Vanity Fare (3 page)

Oh, well, then. For that kind of money, I’d change my name to Molly Hari.

“Okay,” I agreed. “Thank you. I’ll take it. So tell me more.”

“Simon—that’s the owner—is opening a bakery near the New York Public Library, the big one on Forty-second Street. He wants to do something relating to both the library and his store. He needs a
hook
.”

“Like, to drag people in?” I was being deliberately obtuse. It gave me time to think.

John grimaced in that “you’re being deliberately obtuse” kind of way. “No. To get people talking about his shop. I think you can help Natalie with the copy—you’re the worst punster I’ve ever met, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. She’ll do the big-picture concepting, of course, but the fleshing-out stuff will be you.”

I sat back, finishing the rest of the coffee. “Sounds doable,” I said in a hesitant voice.

“Great. Look, I’ll just buzz Simon and set up a meeting. He’s very hands-on, he wants to be intimately involved with the project.” He leaned back in his chair. “Simon was the pastry chef at The Modern, he’s appeared on some of those cooking shows, too. The buzz is growing on him, and this shop will be so much more than a bakery.”

“And what about Natalie? When will I meet her?”

He scowled. Was it just me, or was he not at all pleased with his new partner?

“She’s out on calls this afternoon. I’d rather you met Simon alone for the first time. I’ll bring Natalie up-to-date later.”

No, it wasn’t just me. There was something fishy about John’s new partner.

I looked around John’s office while he punched in the phone number. He had the magazine covers of his various projects framed and hanging on the wall. My favorite had to be “Have a Heart,” published by a company that made artificial hearts. Although I also appreciated “Playing Footsie,” put out by the National Podiatrists’ Association.

John hung up the phone just as I was envisioning what “Intestinal Fortitude” or “Braindead” would cover.

“Great news! I got Simon on his cell, and he’s actually right down the block. He’ll be here in a few.” John checked his watch, an overly large, overly masculine timepiece strapped to his hairy wrist. “You’ve got at least half an hour before you have to be back on the subway, right?”

I nodded and took a deep breath. Work, of sorts. Money, of green.

John checked his BlackBerry for a few minutes, then sat back in his chair. He looked hesitant. “I want to let you in on what Natalie’s done thus far.” He scowled. “Not very much, actually. Not that I want either of us to let Simon know that.”

I nodded encouragingly. “Of course not.”

He sighed and planted his elbows on his desk. “So far she’s come up with Books and Bread as a name.”

We both frowned. He continued, “But she’s good enough that if she really concentrates, she’ll be able to nail something.”

That sounded unpleasant. As did the name she’d thought of.

A male voice down the hall conjured up much pleasanter visions. He had a British accent, the upper-crust, devil-may-care Hugh Grant kind of accent. The kind that made me a little weak at the knees, so I was glad I was sitting down.

“John, just give me a sec while I flirt with this lovely lady out here.” Only when he said it, it sounded as if he had just said something much naughtier. Judging by her husky laugh, the redhead agreed. And that voice came from someone who made those pastries?

There had to be something wrong with him. I held my breath as the door opened.

He walked into the room, and I just about fainted. He was gorgeous.

He had curly chestnut brown hair, the kind that must’ve trailed romantically in a breeze, green eyes—
green,
not hazel—and a dimple. I was surprised I didn’t faint, actually. He was tall and slim with a very British detachment to his walk.

And he was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black flat-front slacks, and he had on faux Beatles boots: shiny, pointed, and dangerous.

Why
wasn’t
I fainting? I was older than I thought.

The God spoke.

“You must be John’s secret weapon,” he said, making
that
sound much dirtier than it should. It simply was not fair that he looked like that, sounded like that, and apparently could bake like that. He held out his hand and smiled. “I’m Simon.”

“Hi,” I said, staring up into his face. Green eyes. Brilliant, emerald green eyes. Man, did I love green eyes. Hugh’s eyes were brown, a fact I’d always secretly resented.

Another man had apparently walked in while I was gawking but stayed just inside the door, leaning his back against the wall. Simon gestured toward the guy without looking at him.

“This is Nick. He represents our American investors.”

Nick nodded. Ah, the quiet, forbidding type.

John rushed into the conversation. “Simon and Nick are in from London, from Simon’s home office. Of course, Nick is from here, but Simon—”

“I’m from over there,” Simon finished, taking a seat next to me. He swung one long, lean leg over the other. I brought my finger up to my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling. I wasn’t, but I did find another crumb. I stuck my finger in my mouth to lick it off, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He did. He smiled, a knowing, sensual smirk that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners.

“You like my baked goods, then?” Simon’s eyes glowed.

He definitely knew what he was saying. A slow heat began to build in my stomach. It wasn’t the coffee.

“Yes,” John answered, “she was practically licking the bag.”

Simon’s lids dropped halfway down, and he swept his gaze from my feet to my head. “Was she? I would’ve liked to see that.”

Oh. Dear. He was . . .
flirting
with me. It had been so long, I wasn’t sure, but it certainly felt like flirting.

The other man, Nick, chose that moment to speak up. Good thing, since I wasn’t quite ready for the flirting thing. “We’ve only got fifteen minutes,” he said, in a brusque voice. He definitely had an American accent, a glaring, flat contrast to Simon’s lustrous tone. “So perhaps we can talk about what we came here to talk about?”

Well. That was certainly to the point. The three of us all straightened in our respective chairs, as though he had blown a bugle wake-up call or something.

Simon waved one hand toward Nick. “Go ahead then, killjoy. Tell them.” He rolled his eyes at me, and I tried not to giggle. Or imagine him naked.

Nick didn’t react to his boss’s—it was clear this was a hierarchical relationship—goading. “The store will be near the main library. Diagonally across from the Nat Sherman cigar store. Do you know it?”

Smooth skin covering lean, sinewy muscles. Maybe a matching dimple on Simon’s . . . I cleared my throat, hoping my thoughts weren’t showing on my face. I glanced over at Nick.

“I’ve been there, to the library. Not to the Nat Sherman store, though. I don’t smoke.”

Brilliant, Molly. How about just announcing “Hi, I’m a dork, and I’m not used to speaking to people.”

John interrupted before I could further stick my foot in my mouth. “Obviously the area is prime for Simon’s business. There are tons of tourists, office workers, loads of people traveling through there every day.” Nick snorted somewhere behind me.

Yes, New York City holds a lot of people. In other breaking news, Brad Pitt is rumored to be handsome, and scholars reveal William Faulkner was wordy.

“But I have to have more than just fantastic baked goods, don’t I, Molly?” Simon smiled, unleashing the full effect of his dimples on me. Maybe he should just stand outside handing out samples. That’d get at least half of the city’s population—the female half—to buy his stuff.

No wonder he was a rising star—I bet few men who looked like this could bake like that.

I reached back into the annals of my brain to try and locate that part that used to know how to do marketing. “Yes, in that high traffic area you have to have something that’ll pop, so people will choose your store over anybody else’s.” That sounded pretty good, if I did say so myself. Thank God for buried memory.

“Precisely,” Nick answered in that dry voice. “You want people to buy your products.” The way he said it sounded like how I explained things to Aidan. He must really think I was dumb.

I made an attempt to rally. “Of course you do.” I almost added “duh!” just so he’d get the point. “And you want to tie the shop into the library in some way?”

Simon waved his hand. “Yes, since my pastries are a work of art. Like a Gauguin or a Picasso.”

It probably wasn’t the time to point out that those guys painted pictures and didn’t write books.

Simon continued. “With you and Natalie on the team, I’m certain we’ll have fantastic results.”

I heard another snort in the distance. Well, at least Nick’s disdain was consistent.

John interposed, his Corporate America voice in full effect. “Molly will need some time to get up to speed. I’ll be filling her in on the details. And, of course, Natalie will be the point person. She’s already come up with some fabulous ideas. We can guarantee a fantastic presentation.”

“We’ll need more than your assurances.” Nick’s expression was as cold as his words.

“Of course they’ll come up with something fantastic.” Simon’s tone allowed for no disagreement. The thought crossed my mind that he was probably accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted, all of the time.

Nick unfurled himself from the wall and walked out without another word. Simon followed, giving me one last saucy look as he left. Beauty and the Beast.

I turned to John, whose face immediately assumed a soothing expression.

“It’s nothing you can’t do, Molly. It’s just writing some lively copy, after Natalie generates the look and feel. You can do that.”

I could do this. I just had to let my imagination run unchecked. And not about the interesting positions my new sort-of employer and I could get into. He sure was beautiful. Arrogant, but beautiful.

“Molly?” John’s sharp tone pulled me from all sorts of visions that Supposedly Steady Moms should not be having. “I’ve got some basic marketing copy books I can let you borrow. You’ll be meeting with Natalie as soon as I can find out when she’s free. You’ll do fine, Molly,” he said in a reassuring tone. He rose, and I did, too, smoothing my pants with my sweaty palms.

John handed me a beige canvas bag filled with a menacing-looking three-ring binder. It was so large it bowed the sides of the bag out. I slung it over my shoulder and it landed with a loud
whump!
on my back.

“Thanks, John, really.” This money meant Aidan wouldn’t be gnawing off his own hand, even if his mother had to pretend to be the marketing Mata Hari for a month.

“Good-bye, Molly. Say hi to Aidan for me,” John said as he kissed my cheek.

I wondered just how intimidating Natalie was. Or how long it would be before Simon suspected I was a fraud. I knew Nick had already made up his mind.

I wondered just what I was getting into.

I wondered just what I would get out of it.

I didn’t stop to wonder at the possibility I would fail. I couldn’t afford to.

A Room of One’s Scone

Take a moment—two moments, even—for yourself. Remember how it felt, how it smelled, how it tasted to relax for five minutes with a deliciously creamy pastry just perfect for pairing with a cup of tea. Remember what it was like before you did things like count carbohydrate grams and obsess over a teaspoon of butter?

This scone will bring it all back to you. It’s light, flaky, and packed with raisins and cinnamon, dusted with a delicate layer of spun sugar.

Okay, not spun, just regular, but it’ll taste like spun sugar. If you knew what that was.

It’s a pastry worth locking yourself in your room over. A place to ponder the greatness of life, of you, while you eat every single crumb.

3

“
GIVE IT TO ME
.”

Dr. Lowell held her hand out, offering no chance to refuse. I leaned forward on the sofa, feeling the butter-soft brown leather squish under the weight of my thighs. I thrust the paper toward her, then scooted back to wait as she adjusted her half-moon glasses.

I didn’t want to watch her read it, so I looked around her office, noting the framed degrees rising vertically up her bone-colored wall. So many degrees. So many ways to analyze just how screwed up a person was.

She cleared her throat, darted a mischievous glance at me, and began reading. Out loud. Dear God.

THINGS THAT ARE BETTER WITHOUT HUGH

• Being able to watch teen movies like
  What a Girl Wants
  with Colin Firth without having to change the channel quickly when he comes into the room
  
• Not having to watch SportsCenter
  
• Being able to read trashy romance novels without having to see a raised eyebrow
  
• Not having to watch any
  Sports Illustrated
  swimsuit issue cover model search
  
• Getting on the computer when I want to
  
• Being able to go to sleep when I want
  
• No wet spot
  
• No little shaving whiskers in the sink
  
• All the mess is my mess
  
• Three words: more closet space
  

She chuckled, folding the paper and holding it out to me. “Do you mind if I keep this?” Her brown eyes were gleaming behind her glasses. At least someone found me amusing.

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“It sounds like you’re regaining your sense of humor.”

“A little bit,” I admitted in a cautious tone. “Although Hugh called a couple of nights ago.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What did he want?” Her tone was as frosty as the bitter February day outside. Bless her little therapist’s heart.

I told her.

Her eyes widened and she shifted forward in her chair. “So what will you do now?”

I gave a rueful laugh. “Isn’t that why I pay you the big bucks? To tell me?”

She smirked in reply. “No, Molly, you pay me the big bucks to help
you
figure out what to do.” Why did I have to find the one therapist in New York City who was as snarky as I was?

I exhaled. “Well, I don’t think I can pay you any size bucks, at least not until I figure this stuff out. My insurance will run out in a month. John called, I’m doing some temporary work for him, thank God. But after that? I’m scared.”

She placed her hands in her lap and nodded. “Of course you are. That’s natural. What we have to work on is not letting you get overwhelmed.” A lump rose in my throat as she spoke—how could she sit there, all New York City Upper East Side comfortable and calmly tell me not to get over-whelmed? I resented her, resented anyone who had figured it out better than me.

“You mean having no visible means of support for me and my six-year-old son are not reason enough to get over-whelmed?” My tone was sharper than I’d intended.

She waved her hand at me. “It is reason. But you’re stronger than that, Molly, you just have to believe it yourself.”

I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Well, so far I made this list for you, like you asked, and I looked at the classifieds but then this thing with John came up.” I paused, and shifted on the couch.

“Yes?” Her tone was hopeful, encouraging, confident.

“I thought I might look into teaching. Substitute teaching at first. And then . . .” My voice trailed off.

“Stop it, Molly.” Dr. Lowell leaned forward in her chair and gripped her armrests with her hands. “Do not let yourself do this.”

“Do what?” I said in a monotone.

“This.” Her voice was dismissive. “Climbing into a hole and pulling everything in on top of you. Break it down. Take one thing at a time.”

I placed my hands on my thighs. “I guess I could ask my mother for help. For Aidan’s insurance, at least.” Dr. Lowell’s expression made it look like she had swallowed a bug.

Which is what I bet my face looked like, too. Dr. Lowell was very—
very
—familiar with my mother, at least from the times when I talked about relationships, child rearing, and insecurity. Which was every session.

She leaned back in her chair and tilted her head in an unspoken question.

I sighed and rubbed my palms down the arms of the sofa. “I’ll just explain the situation, make sure we both know it’s temporary, and go from there.”

She nodded. “You are thinking for yourself, Molly.” She lifted her chin and met my eyes in a challenging gaze. “Try to do at least one thing in your everyday life each day that is a step forward, no matter how small. That’s your assignment for next week.”

At least it wasn’t another list.

“If there is a next week—I won’t be able to pay you, remember?”

She waved her hand. “This is important, Molly. We’ll keep meeting and figure it out later.”

The chill winds outside Dr. Lowell’s office building couldn’t be any worse than my mother, I thought optimistically. Could they?

When I got back home,
I picked up the phone and punched the numbers as if I were making reservations for the Bataan death march.

She answered on the second ring. So much for hoping I could just leave a message.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

“Hi, honey.” She always sounded faintly confused, as if I had startled her in the middle of doing something. Possibly something worthwhile, like reading James Joyce, although knowing her, I bet she thought he was a lightweight, even though she named me after one of his characters. My mother was funny like that.

“Did you hear the news? About Hugh’s company?”

“Oh, what is it?” Her tone was hopeful. She’d always liked him. I felt a tiny morsel of glee at being able to knock him down a few pegs in her eye.

Nothing like a Pyrrhic victory, right? Even if it meant no health insurance. “Apparently he lost his job a while ago, he’s been working freelance for them. And now they’ve folded.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” She clearly did not realize the import of what I was saying. I pressed on.

“So that means he won’t be able to send me money anymore. Lord only knows what the divorce agreement will say.”

“Oh.” Her voice changed. She knew what was coming, I could tell. And was dreading it. Nearly as much as I was dreading asking.

Silence for a moment.

“Can you loan me some money? At least until I get a job? Just for Aidan’s insurance.”

“What are you going to do?” Mom had always doubted my ability to make a living. I had to prove her wrong.

“I’m thinking about substitute teaching. Maybe try to get my teaching certificate. The hours would be good for us, for me and Aidan, and it’d be something I think I’d like.”

“That sounds like a great idea, honey.” She sounded surprised. Heck,
I
was surprised. She was not known for her supportive qualities.

“So . . .” I trailed off, hoping she would follow my lead so I wouldn’t have to ask again.

“I can’t lend you the money.” Her tone was flat.

My stomach fell.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she continued, “but I just don’t have it.”

Not have it? This from the doyenne of Short Hills, New Jersey?

Our silence hung for a moment between us—me wanting to ask what the hell she had done with the money, and her obviously not willing to explain. And then, of course, I felt like a petulant, needy girl for even asking, but to ask and then be turned down was something I hadn’t even thought of.

“Oh.”

“I wish I had it, honey, but, well, I don’t.”

“Well, all right, then,” I said, infusing my voice with as much of a cheery tone as I could, considering the only person I could possibly ask for financial assistance had just said no.

“I should go take care of the dishes or something,” I continued, desperate to get off the phone.

“Okay, honey.” My mother’s voice was a little wistful, not something I’d ever heard from her before. I felt even worse than before. I wanted to stay on the phone with her, but I needed even more to go drown my sorrows. In a pile of soapy dishwater.

“Bye, Mom.”

I walked to the kitchen, my mind buzzing with a bunch of things: my bank balance, Aidan’s annoying habit of asking for food when he was hungry, my future, his future,
our
future, and that Ben Folds Five song where Ben Folds demands that the bitch give his money back.