hadn’t seen a dentist or a gynecologist in a year.
“Anything I can do?” I asked, trying to sound casual while I racked my brain thinking of
why she’d called to tell me that she didn’t feel well. As far as we were both concerned, it
was completely and entirely irrelevant. She’d be at work on Monday whether she felt
well or not.
She coughed deeply and I heard phlegm rattling in her lungs. “Um, yeah, actually. God, I
can’t believe this is happening to me!”
“What? What’s happening?”
“I can’t go to Europe with Miranda. I have mono.”
“What?”
“You heard me, I can’t go. The doctor called today with the blood results, and as of right
now, I’m not allowed to leave my apartment for the next three weeks.”
Three weeks! She had to be kidding. There wasn’t time to feel badly for her—she’d just
told me she wasn’t going to Europe, and it was that thought alone—the idea that both
Miranda and Emily would be out of my life—that had sustained me through the past
couple months.
“Em, she’s going to kill you—you have to go! Does she know yet?”
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There was a foreboding silence on the other end. “Um, yeah, she knows.”
“You called her?”
“Yes. I had my doctor call her, actually, because she didn’t think that having mono really
qualified me as sick, so he had to tell her that I could infect her and everyone else, and
anyway . . .” Her sentence trailed off, and her tone was suggestive of something far, far
worse.
“Anyway what?” My self-preservation instincts had kicked into overdrive.
“Anyway . . . she wants you to go with her.”
“She wants me to go with her, huh? That’s cute. What’d she really say? She didn’t
threaten to fire you for getting sick, did she?”
“Andrea, I’m—” a deep, mucousy cough shook her voice and I thought for a moment
that she might very well die right there on the phone with me “—serious. Completely and
totally serious. She said something about the assistants they give her abroad being idiots
and that even you’d be better to have around than them.”
“Oh, well, when you put it like that, sign me up! Nothing quite like some over-the-top
flattery to convince me to do something. Seriously, she shouldn’t have said such nice
things. I’m blushing!” I didn’t know whether to focus on the fact that Miranda wanted me
to go to Paris with her, or that she only wanted me to go because she considered me
slightly less brain-dead than the anorexic French clones of, well . . . me.
“Oh, just shut up already,” she croaked in between fits of now annoying coughing.
“You’re the luckiest fucking person in the world. I’ve been waiting two years—over two
years—for this trip, and now I can’t go. The irony of this is painful—you realize that,
don’t you?”
“Of course I do! It’s one giant cliché: this trip is your sole reason for living and it’s the
bane of my existence, yet I’m going and you’re not. Life is funny, huh? I’m laughing so
hard I can barely stop,” I deadpanned, sounding not the least bit amused.
“Yeah, well, I think it sucks, too, but what can you do? I already called Jeffy to tell him
to start calling in clothes for you. You’ll have to bring a ton since you’ll need different
outfits for each of the shows you attend, any dinners, and, of course, for Miranda’s party
at the Hotel Costes. Allison will help you out with makeup. Talk to Stef in accessories for
bags and shoes and jewelry. You only have a week, so get on it first thing tomorrow,
OK?”
“I still don’t really believe she expects me to do this.”
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“Well, believe it, because she sure wasn’t kidding. Since I’m not going to be able to
come to the office at all this week, you’re also going to—”
“What? You’re not even going to come into theoffice ?” I might not have taken a sick
day or spent a single hour outside the office while Miranda was there, but Emily hadn’t,
either. The one time it had been close—when her great-grandfather had died—she’d
managed to get home to Philadelphia, attend the funeral, and be back at her desk without
missing a minute of work. This was how things worked. Period. Short of death
(immediate family only), dismemberment (your own), or nuclear war (only if confirmed
by the U.S. government to be directly affecting Manhattan), one was to be present. This
would be a watershed moment in the Priestly regime.
“Andrea, I have mononucleosis. I’m highly infectious. It’s really serious. I’m not
supposed to leave my apartment for a cup of coffee, never mind go to work for the day.
Miranda understands that, and so you’ll need to pick up the slack. There will be a lot to
do to get both of you ready for Paris. Miranda leaves on Wednesday for Milan, and then
you’ll be leaving to meet her in Paris the following Tuesday.”
“She understands that? C’mon! Tell me what she really said.” I refused to believe that
she’d accepted something as mundane as mono for an excuse to not be available. “Just
give me that small pleasure. After all, my life will be hell for the next few weeks.”
Emily sighed, and I could feel her eyes roll over the phone. “Well, she wasn’t thrilled. I
didn’t actually talk to her, you see, but my doctor said she kept asking if mono is a ‘real’
disease. But when he assured her that it was, she was very understanding.”
I laughed out loud. “I’m sure she was, Em, I’m sure she was. Don’t worry about a thing,
OK? You just concentrate on feeling better, and I’ll take care of everything else.”
“I’ll e-mail you a checklist, just so you don’t forget anything.”
“I won’t forget anything. She’s been to Europe four times in the past year. I’ve got it
down. I’ll get the cash from the basement bank, change a few grand into euros, buy a few
more grand’s worth of traveler’s checks, and triple confirm all of her hair and makeup
appointments while she’s there. What else? Oh, I’ll make sure the Ritz gives her the right
cell phone this time, and I’ll speak to the drivers ahead of time to make sure they know
they can’t ever leave her waiting. I’m already thinking of all the people who’ll need
copies of her itinerary—which I’ll type up, no problem—and I’ll see to it that it gets
passed around. And of course she’ll have a detailed itinerary as to the twins’ classes,
lessons, practices, and play dates, and full listings of the entire household staff’s work
schedules. See! You don’t have to worry—I’ve got it all under control.”
“Don’t forget about the velvet,” she chided, singing the last couple words as if on
autopilot. “Or the scarves!”
“Of course not! They’re already on my list.” Before Miranda packed for anything—or
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rather, had her housekeeper pack her—either Emily or I would purchase massive rolls of
velvet at a fabric store and bring them to Miranda’s apartment. There, we’d work with the
housekeeper to cut them in the exact shape and size of every article of clothing she was
planning to bring, and individually wrap each item in the plush material. The velvet
packages were then neatly stacked in dozens of Louis Vuitton suitcases, with plenty of
extra pieces included for when she inevitably threw the first batch out upon unpacking in
Paris. In addition, usually one half of a suitcase was occupied by a couple dozen orange
Hermès boxes, each containing a single white scarf just waiting to be lost, forgotten,
misplaced, or simply discarded.
I hung up with Emily after making a good effort to sound sincerely sympathetic and
found Lily stretched out on the couch, smoking a cigarette and sipping a clear liquid that
was definitely not water from a cocktail glass.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to smoke in here,” I said, flopping down next to her and
immediately putting my feet on the scuffed wooden coffee table my parents had handed
down to us. “Not that I care, but that wasyour rule.” Lily wasn’t a full-time, committed
smoker like yours truly; she usually smoked only when she drank and wasn’t one to even
buy packs. A brand-new box of Camel Special Lights peeked out of the chest pocket of
her oversize button-down. I nudged her thigh with my slippered foot and nodded toward
the cigarettes. She handed them over with a lighter.
“I knew you wouldn’t care,” she said, taking a leisurely drag off her cigarette. “I’m
procrastinating and it helps me concentrate.”
“What do you have due?” I asked, lighting my own cigarette and tossing back the lighter.
She was taking seventeen credits this semester in an effort to pull up her GPA after last
spring’s mediocre showing. I watched as she took another drag and washed it down with
a healthy gulp of her nonwater beverage. It didn’t appear that she was on the right track.
She sighed heavily, meaningfully, and let the cigarette hang suspended from the corner
of her mouth as she spoke. It flapped up and down, threatening to fall at any moment and,
combined with her wild, unwashed hair and smeared eye makeup, made her look—just
for a moment—like a defendant onJudge Judy (or maybe a plaintiff, since they always
looked the same—lack of teeth, greasy hair, dull eyes, and propensity for using the
double negative). “An article for some totally random, esoteric academic journal that no
one will ever read but I still have to write, just so I can say I’m published.”
“That’s annoying. When’s it due?”
“Tomorrow.” Total nonchalance. She looked completely unfazed.
“Tomorrow? For real?”
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She shot me a warning look, a quick reminder that I was supposed to be on her team.
“Yes. Tomorrow. It really blows, considering that Freudian Boy is the one who’s
assigned to edit it. No one seems to care that he’s a candidate in psych, not Russian lit—
they’re just short copy editors, so he’s mine. There’s noway I’m getting that to him on
time. Screw him.” Once again, she poured some of the liquid down her throat, making an
obvious effort not to taste it, and grimaced.
“Lil, what happened? Granted, it’s been a few months, but last I heard, you were taking
things slow and he was perfect. Of course, that was before that, thatthing you dragged
home, but . . .”
Another warning look, this time followed by a glare. I’d tried to talk to her about the
whole Freak Boy incident a few dozen times, but it seemed like we were never really
alone and neither of us had much time lately for heart-to-hearts. She immediately
changed the subject whenever I brought it up. I could tell that more than anything she
was embarrassed; she had acknowledged that he was vile, but she wouldn’t participate in
any discussion whatsoever about the excessive drinking that was responsible for the
whole episode.
“Yes, well, apparently at some point that night I called him from Au Bar and begged him
to come meet me,” she said, avoiding eye contact, instead concentrating intently on using
the remote control to switch tracks on the mournful Jeff Buckley CD that seemed to be on
permanent replay in the apartment.
“So? Did he come and see you talking to, uh, to someone else?” I was trying not to push
her away even more by being critical of her. There was obviously a lot going on inside
her head, what with the problems at school and the drinking and the seemingly limitless
supply of guys, and I wanted her to open up to someone. She’d never kept anything from
me before, if for no other reason than I was all she had, but she hadn’t been telling me
much of anything lately. It occurred to me how strange it was that we hadn’t bothered to
discuss this until four months after the fact.
“No, not quite,” she said bitterly. “He came all the way there from Morningside Heights
only to find me not there. Apparently he called my cell phone and Kenny answered and
wasn’t all that nice.”
“Kenny?”
“Thatthing I dragged home at the beginning of the summer, remember?” She said it
sarcastically, but this time she smiled.
“Ah-hah. I’m guessing Freudian Boy didn’t take that well?”
“Not so much. Whatever. Easy come, easy go, right?” She scampered off to the kitchen
with her empty glass and I saw her pour from a half-full bottle of Ketel One. A very
small splash of soda, and she was back on the couch.
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I was just about to inquire as gently as possible why she was inhaling vodka when she
had an article due the next day, but the buzzer rang from downstairs.
“Who’s there?” I called to John by holding down the button.
“Mr. Fineman is here to see Ms. Sachs,” he announced formally, all business now that
other people were around.
“Really? Um, great. Send him up.”
Lily looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and I realized that once again we weren’t
going to have this conversation. “You look psyched,” she said with obvious sarcasm.
“Not exactly thrilled that your boyfriend is surprising you, are you?”
“Of course I am,” I said defensively, and we both knew I was lying. Things with Alex
had been strained the past few weeks. Really strained. We went through all the motions
of being together and we did it well: after almost four years, we certainly knew what the
other wanted to hear or needed to do. But he’d compensated for all the time I spent at
work by being even more angelic at school—volunteering to coach, tutor, mentor, and
chair just about every activity someone could think up—and the time we did actually see
each other was about as exciting as if we’d been married for thirty years. We had an
unspoken understanding that we’d just wait things out until my year of servitude was
over, but I wouldn’t let myself think about where the relationship might be headed then.
But still. That made two close people in my life—first Jill (who’d called me out on the
miserable state of affairs on the phone the other night), and now Lily—who’d pointed out
that Alex and I were less than adorable together lately, and I had to admit that Lily had, in
her buzzed but nonetheless perceptive way, noticed that I was not happy to hear that Alex
had arrived. I was dreading telling him that I had to go to Europe, dreading the inevitable
fight that would ensue, a fight I very much would have liked to put off for a few more
