That's What Frenemies Are For, page 19
And then he left the room.
CHAPTER 22
James felt bad about arguing again. I could tell because he came home on time for dinner the next night and joked around with the kids, peeking at me now and then to see if I was falling for it.
I was still upset over the things he’d said, but I had resolved to help him win the De Stasis over. I’d even googled Larry so I could make intelligent conversation about his accomplishments on the city council, and ordered scalloped potatoes and a chocolate cheesecake from Butterfield Market.
I decided to go the extra mile and put on a knockout evening, to be charming and gracious and send the De Stasis home thinking we were their new best friends. But the morning of the dinner, as I was standing on line for my latte, I got a call from the school.
“Hello, Mrs. Summers, this is Zarine Parekh. How are you today?”
Zarine Parekh, the very cultured, very intimidating principal of Graylon Academy, had not one but two assistants—so getting a call from Zarine herself was ominous.
“I’m well, thank you,” I said, stepping out onto the sidewalk for privacy. “And you?”
“I’m quite well, thank you for asking. Mrs. Summers, I’ll come straight to the point. There was a worrisome incident recently involving Henry and another boy in his class. Two other boys, actually.”
I felt a surge of annoyance that Annabel had gone ahead and made her complaint. “If you’re talking about what happened with Mitchell Marcus, I’ve already talked to Annabel, and my husband and I have discussed it with Henry. I think it was just a case of the boys playing a little too rough.”
“Mmm. It seems that there is some disagreement about what actually happened. At this point I’m not so concerned about the details, but as it is the beginning of the school year, we want to address any unhelpful habits now before they have a chance to become more problematic.”
“Well, I can understand that, but—”
“The other parents have asked for a meeting to discuss the incident. It might be useful to brainstorm some strategies that all the families can implement at home. Can you and Mr. Summers meet here next Wednesday at four o’clock?”
“Is that really necessary? Given that this sort of thing happens every day in every classroom in the country?”
There was a pause—long enough for me to regret my words. I could picture Zarine with her sculptural bob, her vintage cat-eye glasses, her inscrutable expression. “I understand that this incident may seem trivial. But research shows that conflict resolution skills learned at this age can affect a person’s relationship effectiveness later. Dr. Snyder will be sitting in—I’m sure you’ll find his expertise invaluable.”
Lamar Snyder was the staff psychologist at Graylon. This thing was turning into a circus. “Fine. I’m sure my husband will do his best to rearrange his schedule, though I can’t make any promises.”
“Oh dear. We really would like to have both parents present.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, chafing at her tone.
“Excellent,” Zarine said and hung up.
I was about to get back on line when I remembered that Benilda had asked to leave early next Wednesday to help her cousin’s son choose a headstone. I texted Grace; we’d often watched each other’s kids in a pinch.
Is there any way you could pick my kids up next Wednesday afternoon and keep them until 6:00?
A moment later, she called. “Hey, got your text—Benilda can’t stay?”
I heard music in the background—that soulful indigenous music that I only ever encountered at one place. I was surprised Grace was at Flame—she was passionate about her yoga studio, so much so that she had made it clear she was doing me a favor to come to the fundraiser.
“She’s leaving early that day,” I said, “and I’ve got a meeting at the school.” I’d almost lied and said I had a dentist appointment, but it was too risky; Annabel Marcus was probably telling everyone Zarine Parekh was convening her kangaroo court to settle our dispute over Henry’s behavior.
“What about Tatum? Is something going on with you and her? Because I just took her class, and she acted weird when I mentioned you.”
“Everything’s fine with us,” I lied. “She’s moving into her new apartment, so she’s probably just distracted.”
“She found a place? That’s great,” Grace said. “The only thing about next Wednesday is that Nora already invited Clara Otedola over.”
“Oh,” I said, stung. Since school started, I’d suggested twice that we get the girls together, and Grace had made excuses both times. I thought of those Instagram photos of Nora and Clara in their little white tennis skirts at the Dexters’ club. “Well, maybe they could all play together?”
“I guess. It’s just, the girls were going to work on a school project.”
“I could probably pick up the kids by five—the meeting’s at four. Would that leave the girls enough time to do the project later? I wouldn’t ask, but…” I almost said, but this is important, which would only lead to questions about the nature of the meeting. “…but Paige has been asking to see Nora for ages.”
“It’s no problem,” Grace said, though her tone implied it was. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“I really appreciate it.”
“Sure. And hey, while I’ve got you on the phone—book club’s at my house next month, remember?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“So I had the best idea. What if you ask Tatum to come, and then I can pick The Kegan Diet? She says she lost four pounds the first week. Maybe she can do a testimonial, you know, in a lighthearted way, nothing too serious.”
Too bad Tatum and I weren’t speaking. “I don’t know. We’ve always stuck to fiction.”
“But this’ll be fun! I feel like people would love to do something a little different, especially after Poppy made us read House of Leaves—you know hardly anyone even finished it. We can even do a challenge—like have people write down their weight goals and I’ll collect them in an envelope and then we’ll pass them out the next month and see how everyone did. You should love that, Julia, you can rub it in everyone’s faces how much weight you’ve lost.”
“Sounds fun,” I said, startled by the hostility in that last comment. “I guess I could ask her.”
I was fuming when I hung up. Sure, Grace had agreed to watch the kids, but in exchange she’d extracted the prize of getting to be the first to host Tatum. I could just picture Grace prompting Tatum to talk about herself, the diet, Flame…and inserting herself into the story. Tatum would let it happen, too, once she realized the book group was like a pond stocked with fish, every one of them a prize catch. If she could worm her way into that circle of women, she’d have it made: her dream of belonging on the Upper East Side seemed closer to becoming reality than ever.
My carefully laid plans were falling to pieces. Tatum had landed on her feet without my help, and if I didn’t think of something fast, no one would even remember that I was the one who’d plucked her from her wretched little life and given her a chance.
* * *
—
By the time Benilda returned from picking the kids up at school, I had the steaks seasoned and the salad ingredients washed and sliced.
“Benilda, can you please set the table for four and feed the kids in the kitchen before you leave? We’re having guests and I still need to shower and get ready.”
“Okay, Mrs. Julia,” she said wearily.
“Who’s coming for dinner?” Paige asked, dumping her backpack on the kitchen table.
“One of Daddy’s work friends.”
“Can I go to Lily’s house?”
“Can I watch TV?”
“No, and ask Benilda.”
I escaped to my room and locked the door. Suddenly, I was exhausted; I wanted nothing more than to lie facedown on my bed and stay there.
Despite my spending the afternoon frantically preparing for the dinner party, my thoughts had kept circling back to Grace and the way she’d manipulated our conversation. I did the same thing, but only to women who didn’t matter, women who’d gotten on my bad side, women I wished to put in their place while preserving plausible deniability. I’d never do it to my best friends. I don’t care if you’re in middle school or the nursing home, you understand the rules of female loyalty—and what it means to discard them: it’s an act of aggression, a severing of the bond.
But how had I wounded Grace so grievously that she’d treat me this way? What had happened over the summer to put so much distance between us?
Except…if I was really honest with myself, I had to admit that the problem had begun almost a year ago, around the time Grace and Matt had joined the Players Club. Its membership included famous actors as well as major benefactors and members of society, and it made sense that Matt would make the most of the networking opportunities, but Grace was the one who gushed about club events and name-dropped all the time.
I was no stranger to private clubs; my parents had belonged to the Algonquin Club forever. But James would never join any organization that required him to put on a tie just to order a hamburger. And it wasn’t something I’d ever missed—at least, not until Grace wouldn’t shut up about it. I caught myself wondering how I could convince James to at least consider Soho House or the Houghton Club, where I had friends who would sponsor us, before remembering that my marriage was already under strain.
Which brought me back to the evening at hand. I glanced at the clock and stood up in a panic: I’d have to haul ass if I didn’t want to greet my guests dripping wet from the shower.
* * *
—
I lit the candles and iced down the beer, arranged the artichoke dip and crackers on a tray, and put on James’s favorite bluegrass. I’d barely had time to dress and do my hair and makeup, but I was feeling pleased with myself when James walked in the door with the De Stasis—until his gaze landed on the fertility sculptures. I’d simply forgotten to put them away, but from James’s scowl I knew he thought it had been deliberate.
Larry and Jenny monopolized the dinner conversation with such fascinating topics as their newfound interest in genealogy and their upcoming trip to Borneo. I escaped briefly to put the kids to bed, but when I got back they were still sharing the boring details of their ancestry, and James refused to look at me.
After dinner, the men retired to the living room, having finished the beer and moved on to scotch. Jenny De Stasi and I didn’t share recipes, but I did have to endure a recitation of their struggles with their children’s orthodontia, which had led to them filing a lawsuit against the entire practice. I had trouble maintaining a posture of total absorption while she droned on, but I did manage to finish most of a bottle of Malbec by myself.
When our guests finally left, I retrieved the bowl James and Larry had used as an ashtray with its two charred brown butts, a wad of chewing gum stuck to one of them. James leaned against the kitchen island, drinking a Mountain Dew and staring at the sculptures.
I walked over and pointedly turned the sculptures around so they were ass-out. “Better?” I asked sarcastically.
“All I asked,” James said in a deadly quiet voice, “was that you just try. For one goddamn night.”
“I did try!” I pointed to my black pants, my high-necked sweater. “I’m wearing pearls, for God’s sake! I made a special trip to Butterfield for that cheesecake! I listened to Jenny De Stasi go on and on about how she was one-thirty-second Inuit as if she wanted a fucking prize!”
James looked so exhausted all of a sudden that it shut me up. “All you talked about was all the weight you lost at that gym. Did you ever stop to think that’s not what people like the De Stasis want to hear about?”
I hadn’t, actually, and James was right, I’d made a sloppy mistake: Jenny was at least a size 16, and Larry’s gut hung so far over his pants you couldn’t see his belt buckle.
“Well, I’m sorry. Fine, I’ll call her and ask her to coffee or something. But that’s not the same as—”
James made a sound between a laugh and a snort. “Don’t even bother. Larry won’t budge. Says it’s out of his hands, which is a total bald-faced lie.”
“You’re not blaming that on me—”
“No, of course not,” James said sarcastically. “Don’t bother waiting up—I’m going to head down and take another look at the numbers, see if I can figure out just how far up the ass this is going to fuck me if we can’t get the variance.”
“You’re going to the office now? James, it’s late, you’ve been drinking—”
But he stalked out of the room before I could finish the sentence, only to return a few minutes later in jeans and a plaid shirt I thought I’d sent to charity. I had started the cleaning cycle to get the burnt scalloped potato crud off the bottom of the oven and turned on the exhaust fan full blast because of the smoke, so maybe he said goodbye and I just didn’t hear it.
CHAPTER 23
I was back at Flame for Tatum’s 9:30 A.M. on Monday.
Surely, you’re not surprised?
True, I’d nearly let our argument get the best of me, and allowed valuable time to pass while I absorbed the blow and calculated my losses. But with a few days to recover and refocus, I was feeling less regret and more resolve; fewer second thoughts and a steely determination to defend what I’d worked so hard to build.
My dad had a favorite Muhammad Ali saying he’d repeat in the mirror whenever he was getting ready to renegotiate a contract: If you even dream of beating me you’d better wake up and apologize. I was my father’s daughter, and anyone who thought they could take advantage of my unfortunate miscalculation was dangerously underestimating my capacity for course correction.
The responsibility for my failure rested squarely on my shoulders. I should have worked harder to maintain my friendships over the summer instead of betting everything on my transformation and the launch of my new project. I could have done more with social media, building anticipation and securing my association with Flame so Tatum couldn’t take it away so easily. I had naïvely believed that I was pulling the strings while Tatum was secretly scheming and working her own game. Now I would have to work my ass off to regain the ground I’d lost, starting with Tatum. She and I didn’t have to like or even trust each other for me to get what I was owed. I just needed to figure out how to convince her she didn’t have a choice.
And the first step was to retake my rightful place at Flame before I lost any more ground. I had signed up the minute registration opened to make sure I got a bike in the middle of the front row, where Tatum couldn’t possibly ignore me. But when I got to Flame, a few minutes before the start of class, Paz told me that the class was full.
“But it wasn’t full when I signed up! I had bike four. I can show you on my phone—”
“It’s right here,” Paz said, turning the little screen toward me. Sure enough, all the bikes were assigned, and I was third on a waiting list of fourteen. “This class has gotten crazy since the kids went back to school.”
I suddenly remembered the night back in July when Tatum had drunkenly admitted to blackmailing Paz for admin access to the app—and yet I was still shocked that she would dare to kick me off the list. But I had one kind of influence that she didn’t.
“Listen, Paz, I’ve been coming here since back when you couldn’t have filled Tatum’s class if you threw in a happy ending,” I said, rummaging in my bag. I took a couple twenties from my wallet and slapped them on the counter in front of her. “I know this mistake wasn’t your fault, but I also know you guys hold back a bike in case somebody important shows up at the last minute. So let’s you and me pretend, just for today, that I’m important.”
Paz gave me a slightly reptilian smile and slid the cash off the counter. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Tatum’s been saying things about you…things you probably wouldn’t want out there.”
I sensed that Paz was the kind of equal-opportunity shit stirrer who was in it for her own amusement, so I turned back conspiratorially. “Yeah, I know. Ever since she accidentally left her herpes medication on the bathroom counter she’s been afraid I’ll tell everyone.”
I thought it was a pretty good line, but when I opened the door to the studio my smug satisfaction evaporated. Lindsay was in the front row on bike 4—my bike—next to Coco Choi. Annabel Marcus was there, that sneaky hypocritical bitch, along with Emery Souza and half a dozen other Graylon moms. There was one free bike in the room, and it was next to the last person I ever expected to see at Flame: Janet Erikson, dressed in elastic-bottom sweats that looked like they’d belonged to Terry in the nineties and a too-large T-shirt featuring Rosie the Riveter and the words A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE RESISTANCE. Janet had sent a check for a thousand dollars for the Flame fundraiser, and I really needed to thank her, or I might have been more upset; the last row felt like too obvious an exile.
Tatum was in the middle of a conversation with Grace. I watched her notice me; if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. She said something and Grace turned around and they both waved and went back to talking. At 9:29 A.M., Tatum patted the teacher bike—the one I’d ridden all summer long—and Grace jumped up on the podium.
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I may have mouthed the words, because as I approached the empty bike and dropped my stuff on the floor, Janet said, “Julia! Rough morning?”
