Ya’a continued to tell her story. “I was given no pain medicine, nothing to stop infection. For four days, I was left in that tent. I tell my story today so that you, my American sisters, will be aware of the abuse we suffer in Africa. It is my greatest hope that you will tell the world of this injustice and help me make it right.”
Mimi walked up to Ya’a and hugged her tightly, her eyes moist with emotion.
Livia Schorr waved her hand, which really wasn’t necessary. It was hard to miss her in that chartreuse suit.
“Yes, Livia,” Mimi said.
“This is so terrible. I applaud you for coming forward and sharing your pain. Tell me, what can we do to support your cause?”
“You can talk about the practice wherever you can. The more women who know about this, who protest this practice, the better chance we have of someday ending it,” Ya’a said. “Also, perhaps when Mrs. Senator Clinton becomes president, she will be able to mobilize a global campaign against such violence.”
Hillary smiled modestly.
“Would you be interested in speaking at the Junior League tea next week? I could arrange it,” Livia offered.
Seeing Livia step up so selflessly, Christy realized there was more to being a socialite than playing dress-up. These women spend thousands of hours on benefit committees planning events that raise millions for charity. The joy of giving back must be the ingredient that brings meaning to lives of these privileged women, she thought. Yes, that’s it. The lure of this life must be the prospect of sisters working together toward common goals. I could get into that…
Mimi turned red and spoke up for Ya’a, who looked like she was about to agree to Livia’s Junior League gig. “I’m sorry, but Ya’a’s tied up next week. Maybe you can find your own East African speaker. Or look for someone from the Middle East. I’ve heard female circumcision is a problem there, too. Anyone else? No? Well, thank you, ladies. Let’s have another round of applause for Ya’a Boushra, our brave victim,” Mimi said.
Everyone applauded enthusiastically. Several women went over to Ya’a to talk with her personally. Eventually, people began milling about and forming little cliques. A petite redhead in pinstripes and pearls touched Christy’s shoulder. “Don’t you love these salons? It’s such an honor to be able to help others in this way.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” Christy said. She couldn’t figure out how they were actually helping.
“You know, you look so familiar to me,” the redhead said. “Do I know you? You’re somebody, aren’t you?”
I used to be, Christy thought. She smiled at the woman. “I heard everyone had to be special to get invited to Mimi’s salon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She walked toward the kitchen, intent to introduce herself to any one of the holy trinity of newswomen. Jerome had made her promise to do that. She headed for Diane Sawyer, then stopped short. Who’s kidding whom? She was a fish out of bottled water here. Glancing at her watch, she realized she would have just enough time to pick up Renata. With that, she dashed down the stairs, relieved that no one had brought up her recent ordeal.
She stood in the coat line behind a blonde in her fifties. The woman turned around when she heard Christy’s voice, looking a bit embarrassed. It was Anne Gregory, New York City’s number-one civic volunteer.
Christy raised her chin and smiled.
“Why, Christy, how good it is to see you, dear. It’s so smart and courageous of you to come out after all that nasty press.”
“Well, it’s just press, Anne.” Christy hated that attention was being drawn to her humiliation. Anne didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, dear, I’m afraid in this city it goes a bit deeper than that. I was going to call you this week. I’m sorry to say that the committee decided they couldn’t have you as the honored speaker at the Up with Girls lunch next month. You know, the whole sex thing just doesn’t send the right message to our young women.” She waited expectantly for Christy to see the reasonableness of her position.
Christy felt as if she had been sucker punched. This chance to reach out to eight hundred teenagers from all over the country had been proof to her that she still mattered in this city, CEO or not. She wanted to shake this woman by the shoulders and ask her how it felt to be a heartless, social-climbing hypocrite. But she simply said, “No problem, Anne,” and turned to leave, hungry for the sight of Renata’s face.
Meet the Press
The house was immaculate. Yok Wah was gone after having prepared a meal of lemongrass soup, salad, and poached salmon that Christy would pretend to have made herself. Christy had told her to leave the tomatoes so she could slice them in front of the reporter. The sauce for the fish was made except for the olive oil, which Christy was planning to add when the reporter was watching. The rest of the staff had also departed. Renata was in her room, awaiting her cue. Michael would be home in an hour or so. All was ready for the arrival of Dina Gladwell, Lifestyle reporter for the Times. Jerome had worked his magic, and a five-column spread with color photos would appear on Sunday.
“This is huge,” Jerome said. “I’ve earned my fee on this one.”
“You are amazing, Jerome. Nobody but you could have made this happen for me,” Christy said. She had already learned that it only took a few compliments thrown Jerome’s way to warm his ego.
“Don’t blow it,” he said. “Keep your guard up at all times. Nothing gets by Dina. She was a front-page reporter until her second kid was born. Then she moved to Lifestyle.”
“Don’t worry. I can do this,” Christy said.
“Just make her like you, that’s half the
