Nine

Afternoon Delight

A LOT CAN HAPPEN in a week, especially when you’re dealing with feuding daughters, a husband who’s working with a sexy neighbor, and two business partners who make the Energizer Bunny look like he’s on Quaaludes. Not to mention that in preparation for the Miss Subways reunion, my mother had sweet-talked Dr. Barasch into taking bodybuilding classes with her.

“I want to be ripped,” Naomi had explained at dinner the night before, describing the demanding weight-lifting regimen she’d signed up for, which would tax a person half her age. And then turning toward her seventy-two-year-old lover, my mother cooed, “Don’t you want to be ripped, Gordon?”

Molly broke into a spasm of giggles, spewing a mouthful of water onto the damask tablecloth. “Dr. Barasch in a Speedo?”

“With oil-slicked skin?” Paige laughed under her breath. Then she straightened her back and fixed her stare on Molly. “It’s not over,” she said darkly.

“Not by a long shot,” Molly answered, as the twins settled back into the stony silence that had descended like a storm cloud ever since they declared war over Brandon.

Ever since that fight my usually Chatty Cathys (who would absolutely kill me if they heard me call them that) have barely grunted at each other, except to record their progress in their battle for Brandon, the teenage heartthrob. They seem to have nabbed him for an equal number of lunches—two each—but being his lab partner gives Paige a tactical advantage. The green chalkboard in the kitchen has been turned into a scoreboard, tallying FACE TIME WITH BM. So far Paige’s exuberant “15!”—which she decorated with a circle of hearts and arrows—trumps Molly’s “9.” Not only have the twins been silent, but my motherly advice is falling on deaf ears. Neither wants to hear that no boy is more important than your sister—especially a boy who is toying with at least two girls. Who knows how many others this Clearasil-using Casanova has on the hook?

As for Peter, Naomi’s exercise regimen intrigued him. Of course these days he seems to be open to all kinds of new experiences.

Ever since my husband started working with the glamorous Tiffany Glass he’s been paying a lot more attention to his appearance—trading in his conservative pinstripes and knotted silk ties for open-necked shirts and slacks cut to flatter a muscular pair of thighs. Thoughtfully, oh so thoughtfully, whipped up by Tiffany’s personal tailor.

Peter says he’s dressing more fashionably because he’s in the beauty business now and clients expect to see him showing a little more pizzazz. A more mistrustful wife might argue that he’s showing all the classic signs of a married man who’s infatuated with someone other than his wife—a new wardrobe, an interest in shaping up, and a genial demeanor that borders on the unseemly. Last night Peter actually seemed to be enjoying Naomi’s company, which can only mean that his endorphin level is off the charts. But after my flash of insecurity the other day about him leaving, I made a decision—a very grown-up decision, I might add—not to let my imagination run wild. Tiffany isn’t a threat unless I let her be. And I plan to keep telling myself that and telling myself that and telling myself that until I genuinely believe it.

Still, for a man who used to feel naked in anything but a three-piece suit, last night Peter sounded suspiciously ready to start stripping down and slathering on the bronzer.

“Bodybuilding … sounds like something I might like to try,” Peter said, eschewing the chicken marsala on his plate to dig into a butterless serving of broccoli. “Did you know that before Arnold Schwarzenegger was the governor of California or The Terminator he was crowned Mr. Universe?” he asked the twins.

“The whatenator?” asked Paige, who was talking again, at least to us.

“The Terminator,” Peter said with an exaggerated sigh. “Can somebody tell me why we send you girls to that expensive private school?”

“What do you think about the bodybuilding classes, Tru?” my mother asked in an attempt to bring the focus of the conversation back to her.

“I guess that tightening your abs is more reasonable than tightening your pelvis. But it seems like an awful lot of effort to go through to get ready for a gathering of ex–beauty queens. Whatever makes you happy, Mom,” I said, and as the words left my mouth, I realized they sounded condescending.

“Happy? It’s not a matter of happy,” Naomi snapped. “It’s a matter of pride.” And then, as I reached for a second helping of mashed potatoes she added, “I guess you wouldn’t understand.”

But Naomi’s wrong. I do understand. I’m feeling very proud these days, although never in a million years would I tell my mother why.

Once we decided to go ahead with our plans to open the Veronica Agency, things moved quickly. The one (and probably only) good thing about the stock market crash is that it made it easy to find an office space at a rock-bottom rent—even if our requirements were unusual. Most new businesses are looking for a flashy building with a doorman, but given the nature of our work (and its illegality), we wanted an anonymous building with no one stationed in the lobby who might track the comings and goings of our employees or clients. As promised, Bill picked up the tab for all our initial expenses; if his projections are right, the agency should be able to pay him back in less than two months. We brought in desks from home and scored a Ligne Roset couch for half price at a showroom sale, and Sienna loaned us a deep burgundy and black Barnett Newman lithograph and a bust of Mozart to give the outer office a sophisticated air. The espresso machine was a splurge, but a good cup of coffee can be crucial to office morale. Even if for now “the office” is just the three of us.

Next we divvied up the workload. Bill will be vetting clients and overseeing the budget. I’m in charge of anything that has to do with our employees. And since everyone recognizes Sienna from TV—and we need to keep our identities anonymous—my famous friend will handle the company’s paperwork and make bank deposits. It took Verizon an extra two days from when they promised for us to get our phone and computer lines, but even that seems like a minor miracle in New York, a city known for its speedy pace except, ironically, when it comes to installing the Internet. Then at the end of last week, we took the step that’s going to turn our fantasy business into a reality, placing a discreet ad in the back of the Village Voice:

We’ve already had more than a hundred responses.

I settle into the ergonomically correct chair that my two partners insisted we spring for. When I’d objected to the price, Bill had argued that the right chair keeps your neck muscles from getting all tense. And when Sienna added that it was a boon to your posture—that we’d look leaner in these chairs than if we were hunched over in some run-of-the-mill seat—I was sold. I’m just about to start calling job applicants, when I realize that I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to give away too much on the phone, but I don’t want a bunch of gals who are expecting to work in the library of a nunnery to show up for interviews, either.

Bill combs his fingers through his hair, which is no longer plagued by unruly tufts. I don’t know if, as some people say, love can help ward off the common cold, but it certainly seems to have tamed Bill’s cowlick.

“Tell them we’re looking for escorts,” Bill says, standing over Sienna and giving her shoulders an affectionate squeeze. “Charming, lovely, well-dressed women who would enjoy going out on the town with an attractive man.”

FRANKLY, GIVEN THE job description, I’m surprised that half the female members of eHarmony didn’t show up. Three days after we started screening applicants and having them email in their pictures, our office is crammed with possible candidates.

I look around the room. The thirty-five folding chairs we borrowed from the superintendant won’t be enough, I think, as I see all shapes and sorts of women—tall women, short women, women with button noses and women with prominent cheekbones—scrambling for a place to sit. They pop Altoids, pull out pots of gloss and bullets of berry red lipsticks to freshen their color, and try to figure out what to do with their coats—some fold them onto their laps and others sling them over the backs of chairs. A redhead in the first row slips her arms out of a faux-rabbit jacket, crumples it up, and shoves the furry ball under her seat. As it nudges the woman behind her, the second woman lets out a bloodcurdling shriek.

“It’s a rat, it’s a rat!” she screams, running from the room.

“Works every time,” the redhead mutters, and as her prospective employer, I try to decide if her cunning is a pro or a con.

Bill summons the meeting to order and turns the floor over to me. Sienna’s working from home today and to be on the safe side, we’re even using aliases. Because we’re the Veronica Agency, Bill and Sienna have dubbed themselves Archie and Veronica, after the comic books. They’ve suggested that I could be Betty, the steadfast, less glamorous friend. But after years of being stuck with Truman, I’m picking my own name, thank you very much.

I stride to the front of the room. “Good afternoon, ladies, thank you for coming,” I say in the same poised voice I’ve used dozens of times to chair charity-event committees. “Let me introduce myself: I’m Anna Bovary.”

I admit it was an unusual choice. But can I help it if my two favorite heroines just happen to be Anna Karenina and Madame Bovary?

A lanky woman with an alligator purse in the front row puts her hand to her mouth to stifle a chuckle. But the literary reference seems to have eluded the rest of my audience, who pepper me with questions about what the job pays, how many women we’ll be hiring. And oh yes, what exactly it is they’ll be doing.

I’ve rehearsed this part for days.

“We’re a very exclusive escort agency,” I say, gazing out steadily at the sea of faces. “We’re looking for a few special women to match up with our clients. Successful businessmen who spend too much time at the office and need some help relaxing.”

“Relaxing, is that code for jerking them off?” a busty blonde bluntly asks as half a dozen women hurriedly excuse themselves from the room.

“Can you tell me how to get to Al-Anon? Or any 12-step program?” asks a brunette, nearly tripping over her feet.

“Yo no hables ingles,” mutters a woman who I swear is Irish-looking.

“That’s perfectly all right,” says Bill, smoothly. “That’s why we’re here today, to see which of you ladies is a good match for us and vice versa. We expect that our clients will want to get to know our employees more intimately, although you never have to stay with a man if you don’t want to. But I know all of the men personally and I think you’ll enjoy their company. The pay is excellent and we’re hoping to help you develop long-term relationships, not one-time dates.”

“Anna,” a voice rings out from the back of the room and it takes me a moment to realize she’s addressing me. “I’m a little confused. The ad said that you’re looking for women over forty? I thought that these kinds of jobs went to younger women.”

“We’re looking for women of character and experience,” says Bill. “Our clientele are the kind of men who appreciate a fine wine.…”

“My ex-husband always said I had a fine whine,” cracks the faux-fur-wearing fireball, who introduces herself as Lucy.

“And mine said no one would ever want me,” a fine-featured woman in the back, named Rochelle, says quietly.

“You’ll show him!” Lucy says, encouragingly. “Forget about that jerk. The idiot’s your was-band.”

“Do we have to sleep with the men?” someone calls out.

“Hell, do we get to sleep with the men?” Patricia, the woman with the alligator purse asks, eliciting another round of generous laughs.

One by one, we ask each woman to step into the back office for a private interview. Bill and I answer their questions, and we rate each applicant for PAL—personality, attitude, and looks.

We eliminate one with a strong New Yawk accent, and another who asks if she can get an advance on her salary “to have my tits done.” I don’t think it’s a good idea to give an employee money she hasn’t earned yet. Or—unless we’re going after a different type of clientele—to hire an escort who’s going to spend a month on the job in bandages. One potentially promising candidate has red runny eyes, which she admits is a permanent condition. “Can you believe it? I used drops every day for about a year, and now I’m having a rebound effect—no matter what I do, I can’t get my eyes to look normal. Who’d have guessed?” she says mournfully, putting on her coat and thanking us for our time. “You can kick heroin, but you can’t kick Visine.”

By the end of the afternoon, we’ve hired ten attractive, well-educated women I’m looking forward to getting to know better—like the lanky Patricia, an out-of-work money manager with a master’s degree from the Wharton business school, and Rochelle, the recent divorcée whose husband dubbed her undesirable, but who in fact is an avid Knicks fan with a thirty-six-C chest. And we hire the rabbit-jacket-wearing Lucy, too. She seems like a team player and I admire her moxie.

As our new employees file out the front door, Bill apologizes for having to rush off to a meeting with another client. Until we’re operating in the black he’s keeping his day job. “Great start,” he says. “I can’t wait to tell Sienna all about it tonight.”

“Give her a hug for me, will you? And tell her I’m really sorry she couldn’t be here today. Working with the woman is going to be half the fun.”

“I know, but you can’t be too careful. Besides, she’s in charge of keeping all our clients’ records—their contact information, credit card numbers, hobbies, allergies, likes and dislikes—and she’ll track what our escorts are paid. There’ll be plenty for Sienna to do.”

“That’s true, but Sienna’s not one to take a backseat in anything,” I say, thinking how my best friend has spent a lifetime in the spotlight, and wondering how she’s going to adjust to being behind the scenes.

Bill laughs and tells me not to worry. “Everything’s under control,” he says, planting a light kiss on my cheek and heading out the door. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

BACK AT THE apartment, things seem to be under control, too—Tiffany Glass’s control. While their new office space and warehouse are being renovated, Tiffany and Peter have set up headquarters in our apartment. Just when I’d started to enjoy the peaceful ambience of our eBay-induced, clutter-free living room, Tiffany’s boxes, brochures, and hundreds of pots of BUBB face cream have transformed my home into a mini-storage.

“Where is everybody?” I ask, surprised to see a wildly extravagant orchid on the Georgian table in the entrance hall and following peals of laughter across the apartment into my bedroom. There’s a crack of light coming through the slightly opened door of the master bathroom—the master bathroom that’s been out of commission for weeks.

“Tru, you’re home, I didn’t expect you back for a couple of hours,” Peter says uneasily, as I swing open the door and survey the scene. The broken tile floor has been artfully restored, the Carrara marble tub that the workmen had refused to install is now magically in place and Tiffany Glass—in all her gilt-blond glory—is, infuriatingly, sitting in front of my vanity, admiring her own reflection.

“Surprise!” she says, standing up and clapping her hands. “When I came in to use the bathroom and I saw that you didn’t have a tub in the master bath, I just had to have it fixed right away! I couldn’t have Peter living that way. Or you either,” Tiffany adds, almost an afterthought. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Tiffany has the unbridled enthusiasm of a kindergartner gifting a painted Popsicle-stick picture frame, although her present is much less welcome.

“How sweet,” I say, pursing my lips. What was Tiffany doing in the master bathroom in the first place when she could have just used the one in the hall? And why the heck didn’t she stop playing around in my bathroom after she’d swapped out the tubs? I’m irritated to see that Tiffany’s replaced my discreet round magnifying mirror with a curved three-foot-long wall fixture that makes every crow’s-foot and wrinkle look deeper than the San Andreas Fault. “And what happened to my Roman shades?” I wail, walking over to the once elegant window that is now draped with a red Swiss dot fabric and an upholstered cornice with comic-book-sized stars.

“I know, don’t you love it?” Tiffany exclaims, coming over and playfully twirling a piece of the diaphanous fabric. “It’s Tilly and Milly. They did Tori Spelling’s nursery! It was quite a coup to get them to do an adult’s bathroom, but for me—well, let’s just say that I helped one of them clear up a certain acne problem though I’ll never say which one. No, no, no, no, no! But they owe me! And you do not have to thank me. The look on your face is gratification enough.”

I swivel around to catch my stern, tight-lipped reflection in the CinemaScope-sized mirror. Either Tiffany is totally clueless and thinks I actually do appreciate her unwelcome bathroom overhaul, or she’s playing blond-bombshell-dumb to steamroll her way into getting what she wants—which I’d be a fool not to see includes my dimpled, blue-eyed husband. Either way she’s a formidable adversary. But only if I let her be, I think to myself, remembering my pledge not to be thrown by Tiffany’s tactics.

“That was very kind.” I walk over to put my arm proprietarily around Peter’s shoulder. “And I guess I should thank you for the beautiful orchid in the entryway, too?”

“Actually that was my contribution,” says Peter, beaming, relieved that I’m not upset by the renovation—or the invasion of my personal space by his bodacious blond boss.

“Yes, Peter’s always very thoughtful,” says Tiffany, coming over and chucking my husband under the chin.

“Yes, he is!” I tighten my grip on Peter’s shoulder and press a kiss on his cheek. Tiffany counters by taking Peter’s hand. I move my fingers sinuously down his body and let my fingers dance across his bum. Tiffany eyes me and considers her next move. I know we’re in the bathroom, but I’m praying we don’t get to the point where one of us has to lift our leg to leave our scent.

Tiffany, it turns out, has a better move up her sleeve. Make that Manolo mule.

“Oh dear me, I slipped,” she says, pretending to have gotten her heel caught on the new tile and falling backward toward Peter—who wriggles out of my embrace to catch her.

Tiffany wraps her arm around Peter’s neck and leans tightly into his body, as if her tiny waist and his broad chest were matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“My hero!” she cries, and my husband actually blushes.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no!” Peter echoes Tiffany’s trademark protest as both of them giggle.

For a moment, I’m frozen, unsure of what to do.

I could knock Tiffany over the head with a pot of her BUBB face cream and see if she can actually stand on her own. (Like that’s in question.) Or I could kick her in one of her well-turned shins and hobble her for real. Instead, I clear my throat and edge a shoulder between them. “Here,” I say, clapping my arm on Tiffany’s and steering her toward the door. “Let’s get you back to your apartment and off your feet.”

“I’ll take her,” says Peter gallantly, and although I agree to let him help, I insist on coming along.

Inside her apartment, Tiffany makes a show of limping to a hot pink chenille daybed. Once she realizes I’m not leaving without Peter, she tells us not to worry. “Go home to your family.” She sighs theatrically. “I’ll be fine here all by myself. I’m used to being on my own. Even if my ankle is sprained—or possibly fractured.”

“Okay, well bye, take care,” I say, wheeling Peter around. And then stupidly, I add, “Anything you need, just let me know.” Damn my Hebrew School training! Fifty-two times a year for seven years I was told that the Torah commands us to help our neighbors—not to mention that it forbids murdering them.

“Well, now that I think of it, Tru, I could use just a teeny-weeny bit of ice. And maybe a couple of magazines. And oh yes, there’s a fuzzy-wuzzy blanket on the top of my closet that would make me feel ever so comfy.”

“That’s okay, I’ll get them,” says Peter, who unlike the doggedly oblivious Tiffany can read the expression on my face and knows that I’m losing my patience.

Moments later Peter returns with Tiffany’s essentials. I slap the ice bag unceremoniously on her foot, wrap the blanket Egyptian-mummy-tight around her body so that she can barely move, and prop up a copy US Weekly on her chest, two inches away from her nose. Tiffany perfunctorily thanks me for my help. But of course she doesn’t miss a chance to gush over Peter.

“If you hadn’t caught me I don’t know what I would have done!” she oozes.

“ ’Twern’t nothin’, ma’am,” Peter says with a bow. Then he promises to call and check in on her later.

We leave the apartment and silently walk toward the elevator. My mouth is clenched and my arms are hanging stiffly by my sides. Peter smiles and reaches out to take my hand.

“I know, I know, I know,” my husband says with a chuckle. “You don’t have to say it, Tiffany is a little bit over the top. You hated the bathroom, didn’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, as we step inside the cab and I punch the “penthouse” button. “And that thing with her foot, it wasn’t a very original move.”

“Tiffany can be a little flirtatious,” Peter says, in a masterpiece of understatement. Next he’s going to tell me that Henry VIII has commitment issues.

I cock an eyebrow.

“Okay, Tiffany’s very flirtatious. But that’s just the way she is. And despite her looks, she’s a surprisingly good businesswoman.”

“Maybe it’s because of her looks,” I say petulantly.

Peter looks into my eyes and cups his hand underneath my chin. “You know you don’t have to worry about me, right, honey? I’m yours, all yours. Although I was pretty turned on when the two of you started fighting over me.”

Fighting? Over him? Before I get a chance to act all innocent and tell Peter that I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about—or that I’d wrestle Tiffany to the ground before I let her come between us—Peter gets a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He throws his jacket over the security camera and hits the stop button on the control panel. Within seconds, the elevator comes to a bumpy halt.

“What?” I ask as Peter presses me against the back wall of the elevator and kisses me hard, impeding my ability to speak—or even think.

“Good thing the co-op board never installed that new elevator they were arguing over,” Peter says, brushing his lips against mine. “The one that has all sorts of alarm buttons.” Then he pulls my sweater over my head and hungrily reaches for my breasts.