26
Mrs. Mayor
P
eople and luggage are aboard three double-parked shiny-black Mercedes SUVs, but no one is going anywhere until Mr. and Mrs. Mayor finish their fight in the foyer. Somehow I have to make time stand still or get Mrs. Mayor moving before Vivian starts bleeding from her ears.
“Does he think I’m stupid or something?” Mrs. Mayor, wrapped in cashmere, her sunglasses perched on top of her head, shoves her overstuffed tote bag toward me. I guess it’s hard to notice I already have my hands full with her other tote bag and large nonfat latte. “Well, does he?”
Realizing it was not a rhetorical question I answer as diplomatically as I possibly can. “I don’t think so.”
Natasha solemnly primps Mrs. Mayor, her mood as blue as her eye shadow. Jesus didn’t come home until this morning and wasn’t in the mood to talk about the state of their union. She’s inconsolable, but still did a fabulous job on Mrs. Mayor, Vivian and me.
“His mother is behind this.” Mrs. Mayor raises her chin so Natasha can dust the underside with the shimmer powder she’d dunk her whole body into if we let her. “Don’t you think so, Jacquelyn? Don’t you think she’s behind all of this?”
“I ... I couldn’t say, Katherine.” Not if I want to keep my job.
Mrs. Mayor generally assumes anything that doesn’t go her way is her mother-in-law’s fault. This time she happens to be right. The proof—actual, physical proof, for once—is in the fax Vivian showed me before she put it through the shredder (per Mr. Mayor’s instructions).
In very lawyerly language Mr. Mayor’s mother, the venerable Gail R. Wadsworth Baxter, chastised her son for inviting three unexpected guests (one who happens to be his wife) without sufficient notice and advised him to advise his wife to make arrangements for her staff to stay in a nearby motel. Attached to the fax were a string of newspaper clippings documenting the ups and downs of Mrs. Mayor’s hemlines and necklines. She had penned a huge, sad face next to each of them.
“I’m not going to let some old witch intimidate me. I kept Faye Dunaway from cutting in line at The Ivy. And this woman thinks she can treat me like this? She’s off her priceless antique rocker. I’m Mrs. Baxter now, not her.”
“I ... well ... Oh, here’s your latte! Would you like anything else?”
I’d give my firstborn to be able to retreat into the Kitchen with Anita and Lei who are lucky enough to be staying behind. Even Mrs. Mayor couldn’t justify bringing her two housekeepers along with me and Natasha. Mr. Mayor also nixed the idea of bringing their monogrammed 1,000-thread-count sheets when he found out they’d need to rent another SUV just to transport them.
Normally I wouldn’t take issue, but those sheets make getting into bed like stepping into a vat of butter, in a good way. I got a set cheap on eBay and since then I—
“Jacquelyn?”
“Sorry?” I snap out of my stupor.
“His family treats our home like their private hotel. And she expects me to put my assistant and my makeup artist in a motel, a
motel,
three miles away? How it could be possible she doesn’t have room for all of us? Not even a pull-out couch for my assistant when they have a room for her.” Mrs. Mayor tosses her head in Vivian’s direction. “It’s bad enough I have to leave the stylist here. I mean, I’m traveling light. It’s not like I’m bringing an entourage.”
I nod, but not too enthusiastically. I don’t want to encourage her or let on that I just fired stylist number six, and number seven isn’t due to start until after we get back from LA and until then Mrs. Mayor is styleless. Not that she’ll notice number seven is not number six or five or four. To Mrs. Mayor they’ve all become interchangeable, like coordinating bra-and-panties sets. And, for some reason, these people are still lining up to work for her even though they know they won’t last. It’s become a stylist’s version of climbing Everest and they want to be the first to reach the peak. From what I understand, a San Francisco stylist is not worth his or her salt until I fire them on Mrs. Mayor’s behalf. I knew these people were a little off—who really cares that much about accessories?—but the whole thing sort of creeps me out.
“We could always double up with Vivian. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” Vivian has scored a guest house (an actual
house
), after being hastily bumped from the main residence once it was confirmed Mrs. Mayor would be accompanying her husband despite the fact that she wasn’t invited.
“There is no way in hell I’m letting her shortchange me, Jacquelyn. Who do they think I am? I’m his wife for fuck’s sake. I deserve a room for my assistant.”
“Uh, thanks?” I don’t want to stay in a broom closet just so she can make a point.
“You either stay near me or I’m not going.” Mrs. Mayor slams her sunglasses down over her eyes and cinches the belt tighter on her trench coat.
Natasha rolls her eyes, showing the first signs of life this morning. We all know it’s an empty threat, even she does. There is nothing in the world that could keep Mrs. Mayor from getting her stilettos into one of the doors of a yet-uncataloged Baxter residence. She bought me a new digital camera just so I could “document” the furniture at the Baxter Family Carmel retreat and add the photos to correspond to the spreadsheets.
“Katherine, I don’t think—”
“This is ridiculous. Where’s my coffee?”
27
Vivian
N
atasha, wearing earplugs and a nightshade, snorts on her heated leather seat. I pat her thigh and she settles down again, looking sad even in her tiny, pink pill–induced sleep. I shift closer to Vivian. I should bring up some important local matter and help her see it from a different perspective, which she can then pass on to the Mayor and give me credit for it and then just like that—tah-dah!—a job on the Mayor’s staff.
“Hey, Vivian?”
“What?” She doesn’t look up from her laptop. How she’s not carsick is beyond me. Normally she would ride with Mr. Mayor, but since he’s traveling with his wife she’s been exiled to a staff car with me and Natasha.
“Where did you stay the last time you visited Carmel with Mr. Mayor?”
“I stayed up at the house.” Vivian takes off her glasses and puts them in her purse. I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.
“Oh, is it nice?” I can’t help but ask.
“Nice? It’s beyond nice. It’s ... well mannered. You almost want to apologize to the furniture for using it. You’ll see. If they offer you something to drink, just ask for a glass of water. They always offer and it just makes things easier.”
“OK.” That doesn’t seem so different from my parents’ house. My mother is forever offering visitors something to drink or eat. Even the time my brother got picked up for shoplifting she offered lemonade to the cops who drove him home (in handcuffs).
“If you don’t take them up on it, they’ll think you’re intimidated by them. But make sure to only ask for water. If you ask for anything more complicated they’ll think you’re imposing.”
“OK.” Now this was a little more involved than I would have expected, but it seemed simple enough. Just ask for a glass of water, no big deal.
“I’m not trying to freak you out, Jacqs.”
“I’m not freaked out.” I am beginning to get really freaked out.
“They’re just like normal people,” Vivian says sarcastically.
“Sure, just normal people.” With a lot more money, power and privilege, but just people who are sort of famous. Not even sort of famous, somewhat well known. Mostly by people who follow politics and are interested in minor-league US history.
“They have an awful tendency to give nicknames.” Vivian warms up to her subject. “You’ll never guess what the Mayors have been dubbed. Go ahead, guess. I dare you.”
“Um ... Um ...” Nicknames? What, like Muffy and Binks?
“Kit and Kat. Get it? KitKat? Like the candy? Christ, these people.” Vivian rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be out of there by tomorrow morning and on our way to Santa Barbara before they can slap one on you.”
“You got one?” I can’t help but ask.
“Vivvy, and I consider myself lucky.”
“That’s not too bad.” Mr. Mayor calls her Vivvy sometimes. I always thought it was cute.
“I guess it could have been worse”—she looks back down at her laptop—“but don’t call me Vivvy.”
“So, um, will this Santa Barbara thing be any fun?” Must be a lack of oxygen to the brain (Natasha won’t let us crack open a window or turn on the air conditioner—bad for her sinuses), usually I’m a lot more, uh, relevant?
“I don’t plan to find out. My goal is to hole up in my room, get very drunk on overpriced minibar liquor and not answer my phone. You?”
“Weird. That was my plan, too. And maybe get a massage.” Since I don’t have anything better to do, I quickly switch gears into full-on friend mode. “Is everything OK with you and Curtis?”
“Don’t get me started ... Jacqs, you’ve been married before, right?” Vivian shuts her laptop closed with a click and gives a wary look over in Natasha’s direction. Her pill must have kicked in because she’s softly snoring, the only indication that she’s still alive.
“Yeah.” Oh, crap, here we go again. Doesn’t anyone within a mile radius of me have a normal sort of happy relationship and why do I seem to be the doppelganger for marital success?
“I don’t mean to pry ...” Vivian twists her wedding ring around her finger. When she moves it up to her knuckle I can see she has a slight rash.
“No, go ahead. Ask me anything.” I settle in my seat and get into Dr. N mode.
“This whole marriage thing. It’s a lot harder than I thought. I mean, I love Curtis, but ...”
“You hate his guts and can’t stand the sight of him chewing or brushing his teeth?”
“Exactly! That’s exactly it! He’s almost repellant to me. All we seem to do is argue about the stupidest things. Like this morning, I don’t even remember what set us off.” Vivian’s face flushes attractively. She must have been holding this in for a while. “Is that normal, Jacqs?”
“What’s normal? I didn’t have sex with my husband for six of the fourteen months we were married,” I say with not a small amount of pride.
“Oh, my God. How did you manage to hold out?”
“I just watched him get dressed for bed at night and it pretty much took care of any sexual feelings I had.” I also bought my very first vibrator around that time. I sent away for it and for a whole week left work early to make sure I intercepted the mailman. When it did finally come, well, so did I.
“Did you hate him?” Vivian’s forehead creases. I make a mental note to slip her Mrs. Mayor’s Botox doctor’s card. She gives discounts for referrals.
“Sure, but we didn’t part on bad terms. We actually had a lot of fun toward the end. Once we decided to split up, that is. I guess you can say we found out things were still pretty special.”
“Really?”
“Not special enough to stay married, but it’s not like I’d mow him down with my car if I saw him crossing the street. We both knew divorce was our best option, but we are still friends.” I’m really on a roll now. “He’s been traveling around doing computer stuff. He’s down in LA, actually.”
I didn’t mention to Bina that Nate and I would be in the same time zone, if not zip code. I am under strict orders not to bring up Nate’s name around Bina. I sort of almost drove her crazy with all my Nate talk. I talked about him when we met, more when we dated, even more when we lived together, I had plenty more to say about him while we were married and I sort of exhausted the subject after our divorce.
Hence, Dr. N, who I have to pay to listen to me talk about Nate. It’s been very therapeutic and expensive, but Bina and I are closer than ever. Now that I’ve added Vivian to my tree phone of Nate I get that familiar thrill of discovering a fresh set of ears.
“Are you going to meet up with him?” Vivian perks up. I had no idea she was an incurable romantic. Maybe that’s her problem with marriage? “You have to see him!”
“Uh ...” How can I break it to Vivian that my relationship with Nate is one-sided and electronic?
“Maybe. Mrs. Mayor keeps me on a short leash.”
“Not this weekend, Jacqs. She’ll be too busy trying to impress the family.” Vivian has always had a jaundiced but accurate view of Mrs. Mayor. “They’ll play kissie face with her and then tear her apart behind her back. And then she’ll come home with her tail between her legs and work even harder at polishing her image as the ideal wife of a rising politician.”
“Well, yeah.” I feel it’s my duty as her employee to defend her. “Yeah, well.”
“So are you with me for a wild weekend in Carmel with all the other well-preserved geriatrics and then for some wild orgy sex with young and willing political aides in Santa Barbara?”
This is a tricky spot I’m in. On the one hand, I know Vivian is in need of a good time to forget about her problems with her husband and on the other, I don’t know if it’s a good idea if I encourage her to have a good time to forget her husband, which may cause more problems.
Best to err on the side of caution. “Sure. What about your husband?”
A nonjudgmental acceptance of her desire to have a “wild weekend” but, like any good friend, I’ve acknowledged that a “wild weekend” and “husband” may not mix. Dr. N would be proud. I think.
“Who?” Vivian lowers her eyes and frowns. “I hate arguing with him. I can never win.”
“Maybe you should just call Curtis and talk it out, not let things fester.” Not to be callous, but a year of therapy has proven to me that it’s best to get it all out and move on to another problem because there is always another problem and another ...
“I guess. I don’t know. Maybe.” She twists her hair around her finger.
I heave a huge sigh. “Yeah.”
Vivian gives me a quizzical look. “Something wrong?”
“Nope. Just thinking about all the baggage I brought with me.”
I stand aside as a beefy, good-looking man unloads the suitcases from the back of the SUVs. All I am required to do is point out the bags and he’ll lift them. This is great! I’ve never had someone actually do my dirty work. I can see how a person could get used to this.
He didn’t introduce himself and I’m not sure what the protocol is on these things. Can I tell him what to do or should I just ignore him like everyone else is? He must have lots of information, and information is vital to my job. Mrs. Mayor will expect me to give her a full report of any of my dealings with the “staff,” and pass on any relevant and not-so-relevant gossip to add to her arsenal. Nothing beats inside information and from what I’ve noticed, rich people tend to forget that their staff have eyes, ears and, most importantly for me, mouths.
Mr. Mayor and Vivian are huddled in the corner going over schedules. Mrs. Mayor has yet to emerge from the backseat of the first car where Natasha disappeared the instant we stopped. We’re all in a holding pattern until she comes out.
“I’m Gus. You need anything call me. You staying in the main house, guest house or the staff quarters?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Place is packed this week. Big powwow with all the heads of the family.”
You couldn’t get away with saying powwow in San Francisco. Junta maybe, but definitely not powwow.
Mrs. Mayor, looking stunning, gracefully steps out of the car, as if she’s about to walk the red carpet, and minces her way over to Mr. Mayor. Gus whistles under his breath.
“She’s a looker, your boss. Sorry.”
“No, she is. Very beautiful.” I don’t know why I feel a stab of pride. And stab is right. Working for such an attractive person always reminds me I work for an attractive person. I count the bags and regain my composure. “That’s it!”
“I’ll call you girls and your, uh, friend, a golf cart. Unless you gals brought your hiking shoes and a compass.”
“Is this place really that big?” The house looks impressive, from what I can see of it in the fog but, sheesh, how much space can one family need for a rarely used weekend home?
“Rumor is Mr. Baxter isn’t dead. He went for a walk and is still trying to find his way to the pool after all these years.”
“A golf cart would be great.”
Vivian extracts herself from Mr. Mayor and walks over to me, passing Gus, who is carrying about 300 pounds of Mrs. Mayor’s luggage. She nods at him curtly and walks on. Even under the strain of Mrs. Mayor’s Louis Vuitton, he still manages to give her the once-over.
“Have they called us a golf cart? No way am I trekking to the other side of this national park in these heels.” Vivian grunts as she shoulders her tote bag and laptop case, and extends the handle on her suitcase.
I notice she’s packed less than I have. I guess she really doesn’t plan on doing much besides drinking in her room.
“Yeah, he said this place is pretty big.”
“Don’t look so scared, Jacqs. Just think of this place as your everyday sixth or seventh rarely used family home and frequently photographed family retreat.”
“I’m not at all scared,” I say, sounding scared. I have no choice but to distract her and me. “Are you going to call Curtis?”
“He knows my number. He can call me.” Vivian smiles but looks worried. We both know he won’t call. He’s probably over it by now, but she’ll never know because she won’t call him and it would never occur to him to call her.
Mr. and Mrs. Mayor arrange themselves to look like a happy couple and start their ascent up the grand stone stairway just as the huge doors are thrown open and a flood of jocular-looking relatives spill out to greet them. They are all holding drinks in their hands.
“Smell that, Jacqs?” Vivian asks, chucking her suitcase into the back of a pristine-looking golf cart.
I tentatively inhale and shake my head. “What should I be sniffing for?”
“The avalanche of bullshit heading your way.”