“Pleeeeeease. I’ll beg if you want,” she said seductively.
“Oh, God. I’ll see what I can do, but only because I know it’s important to you. Why, I’ll never understand.”
“You’re such a good husband. Here, let me massage you,” Christy said.
Michael lay back down on the bed and Christy started rubbing his feet. How she loved those feet.
“Mmm, don’t stop,” Michael said.
“Do you think I should take a sensual-massage class?” Christy said.
“I’d love it. Between that and your tantric sex lessons, I’ll be one happy puppy.” He grinned with satisfaction.
“Done. I’ll look for a program tomorrow. Speaking of tomorrow, are you still going to L.A.?”
“Yeah. We’re trying to interest Disney in a partnership with Anipix. They’re no Pixar, but they’re close. And some of their technology is superior.”
“Ooh, does that mean I can get access to their equipment?”
“Whatever you want,” he said, laughing.
“Maybe I can use it for the school,” she added thoughtfully. “They’re starting a film program.”
“Ugh, stop. You are turning into such a Mommy.”
“Oh God, you’re right. Sorry. Here, kiss me, baby. I’ll show you who’s not a Mommy.”
DEAR DIARY,
MICHAEL’S IN L.A. SO CHRISTY WANTED TO TAKE ME TO SOME BORING MOTHER-DAUGHTER FASHION SHOW BUT I TALKED HER INTO STAYING HOME AND WATCHING TV. SHE SAID NO AT FIRST BECAUSE OF HOW MIND NUMMING TV IS, BUT THEN SHE AGREED TO TRY IT. NECTAR MADE US BISCUTS DRIPPING WITH SORGUM MOLASSES. HER MOM USED TO MAKE IT FOR HER AND HER SISTER (MAY SHE REST IN PEACE) AND WE ATE THE WHOLE PAN, PLUS WE EACH HAD A TUB OF BEN AND JERRY’S. I HAD CHERRY GARCIA AND CHRISTY HAD CHUBBY HUBBY. WE DECIDED TO WATCH TV AND PIG OUT EVERY NIGHT UNTIL MICHAEL COMES HOME. YAY! AN EXCELLENT PLAN! I FINALLY TOLD CHRISTY HOW THE GIRLS AT SCHOOL ARE SO MEAN TO ME. SHE SAID THE KIDS TORTURED HER WHEN SHE WAS MY AGE. WHAT SHE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND IS THAT PRIVATE SCHOOL GIRLS OF TODAY ARE CRUELER THAN OLDEN DAY KIDS OF YESTERYEAR. NECTAR TOOK ME TO GRANDMA’S GRAVE TODAY. IT MAKES ME CRY TO VISIT, BUT I WILL NEVER ABANDON GRANDMA. DID I MENTION THAT NECTAR’S ABANDONING ME AT THE END OF THE MONTH? FIRST GRANDMA, THEN NECTAR! WHY, NECTAR, WHY?
LOVE,
RENATA RUIZ HAYES
Mimi’s Power-Girl Salon
Christy rang the doorbell of Mimi Kimble’s limestone town house. While she waited, she noticed two secret-service agents trying to look inconspicuous even though their curly-wired earpieces and cheap suits were a dead giveaway. She wondered who at the salon needed secret-service protection.
A waiter answered the door, and Christy waited for her sable to be taken and hung on a coatrack stuffed with minks, beaver, fox, and other assorted animal skins. Only the woman standing ahead of Christy wore cloth. She turned. It was Hillary Clinton, which explained both the secret-service protection and the modest wrap. They smiled at each other.
“Hi, I’m Christy Hayes.”
“Hillary Clinton.”
“Of course I know who you are,” Christy said, trying to keep the reverence out of her tone.
“And I know who you are,” Hillary said.
Christy was stunned. Hillary Clinton knew who she was? This was exciting. She followed the senator upstairs to the parlor floor, where the women were feasting on a lunch of salad, filet mignon, and lobster tails—emphasis on the salad. Christy found her place card and grabbed a white wine.
The room was full of women she recognized. Just as Jerome promised, there was the holy trinity of newswomen—Katie Couric, Diane Sawyer, and Meredith Viera—and their patron saint, Barbara Walters. Peppered about the room were other professional luminaries whom Christy had heard of but never met. A gaggle of grasshopper-thin socialites were present—from Maude Astor to Denise Zwerble and everyone in between. Christy was amazed at how beautifully these women put themselves together. Even the plainest guest managed to look stunning. Their clothes and handbags were couture or vintage au courant, their hair and makeup society-page-ready. A photographer was snapping pictures of everyone. What am I doing here? Christy wondered. I could be one of them, a lady who lunches. Then she shivered. This looked harder than working, and, certainly, more pointless.
Christy’s thoughts were interrupted by Mimi, a raven-haired wisp of a hostess, who was ringing a delicate silver bell. “Ladies, ladies, if I can have everyone’s attention.” She put her arm around a woman wearing a bright yellow-and-orange African khanga.
Mimi then spoke in an urgently dramatic voice, the same one she used for her show on cable TV. “Ladies, I’d like to introduce you to Ya’a Boushra, a young woman from Dodoma, Tanzania, who has come all the way to New York to talk to us about the barbaric practice of female circumcision in African countries. It is so vital that women around the world understand this travesty so we can use our power to unite and stop this brutality from continuing.”
“Hear, hear!” a lady in Versace said. “Stop the violence.” Other women nodded their heads and raised their crystal champagne flutes in solidarity.
Christy reached for a glass of Dom Pérignon, which a waiter in black tails was offering. As she watched the women who were watching Ya’a with expectant faces, she wondered if a person could find happiness through physical perfection and social triumph.
“Thank you, ladies,” Ya’a said. “Thank you, Mrs. Mimi, for bringing me to your great country so that I can share my story. As you may have heard, it is common in Africa to give girls as young as eight and as old as eighteen clitoridectomies. When I was twelve, four older women came to my home. They took me against my will into the desert, to a special tent, where I was stripped naked and tied up. With no anesthesia, the oldest of the women used a sharp knife and cut off my clitoris.”
There was a collective gasp from the audience. No one
