The Black & The White (10 page)

My mom’s house was furnished with an
eccentric blend of Malaysian and old-English. The house was
cluttered with old and unnecessary things she couldn’t bear to part
with.

My sister lived close to my mother, so
she came that Saturday to see me. It was nice to be home, to be
cared for, to sleep in my own bed, to enjoy a home-cooked meal, to
talk on the telephone with friends, to be nurtured by loved ones. I
missed my family.

On Saturday night, my mother, my
sister, and I were all in the kitchen preparing my favorite
dinner—a Malysian curry. The kitchen was the largest room in the
house. My mom loved to cook.

“
You’re still such a freak,”
my sister said to me as I meticulously arranged the carrots,
onions, and potatoes so that none of the groups were touching. I
stuck my tongue out at her. When we were growing up, she had teased
me incessantly about my compulsion to use different utensils for
each food group. No food groups could touch each other. My mom had
to make a separate dish for me each night. Somewhere in middle
school, I had stopped that habit, although I still liked order and
organization.

Out of the blue, my mother said, “I
spoke to Dani the other day. He said he misses you. He’s a good
guy.”

“
He’s a nice guy, Mom, but
I’m young. I will find a husband later.”

I looked at her to see how she would
respond. She continued preparing the vegetables, ignoring what I
had just said.

“
I’m not going to settle,
Mom.” She still disregarded my comment.

My sister had always said she wished
she had never married so young, yet she seemed content. I always
questioned why my sister didn’t want more out of life.

“
Why would you stay in this
small town with these small-minded people?” I once asked
her.

“
Mom is close by, so it’s
easy,” she had replied. “You know Mom. She likes to take care of
people.”

“
Is she still doing your
laundry?” I had asked, although I already knew what she would
say.

“
Well, I mean. I bring it
and it magically gets done,” she had said, smiling. I also enjoyed
my mother’s nurturing nature. When I came home on the odd weekend
from Philadelphia, mom’s first question was if I needed laundry to
be done. The next day, they’d be perfectly folded—stacked and
flushed. I understood what my sister meant. I was also looking
forward to my laundry being folded, smelling of floral
softener.

“
It’s not good to keep
having many boyfriends,” Mom said.

I ignored the comment. It was no
secret my mother wished I had followed my sisters path – family
over career. She thought a career was for those who couldn’t find a
husband. Her fear was that I wouldn’t either.

I looked over at my sister, but her
only response was to shrug her shoulders.

I had always remembered my sister
being full of life, much like my mom when she was younger. My
sister’s life was now consumed with baseball practices, barbeques,
parent-teacher meetings, and playdates. Her husband was a police
offer with a large belly and was fond of filthy jokes.

I looked up at my mom. Beyond her, I
noticed the bag that my sister had put on top of the oak breakfast
table. It was my patent leather bag, the one Dani had given me the
previous Christmas. I had forgotten that I’d sent it to her when I
bought my new designer handbag.

“
Here. Read this.” I handed
my sister the old
Italian Vogue
Kim had given to me before I’d left.

“
Educate yourself,” I said
with a smile.

“
You brat,” she said as she
lightly tugged at my ponytail. “Big-city girl now, aren’t you? Give
me that dress then. That’s how you’ll educate me.” I looked down at
the red dress Kim had given me.

Kim said she had only worn it twice,
but that her “tits can’t fill the dress” properly. The dress did
look better on me. Although I couldn’t part with the new dress, my
sister needed the fashion help more than I did.

I couldn’t stay home longer than two
days. The ample space felt suffocating. I needed stimulation; I
missed the energy and buzz of New York. More than anything, I
missed my drooling cat.

“
S
omething is up with Blake,” Carin said as we stood on line to
get coffee from the pushcart outside our office. We did this every
morning at around ten o’clock, taking advantage of the time away
from our desks to catch up with each other or gossip. “I think
we’re growing apart.”

“
Oh, no. Why do you say
that?”

“
I don’t know. He’s just
acting funny,” she said.

“
He’s a banker, for heaven’s
sake. He probably is doing some crazy deal,” I said.

“
You’re right. I’m being
neurotic.”

I complained to her about my failed
relationship. “Perhaps I should have tried harder. Perhaps I was
too selfish.”

“
Okay, now
you’re
acting crazy,
Isabelle. You’ll find someone new, I’m sure. People break up all of
the time. In fact, more people break up in New York than stay
together,” Carin said as though it was fact. “Babe, no one in New
York has a functional relationship.”

I went on for a while longer, blaming
myself, but my words fell on deaf ears.

“
Whatever. Bored now!” Carin
said sarcastically before changing the subject. “You should be
happy you have such a cool job. Focus on that instead. You get to
go out to cool bars and restaurants. Let me live vicariously
through you and Kim.”

As we plodded our way back to the
office, Carin gestured toward my outfit and asked, “Hey, is that
new? Looks good! You’re looking so fashionable recently. Are you
trying to catch the eye of some guy we know? Huh? Huh?”

“
I got it at that designer
second-hand store in SoHo Kim told me about. You really like it?
It’s so cheap. I bought so many things. I got this blue velvet
jacket, a Chinese-collared white shirt from Helmut Lang … oh, and
this blue dress that has elastic at the shoulder. It’s from
Calypso. It’s so sexy. You can wear it either day or night. You
should come over and see my new wardrobe. You’d be jealous,” I said
proudly.

“
To Queens? You’re kidding!
I don’t cross that bridge or tunnel, baby. But you look really
pretty. If only I had an eye for style.”

I looked down at my new teal-colored
turtleneck dress, which I wore over black leggings.

“
Catherine Malandrino,” I
said.

“
Who?”

“
This dress. I don’t know.
Kim told me she was a good designer. Glad you like it.”

As we continued to walk slowly toward
the office building, coffees in hand, I invited her to come to
dinner that night.

“
Is the weirdo client with
all the phones going to be there?” she asked.

“
Stephen?”

“
Is there more than one
weirdo with all of those phones?” She rolled her eyes.

“
Yeah, I think he’s going.
He goes to all of the dinners with us. Andrew really likes him,” I
said.

“
You really like him. And
plus, it’s not really a coincidence that he’s there all of the
time. Andrew is probably trying to get more business from him by
having you there. For fuck’s sake, Isabelle, you’re like Andrew’s
trump card.”

The more I considered Carin’s comment,
the angrier I became. I felt commoditized, underappreciated, and
misunderstood. Yet, felt powerless to do anything. I needed the
job.

As soon as I returned to my desk, I
notice a message from Stephen.

“
Boo! Stop thinking about
me
.”

I didn’t respond.

An hour later, I received another
one.

“
Pay attention to me. Me Me
Me Me Me!
”

I ignored this one as well. It was fun
to see how he went about vying for my attention.

Stephen was so different from all of
our other clients. He was interesting—full of quirks,
idiosyncrasies, and imperfections. He was a caricature of himself,
and I was intrigued. He made me laugh with his off-the-wall
comments and his vast knowledge of everything. His various passions
included animals, art, the earth, and physics. His facts about
nature intrigued me the most. When I regurgitated them back to
Carin or Kim, they would know I had just seen Stephen.

“
Great…another kinky octopus
story,” Carin said, after I relayed to her a story Stephen had told
me about male octopuses who impersonated female
octopuses.

Andrew was talking softly into his
phone when I returned from my coffee trip with Carin. Curious, I
looked to see who Andrew was on the phone with. Stephen’s line was
lit up. As I sat down on my desk I noticed Stephen had emailed me a
few more messages.

Immediately after placing the phone
down with Stephen, Andrew turns to me and asks, “Do you want to
grab drinks with Stephen before we head to dinner tonight?” I
laughed, realizing Stephen had circumvented me by going through
Andrew.

“
Let me guess—are we going
to Scalinatella again?” I asked.

This small yet cavernous Italian
eatery on the Upper East Side, one block from Bloomingdale’s was a
mecca for men in blue suits. Most of the patrons were Wall Street
types wearing pinstriped suits and expensive, brightly colored
ties.

“
Well, it’s close to Grand
Central. But if you want to go anywhere else, let me
know.”

I was still new and wasn’t quite sure
what standard invite protocol was for business dinners. I asked
Andrew if it was appropriate to invite Carin.

“
Sure. The more girls the
merrier!” Andrew smiled, “Just tell her to dress hot. She wears the
same outfit every day.”

I laughed at Andrew’s
observation.

“
So why don’t you make the
reservation for seven o’clock. Here’s my credit card.” He handed me
his green corporate American Express.

I called Kim for advice.

“
Call the Biltmore Room. It
just opened. Ask for Jeffrey. He’s the owner. Oh, and tell him
you’re a friend of mine. If he doesn’t treat you like a princess,
he’ll hear it from me.”

“
Is it uptown?” I
asked.

“
Nobody goes uptown.
Downtown is chic and where it’s at for fun. Tell your boss to get a
grip and try something new, for God’s sake,” Kim said.

When Andrew called to tell his clients
that I had secured a table at the Biltmore Room, the dinner party
grew from six people to eleven. It was apparently the hot table in
town.

The Biltmore Room had just recently
opened and was already being visited by models, actresses and their
doting paramours. With Kim’s contact, I was able to bypass the
one-month waitlist and was even given the secret phone number
intended for their VIP clientele.

“
Alright, dinner at the
Biltmore Room for eleven people,” I told Andrew, trying to sound
nonchalant, but in fact I was very excited that I had been able to
get a reservation at the hottest restaurant in town. I finally told
him it was downtown.

“
You couldn’t get a
restaurant uptown?” he said, obviously not impressed.

I begged Andrew to try something
new.

“
Try something new? Yeah, I
tell my wife that all of the time. She’s just not into
eighteen-year-old girls.” Andrew winked. “You’re like, eighteen,
right? So…what are your plans? Maybe me, you, and the ol’
lady?”

Gross, I thought. I looked away to
avoid further conversation.

“
Come on, Isabelle. Be
open,” he said. I imagined slapping him across his left cheek. He
continued in the same vein, trying to elicit a reaction from me. I
smiled at him and found something to distract myself. Carin’s
phrase, “Andrew’s trump card,” came up in my mind again.

I called Carin. “You’re coming with me
to dinner at the Biltmore Room tonight. You have no
choice.”

“
Ooh. Fancy! There better be
cuties there!” she said.

I arrived at the restaurant thirty
minutes early to meet Jeffrey, the owner, to get his reassurance
that everything was set for dinner. When I walked in, I was
immediately impressed with the place. The frescoed ceiling was a
replica of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel. The bar was long and
narrow, and at each corner was a large vase filled with towering
flowers. The women, most of whom were in their mid-twenties to
early thirties, were scantily clad. Their expensive handbags sat
atop the oak bar next to their martini glasses. Men hovered above
them. From what I could see, the dining room in the back was more
formal…and the people there wore more clothes.

I ate my way through the bowl of nuts
waiting for Jeffrey—first the cashews, then the walnuts, and
finally my favorites, the hazelnuts. I was just as stylish as any
of the women at the bar. Fashion magazines had become my bibles,
per Kim’s suggestion. Over the course of a few months, I had
learned to pair things together without looking as though I had
pulled everything off of a discount rack.