The Objects of Her Affection (11 page)

On the other side of the box, a woman wearing some sort of elaborate headdress stood lightly poised on one foot, framed by swags of ribbon and flanked by a pair of sphinxes with long, snakelike necks. The scene was odd, mysterious, but pleasingly symmetrical.

Sophie called the number on Harry’s business card.

“Darling! Thank God you called!” His tone was so affectionate, so intimate, Sophie felt a pleasant rush of warmth. “You’re my favorite person right now. My absolute favorite, and I didn’t even have your phone number.”

Sophie laughed. “Well, here I am!”

“Here you are! You must come immediately so I can give you champagne and…and massage your feet. Whatever you want. I am your humble servant.”

“You sold it.”

“God, yes. My client was over the moon. Absolutely over the moon. Please come soon, love. Can I buy you dinner?”

“It’s going to have to be lunch. Tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you somewhere posh. All right?”

“Perfect.”

***

Harry took her to a sleek vault of frosted glass and stainless steel, where they sat at the foot of a tower of wine bottles that glowed with eerie blue light. “I feel like I’m on a spaceship,” muttered Sophie after the six-foot-tall hostess had led them to their glossy white table.

“We’ve been abducted by aliens,” Harry said. “They’re going to probe our wallets.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Champagne?” Harry waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You’re really out to spoil me, aren’t you.”

“Who else is going to do it?”

“You have no idea. I have many lovers.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Well, you should. I can arrange one if you like. What’s your type? Tall and dark? Short and sweaty?” Harry leaned toward the waiter without breaking eye contact with Sophie. “Taittinger Brut, please.”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m happily married.”

“Right. Mr. Sophie. And what is it that he does?”

“Brian…is…in import-export.” Sophie studied her menu. “Everyone’s eating cheeks these days, aren’t they? Veal cheeks. Fish cheeks.”

“I’m more of an ass cheeks man, myself.”

“Harry! I’m going to send you to the naughty spot.”

“No need. My life is one big naughty spot. So what does Brian import and export?”

“Mmm…decorative items. The skate sounds good. But does it have cheeks.”

“From China? India? That sort of thing?”

“Not really.” Sophie snapped the menu shut. “So why are you spoiling me like this? You barely know me. The last time I had a meal this expensive was at my wedding.”

“I just happened to do really well with that little mirror of yours, and I wanted to thank you.”

“I take it you did your research.”

“Mmm. You could’ve done a little better for yourself if you’d’ve let me do a proper appraisal. The whole thing was a bit seat-of-the-pants.”

“I’m new at this myself, Harry, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to feel guilty about making a huge profit off someone.”

“Quite right. Quite right. I’ve got a big mouth. Don’t know if you’ve noticed. Anyway, I like you.”

“I don’t know why.”

“Well, you’ve got excellent taste in objects of virtu. And you’re interesting. I don’t really know what it is yet, but there’s something intriguing about you.”

Sophie fussed with her napkin, caught off balance.

“Plus, I deal with such assholes all day long,” Harry continued. “I mean, real assholes. And you know, I only moved here a year ago, when I took over from my dad. I haven’t got any friends.” He made a sad-puppy face.

“Well I don’t know why, if this is how you treat them,” said Sophie, raising her champagne flute. “Cheers.”

She was actually glad to hear that Harry had made out well with the mirror. The quantity of cash he’d given her was enough of a hassle; a greater amount, all at once, would have created logistical problems. And now the mirror was gone, continuing on the journey of its now-troubled provenance, having passed through Sophie as if she were a ghost. Part of her was curious where it had ended up, and part of her wanted to forget she had ever seen it.

At the end of the meal, Sophie sat back and savored her wine—something dark and pleasantly earthy, several years her senior, unlike anything she’d ever drunk in her life—while Harry provided a steady stream of commentary on the restaurant’s clientele, his own clientele, and Sophie’s hair, which he had decided needed highlights. “Nothing stripy,” he said. “Just some glints, a little dimension. Know what I mean?”

“I have something else for you, Harry,” she said, putting her glass down.

“What’s that?”

“Another piece.”

“Aha. You’ve…been to another sidewalk sale?”

“Same sidewalk sale.” She pulled the box out of her purse and laid it on the table in front of Harry.

“Lots of old money in Philadelphia, I hear,” said Harry, cracking his knuckles. “That’s a pretty little snuffbox, in’it?” He opened it, squinted at the marks, closed it, turned it over in his hands. “French rococo. I’m thinking early seventeen hundreds. Not sure what that mark is—maybe Guynot? Anyway…” He rubbed his lips.

“Do you like it?”

“Well, sure, I mean…” He laughed. “You kind of knocked my socks off with that mirror. This is a little…”

“Small?”

“Late. D’you have anything else? Perhaps a bit older?”

“What? No!”

“All right, all right. It’s just, my client—the one I sold your mirror to? He’s rather fixated on the Renaissance.” Harry turned the box this way and that. “This is a nice piece, though. It’s very pretty, finely worked, classic rococo. People do love snuffboxes, God knows why.” Harry popped his knuckles. “Tell you what. I could probably sell this for five grand. Why don’t we split it? Twenty-five hundred?”

It was Sophie’s turn to make the sad-puppy face.

“Oh, come on, love! If it was anyone else I’d offer them two hundred. But I’m investing in our…” He waved his hand around. “Relationship.”

“I don’t know. I was hoping it was worth more.” It was easy enough to research snuffboxes on the Internet. What did he take her for?

Harry took off his glasses. “Why’d you think that?”

“Well, to begin with, it’s gold inside.”

“Good lord, so are most of my teeth. That doesn’t make them masterpieces. Seriously, though, what’s all this about? Are you sure you don’t have anything else up your sleeve?”

Sophie shifted in her seat. “Did you want dessert? Because I’m seriously considering it.”

“You are the queen of the redirect, aren’t you.”

“It’s a parenting thing.”

“All right, well, I’ll give you three grand for this, in the hopes that you will continue to grace me with your presence, and whatever else you might decide to bring me.”

“Four.”

“Brute! Just tell me—is there more?”

Sophie stared at him for a moment. “That depends on you.”

Harry drained his wine. “All right, fine. But remember. Renaissance.”

“Noted.”

***

The midafternoon Metroliner wasn’t crowded, so Sophie was able to raise the armrest, take off her shoes, and curl up with her feet in the next seat. She gazed out the window as the train crossed the Hackensack River, wondering at the stretches of grassy marshland all around, with narrow two-lane roads seeming to float on the greenish water. It was unaccountably wild here, right at the feet of Manhattan, the sandy landscape delicately crisscrossed with power lines and abandoned train tracks, but no buildings, and few cars: only a lonesome pickup truck parked, strangely, on a narrow spit of land that stretched into the water. Here and there, birds dotted the grasses; an egret, a puff of downy white speared on spindly legs, stood in the shallows. Sophie felt a rush of delight. Right here, bubbling up through the tangle of highways and runways and train tracks fighting their way toward Manhattan, nature was asserting itself, against every odd.

A violent jolt concussed the window, and she jerked her head back. Another train passed with a roar, inches from her face, rushing toward the city. In a moment it was gone, leaving a vacuum of sound behind. Outside, the landscape had changed back to office parks, parking lots, and warehouses with tractor trailers nosed up to them like baby pigs at their mother’s belly.

Sophie stretched out her legs and savored her drowsy good mood. She was looking forward to seeing the kids. For once, she missed the warm weight of Elliot’s body in her arms, and Lucy’s chattering voice. Separation, she realized, was crucial to the mother-child bond. If she spent too much time with them she developed a crackling force field around herself, resisting their intrusions. But now, after a day of luxury, gloss, drinks, charm, she was ready to sink back into the marshmallowy world of motherhood.

At home she found Brian grilling shrimp and corn while the kids drew on the patio with sidewalk chalk. Sophie hugged him, resting her cheek against his chest; she loved feeling the warmth of his skin through a crisp cotton shirt. He smelled of sweat and smoke, with a faintly lingering whiff of aftershave. “Thank you for coming home early,” she said into his chest.

She pulled away and bent to pinch some wilted blooms from the geraniums growing in pots along their fence. Up above, two squirrels chattered and tumbled through the branches of the neighbor’s sycamore tree. It was rare to have such a pleasant, shady outdoor space in the city; Sophie had grown to love it as much as any of the rooms inside the house.

“I was happy to get away from Marjorie this afternoon,” Brian said. “She’s so grumpy these days, always going on about how much better things are at the Atwater Kent. Today I thought about calling them and asking them to take her back.”

Sophie laughed, and Brian raised his eyebrows at her.

“Red wine? Must’ve been a fun meeting.”

Sophie ran her tongue over her teeth. “We had a working lunch.”

“Nice! Sounds like they’re treating you right. As they should.”

“I guess.” She felt her good mood begin drifting away, joining the dirty smoke from the grill as it wafted into the sky.

“So they were okay with your estimate.”

“Yes. It’s all fine.”

“Good money?”

“It’s fine, the money’s fine. You sure have a lot of questions.”

“Just making conversation.”

“Your corn’s going to burn.”

While Brian addressed the corn, Sophie knelt and kissed the kids. Lucy’s breath smelled sweet and crackery. “Did you give them Goldfish?”

“They were hungry.”

“Well, they’re not anymore, are they?” She brushed orange dust from Elliot’s cheeks and stood up. “Now they won’t eat dinner.”

“Sorry.”

“You know how that works, right? Food goes in their stomach, they feel satisfied, then you put more food in front of them and they turn up their noses. Parenting 101.” She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to go for the extra thrust. She was just getting impatient with Brian’s seeming lack of curiosity…his willingness to believe that she’d had a few glasses of red wine with a client. Why didn’t he press for details? Didn’t he want to know what she was really doing?

“Sorry…sorry,” he said lightly. “Always screwing up the parenting, I know. Do you want something to drink? There’s a bottle of Muscadet in the fridge.”

“Quit trying to distract me! I’m not a two-year-old.”

Brian turned back to the grill, saying nothing.

“Do you know how much sodium is in those crackers?” she cried.

Brian began snatching the corn from the grill and plopping it onto a platter with the shrimp. A piece of shrimp fell to the ground. Brian bent, picked it up, and, with a furious convulsion of his arm, threw it in the direction of the street. The shrimp sailed through the alley, over the wrought iron gate, and landed on the hood of a Subaru Outback parked out front.

That, Sophie thought, is more like it.

Barnes and Noble story hour was like a gift from the gods. It was air-conditioned. It was free. The kids loved it. And most important, it was every Thursday morning, at the same time as Music for Me. Sophie had decided to replace a portion of the kids’ musical education with some literary enrichment, making them more well-rounded people, and reducing her Music for Me attendance to just one hour per week.

It was a Thursday morning in late August. Sophie deposited the kids on the story rug, then sat nearby to leaf through a pile of home renovation magazines. The magazines were one of Sophie’s guilty pleasures: she could spend hours gazing at beautifully lit photographs of Victorian kitchens, Asian bathrooms, and cavernous whitewashed lofts. Staring at those spreads, her mind detached itself from the real world, and she would float from fantasy to fantasy: here’s what it would be like to live in the woods of Washington state. Here’s a life sheathed in glass and corrugated steel. This is how it would feel to live in a two-hundred-fifty-year-old farmhouse outfitted with restaurant-grade appliances.

She stared wistfully at a stunning Brooklyn bathroom. Someone had converted an antique walnut dresser into a sink, topping it with marble and setting the copper faucet into the barnwood-paneled wall above. They’d found the industrial light fixture in a factory; the crackled, cream-colored tile had been painstakingly excavated from a Parisian bistro. An elaborately compartmented pharmacy cabinet held towels and apothecary jars behind wavy glass doors with porcelain knobs. It was the kind of bathroom that cost a fortune, but looked like it hadn’t been touched since the turn of the century. It was, she realized, exactly what they needed on the first floor, in the closed-off powder room.

She quickly flipped to another page. Obviously, the bathroom would have to wait until her business picked up again. For now she was saving every penny for the mortgage payment. Each time she wrote that check, it felt like she was placing her claim on one more brick, one more floorboard, slowly easing her house out of the bank’s grasp. With a few more payments, she was sure she would start to feel more anchored, more certain of her new life’s validity. That was worth every penny she’d “earned.” Anything beyond paying the mortgage wasn’t worth the danger.

She picked up another magazine. Maybe danger wasn’t quite the right word. The stuff was sitting there for the taking—unwanted, uncared for. The museum’s few cameras were reserved for the real treasures, the Duchamps and the Warhols. The rest of the place, as Brian had complained many times, was enclosed in a perimeter of trust and hope. Trust that no one would doubt the museum’s security practices; hope that the guards were alert and motivated. Trust that visiting scholars and family members were museum allies; hope that the curators were actually taking care. Sophie had penetrated the perimeter, but so far, no one had gotten hurt. In fact, no one had even noticed.

Sophie let the magazine drop into her lap. Across the store she noticed a familiar head bent over a table of poetry books. Sophie rose to say hello to Carly, but sank back into her chair when she saw who was standing on the other side of the table, his black-framed glasses aimed at a slim chapbook, his gaze intently focused on Carly. Sophie quickly raised her magazine in front of her face and peeked over the top. Carly rounded the table to look at the book in Keith’s hand, standing too close, her interest in the book about as scant as her tank top. She brushed the side of her breast against Keith’s arm. Keith flushed, and leaned in to say something in Carly’s ear. These two people, Sophie realized with a jolt of horror, had been naked together very recently—probably in Carly’s nearby condo, and probably, judging from the sheen on Carly’s unmade-up face, within the last hour. And now here they were, putting on this disgusting display—over poetry, of all things! During story hour! Sophie gathered her magazines and crept over the story rug, keeping her burning face turned away.

Afterward, shoving the stroller up the hill toward her neighborhood, Sophie counted the ways that she hated Carly. There was the blond hair, of course, and the height: tall enough to command attention, not so tall that she intimidated men. There was that damned belly, untroubled by pregnancy, unaffected by her diet of rotisserie chicken and Manhattans. That belly was a miracle of nature, and Sophie had always studied it with fascination: How did it disappear when she sat down? How could it possibly contain any organs? Wasn’t the human intestine over twenty feet long?

Normally Sophie could grant a friend her beauty, could even enjoy it. But what she really couldn’t stand was the thuglike way Carly threw her good looks around, taking out everyone in her path. And she didn’t have to. She didn’t need to pluck the low-hanging fruit of aging, anxious married men. She could do so much better, and she was too stupid to see it.

As a colleague, of course, Carly had always been unfailingly generous, even deferential to Sophie’s years of experience. But now her career was in full bloom while Sophie’s died on the vine, and it was getting more embarrassing every day to even talk about it. Again, Sophie would not begrudge a friend her success, but in this case it was almost impossible to tolerate, since Carly had never worked a day in her life out of necessity. Carly had never struggled to come up with the mortgage payment on her three-bedroom condo, had never had to choose between a gym membership and a cable subscription. She supposedly only worked because she loved computers and information architecture—something that had immediately endeared her to Sophie when they first met, ten years ago. Now Sophie found it irritating, and dubious. Wasn’t it just a party trick—the cashmere-clad blond who would swoop into the bull pen and dazzle everyone with her JavaScript and MySQL skills? And now she was dipping into design—as if she needed the extra work. What she really needed, Sophie realized, was more approval and admiration. It was pathetic.

And now this. Sophie had made herself perfectly clear: Keith and Amy were not to be messed with. They represented her fragile new life; she had just been granted entrance to their world. Plus she genuinely liked Amy, with her hilarious stories of Philadelphia politics, and her kindhearted charm. There had been talk of an early September weekend at the beach together. Now Sophie was saddled with this terrible knowledge, their friendship barely begun.

Sophie pulled out her phone and considered calling Brian. He would be sympathetic, but did she want him to be burdened as well? What if he became too uncomfortable to socialize with Keith and Amy? Or worse—what if he decided it was his duty to say something?

She scrolled through her contacts and came to Harry’s name. He’d keyed his number into her phone at their last lunch date, urging her to call any time. And of course, he was the perfect one to call. He didn’t know any of the parties involved, he would probably have a lot to say about Carly and her money, and he might even manage to cheer Sophie up.

At the first “Sophie, darling!” she felt her mood improve. She sat on a bench at the playground and told Harry the whole saga, and he pressed her for details at every turn, like a medical student doing a thorough workup. She told him about the time Carly had freelanced at the agency where Sophie was working, and had an affair with Sophie’s boss, only to dump him once the devastation to his marriage was complete. Her boss couldn’t stand having Sophie around as a reminder of the whole episode, so he concocted a reason to move her onto another team, where she didn’t get along with the designers. She ended up quitting a few months later.

Then, when Sophie was pregnant with Lucy, and Brian had to spend three weeks in Italy, Carly had accompanied her to her obstetrician appointment. It was while Carly was holding her hand, and Dr. Hanson was feeling her cervix, that some current had passed through Sophie’s body and connected her doctor and her friend. Before the day was over, Carly and Dr. Hanson had made cramped but passionate love in the backseat of his Lexus. The whole thing made Sophie so uncomfortable she was forced to change obstetricians in her eighth month of pregnancy, requiring revisions to her birth plan and causing undue anxiety during a time that was supposed to be spent lovingly folding onesies. She was still angry at Carly for that one.

And now Keith: dinner party host, husband of her new friend, and a clearly stated member of Sophie’s “off-limits” list.

“Well, you’ve got no choice,” Harry decreed. “Break up with her!”

“Really?”

“God, yes. I mean, number one, she’s a bitch. They all are, these entitled rich girls—especially the good-looking ones. Number two, she’s out to get you. This is the third time she’s done it, right?”

“Well, this is the first time I specifically told her to back off.”

“Yeah, but it’s no coincidence she keeps going after men connected to you. Has she ever had a go at your husband?”

“God, no. I mean, I don’t think so…” Sophie’s stomach clenched; she’d never even considered the possibility. Brian loved her too much to cheat on her. Didn’t he? And anyway, when would he find the time?

“Well, look, naturally it’s up to you what to do,” Harry continued. “But what are you getting from the friendship at this point?”

“I talk to her about work. She helps me get jobs.”

“And how’s that working out?”

“Right.”

“Anyway, you can talk to me about work. I’m extremely knowledgeable about computers.”

“Really.”

“I have a Mac. And you may not know this, but Mac is short for Macintosh, which is a type of apple. And Apple is a computer company. They make Macs.”

“You do know your stuff, Harry.”

“Just let me know if you have any questions.”

***

Breaking up with a friend was easy—there was no need for finality, no announcement, no drama. Just a cooling off, a pulling away. Harry was right, she realized now. Carly’s romantic exploits always had a tendency to sideswipe Sophie’s life, leaving dents. Who needed a friend like that? Why hadn’t she done this sooner?

The breakup also represented one more snapped fiber between Sophie and her career, which, she had to admit, felt all right—it was even a relief. Without Carly she wouldn’t constantly be reminded of the world that was no longer available to her, and she wouldn’t be set up for any more embarrassing interviews for jobs she had no chance of getting.

Sophie leaned her head against the back of her reading chair, absently stroking Elliot’s hair as he dozed in her lap. She watched the afternoon sun walk across the dark wood floor of her office. She was becoming familiar with the light’s routine in the house from day to day, season to season. The way it sneaked in sideways through the southern windows in the morning, then banged hotly on the dining room windows at noon. The way it draped itself among the branches of the gingko in early evening, the sky going soft and purple above the roofs of the houses across the street.

She needed to go back to the museum. It should be soon, before all the objects made it down to Art Handling. She also needed time alone in the department, so she could select carefully. She wanted to please Harry.

Gently easing Elliot from her lap, she got up and rummaged through the papers on Brian’s side of their desk, making a pile of all the heavy, expensively printed envelopes she could find. Brian constantly received invitations to museum parties, but he seldom opened them since, for him, the dinners and receptions represented an extended workday—and it was the kind of work he despised.

Many of the invitations had expired, but there was an upcoming banquet in one of the Medieval galleries that sounded interesting. Guests would eat in the museum’s cloister, whose marble archways and Romanesque fountain had been brought from France and reconstructed in a room just off the tapestry balcony. There would be medieval music and a performance by a tenor from the Philadelphia Opera. It was black tie.

Otherwise, there was the One Big Family Party: an annual event for museum members and their children. They had gone to it a year ago, and regretted it. Elliot was too small and squirmy, and Lucy had been unnerved by the throngs of older kids jostling her at the craft stations. They’d quickly made a paper shield in the Arms and Armor gallery, gulped down some cupcakes, and fled at the crest of a double tantrum.

“Why, exactly, do you want to go to this?” Brian asked that night, when she showed him the invitation.

“The kids are older now. I think Lucy would really like it. She’s very into arts and crafts right now. And the theme is China!” She didn’t mention the other reason: that she was counting on the party’s chaos to provide certain opportunities and distractions.

“Don’t you remember how packed it was? You can’t even use the stroller. They’d have to walk.”

“Elliot’s great at keeping up these days. And I really think he’d love the music. And look—Chinese acrobats!”

“You’re crazy.”

“Please, Brian? It would make me happy.”

Brian sighed. “‘It would make me happy’ is becoming your version of batting your eyelashes.”

Sophie smiled and slid the invitation back into its envelope. “We’ll meet you there at five thirty.”

***

The evening of the party, Sophie felt energized but calm. Over the past two weeks, her anticipation of the event had provided a welcome distraction from her financial anxieties. She’d toyed with different plans in her head, idly playing out scenarios, enjoying the way her heart flared in her chest every time she imagined herself alone in the darkened offices. The whole fantasy was made more alluring by the knowledge that she could skip the whole thing and just enjoy the party with her family; she didn’t actually have to go through with anything.

When she got to the museum, Sophie pushed the double stroller up the ramp at the handicap-accessible entrance, where Brian was already waiting. “Why’d you bring this?” he asked, as he helped Sophie untether the kids.

“I couldn’t make them walk all the way here,” she said. “They’d be dead on arrival.”

With Elliot in one arm, Brian maneuvered the stroller toward the others already parked along the hallway.

“Wait, no,” Sophie said.