“Brownie will.”
“Who gives a shit what Brownie thinks?”
“I do,” Christy said.
“Well, you shouldn’t.”
Christy crumpled up the paper and stuffed it into the trash. “Oh, Michael, what am I going to do now? My turnaround has been a disaster. I don’t know which was worse, losing my company or losing my dignity trying to be the Fifth Avenue housewife spokeswoman for the masses. It’s an oxymoron. What was I thinking?”
“Why don’t you just be yourself for a while? Be Christy Hayes without all the bells and whistles. What do you need with all that publicity? Be my wife. Take care of Renata. Ali needs you, too. Relax and enjoy yourself for a change.”
“I don’t know how to be myself. I only know how to be special.”
Michael laughed. “Well, I think it’s time you learn.”
The Joy of Stepmotherhood
No, absolutely not. That’s ridiculous,” Christy said to Ali later that morning. Both girls were home on spring break.
“It is not. Everyone at my school has hair extensions. And anyway, you’re supposed to change your hair after cosmetic surgery. Then no one notices you had work done. That’s, like, a total plastic surgery rule.”
“Ali, hair extensions won’t hide what you did,” Christy said. “Your nose is different. Your boobs are bigger. You have cheekbones, a longer chin, luscious lips. Trust me, people will notice.”
“Do you really think my lips look luscious?”
“Totally.”
“But Tara Rubin’s mom let her get hair extensions after she got her implants.”
“I don’t care if Honk the Wondergoose got hair extensions, you aren’t getting any,” Christy said firmly.
“But whyyy-yyy-yyy,” Ali said. She had perfected the ability to turn any one-syllable word into a three-syllable whine. It was a gift.
“Ali, hair extensions cost over thirty-five hundred dollars. That’s too much money to spend on a teenager’s hair.”
“It’s not your money. It’s my dad’s! And he can afford it. I’m calling him.”
“You do that,” Christy said, confident her husband would back her up. Of course, she was happy for Michael that he’d gotten his daughter back, but Christy had never met such a brat in all her life. The kid spent money like it was tap water. She slammed doors and screamed like a two-year-old when she didn’t get her way. She seemed to have never heard of the words “please” and “thank you.” Making her bed was a foreign concept. A trail of towels followed her wherever she went. She preferred the floor to the trash can. And there was a permanent appendage on the side of her head that looked suspiciously like a cell phone. Worst of all, she was influencing Renata, who had begun to stuff her training bra and was agitating to buy a Prada book bag like Ali’s. Michael felt guilty that he and Ali had been separated for so long. So he kept giving in to her ridiculous fits. Christy tried not to interfere. Ali was his daughter, after all. She stood in the doorway to the library, where the child was deeply engrossed in a telephone conversation with her father.
“And Daddy, when are you gonna talk to her about giving me Renata’s room? If Mom knew I was staying in the servant’s quarters, she’d go ballistic. Mmm-hmm. Yes, well, I am the real daughter in this family. Okay. Yeah, see you tonight.”
Ali hung up the phone and looked at Christy with a smug expression. “Daddy said I could have the hair extensions, so give me the money and tell Steven to drive me.”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you the magic word?” Christy asked.
“You mean ‘black card’?” she said.
“No, I mean ‘please.’”
“Oh, will you please give me Daddy’s black card? Paul Labrecque doesn’t like it when you’re late for your appointment,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And while I’m gone, have Nectar move my things into Renata’s room and give Renata the maid’s quarters. Daddy said you had to do that.”
“Did he now. Well guess what? Renata was here first, and I’m not moving her. So if you don’t like it, I suggest you move back with your mother where you can have a dandy room.” Christy stormed out of the library. “Goddamned brat,” she mumbled.
“I heard that,” Ali screamed. “I’m telling Daddy what you said.”
“You do that,” Christy shouted, frustrated with herself. She was the grown-up, after all.
When Ali returned from Paul Labrecque, she had Renata in tow. As if by magic, Ali’s chin-length hair now reached the middle of her back. And Renata’s beautiful curly black hair was now straight as an ironing board. The child could hardly contain her glee.
“Renata, what did you do?” Christy asked.
“Ali took me to get my hair Japanese-straightened. Do you like it?”
She hated it. Hated it. Renata’s lovely billowing tresses were no more. The delicate corkscrew tendrils that framed that exquisite Spanish face were gone. She no longer looked like a beautiful woman-child from a Raphael painting. She looked like a Mexican Hilary Duff. “Do you like it?” Christy asked. “That’s what matters.”
“I love it!” she gushed. “Can I go show Mrs. De Mille?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
As Renata skipped out the front door, Michael’s demon-child made a beeline for her room. “Just one minute, young lady. Not so fast.”
“What did I do?” she asked.
“How could you do that to her without checking with me first? You had no right.”
“I knew you would say no.”
“You should have given me a chance. You should have asked.”
“Would you have said no?”
“You’re frickin’ right I would have said no. Just how much did you spend on Renata’s hair?”
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars, but it’ll last a long time.”
Christy took a deep breath. “Ali, give me your father’s black card.”
She dug through her purse and handed it to Christy. “Sorreee-eee,” she said, in the universal teenage fake-apology tone.
Christy took the card, opened the credenza drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors, and cut the offensive plastic in half.
“How could you?” Ali said. “That’s…that’s like…that’s like burning
