The Best Laid Plans (33 page)

Molly and Paige come running in, full of apologies. “At least he’s paper trained,” Paige says.

“Take that dog out immediately!” Peter tells the twins. “Before he gets used to going in the house.”

I shake my head and laugh. “I can’t wait to see what our new dog does next. This is just the beginning of our troubles.”

Peter bends down to carefully fold over the soiled newspaper so he can carry it into the kitchen and wrap it up in a plastic bag.

“Fuck it, what did you say about the beginning of all of our troubles? Take a look at this!” Peter says, sliding the front page of the
New York Post
out from underneath the shit.

He holds the paper in front of me, and in disbelief I stare at the two-inch headline.

T
HANK GOODNESS THE
story in the
Post
is a blind item and the columnist doesn’t know who’s behind the business yet. But he’s on the case and promises to crack it this week, and he’s already got an alarming number of details: “A once famous TV personality … Forty-year-old call girls … One of the hookers has even put her John on a diet …”

Frantically, Peter and I hop in a cab and go racing down to the Veronica Agency offices. Which, he’s surprised to discover, are in the same office building as BUBB’s new warehouse space.

“How do you run a fancy call-girl operation out of the same building we use for storage space? And how come I never ran into you?” Peter wants to know. We step inside the lobby and ring for the elevator—which comes swiftly now that Peter’s contractors aren’t hogging it.

“We almost ran into each other, the night you were checking on the construction and you slipped a note under the door of your neighbors who were complaining about the noise?”

“That was you?”

I wince, remembering that awful night. Running into Georgy. And that huge blowup with Peter at the Hudson Cafeteria. “We picked this building for its low profile. Can’t be too careful.”

“You should have told Sienna that,” Peter says, as we step out of the elevator and go into my office.

“I’m a
reporter;
it was perfectly natural for me to write the blog. Besides, it’s done now. Can you stop telling me how I’ve made a mess of everything and help figure out how to make it right?” Sienna wails.

“Hello,” I say.

“How could you do it? What were you thinking? Were you purposely trying to sabotage everything?” Bills asks in a tense, controlled voice.

“Um, hi?” I try again.

Sienna hunkers down in her chair and defiantly crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Oh
damn it
!” I finally yell to get their attention since neither of my partners will stop arguing long enough to acknowledge that Peter and I are in the room.

Sienna glares at Bill and then looks over at us. “Glad you two are back together. Looks like you got some sun.”

Peter walks up to his tax attorney and lets him have it. “How could you get the girls mixed up in something like this?” he rails to Bill.

“Talk about your chauvinists,” Sienna mutters.

“The Veronica Agency was my idea. I’m the one who thought of it, I’m the one it means the most to, and I’m the one who’s going to figure a way out of this mess,” I say with a bravado that borders on the ridiculous. Because really I have no idea what we’re going to do.

“I’m sorry, honey, and you too, Bill,” Peter says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m just upset.”

“Who isn’t?” asks Bill. “We’re in a pickle.”

“We’re in a
pickle
?” Sienna says.

“Okay, we’re up shit’s creek. Do you like the sound of that any better?”

“Bill,” Sienna says formally. “I am sorry if you think I put the company in jeopardy. That was never my intention.”

Normally, the easygoing Bill I know would accept Sienna’s grudging apology, but not this time. This time Sienna’s pushed him too far. “People judge you by your actions, not your intentions. And yours were pretty reckless,” he says frostily.

Sienna walks across the room and opens and closes the refrigerator door. Peter stretches his hands over his head and Bill paces circles around the office. Me, I’m pushing my elbows up and down on the armrests of the chair—if nothing else, the calamity is providing our daily dose of exercise.

I try to convince myself that things aren’t as bad as they seem—after all, Sienna’s said a zillion times that nobody reads the newspapers anymore. Still, ever since the story broke this morning Sienna’s Madame XXX site has gotten so much traffic that it’s already crashed twice. (Crashing being the Internet equivalent of people being trampled to death at a sale in a department store. On the one hand, a disaster. On the other, proof positive that the public wants what you’re selling.) I glance nervously over at the phones which are flashing like Vegas slot machines. “Maybe we better listen to some of these voicemails,” I say, stabbing the message button.

The first is from Lucy, who wants to know if she should lie low or go to work tonight. Georgy—not realizing that Sienna has purposely changed the details in her blog—wants to set the record straight: She put Gabe on the Atkins Diet, not Jenny Craig. She would never recommend that anyone eat prepackaged food. Several of Bill’s client-friends say they’ve left messages on Bill’s cell but he hasn’t returned their calls. Matt, the trader who took Patricia to the Literacy Partners benefit, is alarmed that someone might connect him to the agency. Gary—the stallion who wanted to try a younger filly—is nominating Clive Owen to play him in the movie. “How about
Flicka?” I mutter, punching the delete button. Dozens of messages later my head is spinning and I wearily sink into my chair. Peter comes over to massage my shoulders. Across the room I see Bill on his Palm Pilot finally getting back to people and Sienna typing on her computer—more of the same damned thing, I’m guessing, that got us into all this trouble in the first place. “Holy shit, what are you doing now?” Bill says as he drops his phone midsentence and goes over to see what she’s up to. Just as I’m walking over there myself, the office phone issues one last, loud blaring bleep.

“Get back to me immediately, as soon as you can,” howls Patricia, the money manager and former college working girl. “I just had a meeting with the reporter from the
New York Post.
”

I call Patricia and arrange to see her right away in a coffee shop down the street. Peter wants to come with me, but I tell him no. “Paige has a soccer game; you better get over there. Besides, I’m a big girl now. This is something I have to take care of myself.”

“Okay,” Peter says, reluctantly. “Just promise you’ll call if you need me. And let me know what’s going on.”

“Ditto, I want to know every time Paige scores a goal. Text me, okay?” I’m glad not to be just a soccer mom anymore—but I’m sad not to be a mom who’s free to go see her daughter’s soccer game. Especially today. Sienna agrees to stay behind at the office to begin destroying any incriminating evidence. And Bill’s off to see a friend who’s a criminal attorney. “Just to be on the safe side,” he assures us.

W
HEN I GET BACK
to the office an hour later, Sienna’s packing. She drags a cellophane tape dispenser across a large cardboard box to seal it closed. Then she stands up and wipes her hand across her brow. “How did it go?” she asks, anxiously.

“Well, the guy at the
Post
knew all about how Patricia paid her way through that pricey Ivy League college. And how even after she became a money manager, she still enjoyed turning a trick. He threatened to expose the whole story unless she told him who was behind the blog.”

“She didn’t, did she?”

“No, she didn’t. She slept with him instead. And then she asked me for ten thousand dollars. All things considered, I think we got off easy.” I pick up a client file and start grinding it through the shredder.

“So who’s that creepy little journalist going to pin as the madam?”

“That’s the funny part. After Patricia slept with him the guy from the
Post
admitted that he’d had calls from a half dozen people.
Asking
to be named! One of the Housewives of New Jersey even offered him a bribe. She said if viewers thought she was Madame XXX, Bravo might even give her her own show.”

“Sounds like we dodged a bullet,” Sienna says, sounding relieved.

“I guess. But we were just getting started.” I sigh, running my finger across my desk, already feeling nostalgic for the business.

Sienna shoots me a withering look. She cuts off a piece of bubble wrap from a large roll and begins winding it around the bust of Mozart that she brought in to lend the office a touch of class. “We came dangerously close to being in a huge amount of trouble,” she says, as if I’m the one who got us into this mess.

“In trouble because you had to write about it, Miss-I’m-a-Journalist-and-Who-Cares-What-Happens-to-My-Business-Partners? If it weren’t for you we could have been something
great
!”

Sienna grips her fingers more tightly around Mozart’s neck. “A great call-girl operation?” she snarls.

“There’s nothing wrong with call girls. Besides, our ladies are ‘courtesans.’ ”

“Hookers, call girls, courtesans—is that what you want Paige or Molly to be?” Sienna bangs the Mozart bust so hard against the desk that despite the wrapping, it bounces onto the floor and splits open.

I shift my weight from side to side and try to control my anger. I came back with good news, the
New York Post
isn’t going to out us, yet here we are fighting—all of my frustration over Sienna’s blog and Sienna’s resentment about her backroom role in the business are like sparks igniting a wildfire. And Sienna’s question hits a nerve, a raw one. It’s not like I haven’t thought about it myself. As desperate as I was to get money—and as much fun as I’ve had running the business—everything boils down to one simple question: Would I choose this life for my daughters?

“If being a call girl is a choice a woman makes of her own free will, then I have no moral objections,” I say righteously. “It’s a good way to earn money and Patricia and Lucy seem to enjoy the work. And I shudder to think what we’d be wearing if Coco Chanel hadn’t had a sugar daddy. Can you imagine life without the little black dress?”

“No, I can’t. But Paige and Molly, is this the life you want for the girls?” Sienna asks again.

I kick the toe of my shoe against the side of a box and avoid looking Sienna in the eye. “I’ve always thought that Molly would be a great teacher or that she’d go off to some third world country to save the planet. And with that quick tongue of hers Paige would be a natural for public relations.”

“Or a great telemarketer. That girl could sell solar panels to
the coal company,” Sienna says, coming over to stand next to me.

“Or a talk show host or a restaurant hostess or a stay-at-home mom or a working mom or …” My voice trails off and I take a deep breath. “I want the girls to do whatever makes them happy. But no, I’m hoping they pursue a different direction.”

Sienna reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Me too,” she says.

“I don’t want the girls to go out on dates for money. I want them to know the thrill of possibility. Remember the commercial that used to be on TV when we were kids for that breath freshener?”

“Certs?” Sienna smiles. “The one where the girl pops the mint into her mouth, walks around the corner, and bumps into a gorgeous guy?”

“I want Paige and Molly to feel that life can be like a Certs commercial. When they go out on a date I want them to know that they could end up meeting the love of their life.”

I feel my eyes well up with tears. Sienna encircles her arms around me and when she presses the piece of bubble wrap she’s still holding against my back we hear a crackly
pop
.

“That is such a satisfying sound!” Sienna says.

“Here, give me some of that stuff,” I say, snatching a piece of the plastic and punching away at the bubbles. Which, Sienna’s right, is very satisfying. “I’m not sorry we started the business. I feel like I learned a lot. And I’ll never buy another artichoke.”