Sixteen

Analyze This

“MOLLY, IT WAS MOLLY, not Paige,” I groan, unable to make sense out of yesterday afternoon’s events.

“Maybe that’s the problem. Molly’s always been so low-maintenance. If it’d been Paige you’d be sore but not surprised, probably not fair to either one of them. Here,” Sienna says, breaking off a piece of chocolate and handing me a square. “The guy at Whole Foods told me that each batch of this stuff is exposed for five days to the electromagnetically recorded brain waves of meditating monks.”

I roll the chocolate around in my mouth. “Did he tell you they were praying for world peace and zero calories?”

“Actually he said they were praying to raise enough money to buy an air conditioner for the monastery.”

I smile and reach for the rest of the bar. “Maybe I’ll stop and buy some on the way home. As fellow small-business owners it’s practically our moral obligation to eat as much of this as we can. And Molly always likes to support a good cause. Maybe I can get her interested in something besides Brandon.”

Sienna raises an eyebrow but refrains from saying the obvious. No matter how many endorphins are crammed into a bar of chocolate it can never compete with the thrill of being with a boy. Especially a boy who I’ve now declared off-limits. I’m furious with Brandon. And myself. And with Peter. I’m so mad at Peter I might have to rip the shoulder pads out of his sports jacket. What the fuck is he doing in Hawaii at a time like this? He’s supposed to have been here to threaten that moron Marsh boy that he’ll chop him up into a million pieces with a meat cleaver if he ever so much as comes within a hundred feet of either of the girls ever again. And then Peter was supposed to have climbed into bed and made me believe that everything’s going to be all right.

I crumple up the candy wrapper and toss it into the wire wastepaper basket. Sienna and I are sitting behind a two-way mirror, waiting for a focus group that Bill’s organized with Veronica Agency clients to begin. The room where the meeting is taking place has a pale green carpet, soft lights, and comfortable-looking armchairs. On the other side of the wall, Sienna and I are perched on metal folding chairs. A fluorescent fixture makes me feel as if we’re the ones under investigation.

“I can’t even get hold of Peter,” I say sullenly. “He sent one email yesterday from Miami. Something about how when he got fired the company took away his BlackBerry and when he replaced it, he hadn’t wanted to spend the extra money for the world plan. ‘Didn’t think I’d need it, never expected to leave the house again.’ The damn thing doesn’t work outside the continental U.S.”

“Did he leave a hotel phone number?”

“Yup, but the phone lines are down. I tried calling all night.”

“I’m sure you’ll talk tonight. And you’re going to see him Saturday, right?”

“Maybe,” I say, rummaging around my purse for my phone. Still no messages from Peter. And nothing from Molly, either. “I’m not flying off to Hawaii until things are settled at home.”

Sienna leans forward on her chair and runs her hand comfortingly across my back. “I shouldn’t be giving advice. I’m not the mother of a teenager, or anybody’s mother, for that matter. And I’m not even very good with plants. Everybody says you can’t kill a cactus, but somehow I managed to.”

“You’re a great friend. And it seems like you’re becoming a pretty good girlfriend,” I say, looking through the two-way mirror at Bill, who’s just entered the room. He smiles up toward where he knows we’re sitting.

“We’ll see,” Sienna says, issuing a small wave back to her beau. “But the one thing I know is that you’re a terrific mother. Molly’s not screwing up her life.…”

“She’s just screwing around?” I say, distressed by Sienna’s choice of words.

“No. Molly’s just breaking away. She’s doing exactly what teenagers are supposed to do.”

“I thought you just said you didn’t know anything about being a parent?”

“I interviewed the star of Nanny 911 once. And I seem to remember a certain incident with the captain of the football team.…”

“Shit! Frank Fucking Nelson.” I shake my head. “He told me that if I could make out better than Serena Levine he’d take me to the junior prom instead of her.”

“And?” Sienna nudges.

“I could and he didn’t. What an asshole.”

“Right. Every girl needs to date at least one asshole so that when she meets a good guy, she’s smart enough to know it.”

Thank goodness for Sienna. I can always count on her for a rational perspective. It’s invaluable to have a friend who doesn’t freak out over every little thing that happens—not to mention one who remembers the day we sneaked off together to get our ears pierced, and my entire romantic history. “Frank Fucking Nelson, whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“Divorced, alcoholic out-of-work auto mechanic,” Sienna says, without missing a beat. “Actually, I hear he’s the CEO of a hedge fund.”

“Well, at least the out-of-work part is probably true.”

“And his knees. The man’s a forty-something ex–football player, he probably can’t go through an airport security line without setting off an alarm.”

I squeeze Sienna’s hand. I’d give anything for an alarm to go off in Molly’s head right now about Brandon. Or to hear a simple cellphone beep signaling that any of my loved ones is trying to reach me.

I set my phone on vibrate and clutch it in my hand. Sienna points to the room on the other side of the mirror, where the Veronica Agency’s clients—aka the Friends of Bill—are helping themselves to cups of coffee and settling into seats around a polished black conference table. Several of the guys are well-toned and others have slightly inflated waistlines, which when worn with an expensive enough business suit tell the world that a man’s well-fed and well-heeled. (Ironic that the same waistline on a guy in a sweatshirt with an exposed butt crack casts him into an entirely different social class.) Our clients are mostly average-looking, some above or below, but all of them, every last guy in the room, has one thing in common: Like Bill, our business partner and Sienna’s boyfriend, they’re all young. Which doesn’t go unnoticed by Sienna, either.

“Just look at those guys in there. Do you realize that when they were teething, we were getting braces? And the year we went off to college, they were entering kindergarten,” Sienna grumbles. She takes out her mirror and runs a comb through her luxurious hair, which she’s wearing an attractive shade darker than she did when she was on camera.

“You do realize Bill not only adores you, he helped us build a whole business around the idea of older women and younger men?”

“Sure, but I always figured I be with somebody thirteen years older, not the other way around. That way I wouldn’t have to worry when my looks started to go—the old coot would be too blind to notice.”

“You’ll always be gorgeous. You’re not really worried about your age difference, are you?”

“No, of course not. But I sometimes wish I was with a guy who remembers Watergate. Or water beds. Or when the Water Pik was invented,” Sienna says glibly.

Bill calls the meeting to order and I turn up the volume on the control panel of the two-way mirror so we can hear what everybody’s saying. For his first order of business, Bill holds up a large silver platter and asks if anyone wants a pastry. Unlike our escorts, who mostly passed on the donuts, every guy takes him up on the offer—except one, whom I recognize as Georgy’s date, Gabe.

“My new woman’s got me on Atkins,” he says with a broad smile, sounding proud that there’s a woman in his life who’s taking an interest in his health, even if she is on the payroll. Of course, Gabe’s the client who brought a French maid’s uniform and handcuffs along on the date—he likes taking orders.

“Oh c’mon,” says a ruddy-faced fellow, reaching for a cannoli. “For what Bill here is charging us you’d better get some free food thrown in with the deal.”

“Larry, you’re not complaining about the rates already, are you? Quality, gentlemen, comes at a price.”

Larry takes a generous bite of the cream-filled treat and, in the bargain, gets a thin dusting of powdered sugar around the edge of his mouth. “Nah, just giving you a hard time,” he says with a laugh.

“Speaking of which,” says a guy Bill introduced as his graduate school friend, Mike, “it was a hard time. A hard, hard time, if you get my drift. And me likey!”

“And me want-to-throw-up-y.” I giggle, rolling my eyes.

“You were right, dude, older women are more self-assured,” says the cannoli-eater, Larry, who’s now moved on to a Danish. Either these guys are going to have to work out their oral fixations in the bedroom or we’re going to have to put the lot of them on Atkins.

“Lucy showed me what a woman wants,” says Mike.

“Patricia spent a lot of time doing exactly what I want,” says her date, Matt, the trader who took her to the Literacy Partners benefit. “She looked great, she was comfortable talking to my colleagues, and she even told my boss’s wife where to score a discount on an alligator purse. Everyone was very impressed. Me too.” Matt whistles. “I haven’t had tongue kissing like that … Well, never.”

And it probably never cost you an extra twelve hundred bucks, I think.

Even Gary, the sports aficionado whom the shy divorcée Rochelle left stranded in a hotel room, has gotten over his initial disappointment. “Thanks for the free ride.” He winks at Bill, referring to our cancelling his fee and setting him up for a complimentary evening with Diane, who he describes as “a knockout.” A wise decision, because in the long run we’ll make more money from a satisfied customer.

Sienna’s typing every word into her computer and I’m trying to remember them: self-assured, sophisticated, a knockout, worldly, smart. Bill was right, sexy, adult women are in demand. The Veronica Agency is filling a niche that sounds like it might be even bigger than bamboo flooring. I’m feeling pretty good about being a member of this covetable crowd. Although not every man in the room is enough of a grown-up to appreciate a grown-up woman.

“Yeah, Diane was super, a great gal,” Gary says, steepling his fingertips together. “But I was thinking, it might be nice for this stallion to take a tumble with a younger filly, if you get my drift. Got any of those in your stable?”

“Stallion? That idiot thinks he’s a stallion? Jackass is more like it,” Sienna hisses.

Bill looks sternly around the table at his nerdy Masters of the Universe. “All I’ve been hearing for twenty minutes is how great these women are. That, gentlemen, is because they’re Thoroughbreds.”

“I’m with you, man,” says Matt, raising his coffee mug.

“Yeah, those twenty-something girls are too insecure and needy. The Veronicas are cultured and confident,” agrees Lucy’s date, Mike. Then he laughs. “Besides, at their age, they’re grateful.”

“Grateful? Did that toady little worm actually use the word ‘grateful’? He’s the one who should be grateful. He can’t even get someone to sleep with him unless he pays for it,” Sienna fumes, as she takes out her anger on the keys of her laptop.

The guys on the other side of the two-way mirror have no idea that they’re being observed with the intensity of Jane Goodall studying her chimpanzees. Like their primate ancestors, I notice that they become more aggressive after feeding—as the meeting winds down they crack a few lewd jokes, slap one another on the back, and poke each other in the ribs. Bill asks the men to fill out questionnaires, and as they leave he takes their requests for future dates. Several minutes later, carrying his suit jacket over his arm and humming, Bill bounds out of the luxurious conference room into our cramped, overlit space.

“I think that went really well,” Bill says, leaning in to kiss Sienna who moves her cheek away.

“You do?”

“Yes, look here,” he says, spreading out a fistful of questionnaires, which he’s already tabulated. “Customer satisfaction is over ninety percent. All of the men have signed up for at least three more dates each and at least half of them said they had friends who’d like to become clients, too. And except for that imbecile Gary, no one else wanted to try somebody new—everybody is happy with their match. We’re a success!” Bill exclaims, gathering his arms around our shoulders and ignoring Sienna’s signals that she doesn’t necessarily share his elation.

Sienna shoots Bill a stony look and breaks free from his embrace. “I think we have to start being a little more selective about our clientele,” she says icily. “Tell that Gary if he doesn’t appreciate our services we’d prefer he take his business elsewhere. And that Mike. And that asshole J.D. you set Tru up on a date with.”

“J.T. And could everybody stop saying that I went out on a date?”

“Don’t be unreasonable, Sienna. This is business. Do you think the dry cleaner loves everyone whose pants they press?” Bill says.

“The dry cleaner doesn’t have to get in bed with his customers, our women do.”

“Sienna …”

“Bill!” Sienna mocks, in a tone that tells me she’s asking for trouble. How can my best friend be so levelheaded about my problems and so quick to fly off the handle when it comes to her own? Sure, I wasn’t happy about Gary’s reaction either, but ten men in the room issued total raves.

Sienna turns her attention back to her computer and vigorously types a few more sentences. Then circling her hand in the air with the baroque flourish of Yo Yo Ma leading a symphony orchestra, she aims her pointer finger at the keyboard and jabs the “send” button.

“HOW ARE THINGS at the office?” Paige, who of course thinks I’m running a temp agency, asks as she tumbles onto the living room couch. I bite into an apple, producing a crunchy argh sound that pretty well describes my mood.

“Fine,” I say, sitting down next to her, although I’m rattled by Sienna’s outburst this afternoon. Things have been going so smoothly between Bill and Sienna—too smoothly, based on her past romantic experiences—that I can’t help worrying that she’s making a mountain out of a molehill to put their relationship to some kind of unpassable test. Not to mention the stress she’s putting on our business. Still, Molly isn’t speaking to me and Peter’s off in Hawaii, so I’m in no position to cast stones.

Anxiously I glance at the end table where the answering machine sits. Now that there are cellphones the once essential house phone is about as outdated as a bar of soap in a world of alpha hydroxy. Yet despite that and the fact that no lights are blinking, which already gives me my answer, I can’t help asking as casually as I can manage, “Did Daddy call?”

“No, isn’t he out of town? He tiptoed into our room before it was even light out the other morning to say that he and Tiffany were going to Hawaii so she could give women at these fancy hotels makeovers and they could sell a ton of BUBB stuff. Lucky Daddy. I wouldn’t mind lying around on some beach.”

“Well, it’s not a vacation,” I say archly. At least I hope not. I’m sure Peter’s working round the clock with a whole boatload of people, trying to sell Tiffany’s cream. Tiffany’s probably up to her perfectly turned ankles in mascara and moisturizer; they couldn’t possibly have a minute alone.

“Mom,” Paige says, fluttering her hand in front of my face, trying to snap me back to attention. “Anything wrong?”

“No. Just wondering if Daddy remembered to bring a sweater,” I say distractedly. “It can get cold at night, even in Hawaii.” At least I hope he’s cold at night in his big, lonely bed without me cuddled next to him. I tuck my feet onto the couch and reach over to rub my toes. Paige wraps my apple core in a napkin and pitches it onto the makeshift crate coffee table. Then she brushes my hand aside and starts massaging my tired soles.

“Um, that feels wonderful,” I say, closing my eyes and surrendering to her relaxing ministrations. Then the lightbulb goes off. “Okay, what do you want?”

“Mom, that is so, like, jaded. Just because I do something nice why does it have to mean that I want something?”

“Sorry, honey, you’re right.” I settle back into the pillowy cushions as Paige kneads her fingers across my toes with the perfect amount of pressure. After a few moments she clears her throat.

“So, Mom, I know that you caught Molly making out with Brandon.…”

“And you’re okay with that?” I ask, startled.

“Well, more okay than you are. At least I didn’t go all ballistic or anything when she told me.”

“That’s very mature of you,” I say. Call me “mature” and I bristle, but for teenagers, it’s a point of pride. Still, what I really mean is: What the heck is going on? If her twin sister was making out with a boy she was dating even the queen of England would show more emotion. “I thought you liked Brandon. Why exactly are you taking this so well?”

“Oh, you know, lots of other fish in the sea and all that,” Paige says evasively, and before I have a chance to dig any deeper, Molly walks into the room. Despite my attempts to talk to her before she left for school this morning, Molly barely issued a grunt. But now, she lowers her eyes and sits down next to me.

“I know that I shouldn’t have been kissing Brandon in the den. I know I shouldn’t even have been seeing him,” she says, looking up at Paige, who’s seated on the other side of me. Paige stretches her arm across the back of the sofa to reach out for Molly, and I catch them smiling. Then each of them slips a hand into my lap. “I’m sorry, Mom,” says Molly, with what sounds like genuine contrition.

“Me too,” says Paige. “Neither of us ever should have been dating Brandon, should we, Molly?”

“No, we shouldn’t.”

“And we agreed, neither one of us is going to date him now, right?” she prompts.

“That’s right,” says Molly solemnly.

I’m glad, I’m grateful, I’m caught off guard by their united front. What mother wouldn’t want to believe that her daughters were throwing over that double-dealing dickhead of a Don Juan and finally getting along? Still, I wasn’t born yesterday.

“You’re sure?” I ask, swiveling my head back and forth between them. “I know you two must be up to something.”

Paige laughs. “Okay, Mol, it’s time to come clean. Mom, yes, we do want something. We know that Molly’s grounded, but tomorrow is Heather’s birthday party. Please, can Molly come? I know we’d have so much fun.”

“We’ll be home by midnight,” Molly pleads, and although she doesn’t have to say it, I know what she’s thinking. This is the first time since they were in grade school that Paige has invited her to come along with her friends.

“Heather’s parents are going to be at the party? You’ll be home by midnight? No more fights over Brandon?” I say, making sure we’re all on the same page.

Paige leans in for a hug. “Promise. We won’t even ask for new outfits. C’mon, Molly, let’s go look in the closet. I’ll let you borrow that purple Free People T-shirt that you like so much.”

A mother whose shit detector was in proper working order might not buy the happy-as-two-peas-in-a-pod sister act, but I’m so ready and willing to believe that peace has been restored to the household that I put any qualms on hold. Maybe the girls really are maturing. I know I feel like I’ve aged a decade in the last couple of days.