The Best Laid Plans (15 page)

As for Peter, Naomi’s exercise regimen intrigued him. Of course these days he seems to be open to all kinds of new experiences.

Ever since my husband started working with the glamorous Tiffany Glass he’s been paying a lot more attention to his appearance—trading in his conservative pinstripes and knotted silk ties for open-necked shirts and slacks cut to flatter a muscular pair of thighs. Thoughtfully, oh so thoughtfully, whipped up by Tiffany’s personal tailor.

Peter says he’s dressing more fashionably because he’s in the beauty business now and clients expect to see him showing a little more pizzazz. A more mistrustful wife might argue that he’s showing all the classic signs of a married man who’s infatuated with someone other than his wife—a new wardrobe, an interest in shaping up, and a genial demeanor that borders on the unseemly. Last night Peter actually seemed to be enjoying
Naomi’s company, which can only mean that his endorphin level is off the charts. But after my flash of insecurity the other day about him leaving, I made a decision—a very grown-up decision, I might add—not to let my imagination run wild. Tiffany isn’t a threat unless I let her be. And I plan to keep telling myself that and telling myself that and telling myself that until I genuinely believe it.

Still, for a man who used to feel naked in anything but a three-piece suit, last night Peter sounded suspiciously ready to start stripping down and slathering on the bronzer.

“Bodybuilding … sounds like something I might like to try,” Peter said, eschewing the chicken marsala on his plate to dig into a butterless serving of broccoli. “Did you know that before Arnold Schwarzenegger was the governor of California or
The Terminator
he was crowned Mr. Universe?” he asked the twins.

“The whatenator?” asked Paige, who was talking again, at least to us.

“
The Terminator,
” Peter said with an exaggerated sigh. “Can somebody tell me why we send you girls to that expensive private school?”

“What do you think about the bodybuilding classes, Tru?” my mother asked in an attempt to bring the focus of the conversation back to her.

“I guess that tightening your abs is more reasonable than tightening your pelvis. But it seems like an awful lot of effort to go through to get ready for a gathering of ex–beauty queens. Whatever makes you happy, Mom,” I said, and as the words left my mouth, I realized they sounded condescending.

“Happy? It’s not a matter of happy,” Naomi snapped. “It’s a matter of pride.” And then, as I reached for a second helping of mashed potatoes she added, “I guess you wouldn’t understand.”

But Naomi’s wrong. I
do
understand. I’m feeling very proud these days, although never in a million years would I tell my mother why.

Once we decided to go ahead with our plans to open the Veronica Agency, things moved quickly. The one (and probably only) good thing about the stock market crash is that it made it easy to find an office space at a rock-bottom rent—even if our requirements were unusual. Most new businesses are looking for a flashy building with a doorman, but given the nature of our work (and its illegality), we wanted an anonymous building with no one stationed in the lobby who might track the comings and goings of our employees or clients. As promised, Bill picked up the tab for all our initial expenses; if his projections are right, the agency should be able to pay him back in less than two months. We brought in desks from home and scored a Ligne Roset couch for half price at a showroom sale, and Sienna loaned us a deep burgundy and black Barnett Newman lithograph and a bust of Mozart to give the outer office a sophisticated air. The espresso machine was a splurge, but a good cup of coffee can be crucial to office morale. Even if for now “the office” is just the three of us.

Next we divvied up the workload. Bill will be vetting clients and overseeing the budget. I’m in charge of anything that has to do with our employees. And since everyone recognizes Sienna from TV—and we need to keep our identities anonymous—my famous friend will handle the company’s paperwork and make bank deposits. It took Verizon an extra two days from when they promised for us to get our phone and computer lines, but even that seems like a minor miracle in New York, a city known for its speedy pace except, ironically, when it comes to installing the Internet. Then at the end of last week, we took the step that’s going to turn our fantasy business
into a reality, placing a discreet ad in the back of the
Village Voice:

We’ve already had more than a hundred responses.

I settle into the ergonomically correct chair that my two partners insisted we spring for. When I’d objected to the price, Bill had argued that the right chair keeps your neck muscles from getting all tense. And when Sienna added that it was a boon to your posture—that we’d look leaner in these chairs than if we were hunched over in some run-of-the-mill seat—I was sold. I’m just about to start calling job applicants, when I realize that I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to give away too much on the phone, but I don’t want a bunch of gals who are expecting to work in the library of a nunnery to show up for interviews, either.

Bill combs his fingers through his hair, which is no longer plagued by unruly tufts. I don’t know if, as some people say, love can help ward off the common cold, but it certainly seems to have tamed Bill’s cowlick.

“Tell them we’re looking for escorts,” Bill says, standing over Sienna and giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Charming, lovely, well-dressed women who would enjoy going out on the town with an attractive man.”

F
RANKLY, GIVEN THE
job description, I’m surprised that half the female members of eHarmony didn’t show up. Three days
after we started screening applicants and having them email in their pictures, our office is crammed with possible candidates.

I look around the room. The thirty-five folding chairs we borrowed from the superintendant won’t be enough, I think, as I see all shapes and sorts of women—tall women, short women, women with button noses and women with prominent cheekbones—scrambling for a place to sit. They pop Altoids, pull out pots of gloss and bullets of berry red lipsticks to freshen their color, and try to figure out what to do with their coats—some fold them onto their laps and others sling them over the backs of chairs. A redhead in the first row slips her arms out of a faux-rabbit jacket, crumples it up, and shoves the furry ball under her seat. As it nudges the woman behind her, the second woman lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.

“It’s a rat, it’s a rat!” she screams, running from the room.

“Works every time,” the redhead mutters, and as her prospective employer, I try to decide if her cunning is a pro or a con.

Bill summons the meeting to order and turns the floor over to me. Sienna’s working from home today and to be on the safe side, we’re even using aliases. Because we’re the Veronica Agency, Bill and Sienna have dubbed themselves Archie and Veronica, after the comic books. They’ve suggested that I could be Betty, the steadfast, less glamorous friend. But after years of being stuck with Truman, I’m picking my own name, thank you very much.

I stride to the front of the room. “Good afternoon, ladies, thank you for coming,” I say in the same poised voice I’ve used dozens of times to chair charity-event committees. “Let me introduce myself: I’m Anna Bovary.”

I admit it was an unusual choice. But can I help it if my two favorite heroines just happen to be Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary?

A lanky woman with an alligator purse in the front row puts her hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle. But the literary reference seems to have eluded the rest of my audience, who pepper me with questions about what the job pays, how many women we’ll be hiring. And oh yes, what exactly it is they’ll be doing.

I’ve rehearsed this part for days.

“We’re a very exclusive escort agency,” I say, gazing out steadily at the sea of faces. “We’re looking for a few special women to match up with our clients. Successful businessmen who spend too much time at the office and need some help relaxing.”

“Relaxing, is that code for jerking them off?” a busty blonde bluntly asks as half a dozen women hurriedly excuse themselves from the room.

“Can you tell me how to get to Al-Anon? Or any 12-step program?” asks a brunette, nearly tripping over her feet.

“
Yo no hables ingles,
” mutters a woman who I swear is Irish-looking.

“That’s perfectly all right,” says Bill, smoothly. “That’s why we’re here today, to see which of you ladies is a good match for us and vice versa. We expect that our clients will want to get to know our employees more intimately, although you never have to stay with a man if you don’t want to. But I know all of the men personally and I think you’ll enjoy their company. The pay is excellent and we’re hoping to help you develop long-term relationships, not one-time dates.”

“Anna,” a voice rings out from the back of the room and it takes me a moment to realize she’s addressing me. “I’m a little confused. The ad said that you’re looking for women over forty? I thought that these kinds of jobs went to younger women.”

“We’re looking for women of character and experience,” says Bill. “Our clientele are the kind of men who appreciate a fine wine.…”

“My ex-husband always said I had a fine whine,” cracks the faux-fur-wearing fireball, who introduces herself as Lucy.

“And mine said no one would ever want me,” a fine-featured woman in the back, named Rochelle, says quietly.

“You’ll show him!” Lucy says, encouragingly. “Forget about that jerk. The idiot’s your
was-
band.”

“Do we have to sleep with the men?” someone calls out.

“Hell, do we
get
to sleep with the men?” Patricia, the woman with the alligator purse asks, eliciting another round of generous laughs.

One by one, we ask each woman to step into the back office for a private interview. Bill and I answer their questions, and we rate each applicant for PAL—personality, attitude, and looks.

We eliminate one with a strong
New Yawk
accent, and another who asks if she can get an advance on her salary “to have my tits done.” I don’t think it’s a good idea to give an employee money she hasn’t earned yet. Or—unless we’re going after a different type of clientele—to hire an escort who’s going to spend a month on the job in bandages. One potentially promising candidate has red runny eyes, which she admits is a permanent condition. “Can you believe it? I used drops every day for about a year, and now I’m having a rebound effect—no matter what I do, I can’t get my eyes to look normal. Who’d have guessed?” she says mournfully, putting on her coat and thanking us for our time. “You can kick heroin, but you can’t kick Visine.”

By the end of the afternoon, we’ve hired ten attractive, well-educated women I’m looking forward to getting to know better—like the lanky Patricia, an out-of-work money manager with a master’s degree from the Wharton business school, and Rochelle, the recent divorcée whose husband dubbed her undesirable, but who in fact is an avid Knicks fan with a thirty-six-C
chest. And we hire the rabbit-jacket-wearing Lucy, too. She seems like a team player and I admire her moxie.

As our new employees file out the front door, Bill apologizes for having to rush off to a meeting with another client. Until we’re operating in the black he’s keeping his day job. “Great start,” he says. “I can’t wait to tell Sienna all about it tonight.”

“Give her a hug for me, will you? And tell her I’m really sorry she couldn’t be here today. Working with the woman is going to be half the fun.”

“I know, but you can’t be too careful. Besides, she’s in charge of keeping all our clients’ records—their contact information, credit card numbers, hobbies, allergies, likes and dislikes—and she’ll track what our escorts are paid. There’ll be plenty for Sienna to do.”

“That’s true, but Sienna’s not one to take a backseat in anything,” I say, thinking how my best friend has spent a lifetime in the spotlight, and wondering how she’s going to adjust to being behind the scenes.

Bill laughs and tells me not to worry. “Everything’s under control,” he says, planting a light kiss on my cheek and heading out the door. “Don’t borrow trouble.”