Plan C (25 page)

“Libby, look, don’t threaten to go. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

There’s a long pause as I consider whether to break through to his side of the Red Rover line, or stay on my team.

“Ben, I love you. I want to stay, but I can’t. I don’t even have time to be me anymore. And I’m certainly not being
me
in this relationship. I want passion.”

“Libby, we have passion. You know that.”

“But lately it’s like Carly Simon used to sing. I don’t want a man who tiptoes up the stairs and grits his teeth to say ‘good morning dear!’ I want red-hot passion. I don’t want to play nicey-nice like everything is okay when it isn’t.”

“It’s okay if you’d let it be. Better than okay.”

“It’s not okay. I hate to tell you this Ben, but if I leave so will the next woman leave, too. Until you get your situation in check, no woman – not even the ones lined up around the block - is going to want this.”

“You’re blaming me for my kids – for the way their mother raises them…”

I just ignore that comment because I don’t feel like going backwards. I don’t feel like explaining that he’s created part of the twisted dynamic. Right now I’m almost through the tunnel to the white light, and I’m not going back to the old life. “You know Ben, in the beginning of a relationship, when things are going wrong, women fight for what they believe in. But, I told you the day I stop fighting for my rights is the day that it’s truly over. Because one day we wake up and we just don’t care anymore. We give up. We can’t make it work. And well, we go to Paris,” I add sheepishly.

The words sound right. I repeat them with a big smile, standing tall and certain. “Yup, we go to Paris.”

“Sorry,” I tell the man holding the elevator door while I’m talking on my cell phone. He’s just shot me a dirty look that says I should be hustling through the doorway instead of consumed with chit chat.

“Mom, what the heck is wrong with your daughter?” asks Scarlett on the other end of the line.

I step in, push a button and then take a spot against the wall.

“Mom, are you listening? I said what’s wrong with your daughter?”

“Hold on,” I say, surprised that I still have cell service. My floor dings and I exit, pacing down the long hallway. “I don’t know, Scarlett, you tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“Not
me.
I’m your
perfect
daughter. I’m talking about the other one. The brat!”

“Why do you call her that?”

“Why? What kind of a kid has a dorm with marble floors and a Jacuzzi?”

“Well, it’s a little extravagant, I admit it. But it’s not her fault that the college renovated an old hotel in Brooklyn…”

“I was clearly the abused child,” says Scarlett.

“Oh, stop, honey, your college had a lovely dorm,” I say.

“When I was in college I shared a bathroom with ten other girls,” says Scarlett.

“You mean this call isn’t about you needing money?” I say, yet to be convinced.

“That was last week. Just listen. Madeline tells me she’s coming to visit me last weekend in Boston. She shows up on the Fung Wah bus from New York. There she is at South Station. I circle my car to the curb to grab her. I touch the trunk release, and I’m like, ‘Where’s your bag? Did you leave it on the bus?’ She shakes her head ‘no.’ Mom, she shows up with no clothes. Not even a toothbrush! You know what she said, ‘I couldn’t bring anything. Mom didn’t do my laundry last weekend.’ Why do you still have to do her laundry? When are you going to stop babying her?”

“Okay. Right this second - no more laundry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I’m going to Paris.”

Silence on the other end. Dead silence, which is good because I’ve just swept through the large set of glass doors where the ‘on air’ light is blinking hooker-district red.

“Mom, if you’d given me a dollar for all the times you said you were going to Paris, I’d never have to call you for money.”

“Very funny,” I say lowering my voice to a whisper. “Honey, I’m at the studio, but I’m really going to Paris. I’ll call you tonight. Love you…”

“Love you too, Mommy,” she says very gently – her last-ditch effort, just in case, to soften me up to give her money before I leave the country.

Truth is, in this current economy it might be
she
who has to give
me
money for holidays and birthdays. She’s the young one, the pretty one with the business degree, the
free health insurance, and the three weeks paid vacation. Maybe it’s best I escape to Paris before I make a nuisance of myself with my own kids.

When we talk of the good ole days now, we don’t mean the fifties and sixties, we mean the years just before the millennium - before the collapse of the economy and the World trade towers. How will we baby-boomers ever come to terms with this not-so-brave new world, or worse, the inevitability of our kids parenting us? I click the phone shut and face the next challenge – my show. Maxine is standing in front of me, waving her clipboard to get my attention.

“Oh my God you’re on time!” she says.

“I’m always on time. You’re just always early,” I say, heading into the makeup room.

“So today’s show is about ‘The Man Child,’” she says.

“Guys that won’t grow up?” I say, plopping into my makeup chair.

“Yeah, like in the movie ‘Knocked Up,’ or any of those bro-mances. That’s our show’s topic.”

“No. It’s not,” I say tartly as I whip a piece of paper from my briefcase. “Rewrite this for the prompter.”

She reads it. “I’d rather be in Paris?”

“It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A segment on why travel is every woman’s number-one dream, and if it’s not, it should be!”

‘But our guest is an editor from the
New York Times
with three sons. She specializes on topics pertaining to grown kids living at home…”

“Then she’s perfect. And besides,” I confess, “I called her from the cab. She’s been dying to chuck those overgrown brats into the street and moving to Tuscany to be a painter. It’s all she really wants to talk about.”

“But…” Maxine shuffles through her papers.

*

There are only two people in this taxi and I’m not the one who just farted. Lowering my window, I take in a deep breath of the polluted city air and hold it in, before slumping back against the seat. I exhale hard and my sigh turns to a gulp. And then another. Even the taxi guy is looking at me in his rear view mirror, so I cower to the side. A tear runs down my cheek as I reflect back on what turned out to be my final show. And no, it wasn’t because I pulled a last-minute switcheroo on the “Man Child” segment. They actually ended up loving that. Even better than my show on water pollution last week. No, like everything else these days, it was about money.

It was just after we wrapped the segment that a stage hand told me that the “big boss” wanted to see me. Even with the show’s high ratings, I was told I was on “suspended hiatus.” Whatever that means. Not fired exactly, but apparently I have no more job either. I suppose I should feel lucky. The weather guy was cut back to one broadcast a week after twenty-four years of being with the station. The other day they were using a fresh-out-of-college kid who was willing to spout off in front of the green screen for less than half the usual weatherman’s asking price. And my producer Maxine
was getting an added bonus – though not in her salary. No, it’s just that now she’d be working weekends! I dab at my eyes as I watch the city fly by me. Simone – my new best friend with the apartment in Paris – keeps jumping into my mind every few minutes. Her words are on instant replay in my brain: “Stay a month! Stay two!”

Simone cultivates friendships with famous chefs all over the world. Sounds good to me! She actually knows my cousin Godfrey, a famous chef who, like every famous chef, knows all the other famous chefs, and whose famous Steak Tartare every famous chef admires. Why couldn’t Simone’s world and my world combine? I could spend my days sitting in Paris cafes and my nights dining with famous Paris chefs. Maybe I could even write about it…

Simone’s more than just a new friend. She’s almost like a sign, an omen. In all my life, nobody has ever been so spontaneously generous. Why? Why has she come along just now, dispensing wisdom and a Paris apartment like a fairy godmother? Am I still living the fairy tale after all – only with a twist I didn’t expect? I thought I was on the Prince Charming chapter, but maybe I wasn’t. Maybe the castle door is waiting to open for me across the sea...

Bebe and I rock back on the swivel chairs in Kitty’s office trying to unravel the mystery of why Kitty won’t take off her oversized black sunglasses. But we don’t
dare
ask her. She pours over paintings that I lean against the wall like they were models at an agency being picked over for a cattle-call.

“No good,” Kitty says to me. “Next!” I place a small canvas in front of her of an upside down man smoking a pipe. She studies it for a split second. “It’s hideous. A Picasso abortion.”

“It’s not
that
bad,” I say.

“Gas chamber,” she says. “Next…”

Bebe immediately sets another painting down. Kitty is about to verbally demolish it when Bebe interrupts.

“So this art fair is
what
again, Kitty?” asks Bebe.

“Don’t call me Kitty. From now on I’m ‘Kat,’” says Kitty.

“I’m confused,” I say. “You want us to call you Kitty Kat?”

Kitty stops what she’s doing and plants her hands on her hips. “Listen, Miss Thing,” says Kitty. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be Kitty Morgan when there’s
somebody else with the same name Twittering updates about her
pole
dancing? My reputation is ruined! It’s like going through life as Amy Winehouse. Except the
other
Amy Winehouse! L’il Kitty Morgan has 60,000 tweethearts!”

“Oh my God,” I say. “That’s horrible. But, hey, did you ever consider what my name would have been if I married Ben?”

“Libby Taylor?” Bebe pipes up from her chair.

“My real name is Elizabeth,” I say.

“Elizabeth Taylor!” says Bebe gripping the seat edge proud to put two and two together. “I never thought of that!” Her fingers move to the colorful beaded earrings that dangle lopsided from her ears. They’re a pretty odd match for her Tiffany diamond necklace or Rolex watch. Very un-Bebe.

“Did Tamara make those earrings?” I ask.

“Yes, my
daughter
made them for me,” she beams. Then she picks up an art catalog and begins flicking through the pages. “So Kitty, where’s this art fair?”

“Paris. I’ve told you a thousand times. I’ll have a booth at FIAC,” says Kitty, tossing one of the smaller paintings against a hissing heat register. “These artists all suck. Especially this one. It’s weak. It’s not portraying the image that we want…”

“What image is that?” I ask.

“The image that says I’m a pit bull biting at your ankles.” Kitty lingers at another painting and winces. Even I can see it’s pretty bad. A field of dandelions where there should be irises. A knock-off Van Gogh. “This one is for a buyer of a certain type.”

“What type of buyer, Kat?” asks Bebe.

“The Palm Beach buyer,” says Kitty.

Bebe and I look quizzical.

“Take the upper east side and multiply it by the world’s most boring winters,” says Kitty. “They have nothing to do all day but buy art that they
think
makes their furniture look pretty. At night they go to the same old parties.” Kitty examines the next one.

“Not anymore, Kat,” I say. “They’re all broke from the Madoff scandal. So many gowns, so much free time - no more parties.”

“Well…” say Bebe, “It’s not like they’re moving their soirees from the Breakers Hotel to the Elks Club anytime soon.”

“Oh, by the way,” I say. “Here you go.” I lean over to retrieve a bag on the floor and hand it to Bebe. “I almost forgot. It’s the Tupperware containers from Tamara’s birthday party. You know - the doggie bag you sent me home with. Those meatballs from that company
My Mom’s Meatballs
were delicious!”

Bebe examines the clear plastic shopping bag. It’s Ann Taylor. “Oh, thank you, Libby, but I didn’t need the containers back…”

“Oh for godsake,” says Kitty, lowering her sunglasses, “It’s not even Ann Taylor. It’s Ann Taylor
Loft
!”

“Well at least it’s not Talbots,” says Bebe.

“See girls?” I say, “There’s proof. I’d better be poor in Paris, where nobody even knows what Ann Taylor is. This is all just material bullshit. I mean, c’mon, people are shame-shopping these days anyway. They’re using their own brown bags when they exit Chanel.”

Almost as though she can sense my disgust is right on target, she changes the subject. “What do you mean ‘you’d better be poor in Paris?’” asks Kitty. “
Now
you’re going?”

“I’m raiding the nest egg.” I say. “I’m taking all my retirement funds and I’m going to Paris.”

“You mean you’re taking the $1,500 out from under your mattress?” says Kitty.

“How much more will that be in euros?” asks Bebe.

“Less,” say Kitty and I simultaneously.

“Oh,” says Bebe, “But what will you do for money?”

“I’ll be fine. I have a place to stay and I have some cash. I’ll get a writing gig if need be.”

“Who have you been talking to?” asks Kitty, staring at me.

“This woman – Simone – I met her at Bebe’s party. She’s got me convinced.” I say. “Now that my kids are grown, if they call my cell phone looking for money, my outgoing message will say, ‘Sorry kids. Call back later. Mommy’s in Paris.’”

“I love it,” says Kitty. “Finally - somebody who sees kids the way I see everything! Clear as a Rene Magritte. I’m 20/20 from laser surgery.”

“Oh, so that explains the sunglasses,” I say.

“The better to see Helmut with, my dear - all six luscious feet of him. Horizontally.”

“Was it painful?” asks Bebe.

“No. Not at all,” says Kitty.

“She meant the eye surgery,” I say.

“Oh,” says Kitty. “Well, on a scale of one to ten, ten being a facelift, it’s about a two. Less than a nose job. Way less then liposuction.”