No One Could Have Guessed the Weather (19 page)

Michael had been handed a form with his address written on it, had read it and put up his hand to say it was not correct. While Robyn's heart leapt at the fact he could actually read something now, she was furious with herself for not thinking of a good enough reason to make him keep quiet on that subject. She was not creative enough, but that was the story of her life.

At that moment she understood why some criminals actually confess to crimes the moment they are arrested. She was possessed by a powerful urge to tell all. How she had informed Ryan of her plan in a matter-of-fact way, and how he was so terrified of her raising the Orange County issue again that he agreed. At first, that is. Then she told him he would have to persuade his colleague at the gallery, the winsome and utterly infatuated Catalina, who lived in a studio on West Eleventh, that they were going to use her address and that, in fact, Robyn had already told two utility companies to change the name on the bills to his.

“But it's a lie,” spluttered Ryan.

She had ignored this, thinking,
Yes and so was you telling me you would win the Pulitzer.

“Our school is good enough for everyone we know.”

“No, it isn't. They're just having fun slumming it at the moment, but there's no way Julia Kirkland and Christy Armitage's kids are going to a middle school that has metal detectors at the gates and where the mothers get arrested for dealing.” Robyn actually thought this was an urban myth and
Weeds
had a lot to answer for, but she said it anyway and, if that wasn't enough, there was a killer blow coming. “And Lucy Lovett says she'll
move up the Hudson
if she has to. We need to change and change now. If they get into that school in the West Village they're a shoo-in for a decent middle school; maybe we can even get Madison to be gifted and talented?”

“Huh,” Ryan snorted. “That's all about gifted and talented parents.”

Well, then, ours are f***ed,
she had thought to herself, but what did it matter now? All her Machiavellian stratagems had been for nothing in the truest sense that Machiavelli's only criterion for a successful plan was not whether it was right or wrong but whether it worked. She shrank into the chair and waited for the almighty reprimand that she was due (something she herself had avoided her entire school career). Actually, she had dreaded this moment for so many weeks that part of her was curious to see what was going to happen.

The door opened, and in came Principal Lorraine. She smiled, and Robyn noticed that she had done that weird thing with lipliner outside her mouth, which only heightened the tiny wrinkles around it and made it look like she had no lights in her bathroom.

“We have had experience of this before, Ms. Skinner. . . .” she began.

Oh, crap,
thought Robyn,
she's going to be nice.
She started sobbing immediately. She hated when people felt sorry for her.

“I've been so worried about the kids. . . .” she replied, her mind racing. Another plan was forming. She was going to beg. She wondered how abject she could be short of falling onto her knees. But maybe that would do it. . . .

Principal Lorraine held up her hand to stop her. She proffered a tissue.

“Separations, divorces, difficult custody arrangements.”

Robyn nodded noncommittally. She had no clue as to where this was going.

“How long have you and your husband been living apart?”

Eureka!
The sudden euphoria made Robyn judder, which enhanced the overall effect of overwrought supplication she was going for. Slowly she lifted her trembling left hand and wiped her eyes. Thank goodness she had left her wedding ring by the sink this morning, something she had been doing with increasing regularity over the last couple of years. Everything was going to be fine.

She told Lorraine that she and Ryan had been in trouble for some time but they had only formally separated in the last few months. It was very confusing for the children, but they were doing their best to make them feel secure and she appreciated the wonderful atmosphere and opportunities offered by the new school.

She sniffed and grinned—oh, yes, why had she been so worried?—and finished by saying that she had not felt so relieved in years.

“It's just facing up to the truth, isn't it?” the older woman said, pointing to bullet point number three.

They even embraced as Robyn left.

So from that day separate letters from the school went to each of them at the two addresses. (Robyn had said that Ryan had moved out of the family home to the Loisaida.) They attended their first Parents' Evening together, but they arrived at different times to school events, went to the holiday musical on different nights, and Ryan decided to leave work early on a Monday and Friday to collect his children and spend “quality time” with them. Robyn wondered if it was her imagination, but she was pretty sure he was enjoying the new arrangement. She had worried he would have some moral objection, but he told her she had been right and he was delighted that the days Madison would come home asking what a blow job was had become a distant, although still unpleasant, memory. Certainly he entered into the subterfuge with great gusto, and what with that, and the fact that Mrs. Hernandez downstairs finally died and they colonized all her storage space in the basement and got permission to put shelves and hooks up on the landing outside their apartment (which the old lady had voted against at ten consecutive coop board meetings, meaning they had carried buggies, babies, and shopping bags up three flights of stairs every day for seven years), their life suddenly did feel shinier and happier.

Ryan was asked by a couple of fluttering mothers on the PTA to run a creative writing workshop for the fifth-graders after school every week, and he did so, discovering a talent for teaching he had had no idea of. Then Michael chased after another child with a baseball bat, and at the ensuing, excruciating “making amends” dinner the victim's understanding parents insisted on, it turned out that the father was one of the seven hundred people not related to Ryan who had read
Residua and Fragments
and loved it. He asked Ryan to contribute to his online magazine, and Ryan started writing a humorous column called “Fathergate,” which to Robyn's delight meant he did more and more of the childcare, as it
gave him material
.

He was fulfilled, and he actually wrote more and Robyn had another insight that perhaps the reason creativity and depression go hand in hand is that if you are born with the desire to express yourself in that way, the grim reality of that life, and the incredible odds against getting your stories published, or your film made or, heaven help you, your poetry read, makes you depressed and the vicious circle goes on and on. Once again maybe she had been so wrapped up in her own private life drama that she had missed the fact that her husband was struggling. She forgave him for the past, she forgave herself for her erotic adventures in the playground, and, when he mentioned that he was beginning to consider moving to Brooklyn, she knew they could have a future. A two-bedroom with study in Brooklyn Heights! This had been Robyn's wildest dream. Her kids could do a gardening class.
Maybe she could have another baby?
No, no . . . She pulled herself together. She had promised herself she would not let her thoughts run away with her anymore. Ryan would . . . Absolutely no, and anyway, how would she explain it away to Principal Lorraine without looking like a slut?

In short, at this point in their lives, divorce suited them better than marriage and it seemed they were about to live contentedly ever after, until Principal Lorraine put her cupid hat on, and sat Robyn next to Schuyler Robinson at the antibullying workshop.

•   •   •

T
HE FACT THAT
R
OBYN
had not even noticed Schuyler was an indication of her newfound peace of mind. He was certainly attractive, despite a distressing fondness for a black leather jacket that should have been retired in 1989, and the fact that he really was newly single meant that, unlike Ryan, he was receptive to the female fluttering that surrounded him whenever he set foot in the school. Principal Lorraine had taken him under her wing and banished his ex-wife to the back row of the school hall. (Schuyler's ex had committed various sins in Principal Lorraine's eyes, including questioning whether global warming was scientifically proven in front of the third-graders on Save the Earth day, but the worst of which was not dyeing her hair, thereby threatening the expensive and time-consuming efforts Lorraine went to in order to turn back time.) She introduced Schuyler to Robyn with the line, “I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about.” Once again, Robyn had no idea where this was going, but, when Schuyler took his cue and started talking about the frustrations of being a weekend parent, she had another “Eureka!” moment. She had been seated in the divorced section of the auditorium.

She knew she would have to gather herself, would have to assume her role for the ensuing conversation, but, thankfully, the lights went down quickly, the whiteboard came on, and Principal Lorraine took to the stage to outline school policy, scribbling up ten bullet points. Schuyler took out his iPad and made notes. Robyn was impressed. At events like this, Ryan inevitably performed, making humorous comments in an audible whisper until he got a reaction from the other parents, but Schuyler took it very seriously. In the break, he told her that he was concerned for the emotional health of his son, Quinn, who had been traumatized by his clearly not-at-all-amicable separation. He felt that Quinn being an only child was a problem, too, but another child had been out of the question, and he added, ruefully but somewhat unnecessarily, Robyn felt, how difficult it had been to have one. Robyn was sure she knew what that meant. Inadvertently, she flicked her hair, smoothed her hands over her luxuriant belly, and practically felt her ovaries bounce triumphantly inside her.

Schuyler asked Robyn directly how her children had coped, so she blustered and muttered about putting them first and how she and Ryan had done mediation with a fantastic man in Queens, who had a beard that he plaited. She had practiced this to herself, the last vestige of her interior monologues, and the two times she had said it people had laughed. But Schuyler looked sad and told her she was an admirable person. Robyn was repulsed by herself. She decided that when she got home, she was putting her wedding ring back on. She would tell Principal Lorraine she and Ryan were reconciled and they would have to deal with the address issue.

And then Schuyler invited her to his farmhouse on the Jersey shore for the weekend. Just like that. He reached over and placed a hand on her thigh and whispered in her ear that he could tell she would look good naked. If it was her turn for the kids, there were permanent staff and a separate children's wing. And he had a top-of-the-range Duxiana bed. Robyn knew better than most people how impressive that was.

When she said nothing, she was in shock, as this put the covert liaisons in the yoga cupboard to shame, he mistook her silence for some form of bohemian disapproval of wealth (he had heard that Ryan was a published writer and was impressed by it) and made a quip about it not being his fault he had a grandfather who discovered how to plastic-coat paper clips, but he did take his work for a nonprofit very seriously. He would send a car for her if that made it easier. Now Robyn felt furious. How could this man, this perfect-affair-material man, suddenly appear just when she had remembered how to be good?

She wanted to reassure him that she was absolutely not the sort of person who found indoor hot tubs or 3-D televisions or six-star vacations in the Maldives vulgar, but she sensed real danger for herself here. So she said it was very kind of him to invite her, but that she and Ryan had agreed they would never expose the children to any new relationship that wasn't . . .
serious.

Schuyler was a little taken aback, she could tell, he was obviously working his way through the lonely ladies on the lunch nutrition committee, but Robyn was determined not to be a notch on his Shaker-style bedpost. In fact, her only hope was to keep as far away from him as possible, for, if she allowed herself to spend one minute in that Duxiana with him, she would simply have to marry him and that would mean redecorating the farmhouse. And she hadn't a clue about colors.

She buttoned her coat firmly, which had the effect of making him stare at her chest, and picked up her bag.

“I'll send you the notes if you like?” Schuyler called after her. “What's your e-mail?” She shook her head. “No thank you.” But at that moment Principal Lorraine appeared in a puff of something and handed them all a leaflet with the names and contact details of all attendees, who she announced could share information and ideas inspired by the workshop.

“I'll send you roses, then,” he grinned; in fact, Robyn was pretty sure he winked, and, as she was walking out the front door of the school, she received what could only be described as an inappropriate text from him about his desire to
harrass
her. Schuyler had spelled “harass” incorrectly, and Robyn was charmed. Ryan crafted everything from texts to e-mails as if they would one day be bequeathed to the New York Public Library.

It was a bad sign that she was becoming irritated with Ryan again. She did not put her wedding ring back on.

January

Quinn's tenth birthday party was to be held at Chelsea Piers. Robyn found the invitation in the trash can by accident—her reading glasses had fallen off as she poured the end of her mug of herb tea into it, and the soggy red paper had stuck to her right lens.

She retrieved the card, smoothing it out by the side of the sink. Ryan had junked it, but that was okay. They had agreed that all party invitations on the West Side were to be destroyed before the children found them. It was just too expensive to go, a hundred dollars by the time you'd got there and back and bought the sort of present, educational
and
fun, that would be expected, and you could always get stuck with paying for drinks and popcorn as you waited for the wall-climbing class to start, or the pottery to warm up, or the clown to dress. But she told Ryan that Madison had found it and demanded to go (her lying had become so much more practiced as a result of the few months of the double life of Robyn; she had learned never to embellish and had eliminated any verbal tics that might give her away), and he agreed, adding that Schuyler seemed a good guy. Not the brightest spark in the fuse box but an unusually tolerable member of the lucky sperm club
, ha, ha,
ha
(this was how Ryan always referred to the scions of independently wealthy families). Schuyler had made a point of telling Ryan how much he enjoyed “Fathergate,” and Ryan was never averse to hanging out with people of excellent taste.