Mrs. Perfect (16 page)

I take one of Nathan’s slim black Tumi leather folders and slide another copy of my résumé inside the left pocket, check to make sure the top sheet of the lined notebook on the right side is crisp and clean. I put a slim gold pen in the pen spot. There’s nothing else I can do but go.

I’m nervous as I leave home, my stomach one big ball of butterflies. I get there twenty minutes early. I don’t need another cup of coffee, so I order an herbal tea, something minty to soothe my nerves.

After a few minutes the door opens and a young woman walks out. She’s dressed in a fashionable gray wool suit with a matching vest—no blouse, I notice—and wide trouser legs, very high heels. She’s wearing strands of amber beads at her throat and is carrying a sharp lime green faux (I think it’s faux) crocodile tote.

She breezes past me, all business and confidence. As I stand there, my hand trembles ever so slightly. I’ve got to be a good ten years older than this thin, tan, strawberry blond girl. Ten years older and yet a whole life apart in heartache.

I never thought I’d be back out here, job hunting, at least not hunting for a job that would actually pay the bills. I thought anything I did from now on would be artistic. Interesting. Something I did out of personal curiosity instead of financial need.

The door to the conference room remains open, and with a glance at my watch I see it’s eleven-thirty now. Taking a deep breath, I head for the conference room, determined just to get the interview done and out of the way.

I’m shocked when I enter through the open door and spot Marta Zinsser sitting behind the conference table, a notebook on the table along with a pen and her cell phone.

I very nearly walk out.

“Hi,” Marta says with a smile that’s more professional than warm. She’s actually dressed up today, wearing a St. John type of suit with a mandarin collar in cream.

“
You’re
the one hiring?”

“Yes.”

I stand in the doorway, my slim leather portfolio clutched to my chest, and I feel beyond foolish. I’m absurd. “I didn’t know.”

Marta gestures to the chair opposite hers at the conference table. “Have a seat, please.”

“Marta—”

“Are you looking for a job or not?”

Swallowing my pride, or what’s left of what was once immense pride, I nod and sit, perching carefully on the chair edge.

“I’m looking for a new office manager. My current office manager has a new position—a great position, and I’m very happy for her—but I need someone smart, organized, and reliable to take over when Susan leaves at the end of the month.”

I nod.

“The job responsibilities include handling the phone, scheduling meetings, invoicing clients, following up with the printers on projects, and generally doing whatever we need done to keep the business going.” She pauses, looks hard at me. “Can you do that?”

I’m mortified. Beyond mortified. Can I handle the phone? Schedule meetings? Pick up documents at the printers? I’ve raised hundreds of thousands of dollars for the school, organized virtually every fund-raiser the school has ever had, headed the PTA, represented the parents of Points Elementary at the Bellevue Unified Foundation.

My face flames. “Yes.”

Her gaze rests steadily on my face. “It’s a busy office with some intense, as well as creative, personalities.”

Spine stiffening, I sit taller. “I have a degree in communications, and before I married I worked in event planning and public relations, two fields that attract the creative types.”

She shrugs calmly. “You’ve been out of the workforce for over a decade.”

“I might not have earned a paycheck, Marta, but I’ve worked every day this past decade.”

Marta’s lips twist, and she studies me for a long moment. “So why do you want this job?”

I can’t quite manage to stifle my exasperation. “I’m not sure that I do.” I see her eyebrows rise, and I add, “I want a job, and I know I can contribute. I’ve always been successful at whatever I do, but I’m going to be honest and say I don’t know that I could work for you.”

She doesn’t even flinch. “Why not?”

I shouldn’t say it. I need to bite my tongue, do some serious self-editing here, because I can’t tell her that I don’t like her. I can’t tell her that working for her would be akin to drinking rat poison. “We don’t have a lot in common,” I answer as delicately as I can.

“I don’t think having commonalities is essential in this position. I own the company. I’m the boss. You’d work for me.” Marta stands, slides some brochures and glossy magazines across the table toward me. “Here’s what we do. These are samples of Z Design’s work. Take a look at them. Read up on us. If you’re interested in being considered for the final interview, call Susan at the office. Otherwise, good luck, Taylor. I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

I’ve been dismissed. Hot color floods my face, and I rise on shaking legs to awkwardly gather the brochures and periodicals. “Thank you.” My voice, pitched low, cracks as I head for the door.

“Taylor.”

I stop, turn my head toward her but don’t make eye contact.

“Eva heard at school about all the . . . changes . . . you’re going through.” Marta pauses. “I know it’s small comfort, but I am sorry. It can’t be easy for your children.”

I leave Starbucks as fast as I can. I’ve got to get away. Have to escape.

It’s too awful, too painful, too horrible at every level.

Marta Zinsser pities me.

I get the girls up and off to school Friday morning and am in the car now, driving Tori to preschool. As I drive, I clamp my jaw tight to keep from making a sound.

I’m lost.

Absolutely, terrifyingly lost.

My fingers squeeze convulsively on the wheel. My left high heel grinds into the floor mat. I’ve no idea who I am. No idea who this woman in this car is. I’ve no idea who is behind all this makeup and in these elegant, extravagant clothes.

Every day I dress myself and do my hair and put creams and lotions on my face, but I see now I’ve been creating someone else, someone not new, just someone better. It’s as if there’s a better version of me out there in the universe and I’m determined to find it, determined to make that better me a reality. Because God knows, the me that is, isn’t good enough.

A small sound escapes from me. I press my lips together harder even as hot tears fill my eyes. Can’t cry. Mustn’t cry. Blinking very hard, I concentrate on driving.

“Mommy?” Tori’s voice pipes up from the backseat.

I sniff. “Yes, honey?”

“You sad?”

I swallow hard, so hard that it hurts my throat. “No, honey. Mommy’s just getting a cold.”

After dropping off Tori, I consider going to the club. It’s Friday. I could do one of the yoga or Pilates classes. It would help. It might make the yawning sadness go away. But I’m too sad to go to the gym, too sad to change, too sad to face people. I can’t face anyone. I can’t even face myself.

Instead I go home and unzip my black boots and strip off my lovely black knit Donna Karan sweater dress and climb into bed in my lovely black lace bra and panties. And in my lovely $500 bra and panties set, I cry.

How could I possibly have thought that a $500 bra and panties set would change anything? How could I have thought clothes, even gorgeous, expensive clothes, would change me?

Oh, my God. All this money spent. All these things we bought. For what? To feel what? Better? Happier? Different?

I’m still in bed hours later. I’ve slept for a couple of hours and am awake again, but I can’t drag myself up.

I need a job. Marta Zinsser’s company might have a position for me. If I wanted the job, I wouldn’t have to interview anymore. I wouldn’t have to worry anymore. I could start earning income right away. No more garage sales. No more worrying about Nathan and what he decides. I’d at least be able to provide.

But Marta. Working for Marta. Being Marta’s assistant . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut as I picture her free-spirit ways, and maybe that’s what I resent most. She’s successful doing things her way. It’s so obvious she enjoys being a renegade.

I’m still lying in bed staring at nothing, thinking too much, feeling absolutely desperate, when the phone next to the bed rings.

I don’t want to answer it. I won’t answer it. Voice mail can take a message. But as it rings a third time, I fight my own exasperation and reach for it, taking the call. “Hello?”

“Taylor?” It’s Lucy, and her voice is thick with tears. “Are you busy?”

“No. No, I’m not busy. What’s wrong?”

“Oh God, Taylor, oh God. What have I done?” Her voice rises to a keening, grieving pitch. “I’ve ruined everything, and I want to die. I do. I can’t do this anymore—”

“Where are you?” I interrupt.

She sobs harder. “I don’t know. On the 405 somewhere. I’ve been driving in circles. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know where to go. I’m afraid to stop driving, afraid of what I might do.”

She’s hiccuping and sobbing, and I’m worried about her driving like this. It’s dangerous. Glancing out the window, I see that the sky is a steely gray, but at least it’s dry. There is no rain.

“Come over, Lucy. Come over right now.”

“I can’t,” she gasps. “I can’t. I’ve been crying so hard. I can’t let anybody see me this way.”

“There’s no one here. It’d be just you and me—”

“You’d hate me like this. I’m wrecked, just wrecked, Taylor.”

“That’s okay, I’m wrecked, too.”

“Not you. You’re Taylor. Taylor Young.”

I put a hand over my eyes. “Lucy—” My voice breaks. “Lucy, no one knows, but I’m in trouble, too.”

“You are?” She sniffles, sounds surprised.

“Yes. So it’s okay to have a bad day. I’m having a bad day. Maybe we should both just have bad days together.”

Silence stretches, and she draws a shuddering breath. “I don’t know, Taylor. I don’t know.”

I sit up, swing my legs out of bed. “Where are you, Lucy?”

“Um. Uh, somewhere between Woodinville and Mill Creek.”

“So turn around. Head to my house. I’ll see you in twenty to thirty minutes.”

Chapter Fifteen

“People keep telling me it’s going to get better, but it’s not. It’s been six months, and every month just gets worse.”

Lucy sits curled in one of the wheat-colored armchairs in my living room, a butterscotch cashmere throw over her lap, clutching a cup of warm tea.

Her pale hair is loose and messy, as though she forgot to comb it this morning, and her eyes are nearly as pink and shiny as her nose. I’d never seen her without makeup until today.

“Everything hurts,” she adds huskily, “and the only thing the doctor can suggest is medication. Something so I can sleep at night. Something so I can function during the day.” She makes a soft, rough sound, and her eyes well with tears all over again. “I guess that’s how we’re supposed to cope these days. Pills and alcohol.”

“Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

She shakes her head, sips her tea.

“Lucy.”

She shakes her head again even as a tear rolls down her cheek. “I didn’t want anyone to see me this way. It’s embarrassing. I’m a mom. I can’t be falling apart. I have responsibilities—” She breaks off, takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want to call you. But I didn’t want to drive into a tree, either, and that seemed to be my idea of rational thinking earlier.”

I sit facing her on my white linen couch. A slim glass-topped table separates us, but it might as well be a football field in terms of her despair. She’s so remote, so incredibly broken. “You don’t really want to drive your car into a tree, do you?”

She closes her eyes. “I want it back. I want my life back. I want how it used to be.”

She’s suffering, and her suffering undoes me. I thought my situation was bad, but hers is far worse. “Pete wasn’t always the best husband—”

“Whose is?” Her mouth trembles, and she digs her teeth into her lower lip. “I was a fool. I’d do anything—
anything
—to undo the damage. I want things the way they were. I want to be in the same house with everyone. I want to sleep in the same bed. I want to wake up and find everything’s the same, but it’s not. And it will never be. I can’t live like this, I can’t. I hate myself. I—”

I’m off the couch and onto my feet, crouching at her side, my arms wrapped around her, rocking her as she sobs.

“Lucy, Lucy . . .” I’m rubbing her back and saying her name, and I wish I were a fairy godmother and I could do something to help her. We’re just people. We screw up and we make mistakes, and then oh, how we suffer. We learn too late that we’re not infallible, not indestructible, not untouchable. We learn too late that when things go wrong, we hurt.

Terribly.

Tears fill my eyes as I rub her back. “You’ll get through this, you will. It’s awful now, but it won’t always be like this. Things do work out, things will improve. You’ll see.”

“Why didn’t I realize things were good? Why didn’t I know I was happy? That I was lucky? Why didn’t I appreciate what I had?”

“I don’t know, Lucy. I don’t. Maybe none of us know what we have until it’s taken away.” I’m still rubbing her back and talking when Annika and the kids walk through the front door.

I don’t hear the door open; instead I hear their voices. Turning my head, I spot them in the entry. They’ve caught sight of us, and they freeze. The children know Lucy well, but they’ve never seen her upset.

“What’s wrong?” Jemma asks nervously, backpack sliding off her shoulder.

I sit up. Lucy hastily wipes her tears away.

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

“But you’re both crying,” Jemma says.

“Jemma, it’s silly. You wouldn’t understand.”

Her chin lifts stubbornly. “Tell me.”

Lucy looks at me, and I take a quick breath. “Nordstrom had a special function for their level three and four reward customers and we both missed it,” I explain sadly. “We could have met Donna Karan.”

The girls stare at us a long moment. Jemma’s brows wrinkle. “You’re crying because you didn’t meet a fashion designer?”

I gesture weakly. “There was a trunk show, too, honey.”

Jemma rolls her eyes and walks out. Annika and the younger girls follow. Lucy waits for the girls to disappear into the kitchen to whisper, “I can’t believe you! We’re crying over a missed fashion event?”

I go back to the couch. “I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t very well tell her we’re bawling because we’re miserable, unhappy women, could I?”

Lucy smiles halfheartedly and wipes her eyes again. “I guess I would be upset if I missed a secret Donna Karan trunk show.”

“See?” But I’m smiling, and Lucy smiles wanly back at me. “We Bellevue moms have to have our priorities.”

Lucy groans. “You’re insane, Taylor.”

“I know. But it’s worked for me so far.” I lift my tea and take a sip, thinking maybe it’s time to tell Lucy about the chaos in my world. “Lucy . . .” But looking into Lucy’s face, her light blue eyes red-rimmed, skin so pale that it’s ethereal, I don’t think I can do this. It doesn’t seem right, or fair, to burden her now. She’s so fragile at the moment. She’s in such terrible pain. How can I add one more worry to her plate?

“Yes?” she asks, waiting.

No, can’t tell her, I resolve, not yet, not until she’s emotionally stronger. “You know, tonight’s book club,” I say, swiftly substituting topics. “I was thinking we should drive together.”

“Oh God, that’s right. I completely forgot.” She looks at me, stricken. “And I’m supposed to be in charge of the discussion. I picked the book.”

“Have you read it?”

“Most of it. Not the last chapter or two.”

“So you’re okay.” I, on the other hand, have not read a lot of the book. What I did read was interesting as well as shocking. I’ve been having a hard time getting my head around the idea that so many women are ending up in dire financial straits.

Lucy’s shaking her head. “But I can’t do this. I can’t face everybody. Look at me! I’m a wreck. I haven’t slept in days. The bags under my eyes are too big for carry-on.”

I choke on muffled laughter. “Was that a joke, Lucy Wellsley? Did I hear you make a joke?”

She cracks a reluctant smile. “I look like hell and you know it.”

“Okay, you do look rough, but that’s what our two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar lotions are for. Serious calming, soothing, and resurfacing. Depuffing, too.”

I glance at my watch and note that we have four hours before book club begins. “Where are your kids?”

Her expression crumples. “Pete has them.”

“No!” I hold up my hands to stop her. “That’s a good thing. This way we have four hours to relax and repair and prepare. You need a nap. And then a shower and a little makeover. While you nap, I’ll finish the book and then I’ll be ready to help you get ready. Sound like a plan?”

She looks puzzled. “So you’ll come to my house later?”

“No. You’re going to relax and unwind here. You can have my room. No one will bother you. I’ll draw the blinds and you’ll have a lovely little catnap and then we’ll get ready for tonight together.”

“I don’t want to put you out—”

“You’re not.”

She glances away, obviously uncomfortable. I wait for her to say something, and it takes her a long time to speak.

“I’m not . . . Taylor, I’m not going to do anything.” She swallows hard before looking at me. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” I answer, finding this painful, too. “And that’s not why I want you to stay. I want you to stay because I care about you, and I’d just feel better if I could do something for you. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I’d like to do something for you. It’d make me feel good if I could help somehow.”

Heavy silence fills the room, and my insides knot so hard that my stomach actually hurts.

“Nathan doesn’t live here anymore.” My voice is quiet, yet to my ears the words crash and boom beneath the vaulted ceiling. “I’ve been alone a lot lately. I’d like your company.” I pause, reconsider my words. “I’d love your company. I’m having a hard time, too.”

While Lucy naps, I read. I sit beneath the butterscotch blanket on the living room couch and read for almost two hours straight. Now that I’ve started the book, I can’t stop reading.

This is what went wrong in my life, I think. This is what happened to Nathan and me. I wanted to be taken care of, I wanted someone else to do the hard work outside the home so I could concentrate on raising kids, but in so doing, I became financially dependent and, worse, a burden.

When Lucy finally wakes up it’s nearly six, and she creeps downstairs, her eyes dark and fuzzy with sleep. “I was out of it,” she says, joining me in the kitchen where I’m helping Annika serve dinner for the kids.

“You needed it,” I answer, setting the plates of meat loaf and rice in front of the girls.

Lucy eyes the girls’ dinner. “You guys eat meat loaf?”

“You don’t?”

She shakes her head. “It’s eeew food in our family.”

“I like it,” I answer, grabbing the ketchup, which Tori has to have on everything. “They like it, too.”

“How do you get Nathan to eat—” Lucy breaks off, realizing her mistake.

“Salt, Mom,” Jemma sings.

I hand Jemma the salt and Brooke the pepper. “He likes it.” I keep my tone deliberately casual. The girls don’t know about the separation yet, and I don’t want them to know. “The recipe I use calls for ground beef and Italian sausage. I also use tomato sauce and oatmeal instead of bread or cracker crumbs. It gives it a little more flavor.”

Seeing that the girls are settled and happily eating, I gesture to Lucy. “Come on, we better get you in the shower. We need to go in less than an hour.”

We drive to Kate’s, as she’s hosting book-club tonight. Her house, a three-story brick-and-white-columned minimansion, looks as if it should sit on a Mississippi riverbank surrounded by moss-draped oak trees instead of the tiny Clyde Hill cul-de-sac shaded by seventy-year-old cedars, but it is a striking home, stately and upright, just like old-money Kate and her Microsoft millionaire husband, Bill.

For all her sportiness, Kate is the quintessential suburban mom. She hangs seasonal wreaths on her front door. Tonight the living room mantel is covered with orange candles and little Pilgrim and Indian figurines, while a fat fabric turkey sits on the kitchen counter near the Italian pottery cookie jar.

Her kids’ art decorates the fridge, and the gold dish towels hanging on the eight-burner Wolf oven door are heavily embroidered with leaves, pumpkins, and cornucopias.

Kate is bustling around, pulling warm appetizers from the oven and making sure everyone has a glass of wine. The kitchen is huge, with a real used-brick floor and an old stone interior wall. Heavy beams run across the nine-foot ceiling, and copper pots hang in the stove’s recessed alcove. I don’t know if it’s the kitchen’s size or the fact that the living room seems so far removed, but at Kate’s house, we always end up hanging out in her kitchen.

“Red or white?” Kate greets us.

“Red,” I answer, sliding the plate of frosted brownies that the girls and Annika made earlier onto the granite counter. I wasn’t asked to bring anything, but I feel guilty showing up empty-handed.

“Lucy?” Kate asks, holding up a bottle of wine in each hand.

“White, but just a little.”

Lucy’s voice sounds tight, and I glance back at her. She’s still wearing her coat—my coat—and she has that “deer caught in the headlights” look again. I reach over, give her arm a little squeeze. She jerks her head up, meets my gaze, forces a smile.

“You’re okay,” I say, but it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She’s going to be okay. We’re all going to be okay. We’re women, goddammit.

Kate glances from me to her and back to me again. “Can I take your coats, girls?”

“I’ve got it,” I say. “You’re busy enough in here.”

I reenter the kitchen in time to overhear Monica discussing the pros and cons of Bellevue’s athletic clubs. “They call themselves the premier club on the Eastside,” she says bitterly, “but their tennis program is nonexistent and their swim team is hardly better—”

“That’s not true,” Suze interrupts. “Their team is highly ranked. They’ve had swimmers qualify for the junior Olympics.”

“But not Olympic athletes,” Monica counters.

Suze’s eyes widen. Her children swim for the club, and she’s one of the team’s biggest boosters. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Monica.”

“I do, too. Phoenix had outstanding swim teams. Those clubs sent kids to the Olympics—”

“But I’m not interested in my kids swimming in the Olympics. I want my kids to develop skills, get exercise, learn sportsmanship. Studies show that children who participate on swim teams excel academically, particularly in math, language, and music.”

Monica shakes her head and takes a sip from her glass, leaving a big coral lipstick mark on the rim. “You’re thinking of tennis.”

“I’m thinking of swimming.”

Kate looks at me as I reach for my wineglass. I just shrug. This is the world as I know it.

Unfortunately, Monica isn’t about to let the swimming versus tennis thing drop, and after speaking exhaustively on the research she’s read, she launches into an even more detailed critique of the area’s tennis pros and then the playing surfaces before diverting to analyzing the massage techniques of the three best local spas.

Listening to Monica, I remember a story Patti told me. Apparently, when Monica and Doug were moving back here from Phoenix, Monica spent weeks and weeks researching all the Eastside schools. Academic excellence wasn’t enough. Monica also wanted social prominence. Her daughter was two at the time.

I concentrate on drinking my wine. Twenty minutes and an empty glass later, which someone kindly refills, Kate shoos us into the living room to begin the book discussion. She’s lit the pumpkin and bronze candles on the mantel, and the room dances with light.

As everyone settles into chairs, I hear Suze whispering to Jen about a party that took place in Clyde Hill last weekend. Suze attended, and apparently it included some serious wife swapping, something Suze wouldn’t have believed if she hadn’t been there.

“No way,” Monica answers, having overheard the last. “That doesn’t happen here. Absolutely not.”