Play Dates (42 page)

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that it’s hard to walk around it. It doesn’t look pretty anymore. I
think we have to take it to the garbage in our building after all.

Mommy said I could have a treat because I got an E (she said
she wasn’t going to count the minus part). And Aunt MiMi keeps
saying that she promises to take me to a fashion show for grownups because I play dress-up with her when I come over to her
house to play and I always ask her if I can go with her to her job
and see a REAL fashion show with models and lights and hair-styles and everything. And she’s always saying I can go sometime
but sometime is never. I said the treat I wanted was to go with
MiMi and MiMi said the reason she didn’t bring me with her
ever is because I have to be in school when the fashion shows go
on because they go on in the daytime. And Mommy won’t let me
miss school to go to a fashion show with MiMi. She said I can’t
go because Mrs. Hennepin gives so much homework that sometimes it’s more than we can finish in one night and if I miss
school even for one day then I will have to catch up on TWO

days of homework and Mommy said it’s too much to get me to do
all in one night and if I don’t do it then I get U’s and then we will
both get in trouble with Mrs. Hennepin.

Mommy said that the summer will be coming soon and maybe
MiMi can take me to a fashion show then, because school will be
over. But MiMi said they don’t have fashion shows in the summertime.

MiMi said it was just for one time and it would be a different
kind of education than school. I don’t know what that means but
I want to go!!! And MiMi said to Mommy that she needs to relax
a little bit and bend the rules. And Mommy told MiMi you’re not
a Mommy and you have to make rules for kids because it’s important and if MiMi were a mommy, she would know that.

Mommy said that MiMi was acting as much like a little kid as I
was because she was getting all upset. But I AM a kid.

And then MiMi got REALLY mad at Mommy and said that
Mommy and her rules were just as bad as Mrs. Hennepin and

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HER rules. And she said she was going to ask her new boyfriend
Owen to meet with Mommy about her jewelry-making but now
that Mommy was being a pain in the tushie (MiMi didn’t say
tushie—and she said the F-word before she said the pain in the
other-word-for-tushie part) she was thinking about changing her
mind and not saying to Owen that he should help Mommy.

And then Mommy said that MiMi was being extra-babyish because Owen is a person and not a toy that MiMi plays with in
the sandbox. And they were yelling at each other and Mommy
was yelling “I hate yelling!” And she said to MiMi that now she
had a really bad, bad headache and MiMi could do whatever she
wanted. She yelled “FINE!” really really really loud and she said
if MiMi wanted to take me out of school for the day to go to the
fashion show, it would be okay because she was too tired to talk
about it anymore and she didn’t want to fight with MiMi.

So next week on Thursday I get to go to a fashion show with
my Aunt MiMi. I CAN’T WAIT!

Who would have thought my job would be relaxing? By comparison, I mean. Zoë has been sounding like a broken record all week. Nonstop chatter about this Lucky Sixpence fashion show that Mia is taking her to this afternoon. It’s like living with a magpie. I could have sent Zoë to school for the morning, with an excuse to leave at lunchtime and not return for the rest of the afternoon, but I felt it would be more disruptive for her, not to mention hell on both my schedule and Mia’s, than for Zoë to miss the entire school day.

My feet are a little sore from standing for so many hours in new shoes, but it’s been a quiet day here at the Met so far.

Mother’s Day is around the corner. So where are all the men buying jewelry? Not at the museum, evidently. Most of my customers are women, treating themselves or buying gifts for oth-PLAY DATES

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ers. Lately I’ve begun to examine the museum reproductions with a more discerning eye, checking to see how a piece is put together, wondering if I can create a similar design of my own.

Apparently, great—and I use the word facetiously—minds think alike. As I daydream about starting my own jewelry business while simultaneously attempting to appear alert and ap-proachable, Nina Osborne strolls up to my counter. I feel my stomach seize, remembering with exquisite clarity the last time Nina stood on the other side of this glass case, the humiliating sting of her words, and how the experience made me want to crawl under the covers for a week.

“Did you enjoy the sculpture exhibit today?” I ask her with forced effervescence, figuring she’d paid us a visit while Xander was in school, in order to “do” the current blockbuster.
The
Naked Form: From Rodin to Brancusi
is drawing the visitors like a magnet. Even the venerable Metropolitan Museum is aware that very little attracts a crowd as much as a whiff of sex.

“I saw it during the members’ preview,” she replies dismissively. I notice she’s wearing a pair of my earrings; onyx and gold electroplate with two shades of coral. She points to a coral bead necklace in the case and asks me to show it to her. She flips over the price tag. Three hundred and ninety-five dollars. I permit her to try it on, and she assesses her appearance in the countertop’s freestanding mirror.

“It matches the earrings pretty well,” I volunteer. “And although the design is quite simple, the price is a fair one, for the workmanship. I mean—it’s not a rip-off.”

Nina nods, frowns, then purses her lips and frowns more deeply. “Can
you
make something like this?”

“I have the tools; I’d just have to get hold of the stones.” I examine the necklace more closely. “Something like this wouldn’t be very hard at all.” I lean over the counter, in as ladylike a manner as possible, so I can lower my voice. “See, this necklace
is
what it
is
because it’s a reasonable contemporary facsimile of

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the necklace that Madame LaFrontiere is wearing in the Sargent portrait on the second floor. If you saw this piece in a jewelry store, it probably wouldn’t catch your eye.” I lay the necklace across my palm. “If were up to me to design something, not just copy it, I’d really have fun with these. You could make the same strand with malachite or turquoise, citrine, peridot, carnelian—

whatever gemstones you were into in the entire spectrum from garnet to amethyst—and then create it so that you could wear more than one strand together. A single keeps it simple, but you could also mix and match cool tones or warm ones, or twist all six for a rainbow choker.” I was really getting into it.

I pause to help another customer, and Nina, in her nosy way, informs the woman that I’m a jewelry designer and that she should be the first on her block to own one of my originals.

“Give her a card,” Nina prompts. I’m not sure whether this kind of help is a blessing or a curse. I work on commission for the museum and could probably get canned for touting my own wares instead. Besides, I really have no jewelry design business.

What is Nina thinking?
And
I have no business cards! Is this a further attempt at humiliation? I give her a wide-eyed stare.

“Claire just had a trunk show on Saturday. She must be all out of them,” Nina says smoothly. “See?” she says, showing off her ear drops to the bewildered woman. “Claire made these.

Stunning, aren’t they?”

I catch my supervisor checking me out suspiciously. “So, which pin were you interested in?” I ask loudly. The unusual ambush thwarted for the time being, my customer is clearly relieved. She points to one of the museum’s bestsellers and asks me to gift wrap it.

“Are you trying to get me fired?” I hiss at Nina, after the woman has departed with her blue hippopotamus.

“Trying to get you out of here,” she counters.

“Same thing!”

“But if you’d rather squander your talents as a shopgirl for—

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what do you make here—minimum wage? Then don’t let me stop you.”

“You really can be such a bitch,” I mutter under my breath.

Nina Osborne’s hearing is excellent. “But I’m a bitch who can spot a winner.” Her laser-whitened teeth look even brighter against her perpetual tan. “I don’t usually do this,” she says, prefacing the removal of a jewel-encrusted Judith Leiber card case from her purse. She hands me a business card with the Barneys department store logo embossed in one corner. “Laura Sloan is their jewelry buyer for the high-end costume pieces. She’s a friend of mine; we both sit on the advisory board of the Helena Rubenstein Foundation. Laura’s always looking for something new. No guarantees, of course, and I’m sure you’ll need a lot more samples, since Jennifer and I bought more than half of them last week. And you’ll want to have a business strategy as well. Laura’s been burned by flaky fly-by-nights.”

Nina turns to leave, then retraces a step or two, realizing she’s left the LaFrontiere reproduction sitting on the counter. “Oh, and I don’t want the coral necklace,” she says, pointing to the museum reproduction. “I like your idea better.”

“This is
so
weird,” Mia says, biting into a breadstick. Owen discreetly points out that she’s dribbled a few crumbs down her shirt and she dusts herself off with her napkin. I love to watch someone taking care of my older sister. It actually does make me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

“It
is
a first,” I admit. “Gentlemen, this is the first time—as far as I can remember, anyway—no, it
has
to be the first time, because I got married right out of high school—that Mia and I have ever double-dated.”

“History is being made,” Dennis says solemnly, then breaks into a grin. “And you’re both surviving it. Beautifully, I might add.”

“We’re very impressed,” Owen contributes. The men are evidently sharing some sort of secret communication. It’s not a

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sleazy thought; that’s not their style. It’s just some mysterious guy-thing we’ll probably never get.

Suddenly, Mia claps a hand to her mouth. She leans over to whisper to me, “Isn’t this the restaurant that Seinfeld called the

‘break-up’ place? You know, where a guy takes a girl when he wants to break up with her?” Her face bears a look of horror.

I regard our dinner companions, who, after three months, appear to have remained as smitten with us as we are by them.

“Maybe that’s where
he
took women for their last mutual supper,” I suggest. “But every time I’ve ever come here, I’ve had a very pleasant experience.” Pomodoro is a popular neighborhood destination and, as our Uncle Seymour used to say about restaurants, “If you can get in, don’t go.”

“Try the lobster ravioli,” I insist. “I always get that when I’m here. You’ll think you died and went to heaven.” Pasta in a cream sauce is the last thing my waistline needs, but as long as I’m going out to dinner, I might as well splurge. Leaving room for dessert, of course.

“You know all the food is dead here,” Mia teases.

I laugh and explain Serena Eden to Owen. Dennis knows all about her by now.

“And I heard,” Mia adds with relish, lowering her voice, conspiratorially, “that Serena and Scott are on the rocks.”

“No way!”

“Way, Clairey! Or headed there, anyway.”

There’s no need to suppress my surprise, but it’s harder to shelve the glee. “How do you know these things? You don’t see them—do you?” I would consider that an act of betrayal. Normally, so would Mia, but you never know.

“Eden’s Garden is in my neighborhood, remember? I ran into a chick on the street who I recognized as the waitress from last December when Zoë and I stopped in there. So I just asked her how it’s going. Out of curiosity, you know? And she remembered Zoë, and mentioned the Serena-and-Scott thing. I got the PLAY DATES

329

sense she’s one of those girls who just likes to dish at the drop of a hat.”

Dennis, who’d been resting his hand on my thigh, rubs my leg affectionately. “So, how do you feel about that?” he asks. The question, spoken softly and with some trepidation, is only for me, not for the table.

“I’d say . . . it’s none of my business, really.”

“That’s very mature of you. What a grown-up!” he remarks.

“I’m getting there,” I smile. “Slowly but surely, I’m getting there.” I bestow a gentle kiss on his lips. “You have nothing to worry about, my darling,” I murmur, aware that Owen and Mia are enjoying the show. Except I don’t care. Dennis needs to know this. “In a way, we have Scott to thank for our getting together. If I were still married to him, my life would be different, of course, and I probably wouldn’t have met you. And even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.” I raise my wineglass. “So, here’s to Scott, without whom I would not have met Dennis McIntyre.”

“To Scott,” the others toast.

“Who would ever have thought we’d be doing this?” Mia observes. “The ‘what-ifs’ can be really wild sometimes, can’t they?” She slips her hand into Owen’s. He looks at her with evident admiration and my heart is ready to burst for them.

“I mean, for God’s sake, here I am, sitting next to a man in a Brooks Brothers’ suit! A man who doesn’t throw paint at can-vases tacked to a tenement floor in Alphabet City or play an electronic instrument, take photographs of semi-clad women, or is a hero by profession—though
you
actually ended up with one of those, Clairey!” She snuggles against her boyfriend. “But he’s
my
hero. Fuck PC-ness, you know?! He definitely rescued
me
!”

“So, I’m everything you never dreamed of,” Owen teases.

“Kind of, yeah,” Mia admits. “Talk about being a grown-up.