seventy-five pounds, she will rise from her hospital bed and take a dazzling first in Philosophy. She will then do a job for six years, become a mother, give up work because it’s all too much and spend her mornings in Coffee Republic decoding the entrance requirements for St. Paul’s over skinny lattes with the fluent Japanese-speaking housewife, Davina Brunt. Jesus, what is the matter with these women?
“Sorry, Angela, gotta run. Plane to catch.”
Still struggling to pull the minicab door to on its gouty hinges when Angela fires her parting shot. “Look, Kate, if you’re serious about getting Emily into Piper Place I can give you this psychologist’s number. Everyone’s using him. He’ll coach her to draw the right sort of picture at the interview.”
I take a deep grateful breath of the sweet ganja-rich air in the back of Winston’s cab. It takes me back to mellower days, a time before children, when being irresponsible was almost a duty.
“And what does the right sort of picture look like, Angela?”
The Brunt woman laughs. “Oh, you know, imaginative but not too imaginative.”
GOD, HOW I DESPISE myself after conversations with Angela Brunt. I can feel Angela’s maternal ambition getting into me like a flu bug. You try to fight it, you try to stick with your hunch that your child will do perfectly OK without being force-fed facts like some poor little foie-gras gosling. But one day your immune system’s a bit low and
Exhausted working mothers helplessly enrolling their girls in academies of stress. It’s not the only way, but maybe it’s the only way we understand anymore. Stress. Success. They even rhyme.
9:28 A.M. “What’s that lady’s problem?”
“What?”
Winston is studying me in the rearview mirror. His eyes, so brown they’re almost black, are flecked with laughter.
“Angela? Oh, I don’t know. Urban angst, frustrated woman living vicariously through her kids, insufficient oral sex. The usual.”
Winston’s laugh fills the cab. Deep and grainy, it reverberates in my solar plexus and, just for a moment, calms me.
Traffic on the way to the airport is so heavy I have plenty of time to dwell on the forthcoming ordeal of meeting Abelhammer. When I talked to Rod Task last night he said, “Jack seems pretty excited about meeting you, Katie.”
“That’ll be because of Greenspan’s half percent interest-rate cut,” I improvised. Could hardly tell my boss that I have sent my client e-mail promising disorderly conduct and week in bed, not to mention love and kisses.
Can’t seem to stop scratching. Washed my hair last night with new shampoo: allergic reaction maybe? Or perhaps I’ve picked up some lower life-form in the back of Pegasus. Like a swamp, the prehistoric cab could easily be breeding ground for any number of invertebrates.
On the other hand, the music swirling round it hails from the opposite end of human development. The hot blare of trumpets and the syncopated snap of the percussion remind me of
“Is that Gershwin, Winston?”
He shakes his head. “Ravel.” My cab driver listens to Ravel?
We are passing the Hoover factory when the slow movement starts. It’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. Halfway through, a flute comes in and just sort of breathes over the piano; when I close my eyes I see a bird hovering over the sea.
3:00 P.M. EAST COAST TIME, OFFICE OF SALINGER FOUNDATION. Arrive with a spinning head at the office of the appalling Abelhammer just round the corner from the World Financial Center. Accompanied by my assistant, Guy, who shows no sign of jet lag. On the contrary, Guy is hideously up to speed and knows the Nasdaq fluctuations better than his own pulse.
Have picked out suitably offputting outfit for presentation to Abelhammer: chaste, charcoal, below the knee; Sicilian widow’s shoes. The look is Maria von Trapp before she cut up those bedroom curtains.
My resolve to keep tone of meeting a couple of degrees below zero melts when Jack Abelhammer walks in. Instead of the gray-haired Brooks Brothers patrician I had imagined, here is a languid close-cut jock, around the same age as me, with a slow-release George Clooney smile that reaches his eyes before the mouth is fully engaged. Damn. Damn.
“Well, Kate Reddy,” says the appalling Abelhammer, “it’s a real pleasure to put a face to all those figures you’ve been sending me.”
Huh. I update Salinger on performance of the fund over the past six months. Everything easy-peasy until one of Jack’s junior consultants — a scowling Agent Scully redhead — pushes wire specs up bridge of nose and says, “Can I ask, if your forecast returns for Japan are so low, why are you overweight in Japan?”
“Ah, now that’s a very perceptive question. One for you, Guy, I think.”
Graciously deferring to my assistant, I take a seat and sit back to watch the little creep try to wriggle his way out of that one. Casually check mobile.
Text Message from Paula Potts to
Kate Reddy
Emly snt hme
frm skool wiv
NITS. Hole famly
mst be treatd.
U 2!
cheers paula
I can hardly believe what I’m reading. Have traveled across the Atlantic importing lice like Colorado beetles. Excuse myself from meeting and hurtle to the loo. In the seasick-green light of the executive washroom, I try to examine hair, pulling strands away from head. What do nits look like? Can see cluster of eggs near parting, but possibly dandruff. Frantically comb hair.
It is impossible to get out of prearranged dinner with Abelhammer. Can hardly use emergency pest control as excuse.
7:30 P.M. BRODY’S SEAFOOD RESTAURANT. Over dinner, sit very upright like Queen Mary and some distance away from table. Vision of busy nits rappelling into client’s clam chowder.
“Can I offer you a lift back to the hotel, Kate?” asks Jack.
“Um, fine, but can we stop at a drugstore? I need to get something.”
His eyebrows rise in expectation.
“I mean shampoo. I have to wash my hair.”
“Now? You want to wash your hair right now?”
“Yes. Get London out of my hair.”
Attagirl. Imaginative, but not too imaginative.
1. Have not had legs waxed since Halloween.
2. Nits could parascend onto immaculate Harvard Business School buzz cut.
3. Major client, ergo unprofessional.
