Wife 22

“Fine.”

“Thank you. Hey, wait-before you go, do we have any Scotch tape?”

“I don’t think so. I saw some duct tape in the junk drawer, though.”

I consider my eyelid. “One more favor?”

“What?” Peter sighs.

“Will you bring up the duct tape after you’ve walked the dog?”

He nods.

“You are my number-one son,” I say.

“Your only son.”

“And number one at math,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

Tonight I’m accompanying William to the launch of FiG vodka, an account he and his team at KKM Advertising have been working on for weeks now. I’ve been looking forward to it. There’ll be live music. Some hot new band, three women with electric violins from the Adirondacks or the Ozarks-I can’t remember which.

“Business dressy,” William said, so I pull out my old crimson Ann Taylor suit. Back in the ’90s when I, too, worked in advertising, this was my power suit. I put it on and stand in front of the full-length mirror. The suit looks a little outdated, but maybe if I wear the chunky silver necklace Nedra got me for my birthday last year it will mask the fact that it has seen better days. I met Nedra Rao fifteen years ago at a Mommy and Me playgroup. She’s my best friend and also happens to be one of the top divorce lawyers in the state of California whom I can always count on to give very sane, very sophisticated $425-an-hour advice to me for free because she loves me. I try and see the suit through Nedra’s eyes. I know just what she’d say: “You can’t be bloody serious, darling,” in her posh English accent. Too bad. There’s nothing else in my closet that qualifies as “business dressy.” I slip on my pumps and walk downstairs.

Sitting on the couch, her long brown hair swept back into a messy chignon, is my fifteen-year-old daughter, Zoe. She’s an on-and-off vegetarian (currently off), a rabid recycler, and maker of her own organic lip balm (peppermint and ginger). Like most girls her age, she is also a professional ex: ex-ballet dancer, ex-guitarist, and ex-girlfriend of Nedra’s son, Jude. Jude is somewhat famous around here. He made it to the Hollywood round of American Idol and then was booted off for “sounding like a California eucalyptus tree that was on fire, popping and sizzling and exploding, but in the end not a native species, not native at all.”

I was rooting for Jude, we all were, as he made it past the first and second eliminations. But then right before Hollywood he got a swelled head from the instant fame, cheated on Zoe, and then dumped her, thus breaking my girl’s heart. The lesson? Never allow your teenager to date the son of your best friend. It took months for me-I mean, Zoe-to recover. I said some horrible things to Nedra-things I probably shouldn’t have said, along the lines of I would have expected more from the son of a feminist and a boy with two moms. Nedra and I didn’t speak for a while. We’re fine now, but whenever I go to her house Jude is conveniently out.

Zoe’s right hand moves over her cellphone’s keypad at top speed.

“You’re wearing that?” she says.

“What? It’s vintage.”

Zoe snorts.

“Zoe, sweetheart, will you please look up from that thing? I need your honest opinion.” I spread my arms wide. “Is it really that bad?”

Zoe cocks her head. “That depends. How dark is it going to be?”

I sigh. Just a year ago Zoe and I were so close. Now she treats me like she does her brother-as a family member who must be tolerated. I act like I don’t notice, but invariably overcompensate, trying to be nice for both of us, and then I end up sounding like a cross between Mary Poppins and Miss Truly Scrumptious from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

“There’s a pizza in the freezer, and please make sure Peter is in bed by ten. We should be home soon after that,” I say.

Zoe continues to text. “Dad’s waiting for you in the car.”

I scurry around the kitchen looking for my purse. “Have a great time. And don’t watch Idol without me!”

“Already Googled the results. Should I tell you who gets the axe?”

“No!” I shout, running out the door.

“Alice Buckle. It’s been entirely too long. And what a breath of fresh air you are! Why doesn’t William drag you to these events more often? But I suppose he’s doing you a favor, isn’t he? Another night, another vodka launch. Ho-hum, am I right?”

Frank Potter, chief creative officer of KKM Advertising, looks discreetly over my head. “You look wonderful,” he says, his eyes darting around. He waves to someone at the back of the room. “That’s a lovely suit.”

I take a big gulp of wine. “Thanks.”

As I look around the room, at all the sheer blouses, strappy sandals, and skinny jeans most of the other women are wearing, I realize that “business dressy” really means “business sexy.” At least with this crowd. Everybody looks great. So of the moment. I wrap one arm around my waist and hold the wine glass so it hovers near my chin, a poor attempt at camouflaging my jacket.

“Thank you, Frank,” I say, as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

Sweating is my default response when I feel out of place. My other default response is repeating myself.

“Thank you,” I say once more. Oh, God, Alice. A trifecta of thanks?

He pats me on the arm. “So how are things at home? Tell me. Is everything okay? The kids?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, his face screwed up with concern.

“Well, yes, yes, everybody’s good.”

“Wonderful,” he says. “Glad to hear it. And what are you doing these days? Still teaching? What subject was it?”

“Drama.”

“Drama. That’s right. That must be so-rewarding. But I imagine quite stressful.” He lowers his voice. “You are a saint, Alice Buckle. I certainly wouldn’t have the patience.”

“I’m sure you would if you saw what these kids are capable of. They’re so eager. You know, just the other day one of my students-”

Frank Potter looks over my head once again, raises his eyebrows, and nods.

“Alice, forgive me, but I’m afraid I’m being summoned.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you. I’m sure you have other-”

He moves toward me and I lean in, thinking he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but instead he pulls back, takes my hand firmly, and shakes it. “Goodbye, Alice.”

I look out into the room, at everyone breezily drinking their lychee FiGtinis. I chuckle softly as if I’m thinking of something funny, trying to look breezy myself. Where is my husband?

“Frank Potter is an ass,” a voice whispers in my ear.

Thank God, a friendly face. It’s Kelly Cho, a longtime member of William’s creative team-long in advertising anyway, where turnover is incredibly fast. She’s wearing a suit, not all that different from mine (better lapels), but on her it looks edgy. She’s paired it with over-the-knee boots.

“Wow, Kelly, you look fabulous,” I say.

Kelly waves my compliment away. “So how come we don’t see you more often?”

“Oh, you know. Coming over the bridge is such a hassle. Traffic. And I still don’t feel all that comfortable leaving the kids home alone at night. Peter’s just twelve, and Zoe’s a typical distracted teenager.”