"I can't believe you never mentioned this new guy before. He must be something special if you've been keeping him all to yourself," she cooed. "And we all get to meet him at the Summer Sail Away."
Suppressing the sudden and overwhelming urge to scream, I lunged for my candy drawer. Within seconds I had a Meltaway in my mouth. The sweet sugary goodness could almost make up for the news that the KYs—low chicks in the hen house—were already invited to the Summer Sail Away. It took me a fabricated boyfriend and an ex on the cover of
GQ
to earn one.
I should have gone to Barnard.
"Hi Kelly," twin high-pitched voices squealed.
Kathryn and Karyn bounded into my office. I was surrounded by KYs with no means of escape.
They looked so similar. They could be triplets, with their matching golden Licari highlights, black von Furstenburg wrap dresses, and black Manolo slingbacks. I can usually tell them apart by their nails—Kathryn is natural and unpolished, Karyn is French-manicured, while Kelly is all-acrylic and more than a little scary around ripe fruit.
"We heard about the new boyfriend,"—I checked the nails—Karyn exclaimed.
"Shame on you for keeping him a secret,"—unpolished—Kathryn chastised.
"But," Kelly interrupted, "he'll be at the Summer Sail Away."
"Ooh, I can't wait."
"We can evaluate his TIP for you."
His what? I needed a KY-to-English dictionary.
"His Total Income Potential. Maybe his TIP will be almost as high as Gavin's."
"Not likely!"
I gave up trying to figure out which one spoke. Dizzy, I desperately grabbed for another Meltaway.
I felt like a spectator at my own execution. Only I had handed the man in the black hood the axe and pulled my hair out of the way as I laid my head on the block.
Mental Post-It: Try not to make up non-existent significant others in the future.
The cab dropped me off in front of my apartment building at six o'clock. I had never been more relieved to get home for the weekend. As my Ferragamo pumps clicked across the marble floor I could think of nothing but my welcoming garden tub and the Lush peppermint bath bomb that awaited me.
I was almost to the elevator when the doorman called out my name.
"Miss Vanderwalk," he shouted across the entry hall. "Miss Vanderwalk, I have a message for you."
My shoulders sank. Only one person ever left messages with the front desk.
I turned, a polite smile glued to my face. "Good evening, Howard. I hope she didn't launch into hysterics this time."
"No ma'am," he smiled. "Just asked me to have you give her a call when you got home."
Howard was a kind man. Generous and friendly to a fault, he often went out of his way to help the tenants of the West 76th Street building. Most of them repaid him with an upturned nose and a Starbucks gift card at Christmas. With three growing boys to raise, he didn't need coffee. I always slip him an extra Ben Franklin at every holiday.
"Thank you for the message, I keep telling her you're not my answering service, but you know how she is."
"No problem, Miss Vanderwalk. She's a pleasure to talk to." He beamed, as if it really were a pleasure to talk with my mother. "Will you be going out tonight, Miss?"
"Yes, at around eight."
"I'll have a car waiting."
"Thank you, Howard."
"Always a pleasure, Miss."
At least some people are happy doing the job they were hired to do. Unlike certain upstart interns.
The gold and mahogany elevator delivered me up to the eleventh floor. I dug through my Coach Hamptons tote for my keys, also finding an unopened grape Laffy Taffy which I promptly popped into my mouth.
Q: Why do phones ring?
A: Because they can't talk.
I giggled at the appalling joke.
The phone started ringing even before I set my purse on the white marble counter. I carefully swallowed the taffy before taking a deep breath and picking up the receiver.
"Hello, Mother."
"Lydia," she exclaimed. "Thank God. I was afraid you'd been mugged."
"I've told you three dozen times how much safer Mayor Giuliani made the city."
Even after nearly ten years in the city she still thought I was the little country girl from Westchester. As if Westchester was more than 45 minutes away by train. As if Daddy hadn't worked in the city every day until his retirement last fall. As if I walked the sidewalks more than the twenty feet between doors and taxis. Do mothers ever grow out of being mothers?
"Besides," I said, opening the refrigerator to find my cucumber eye pads, "the NYPD is perfectly equipped to deal with muggings."
"That's because they have so much practice, dear."
"I promise I'm fine, Mom." I failed to locate the eye pads, but found a previously lost slice of peanut butter cup cheesecake. "And if I ever do get mugged, I'll call you before the police."
I slid the cheesecake onto a clean white plate from the dishwasher and grabbed a dessert fork from the drawer. Carrying the phone to the living room, I plopped into my chofa—a combination chair and sofa. Why this is not called a loveseat, I don't know, but the salesman at ABC Carpet & Home was adamant.
The first bite of peanut butter-chocolate-creamy goodness sends thoughts of Jawbreakers, KYs, non-existent boyfriends, and overprotective mothers to the background.
Mmmm
. Nothing comes closer to heaven.
"Did you say something, dear? You're eating, aren't you?"
One bite was all I could afford if I wanted to avoid a debate on the pitfalls of my candy addiction—my mother was convinced either a) my teeth were all just waiting to fall out, b) my system was one sugar rush from becoming diabetic, or c) I was one costly trip to Dylan's Candy Bar from living on the street. I set the plate on the arm of the chofa and focused on the conversation.
"No, of course I'm not eating."
"Food is not a substitute for love, darling. I saw that on Oprah." My mother needed to watch less television. "It's high time you got over Gavin."
Oh no
! Conversation #3,526—not that I'm counting.
"Mom, I'm not eating. And I am over Gavin." I briefly considered telling her about my NEB—non-existent boyfriend-—but decided that little white lie had already caused enough trouble for the day. "Can we please talk about something else?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and I knew she struggled with actually letting go of that topic. In the end, she decided to move on.
"Your father and I have something to tell you." Her voice, muffled as if holding her hand over the mouthpiece, shouts, "Pick up the phone, David."
"Hello, gumdrop."
"Hi, Daddy." This is bad. My parents never get on the phone at the same time.
I'm not saying they're technology illiterate, but they're lucky when they operate the cordless without incident. My attempts to drag them into the 21st century with the addition of a cell phone have been unsuccessful. They won't even call my cell phone because it might give me brain cancer. Even when they fear I've been mugged.
Maybe that was the problem. "I haven't been mugged, Dad. Mom was just overreact—"
"That's not what this is about," he interrupted. "Are you sitting down?"
Why did I feel like my world was about to be swirled around and stepped on?
"We've decided to sell the house, gumdrop." Dad spoke as if he were commenting on the weather.
I thought about screaming into the phone. Instead I picked up the cheesecake and shoveled a forkful into my mouth.
"Lydia?" Dad ventured.
"Yeth," I answered around a mouthful.
"Put the candy down."
"It'th not candy, it'th theethcake—"
My mother tried to intervene. "Please, dear—"
"Mother"—I swallowed—"you've just told me you're selling my childhood home."
"Lydia, we've—"
"That house has been in our family for seven generations."
"I know, gumdrop—"
"I think I'm due a little cheesecake."
I speared at the cheesecake to emphasize my point, but I was a little overeager. The fork slipped and I knocked the remains of the treat onto the floor. All my dreams of peanut butter-chocolate-creamy bliss landed with a wet plop on my beige and ivory scroll rug. That's gonna stain.
I'll have to leave a note for Danielle, cleaning woman and stain miracle worker.
The loss of the cheesecake helped soften the loss of my home. I took a calming breath, picked the plate and fork off the pile of sludge, and carried it to the kitchen.
"Okay," I said as I found a cleaning rag under the sink, "I'm calm. Please explain."
On my hands and knees over the cheesecake, a scary look into my psyche surfaced as I briefly wondered if I could, in good conscience, eat the cheesecake off the rug. Realizing the level of desperation I threatened to sink into, I grabbed up the pile with the rag before I could reconsider.
"Your mother and I have decided what we want to do in our retirement," Dad explained.
I carried the cheesecake-filled rag to the kitchen sink and rinsed my bliss down the drain. "Oh, and what's that, Dad?"
"You know how much we love to travel," Mom said.
"Uh-huh," I answered absently.
Watching the creamy water swirl down the drain, I had a thought. An untouched pint of cotton candy ice cream sat in the freezer. My day suddenly brightened.
Spoon and ice cream in hand, I returned to the chofa to dig in.
Dad cleared his throat before saying, "We are going to buy a sailboat."
I nearly dropped the whole pint.
"To sail around the world," Mom finished, in case I couldn't guess.
No amount of candy-flavored desserts would get me through this shock to my ordered world. I needed the real thing. Staggering into my bedroom, phone clutched tightly in my fist, I sank to the floor next to my bed and pulled out the plastic shoebox labeled "Emergencies Only" and pried off the lid.
I plucked one delicate white confection from the box and carefully removed the cellophane wrapper. Setting the white chocolate and coconut Raffaello on my tongue, I closed my mouth and savored the exquisite flavor.
"Okay," I said, a gourmet treat-induced calm settling over me, "tell me everything."
Sinking into the bath an hour later, only forty-five minutes left to get ready, I let the refreshing peppermint bath revive me. I lit a dozen candy cane candles and allowed the day to soak away.
On the bright side, what more could possibly go wrong? I sank my career. My parents went off the deep end. And my favorite cheesecake stained my favorite rug right next to the stain left by a giant blob of my favorite ice cream that flew to the floor when Mom told me they already had a buyer for the house and planned to set sail in two weeks. Really, my day had gone as badly as it possibly could. Nothing worse could happen.
Ring, ring
.
As a bad omens and jinxes expert, I chose to sink beneath the water rather than answer the phone. Let voicemail catch this problem. That way I can listen to the message tomorrow, and the next bad thing won't really happen today.
After I held my breath as long as possible, I sat up and climbed out of the tub. Wrapped in an Egyptian cotton towel around my chest, I proceeded to my bedroom and flung open my closet doors.
Passing over all the sedate DKNY suits and J. Crew sweaters, I headed for the stash at the back. Maybe the hot pink Betsey Johnson knit dress? Or the white Marc Jacobs minidress? Or the black D&G corset bustier and red leather skirt?
Courage was needed to wear these wild outfits I can't stop buying. Instead, I pulled out a simple lavender Ann Taylor sheath dress and matching Stuart Weitzman slingbacks. You can take the girl out of Westchester but you can't take Westchester out of the girl.
My cell phone launched into "Lollipop, lollipop" from the other room. I ignored it. If it was one of my girlfriends canceling our standing date, I didn't want to know. They had to show up at Sweet Stuff—our Chelsea haunt an equal cab ride for me from the Upper West Side, subway ride for Fiona from Prospect Park, and bus ride for Bethany from SoHo.
Backing out tonight was not an option.
After the day I’d had I needed a night out with the girls and cosmic amounts of alcohol.
2
Q: What kind of bug comes out at night?
A: A nightling bug.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #132
"
That's
your ex?"
I looked up from the engrossing occupation of swirling ice in my Lemon Drop to find Fiona clutching
GQ
to her chest. One grape-lacquered finger stabbing at the cover.