Best Intentions (14 page)

“That's the general idea.”

“I had this revelation last night while I was waiting like a pathetic teenager for the phone to ring. I mean, I guess I've known it all along but…Ben will never be my ICE person.”

“Your what?”

“My In Case of Emergency person. I was reading this article about how you should program your emergency contact info into your phone, that hospitals or whatever look under ICE. And it hit me. Ben will never be my In Case of Emergency person.”

“You deserve that from someone,” I tell her.

“I know. But it's not that simple. He's so close to being what I want.” She shakes her head. “In a funny way, I think seeing Jack reminded me of who I was before I got so scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Being alone. I found myself lying about aspects of my relationship with Ben to him. I was too embarrassed to admit what I'm putting up with. Even I can see that's a sign something's wrong. It's funny, all the things I didn't want before seem so appealing to me now.”

“What things?”

“Belonging to someone. I've never really had that. Or maybe I did, a long time ago, with Jack. But I was too young to appreciate it. How was I supposed to know it would be so hard to find again?”

“What happened with you two the other night?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don't know.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“That's not the point.”

“Excuse me? Of course it's the point. It's always the point.”

She ignores this. “What's Alice like?”

“The only time I've seen her was at their wedding five years ago and I doubt we exchanged more than three words.”

“He's not happy, you know.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He alluded to it. Look, I know he's married. Maybe whatever is between us is nothing more than a bad case of nostalgia. And maybe I'm just looking for something or someone to give me the strength to break it off with Ben, which I seem incapable of doing on my own. I get all that. But maybe it's something else, something more.” She exhales loudly. “God, I'm driving myself crazy. And I'm sure I'm driving you crazy, too. Let's change the subject. Are things better with you and Sam? No more ridiculous worries about an affair?”

“No. I'm over that.”

“Thank God. What was going on?”

“It was just work stuff. We're both in pretty tough spots job-wise right now and we're taking it out on each other. It's scary. We can't afford to live on one income, much less none.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Worse.” It is impossible for Deirdre, who has never experienced genuine financial pressure, to fully understand the bone-deep anxi
ety it can cause, no matter how much she thinks she does. In the back of her mind, she always knew she had family to fall back on, something neither Sam nor I have. “I just thought by this point, at this age, we'd be more secure.” I pause. “You know what I think the five sexiest words in the English language are?”

“You look thin in that?” she suggests.

“I'll take care of it.”

“Technically that's six.”

I frown. “I'm totally onboard with the whole fifty-fifty thing but it would be nice to hear Sam say that just once. Anyway, I have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot.”

“I'm on this insane benefit committee at Weston. I offered up Rita Mason but that's not about to happen. I can't go in and face those Park Avenue she-devils empty-handed. My children would never get another playdate. Any chance of you coughing up something?”

“Of course. What would work for you? A gift certificate?”

“It's a start. Maybe I could put it in a basket with some other things.”

“I love you but you've got to move past the wicker stage of life. No one really falls for that padding in a basket routine.”

“Thanks. You're making me feel so much better.”

“You should ask Ben,” she says, brightening. “I'm sure he'd donate a portrait session. And that's actually worth something.”

“I can't do that,” I protest. Nevertheless, a sense of hope invades me. The combination of art, commerce and media Ben personifies would go a long way with Georgia to make up for the looming Rita Mason fiasco.

“He'd be flattered. Give him a call. He's hanging out in town this weekend with his kids. I think he said something about having tickets to the Children's Film Festival.”

“If you're sure…”

She nods. “Absolutely. He's a good guy. Underneath it all, he's a good guy.”

She begins to rise. “I should probably get back out there.”

I begin to follow her, but just before we reach the door, my BlackBerry bings from the lint-coated depths of my bag. I have to crouch on the ground and empty out half the contents to find it.

Deirdre peers down at me, amused. “Are they tracking you down on weekends now?” she asks.

“I wouldn't put it past them.”

I open the message, read it quickly and put it away.

“Well?”

“It's not Merdale,” I reply. “It's nothing.”

“You did not look like it was ‘nothing.'”

“There's this guy,” I say tentatively. “Someone I met with about work. We've been e-mailing.”

Deirdre looks at me closely.

“It's not like that,” I protest. “He wants to talk to me about signing with Merdale. He's been slammed a bit in the press recently and he has a big deal coming up that he doesn't want squelched.”

“So?”

“He wants to discuss it over a drink.”

“What did you reply?”

“I haven't yet.”

“Be careful, Lisa.”

“It's completely innocent.”

“Nothing between a man and a woman is ever completely innocent,” she says and closes the door behind us.

T
his is so much cozier, isn't it?” Georgia Hartman glances around the living room of her East Side town house, with its double-height windows swagged in great billowing silk curtains that fall in puddles to the highly polished wood floor. The fireplace is unlit but its very existence offers the promise of warmth, of future comforts. The end tables are dotted with silver-framed photos of the multitude of Hartman children on their multitude of exotic trips, the couches and chairs are punctuated with embroidered throw pillows of vaguely ethnic origin, as if to proclaim that the Hartmans are so much more interesting, so much artier and less predictable than their neighbors with their chintz and their ormolu. Unlike some of the Weston families' apartments I've picked the girls up from, there is no hint anywhere of Louis-what-ever (faux or real, I can never tell) or the ultramodern furniture that looks as if it might stab you if you don't sit down just so. Rather, it is expensively tattered in the way that only generations of money can accomplish and others spend far too much time and effort trying to imitate. I suspect some of them buy bags of dog hair from a hawker on Madison Avenue to scatter about the way others buy fake designer bags on Canal Street.

Nevertheless, I wouldn't exactly call the Hartmans' home cozy.

“Our whole apartment would fit on their second floor,” Phoebe
observed after sleeping over with a bunch of girls last spring. With ample space to spare, I refrain from adding.

She went on to report that the Hartmans had a dumbwaiter downstairs; in the morning the help put freshly ground coffee and the newspaper on it and sent it up three flights to the master bedroom.

“Big deal,” Sam replied. “We have two dumbwaiters.” He ruffled both girls' hair. At that moment, they would have traded us in for replacement parents in the blink of an eye. Preferably ones in possession of better real estate.

“As you know, the conference room at the school was booked by the diversity committee,” Georgia explains, “which is just as well, as far as I'm concerned. Let them have it. If we are going to do this every week we might as well make it nice, right?”

It is evident that what is a dreaded obligation to me is the main event of the day for these women. Only Samantha, Class of '91, who had been so optimistic about consolidating her social position and has been outmaneuvered by Georgia's insistent if faultless hospitality, is less than pleased at the prospect of becoming a regular in the Hartman home. Personally, I would prefer it if the meetings were held at Weston, where escape seems at least nominally easier to accomplish. Besides, if I'm going to break or spill something, if I'm going to say the absolute wrong thing or emit an embarrassing noise, I'd rather it not happen in Georgia Hartman's living room.

The small talk about the first week of school moves on to the difficulty of convincing reluctant older children to go to country houses on weekends—they have parties, social obligations, sports meets of their own. Needless to say, this is not exactly a pressing concern of mine. There is some debate about what age you can start leaving them in town alone. I make a note of the mothers who think sixteen is appropriate so that I can remember never to allow my daughters to go to the unsupervised parties that are sure to follow. It does seem that the further north in real estate and income you go, the further south the behavior of the offspring sinks. Last year, Claire came back from a bat mitzvah at the Pierre and told me that two kids
threw up on the dance floor after sneaking the adults' drinks when they weren't looking. “And Heidi hooked up with eight boys.” I tried not to overreact, which might preclude any future reports from the front. “What does ‘hooked up' mean?” I asked carefully. Claire hemmed and hawed, I doubt she even knew. “Do you mean blow jobs?” I pressed. “Eeww, that's disgusting,” she shrieked, and went running from the room.

While the others continue to deconstruct the country house dilemma, I glance around the room, taking mental notes on the seemingly casual placement of tables, chairs and knickknacks, all of which manage to seem both inevitable and surprising. It is not the size of Georgia's town house I covet or the gads of money it implies—both are too far out of reach to even really contemplate—so much as her innate knowledge of what to do with it all when I can't seem to arrange a living room one fifth the size. Whatever gene allows you to visualize and then realize a home like this is woefully missing from my makeup.

I balance my coffee cup on my knees, refrain from taking a much-needed sip for fear the saucer will tumble gracelessly to the floor and pray for the small talk to continue. Except for Deirdre's $500 gift certificate, I have come here this morning empty-handed. I didn't have the heart to tell her that her generosity would be overshadowed by other chi-chi'er designer wardrobe offerings, to say nothing of the $10,000 visit to the celebrity derm, donated by “Anonymous” as if the offering itself would brand the giver as a Botox junkie, or the week at Bikini Bootcamp in Tulum.

Like a brilliantly trained conductor, Georgia stills the room with barely a flick of her birdlike wrist. Drawing all the attention to herself, she speaks in soft cadences so that everyone has to lean forward to hear. “I thought we could go around and get a quick update on the auction items before moving on to locale and entertainment,” she suggests. “Tara, would you like to start? Where are you with the stay in Beaver Creek?”

Tara regards Georgia curiously. One perfectly groomed eyebrow raises slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Is it a go?”

“Of course.” The idea that she might have to check with anyone is anathema to Tara. After all, isn't the whole point of being so fabulously divorced precisely that you never have to get anyone's permission again? She turns her attention back to the almond biscotto she has been slowly nibbling the edges of, indifferent to Georgia's charms.

If Georgia is at all perturbed—even the mildest show of insubordination is such a rare occurrence—she is far too well bred to let it show. Without missing a beat, she surveys the rest of the women, all of whom have secured everything they said they would, plus more; the Academy Award tickets now come with a preshow makeover by Angelina Jolie's hairstylist, the Ralph Lauren shopping spree is accompanied by tea with the designer's wife, there are backstage passes to Broadway shows and sit-down dinners with TV news anchors, there are courtside season tickets and private tours of the Metropolitan Museum. An air of self-satisfied pleasure permeates the room.

Georgia turns to me. “I was thinking,” she says, “it's wonderful that Rita Mason has agreed to cook a private dinner for twenty, but…”

I freeze. I don't remember uttering the word “agreed.” I sure as hell don't remember Rita Mason uttering it. Of course, that would have required my actually asking her, which I didn't. Any chance of that happening bit the dust when Mick Favata implied how unhappy she is with me. Surely the last straw would be requesting a favor for my daughters' school, an act that I'm sure she would claim was a form of extortion, surely a fireable offense. I had every intention of informing the committee that Rita had to cancel due to a “scheduling conflict” before announcing the Ben Erickson portrait session. The only problem is, despite leaving two messages, I haven't heard back from Ben.

“I've begun to think about the gift bags,” Georgia continues. “We have some great items but it would be terrific if you could get us, say, a hundred and fifty copies of Rita's book to stick in? It would add a wonderful heft to the bag.”

I can't help but imagine how Rita Mason would react if I told her that her book was only desired for its physical weight.

“Yes, of course.” I begin to tabulate what one hundred and fifty hardcover copies will cost—since the only way they're going to end up in that bag is if I pay for them myself.

“So,” Georgia says, “shall we move on to other matters?”

“I have some good news,” Samantha pipes up in the raspy voice of a not-so-secret chain smoker. Despite her devoted use of Altoids and Chanel 19, traces of tobacco cling to her. “Absolut has agreed to provide the alcohol gratis. All they want is a tiny bit of signage in exchange.”

Georgia smiles sweetly, the delicate papery skin around her mouth creasing in vertical C-shaped lines. My one consolation is that she is not the type to age well. “That's wonderful, Samantha. But I'm not sure a benefit for a scholarship fund should be sponsored by a liquor company. Not quite the message we want to send, don't you agree?”

Samantha, chastened, offers one meek “but” and doesn't finish her sentence. Visions of her social ascendancy lay in tatters on the polished floor.

“I suggest that we go back to the Cipriani down on Wall Street for the night,” Georgia says, moving on briskly. “They've been so good to us over the years.”

“And the lighting is so flattering,” Rachel Weinstein points out.

The women all nod approvingly. Most restaurant recommendations come with a rating of the lighting along with the merits of the food. In a clinch, lighting wins out. I mean, how much are you going to eat, anyway?

After some discussion of menu choices and pleas to have the band not play quite so loudly this year (the only flaw in last year's event), the meeting finally winds down. Georgia walks to the front door and hugs us each good-bye as if we are guests departing a wedding. When it is my turn, she leans in and whispers, “I'm sorry about Claire. You understand, though. I had no choice.”

At the mention of my daughter's name I stiffen. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about.

“The other day?” she prompts. “When I reported her for being off-premises? Didn't the school call you?”

In fact there was a message from the head of the middle school but I didn't bother to return it. I figured it had something to do with the tardiness of our tuition check.

“I'm so sorry, Lisa. I just assumed you knew. I was on safety patrol,” she begins.

I nod. Every parent at Weston has to sign up for one safety walk a year, a regimen instituted after a spate of muggings in which Weston girls had their iPods stolen by groups of non-Weston kids. Each parent is assigned a “buddy,” given an enormous neon orange sandwich board, a walkie-talkie and a block to patrol for the two hours that the children are most likely to be heading home. Last year, my day fell in the middle of February. My buddy wore her orange sandwich board over a full-length sable coat, making us a walking bull's-eye for PETA if nothing else.

“I had just started,” Georgia continues, “so it must have been around two-fifteen when I saw Claire and another girl…outside. In the Starbucks. Three blocks from school.”

She stops short, waiting for me to absorb the import of this.

Eighth graders are not allowed to leave the Weston premises before three thirty p.m. until March, when they are granted their “privileges” and can go out for lunch or whenever they have a free period. Though they daydream about it as incessantly as a prison break, I dread it, knowing I will have to explain to Claire that she can't afford the sushi the other girls favor for every noontime meal.

Georgia waits for me to commiserate over my wayward daughter's infraction or at the very least exonerate her for reporting Claire. Neither of which I have the slightest intention of doing.

“Thank you for telling me,” I manage to get out.

I say good-bye and walk out onto the quiet, tree-lined street.

I'm not sure who I am more angry with, Claire or Georgia. Suffice it to say I'm not particularly crazy about either of them at the moment.

“Can I drop you someplace?” I look up to see Tara standing next to a sleek black town car. When she sees me hesitate, she adds, “I may look like the enemy but I'm not.”

I acquiesce and slide into the warm, dark interior. “Thank you.”

After giving her driver my office address, we ride for the first block in total silence and I begin to regret my decision, no matter how convenient.

“She's a total bitch,” Tara remarks in her husky voice as we stop for a red light. “Don't let her get to you.”

I glance over at her, nonplussed. “Georgia?”

Tara nods.

“Her precious daughter Vanessa? Hospitalized for anorexia last year. Twice. No surprise. Georgia started giving her diet pills at ten. A chubby kid didn't fit her image.”

“Really?” I'd always thought theirs was the type of thinness that comes from good Yankee genetics and years of horseback riding, not cabbage juice fasts and Pilates. I thought it was natural, for God's sake—and all the more alien and impressive for it.

Tara's magnificent honeyed head remains completely still. “She hates me, too, you know. All of them do. They want me on their committees but they won't invite me to their precious little dinner parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding? A divorcée with a boob job? It doesn't get any scarier than that. The only reason they're even the slightest bit nice to me is the money.”

“Why do you go? You don't need them.”

She shrugs. “Because it amuses me and irks them.”

It occurs to me that Tara Jamison might actually be lonely. I suddenly remember a conversation about her that I overheard on a class trip last spring. “I heard she was on JDate,” one of the mothers had said. “And she's not even Jewish.”

There is a long pause before Tara speaks again. “Maybe I should go back to school,” she says quietly.

“Do you know what you'd like to study?”

She shakes her head. “No, that's the problem. As soon as I decide on one thing I change my mind and want to do something else. I just get kind of paralyzed.”

“Listen, if you ever feel like talking or, you know, getting together, I'd like that,” I tell her.

She regards me steadily before a gentle smile forms. “Thank you.”