The Best Laid Plans (27 page)

“Lucy showed me what a woman wants,” says Mike.

“Patricia spent a lot of time doing exactly what
I
want,” says her date, Matt, the trader who took her to the Literacy Partners benefit. “She looked great, she was comfortable talking to my colleagues, and she even told my boss’s wife where to score a discount on an alligator purse. Everyone was very impressed. Me too.” Matt whistles. “I haven’t had tongue kissing like that … Well, never.”

And it probably never cost you an extra twelve hundred bucks, I think.

Even Gary, the sports aficionado whom the shy divorcée Rochelle left stranded in a hotel room, has gotten over his initial disappointment. “Thanks for the free ride.” He winks at Bill, referring to our cancelling his fee and setting him up for a complimentary evening with Diane, who he describes as “a knockout.” A wise decision, because in the long run we’ll make more money from a satisfied customer.

Sienna’s typing every word into her computer and I’m trying to remember them: self-assured, sophisticated, a knockout, worldly, smart. Bill was right, sexy, adult women are in
demand. The Veronica Agency is filling a niche that sounds like it might be even bigger than bamboo flooring. I’m feeling pretty good about being a member of this covetable crowd. Although not every man in the room is enough of a grown-up to appreciate a grown-up woman.

“Yeah, Diane was super, a great gal,” Gary says, steepling his fingertips together. “But I was thinking, it might be nice for this stallion to take a tumble with a younger filly, if you get my drift. Got any of those in your stable?”

“Stallion? That idiot thinks he’s a stallion? Jackass is more like it,” Sienna hisses.

Bill looks sternly around the table at his nerdy Masters of the Universe. “All I’ve been hearing for twenty minutes is how great these women are. That, gentlemen, is because they’re Thoroughbreds.”

“I’m with you, man,” says Matt, raising his coffee mug.

“Yeah, those twenty-something girls are too insecure and needy. The Veronicas are cultured and confident,” agrees Lucy’s date, Mike. Then he laughs. “Besides, at their age, they’re grateful.”

“Grateful? Did that toady little worm actually use the word ‘grateful’? He’s the one who should be grateful. He can’t even get someone to sleep with him unless he pays for it,” Sienna fumes, as she takes out her anger on the keys of her laptop.

The guys on the other side of the two-way mirror have no idea that they’re being observed with the intensity of Jane Goodall studying her chimpanzees. Like their primate ancestors, I notice that they become more aggressive after feeding—as the meeting winds down they crack a few lewd jokes, slap one another on the back, and poke each other in the ribs. Bill asks the men to fill out questionnaires, and as they leave he takes their requests for future dates. Several minutes later, carrying
his suit jacket over his arm and humming, Bill bounds out of the luxurious conference room into our cramped, overlit space.

“I think that went really well,” Bill says, leaning in to kiss Sienna who moves her cheek away.

“You do?”

“Yes, look here,” he says, spreading out a fistful of questionnaires, which he’s already tabulated. “Customer satisfaction is over ninety percent. All of the men have signed up for at least three more dates each and at least half of them said they had friends who’d like to become clients, too. And except for that imbecile Gary, no one else wanted to try somebody new—everybody is happy with their match. We’re a success!” Bill exclaims, gathering his arms around our shoulders and ignoring Sienna’s signals that she doesn’t necessarily share his elation.

Sienna shoots Bill a stony look and breaks free from his embrace. “I think we have to start being a little more selective about our clientele,” she says icily. “Tell that Gary if he doesn’t appreciate our services we’d prefer he take his business elsewhere. And that Mike. And that asshole J.D. you set Tru up on a date with.”

“J.T. And could everybody stop saying that I went out on a date?”

“Don’t be unreasonable, Sienna. This is business. Do you think the dry cleaner loves everyone whose pants they press?” Bill says.

“The dry cleaner doesn’t have to get in bed with his customers, our women do.”

“Sienna …”

“
Bill
!” Sienna mocks, in a tone that tells me she’s asking for trouble. How can my best friend be so levelheaded about my problems and so quick to fly off the handle when it comes to
her own? Sure, I wasn’t happy about Gary’s reaction either, but ten men in the room issued total raves.

Sienna turns her attention back to her computer and vigorously types a few more sentences. Then circling her hand in the air with the baroque flourish of Yo Yo Ma leading a symphony orchestra, she aims her pointer finger at the keyboard and jabs the “send” button.

“H
OW ARE THINGS
at the office?” Paige, who of course thinks I’m running a temp agency, asks as she tumbles onto the living room couch. I bite into an apple, producing a crunchy
argh
sound that pretty well describes my mood.

“Fine,” I say, sitting down next to her, although I’m rattled by Sienna’s outburst this afternoon. Things have been going so smoothly between Bill and Sienna—too smoothly, based on her past romantic experiences—that I can’t help worrying that she’s making a mountain out of a molehill to put their relationship to some kind of unpassable test. Not to mention the stress she’s putting on our business. Still, Molly isn’t speaking to me and Peter’s off in Hawaii, so I’m in no position to cast stones.

Anxiously I glance at the end table where the answering machine sits. Now that there are cellphones the once essential house phone is about as outdated as a bar of soap in a world of alpha hydroxy. Yet despite that and the fact that no lights are blinking, which already gives me my answer, I can’t help asking as casually as I can manage, “Did Daddy call?”

“No, isn’t he out of town? He tiptoed into our room before it was even light out the other morning to say that he and Tiffany were going to Hawaii so she could give women at these fancy hotels makeovers and they could sell a ton of BUBB stuff. Lucky Daddy. I wouldn’t mind lying around on some beach.”

“Well, it’s not a vacation,” I say archly. At least I hope not. I’m sure Peter’s working round the clock with a whole boatload of people, trying to sell Tiffany’s cream. Tiffany’s probably up to her perfectly turned ankles in mascara and moisturizer; they couldn’t possibly have a minute alone.

“Mom,” Paige says, fluttering her hand in front of my face, trying to snap me back to attention. “Anything wrong?”

“No. Just wondering if Daddy remembered to bring a sweater,” I say distractedly. “It can get cold at night, even in Hawaii.” At least I hope he’s cold at night in his big, lonely bed without me cuddled next to him. I tuck my feet onto the couch and reach over to rub my toes. Paige wraps my apple core in a napkin and pitches it onto the makeshift crate coffee table. Then she brushes my hand aside and starts massaging my tired soles.

“
Um
, that feels wonderful,” I say, closing my eyes and surrendering to her relaxing ministrations. Then the lightbulb goes off. “Okay, what do you want?”

“Mom, that is so, like, jaded. Just because I do something nice why does it have to mean that I want something?”

“Sorry, honey, you’re right.” I settle back into the pillowy cushions as Paige kneads her fingers across my toes with the perfect amount of pressure. After a few moments she clears her throat.

“So, Mom, I know that you caught Molly making out with Brandon.…”

“And you’re okay with that?” I ask, startled.

“Well, more okay than you are. At least I didn’t go all ballistic or anything when she told me.”

“That’s very
mature
of you,” I say. Call me “mature” and I bristle, but for teenagers, it’s a point of pride. Still, what I really mean is: What the heck is going on? If her twin sister was making out with a boy she was dating even the queen of England
would show more emotion. “I thought you liked Brandon. Why exactly are you taking this so well?”

“Oh, you know, lots of other fish in the sea and all that,” Paige says evasively, and before I have a chance to dig any deeper, Molly walks into the room. Despite my attempts to talk to her before she left for school this morning, Molly barely issued a grunt. But now, she lowers her eyes and sits down next to me.

“I know that I shouldn’t have been kissing Brandon in the den. I know I shouldn’t even have been seeing him,” she says, looking up at Paige, who’s seated on the other side of me. Paige stretches her arm across the back of the sofa to reach out for Molly, and I catch them smiling. Then each of them slips a hand into my lap. “I’m sorry, Mom,” says Molly, with what sounds like genuine contrition.

“Me too,” says Paige. “Neither of us ever should have been dating Brandon, should we, Molly?”

“No, we shouldn’t.”

“And we agreed, neither one of us is going to date him now, right?” she prompts.

“That’s right,” says Molly solemnly.

I’m glad, I’m grateful, I’m caught off guard by their united front. What mother wouldn’t want to believe that her daughters were throwing over that double-dealing dickhead of a Don Juan and finally getting along? Still, I wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re sure?” I ask, swiveling my head back and forth between them. “I know you two must be up to something.”

Paige laughs. “Okay, Mol, it’s time to come clean. Mom, yes, we do want something. We know that Molly’s grounded, but tomorrow is Heather’s birthday party. Please, can Molly come? I know we’d have so much fun.”

“We’ll be home by midnight,” Molly pleads, and although she doesn’t have to say it, I know what she’s thinking. This is
the first time since they were in grade school that Paige has invited her to come along with her friends.

“Heather’s parents are going to be at the party? You’ll be home by midnight? No more fights over Brandon?” I say, making sure we’re all on the same page.

Paige leans in for a hug. “Promise. We won’t even ask for new outfits. C’mon, Molly, let’s go look in the closet. I’ll let you borrow that purple Free People T-shirt that you like so much.”

A mother whose shit detector was in proper working order might not buy the happy-as-two-peas-in-a-pod sister act, but I’m so ready and willing to believe that peace has been restored to the household that I put any qualms on hold. Maybe the girls really
are
maturing. I know I feel like I’ve aged a decade in the last couple of days.

E
ARLY THE NEXT EVENING
my apartment looks like the backstage of a tent at Bryant Park during Fashion Week. The girls are getting dressed for Heather’s party, I’m trying to pack for Hawaii, and Naomi’s looking for something to wear to the Miss Subways reunion. Clothes are strewn everywhere. I navigate around a fuchsia organza blouse and a one-shouldered black-and-white ball gown that are lying on the living room floor, but when I sink down on the couch I accidentally crush a pair of chartreuse chiffon harem pants.

“I’m not so sure anyone would actually want to wear these,” I say, fingering the billowy fabric. “But they feel good.”

Naomi’s standing in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway closet, the one that’s slimming. She tugs at the bust-line of a sparkly red Bob Mackie dress that looks like it just came off of a sixty-day tour with Dolly Parton. “I know, this looks ridiculous,” she says, pulling a black cashmere cardigan on over the getup. “But the reunion’s next week and I still haven’t got a thing to wear!”

“Don’t worry, Grandma, we’ll help you tomorrow,” Molly says as she and Paige come over to kiss us goodnight. They look adorable in miniskirts and patterned tights—but then again, they’d look adorable in gunnysacks.

“Laurie’s mother is driving you home, right?” I say, making them each open their shiny metallic purses to check for cellphones and emergency cab fare.

“Yes, Mom, everything’s good,” Paige says, swinging her bag’s silvery chain. “Although it is a little disturbing to see our mother parading around the apartment in a hot pink bikini.”