28
Gail
“
H
ello, I’m Jacquelyn Sanchez, Katherine’s assistant. Pleased to meet you, Mrs.—”
“Call me Gail, dear.” Gail, dear, Mr. Mayor’s mom and the official matriarch of the Baxter clan, is asking me to call her by her first name. I watch helplessly as Vivian rushes up the grand staircase after Mr. Mayor to take an emergency conference call upstairs. It is, of course, Emilio Cortez-related. “May I call you Jacquelyn?”
“Sure,” I squeak out and nod.
“Why don’t we wait in my private sitting room?” Gail takes my elbow in her birdlike grip and steers me toward a pair of huge closed doors. “How long have you worked for Kat, dear?”
“About a year or so.” God, has it already been that long? A whole year of assisting Mrs. Mayor with the sole act of being Mrs. Mayor.
Gail somehow manages to push open two 12-foot solid-oak doors and I come face-to-face with perfection, filthy-rich perfection. Next to this room the Mayors’s Mansion looks like a starter home in Chico. No wonder Mrs. Mayor is bitter. Who wouldn’t be?
“I’m sure Kat keeps you very busy. We were so surprised when Kit called and said she’d be coming along. She always seems to be so busy jetting off to Los Angeles to visit her actor friends.” Gail settles her bones on the couch and gives me what I think she thinks is a reassuring smile. “Must be very interesting, too, working for Kat and so close to Kit.”
“Um, it’s ...” Unlikely that she really cares, or does she? If she does, I can guess it’s not for the right reasons. “It really is a pleasure working for
Katherine
.”
There’s no way in hell I’m calling Mrs. Mayor
Kat.
I can tell it’s not a nickname that’s been bestowed on her with love and affection. Neither is the name Mrs. Mayor, of course, but I work for the woman and have a right to be bitchy.
“Dear, would you care for something to drink?” Gail reaches over and presses a tiny button. Seconds later I hear muffled footsteps behind me.
“Water would be great, thanks.”
“Mineral, flat, flavored?”
“Uh ... regular water?” Vivian never mentioned there would be subcategories to choose from.
“Are you sure, dear? It’s no trouble.” Gail gives me a tight smile and tilts her coiffed head slightly. This must be the test part.
“Thanks, but just plain old water will be perfect. Thank you.”
“Mayleen, will you bring us some water, please.” She doesn’t bother to look at Mayleen as she asks. Instead, Gail leans over and nudges the geometrically perfect arrangement of magazines into further submission. I pretend to cough instead of giggle.
In a rare moment of humanness, Mrs. Mayor and I shared a laugh when she told me her mother-in-law demands that the maids Windex the covers of the magazines at regular intervals.
“I really shouldn’t impose, I’m sure I should check in on Katherine.” I half-make to rise knowing that Gail, dear has me firmly in her gentle tentacles.
“Vivian will be back in a jiffy. Kit promised to keep work at a minimum. We are having the staff do all the unpacking, and Kit and Kat are getting settled. Kat is upstairs with her, uh, wardrobe assistant ...”
“Natasha. She’s a makeup artist. She’s just pitching in until we find a new stylist. The last one didn’t work out,” I ramble stupidly. This woman doesn’t care.
“Of course. We’re playing a round of golf at Clint’s.”
“Katherine loves golf.” Mrs. Mayor said nothing about golf or packing for golflike activities. I have no idea what kind of outfit Natasha can come up with to pass the muster of Clint Eastwood and his golf course. At least, I think that’s the Clint that Gail, dear is referring too. Could there be any other?
“Tell me ... Oh, thank you, Mayleen.” Gail stiffens and we both watch as Mayleen sets down a tray with two glasses, a pitcher of water and lemon wedges on a small crystal dish on the side. Gail pours water into the glasses and gestures to the lemon wedges. I nod. She extends a glass of water toward me. “Tell me about yourself, dear.”
“Me?” I stop midreach.
“Yes, dear, you.” Gail smiles again, causing the sides of her mouth to crease but not showing any teeth.
“Me?” Not that I don’t think I’m interesting, but I can’t imagine why Gail would even care what my name is.
“Oh, aren’t you a delight. Kit mentioned you had a sense of humor. I’m sure it comes in handy with Kat. She has such a unique sense of humor.”
“Yes, I guess. It helps to have a sense of humor.” Mr. Mayor has talked about me to his
mother
. Sorry, but instead of feeling a thrill, it kind of creeps me out.
“Kit has nothing but praise for you, dear. He says Kat would be lost without you.”
“Uh, thanks?” Praise for my job performance at the expense of my boss. I’m not sure how I should take it.
“Tell me, how do you find that our Kat is adjusting?”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Gail raises an eyebrow and purses her mouth.
“She enjoys her duties, I mean, she likes to cut ribbons and go to functions and stuff like that. She likes kids. She really does well at functions where kids are involved.” This is not quite true. She always makes me carry hand sanitizer and vitamin C whenever we have to drop in on after-school programs or library readings.
“Yes, but I’m sure you know there is more to being the wife of a politician than looking pretty for pictures. She is now representing the Baxter family.”
It’s no secret that the Baxter family is the poor person’s version of the Kennedy clan and, despite being Presbyterian, lacks that
oomph
to fill books and inspire a miniseries or two. This lasting stain on the good family name is something that has irked Gail, dear to no end, and she’s spent her entire life trying to redeem the family legacy.
“I think she’s doing OK.” And I really do just mean OK. Not bad, not spectacular, just OK. I know this won’t cut the mustard with Gail, dear. “At least, I think so.”
“What can you tell me about this reporter Emilio Cortez?”
“Not much.” Especially, not that he’s trying to tempt me to spill my guts or go work for him. I’m not sure which would be considered a worse betrayal in this family.
“He seems to have ears in places where he shouldn’t.” Gail’s hands are loosely clasped on her lap, making them look like talons.
“I’ve discussed it with Katherine. And I, uh, mentioned it to him, Emilio Cortez. I’m not sure what I can do about it. We’re all very discreet, of course. If someone is talking, it’s not me.”
“It’s the Baxter-family image that is being damaged and as her assistant it’s your job to make sure she upholds those standards.”
If this woman knew how much I’d sacrificed for the sake of keeping her son and his wife looking halfway happy she’d be kissing my ass instead of trying to grill it. I take a deep breath and then another one. I’m pissed.
“Is there an issue with my performance?” And if there is, shouldn’t it be the Mayors who should bring it up?
“Of course not, dear. What would ever give you that idea? I just want you to know that if there is ever any situation where you think you need a little help I want you to make sure to call my assistant and we’ll be there for you. And for Kat, of course.”
“Of course.” I watch Gail’s eyes focus on something behind me, for an instant they narrow in annoyance.
“Jacqs?” Vivian calls from the foyer.
“Here!” I clear my throat and stand up. “Here. In here, Vivian.”
“Hello?” Vivian enters cautiously. I almost cry with relief when I see she’s carrying our coats. “Hello, Mrs. Baxter. Are you ready to go, Jacquelyn? We’re all done here.”
“Leaving so soon? Are you sure you wouldn’t care for something to drink?” Gail is forced to ask, but clearly the arrival of Vivian has ruined the momentum of her polite interrogation of me.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Baxter,” Vivian says, “We have some urgent business to attend to for the Mayor and Katherine.” Vivian entwines my arm with hers. “If you would excuse us.”
“Thank you for the water,” I say, not wanting to piss off Gail any more than I may already have.
“My pleasure,” Gail, dear says, shooting Vivian a stony smile in return, to my relief. “Dinner is promptly at 7, cocktails at 6.”
“Bye!” Not a chance in hell I’m setting foot in that place again. Even if I didn’t get a look at the rest of it.
29
Vivian and Natasha
A
round us stilted conversation and uncomfortable laughter abound. This could be a family gathering or a wake. Small groups and couples dot the ballroom-sized terrace while uniform clad wait staff hired for the evening circulate with mixed drinks on silver trays. The perfect summer scene, except it’s February and freezing.
Mrs. Baxter says we are to socialize, assistants and mayoral staff included, for exactly twenty-five more minutes before we are let in for dinner. I think I have about fifteen minutes until hypothermia sets in but I’m too intimidated to retreat inside.
“What’s up with Natasha and those little pills and where can I get some?” Vivian asks as she waves over a waiter.
“I’m not sure.” I shrug. But I’m not sure I don’t want to know. She’s been popping them like crazy, each color changing her energy level and mood. “Look, they’ve finally moved!”
I grab Vivian’s hand and charge toward the sole heat lamp Mrs. Baxter has allowed on the terrace. Vivian’s lips are turning slightly blue underneath her peachy lip gloss.
“Is it her slut husband?” Vivian rolls her eyes.
“You know about Jesus?” I’m hurt. I thought this was just between me and Natasha, something she could only confide in me.
We both look to where Natasha is sitting, enveloped in a faux fur coat, having an animated conversation with seventy-five-year-old Clarence W. Baxter, retired CEO of some Baxter conglomerate or another. Whatever tales Natasha is regaling him with have left him doubled over with laughter.
At least they seem to be having a good time, unlike Mrs. Mayor in her painfully tasteful Chanel suit who is (unsuccessfully) trying to blend in. She can play witty, but this crowd demands razor wit. I almost feel sorry for her.
“What’s the deal? They breaking up?” Vivian just won’t let the subject drop.
“I don’t think so.” I should be asking Vivian the same question. Right before “cocktail hour” Vivian called Curtis and gave him a tongue-lashing and he returned the favor. Even though she retreated to the bathroom, Natasha and I could make out every cringe-inducing word. They went from spat to separation in one phone call.
“You can tell me, Jacqs.” Vivian pokes me in the ribs.
“She’s hinted that life with him has been less than rosy.” I’ll indulge her, she needs the distraction.
“Welcome to the club, sister.” Vivian rewraps herself in a flimsy shawl.
“I, for one, am a happy ex-member, thank you very much. Honestly, why bother? Men and relationships just seem to be too much trouble and a waste of energy. Where are the benefits?” The more time that passes between the now me and the married me, the more that seems clear. I think it’s a breakthrough of sorts. I’ll have to make sure to mention this to Dr. N.
“You’re just fooling yourself, Jacqs. You’re in love with Mr. Mayor.”
“I am not!” Not love, but definitely a huge, throbbing crush.
“You’ve just confirmed it for me! Ha!” Vivian is getting loud. I take her empty glass out of her hand and shoo away the waiter when he offers to bring a fresh one. Vivian inclines her head toward where Natasha is being summarily dismissed. “Looks like Mrs. Stick-Up-Her-Ass has reclaimed her hubby before he can experience any more joy in life.”
“These people, man, they have the best manners but manage to be rude at the same time.” After my trial-by-Gail, I’ve been reluctant to engage any of them in conversation, much less make eye contact. I tried to get out of dinner but was informed that this would not be acceptable.
“It’s called breeding, my dear. They can’t help themselves. Their nannies never really loved them.” Vivian snorts. People look over at us.
“Hi, gals, what’s shaking?” Natasha bats her Twiggy eyelashes at us innocently.
“Making friends, I see.” I entwine my arm through hers for warmth and to keep her out of trouble.
“Oh, Clarence? He’s a hoot. There is some gay in that old dog.”
“I’m sure his wife would be thrilled to find that out.” Vivian takes Natasha’s other arm.
I am exhausted from standing up so straight and minding my manners. Not that anyone has bothered to test me, but I must remain vigilant. “We just have to make it through this dinner and then we can leave tomorrow for Santa Barbara.”
Instead of a constipated bunch of uptight Wasps, I can relax around a swarm of backstabbing gossipmongers who talk policy the way these people talk horses. Suddenly a trip home amongst my family, who drive me crazy but aren’t phonies, sounds like just what I need.
“About dinner, Jacqs, these things usually have assigned seating,” Vivian says with the slightest of slurs. “Where you sit says a lot as to how important you are in the Baxter universe.”
“We can’t sit together?” Panic rises in my chest. I already have spied at least four people I don’t want to sit next to or even share oxygen with. Not that I’m flattering myself; they look like they’d crush me like a bug just for the entertainment. Now I have to worry about this being a popularity contest?
“Oh, goody, I hope they sit me next to that Clarence. That old coot is a hoot,” Natasha says a bit too loudly. Vivian pats her arm.
“They’re all coots.” Vivian and Natasha laugh for a bit longer than they should. “It’ll be OK, Jacqs. Like you said, just this dinner and we’re out of here.”
“Is it too late to get appendicitis and bail?”
“That wouldn’t be polite,” Vivian and Natasha answer simultaneously.