With Friends Like These: A Novel (39 page)

If you give it growth-stunting drugs
. “Where are the real bedrooms?” I asked, my enthusiasm wilting.

“Other side of the living room. Wait till you see the view from the master.” Horton led the way to a large suite. To the west, the Hudson rolled along on proud display. This I liked. He opened two doors to show off deep walk-in closets and a third to a bathroom whose phantom stylist had forgotten to remove price tags from the thick white towels. “His-and-hers sinks,” he crowed. “And the shower has steam.”

“Jake would like that,” I said, feeling obligated to shore up Horton. “Where’s the other bedroom?”

“Down the hall.” We made two sharp turns. “I know it’s not huge …”

From the room’s sole window I saw the sooty bricks of another building, six feet away. I couldn’t imagine raising a philodendron here, let alone a child. We returned to the living room and Horton reached into his briefcase. “Here’s the pro forma,” he said. My eyes raced to the bottom line. This apartment was no bargain. Even if a low bid might be accepted here, Jake and I would be strapped trying to handle the charges, especially since with a baby I could no longer take on as large a project as Maizie’s. I felt a thud of familiar disappointment, along with a distinctly sour feeling I couldn’t categorize. As I tucked the information in my pocket without speaking, we retraced our steps to the building’s entrance.

“You’re not excited,” Horton said.

“Honestly, I wish I were.”

“I’m not gaming you, Quincy. This building’s solid—well financed, down-to-earth neighbors, low monthly charges, and a fair price for this amount of space.” He ticked off each attribute on his finely gloved fingers but saw I was unconvinced. “You’re comparing this place to Central Park West, aren’t you?”

“If we’re going to be mortgage-poor, I’d at least like to be in love.”

He sent me a look that was not unkind. “Get that place out of your head. It was a gift from the gods.”

The gods giveth. The gods taketh away. I couldn’t help noticing a pattern. “Speaking of that,” I said as we walked—quickly, since it had started to drizzle—“did it ever sell?”

“Off the market. Talk on the street is it’s in contract to an insider, but there hasn’t been a closing yet.”

I put one foot in front of the other and gritted my teeth as Arthur and Jules dive-bombed into my mind. They were hand in hand, admiring the pink, yellow, and white flowers that bedecked the park in April like party decorations. The happy couple were leaning out of the fourteenth-floor window of their living room, straining to get a better view of the forsythia, callery pear, and cherry tree blossoms. Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling scream as a body tumbled through the air, arms and legs spinning like a pinwheel, ending with a noise as loud as an explosion.

Whoops. The strangest things happen when people overreach
, I thought as I put names to my other feelings—envy, jealousy, and the lingering taste of anger.

  
Talia

“Mommy, do I have a play date today?” This was the first question Henry, who’d become heavily invested in his social calendar, lobbed at me.

“Not today,” I said, still blurry.

“Mommy? Mommy?”

Who else does he think is in this bed?
Tom hadn’t been here for almost a week. Fully awake now, I said, “Yes,
boychik
.”

That made Henry smile. “Is today the day we’re visiting Aunt Jules?”

I glanced at the clock. “We’re leaving when the big hand gets to the twelve and the small hand to the eight. Did you color her a picture?”

“Oh, crap—”

“Henry Thomas, what did you say?”

“I mean, uh-oh. I forgot.” He scurried out of the room, leaving me to wonder how well Tom was disguising his rage when I wasn’t around. If Henry was near us, Tom sprang into what I used to think of as his normal self, but when we were alone, he throbbed with politeness, even his posture stiff.

I needed a break from the permafrost. For that day, Henry and I had
planned an adventure, to take the subway to Grand Central and the train to Westport, where Jules would pick us up and we’d stay overnight. She’d promised surprises. Henry was hoping for a Thomas the Tank engine; he considered it the height of social injustice that Dash Keaton owned one and he didn’t, when it was his middle name. As for me, if I rolled off the 10:09 to a rosebud-strewn path and was thrown to the mat as Jules’ matron of honor during a quickie marriage ceremony, I’d be no more shocked than if she announced that we were guests at her bon voyage party before she emigrated to New Zealand to raise goats.

I knew four things: Jules had been ducking every question I asked. Tom had been speaking to me only when we were with Henry. I had never been more miserable. And I should have seen all this coming.
Only a fool is her own informer
, Mean Maxine reminded me every day, I never should have told Tom I’d gone after a job that might have been Chloe’s
beshert
.

I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom. While I was showering, Henry ran into the bathroom and screeched, “Mommy, Mommy, it’s buzzing.”

“Put it down on the sink, please,” I screeched back. “And don’t drop it. Be gentle.” My bet was that Jules had called with a request for some delicacy she couldn’t find in her local market—the apple and rosemary jam she slathered on scones, perhaps; I’d insisted she give me a shout-out with a list of any last-minute items she needed. Only after I washed away the goo in my hair and moisturized every inch of my thirsty skin did I check to see who’d texted.
Need u today after all
. At least my boss, Eliot the Oracle, had added,
Sorry
.

I wanted to hurl the BlackBerry against the mirror. How dare Chloe be MIA—again—and let me discover the information through Eliot, the paycheck-writing side of our triangle? Once upon a time she’d have called, lubricated with embarrassment and regret, and slobber on about an emergency. I wouldn’t be hearing of this disruption in my life—and Henry’s—from the Oracle, whom I phoned immediately, though it was only minutes past seven. “Really?” I said. “I was set to go out of town.”

He offered a tepid apology before taking off on Chloe. “Asleep at the wheel” crescendoed to “This job-share thing will work only if you two make it work, and I get the feeling you aren’t even talking.” Before I defended my answer, he spat out, with more anxiety than annoyance, “Do you think Chloe’s looking for another job?”

Of course I did. “No, never,” I answered. “Something major must have come up. Don’t worry. I’ll be in as soon as I can.” I hoped he’d been keeping track of my superlative attendance record. “I—I have to ask you a favor, though,” I stammered. “Would it be all right if I brought Henry to work?”

There was an unnerving pause. “Why?” he asked. “What happened to your backup child care?”

Miss Poppins on retainer? “Our backup nanny came down with …” I stood buck naked and clammy. “Legionnaire’s disease.”

He responded with the kind of wheeze that arrives with a shrug. “Sure, bring the little guy. Maybe he can help with the vacuum cleaner campaign.”

I didn’t know who’d be most disappointed—Henry, Jules, or me—and had started rehearsing a lie to tell my son and my friend when Tom entered the bedroom, dressed for school. “Why not the clap?” he asked. “You know that nanny of ours is the biggest slut north of Brighton Beach.” As he sauntered through the bedroom en route to the bathroom he swatted my butt.

I’ve never been a skilled marital ninja. Fights agitate me, their tension like binding shoes I can never wait to kick off, and I wasn’t going to risk mangling this opportunity for détente. I forced my face into a pleasant expression and tried to disguise my suspicion of Tom’s sudden buoyant behavior. “You heard?” I replied. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

“Why do you suppose Chloe’s done this?” I’d miscalculated. Tom’s condescension was like a splash of dirty water, returning me to simmering skepticism. Why didn’t he simply ask if Chloe knew I’d tried to steal the job, the one I hadn’t bothered to tell him I’d turned down, a decision I now regretted almost as much as going after the job in the first place?
Since I’d told Winters Jonas I was declining his offer, on at least four occasions I’d picked up the phone to call and try to reverse my decree, before I reminded myself that someone else undoubtedly had been thrilled to accept the position and might have started working at Bespoke already.

“Don’t be a dick,” I said, and turned my back on Tom.

“You’re right.” His tone didn’t indicate whether I should expect another barrage. “The dick apologizes.”

“Apology accepted,” I said after a moment, although I didn’t know if it was a comprehensive apology or a minor footnote.

“My class has a field trip to the Museum of Natural History today. Henry can come along and be their mascot.”

How could I refuse when the alternative was for Henry to suffer through copywriters debating how to sell OCD-inclined consumers on the merits of hypoallergenic filtration systems, comfort handles, and advanced sound-dampening technology?

“I accept, thanks.” But I couldn’t work myself up to even a hug.

I found Henry in the kitchen, chomping on cinnamon toast Tom had made for him. “Pumpkin, there’s been a change of plans,” I said. “Instead of going to Aunt Jules’ today, Daddy’s going to take you to the museum with the dinosaurs.” I was prepared to embellish with details about an ice cream cone and a plastic brontosaurus, but Henry flung his toast in the air like a mortarboard and shot out of his chair, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy? Are you really, really taking me?”

I was near the front door when Tom stopped me. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about public school,” he said. “The one in our neighborhood is pretty good.”

One arm in my coat, the other arm out, I looked up at him.
Tell me something I don’t know
. “I get that,” I said, wearier than a woman my age had a right to feel after eight hours of sleep. “It’s no Jackson Collegiate, but it’s free, and if we become involved parents—”

“Will you let me finish?” His tone stung. “I’ve been talking to people at the playground.” Female people, I assumed. “Some of them are very high on P.S. 282 over on Sixth. Strong gifted program, chess, excellent
student/teacher ratio. But most people think P.S. 107 on Eighth is the up-and-comer. The thing is, last year, there were two hundred sixty-three applications for only eighteen spots—the odds are harder than getting into Harvard.”

I appreciated that Tom had done due diligence, but why did we need to discuss this now? I heard only a blizzard of numbers. “Okay, I was wrong. We’ll wait it out, and if he doesn’t get a scholarship at Jackson, we’ll send him to one of those schools.”

“Hold on. There’s more. I have it on good authority that if we’re willing to write a letter to 107’s principal, declaring sincere interest in her school and promising we won’t flip-flop should Henry get a scholarship from Jackson later, there’s an excellent chance—but no guarantee—he’ll be accepted.” He paused. “You’d think the system for public school would be democratic, but it isn’t.”

I inhaled the information. “But you’ve already mailed off the Jackson Collegiate application?” Tom had worked on it for weeks. “Let’s say this Princeton of pre-Ks turns us down. Henry could still possibly go to Jackson, assuming he’s accepted? So this might—just might—be a win-win, unless, of course, we get rejected everywhere?”

“Talia, you’re not reading the subtext.”
You never do
, his face said. “If we go for 107, we go for it alone. We’d need to pull the application at Jackson, because we might hear from them first. To proceed any other way would be dishonorable.”

God forbid anyone in this family is dishonorable. Oh, I forgot. I was
. “Our son’s education is one big crap shoot?”

“That about sums it up,” he said. “Your call.”

  
Chloe