Vanity Fare (10 page)

“Oh. I thought you might’ve had a date.” Her voice was disappointed, almost lost.

“No, no date.” I exhaled. “I did see Hugh and his girlfriend the other night, though.” We’d arrived at my front door, and I unlocked it, holding my breath as I saw the apartment through my mother’s eyes. Messy. I dumped my bag on the chair near the door and headed for the dining room table, beginning to make neat piles of all the clutter I’d allowed to accumulate while I went through my mourning period.

Which was over, goddamnit, even though I was still wearing black.

Mom walked in behind me, dumping her bag with a loud thump on the floor. She pulled out one of the dining room chairs and sat down, sighing a little. “Don’t worry about that, dear, I just want to sit for a moment. It is cold outside.”

“Especially if you don’t button your coat,” I said pointedly, feeling like I had suddenly become the mother.

“I was distracted.”

I sat down in another chair after turning it to face her. “Why, Mom? What’s going on?”

She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. Oh, God, it was worse than I’d even imagined.

“I’m in trouble, Molly.”

“What kind of trouble, Mom? You’re not pregnant, are you?” She looked up and giggled a little.

“No, honey, not pregnant. That’s not trouble,
that
would be a miracle.”

“So? What is it?”

She placed her hands on her knees, as if to brace herself. She leaned against the back of the chair and exhaled a long, gusty sigh.

“I’m broke, Molly.” She closed her eyes. “I might lose the house, my credit cards are maxed out, and I’m just barely affording to feed myself. God, Molly, how did I get into this mess?”

My question exactly.

“And?” I asked, almost not wanting to hear her answer. “I . . . I’ve been investing. Day-trading. Me, self-appointed moral critic of Wayshorn Lane has disregarded her own best advice and taken risks on the stock market. And I thought I was being so smart.”

I breathed. “How bad is it?”

“I’ve lost everything.” Her voice was devoid of hope. Like mine six months ago.

The thought invigorated me. If I could get through it—and I was—my mother could, too. She’d raised me, after all.

“Not everything, surely, Mom. You’ve got your health, right?” She nodded. “Your books, your opinions, your daughter, your grandson, a full head of hair—we’ll figure it out. And a whole bunch of useless stocks, right?” I exhaled again, another deep, cleansing breath. “Do you need a place to stay?”

She nodded again.

“Tonight?” I asked, gesturing toward the bag.

Nod.

“Okay. Well, we can borrow my friend Mary’s car to bring your stuff over this weekend; tonight you can sleep on the Aerobed in the living room. Aidan will love having you here.”

“Dante’s over to Mrs. Simpkins’s house. She said she’d watch him.” Right, Dante, the mean-spirited cat. She began to cry, softly, rocking back and forth in her chair.

“Mom.” I went over to her and knelt on the floor, gathering her into my arms.

She leaned her head against my shoulder. “God, Molly, I’m such a fool. Such a failure.”

“Ssshh. No, you’re not. You produced me, didn’t you?” She lifted her tear-stained face and looked me in the eyes. “And look at me: a poor, sarcastic, undereducated about-to-be-divorced mother. Couldn’t be better.”

She laughed, as I’d hoped she would. “You’re very well educated, dear, a degree from Brown is nothing to sneeze at.” She didn’t say it, but I knew by the expression on her face what she was thinking:
but not as good as Harvard
. My mother the snob. Even broke, the woman was an education wonk.

I uncurled myself from around her, then checked my watch. Five minutes to pick-up time. “I’ve got to go get Aidan. Will you be all right here until I get home?” I grabbed
The Ambassadors
from the shortest pile on the table. “If you get bored, read this and tell me what you think.” Her face brightened as she took it from me.

“I didn’t know you liked Henry James, dear,” she said in approval. As I locked the door behind me, leaving my broke-ass parent reading about nineteenth-century dilettantes wasting their lives, I reflected that at last I had been able to impress my mother.

After I’d found something for dinner
and seen Aidan through his homework and bath, I went to the bedroom and changed into what I liked to think of as my
real
working clothes: sweatpants and a thousand-year-old Soundgarden tour T-shirt. I found my notebook and walked back to the living room, where Aidan was serenading Mom with his rendition of the Pokémon theme song. His hair was damp, and he was wearing his camouflage pajamas. My little rock star.

“Gotta catch ’em all!” he finished, giving a triumphant wave of his hand. She clapped with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen since I walked down the aisle with Hugh.

“Aidan? Time for bed, sweet pea.” He groaned.

“Mommy, just five more minutes? Pleeeeaaaaassseee?”

Mom looked at me and smiled. “He promised he’d sing the
Teen Titans
theme next, Molly,” she said.

I knew when I was beaten. “Okay. Five minutes. Then night-night books and bed. Deal?”

“Deal.”

I went to the table and cleared off a space for my notebook and computer. I stacked a bunch of bills in the corner to deal with later. Much later. I wondered, briefly, when John would be able to give me a check for the most recent batch of copyediting. For our rent’s sake, I hoped it was soon.

“Molly, Aidan wants
me
to read his books tonight.” My mother preened a little.

“Sure, no problem. I just need a smooch before you go to bed, sweetheart.”

Aidan turned his little cheek up to my face. I kissed it lightly, relishing his soft skin, still warm from the bath. Man, did I love him. I patted him on the back, then gestured toward his bedroom.

“Okay, honey, two books, then bathroom and teeth.”

They trooped off, Aidan reaching up to take my mother’s hand.

Now I had another mouth to feed. Another body to house. Responsibility, thy name is Molly.

At least it was better than “loser.”

“What are you working on, dear?”
Mom was done from night-time duty and had come into the living room to peer over my shoulder at the notebook. To my surprise, she giggled.

“Buns and Lovers, how clever! And what’s that one?” she asked, pointing at my scrawl.

“Flours for Algernon,” I muttered.

“Ha! Is this for fun, or is this part of your mysterious job?”

I drew the chair next to me out for her to sit on. “Job. I’m writing copy for a new bakery. John gave me the assignment. You know, more of that freelance stuff I do for him.” I didn’t want to tell her I was in charge of the whole thing. The last thing I wanted to see was that Doubting Molly look on her face.

“Oh, how is John?” Mom liked him only slightly less than she liked Hugh.

“Great. His company seems to be doing really well. And he took me to a Yale thing last Friday, too.”

“So you’re dating him?” My mother moved way too fast.

“No, John is just a friend,” I replied, as tersely as I could. I screwed up my face in concentration and bent over the paper so as to signal this line of questioning was finished.

“Can I help? This looks like fun.” She reached over my arm and fingered the paper. I succumbed to the inevitable and ripped off a sheet for her. She gave me an inquiring look, and I handed her a pen, too.

“Pear Goriot!” she exclaimed, scribbling it down on her paper. I had to laugh.

“The Crepes of Wrath?” she said in a quizzical tone.

“Wouldn’t work unless everyone said
crepes
the same, and they don’t. But Nick said to throw in a few duds just for target practice. So I’ll include it.”

“Nick?” My mother was impossible. I could be on fire and she’d still be querying me on potential boyfriends.

“The extremely”—
handsome, arrogant, dismissive
—“professional man with whom I’m working on this. Nothing going on there, Mom, I promise.”

Her face fell. “Oh, well, you’ll find someone. Mrs. Simpkins, the lady down the street from me, her daughter met her fiancé on the Internet.”

Yeah, been there, gotten loads of wacky replies. Nuh-uh. “Really?” I replied, as if I didn’t know anything about it. My mother warmed to the task of educating me. A frequent task, in her case.

“Yes, all you have to do is get on the web”—she said it as if it were a foreign language—“and type in what you want, and voilà!”

If only it were that easy.

“Hmm, I’ll have to try that sometime.” And when did
you
stop lying to your mother?

“Does the bakery have a name?”

I smiled to myself. “Yes, it does.”

Catcher in the Rye Bread

Youthful angst and wry (rye?) observations will change when the teenager in question takes a bite of this mature, well-composed bread. Chock-full of rye, baked into a hearty, rich loaf, this bread satisfies even the most cynical of palates.

10

“VANITY FARE.”

I stood in front of them—all of them, including John’s assistant, even—in John’s conference room. It was the day of the initial presentation, and I was as anxious as I’d ever been. A trickle of sweat was making its leisurely way down the back of my leg, all the way down to my fancy black shoes.

I hoped to God the Chanel No. 5 I’d squirted on myself would mask any odors. At least Hugh hadn’t stinted on Christmas gifts. I tried to straighten myself up to be worthy of the perfume, and the presentation, and the whole corporate atmosphere.

Like the rest of John’s office, the conference room was tastefully appointed with furniture I would’ve sworn was plucked from a television stage set—something where the characters were laboring for their art while living in $4,000-a-month apartments. I picked up the dry erase marker and wrote on the whiteboard in capital letters. Then I swung back around to face them.

“Vanity Fare is the name I’d suggest for the store, and the copy I’ve written for the specific products carry out the literary theme as well. I’ve made copies of my suggested titles, as well as the blurbs.” John’s assistant, I could not remember his name, hopped up to start passing out the papers. He looked like a mini-John, from the top of his artful brush cut to the soles of his sleek loafers. I waited until he was finished, then cleared my throat.

“Before you start worrying about the specifics of the copy, however, I’d like to get your initial feedback.” I stood and looked at them expectantly. The silence was excruciating.

Simon was the first to reply. It was hard not to stare at him, so I was glad I had an excuse. “Fabulous, Molly, just fabulous.” I melted a little inside as he spoke. That accent! Those chestnut curls! That freaking dimple!

“Thank you.” I tried not to blush. By the way Nick’s lips were thinning, I gathered I was failing in my efforts.

Simon glanced at the paper in front of him. “Although I’m not so sure I like ‘The Sword and the Scone.’ ”

Nick winked at me. I almost fell over.

“Yes, well, as I said, these are certainly subject to change, and if you want to go with the general concept, I’ll tweak the initial presentation and we can come up with final, vetted versions,” I said, channeling my best inner corporate marketer.

“What do you think, Nick?” Simon spun in his black, padded leather chair to look at Nick, who met his gaze with, I thought, a tinge of disgust.

“I think Ms. Hagan is very clever, and she’s come up with an exciting concept.” From the tone of his voice, one would think he was commenting on the weather. Very dull weather.

Simon turned to look at me, that devil-may-care grin on his face. “Excellent! Well, thank you, Molly.”

John fidgeted in his chair. “Yes, good work, Molly.” His triumphant grin was beamed directly at Nick. “I knew she could do something great.”
Great.

Nick stood up, an annoyed frown curling his lips down. “There’s much more work to be done here.” His tone was almost curt. “Yes, the concept is good, but it needs to be fully fleshed out. We need to make sure the concept works with the product. If the product doesn’t match, no amount of brilliant copy is going to work.”

Simon leaned forward in his chair to address Nick. “And you have doubts that I can create something that will match Molly’s brilliance?”

Uh-oh. I wanted to back away. Yes, Ms. Conflict-Averse to the rescue! Or not, actually.

But while they were staring at each other in some sort of Alpha Male Showdown, I could try to figure out which one I liked to look at more. For purely aesthetic reasons, of course.

Simon’s dashingly romantic good looks contrasted with Nick’s harsh, commanding features. Both were dressed in corporate urban chic, black flat-front pants with slightly outré button-down shirts. Hugh had always worn those, too, as if to prove being a lawyer didn’t mean he was a putz.

No, leaving your wife and child, now
that
made you a putz.

I noticed the dark blue paisley shapes on Nick’s shirt matched his eyes. His pants? Well, they matched his personal feelings toward me.

Simon, no slouch in the “match shirt to eyes” department, was wearing a pale green shirt with alternating dark green and fuchsia stripes. I’d forgotten just how intensely green his eyes were. Or, I’d remembered, but I knew how wrong it was to be pondering what they’d look like in the throes of passion when I was supposed to be writing about . . . sticky buns.

I shuddered.

John rose, as if to assert his dominance in the room. Fat chance. Simon and Nick were still glaring at each other.

“Molly and I,” he said, waving his arm to include me, “can work on the presentation and have it to you by . . . Is mid next-week good with you, Molly?”

“She’ll be working on it with me.” Nick’s voice was soft, understated, and totally implacable. Simon almost bared his teeth.

John frowned, then smoothed his features as he remembered Nick was, technically, one of his clients. “Oh. Certainly. I just thought—”

“Working on it with me,” Nick repeated with all the emotion of an automaton. I felt like he was arguing over a pencil or something.
No. 2 Ticonderoga. Now
.

Simon crossed his arms over his chest. Was he giving up so soon?

“Now remember, Nick, we must keep everything on the up and up,” Simon said in what could only be described as a cheeky way. Not giving in, just using different tactics. I wondered if he was thinking of Natalie when he said that. He smirked at me, then deepened his smile into something much more meaningful. Or maybe he was just thinking of interpersonal employee relations in general. I felt my insides melt a little. It had been a long time since anyone smiled at me like that. It felt good, but as I glanced over at Nick, I felt guilty.

Screw it. I was going to have fun. For once, couldn’t I just be irresponsible and have fun? I smiled back at Simon. Who knew why he was flirting with me? And why wasn’t I just going along for the ride?

“Simon, I know you and Nick have to get back to the office,” John said, interrupting my mute tête-à-tête (or would that be
oeil-à-oeil
?), “and Molly, I’ve got some other stuff to go over with you for just a minute. Talk to you soon, gentlemen.” John’s voice implied dismissal in no uncertain terms. I wondered how the two alphas would take it.

Willingly, it seemed. Nick plucked his black Jack Spade bag from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. Simon, as befitted the artisan of the company, carried nothing. Probably just a mirror tucked inside some pocket so he could check if he was still devastating. He was.

I followed John back into his office, wishing I could follow Simon to wherever he was going. As meaningless flirtations went, this one made me feel really good.

John gestured for me to sit. I crossed my legs at the ankle, the way I’d seen those TV lawyer ladies do.

“Molly, good work. I’m proud of you.” He cleared his throat and twisted his neck, as though his collar were choking him. “And, I just wanted to say”—he paused, moving some papers around on his desk—“to apologize about the Sylvia situation.”

“No problem,” I said, proud of him that he’d actually brought something up on his own. He was an exception to the general male species.

He nodded, and I knew that topic was done. It was fine with me, I’d rather not think about Sylvia anyway.

“And,” he continued, steepling his fingers in a gesture that indicated he was going to say Something Meaningful, “since I know you’re not seeing someone—” I wondered if my SolitudeMeter was showing on my forehead. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor. It’s not so much spying, as—” He stopped, as if stuck for words.

“As what?”

“Well, Simon asked me about you, and I told him a little, and he said he wants to get together with you, to discuss the project, sometime. At night. Without Nick.”

Oh, wow. The last time he’d asked me to pull a Mata Hari it had been with Natalie. This would be so much more fun. “Mm,” I replied, folding my hands in my lap.

“So—will you?” John sounded downright nervous. I guess having Simon as his client was pretty important, what with sacrificing his friend in the interests of the company and all. Not that it seemed like a sacrifice from my end, but he didn’t know how I might feel about his little proposition.

“Sure.” I shrugged, as if being asked out by handsome, younger, richer men was something that happened every day. “Why not?”

“And,” he said, clearing his throat again, “if you’d rather not mention it to Nick, that’d be good. I mean, Nick is already a little . . . biased against you, because you don’t have the experience. Although,” he continued, “he did say he liked your presentation. Will you be all right working with him on the rest of it?”

What would he do if I said no? Hire someone else, probably, and Aidan wouldn’t be fed, or housed, much less have a bald feline.

“Of course I will,” I replied in as assured a voice as I could.

“Great.”

“Molly!”

I heard the urgent whisper somewhere over the top of the left side of my head. I turned and stared into the shadowed stairwell, just past the elevator banks. It was Simon.

“Mr. Baxter?”

Even in the dark, I knew he smiled. “Simon, please. Come over here.”

I walked with a hesitant gait over to the darkness. A lean arm emerged and pulled me into the stairwell. He kept hold of my hand as I steadied myself, and I liked the way that felt. A lot.

“I didn’t want John to start pissing for territory again,” he said with a chuckle. “So I waited here for you.”

“Why?” I mean, really. I could honestly say I am an attractive woman, but please, despite what John implied, this British wealthy magnate hunk could certainly do better than me. Angelina Jolie was taken, but wasn’t Halle Berry free?

“You don’t know?” I felt his seductive tone all the way down to my shoes. I was now kinda glad Halle had some other fish to fry.

“Umm . . .” So much for articulate. All I could manage was a modified mumble.

“I was hoping we could get together to celebrate your successful presentation. Maybe tonight?” Was this how he started things with Natalie?

And see how well that turned out. But still, John had asked, and he was a good friend, so . . . “Tonight? Um . . . I can’t tonight, I don’t have a babysitter.”

“Ah, you have a child. A girl?”

“A boy. Tomorrow?”

“Can’t tomorrow. Friday?”

I mentally penciled my mother down for babysitting. I knew she’d do it, I’d just have to say the word
man
and she’d be cooking chicken nuggets and pushing me out the door.

“Friday.”

“How about we meet on the steps of the library? The one near the shop, I mean.”

“Okay. What time?” Oh my God, I was actually going to go on a date with the God of Gorgeous. Who died and made me queen of the world?

“Eight. And come hungry.”

His tone implied more than just food. Seriously. Was I exuding some pheromone I didn’t know about?

Before I could make another incoherent noise, the elevator bell rang. “Better get on that,” he said, finally releasing my hand. I stumbled over to it, still wondering what the hell was happening to me.

“Molly!” Her voice pierced the whoosh
in my ears.

“Natalie.” She stood just outside John’s building with one of those corporate cardboard moving boxes. A book with Simon’s face on it was on top of the whole stack.

“Um, I was sorry to hear we wouldn’t be working together,” I said, lying through my teeth.

She smiled in a shark-prey kind of way. “Yes, it is too bad. You’re here for the first presentation?”

I remembered what John had asked me, about spying. Did that still apply, even though she wasn’t working with his company any longer?

Did that mean I shouldn’t talk to her? I was so out of my depth here. The only political machinations I was familiar with were the ones played out in Aidan’s classroom.

“Yes,” I answered. “The first presentation.”

“So what did you come up with?” she said, resting the box on one nonexistent hip.

“Um, you know, food-related copy.”

Her smile widened. Sort of. “Of course food related. I was just curious what you’re thinking of. I had just barely begun to work on it when . . . well, when things happened, and I hope you had enough time to come up with something Simon would like.” Her voice made it clear she didn’t think I did, not for a second.

“Yes, well, the concept is—Oh, shoot,” I said, glancing at my watch, “my son gets out of school soon, I have to get back.”

Even though it was at least three hours until then. She didn’t know that, she didn’t have kids. And if she did call me on it, well, then I’d have to come up with something. Until then, I was going to play the kid card.

“Of course,” she replied. She looked annoyed. Did she really think I was going to tell her about something she was no longer involved in? When she’d made it clear she thought I was less valuable than the Hermès scarf wrapped around her throat? “Another time, then. I’d really like to hear all about it.”

This was starting to feel all kinds of weird. And, I was guessing, not at all ethical for her to be grilling me about something she no longer worked on involving people she no longer worked for. What was up?

“And?”

Dr. Lowell looked at me with an expectant air, a complacent smile on her face. I hated it when she was right.

“And I did really well,” I admitted. I’d latched back onto the feeling I had before Natalie, and was floating from the morning’s successes, both professional and personal.

She smiled even broader. “Wonderful. I knew you could do it. And did you do that other assignment?”

I blushed. I actually blushed. “I made a dinner date with my sort of boss.”

A quick frown passed over her face before she cleared it away. “Sort of boss? Do you mean John?”

“No. Simon. He’s British, gorgeous, and incredibly rich. Honestly, I have no idea why he wants to go out with me. Did I mention he’s gorgeous?”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “Maybe it’s because you’re intelligent, witty, attractive, and single?”