All You Could Ask For: A Novel (7 page)

“HELLO, MOM, THANKS FOR calling. Yes, it’s sort of a big day.”

There is nothing more challenging for me than being chipper with my mother. She has the amazing ability to take any topic—even a birthday greeting—and give it a funereal tone. I think it’s something in the way she lowers her voice when it comes to certain words, and not the usual ones, like “cancer” or “tax evasion.” Like in this conversation, for instance, I could easily see if she whispered either the “birthday” or the “fortieth,” but she did not, she spoke both of those in a normal tone. But she lowered to where I could barely hear when she said: “I hope you know how
proud
of you I am.” The whole sentence was muffled, as though she covered the receiver with a sweat sock, and the word “proud” was practically indiscernible. She speaks as though she is constantly apologizing for the interruption, and has all my life, or at least since Dad went away.

In her defense, I suppose there
is
something vaguely funereal about a fortieth birthday. It certainly signifies the end of something. Not of life, but of something. It signifies the end of my youth, for one thing. I am not, and never will be again, a young woman. No one will ever again call me a “girl,” not that many ever did anyway, but it was comforting to at least know it was a realistic possibility. If I were picking words to whisper, I would say “getting older” and “starting to feel it in my back” so softly you’d need to read my lips.

Those were the thoughts rattling about in my head as I walked into my office. Leave it to my mother to have me thinking about the end of my youth and the increasing stiffness in my lower back first thing in the morning on my birthday.

I am the chief administrative officer of a large investment bank in Manhattan. The title was created for me. To my knowledge, there are very few—if any—other CAOs in major American companies. I began in the legal department, putting to use my dual Harvard degrees in law and business, and ultimately rose to the position of general counsel. Then they added human resources to my purview and named me executive vice president. A little more than two years ago I was recruited by another bank, a smaller one in California, with an offer of the very top position. But Phillip didn’t want to lose me, motivated at least in part by our personal history, so he created the CAO title exclusively for me. (The running joke, of which I am well aware and not overly concerned, is that I am the Chief Asshole of the Organization.) I am also currently the highest-ranking female executive on Wall Street, with oversight of our legal, HR, and corporate outreach programs, and a personal staff of eleven.

My assistant is Marie, a stunningly pretty bimbo from Brooklyn, whose title is team manager, but who, for all intents and purposes, functions as my personal confidante. I admire Marie for the exact reason I initially disliked her: she looks like a slut. She showed up her first day with an attitude—and an outfit—that seemed to make no secret of her intentions: she was here to find a man. Some women get an MRS degree from a prestigious university, but Marie was nowhere near smart enough for anything like that; she matriculated into Wall Street instead, wearing too much blush and a skirt that barely concealed her pubic hair. Within three months she had been asked out by at least a half-dozen of our bankers and by the end of the year she was engaged to one of them. I assumed that would be the last I ever saw of Marie’s stunning cleavage but, to my surprise, it was not. When she interviewed for her current position I asked her why she chose to continue working. The question clearly took her aback and hurt her feelings. “With all due respect, Ms. Emerson,” she replied, her Brooklyn accent heavy, “the way you dress I don’t figure you have to work either. So I guess I work for the same reason you do: I love my job.” The position was hers right then, and it was the only time in all my years on Wall Street that I have ever apologized to anyone.

Now, on my birthday, Marie took one look at me and followed me into my suite.

“Whatsa matter, boss?” she asked, without saying hello.

I began pointlessly shifting papers about on my desk, trying to appear busy so as to avoid the conversation. “Who says anything is the matter?”

“Is it a man?” she asked.

“What’s a man? I’ve never heard of one of those.”

“You know: a despicable creature that smells bad most of the time.”

“I thought that was a dog,” I said.

“No, dogs smell bad
all
of the time but they aren’t the least bit despicable.”

I smiled at her. “Marie, I’m enjoying this Neil Simon conversation, I really am, but I have a crazy day so I’m afraid I’m going to need you to exit stage left.”

She turned to her left, then back to me with a slightly confused expression. Her innocence always makes me smile. Marie is the perfect example of how life is all about your expectations. Her life is better than she had any right to imagine, thus she is the most honestly happy person I know. I, meanwhile, was raised with endless expectations, my life is a limitless menu of options, and thus I am the most honestly dissatisfied person I know. Sometimes dual master degrees from Harvard can bite you in the ass.

“All right,” I said, softening my tone. “It’s my birthday today.”

Her eyes opened like full moons. “Wow! Happy birthd—”

“Please.” I cut her off, reaching out my arm. “I don’t feel like talking about it all day.”

“I get it,” she said, whispering. “Happy birthday, boss.”

“Thank you.”

“Any big plans? What are you doing to celebrate?”

“You’re looking at it.”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her pretty head. “That’s not good enough.”

“I appreciate the thought.”

“NO!”

That took me aback, I’ll admit.

“You’ve been so nice to me,” Marie continued, more calmly. “I am
not
letting you spend your birthday just working and going home. You and me are doing something tonight, anything you want, my treat.”

This conversation was making me sad. And embarrassed. “That’s very sweet of you to offer,” I said, “but you really don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t
have
to,” she said. “I want to.”

I’m not sure exactly why I was fighting this. There was part of me that definitely favored the idea; it seemed it would have to be more fun to go anywhere with anyone than to go home on my fortieth birthday and watch
American Idol,
which I would have to watch because there was nothing left on my TiVO. Perhaps the most pathetic thing I can think of to tell you about my life is that I have
nothing
left on my TiVO. Everyone I know is always talking about how far behind they are on all their shows. I, on the other hand, am fully caught up. I have watched everything on television that I ever wanted to.

“What would you have in mind?” I asked, trying not to betray my interest.

“You name it,” she said. “You name the club, you name the restaurant, you name the bar, you name the Broadway show, you name the movie. Whatever it is you name, that’s what we’ll do.”

“Well, I’ve seen everything decent on Broadway, and there are
no
good movies playing, and I’m not really the type to go to a bar or a
club,
” I said, wrinkling my nose at the word as though I didn’t like the taste of it. “I can’t imagine going to a
club
.”

“So it’s dinner,” she said. “Anywhere you want.”

I thought about it for a minute until suddenly her eyes got huge and round again. If she were a cartoon, a lightbulb would have switched on over her head.

“I know what we need to do!” she said, with great enthusiasm.

“What?” I replied, in the same excited tone, mocking her for absolutely no reason. (Here is this sweet girl getting excited about making birthday plans for me, not even knowing which birthday it is, and I’m giving her a hard time for it. I swear, sometimes I understand why my reputation is what it is.)

“I have a terrific idea and I know you’re going to turn it down,” Marie said, undeterred by my bitchiness, “but I want you to think about it, okay? Really consider it, because I think it’s a great idea.”

I waited.

“There is a guy who lives in my building that I’m dying to fix you up with . . .”

Now this was humiliating. “Stop.”

“No, wait,” she protested. “He’s very handsome and very nice. I’ve talked with him in the elevator, he’s divorced with no kids, wears great-looking suits, looks to be about the right age—I think it’s a winner.”

I know Marie’s building. She lives on Central Park West. Her fiancé is one of the more successful bankers in our real estate development business. But there was simply no way.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Because,” I said, “what could be more pathetic than going on a blind date on your birthday?”

She smiled. “Sitting at home on your birthday watching
American Idol,
” she said. “Which, I might add, has sucked for the last three years anyway.”

I’ve never in my life mentioned
American Idol
to Marie. She’s more insightful than I give her credit for sometimes.

“What makes you think he’s even available tonight?” I asked.

“I can find out,” she said, bubbling. She could sense I was giving in. “I have his mobile.”

I shrugged. Then I sighed. Then I rolled my eyes. And then, finally, I ran out of gestures that indicate exasperation.

“All right,
call
him,” I said, as though I was agreeing to a highly skeptical business deal, which, in a sense, I was.

“I will,” she said, all excited. “I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes later she was back, and beaming.

“Eight o’clock,” she said. “Gramercy Tavern, just the two of you. He says he’ll be the one in the blue suit. I think he was trying to be funny.”

I tried to muster a laugh, but couldn’t.

“The way you dress,” she continued, “I told him he’d know you the minute you walk in the door.”

“Well, thanks for the added pressure.”

“Boss, don’t be ridiculous, your clothes are
too
fabulous,” she said. “I may sneak by and peek in the window just to see what you’re wearing.”

BROOKE

SO, WHAT ARE YOU wearing?

It’s funny, but I could never count how many times my husband has asked me that. Sometimes jokingly, sometimes not. From wherever he is on the globe, Scott knows that he is not allowed to go to bed without calling me first to say good-night. I want mine to be the last voice he hears before he goes to sleep, and whatever he wants that voice to be I am willing to give him. He will invariably begin the conversation by asking what I’m wearing, and I can usually tell from his tone whether he wants to know that I am in flannel pajamas or if he wants the Jenna Jameson voice and the fantasy wardrobe. I will talk him through any outfit he wants—he’s fully aware I don’t own any of it, of course—and I will talk as long as it takes until he is ready for sleep. (The hilarious times come when he is in Europe or Asia; there have been occasions when I’ve had these conversations in hushed tones at soccer practice or in the parking lot at school.) As I’ve told you, I expect my husband to be completely faithful to me, and I accept that with that demand comes some obligation on my part. When he needs it I give it to him, and in return he never seeks it anywhere else. Seems fair to me.

Anyway, the point is he always asks: “So, what are you wearing?”

And I can’t count the number of times I have told him I was wearing absolutely nothing.

“Just six-inch heels and a smile, sweetie,” I’ve said breathily, time and time again.

So, it struck me as more than a little ironic that this was the first time, the very first time, that I was genuinely wearing nothing at all, but it wasn’t Scott who called me.

It was my babysitter, and that turned out to be an emergency.

Long story.

Or maybe it isn’t that long. It starts in my house, where Pamela and I could not find a single suitable place to take these pictures. Thankfully, Pamela knows me well enough to know when I am becoming discouraged. She could see the moment was going to be lost if we did not act quickly and so she did; we packed up and went to
her
house. It was fabulous at her house, even if her house isn’t so fabulous. Pamela is an older divorcée with exquisite taste but not a whole lot of money. The best way to describe her style would be “hippie chic”; she is, after all, a child of the sixties and still flashes peace signs every now and again. So her house is about the way you might expect an aging hippie artist’s house to look: lots of psychedelic colors, groovy lighting, tapestries on the walls, a collection of framed rock ’n’ roll album covers in the living room. It was awesome for me, because it was so not me. There was something very appropriate about doing something as unusual as taking nude photos in a place as unusual as Pamela’s house. I even asked her to fire up some tunes for us. I wanted some rock ’n’ roll, and I wanted it loud.

“I think I know just the thing,” Pamela said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

She practically bounced out of the room to hit the music. I started to think this must be what it is like when a model says she clicks with a particular photographer. I always assumed that was just phony Hollywood-speak, but now I could see it is very real. I just
knew
that Pamela understood exactly what I wanted. I trusted her enough in that moment to put my life in her hands.