“But did you see who they named? Ty Jennings, Robert Peale? Aren’t those guys you slept with?”
“Yes, but you know I didn’t do it to get funding. I just did it because…because they were cute. I was young. I was single. What do you expect?”
“You were married.”
“Whatever. I must have been having marital problems.”
“Aaargh. Katherine, how do you think the Financial Journal got the names of two men you slept with? Don’t you find that odd?”
“Yes, I think it’s odd. And I have calls in to both men trying to get an explanation.”
“Could Malcolm be behind this? Is this somehow related to your divorce? Because if it is—”
“No, he wouldn’t do this. Stop acting like it’s my fault.”
Christy took a deep breath and composed herself. “Katherine, it’s not your fault. I’m just trying to understand how the Journal got the information so we can deal with it.”
“Well, obviously they contacted the banks we approached for our first round of financing. Someone there must have something against you.”
“But who? Why? I don’t get it. And what am I supposed to do? Deny that I slept with them and explain that it was you?”
“No, of course not. That’s just as bad.”
“Then what?”
“When’ll you be in? Why don’t we powwow with Rick? We have to prepare for the board anyway.”
“The board?”
“They called an emergency meeting for four o’clock. Where are you?”
“I’m in the car on my way to Colby. I have an appointment with Brownie. Look, get things started with Rick and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Christy clicked off her phone. Her head was pounding. She wanted to scream. What was Rick’s problem? Lately, he’s been asleep at the switch. Maybe she should fire him. Of all days to have these school meetings. She realized she could have run to Colby in about ten minutes, and it was taking her half an hour by chauffeur. Oh, the perks of the rich.
This morning, Christy was getting her fifth-grade graduation marching orders from Brownie. Then, after school, there was the formal kickoff with all the volunteers. Steven pulled up to the entrance, and she got out. “This should take about an hour, no more. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”
Christy walked purposefully through the flock of stay-at-home moms who congregated in the entry hall of the school, chatting away with nary a care in the world. In her black take-no-prisoners suit and stiletto heels, Christy may as well have been wearing a sign that read LIVE SMALLPOX VIRUS—STAY BACK. The Mommies wore neutral-colored designer slacks, Prada sports shoes, cashmere tops, Hermes scarves, full makeup, and model-straight hair. The required look was one of accidental chic, a presentation that whispers, “for a girl who didn’t even try, don’t I look rich and perfect?” And they accomplished this expensive, time-consuming nonchalance before eight in the morning.
How do they do it? Why do they do it? And don’t they have anything better to do? Christy wondered, wearing a brave half smile. She nodded at the Mommies, a few of whom were actually leering at her. The least they could do is hide their contempt, Christy thought. That’s only polite. She wondered, do they hate me because of the Financial Journal article or because I’m a working mom? Then she decided it had to be the latter, because no woman could read the paper and make herself look like that before breakfast. It wasn’t physically possible.
Christy looked around the foyer, marveling at the beauty of the interior. The floors and walls were marble. An enormous crystal chandelier hung in the center of the entryway. The grand staircase was lined with important oil paintings of dead Colby headmistresses and trustees. What I would have given to come to a place like this for school every day, Christy thought. She wondered if the girls knew how lucky they were.
“Oh, my goodness gracious,” the woman behind the antique Louis XV desk proclaimed. “You’re the mother who sent her daughter lunch from the Four Seasons, aren’t you?” The marble in the room served as a natural microphone.
Christy felt the other mothers’ eyes boring into her back. She was ashamed, as if sending a child lunch from a five-star restaurant was something a good mother would never do. “Yes, that would be me. I’m here to see Brownie Rich.”
“Oh, she’s expecting you. Her office is at the top of stairs to the right.”
“She has her own office?”
“Yes, well, Brownie’s the only mother who does. She’s so involved with the PTA and, of course, the board. She has one of the best views. You’ll see.”
Christy walked up the stairs, past a Pilates studio where trainers were working with girls on the equipment. She found Brownie’s brass nameplate and knocked on the door.
Brownie’s parent-volunteer secretary stuck her head out. “Can you take a seat? She’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She pointed to the three wooden desk chairs across from the office.
“Sure,” Christy said. She sat down and decided to make use of the time. Dialing Katherine, she was relieved to catch her in person. “Kath, are you with Rick?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you put me on speaker so I can be part of the conversation.”
“Oh, sure. But I have some bad news. The wires picked up the story. By tomorrow, it’ll be in every paper in the country.”
“Every paper? Oh shit, don’t tell me,” Christy cried.
“Excuse me.” A primly dressed woman tapped Christy on the shoulder.
“Just a sec, Katherine. Yes?”
“You’ll have to turn that off and watch your language. We’re a curse-free and a cell-phone-free school,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry,” Christy said. “Can I just have a minute? It’s urgent.”
“If we made an exception for you, we’d have to make it for everyone. Our policy is zero tolerance. Do you know what the effects of hearing curse words are on young, impressionable girls?”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to curse. I just want to finish my call.”
“Ze-ro tol-er-ance,” the woman said, pronouncing every syllable so there could be
