for a forty-year-old?

Clothing could only do so much, I thought prosaically as I pulled on another pair of black pants and a chocolate brown sweater. I rummaged underneath my bed to locate my brown boots, then found my only pair of gold earrings and a topaz ring.

My hair was pretty much okay, I thought, as I scanned myself in the mirror. I put some makeup on, adjusted the hem of my pants over my boots, then grabbed my purse. I knew I only had three dollars plus a MetroCard; I figured Simon would pay, but just in case, I would only order coffee anyway.

I snagged Henry James from where he was languishing, still unread, on the bedside table and tucked it into my bag.

If nothing else, it made me look smart.

“Over here,” he called
as I walked into the restaurant. It hadn’t changed since the last time I had been there, back when I used to work in the neighborhood. Simon was sitting at one of the circular tables, his arms draped around the back of one of the chairs. I headed for the other chair, but he shook his head, removed his arm, and gestured for me to sit in the chair closest to him.

“Thanks for coming in on such short notice.” His accent was even more delicious than I had recalled. So was he, for that matter; he was wearing a dark green V-necked sweater that only served to make his eyes look even more incredible. A purple paisley shirt peeked out from under the sweater, and I could see a few curly brown chest hairs, too.

Color Identification: In this class, students will learn to properly identify colors, despite distractions, inner thoughts, and lustful thoughts. You’ll never confuse persimmon with rust again.

“No problem. So what’s up?”

The waitress appeared and handed us each a menu. I made a perfunctory scan of the contents, then closed it, as if I hadn’t decided back in Brooklyn what I would order.

“I understand you met with Natalie yesterday?”

“Yes, and we’re meeting again on Monday. Is that why you’ve called me here?”
Like, did she say no way would she work with a clearly incompetent friend of John?

“In a manner of speaking, yes. Natalie’s off the project.”